One evening, at a bridal party (but not her own; for, so lost from
self-control, she would have deemed it sin to marry), poor Alice was
beckoned forth by her unseen despot, and constrained, in her gossamer
white dress and satin slippers, to hasten along the street to the mean
dwelling of a laboring-man. There was laughter and good cheer within;
for Matthew Maule, that night, was to wed the laborer's daughter, and
had summoned proud Alice Pyncheon to wait upon his bride. And so she
did; and when the twain were one, Alice awoke out of her enchanted
sleep. Yet, no longer proud,--humbly, and with a smile all steeped in
sadness,--she kissed Maule's wife, and went her way. It was an
inclement night; the southeast wind drove the mingled snow and rain
into her thinly sheltered bosom; her satin slippers were wet through
and through, as she trod the muddy sidewalks. The next day a cold;
soon, a settled cough; anon, a hectic cheek, a wasted form, that sat
beside the harpsichord, and filled the house with music! Music in
which a strain of the heavenly choristers was echoed! Oh; joy! For
Alice had borne her last humiliation! Oh, greater joy! For Alice was
penitent of her one earthly sin, and proud no more!
The Pyncheons made a great funeral for Alice. The kith and kin were
there, and the whole respectability of the town besides. But, last in
the procession, came Matthew Maule, gnashing his teeth, as if he would
have bitten his own heart in twain,--the darkest and wofullest man that
ever walked behind a corpse! He meant to humble Alice, not to kill her;
but he had taken a woman's delicate soul into his rude gripe, to play
with--and she was dead!