The Minister's Wooing
CHAPTER III.
A QUIET, maiden-like place was Mary’s little room. The window lookedout under the overarching boughs of a thick apple orchard, now allin a blush with blossoms and pink-tipped buds, and the light camegolden-green, strained through flickering leaves,—and an ever-gentlerustle and whirr of branches and blossoms, a chitter of birds, andan indefinite whispering motion, as the long heads of orchard-grassnodded and bowed to each other under the trees, seemed to give theroom the quiet hush of some little side chapel in a cathedral, wheregreen and golden glass softens the sunlight, and only the sigh andrustle of kneeling worshippers break the stillness of the aisles. Itwas small enough for a nun’s apartment, and dainty in its neatness asthe waxen cell of a bee. The bed and low window were draped in spotlesswhite, with fringes of Mary’s own knotting. A small table under thelooking-glass bore the library of a well-taught young woman of thosetimes. The ‘Spectator,’ ‘Paradise Lost,’ Shakspeare, and ‘RobinsonCrusoe,’ stood for the admitted secular literature, and beside themthe Bible and the works then published of Mr. Jonathan Edwards. Laid alittle to one side, as if of doubtful reputation, was the only novelwhich the stricter people in those days allowed for the reading oftheir daughters: that seven-volumed, trailing, tedious, delightful oldbore, ‘Sir Charles Grandison,’—a book whose influence in those timeswas so universal, that it may be traced in the epistolary style evenof the gravest divines. Our little heroine was mortal, with all herdivinity, and had an imagination which sometimes wandered to the thingsof earth; and this glorious hero in lace and embroidery, who blendedrank, gallantry, spirit, knowledge of the world, disinterestedness,constancy, and piety, sometimes walked before her, while she satspinning at her wheel, till she sighed, she hardly knew why, thatno such men walked the earth now. Yet it is to be confessed, thisoccasional raid of the romantic into Mary’s balanced and well-orderedmind was soon energetically put to rout, and the book, as we havesaid, remained on her table under protest,—protected by being herfather’s gift to her mother during their days of courtship. The smalllooking-glass was curiously wreathed with corals and foreign shells,so disposed as to indicate an artistic eye and skilful hand; and somecurious Chinese paintings of birds and flowers gave rather a piquantand foreign air to the otherwise homely neatness of the apartment.
Here in this little retreat, Mary spent those few hours which herexacting conscience would allow her to spare from her busy-fingeredhousehold-life; here she read and wrote and thought and prayed;—andhere she stands now, arraying herself for the tea company thatafternoon. Dress, which in our day is becoming in some cases thewhole of woman, was in those times a remarkably simple affair. True,every person of a certain degree of respectability had state andfestival robes; and a certain camphor-wood brass-bound trunk, whichwas always kept solemnly locked in Mrs. Katy Scudder’s apartment,if it could have spoken, might have given off quite a catalogue ofbrocade satin and laces. The wedding-suit there slumbered in all theunsullied whiteness of its stiff ground broidered with heavy knots offlowers; and there were scarfs of wrought India muslin and embroideredcrape, each of which had its history,—for each had been brought intothe door with beating heart on some return voyage of one who, alas!should return no more. The old trunk stood with its histories, itsimprisoned remembrances,—and a thousand tender thoughts seemed to beshaping out of every rustling fold of silk and embroidery, on thefew yearly occasions when all were brought out to be aired, theirhistory related, and then solemnly locked up again. Nevertheless, thepossession of these things gave to the women of an establishment acertain innate dignity, like a good conscience, so that in that largerportion of existence commonly denominated among them ‘every day,’ theywere content with plain stuff and homespun. Mary’s toilet, therefore,was sooner made than those of Newport belles of the present day; itsimply consisted in changing her ordinary ‘short-gown and petticoat’for another of somewhat nicer materials, a skirt of India chintz anda striped jaconet short-gown. Her hair was of the kind which alwayslies like satin; but, nevertheless, girls never think their toiletcomplete unless the smoothest hair has been shaken down and rearranged.A few moments, however, served to braid its shining folds and disposethem in their simple knot on the back of the head; and having given afinal stroke to each side with her little dimpled hands, she sat downa moment at the window, thoughtfully watching where the afternoon sunwas creeping through the slates of the fence in long lines of goldamong the tall, tremulous orchard-grass, and unconsciously she beganwarbling, in a low, gurgling voice, the words of a familiar hymn, whosegrave earnestness accorded well with the general tone of her life andeducation:—
‘Life is the time to serve the Lord, The time t’ insure the great reward.’
There was a swish and rustle in the orchard-grass, and a tramp ofelastic steps; then the branches were brushed aside, and a young mansuddenly emerged from the trees a little behind Mary. He was apparentlyabout twenty-five, dressed in the holiday rig of a sailor on shore,which well set off his fine athletic figure, and accorded with a sortof easy, dashing, and confident air which sat not unhandsomely on him.For the rest, a high forehead shaded by rings of the blackest hair, akeen, dark eye, a firm and determined mouth, gave the impression of onewho had engaged to do battle with life, not only with a will, but withshrewdness and ability.
_Mary and her Cousin._
_Page 20._
Sampson Low, Son & Co. Jany. 24, 1859]
He introduced the colloquy by stepping deliberately behind Mary,putting his arms round her neck, and kissing her.
‘Why, James!’ said Mary, starting up and blushing, ‘Come, now!’
‘I have come, haven’t I?’ said the young man, leaning his elbow onthe window-seat and looking at her with an air of comic determinedfrankness, which yet had in it such wholesome honesty that it wasscarcely possible to be angry. ‘The fact is, Mary,’ he added, with asudden earnest darkening of the face, ‘I won’t stand this nonsense anylonger. Aunt Katy has been holding me at arm’s length ever since I gothome; and what have I done? Haven’t I been to every prayer-meetingand lecture and sermon, since I got into port, just as regular as apsalm-book? and not a bit of a word could I get with you, and no chanceeven so much as to give you my arm. Aunt Katy always comes between usand says, “Here, Mary, you take my arm.” What does she think I go tomeeting for, and almost break my jaws keeping down the gapes? I nevereven go to sleep, and yet I am treated in this way! It’s too bad!What’s the row? What’s anybody been saying about me? I always havewaited on you ever since you were that high. Didn’t I always draw youto school on my sled? didn’t we always use to do our sums together?didn’t I always wait on you to singing school? and I’ve been made freeto run in and out as if I were your brother;—and now she is as glum andstiff, and always stays in the room every minute of the time that I amthere, as if she was afraid I should be in some mischief. It’s too bad!’
‘Oh, James, I am sorry that you only go to meeting for the sake ofseeing me; you feel no real interest in religious things; and besides,mother thinks now I am grown so old that—Why, you know, things aredifferent now,—at least, we mustn’t, you know, always do as we didwhen we were children. But I wish you did feel more interested in goodthings.’
‘I _am_ interested in one or two good things, Mary,—principally in you,who are the best I know of. Besides,’ he said quickly, and scanning herface attentively to see the effect of his words, ‘don’t you think thereis more merit in my sitting out all these meetings, when they bore meso confoundedly, than there is in your and Aunt Katy’s doing it, whoreally seem to find something to like in them? I believe you have asixth sense, quite unknown to me, for it’s all a maze,—I can’t findtop, nor bottom, nor side, nor up, nor down to it,—it’s you can and youcan’t, you shall and you shan’t, you will and you won’t,—’
‘James!’
‘You needn’t look at me so. I’m not going to say the rest of it. But,seriously, it’s all anywhere and nowhere to me; it don’t touch me, itdon’t help me,
and I think it rather makes me worse; and then they tellme it’s because I’m a natural man, and the natural man understandethnot the things of the Spirit. Well, I _am_ a natural man,—how’s afellow to help it?’
‘Well, James, why need you talk everywhere as you do? You joke, andjest, and trifle, till it seems to everybody that you don’t believe inanything. I’m afraid mother thinks you are an infidel, but I _know_ itcan’t be; yet we hear all sorts of things that you say.’
‘I suppose you mean my telling Deacon Twitchel that I had seen as goodChristians among the Mahometans as any in Newport. _Didn’t_ I make himopen his eyes? It’s true, too!’
‘In every nation, he that feareth God and worketh righteousness isaccepted of Him,’ said Mary; ‘and if there are better Christians thanus among the Mahometans, I am sure I am glad of it. But, after all, thegreat question is, “Are we Christians ourselves?” Oh, James, if youonly were a real, true, noble Christian!’
‘Well, Mary, you have got into that harbour, through all the sandbarsand rocks and crooked channels; and now do you think it right to leavea fellow beating about outside, and not go out to help him in? Thisway of drawing up, among your good people, and leaving us sinners toourselves, isn’t generous. You might care a little for the soul of anold friend, anyhow!’
‘And don’t I care, James? How many days and nights have been oneprayer for you! If I could take my hopes of heaven out of my own heartand give them to you, I would. Dr. H. preached last Sunday on the text,“I could wish myself accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen;”and he went on to show how we must be willing to give up even our ownsalvation, if necessary, for the good of others. People said it washard doctrine, but I could feel my way through it very well. Yes, Iwould give my soul for yours; I wish I could.’
There was a solemnity and pathos in Mary’s manner which checked theconversation. James was the more touched because he felt it all soreal, from one whose words were always yea and nay, so true, soinflexibly simple. Her eyes filled with tears, her face kindled with asad earnestness, and James thought, as he looked, of a picture he hadonce seen in a European cathedral, where the youthful Mother of Sorrowsis represented,
‘Radiant and grave, as pitying man’s decline; All youth, but with an aspect beyond time; Mournful, but mournful of another’s crime; She looked as if she sat by Eden’s door, And grieved for those who should return no more.’
James had thought he loved Mary; he had admired her remarkable beauty;he had been proud of a certain right in her before that of other youngmen, her associates; he had thought of her as the keeper of his home;he had wished to appropriate her wholly to himself;—but in all thisthere had been, after all, only the thought of what she was to be tohim; and this, for this poor measure of what he called love, she wasready to offer an infinite sacrifice.
As a subtle flash of lightning will show in a moment a wholelandscape—tower, town, winding stream, and distant sea—so that onesubtle ray of feeling seemed in a moment to reveal to James the wholeof his past life; and it seemed to him so poor, so meagre, so shallow,by the side of that childlike woman, to whom the noblest of feelingswere unconscious matters of course, that a sort of awe awoke in him:like the Apostles of old, he ‘feared as he entered into the cloud:’ itseemed as if the deepest string of some eternal sorrow had vibratedbetween them.
After a moment’s pause, he spoke in a low and altered voice:—
‘Mary, I am a sinner. No psalm or sermon ever taught it to me, but Isee it now. Your mother is quite right, Mary; you are too good for me;I am no mate for you. Oh, what would you think of me, if you knew mewholly? I have lived a mean, miserable, shallow, unworthy life. You areworthy, you are a saint, and walk in white! Oh, what upon earth, couldever make you care so much for me?’
‘Well, then, James, you will be good? Won’t you talk with Dr. H.?’
‘Hang Dr. H.!’ said James. ‘Now Mary, I beg your pardon, but I can’tmake head or tail of a word Dr. H. says. I don’t get hold of it, orknow what he would be at. You girls and women don’t know your power.Why, Mary, you are a living gospel. You have always had a strangepower over us boys. You never talked religion much; but I have seenhigh fellows come away from being with you as still and quiet as onefeels when one goes into a church. I can’t understand all the hangof predestination, and moral ability, and natural ability, and God’sefficiency, and man’s agency, which Dr. H. is so engaged about; but Ican understand _you_—_you_ can do me good!’
‘Oh, James, can I?’
‘Mary I am going to confess my sins. I saw that, somehow or other, thewind was against me in Aunt Katy’s quarter, and you know we fellowswho take up the world in both fists don’t like to be beat. If there’sopposition, it sets us on. Now I confess I never did care much aboutreligion, but I thought, without being really a hypocrite, I’d justlet you try to save my soul for the sake of getting you; for there’snothing surer to hook a woman than trying to save a fellow’s soul.It’s a dead-shot, generally, that. Now our ship sails to-night, and Ithought I’d just come across this path in the orchard to speak to you.You know I used always to bring you peaches and juneatings across thisway, and once I brought you a ribbon.’
‘Yes, I’ve got it yet, James.’
‘Well, now, Mary, all this seems mean to me,—mean to try and trick andsnare you, who are so much too good for me. I felt very proud thismorning that I was to go out first mate this time, and that I shouldcommand a ship next voyage. I meant to have asked you for a promise,but I don’t. Only, Mary, just give me your little Bible, and I’llpromise to read it all through soberly, and see what it all comes to.And pray for me; and if, while I’m gone, a good man comes who lovesyou, and is worthy of you, why take him, Mary,—that’s my advice.’
‘James, I’m not thinking of any such things; I don’t ever mean to bemarried. And I’m glad you don’t ask me for any promise, because itwould be wrong to give it; mother don’t even like me to be much withyou. But I’m sure all I have said to you to-day is right; I shall tellher exactly all I have said.’
‘If Aunt Katy knew what things we fellows are pitched into, who takethe world head-foremost, she wouldn’t be so selfish. Mary, you girlsand women don’t know the world you live in; you ought to be pure andgood; you are not as we are. You don’t know what men, what women,—no,they’re not women!—what creatures, beset us in every foreign port, andboarding-houses that are gates of hell; and then, if a fellow comesback from all this and don’t walk exactly straight, you just draw upthe hems of your garments and stand close to the wall, for fear heshould touch you when he passes. I don’t mean you, Mary, for you aredifferent from most; but if you would do what you could, you might saveus.—But it’s no use talking, Mary. Give me the Bible; and please bekind to my dove,—for I had a hard time getting him across the water,and I don’t want him to die.’
If Mary had spoken all that welled up in her little heart at thatmoment, she might have said too much; but duty had its habitual sealupon her lips. She took the little Bible from her table and gave itwith a trembling hand, and James turned to go. In a moment he turnedback and stood irresolute.
‘Mary,’ he said, ‘we are cousins; I may never come back: you might kissme this once.’
The kiss was given and received in silence, and James disappeared amongthe thick trees.
‘Come, child,’ said Aunt Katy, looking in, ‘there is Deacon Twitchel’schaise in sight,—are you ready?’
‘Yes, mother.’