CHAPTER XXXV.
THE sun was just setting, and the whole air and sea seemed flooded withrosy rays. Even the crags and rocks of the sea-shore took purple andlilac tints, and savins and junipers, had a painter been required torepresent them, would have been found not without a suffusion of thesame tints. Through the tremulous rosy sea of the upper air, the silverfull moon looked out like some calm superior presence which waitsonly for the flush of a temporary excitement to die away, to make itstranquillizing influence felt.
Mary, as she walked homeward with this dreamy light about her, movedwith a slower step than when borne along by the vigorous arm anddetermined motion of her young friend.
It is said that a musical sound, uttered with decision by oneinstrument, always makes vibrate the corresponding chord of another,and Mary felt, as she left her positive but warm-hearted friend, aplaintive vibration of something in her own self of which she wasconscious her calm friendship for her future husband had no part. Shefell into one of those reveries which she thought she had for everforbidden to herself, and there arose before her mind, like a picture,the idea of a marriage ceremony; but the eyes of the bridegroom weredark, and his curls were clustering in raven ringlets, and her handthrobbed in his as it had never throbbed in any other.
It was just as she was coming out of a little grove of cedars, wherethe high land overlooks the sea, and the dream which came to herovercame her with a vague and yearning sense of pain. Suddenly sheheard footsteps behind her, and some one said ‘Mary!’ It was spoken ina choked voice, as one speaks in the crisis of a great emotion, andshe turned and saw those very eyes!—that very hair!—yes, and the coldlittle hand throbbed with that very throb in that strong, living, manlyhand, and ‘whether in the body or out of the body’ she knew not; shefelt herself borne in those arms, and words that spoke themselves inher inner heart—words profaned by being repeated, were on her ear.
‘Oh, is this a dream!—is it a dream! James, are we in heaven? Oh, Ihave lived through such an agony—I have been so worn out! Oh, I thoughtyou never would come!’ And then the eyes closed, and heaven and earthfaded away together in a trance of blissful rest.
But it was no dream, for an hour later you might have seen a manly formsitting in that self-same place, bearing in his arms a pale girl, whomhe cherished as tenderly as a mother her babe. And they were talkingtogether—talking in low tones; and in all this wide universe neitherof them knew or felt anything but the great joy of being thus sideby side. They spoke of love, mightier than death, which many waterscannot quench. They spoke of yearnings, each for the other—of longingprayers—of hopes deferred—and then of this great joy: for _she_ hadhardly yet returned to the visible world. Scarce wakened from deadlyfaintness, she had not come back fully to the realm of life, _only_to that of love. And therefore it was, that without knowing that shespoke, she had said all, and compressed the history of those threeyears into one hour.
But at last, thoughtful for her health and provident of her weakness,he rose up and passed his arm around her to convey her home. And as hedid so, he spoke _one_ word that broke the whole charm.
‘You will allow me, Mary, the right of a future husband, to watch overyour life and health?’
Then came back the visible world—recollection, consciousness, and thegreat battle of duty; and Mary drew away a little and said—
‘Oh, James! you are too late! _that_ can never be!’
He drew back from her.
‘Mary, are you married?’
‘Before God I am!’ she said. ‘My word is pledged. I cannot retract it.I have suffered a good man to place his whole faith upon it—a man wholoves me with his whole soul!’
‘But, Mary! you do not love _him_! _That_ is impossible!’ saidJames, holding her off from him, and looking at her with an agonizedeagerness. ‘After what you have just said, it is not possible.’
‘Oh! James, I’m sure I don’t know what I have said. It was all sosudden, and I didn’t know what I was saying—but things that I mustnever say again. The day is fixed for next week. It is all the same asif you had found me his wife!’
‘NOT QUITE,’ said James, his voice cutting the air with a decided,manly ring. ‘_I_ have some words to say to that yet.’
‘Oh, James, will you be selfish? Will _you_ tempt me to do a mean,dishonourable thing—to be false to my word deliberately given?’
‘But,’ said James, eagerly, ‘you know, Mary, you _never_ would havegiven it if you had known that I was living.’
‘That is true, James; but I _did_ give it. I have suffered him to buildall his hopes of life upon it. I _beg_ you not to tempt me. Help me todo right.’
‘But, Mary, did you not get my letter?’
‘Your letter!’
‘Yes! that long letter that I wrote you.’
‘I never got any letter, James.’
‘Strange,’ he said; ‘no wonder it seems sudden to you.’
‘Have you seen your mother?’ said Mary, who was conscious this momentonly of a dizzy instinct to turn the conversation from the spot whereshe felt too weak to bear it.
‘No! Do you suppose I should see anybody before you?’
‘Oh, then you must go to her!’ said Mary. ‘Oh, James, you don’t knowhow she has suffered!’
They were drawing near to the cottage gate.
‘Do, pray,’ said Mary. ‘Go—hurry to your mother—don’t be too suddeneither, for she’s very weak; she is almost worn out with sorrow. Go, mydear brother. _Dear_ you always will be to me!’
James helped her into the house, and they parted. All the house was yetstill. The open kitchen door let in a sober square of moonlight on thefloor; the very stir of the leaves in the trees could be heard. Marywent into her little room, and threw herself upon the bed, weak, weary,yet happy; for deeper and higher above all other feelings was the greatrelief that _he_ was living still. After a little while she heard therattling of the waggon, and then the quick patter of Miss Prissy’sfeet, and her mother’s considerate tones, and the Doctor’s grave voice,and quite unexpectedly to herself she was shocked to find herselfturning with an inward shudder from the idea of meeting him.
How very wicked! she thought; how ungrateful! and she prayed that Godwould give her strength to check the first rising of such feelings.
Then there was her mother, so ignorant and innocent, busy putting awaybaskets of things that she had bought in provision for the wedding-day.Mary almost felt as if she had a guilty secret. But when she lookedback upon the last two hours, she felt no wish to take them back. Twolittle hours of joy and rest they had been, so pure, so perfect, shethought God must have given them to her as a keepsake, to remind her ofHis love, and to strengthen her in the way of duty.
Some will perhaps think it an unnatural thing that Mary should haveregarded her pledge to the Doctor as of so absolute and bindinga force, but they must remember the rigidity of her education.Self-denial and self-sacrifice had been the daily bread of her life.Every prayer, hymn, and sermon from her childhood had warned her todistrust her inclinations and regard her feelings as traitors. Inparticular had she been brought up within a superstitious tenacity inregard to the sacredness of a promise, and in this case the promiseinvolved so deeply the happiness of a friend whom she had loved andrevered all her life, that she never thought of any way of escape fromit. She had been taught that there was no feeling so strong but thatit might be immediately repressed at the call of duty, and if the ideaarose to her of this great love to another as standing in her way, sheimmediately answered it by saying—‘How would it have been if I hadbeen married? As I could have overcome then, so I can now.’
Mrs. Scudder came into her room with a candle in her hand, and Mary,accustomed to read the expressions of her mother’s face, saw at aglance a visible discomposure there. She held the light so that itshone upon Mary’s face.
‘Are you asleep?’ she said.
‘No, mother.’
‘Are you unwell?’
‘No, mother; only a
little tired.’
Mrs. Scudder set down the candle and shut the door, and after amoment’s hesitation, said,
‘My daughter, I have some news to tell you, which I want you to prepareyour mind for. Keep yourself quite quiet.
‘Oh, mother,’ said Mary, stretching out her hands towards her, ‘I knowit, James has come home.’
‘How did you hear?’ said her mother with astonishment.
‘I have seen him, mother.’
Mrs. Scudder’s countenance fell.
‘Where?’
‘I went to walk home with Cerinthy Twitchel, and as I was coming backhe came up behind me just at Savin Rock.’
Mrs. Scudder sat down on the bed, and took her daughter’s hand.
‘I trust, my dear child,’ she said—and stopped.
‘I think I know what you are going to say, mother. It is a great joyand a great relief, but of course I shall be true to my engagement withthe Doctor.’
Mrs. Scudder’s face brightened.
‘That is my own daughter! I might have known that you would do so. Youwould not, certainly, so cruelly disappoint a noble man that has sethis whole faith on you.’
‘No, mother, I shall _not_ disappoint him. I told James that I shouldbe true to my word.’
‘He will probably see the justice of it,’ said Mrs. Scudder, in thateasy tone with which elderly people are apt to dispose of the feelingsof young persons.
‘Perhaps it may be something of a trial at first.’
Mary looked at her mother with incredulous blue eyes. The idea thatfeelings which made her hold her breath when she thought of them couldbe so summarily disposed of, struck her as almost an absurdity. Sheturned her face weariedly to the wall with a deep sigh, and said,
‘After all, mother, it is mercy enough and comfort enough to think thathe is living. Poor cousin Ellen, too, what a relief to her! it is likelife from the dead. Oh! I shall be happy enough, no fear of that.’
‘And you know,’ said Mrs. Scudder, ‘that there has _never_ existed _anyengagement of any kind_ between you and James. He had no right to foundany expectations on anything you ever told him.’
‘That is true also, mother,’ said Mary; ‘I had never thought of such athing as marriage in relation to James.’
‘Of course,’ pursued Mrs. Scudder, ‘he will always be to you as a nearfriend.’
Mary assented wearily.
‘There is but a week now before your wedding,’ continued Mrs. Scudder,‘and I think cousin James, if he is reasonable, will see the proprietyof your mind being kept as quiet as possible. I heard the news thisafternoon in town,’ pursued Mrs. Scudder, ‘from Captain Staunton, and,by a curious coincidence, I received this letter from him from James,which came from New York by post. The brig that brought it must havebeen delayed out of the harbour.’
‘Oh, _please_ mother, give it to me!’ said Mary, rising up withanimation; ‘he mentioned having sent me one.’
‘Perhaps you had better wait till morning,’ said Mrs. Scudder; ‘you aretired and excited.’
‘Oh, mother, I think I shall be more composed when I know all that isin it,’ said Mary, still stretching out her hand.
‘Well, my daughter, you are the best judge,’ said Mrs. Scudder; and sheset down the candle on the table, and left Mary alone. It was a verythick letter, of many pages, dated in Canton, and ran as follows: