William and his wife were not there. Hannah had not
dared to slight them, but William could not prevail upon Rebecca to
go.
Barney, also, had not been invited to the wedding. Mrs. Berry had an
open grudge against him on her niece's account, and a covert one on
her daughter's. Hannah Berry had a species of loyalty in her nature,
inasmuch as she would tolerate ill-treatment of her kin from nobody
but her own self.
Charlotte Barnard came with her father and mother, and sat quietly
with them all the evening. She was beginning insensibly to rather
hold herself aloof from the young people, and avoid joining in their
games. She felt older. People had wondered if she would not wear the
dress she had had made for her own wedding, but she did not. She wore
her old purple silk, which had been made over from one of her
mother's, and a freshly-starched muslin collar. The air was full of
the rich sweetness of cake; there was a loud discord of laughter and
high shrill voices, through which yet ran a subtle harmony of mirth.
Laughing faces nodded and uplifted like flowers in the merry romping
throngs in the middle of the room, while the sober ones against the
walls watched with grave, elderly, retrospective eyes.
As soon as she could, Sylvia Crane stole into her sister's bedroom,
where the women's outside garments were heaped high on the bed, got
her own, opened the side door softly, and went home.
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