“Il a de la délicatesse,”1 said Madame de Frontignac, who had been watching this scene with bright, amused eyes,—while a chorus of loud acclamations, in which Miss Prissy’s voice took the lead, conveyed to the innocent-minded Doctor the idea, that in some mysterious way he had distinguished himself in the eyes of his feminine friends; whereat he retired to his study slightly marvelling, but on the whole well pleased, as men generally are when they do better than they expect; and Miss Prissy, turning out all profaner persons from the apartment, held a solemn consultation, to which only Mary, Mrs. Scudder, and Madame de Frontignac were admitted. For it is to be observed that the latter had risen daily and hourly in Miss Prissy’s esteem, since her entrance into the cottage; and she declared, that, if she only would give her a few hints, she didn’t believe but that she could make that dress look just like a Paris one; and rather intimated that in such a case she might almost be ready to resign all mortal ambitions.
The afternoon of this day, just at that cool hour when the clock ticks so quietly in a New England kitchen, and everything is so clean and put away that there seems to be nothing to do in the house, Mary sat quietly down in her room to hem a ruffle. Everybody had gone out of the house on various errands. The Doctor, with implicit faith, had surrendered himself to Mrs. Scudder and Miss Prissy, to be conveyed up to Newport, and attend to various appointments in relation to his outer man, which he was informed would be indispensable in the forthcoming solemnities. Madame de Frontignac had also gone to spend the day with some of her Newport friends. And Mary, quite well pleased with the placid and orderly stillness which reigned through the house, sat pleasantly murmuring a little tune to her sewing, when suddenly the trip of a very brisk foot was heard in the kitchen, and Miss Cerinthy Ann Twitchel made her appearance at the door, her healthy glowing cheek wearing a still brighter color from the exercise of a three-mile walk in a July day.
“Why, Cerinthy,” said Mary, “how glad I am to see you!”
“Well,” said Cerinthy, “I have been meaning to come down all this week, but there’s so much to do in haying-time,—but to-day I told mother I must come. I brought these down,” she said, unfolding a dozen snowy damask napkins, “that I spun myself, and was thinking of you almost all the while I spun them, so I suppose they aren’t quite so wicked as they might be.”
We will observe here, that Cerinthy Ann, in virtue of having a high stock of animal spirits and great fulness of physical vigor, had very small proclivities towards the unseen and spiritual, but still always indulged a secret resentment at being classed as a sinner above many others, who, as church-members, made such professions, and were, as she remarked, “not a bit better than she was.” She had always, however, cherished an unbounded veneration for Mary, and had made her the confidante of most of her important secrets. It soon became very evident that she had come with one on her mind now.
“Don’t you want to come and sit out in the lot?” she said, after sitting awhile, twirling her bonnet-strings with the air of one who has something to say and doesn’t know exactly how to begin upon it.
Mary cheerfully gathered up her thread, scissors, and ruffling, and the two stepped over the windowsill, and soon found themselves seated cozily under the boughs of a large apple-tree, whose descending branches, meeting the tops of the high grass all around, formed a seclusion as perfect as heart could desire.
They sat down, pushing away a place in the grass; and Cerinthy Ann took off her bonnet, and threw it among the clover, exhibiting to view her black hair, always trimly arranged in shining braids, except where some glossy curls fell over the rich high color of her cheeks. Something appeared to discompose her this afternoon. There were those evident signs of a consultation impending, which, to an experienced eye, are as unmistakable as the coming up of a shower in summer.
Cerinthy began by passionately demolishing several heads of clover, remarking, as she did so, that she “didn’t see, for her part, how Mary could keep so calm when things were coming so near.” And as Mary answered to this only with a quiet smile, she broke out again:—
“I don’t see, for my part, how a young girl could marry a minister, anyhow; but then I think you are just cut out for it. But what would anybody say, if I should do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary, innocently.
“Well, I suppose everybody would hold up their hands; and yet, if I do say it myself,”—she added, coloring,—“there are not many girls who could make a better minister’s wife than I could, if I had a mind to try.”
“That I am sure of,” said Mary, warmly.
“I guess you are the only one that ever thought so,” said Cerinthy, giving an impatient toss. “There’s father and mother all the while mourning over me; and yet I don’t see but what I do pretty much all that is done in the house, and they say I am a great comfort in a temporal point of view. But, oh, the groanings and the sighings that there are over me! I don’t think it is pleasant to know that your best friends are thinking such awful things about you, when you are working your fingers off to help them. It is kind o’ discouraging, but I don’t know what to do about it;”—and for a few moments Cerinthy sat demolishing buttercups, and throwing them up in the air till her shiny black head was covered with golden flakes, while her cheeks grew redder with something that she was going to say next.
“Now, Mary, there is that creature. Well, you know, he won’t take ‘No’ for an answer. What shall I do?”
“Suppose, then, you try ‘Yes,”’ said Mary, rather archly.
“Oh, pshaw! Mary Scudder, you know better than that, now. I look like it, don’t I?”
“Why, yes,” said Mary, looking at Cerinthy, deliberately; “on the whole, I think you do.”
“Well! one thing I must say,” said Cerinthy,—“I can’t see what he finds in me. I think he is a thousand times too good for me. Why, you have no idea, Mary, how I have plagued him. I believe that man really is a Christian,” she added, while something like a penitent tear actually glistened in those sharp, saucy, black eyes. “Besides,” she added, “I have told him everything I could think of to discourage him. I told him that I had a bad temper, and didn’t believe the doctrines, and couldn’t promise that I ever should; and after all, that creature keeps right on, and I don’t know what to tell him.”
“Well,” said Mary, mildly, “do you think you really love him?”
“Love him?” said Cerinthy, giving a great flounce, “to be sure I don’t! Catch me loving any man! I told him last night I didn’t; but it didn’t do a bit of good. I used to think that man was bashful, but I declare I have altered my mind; he will talk and talk till I don’t know what to do. I tell you, Mary, he talks beautifully, too, sometimes.”
Here Cerinthy turned quickly away, and began reaching passionately after clover-heads. After a few moments, she resumed:—
“The fact is, Mary, that man needs somebody to take care of him; for he never thinks of himself. They say he has got the consumption; but he hasn‘t, any more than I have. It is just the way he neglects himself,—preaching, talking, and visiting; nobody to take care of him, and see to his clothes, and nurse him up when he gets a little hoarse and run down. Well, I suppose if I am unregenerate, I do know how to keep things in order; and if I should keep such a man’s soul in his body, I should be doing some good in the world; because, if ministers don’t live, of course they can’t convert anybody. Just think of his saying that I could be a comfort to him! I told him that it was perfectly ridiculous. ‘And besides,’ says I, ‘what will everybody think?’ I thought that I had really talked him out of the notion of it last night; but there he was in again this morning, and told me he had derived great encouragement from what I had said. Well, the poor man really is lonesome,—his mother’s dead, and he hasn’t any sisters. I asked him why he didn’t go and take Miss Olladine Slocum: everybody says she would make a first-rate minister’s wife.”
“Well, and what did he say to that?” said Mary.
�
��Well, something really silly,—about my looks,” said Cerinthy, looking down.
Mary looked up, and remarked the shining black hair, the long dark lashes lying down over the glowing cheek, where two arch dimples were nestling, and said, quietly,—
“Probably he is a man of taste, Cerinthy; I advise you to leave the matter entirely to his judgment.”
“You don’t, really, Mary!” said the damsel, looking up. “Don’t you think it would injure him, if I should?”
“I think not, materially,” said Mary.
“Well,” said Cerinthy, rising, “the men will be coming home from the mowing, before I get home, and want their supper. Mother has got one of her headaches on this afternoon, so I can’t stop any longer. There isn’t a soul in the house knows where anything is, when I am gone. If I should ever take it into my head to go off, I don’t know what would become of father and mother. I was telling mother, the other day, that I thought unregenerate folks were of some use in this world, any way.”
“Does your mother know anything about it?” said Mary.
“Oh, as to mother, I believe she has been hoping and praying about it these three months. She thinks that I am such a desperate case, it is the only way I am to be brought in, as she calls it. That’s what set me against him at first; but the fact is, if girls will let a man argue with them, he always contrives to get the best of it. I am kind of provoked about it, too. But, mercy on us! he is so meek, there is no use of getting provoked at him. Well, I guess I will go home and think about it.”
As she turned to go, she looked really pretty. Her long lashes were wet with a twinkling moisture, like meadow-grass after a shower; and there was a softened, childlike expression stealing over the careless gayety of her face.
Mary put her arms round her with a gently caressing movement, which the other returned with a hearty embrace. They stood locked in each other’s arms,—the glowing, vigorous, strong-hearted girl, with that pale, spiritual face resting on her breast, as when the morning, songful and radiant, clasps the pale silver moon to her glowing bosom.
“Look here now, Mary,” said Cerinthy; “your folks are all gone. You may as well walk with me. It’s pleasant now.”
“Yes, I will,” said Mary; “wait a minute, till I get my bonnet.”
In a few moments the two girls were walking together in one of those little pasture foot-tracks which run so cozily among huckleberry and juniper bushes, while Cerinthy eagerly pursued the subject she could not leave thinking of. Their path now wound over high ground that overlooked the distant sea, now lost itself in little copses of cedar and pitch-pine, and now there came on the air the pleasant breath of new hay, which mowers were harvesting in adjoining meadows.
They walked on and on, as girls will; because, when a young lady has once fairly launched into the enterprise of telling another all that he said, and just how he looked, for the last three months, walks are apt to be indefinitely extended.
Mary was, besides, one of the most seductive little confidantes in the world. She was so pure from selfishness, so heartily and innocently interested in what another was telling her, that people in talking with her found the subject constantly increasing in interest, —although, if they really had been called upon afterwards to state the exact portion in words which she added to the conversation, they would have been surprised to find it so small.
In fact, before Cerinthy Ann had quite finished her confessions, they were more than a mile from the cottage, and Mary began to think of returning, saying that her mother would wonder where she was, when she came home.
CHAPTER XXXV
Old Love and New Duty
THE sun was just setting, and the whole air and sea seemed flooded with rosy rays. Even the crags and rocks of the sea-shore took purple and lilac tints, and savins and junipers, had a painter been required to represent them, would have been found not without a suffusion of the same tints. And through the tremulous rosy sea of the upper air, the silver full-moon looked out like some calm superior presence which waits only for the flush of a temporary excitement to die away, to make its tranquillizing influence felt.
Mary, as she walked homeward with this dreamy light around her, moved with a slower step than when borne along by the vigorous arm and determined motion of her young friend.
It is said that a musical sound uttered with decision by one instrument always makes the corresponding chord of another vibrate; and Mary felt, as she left her positive but warm-hearted friend, a plaintive vibration of something in her own self, of which she was conscious her calm friendship for her future husband had no part. She fell into one of those reveries which she thought she had forever forbidden to herself, and there rose before her mind the picture of a marriage-ceremony,-but the eyes of the bridegroom were dark, and his curls were clustering in raven ringlets, and her hand throbbed in his as it had never throbbed in any other.
It was just as she was coming out of a little grove of cedars, where the high land overlooks the sea, and the dream which came to her overcame her with a vague and yearning sense of pain. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her, and some one said, “Mary!” It was spoken in a choked voice, as one speaks in the crises of a great emotion; and she turned and saw those very eyes, that very hair, yes, and the cold little hand throbbed with that very throb in that strong, living, manly hand; and, whether in the body or out of the body God knoweth, she felt herself borne in those arms, and words that spoke themselves in her inner heart, words profaned by being repeated, were on her ear.
“Oh! is this a dream? is this a dream? James! are we in heaven? Oh, I have lived through such an agony! I have been so worn out! Oh, I thought you never would come!” And then the eyes closed, and heaven and earth faded away together in a trance of blissful rest.
But it was no dream; for an hour later you might have seen a manly form sitting in that self-same place, bearing in his arms a pale figure which he cherished as tenderly as a mother her babe. And they were talking together,—talking in low tones; and in all this wide universe neither of them knew or felt anything but the great joy of being thus side by side.
They spoke of love mightier than death, which many waters cannot quench. They spoke of yearnings, each for the other,—of longing prayers,—of hopes deferred,—and then of this great joy,—for one had hardly yet returned to the visible world.
Scarce wakened from deadly faintness, she had not come back fully to the realm of life,—only to that of love,—to love which death cannot quench. And therefore it was, that, without knowing that she spoke, she had said all, and compressed the history of those three years into one hour.
But at last, thoughtful of her health, provident of her weakness, he rose up and passed his arm around her to convey her home. And as he did so, he spoke one word that broke the whole charm.
“You will allow me, Mary, the right of a future husband, to watch over your life and health.”
Then came back the visible world,—recollection, consciousness, and the great 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 who loves me with his whole soul.”
“But, Mary, you do not love him. That is impossible!” said James, holding her off from him, and looking at her with an agonized eagerness. “After what you have just said, it is not possible.”
“Oh, James! I am sure I don’t know what I have said,—it was all so sudden, and I didn’t know what I was saying,—but things that I must never say again. The day is fixed for next week. It is all the same as if 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, dishonorable thing? to be false to my word deliberately given?”
“But,” said James, eagerly, “you know, Mary, you never would have given it, if you had known that I was living.”
“That is true, James; but I did give it. I have suffered him to build all his hopes of life upon it. I beg you not to tempt me,—help me to do 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 moment only of a dizzy instinct to turn the conversation from where she felt too weak to bear it.
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