The Minister's Wooing
CHAPTER XVII.
THE next morning, before the early dews had yet dried off the grass,Mary started to go and see her friend Mrs. Marvyn. It was one of thosecharming, invigorating days, familiar to those of Newport experience,when the sea lies shimmering and glittering in deep blue and gold,and the sky above is firm and cloudless, and every breeze that comeslandward seems to bear health and energy upon its wings.
As Mary approached the house, she heard loud sounds of discussion fromthe open kitchen-door, and, looking in, saw a rather original sceneacting.
Candace, armed with a long oven-shovel, stood before the open door ofthe oven, whence she had just been removing an army of good thingswhich appeared ranged around on the dresser. Cato, in the undress of ared flannel shirt and tow-cloth trousers, was cuddled, in a consoledand protected attitude, in the corner of the wooden settle, with a mugof flip in his hand, which Candace had prepared, and, calling him infrom his work, authoritatively ordered him to drink, on the showingthat he had kept her awake the night before with his cough, and shewas sure he was going to be sick. Of course, worse things may happento a man than to be vigorously taken care of by his wife, and Cato hada salutary conviction of this fact, so that he resigned himself to hiscomfortable corner and his flip with edifying serenity.
Opposite to Candace stood a well-built, corpulent negro man, dressedwith considerable care, and with the air of a person on excellentterms with himself. This was no other than Digo, the house-servant andfactotum of Dr. Stiles, who considered himself as the guardian of hismaster’s estate, his title, his honour, his literary character, hisprofessional position, and his religious creed.
Digo was ready to assert before all the world, that one and all ofthese were under his special protection, and that whoever had anythingto say to the contrary of any of these must expect to take issuewith him. Digo not only swallowed all his master’s opinions whole,but seemed to have the stomach of an ostrich in their digestion. Hebelieved everything, no matter what, the moment he understood thatthe Doctor held it. He believed that Hebrew was the language ofheaven,—that the ten tribes of the Jews had reappeared in the NorthAmerican Indians,—that there was no such thing as disinterestedbenevolence, and that the doings of the unregenerate had somevalue,—that slavery was a divine ordinance, and that Dr. H. was aRadical, who did more harm than good,—and, finally, that there neverwas so great a man as Dr. Stiles: and as Dr. Stiles belonged to himin the capacity of master, why, he, Digo, owned the greatest man inAmerica. Of course, as Candace held precisely similar opinions inregard to Dr. H., the two never could meet without a discharge of theopposite electricities. Digo had, it is true, come ostensibly on a mereworldly errand from his mistress to Mrs. Marvyn, who had promised tosend her some turkeys’ eggs, but he had inly resolved with himself thathe would give Candace his opinion,—that is, what Dr. Stiles had said atdinner the day before about Dr. H.’s Sunday’s discourse. Dr. Stiles hadnot heard it, but Digo had. He had felt it due to the responsibilitiesof his position to be present on so very important an occasion.
Therefore, after receiving his eggs, he opened hostilities byremarking, in a general way, that he had attended the Doctor’spreaching on Sunday, and that there was quite a crowded house. Candaceimmediately began mentally to bristle her feathers like a hen who seesa hawk in the distance, and responded with decision:—
‘Den you _heard_ sometin’, for once in your life!’
‘I must say,’ said Digo, with suavity, ‘dat I can’t give my ’proval tosuch sentiments.’
‘More shame for you,’ said Candace, grimly. ‘_You_ a man, and not stan’by your colour, and flunk under to mean white ways! Ef you was _half_ aman, your heart would ’a’ bounded like a cannon-ball at dat ’ar sermon.’
‘Dr. Stiles and me we talked it over after church,’ said Digo,—‘and deDoctor was of my ’pinion, dat Providence didn’t intend—’
‘Oh, you go ’long wid your Providence! Guess, ef white folks had let usalone, Providence wouldn’t trouble us.’
‘Well,’ said Digo, ‘Dr. Stiles is clear dat dis yer’s a-fulfillin’ deprophecies and bringin’ in de fulness of de Gentiles.’
‘Fulness of de fiddlesticks!’ said Candace, irreverently. ‘Now whata way dat ar’ is of talkin’! Go look at one o’ dem ships we comeover in,—sweatin’ and groanin’—in de dark and dirt,—cryin’ anddyin’,—howlin’ for breath till de sweat run off us,—livin’ and deadchained together,—prayin’ like de rich man in hell for a drop o’ waterto cool our tongues! Call dat ar’ a-bringin’ de fulness of de Gentiles,do ye?—Ugh!’
And Candace ended with a guttural howl, and stood frowning and gloomyover the top of her long kitchen-shovel, like a black Bellona leaningon her spear of battle.
Digo recoiled a little, but stood too well in his own esteem to giveup; so he shifted his attack.
‘Well, for my part, I must say I never was ’clined to your Doctor’s’pinions. Why, now, Dr. Stiles says, notin’ couldn’t be more absurd danwhat he says ’bout disinterested benevolence. _My_ Doctor says, derea’n’t no such ting!’
‘I should tink it’s likely!’ said Candace, drawing herself up withsuperb disdain. ‘_Our_ Doctor knows dere _is_,—and why? ’cause he’s gotit IN HERE,’ said she, giving her ample chest a knock which resoundedlike the boom from a barrel.
‘Candace,’ said Cato, gently, ‘you’s gettin’ too hot.’
‘Cato, you shut up!’ said Candace, turning sharp round. ‘What did Imake you dat ar’ flip for, ’cept you was so hoarse you oughtn’ forto say a word? Pootty business, you go to agitatin’ _your_-self widdese yer! Ef you wear out your poor old throat talkin’, you may get de’sumption; and den what’d become o’ me?’
Cato, thus lovingly pitched _hors de combat_, sipped the sweetened cupin quietness of soul, while Candace returned to the charge.
_A Discussion._
_Page 173._
Sampson Low, Son. & Co, July, 25th, 1859.]
‘Now, I tell ye what,’ she said to Digo,—‘jest ’cause you wear yourmaster’s old coats and hats, you tink you must go in for all dese yerold, mean, white ’pinions. A’n’t ye ’shamed—you, a black man—to haveno more pluck and make cause wid de Egyptians? Now, ’ta’n’t what myDoctor gives me,—he never giv’ me the snip of a finger-nail,—but it’swhat he does for _mine_; and when de poor critturs lands dar, tumbledout like bales on de wharves, ha’n’t dey seen his great cocked hat,like a lighthouse, and his big eyes lookin’ sort o’ pitiful at ’em, asef he felt o’ one blood wid ’em? Why, de very looks of de man is wortheveryting; and who ever thought o’ doin’ anyting for deir souls, orcared ef dey had souls, till he begun it?’
‘Well, at any rate,’ said Digo, brightening up, ‘I don’t believe hisdoctrine about de doings of de unregenerate,—it’s quite clear he’swrong dar.’
‘Who cares?’ said Candace,—‘generate or unregenerate, it’s all one tome. I believe a man dat _acts_ as he does. Him as stands up for depoor,—him as pleads for de weak,—he’s my man. I’ll believe straightthrough anyting he’s a mind to put at me.’
At this juncture, Mary’s fair face appearing at the door put a stop tothe discussion.
‘Bress _you_, Miss Mary! comin’ here like a fresh June rose! it makesa body’s eyes dance in deir head! Come right in! I got Cato up from delot, ’cause he’s rader poorly dis mornin’; his cough makes me a sighto’ concern; he’s allers a-pullin’ off his jacket de wrong time, ordoin’ sometin’ I tell him not to,—and it just keeps him hack, hack,hackin’, all de time.’
During this speech, Cato stood meekly bowing, feeling that he wasbeing apologized for in the best possible manner; for long years ofinstruction had fixed the idea in his mind, that he was an ignorantsinner, who had not the smallest notion how to conduct himself in thisworld, and that, if it were not for his wife’s distinguishing grace, hewould long since have been in the shades of oblivion.
‘Missis is spinnin’ up in de north chamber,’ said Candace; ‘but I??
?llrun up and fetch her down.’
Candace, who was about the size of a puncheon, was fond of thisfamiliar manner of representing her mode of ascending the stairs; butMary, suppressing a smile, said, ‘Oh, no, Candace; don’t for the worlddisturb her. I know just where she is.’ And before Candace could stopher, Mary’s light foot was on the top step of the staircase that led upfrom the kitchen.
The north room was a large chamber, overlooking a splendid reach ofsea-prospect. A moving panorama of blue water and gliding sails wasunrolled before its three windows, so that stepping into the room gaveone an instant and breezy sense of expansion. Mrs. Marvyn was standingat the large wheel, spinning wool,—a reel and basket of spools on herside. Her large brown eyes had an eager joy in them when Mary entered;but they seemed to calm down again, and she received her only with thatplacid, sincere air which was her habit. Everything about this womanshowed an ardent soul, repressed by timidity and by a certain dumbnessin the faculties of outward expression; but her eyes had, at times,that earnest, appealing language which is so pathetic in the silence ofinferior animals. One sometimes sees such eyes, and wonders whether thestory they intimate will ever be spoken in mortal language.
Mary began eagerly detailing to her all that had interested her sincethey last met: the party,—her acquaintance with Burr,—his visit to thecottage,—his inquiries into her education and reading,—and, finally,the proposal that they should study French together.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Marvyn, ‘let us begin at once;—such an opportunityis not to be lost. I studied a little with James, when he was last athome.’
‘With James?’ said Mary, with an air of timid surprise.
‘Yes,—the dear boy has become, what I never expected, quite a student.He employs all his spare time now in reading and studying;—the secondmate is a Frenchman, and James has got so that he can both speak andread. He is studying Spanish, too.’
Ever since the last conversation, with her mother on the subject ofJames, Mary had felt a sort of guilty constraint when any one spokeof him; instead of answering frankly, as she once did when anythingbrought his name up, she fell at once into a grave, embarrassed silence.
Mrs. Marvyn was so constantly thinking of him, that it was difficultto begin on any topic that did not in some manner or other knit itselfinto the one ever present in her thoughts. None of the peculiardevelopments of the female nature have a more exquisite vitality thanthe sentiment of a frail, delicate, repressed, timid woman, for astrong, manly, generous son. There is her ideal expressed; there is theout-speaking and out-acting of all she trembles to think, yet burns tosay or do; here is the hero that shall speak for her, the heart intowhich she has poured hers, and that shall give to her tremulous andhidden aspirations a strong and victorious expression. ‘I have gottena _man_ from the Lord,’ she says to herself; and each outburst ofhis manliness, his vigour, his self-confidence, his superb vitality,fills her with a strange, wondering pleasure, and she has a secrettenderness and pride even in his wilfulness and waywardness. ‘What acreature he is!’ she says, when he flouts at sober argument and pitchesall received opinions hither and thither in the wild capriciousnessof youthful paradox. She looks grave and reproving; but he reads theconcealed triumph in her eyes,—he knows that in her heart she is fullof admiration all the time. First love of womanhood is somethingwonderful and mysterious,—but in this second love it rises again,idealized and refined: she loves the father and herself united and madeone in this young heir of life and hope.
Such was Mrs. Marvyn’s still intense, passionate love for her son.Not a tone of his manly voice, not a flash of his dark eyes, not oneof the deep, shadowy dimples that came and went as he laughed, not aring of his glossy black hair, that was not studied, got by heart, anddwelt on in the inner shrine of her thoughts: he was the romance ofher life. His strong, daring nature carried her with it beyond thosenarrow, daily bounds where her soul was weary of treading; and justas his voyages had given to the trite prose of her _ménage_ a poetryof strange, foreign perfumes, of quaint objects of interest, speakingof many a far-off shore, so his mind and life were a constant channelof outreach through which her soul held converse with the active andstirring world. Mrs. Marvyn had known all the story of her son’s love;and to no other woman would she have been willing to resign him: buther love to Mary was so deep, that she thought of his union withher more as gaining a daughter than as losing a son. She would notspeak of the subject: she knew the feelings of Mary’s mother; and thename of James fell so often from her lips, simply because it was soever-present in her heart that it could not be helped.
Before Mary left, it was arranged that they should study together, andthat the lessons should be given alternately at each other’s houses;and with this understanding they parted.