The Minister's Wooing

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Sakes alive!” said little Miss Prissy, after dinner, “did I ever hear any one go on like that blessed man?—such a spiritual mind! Oh, Miss Scudder, how you are privileged in having him here! I do really think it is a shame such a blessed man a’n’t thought more of. Why, I could just sit and hear him talk all day. Miss Scudder, I wish sometimes you’d just let me make a ruffled shirt for him, and do it all up myself, and put a stitch in the hem that I learned from my sister Martha, who learned it from a French young lady who was educated in a convent;—nuns, you know, poor things, can do some things right; and I think I never saw such hemstitching as they do there;—and I should like to hemstitch the Doctor’s ruffles; he is so spiritually-minded, it really makes me love him. Why, hearing him talk put me in mind of a real beautiful song of Mr. Watts,—I don’t know as I could remember the tune.”

  And Miss Prissy, whose musical talent was one of her special fortes, tuned her voice, a little cracked and quavering, and sang, with a vigorous accent on each accented syllable,—

  “From the third heaven, where God resides,

  That holy, happy place,

  The New Jerusalem comes down,

  Adorned with shining grace.

  “Attending angels shout for joy,

  And the bright armies sing,—

  ‘Mortals! behold the sacred seat

  Of your descending King!’ ”

  “Take care, Miss Scudder!—that silk must be cut exactly on the bias”; and Miss Prissy, hastily finishing her last quaver, caught the silk and the scissors out of Mrs. Scudder’s hand, and fell down at once from the Millennium into a discourse on her own particular way of covering piping-cord.

  So we go, dear reader,—so long as we have a body and a soul. Two worlds must mingle,—the great and the little, the solemn and the trivial, wreathing in and out, like the grotesque carvings on a Gothic shrine;—only, did we know it rightly, nothing is trivial; since the human soul, with its awful shadow, makes all things sacred. Have not ribbons, cast-off flowers, soiled bits of gauze, trivial, trashy fragments of millinery, sometimes had an awful meaning, a deadly power, when they belonged to one who should wear them no more, and whose beautiful form, frail and crushed as they, is a hidden and a vanished thing for all time? For so sacred and individual is a human being, that, of all the million-peopled earth, no one form ever restores another. The mould of each mortal type is broken at the grave; and never, never, though you look through all the faces on earth, shall the exact form you mourn ever meet your eyes again! You are living your daily life among trifles that one death-stroke may make relics. One false step, one luckless accident, an obstacle on the track of a train, the tangling of the cord in shifting a sail, and the penknife, the pen, the papers, the trivial articles of dress and clothing, which to-day you toss idly and jestingly from hand to hand, may become dread memorials of that awful tragedy whose deep abyss ever underlies our common life.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Party

  WELL, let us proceed to tell how the eventful evening drew on,—how Mary, by Miss Prissy’s care, stood at last in a long-waisted gown flowered with rose-buds and violets, opening in front to display a white satin skirt trimmed with lace and flowers,—how her little feet were put into high-heeled shoes, and a little jaunty cap with a wreath of moss-rose-buds was fastened over her shining hair,—and how Miss Prissy, delighted, turned her round and round, and then declared that she must go and get the Doctor to look at her. She knew he must be a man of taste, he talked so beautifully about the Millennium; and so, bursting into his study, she actually chattered him back into the visible world, and, leading the blushing Mary to the door, asked him, point-blank, if he ever saw anything prettier.

  The Doctor, being now wide awake, gravely gave his mind to the subject, and, after some consideration, said, gravely, “No,—he didn’t think he ever did.” For the Doctor was not a man of compliment, and had a habit of always thinking, before he spoke, whether what he was going to say was exactly true; and having lived some time in the family of President Edwards, renowned for beautiful daughters, he naturally thought them over.

  The Doctor looked innocent and helpless, while Miss Prissy, having got him now quite into her power, went on volubly to expatiate on the difficulties overcome in adapting the ancient wedding-dress to its present modern fit. He told her that it was very nice,—said, “Yes, Ma’am,” at proper places,—and, being a very obliging man, looked at whatever he was directed to, with round, blank eyes; but ended all with a long gaze on the laughing, blushing face, that, half in shame and half in perplexed mirth, appeared and disappeared as Miss Prissy in her warmth turned her round and showed her.

  “Now don’t she look beautiful?” Miss Prissy reiterated for the twentieth time, as Mary left the room.

  The Doctor, looking after her musingly, said to himself,—“ ‘The king’s daughter is all glorious within; her clothing is of wrought gold; she shall be brought unto the king in raiment of needle-work.’ ”1

  “Now, did I ever?” said Miss Prissy, rushing out. “How that good man does turn everything! I believe you couldn’t get anything, that he wouldn’t find a text right out of the Bible about it. I mean to get the linen for that shirt this very week, with the Miss Wilcox’s money; they always pay well, those Wilcoxes,—and I’ve worked for them, off and on, sixteen days and a quarter. To be sure, Miss Scudder, there’s no real need of my doing it, for I must say you keep him looking like a pink,—but only I feel as if I must do something for such a good man.”

  The good doctor was brushed up for the evening with zealous care and energy; and if he did not look like a pink, it was certainly no fault of his hostess.

  Well, we cannot reproduce in detail the faded glories of that entertainment, nor relate how the Wilcox Manor and gardens were illuminated, —how the bride wore a veil of real point-lace,—how carriages rolled and grated on the gravel walks, and negro servants, in white kid gloves, handed out ladies in velvet and satin.

  To Mary’s inexperienced eye it seemed like an enchanted dream,—a realization of all she had dreamed of grand and high society. She had her little triumph of an evening; for everybody asked who that beautiful girl was, and more than one gallant of the old Newport first families felt himself adorned and distinguished to walk with her on his arm. Busy, officious dowagers repeated to Mrs. Scudder the applauding whispers that followed her wherever she went.

  “Really, Mrs. Scudder,” said gallant old General Wilcox, “where have you kept such a beauty all this time? It’s a sin and a shame to hide such a light under a bushel.”

  And Mrs. Scudder, though, of course, like you and me, sensible reader, properly apprised of the perishable nature of such fleeting honors, was, like us, too, but a mortal, and smiled condescendingly on the follies of the scene.

  The house was divided by a wide hall opening by doors, the front one upon the street, the back into a large garden, the broad central walk of which, edged on each side with high clipped hedges of box, now resplendent with colored lamps, seemed to continue the prospect in a brilliant vista.

  The old-fashioned garden was lighted in every part, and the company dispersed themselves about it in picturesque groups.

  We have the image in our mind of Mary as she stood with her little hat and wreath of rose-buds, her fluttering ribbons and rich brocade, as it were a picture framed in the door-way, with her back to the illuminated garden, and her calm, innocent face regarding with a pleased wonder the unaccustomed gayeties within.

  Her dress, which, under Miss Prissy’s forming hand, had been made to assume that appearance of style and fashion which more particularly characterized the mode of those times, formed a singular, but not unpleasing contrast to the sort of dewy freshness of air and mien which was characteristic of her style of beauty. It seemed so to represent a being who was in the world, yet not of it,—who, though living habitually in a higher region of thought and feeling, was artlessly curious, and innocently pleased with a fresh experience in an altogether
untried sphere. The feeling of being in a circle to which she did not belong, where her presence was in a manner an accident, and where she felt none of the responsibilities which come from being a component part of a society, gave to her a quiet, disengaged air, which produced all the effect of the perfect ease of high breeding.

  While she stands there, there comes out of the door of the bridal reception-room a gentleman with a stylishly-dressed lady on either arm, with whom he seems wholly absorbed. He is of middle height, peculiarly graceful in form and moulding, with that indescribable air of high breeding which marks the polished man of the world. His beautifully-formed head, delicate profile, fascinating sweetness of smile, and, above all, an eye which seemed to have an almost mesmeric power of attraction, were traits which distinguished one of the most celebrated men of the time, and one whose peculiar history yet lives not only in our national records, but in the private annals of many an American family.

  “Good Heavens!” he said, suddenly pausing in conversation, as his eye accidentally fell upon Mary. “Who is that lovely creature?”

  “Oh, that,” said Mrs. Wilcox,—“why, that is Mary Scudder. Her father was a family connection of the General’s. The family are in rather modest circumstances, but highly respectable.”

  After a few moments more of ordinary chitchat, in which from time to time he darted upon her glances of rapid and piercing observation, the gentleman might have been observed to disembarrass himself of one of the ladies on his arm, by passing her with a compliment and a bow to another gallant, and, after a few moments more, he spoke something to Mrs. Wilcox, in a low voice, and with that gentle air of deferential sweetness which always made everybody well satisfied to do his will. The consequence was, that in a few moments Mary was startled from her calm speculations by the voice of Mrs. Wilcox, saying at her elbow, in a formal tone,—

  “Miss Scudder, I have the honor to present to your acquaintance Colonel Burr, of the United States Senate.”2

  CHAPTER XIV

  Aaron Burr

  AT the period of which we are speaking, no name in the New Republic was associated with ideas of more brilliant promise, and invested with a greater prestige of popularity and success, than that of Colonel Aaron Burr.

  Sprung of a line distinguished for intellectual ability, the grandson of a man whose genius has swayed New England from that day to this, the son of parents eminent in their day for influential and popular talents, he united in himself the quickest perceptions and keenest delicacy of fibre with the most diamond hardness and unflinching steadiness of purpose;—apt, subtle, adroit, dazzling, no man in his time ever began life with fairer chances of success and fame.

  His name, as it fell on the ear of our heroine, carried with it the suggestion of all this; and when, with his peculiarly engaging smile, he offered his arm, she felt a little of the flutter natural to a modest young person unexpectedly honored with the notice of one of the great ones of the earth, whom it is seldom the lot of humble individuals to know, except by distant report.

  But, although Mary was a blushing and sensitive person, she was not what is commonly called a diffident girl;—her nerves had that healthy, steady poise which gave her presence of mind in the most unwonted circumstances.

  The first few sentences addressed to her by her new companion were in a tone and style altogether different from any in which she had ever been approached,—different from the dashing frankness of her sailor lover, and from the rustic gallantry of her other admirers.

  That indescribable mixture of ease and deference, guided by refined tact, which shows the practised, high-bred man of the world, made its impression on her immediately, as a breeze on the chords of a wind-harp. She felt herself pleasantly swayed and breathed upon;—it was as if an atmosphere were around her in which she felt a perfect ease and freedom, an assurance that her lightest word might launch forth safely, as a tiny boat, on the smooth, glassy mirror of her listener’s pleased attention.

  “I came to Newport only on a visit of business,” he said, after a few moments of introductory conversation. “I was not prepared for its many attractions.”

  “Newport has a great deal of beautiful scenery,” said Mary.

  “I have heard that it was celebrated for the beauty of its scenery, and of its ladies,” he answered; “but,” he added, with a quick flash of his dark eye, “I never realized the fact before.”

  The glance of the eye pointed and limited the compliment, and, at the same time, there was a wary shrewdness in it;—he was measuring how deep his shaft had sunk, as he always instinctively measured the person he talked with.

  Mary had been told of her beauty since her childhood, notwithstanding her mother had essayed all that transparent, respectable hoaxing by which discreet mothers endeavor to blind their daughters to the real facts of such cases; but, in her own calm, balanced mind, she had accepted what she was so often told, as a quiet verity; and therefore she neither fluttered nor blushed on this occasion, but regarded the speaker with a pleased attention, as one who was saying obliging things.

  “Cool!” he thought to himself,—“hum!—a little rustic belle, I suppose,—well aware of her own value;—rather piquant, on my word!”

  “Shall we walk in the garden?” he said,—“the evening is so beautiful.”

  They passed out of the door and began promenading the long walk. At the bottom of the alley he stopped, and, turning, looked up the vista of box ending in the brilliantly-lighted rooms, where gentlemen, with powdered heads, lace ruffles, and glittering knee-buckles, were handing ladies in stiff brocades, whose towering heads were shaded by ostrich-feathers and sparkling with gems.

  “Quite court-like, on my word!” he said. “Tell me, do you often have such brilliant entertainments as this?”

  “I suppose they do,” said Mary. “I never was at one before, but I sometimes hear of them.”

  “And you do not attend?” said the gentleman, with an accent which made the inquiry a marked compliment.

  “No, I do not,” said Mary; “these people generally do not visit us.”

  “What a pity,” he said, “that their parties should want such an ornament! But,” he added, “this night must make them aware of their oversight;—if you are not always in society after this, it will surely not be for want of solicitation.”

  “You are very kind to think so,” replied Mary; “but even if it were to be so, I should not see my way clear to be often in such scenes as this.”

  Her companion looked at her with a glance a little doubtful and amused, and said, “And pray, why not? if the inquiry be not too presumptuous.”

  “Because,” said Mary, “I should be afraid they would take too much time and thought, and lead me to forget the great object of life.”

  The simple gravity with which this was said, as if quite assured of the sympathy of her auditor, appeared to give him a secret amusement. His bright, dark eyes danced, as if he suppressed some quick repartee; but, drooping his long lashes deferentially, he said, in gentle tones, “I should like to know what so beautiful a young lady considers the great object of life.”

  Mary answered reverentially, in those words then familiar from infancy to every Puritan child, “To glorify God, and enjoy Him forever.”

  “Really?” he said, looking straight into her eyes with that penetrating glance with which he was accustomed to take the gauge of every one with whom he conversed.

  “Is it not?” said Mary, looking back, calm and firm, into the sparkling, restless depths of his eyes.

  At that moment, two souls, going with the whole force of their being in opposite directions, looked out of their windows at each other with a fixed and earnest recognition.

  Burr was practised in every art of gallantry,—he had made womankind a study,—he never saw a beautiful face and form without a sort of restless desire to experiment upon it and try his power over the interior inhabitant; but, just at this moment, something streamed into his soul from those blue, earnest eyes, which br
ought back to his mind what pious people had so often told him of his mother, the beautiful and early-sainted Esther Burr. He was one of those persons who systematically managed and played upon himself and others, as a skilful musician, and on an instrument. Yet one secret of his fascination was the naïveté with which, at certain moments, he would abandon himself to some little impulse of a nature originally sensitive and tender. Had the strain of feeling which now awoke in him come over him elsewhere, he would have shut down some spring in his mind, and excluded it in a moment; but, talking with a beautiful creature whom he wished to please, he gave way at once to the emotion;—real tears stood in his fine eyes, and he raised Mary’s hand to his lips, and kissed it, saying,—