The Minister's Wooing

  CHAPTER V.

  THE LETTER.

  MARY returned to the quietude of her room. The red of twilight hadfaded, and the silver moon, round and fair, was rising behind the thickboughs of the apple-trees. She sat down in the window, thoughtful andsad, and listened to the crickets, whose ignorant jollity often soundsas mournfully to us mortals as ours may to superior beings. There thelittle hoarse, black wretches were scraping and creaking, as if lifeand death were invented solely for their pleasure, and the world werecreated only to give them a good time in it. Now and then a littlewind shivered among the boughs, and brought down a shower of whitepetals which shimmered in the slant beams of the moonlight; and now aray touched some tall head of grass, and forthwith it blossomed intosilver, and stirred itself with a quiet joy, like a new-born saintjust awaking in Paradise. And ever and anon came on the still air thesoft, eternal pulsations of the distant sea,—sound mournfullest, mostmysterious, of all the harpings of Nature. It was the sea,—the deep,eternal sea,—the treacherous, soft, dreadful, inexplicable sea; andhe was perhaps at this moment being borne away on it,—away, away,—towhat sorrows, to what temptations, to what dangers, she knew not. Shelooked along the old, familiar, beaten path by which he came, by whichhe went, and thought, ‘What if he _never_ should come back?’ Therewas a little path through the orchard out to a small elevation in thepasture-lot behind, whence the sea was distinctly visible, and Maryhad often used her low-silled window as a door when she wanted to passout thither; so now she stepped out, and, gathering her skirts backfrom the dewy grass, walked thoughtfully along the path and gainedthe hill. Newport harbour lay stretched out in the distance, with therising moon casting a long, wavering track of silver upon it; andvessels, like silver-winged moths, were turning and shifting slowlyto and fro upon it, and one stately ship in full sail passing fairlyout under her white canvas, graceful as some grand, snowy bird. Mary’sbeating heart told her that _there_ was passing away from her onewho carried a portion of her existence with him. She sat down undera lonely tree that stood there, and, resting her elbow on her knee,followed the ship with silent prayers, as it passed, like a graceful,cloudy dream, out of her sight.

  Then she thoughtfully retraced her way to her chamber; and as she wasentering, observed in the now clearer moonlight what she had not seenbefore,—something white, like a letter, lying on the floor. Immediatelyshe struck a light, and there, sure enough, it was,—a letter in James’shandsome, dashing hand; and the little puss, before she knew what shewas about, actually kissed it, with a fervour which would much haveastonished the writer, could he at that moment have been clairvoyant.But Mary felt as one who finds, in the emptiness after a friend’sdeath, an unexpected message or memento; and all alone in the white,calm stillness of her little room her heart took sudden possessionof her. She opened the letter with trembling hands, and read what ofcourse we shall let you read. We got it out of a bundle of old, smoky,yellow letters, years after all the parties concerned were gone on theeternal journey beyond earth.

  ‘MY DEAR MARY,—

  ‘I cannot leave you so. I have about two hundred things to say to you, and it’s a shame I could not have had longer to see you; but blessed be ink and paper! I am writing and seeing to fifty things besides; so you musn’t wonder if my letter has rather a confused appearance.

  ‘I have been thinking that perhaps I gave you a wrong impression of myself, this afternoon. I am going to speak to you from my heart, as if I were confessing on my death-bed. Well, then, I do not confess to being what is commonly called a bad young man. I should be willing that men of the world generally, even strict ones, should look my life through and know all about it. It is only in your presence, Mary, that I feel that I am bad and low and shallow and mean, because you represent to me a sphere higher and holier than any in which I have ever moved, and stir up a sort of sighing and longing in my heart to come towards it. In all countries, in all temptations, Mary, your image has stood between me and low, gross vice. When I have been with fellows roaring drunken, beastly songs,—suddenly I have seemed to see you as you used to sit beside me in the singing-school, and your voice has been like an angel’s in my ear, and I have got up and gone out sick and disgusted. Your face has risen up calm and white and still, between the faces of poor lost creatures who know no better way of life than to tempt us to sin. And sometimes, Mary, when I have seen girls that, had they been cared for by good, pious mothers, might have been like you, I have felt as if I could cry for them. Poor women are abused all the world over; and it’s no wonder they turn round and revenge themselves on us.

  ‘No, I have not been bad, Mary, as the world calls badness. I have been kept by you. But do you remember you told me once, that, when the snow first fell and lay so dazzling and pure and soft, all about, you always felt as if the spreads and window-curtains that seemed white before were dirty? Well, it’s just like that with me. Your presence makes me feel that I am not pure,—that I am low and unworthy,—not worthy to touch the hem of your garment. Your good Dr. H. spent a whole half-day, the other Sunday, trying to tell us about the beauty of holiness; and he cut, and pared, and peeled, and sliced, and told us what it wasn’t, and what was _like_ it, and wasn’t; and then he built up an exact definition, and fortified and bricked it up all round; and I thought to myself that he’d better tell ’em to look at Mary Scudder, and they’d understand all about it. That was what I was thinking when you talked to me for looking at you in church instead of looking towards the pulpit. It really made me laugh in myself to see what a good little ignorant, unconscious way you had of looking up at the Doctor, as if he knew more about that than you did.

  ‘And now as to your Doctor that you think so much of, I like him for certain things, in certain ways. He is a great, grand, large pattern of a man,—a man who isn’t afraid to think, and to speak anything he does think; but then I do believe, if he would take a voyage round the world in the forecastle of a whaler, he would know more about what to say to people than he does now; it would certainly give him several new points to be considered. Much of his preaching about men is as like live men as Chinese pictures of trees and rocks and gardens,—no nearer the reality than that. All I can say is, “It isn’t so; and you’d know it, Sir, if you knew men.” He has got what they call a _system_,—just so many bricks put together just so; but it is too narrow to take in all I see in my wanderings round this world of ours. Nobody that has a soul, and goes round the world as I do, can help feeling it at times, and thinking, as he sees all the races of men and their ways, who made them, and what they were made for. To doubt the existence of a God seems to me like a want of common sense. There is a Maker and a Ruler, doubtless; but then, Mary, all this invisible world of religion is unreal to me. I can see we must be good, somehow,—that if we are not, we shall not be happy here or hereafter. As to all the metaphysics of your good Doctor, you can’t tell how they tire me. I’m not the sort of person that they can touch. I must have real things,—real people; abstractions are nothing to me. Then I think that he systematically contradicts on one Sunday what he preaches on another. One Sunday he tells us that God is the immediate efficient Author of every act of will; the next he tells us that we are entire free agents. I see no sense in it, and can’t take the trouble to put it together. But then he and you have something in you that I call religion,—something that makes you _good_. When I see a man working away on an entirely honest, unworldly, disinterested pattern, as he does, and when I see you, Mary, as I said before, I should like at least to _be_ as you are, whether I could believe as you do or not.

  ‘How could you so care for me, and waste on one so unworthy of you such love? Oh, Mary, some better man must win you; I never shall and never can;—but then you must not quite forget me; you mu
st be my friend, my saint. If, through your prayers, your Bible, your friendship, you can bring me to your state, I am willing to be brought there,—nay, desirous. God has put the key of my soul into your hands.

  ‘So, dear Mary, good-bye! Pray still for your naughty, loving

  ‘COUSIN JAMES.’

  Mary read this letter, and re-read it, with more pain than pleasure. Tofeel the immortality of a beloved soul hanging upon us, to feel thatits only communications with Heaven must be through us, is the mostsolemn and touching thought that can pervade a mind. It was without oneparticle of gratified vanity, with even a throb of pain, that she readsuch exalted praises of herself from one blind to the glories of a farhigher loveliness.

  Yet was she at that moment, unknown to herself, one of the greatcompany scattered through earth who are priests unto God,—ministeringbetween the Divine One, who has unveiled himself unto them, and thosewho as yet stand in the outer courts of the great sanctuary of truthand holiness. Many a heart, wrung, pierced, bleeding with the sinsand sorrows of earth, longing to depart, stands in this mournful andbeautiful ministry, but stands unconscious of the glory of the work inwhich it waits and suffers. God’s kings and priests are crowned withthorns, walking the earth with bleeding feet and comprehending not thework they are performing.

  Mary took from a drawer a small pocket-book, from which dropped a lockof black hair,—a glossy curl, which seemed to have a sort of wicked,wilful life in every shining ring, just as she had often seen it shakenaughtily on the owner’s head. She felt a strange tenderness towardsthe little wilful thing, and, as she leaned over it, made in her hearta thousand fond apologies for every fault and error.

  She was standing thus when Mrs. Scudder entered the room to see if herdaughter had yet retired.

  ‘What are you doing there, Mary?’ she said, as her eye fell on theletter. ‘What is it you are reading?’

  Mary felt herself grow pale: it was the first time in her whole lifethat her mother had asked her a question that she was not from theheart ready to answer. Her loyalty to her only parent had gone oneven-handed with that she gave to her God; she felt, somehow, that therevelations of that afternoon had opened a gulf between them, and theconsciousness overpowered her.

  Mrs. Scudder was astonished at her evident embarrassment, hertrembling, and paleness. She was a woman of prompt, imperativetemperament, and the slightest hesitation in rendering to her a full,outspoken confidence had never before occurred in their intercourse.Her child was the core of her heart, the apple of her eye, and intenselove is always near neighbour to anger; there was therefore aninvoluntary flash from her eye and a heightening of her colour, as shesaid,—‘Mary, are you concealing anything from your mother?’

  In that moment Mary had grown calm again. The wonted serene, balancednature had found its habitual poise, and she looked up innocently,though with tears in her large blue eyes, and said,—‘No, mother,—I havenothing that I do not mean to tell you fully. This letter came fromJames Marvyn; he came here to see me this afternoon.’

  ‘Here?—when? I did not see him.’

  ‘After dinner. I was sitting here in the window, and suddenly he cameup behind me through the orchard-path.’

  Mrs. Katy sat down with a flushed cheek and a discomposed air; but Maryseemed actually to bear her down by the candid clearness of the largeblue eye which she turned on her as she stood perfectly collected, withher deadly-pale face and a brilliant spot burning on each cheek.

  ‘James came to say good-bye. He complained that he had not had a chanceto see me alone since he came home.’

  ‘And what should he want to see you alone for?’ said Mrs. Scudder, in adry, disturbed tone.

  ‘Mother,—everybody has things at times which they would like to say tosome one person alone,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, tell me what he said.’

  ‘I will try. In the first place he said that he always had been free,all his life, to run in and out of our house, and to wait on me like abrother.’

  ‘Hum!’ said Mrs. Scudder; ‘but he isn’t your brother for all that.’

  ‘Well, then he wanted to know why you were so cold to him, and why younever let him walk with me from meetings, or see me alone as we oftenused to. And I told him why,—that we were not children now, and thatyou thought it was not best; and then I talked with him about religion,and tried to persuade him to attend to the concerns of his soul; and Inever felt so much hope for him as I do now.’

  Aunt Katy looked sceptical, and remarked,—‘If he really felt adisposition for religious instruction, Dr. H. could guide him muchbetter than you could.’

  ‘Yes,—so I told him, and I tried to persuade him to talk with Dr. H.;but he was very unwilling. He said, I could have more influence overhim than anybody else,—that nobody could do him any good but me.’

  ‘Yes, yes,—I understand all that,’ said Aunt Katy,—‘I have heard youngmen say _that_ before, and I know just what it amounts to.’

  ‘But, mother, I do think James was moved very much, this afternoon. Inever heard him speak so seriously; he seemed really in earnest, and heasked me to give him my Bible.’

  ‘Couldn’t he read any Bible but yours?’

  ‘Why, naturally, you know, mother, he would like my Bible better,because it would put him in mind of me. He promised faithfully to readit all through.’

  ‘And then, it seems, he wrote you a letter.’ ‘Yes, mother.’

  Mary shrank from showing this letter, from the natural sense of honourwhich makes us feel it indelicate to expose to an unsympathising eyethe confidential outpourings of another heart; and then, she felt quitesure that there was no such intercessor for James in her mother’s heartas in her own. But over all this reluctance rose the determined forceof duty; and she handed the letter in silence to her mother.

  Mrs. Scudder took it, laid it deliberately in her lap, and then begansearching in the pocket of her chintz petticoat for her spectacles.These being found, she wiped them, accurately adjusted them, openedthe letter and spread it on her lap, brushing out its folds andstraightening it, that she might read with the greater ease. After thisshe read it carefully and deliberately; and all this while there wassuch a stillness, that the sound of the tall varnished clock in thebest room could be heard through the half-opened door.

  After reading it with the most tiresome, torturing slowness, she rose,and laying it on the table under Mary’s eye, and, pressing down herfinger on two lines in the letter, said, ‘Mary, have you told Jamesthat you loved him?’

  ‘Yes, mother, always. I always loved him, and he always knew it.’

  ‘But, Mary, this that he speaks of is something different. What haspassed between——’

  ‘Why, mother, he was saying that we who were Christians drew toourselves and did not care for the salvation of our friends; and then Itold him how I had always prayed for him, and how I should be willingeven to give up my hopes in heaven, if he might be saved.’

  ‘Child,—what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, if only one of us two could go to heaven, I had rather itshould be him than me,’ said Mary.

  ‘Oh, child! child!’ said Mrs. Scudder, with a sort of groan,—‘has itgone with you so far as this? Poor child!—after all my care, you _are_in love with this boy,—your heart is set on him.’

  ‘Mother, I am not. I never expect to see him much,—never expect tomarry him or anybody else;—only he seems to me to have so much morelife and soul and spirit than most people,—I think him so nobleand grand,—that is, that he _could_ be, if he were all he ought tobe,—that, somehow, I never think of myself in thinking of him, and hissalvation seems worth more than mine;—men can do so much more!—they canlive such splendid lives!—oh, a real noble man is so glorious!’

  ‘And you would like to see him well married, would you not?’ saidMrs. Scudder, sending, with a true woman’s aim, this keen arrow intothe midst of the cloud of enthusiasm which enveloped her daughter.
‘Ithink,’ she added, ‘that Jane Spencer would make him an excellent wife.’

  Mary was astonished at a strange, new pain that shot through her atthese words. She drew in her breath and turned herself uneasily, asone who had literally felt a keen dividing blade piercing between souland spirit. Till this moment, she had never been conscious of herself;but the shaft had torn the veil. She covered her face with her hands;the hot blood flushed scarlet over neck and brow; at last, with abeseeching look, she threw herself into her mother’s arms.

  ‘Oh, mother, mother, I am selfish, after all!’

  Mrs. Scudder folded her silently to her heart, and said, ‘My daughter,that is not at all what I wished it to be; I see how it is;—but thenyou have been a good child; I don’t blame you. We can’t always helpourselves. We don’t always really know how we do feel. I didn’tknow, for a long while, that I loved your father. I thought I wasonly curious about him, because he had a strange way of treating me,different from other men; but, one day, I remember, Julian Simons toldme that it was reported that his mother was making a match for him withSusan Emery, and I was astonished to find how I felt. I saw him thatevening, and the moment he looked at me I saw it wasn’t true; all atonce I knew something I never knew before,—and that was, that I shouldbe very unhappy, if he loved any one else better than me. But then,my child, your father was a different man from James;—he was as muchbetter than I was as you are than James. I was a foolish, thoughtlessyoung thing then. I never should have been anything at all, but forhim. Somehow, when I loved him, I grew more serious, and then he alwaysguided and led me. Mary, your father was a wonderful man; he was oneof the sort that the world knows not of; sometime I must show you hisletters. I always hoped, my daughter, that you would marry such a man.’

  ‘Don’t speak of marrying, mother. I never shall marry.’

  ‘You certainly should not, unless you can marry in the Lord. Rememberthe words, “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers. Forwhat fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and whatcommunion hath light with darkness? and what concord hath Christ withBelial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?”’

  ‘Mother, James is not an infidel.’

  ‘He certainly is an _unbeliever_, Mary, by his own confession; but thenGod is a Sovereign and hath mercy on whom He will. You do right to prayfor him; but if he does not come out on the Lord’s side, you must notlet your heart mislead you. He is going to be gone three years, andyou must try to think as little of him as possible;—put your mind uponyour duties, like a good girl, and God will bless you. Don’t believetoo much in your power over him:—young men, when they are in love,will promise anything, and really think they mean it; but nothing is asaving change, except what is wrought in them by sovereign grace.’

  ‘But, mother, does not God use the love we have to each other as ameans of doing us good? Did you not say that it was by your love tofather that you first were led to think seriously?’

  ‘That is true, my child,’ said Mrs. Scudder, who, like many of therest of the world, was surprised to meet her own words walking outon a track where she had not expected them, but was yet too true ofsoul to cut their acquaintance because they were not going the way ofher wishes. ‘Yes, all that is true; but yet, Mary, when one has butone little ewe lamb in the world, one is jealous of it. I would giveall the world, if you had never seen James. It is dreadful enough fora woman to love anybody as you can, but it is more to love a man ofunsettled character and no religion. But then the Lord appoints all ourgoings: it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps;—I leave you,my child, in His hands.’ And, with one solemn and long embrace, themother and daughter parted for the night.

  It is impossible to write a story of New England life and manners for athoughtless, shallow-minded person. If we represent things as they are,their intensity, their depth, their unworldly gravity and earnestness,must inevitably repel lighter spirits, as the reverse pole of themagnet drives off sticks and straws.

  In no other country were the soul and the spiritual life ever suchintense realities, and everything contemplated so much (to use acurrent New-England phrase) ‘in reference to eternity.’ Mrs. Scudderwas a strong clear-headed, practical woman. No one had a clearerestimate of the material and outward life, or could more minutelymanage its smallest item; but then a tremendous, eternal future hadso weighed down and compacted the fibres of her very soul, that allearthly things were but as dust in comparison to it. That her childshould be one elected to walk in white, to reign with Christ when earthwas a forgotten dream, was her one absorbing wish; and she looked onall the events of life only with reference to this. The way of lifewas narrow, the chances in favour of any child of Adam infinitelysmall; the best, the most seemingly pure and fair, was by nature achild of wrath, and could be saved only by a sovereign decree, bywhich it should be plucked as a brand from the burning. Therefore itwas, that, weighing all things in one balance, there was the sincerityof her whole being in the dread which she felt at the thought of herdaughter’s marriage with an unbeliever.

  Mrs. Scudder, after retiring to her room, took her Bible, inpreparation for her habitual nightly exercise of devotion, before goingto rest. She read and re-read a chapter, scarce thinking what she wasreading,—aroused herself,—and then sat with the book in her hand indeep thought. James Marvyn was her cousin’s son, and she had a strongfeeling of respect and family attachment for his father. She had, too,a real kindness for the young man, whom she regarded as a well-meaning,wilful youngster; but that _he_ should touch her saint, her Mary,that _he_ should take from her the daughter who was her all, reallyembittered her heart towards him.

  ‘After all,’ she said to herself, ‘there are three years,—three yearsin which there will be no letters, or perhaps only one or two,—and agreat deal may be done in three years, if one is wise;’—and she feltwithin herself an arousing of all the shrewd womanly and motherly tactof her nature to meet this new emergency.