CHAPTER XXVIII.
BETWEEN three and four the next morning, the robin in the nest aboveMary’s room stretched out his left wing, opened one eye, and gave ashort and rather drowsy chirp, which broke up his night’s rest andrestored him to the full consciousness that he was a bird with wingsand feathers—a large apple-tree to live in, and all heaven for anestate—and so, on these fortunate premises, he broke into a gushof singing, clear and loud, which Mary without waking heard in herslumbers.
Scarcely conscious, she lay in that dim clairvoyant state, when thehalf-sleep of the outward senses permits a delicious dewy clearnessof the soul; that perfect ethereal rest and freshness of faculties,comparable only to what we imagine of the spiritual state. Seasonof celestial enchantment, in which the heavy weight ‘of all thisunintelligible world’ drops off, and the soul, divinely charmed,nestles like a wind-tossed bird in the protecting bosom of the Oneall Perfect, all Beautiful. What visions then come to the inner eyehave often no words corresponding in mortal vocabularies. The poet,the artist, and the prophet in such hours become possessed of divine_certainties_, which all their lives they struggle, with pencil orsong, or burning words, to make evident to their fellows. The worldaround wonders, but _they_ are unsatisfied, because they have _seen theglory_ and know how inadequate the copy. But not merely to selectestspirits come these hours, but to those (humble poets) ungifted withutterance, who are among men as fountains sealed; whose song can bewrought out only by the harmony of deeds; the patient, patheticmelodies of tender endurance, or the heroic chant of undiscouragedlabour. The poor slave woman last night parted from her only boy,and weary with the cotton-picking; the captive pining in his cell;the patient wife of the drunkard, saddened by a consciousness of thegrowing vileness of one once so dear; the delicate spirit doomedto harsh and uncongenial surroundings;—all in such hours feel thesoothings of a celestial harmony, the tenderness of more than amother’s love. It is by such hours as these often, more than byreasonings or disputings, that doubts are resolved in the region ofreligious faith. The All-Father treats us as the mother does her‘infant crying in the dark;’ He does not reason with our fears, ordemonstrate their fallacy, but draws us silently to His bosom, and weare at peace. Nay, there have been those undoubtedly who have knownGod falsely with the intellect, yet felt Him truly with the heart; andthere may be many, principally among the unlettered little ones ofChrist’s flock, who positively _know_ that much that is dogmaticallypropounded to them of their Redeemer is cold, barren, unsatisfying, andeven utterly false, who yet can give no account of their certaintiesbetter than that of the inspired fisherman, ‘We know Him, and have seenHim.’
It was in such hours as these that Mary’s deadly fears for the soul ofher beloved had passed away, passed out of her, as if some warm healingnature of tenderest vitality had drawn out of her heart all pain andcoldness, and warmed it with the breath of an eternal summer. So, whilethe purple shadows spread their gauzy veils inwove with fire alongthe sky, and the gloom of the sea broke out here and there into linesof light, and thousands of birds were answering to each other fromapple-tree, and meadow-grass, and top of jagged rock, or trooping inbands hither and thither like angels on loving messages, Mary lay therewith the flickering light through the leaves fluttering over her face,and the glow of dawn warming the snow-white draperies of the bed, andgiving a tender rose hue to the calm cheek. She lay half conscious,smiling the while, as one who sleeps while the heart waketh, and whohears in dreams the voice of the One Eternally Beautiful and Beloved.
Mrs. Scudder entered her room, and thinking that she still slept, stoodand looked down upon her. She felt as one does who has parted withsome precious possession, a sudden sense of its value coming over her;and she queried in herself whether any living mortal were worthy of soperfect a gift; and nothing but a remembrance of the Doctor’s prostratehumility at all reconciled her to the sacrifice she was making.
‘Mary, dear,’ she said, bending over her with an unusual infusion ofemotion in her voice; ‘darling child.’
The arms moved instinctively, even before the eyes unclosed, and drewher mother down to her with a warm clinging embrace.
Love in Puritan families was often like latent caloric,—anall-pervading force that affected no visible thermometer, shownchiefly by a noble, silent confidence, a ready helpfulness, but seldomout-breathed in caresses,—yet natures like Mary’s always craved theseoutward demonstrations, and sprang towards them as a trailing vinesways to the nearest support. It was delightful for once fully to_feel_ how much her mother loved her, as well as to _know_ it.
‘Dear, precious mother, do you love me so very much?’
‘I live and breathe in you, Mary,’ said Mrs. Scudder, giving vent toherself in one of those trenchant short-hand expressions, whereinpositive natures incline to résumé _all_ when they must speak at all.
Mary held her mother silently to her breast, her heart shining throughher face with a quiet radiance of love.
‘Do you feel happy this morning?’ said Mrs. Scudder.
‘Very, very, _very_ happy, mother.’
‘I am so glad to hear you say so,’ said Mrs. Scudder, who, to say thetruth, had entertained many doubts at her pillow the night before.
Mary began dressing herself in a state of calm exaltation. Everytrembling leaf on the tree, every sunbeam was like a loving smile ofGod, every fluttering breeze like His voice, full of encouragement andhope.
‘Mother, did you tell the Doctor what I said last night?’
‘I did, my darling.’
‘Then, mother, I would like to see him a few moments alone.’
‘Well, Mary, he is in his study at his morning devotions.’
‘That is just the time. I will go to him.’
The Doctor was sitting by the window, and the honest-hearted motherlylilacs, a-bloom for the third time since our story began, were fillingthe air with their sweetness. Suddenly the door opened, and Maryentered in her simple white short-gown and skirt, her eyes calmlyradiant, and her whole manner having something serious and celestial.She came directly towards him, and put out both her little hands with asmile half child-like, half angelic, and the Doctor bowed his head, andcovered his face with his hands.
‘Dear friend,’ said Mary, kneeling, and taking his hands, ‘if you wantme, I am come. Life is but a moment. There is an eternal blessednessjust beyond us, and for the little time between, I will be all I can toyou if you will only show me how.’
And the Doctor—— No, young man, the study door closed just then, and noone heard those words from a quaint old oriental book which told thatall the poetry of that grand old soul had burst into flower, as thealoe blossoms once in a hundred years. The ripples of that great heartmight have fallen unconsciously into phrases from that one love poemof the Bible which these men read so purely and devoutly, and whichwarmed the icy clearness of their intellects with the myrrh and spicesof ardent lands, where earthly and heavenly love meet and blend in oneindistinguishable horizon line, like sea and sky.
‘Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon? clearas the sun? My dove, my undefiled, is but one. She is the only one ofher mother—thou art all fair, my beloved, there is no spot in thee.’
The Doctor might have said all this, we will not say he did, nor willwe say he did not; all we know is, that when the breakfast-table wasready they came out cheerfully together. Madame de Frontignac stood ina fresh white wrapper, with a few buttercups in her hair, waiting forthe breakfast. She was startled to see the Doctor entering all radiant,leading in Mary by the hand, and looking as if he thought she were somedream-miracle which might dissolve under his eyes unless he kept fasthold of her. The keen eyes shot their arrowy glance, which went atonce to the heart of the matter. Madame de Frontignac knew they wereengaged, and regarded Mary with attention.
The calm, sweet, elevated expression of her face struck her; it struckher also that _that_ was not the light of any earthly love, that it hadno thrill, no blush, no tremor, but
only the calmness of a soul thatknows itself no more, and she sighed involuntarily.
She looked at the Doctor, and seemed to study attentively a face whichhappiness had made this morning as genial and attractive as it wasgenerally strong and fine.
There was little said at the breakfast-table this morning; and yet theloud singing of the birds, the brightness of the sunshine, the life andvigour of all things, seemed to make up for the silence of those whowere too well pleased to speak.
‘_Eh bien, ma chère_,’ said Madame, after breakfast, drawing Mary intoher little room. ‘_C’est fini?_’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, cheerfully.
‘Thou art content,’ said Madame, passing her arm around her; ‘wellthen, I should be: but, Mary, it is like a marriage with the altar,like taking the veil, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Mary, ‘it is not taking the veil, it is beginning acheerful, reasonable life with a kind, noble friend who will alwayslove me truly, and whom I hope to make as happy as he deserves.’
‘I think well of him, my little cat,’ said Madame, reflectively;‘but—,’ she stopped something she was going to say, and kissed Mary’sforehead; after a moment’s pause, she added,
‘One must have love or refuge, Mary; this is thy refuge, child; thouwilt have peace in it;’ she sighed again.
‘_Enfin_,’ she said, resuming her gay tone, ‘what shall be _la toilettede noce_? Thou shalt have Verginie’s pearls, my fair one, and look likea sea-born Venus; _tiens!_ let me try them in thy hair.’
And in a few moments she had Mary’s long hair down, and was chatteringlike a blackbird, wreathing the pearls in and out, and saying athousand pretty nothings, weaving grace and poetry into the straitthread of Puritan life.