Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
But, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener
point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire into the
mystery and stop those sounds so dismally appropriate to such a
marriage. A brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken
only by whispers and a few suppressed titterings among the
wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were
disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young
have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. The
widow’s glance was observed to wander for an instant toward a window of
the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had
dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their
faded orbs and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave.
Two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off were calling
her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling,
she thought how much happier had been her fate if, after years of
bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral and she were followed
to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her
husband. But why had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank
from each other’s embrace?
Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to
fade in the air. A whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest
the windows, now spread through the church: a hearse with a train of
several coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man
to the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar.
Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were
heard at the door. The widow looked down the aisle and clenched the arm
of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious
violence that the fair girl trembled.
“You frighten me, my dear madam,” cried she. “For heaven’s sake, what
is the matter?”
“Nothing, my dear—nothing,” said the widow; then, whispering close to
her ear, “There is a foolish fancy that I cannot get rid of. I am
expecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two first
husbands for groomsmen.”
“Look! look!” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here? The funeral!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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