CHAPTER XXIV.
WHEN Mrs. Marvyn began to amend, Mary returned to the home cottage, andresumed the details of her industrious and quiet life.
Between her and her two best friends had fallen a curtain of silence.The subject that filled all her thoughts could not be named betweenthem. The Doctor often looked at her pale cheeks and drooping form witha face of honest sorrow, and heaved deep sighs as she passed; but hedid not find any power within himself by which he could approach her.When he would speak, and she turned her sad, patient eyes so gently onhim, the words went back again to his heart, and there, taking a secondthought, spread upward wing in prayer.
Mrs. Scudder sometimes came to her room after she was gone to bed,and found her weeping; and when gently she urged her to sleep, shewould wipe her eyes so patiently and turn her head with such obedientsweetness, that her mother’s heart utterly failed her. For hours Marysat in her room with James’s last letter spread out before her. Howanxiously had she studied every word and phrase in it, weighing themto see if the hope of eternal life were in them! How she dwelt onthose last promises! Had he kept them? Ah! to die without one wordmore! Would no angel tell her?—would not the loving God, who knewall, just whisper one word? He must have read the little Bible! Whathad he thought? What did he feel in that awful hour when he felthimself drifting on to that fearful eternity? Perhaps he had beenregenerated,—perhaps there had been a sudden change;—who knows?—she hadread of such things;—_perhaps_——Ah, in that perhaps lies a world ofanguish! Love will not hear of it. Love _dies_ for certainty. Againstan uncertainty who can brace the soul? We put all our forces of faithand prayer against it, and it goes down just as a buoy sinks in thewater, and the next moment it is up again. The soul fatigues itselfwith efforts which come and go in waves; and when with laborious careshe has adjusted all things in the light of hope, back flows the tide,and sweeps all away. In such struggles life spends itself fast; aninward wound does not carry one deathward more surely than this worstwound of the soul. God has made us so mercifully that there is no_certainty_, however dreadful, to which life-forces do not in timeadjust themselves,—but to uncertainty there is no possible adjustment.Where is he? Oh, question of questions!—question which we suppress, butwhich a power of infinite force still urges on the soul, who feels apart of herself torn away.
Mary sat at her window in evening hours, and watched the slantingsunbeams through the green blades of grass, and thought one year agohe stood there, with his well-knit, manly form, his bright eye, hisbuoyant hope, his victorious mastery of life! And where was he now? Washis heart as sick, longing for her, as hers for him? Was he lookingback to earth and its joys with pangs of unutterable regret? or had adivine power interpenetrated his soul, and lighted there the flame ofa celestial love which bore him far above earth? If he were among thelost, in what age of eternity could she ever be blessed? Could Christbe happy, if those who were one with Him were sinful and accursed?and could Christ’s own loved ones be happy, when those with whom theyhave exchanged being, in whom they live and feel, are as wanderingstars, for whom is reserved the mist of darkness for ever? She hadbeen taught that the agonies of the lost would be for ever in sight ofthe saints, without abating in the least their eternal joys; nay, thatthey would find in it increasing motives to praise and adoration. Couldit be so? Would the last act of the great Bridegroom of the Church beto strike from the heart of his purified Bride those yearnings ofself-devoting love which His whole example had taught her, and in whichshe reflected, as in a glass, His own nature? If not, is there notsome provision by which those roots of deathless love which Christ’sbetrothed ones strike into other hearts shall have a divine, redeemingpower? Question vital as life-blood to ten thousand hearts,—fathers,mothers, wives, husbands,—to all who feel the infinite sacredness oflove!
After the first interview with Mrs. Marvyn, the subject which had soagitated them was not renewed. She had risen at last from her sick-bed,as thin and shadowy as a faded moon after sunrise. Candace often shookher head mournfully, as her eyes followed her about her daily tasks.Once only, with Mary, she alluded to the conversation which had passedbetween them;—it was one day when they were together, spinning, in thenorth upper room that looked out upon the sea. It was a glorious day.A ship was coming in under full sail, with white gleaming wings. Mrs.Marvyn watched it a few moments,—the gay creature, so full of exultantlife,—and then smothered down an inward groan, and Mary thought sheheard her saying, ‘Thy will be done!’
‘Mary,’ she said, gently, ‘I hope you will forget all I said to youthat dreadful day. It had to be said, or I should have died. Mary, Ibegin to think that it is not best to stretch our minds with reasoningswhere we are so limited, where we can know so little. I am quite surethere must be dreadful mistakes somewhere.
‘It seems to me irreverent and shocking that a child should oppose afather, or a creature its Creator. I never should have done it, onlythat, where direct questions are presented to the judgment, one cannothelp judging. If one is required to praise a being as just and good,one must judge of his actions by some standard of right,—and we haveno standard but such as our Creator has placed in us. I have been toldit was my duty to attend to these subjects, and I have tried to,—andthe result has been that the facts presented seem wholly irreconcilablewith any notions of justice or mercy that I am able to form. If thesebe the facts, I can only say that my nature is made entirely opposedto them. If I followed the standard of right they present, and actedaccording to my small mortal powers on the same principles, I shouldbe a very bad person. Any father, who should make such use of powerover his children as they say the Deity does with regard to us, wouldbe looked upon as a monster by our very imperfect moral sense. Yet Icannot say that the facts are not so. When I heard the Doctor’s sermonson “Sin a Necessary Means of the Greatest Good,” I could not extricatemyself from the reasoning.
‘I have thought, in desperate moments, of giving up the Bible itself.But what do I gain? Do I not see the same difficulty in Nature? I seeeverywhere a Being whose main ends seem to be beneficent, but whosegood purposes are worked out at terrible expense of suffering, andapparently by the total sacrifice of myriads of sensitive creatures.I see unflinching order, general good-will, but no sympathy, nomercy. Storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, sickness, death, go onwithout regarding us. Everywhere I see the most hopeless, unrelievedsuffering,—and for aught I see, it may be eternal. Immortality is adreadful chance, and I would rather never have been.—The Doctor’sdreadful system is, I confess, much like the laws of Nature, about whatone may reason out from them.
‘There is but just one thing remaining, and that is, as Candace said,the cross of Christ. If God so loved us,—if He died for us,—greaterlove hath no man than this. It seems to me that love is shown here inthe two highest forms possible to our comprehension. We see a Being whogives himself for us,—and more than that, harder than that, a Beingwho consents to the suffering of a dearer than self. Mary, I feelthat I must love more, to give up one of my children to suffer, thanto consent to suffer myself. There is a world of comfort to me in thewords, “He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for usall, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?” Thesewords speak to my heart. I can interpret them by my own nature, and Irest on them. If there is a fathomless mystery of sin and sorrow, thereis a deeper mystery of God’s love. So, Mary, I try Candace’s way,—Ilook at Christ,—I pray to Him. If he that hath seen Him hath seen theFather, it is enough. I rest there,—I wait. What I know not now I shallknow hereafter.’
Mary kept all things and pondered them in her heart. She could speakto no one,—not to her mother, nor to her spiritual guide, for had shenot passed to a region beyond theirs? As well might those on the hitherside of mortality instruct the souls gone beyond the veil as soulsoutside a great affliction guide those who are struggling in it. Thatis a mighty baptism, and only Christ can go down with us into thosewaters.
Mrs. Scudder and the Doctor only marked that she was
more than everconscientious in every duty, and that she brought to life’s dailyrealities something of the calmness and disengagedness of one whosesoul has been wrenched by a mighty shock from all moorings here below.Hopes did not excite, fears did not alarm her; life had no force strongenough to awaken a thrill within; and the only subjects on which sheever spoke with any degree of ardour were religious subjects.
One who should have seen moving about the daily ministrations of thecottage a pale girl, whose steps were firm, whose eye was calm, whosehands were ever busy, would scarce imagine that through that silentheart were passing tides of thought that measured a universe; but itwas even so. Through that one gap of sorrow flowed in the whole awfulmystery of existence, and silently, as she spun and sewed, she thoughtover and over again all that she had ever been taught, and compared andrevolved it by the light of a dawning inward revelation.
Sorrow is the great birth-agony of immortal powers; sorrow is the greatsearcher and revealer of hearts, the great test of truth; for Plato haswisely said, sorrow will not endure sophisms; all shams and unrealitiesmelt in the fire of that awful furnace. Sorrow reveals forces inourselves we never dreamed of. The soul, a bound and sleeping prisoner,hears her knock on her cell-door, and wakens. Oh, how narrow the walls!oh, how close and dark the grated window! how the long useless wingsbeat against the impassable barriers! Where are we? What _is_ thisprison? What _is_ beyond? Oh for more air, more light! When will thedoor be opened? The soul seems to itself to widen and to deepen; ittrembles at its own dreadful forces; it gathers up in waves that breakwith wailing, only to flow back into the everlasting void. The calmestand most centred natures are sometimes thrown by the shock of a greatsorrow into a tumultuous amazement. All things are changed. The earthno longer seems solid, the skies no longer secure; a deep abyss seemsunderlying every joyous scene of life. The soul, struck with thisawful inspiration, is a mournful Cassandra; she sees blood on everythreshold, and shudders in the midst of mirth and festival with theweight of a terrible wisdom.
Who shall dare be glad any more, that has once seen the frailfoundations on which love and joy are built? Our brighter hours, havethey only been weaving a network of agonizing remembrances for thisday of bereavement? The heart is pierced with every past joy, withevery hope of its ignorant prosperity. Behind every scale in music,the gayest and cheeriest, the grandest, the most triumphant, liesits dark relative minor; the notes are the same, but the change of asemitone changes all to gloom; all our gayest hours are tunes that havea modulation into these dreary keys ever possible; at any moment thekey-note may be struck.
The firmest, best-prepared natures are often beside themselves withastonishment and dismay, when they are called to this dread initiation.They thought it a very happy world before,—a glorious universe. Nowit is darkened with the shadow of insoluble mysteries. Why thiseverlasting tramp of inevitable laws on quivering life? If the wheelsmust roll, why must the crushed be so living and sensitive?
And yet sorrow is god-like, sorrow is grand and great, sorrow is wiseand far-seeing. Our own instinctive valuations, the intense sympathywhich we give to the tragedy which God has inwoven into the lawsof Nature, show us that it is with no slavish dread, no cowardlyshrinking, that we should approach her divine mysteries. What are thenatures that cannot suffer? Who values them? From the fat oyster, overwhich the silver tide rises and falls without one pulse upon its fleshyear, to the hero who stands with quivering nerve parting with wife andchild and home for country and God, all the way up is an ascendingscale, marked by increasing power to suffer; and when we look to theHead of all being, up through principalities and powers and princedoms,with dazzling orders and celestial blazonry, to behold by what emblemthe Infinite Sovereign chooses to reveal himself, we behold, in themidst of the throne, ‘a lamb as it had been slain.’
Sorrow is divine. Sorrow is reigning on the throne of the universe, andthe crown of all crowns has been one of thorns. There have been manybooks that treat of the mystery of sorrow, but only one that bids usglory in tribulation, and count it all joy when we fall into diversafflictions, that so we may be associated with that great fellowship ofsuffering of which the Incarnate God is the head, and through which Heis carrying a redemptive conflict to a glorious victory over evil. Ifwe suffer with Him, we shall also reign with Him.
Even in the very making up of our physical nature, God puts suggestionsof such a result. ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh inthe morning.’ There are victorious powers in our nature which are allthe while working for us in our deepest pain. It is said, that afterthe sufferings of the rack, there ensues a period in which the simplerepose from torture produces a beatific trance; it is the reaction ofNature, asserting the benignant intentions of her Creator. So, aftergreat mental conflicts and agonies must come a reaction, and the DivineSpirit, co-working with our spirit, seizes the favourable moment, and,interpenetrating natural laws with a celestial vitality, carries up thesoul to joys beyond the ordinary possibilities of mortality.
It is said that gardeners, sometimes, when they would bring a rose toricher flowering, deprive it for a season of light and moisture. Silentand dark it stands, dropping one fading leaf after another, and seemingto go down patiently to death. But when every leaf is dropped, and theplant stands stripped to the uttermost, a new life is even then workingin the buds, from which shall spring a tender foliage and a brighterwealth of flowers. So, often in celestial gardening, every leaf ofearthly joy must drop, before a new and divine bloom visits the soul.
Gradually, as months passed away, the floods grew still; the mightyrushes of the inner tide ceased to dash. There came first a deliciouscalmness, and then a celestial inner clearness, in which the soulseemed to lie quiet as an untroubled ocean, reflecting heaven.Then came the fulness of mysterious communion given to the pure inheart, that advent of the Comforter in the soul, teaching all thingsand bringing all things to remembrance; and Mary moved in a worldtransfigured by a celestial radiance. Her face, so long mournfullycalm, like some chiselled statue of Patience, now wore a radiance,as when one places a light behind some alabaster screen sculpturedwith mysterious and holy emblems, and words of strange sweetnessbroke from her, as if one should hear snatches of music from a doorsuddenly opened in heaven. Something wise and strong and sacred gave aninvoluntary impression of awe in her looks and words; it was not thechild-like loveliness of early days, looking with dove-like, ignoranteyes on sin and sorrow; but the victorious sweetness of that greatmultitude who have come out of great tribulation, having washed theirrobes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. In her eyes therewas that nameless depth that one sees with awe in the Sistine Madonna;eyes that have measured infinite sorrow and looked through it to aninfinite peace.
‘My dear madam,’ said the Doctor to Mrs. Scudder, ‘I cannot but thinkthere must be some uncommonly gracious exercises passing in the mindof your daughter; for I observe, that, though she is not inclined toconversation, she seems to be much in prayer; and I have of late feltthe sense of a Divine Presence with her in a most unusual degree. Hasshe opened her mind to you?’
‘Mary was always a silent girl,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘and not given tospeaking of her own feelings; indeed, until she gave you an accountof her spiritual state, on joining the church, I never knew what herexercises were. Hers is a most singular case. I never knew the timewhen she did not seem to love God more than anything else. It hasdisturbed me sometimes, because I did not know but it might be merenatural sensibility, instead of gracious affection.’
‘Do not disturb yourself, madam,’ said the Doctor. ‘The Spirit workethwhen, where, and how He will; and, undoubtedly, there have been caseswhere His operations commence exceedingly early. Mr. Edwards relates acase of a young person who experienced a marked conversion when threeyears of age, and Jeremiah was called from the womb. (Jeremiah i. 5.)In all cases we must test the quality of the evidence without relationto the time of its commencement. I do not generally lay much stress onour impressions, which are often uncertai
n and delusive; yet I havehad an impression that the Lord would be pleased to make some singularmanifestations of His grace through this young person. In the economyof grace there is neither male nor female; and Peter says (Acts ii. 17)that the Spirit of the Lord shall be poured out, and your sons and yourdaughters shall prophesy. Yet, if we consider that the Son of God, asto His human nature, was made of a woman, it leads us to see that inmatters of grace God sets a special value on woman’s nature and designsto put special honour upon it. Accordingly there have been in theChurch, in all ages, holy women who have received the Spirit, and beencalled to a ministration in the things of God—such as Deborah, Huldah,and Anna the prophetess. In our own days most uncommon manifestationsof divine grace have been given to holy women. It was my privilege tobe in the family of President Edwards at a time when Northampton wasspecially visited, and his wife seemed and spoke more like a glorifiedspirit than a mortal woman, and multitudes flocked to the house to hearher wonderful words. She seemed to have such a sense of the Divine loveas was almost beyond the powers of nature to endure. Just to speakthe words, “Our Father who art in heaven,” would overcome her withsuch a manifestation that she would become cold and almost faint; andthough she uttered much, yet she told us that the divinest things shesaw could not be spoken. These things could not be fanaticism, forshe was a person of a singular evenness of nature, and of great skilland discretion in temporal matters, and of an exceeding humility,sweetness, and quietness of disposition.’
‘I have observed of late,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘that in our prayingcircles Mary seemed much carried out of herself, and often as if shewould speak, and with difficulty holding herself back. I have noturged her, because I thought it best to wait till she should feel fullliberty.’
‘Therein you do rightly, madam,’ said the Doctor, ‘but I am persuadedyou will hear from her yet.’
It came at length, the hour of utterance. And one day, in a prayingcircle of the women of the church, all were startled by the clearsilver tones of one who sat among them and spoke with the unconscioussimplicity of an angel child, calling God her Father, and speakingof an ineffable union in Christ, binding all things together inone, and making all complete in Him. She spoke of a love passingknowledge—passing all love of lovers or of mothers—a love for everspending, yet never spent—a love ever pierced and bleeding, yet everconstant and triumphant, rejoicing with infinite joy to bear in itsown body the sins and sorrows of a universe—conquering, victoriouslove, rejoicing to endure, panting to give, and offering its whole selfwith an infinite joyfulness for our salvation. And when, kneeling,she poured out her soul in prayer, her words seemed so many wingedangels, musical with unearthly harpings of an untold blessedness.They who heard her had the sensation of rising in the air, of feelinga celestial light and warmth descending into their souls; and when,rising, she stood silent and with downcast drooping eyelids, there weretears in all eyes, and a hush in all movements as she passed, as ifsomething celestial were passing out.
Miss Prissy came rushing homeward, to hold a private congratulatorytalk with the Doctor and Mrs. Scudder, while Mary was tranquillysetting the tea-table and cutting bread for supper.
‘To see her now, certainly,’ said Miss Prissy, ‘moving round sothoughtful, not forgetting anything, and doing everything so calm, youwouldn’t ’a’ thought it could be her that spoke those blessed words andmade that prayer! Well, certainly, that prayer seemed to take us allright up and put us down in heaven; and when I opened my eyes, and sawthe roses and asparagus-bushes on the manteltree-piece, I had to askmyself, “Where have I been?” Oh! Miss Scudder, her afflictions havebeen sanctified to her! And really, when I see her going on so, I feelshe can’t be long for us. They say dying grace is for dying hours; andI’m sure this seems more like dying grace than anything that I ever yetsaw.’
‘She is a precious gift,’ said the Doctor; ‘let us thank the Lord forHis grace through her. She has evidently had a manifestation of theBeloved, and feedeth among the lilies (Canticles vi. 3); and we willnot question the Lord’s further dispensations concerning her.’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Prissy, briskly, ‘it’s never best to borrowtrouble; “sufficient unto the day” is enough, to be sure. And now, MissScudder, I thought I’d just take a look at that dove-coloured silk ofyours to-night, to see what would have to be done with it, because Imust make every minute tell, and you know I lose half a day every weekfor the prayer-meeting. Though I ought not to say I lose it, either,for I was telling Miss General Wilcox I wouldn’t give up that meetingfor bags and bags of gold. She wanted me to come and sew for her oneWednesday, and says I, “Miss Wilcox, I’m poor and have to live by mywork, but I a’n’t so poor but what I have some comforts, and I can’tgive up my prayer-meeting for any money—for you see, if one gets alittle lift there, it makes all the work go lighter, but then I have tobe particular to save up every scrap and end of time.”’
Mrs. Scudder and Miss Prissy crossed the kitchen and entered thebedroom, and soon had the dove-coloured silk under consideration.
‘Well, Miss Scudder,’ said Miss Prissy, after mature investigation,‘here’s a broad hem, not cut at all on the edge, as I see, and thatmight be turned down, and so cut off the worn spot up by the waist,and then, if it is turned, it will look every bit and grain as wellas a new silk. I’ll sit right down now and go to ripping. I putmy ripping-knife into my pocket when I put on this dress to go toprayer-meeting, because, says I to myself, there’ll be something to doat Miss Scudder’s to-night. You just get an iron to the fire, and we’llhave it all ripped and pressed out before dark.’
Miss Prissy seated herself at the open window, as cheery as a freshapple-blossom, and began busily plying her knife, looking at thegarment she was ripping with an astute air, as if she were aboutto circumvent it into being a new dress by some surprising act oflegerdemain. Mrs. Scudder walked to the looking-glass and beganchanging her bonnet-cap for a tea-table one.
Miss Prissy, after a while, commenced in a mysterious tone:
‘Miss Scudder, I know folks like me shouldn’t have their eyes opentoo wide, but then I can’t help noticing some things. Did you see theDoctor’s face when we was talking to him about Mary? Why, he colouredall up and the tears came into his eyes. It’s my belief that thatblessed man worships the ground she treads on. I don’t mean _worships_,either, ’cause that would be wicked, and he’s too good a man to makea graven image of anything; but it’s clear to see that there a’n’tanybody in the world like Mary to him. I always did think so, butI used to think Mary was such a little poppet—that she’d do betterfor——Well, you know, I thought about some younger man—but, laws,now I see how she rises up to be ahead of everybody, and is so kindof solemn-like. I can’t but see the leadings of Providence. What aminister’s wife she’d be, Miss Scudder! Why, all the ladies coming outof prayer-meeting were speaking of it. You see, they want the Doctor toget married: it seems more comfortable-like to have ministers married;one feels more free to open their exercises of mind; and, as MissDeacon Twitchel said to me—“If the Lord had made a woman o’ purpose, ashe did for Adam, he wouldn’t have made her a bit different from MaryScudder.” Why, the oldest of us would follow her lead, ’cause she goesbefore us without knowing it.’
‘I feel that the Lord has greatly blessed me in such a child,’ saidMrs. Scudder, ‘and I feel disposed to wait the leadings of Providence.’
‘Just exactly,’ said Miss Prissy, giving a shake to her silk; ‘and asMiss Twitchel said, in this case every providence seems to p’int. Ifelt dreadfully for her along six months back; but now I see how she’sbeen brought out, I begin to see that things are for the best, perhaps,after all. I can’t help feeling that Jim Marvyn is gone to heaven, poorfellow! His father is a deacon,—and such a good man!—and Jim, though hedid make a great laugh wherever he went, and sometimes laughed wherehe hadn’t ought to, was a noble-hearted fellow. Now, to be sure, asthe Doctor says, “amiable instincts a’n’t true holiness;” but thenthey are better than
unamiable ones, like Simeon Brown’s. I do think,if that man is a Christian, he is a dreadful ugly one; he snapped meshort up about my change, when he settled with me last Tuesday; and ifI hadn’t felt that it was a sinful rising, I should have told him I’dnever put foot in his house again; I’m glad, for my part, he’s gone outof our church. Now Jim Marvyn was like a prince to poor people; and Iremember once his mother told him to settle with me, and he gave me’most double, and wouldn’t let me make change. “Confound it all, MissPrissy,” says he, “I wouldn’t stitch as you do from morning to nightfor double that money.” Now I know we can’t do anything to recommendourselves to the Lord, but then I can’t help feeling some sorts offolks must be by nature more pleasing to Him than others. David wasa man after God’s own heart, and he was a generous, whole-souledfellow, like Jim Marvyn, though he did get carried away by his spiritssometimes and do wrong things; and so I hope the Lord saw fit to makeJim one of the elect. We don’t ever know what God’s grace has done forfolks. I think a great many are converted when we know nothing aboutit, as Miss Twitchel told poor old Miss Tyrrel, who was mourning abouther son, a dreadful wild boy, who was killed falling from mast-head;she says, that from the mast-head to the deck was time enough fordivine grace to do the work.’
‘I have always had a trembling hope for poor James,’ said Mrs.Scudder,—‘not on account of any of his good deeds or amiable traits,because election is without foresight of any good works,—but I felt hewas a child of the covenant, at least by the father’s side, and I hopethe Lord has heard his prayer. These are dark providences; the worldis full of them; and all we can do is to have faith that the Lord willbring infinite good out of finite evil, and make everything better thanif the evil had not happened. That’s what our good Doctor is alwaysrepeating; and we must try to rejoice, in view of the happiness ofthe universe, without considering whether we or our friends are to beincluded in it or not.’
‘Well, dear me!’ said Miss Prissy, ‘I hope, if that is necessary, itwill please the Lord to give it to me; for I don’t seem to find anypower in me to get up to it. But all’s for the best, at any rate,—andthat’s a comfort.’
Just at this moment Mary’s clear voice at the door announced that teawas on the table.
‘Coming, this very minute,’ said Miss Prissy, bustling up and pullingoff her spectacles. Then, running across the room, she shut the doormysteriously, and turned to Mrs. Scudder with the air of an impendingsecret. Miss Prissy was subject to sudden impulses of confidence, inwhich she was so very cautious that not the thickest oak-plank doorseemed secure enough, and her voice dropped to its lowest key. The mostimportant and critical words were entirely omitted, or supplied by aknowing wink and a slight stamp of the foot.
In this mood she now approached Mrs. Scudder, and, holding up her handon the door side, to prevent consequences, if, after all, she shouldbe betrayed into a loud word, she said, ‘I thought I’d just say, MissScudder, that, in case Mary should —— the Doctor,—in case, you know,there should be a —— in the house, you _must_ just contrive it so as togive me a month’s notice, so that I could give you a whole fortnightto fix her up as such a good man’s —— ought to be. Now I know howspiritually-minded our blessed Doctor is; but, bless you, Ma’am, he’sgot eyes. I tell you, Miss Scudder, these men, the best of ’em, _feel_what’s what, though they don’t _know_ much. I saw the Doctor look atMary that night I dressed her for the wedding-party. I tell you he’dlike to have his wife look pretty well, and he’ll get up some blessedtext or other about it, just as he did that night about being broughtunto the king in raiment of needle-work. That is an encouraging thoughtto us sewing-women.
‘But this thing was spoken of after the meeting. Miss Twitchel andMiss Jones were talking about it; and they all say that there would bethe best setting-out got for her that was ever seen in Newport, if itshould happen. Why, there’s reason in it. She ought to have at leasttwo real good India silks that will stand alone,—and you’ll see she’llhave ’em too; you let me alone for that; and I was thinking, as I layawake last night, of a new way of making up, that you will say is justthe sweetest that ever you did see. And Miss Jones was saying that shehoped there wouldn’t anything happen without her knowing it, becauseher husband’s sister in Philadelphia has sent her a new receipt forcake, and she has tried it and it came out beautifully, and she saysshe’ll send some in.’
All the time that this stream was flowing, Mrs. Scudder stood with theproperly reserved air of a discreet matron, who leaves all such mattersto Providence, and is not supposed unduly to anticipate the future;and, in reply, she warmly pressed Miss Prissy’s hand, and remarked,that no one could tell what a day might bring forth,—and other generalobservations on the uncertainty of mortal prospects, which form abecoming shield when people do not wish to say more exactly what theyare thinking of.