The Yellow Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Julie stood there as people came forward to hug her and welcome her to the church. Then her sister’s arms were around her, and she was sobbing. But she whispered in her ear, “Praise God, sister.” And then Julie— Satterfield—the new Julie Satterfield—took a deep breath, for she knew that she had come home, the home she had longed for all of her life without even knowing it!

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The weather through March of the new year had been bitter cold, but now on the first day of April of 1843, a large crowd had gathered at the Brazos River for a baptizing. Clinton Hardin had proclaimed himself to be the “feeler.”

  Fergus Nightingale had been puzzled by the ritual. “Is this some sort of a theological office, my boy?” he asked as Clinton stood dressed in old clothes, faded jeans, and a white shirt by the riverside.

  “Well, I thought you was an educated man, but you never heard of a feeler? I swan, your education’s been neglected!” Clinton said. He waved at the river and said, “There’s deep holes that wear themselves into this river. It wouldn’t do for one of our new believers to step off into one and get sucked away, so a feeler is the fellow that goes out and feels around to be sure that there ain’t no holes to lose nobody in.”

  As Clinton was explaining the importance of his task to Fergus, Rice waded out into the main stream of the section of the river that had already been approved by Clinton. He was wearing a pair of light gray pants and a white shirt, and the wind blew his black hair over his forehead. He brushed it back and looked at those gathered on the riverbank to be baptized. All of them were wearing older clothes, and two tents had been set up for them to change into dry clothes afterward. His eyes fell on Julie, and she smiled back at him. Then he lifted his voice and began to speak. “Baptism is the command of the Lord Jesus. It is the sign for all who wish to follow Him.” He went on to speak of baptism and finally looked at the new believers and said, “These have come now to proclaim their faith in Jesus, and we as a church take them in. They are a part of the family of God, and we are charged to nourish them, to love them, and to help them stay on the straight and narrow path.” Looking over all those who had come to faith, he said, “Each one of these is precious in God’s sight.”

  He held out his hand, and a line began to form, managed by Clinton, of course. He put Julie at the last of the line, and she stood there patiently watching. The first candidate, a short man who had been converted from a dreadful life of drinking, approached and waded out tentatively. His face was pale, but Rice smiled and took his place beside him. “This is Brother Al Dearing, a brother indeed.” He arranged Dearing’s hands and murmured, “Just grab your nose, Al, when you go under.” Then he put his right hand on Al’s neck, held his left hand up, and said in ringing tones, “And now in obedience to the commands of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I baptize you, my brother, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” He lowered Dearing down, completely submerged him, and then pulled him easily up. Dearing came out wiping his nose.

  Clinton let out with a rousing, “Amen! Amen, brother!” And others joined him.

  One new believer after another came until finally it was Julie’s turn. As had the other women, she had sewn heavy weights in the hem of her dress so that it would not float up. When she came to Rice, she saw that his lips were trembling, and suddenly tears filled her eyes. “Dear Rice,” she whispered, “you never thought it would come to this.”

  “You’re mistaken there, Julie Satterfield. I knew it would. God answered my prayers.” He put her into position, and Julie folded her hands as he covered them with his. She heard Rice speak the words, and then as she went under she felt the coldness of the water. When she came up, her hair streaming and the water flowing from her face, she heard Clinton shouting. For that one moment Rice did not let her go but kept his left hand on hers, his right hand behind her back. He said nothing, but when she turned to look at him, she saw the tenderness in his eyes that she could not mistake.

  “Shall I say it now?”

  “Yes, Rice.”

  He stepped closer, and Julie stood beside him. “You remember that Solomon’s Song speaks of one called his sister and his spouse. For a long time I couldn’t figure out how a woman could be both a sister and a wife, but now I know. And I can’t think of a better time”—his voice lifted and carried on the afternoon air—“to announce that Miss Julie Satterfield will be married to the Reverend Rice Morgan next Saturday afternoon. All are invited.”

  Applause began then, and laughter, and as Julie and Rice came to the bank, they were congratulated on every hand—first by the family, who were aware of this beforehand, and then by others who came eager to say a word.

  Julie went to change clothes with the other women, and Rice stood there smiling. Jerusalem and Clay came to stand beside him. “There is proud I am to be a part of your family, Sister Jerusalem.”

  “And there is proud I am to have you in the family,” Clay said, and they both shook hands with Rice firmly.

  “I didn’t tell the other part,” Rice said.

  “The other part? What do you mean?” he said.

  “The deacon said if I married Julie, I’d have to resign as pastor.”

  Clay started to speak, but Jerusalem put her hand on his arm. “The best day’s work they’ve ever done! It’s time to start a new church!”

  Rice Morgan suddenly laughed. “Just what I had in mind, sister. Just what I had in mind!”

  “What’s the matter with you, Clinton? You got a face as long as a mule eatin’ briars,” Jerusalem said.

  “Oh, it ain’t nothin’, Ma.”

  But Jerusalem knew better. Clinton, who was usually cheerful and smiling, had been strangely silent for the past two days. He was standing now leaning against the door, staring off in the distance. Bob came up and sat down on his feet, and Clinton, who usually shoved him off, absentmindedly leaned down and touched the big dog’s head.

  “There’s something wrong with you,” Jerusalem said, coming over and putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Well, Lucy won’t go to that dance next Saturday with me.”

  “She going with that man named Tom?”

  “No, it’s some stuck-up shrimp from Philadelphia.” Clinton shook his shoulders and said, “Get off my feet, Bob!” and pushed Bob away. “She ain’t got no manners treatin’ me like that. It’s unseemly, that’s what it is!”

  “Well, I’m ashamed of you lettin’ a woman get you down in the mulligrubs like this. Go find yourself another girl. Buy yourself some new clothes and go in there and show that Abbot girl she can’t get to you.”

  “Oh, Ma, all the gals have already paired off.”

  “Nonsense. You can find someone to go to the dance with you.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Listen to me, Clinton. You go buy yourself a new suit and a fine pair of boots. Get yourself some good-smelling lotion. You’ll show that Lucy Abbot she can’t put you down.”

  “I don’t want to go by myself.”

  “You won’t go by yourself,” Jerusalem said. “I’m going to have a girl ready for you.”

  Clinton stared at his mother, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “What are you talkin’ about, Ma?” he said.

  “I’m talkin’ about you goin’ to that dance with a girl I pick.”

  “Ah, you’d pick that old Maggie Birchwood. She’s homely as a stump full of spiders.”

  “Clinton, have I ever let you down in your whole life?”

  “Well, I reckon not, Ma, but—”

  “You do what I tell you. You get yourself all slicked up and ready, and next Saturday night you’ll set that Abbot girl upside down.”

  Clinton stared at his mother and said, “Well, Ma, you ain’t never failed me, so I’m trustin’ you.”

  “You won’t be sorry. Now, go buy you some new clothes.”

  By the time Saturday night had arrived, Clinton was as nervous as a man coul
d be. He had pestered his mother to tell him the name of the girl she had chosen, but she had remained adamant. “I’m not telling you a thing. You’re always talkin’ about how much faith you’ve got, so have a little faith in your ma.”

  The dance began at seven o’clock, and at five-thirty Clinton came down the stairs wearing his new suit. It was light blue, and he had on a white shirt and a new tie. His face glowed from the razor, and at his mother’s insistence, he had not slicked his hair down but merely brushed it back.

  “Why, you look downright handsome, Clinton Hardin.”

  “Ah, Ma, don’t be puttin’ me on. Who is this girl that you picked out for me to go with? I sure hope it ain’t Sarah Magnunson. She’s so skinny she could take a bath in a gun barrel!”

  “No, it’s not her. Now listen, we agreed that you’re taking whoever I picked, and you haven’t lied to me very often, Clinton.”

  “Why, I ain’t never lied to you or anybody else!”

  “All right. You’ll take her, then, no matter who I say?”

  “Yes, Ma,” Clinton said with resignation. “Now who is she?”

  “It’s Aldora.”

  “Aldora! Are you crazy, Ma? Why, she don’t even have a dress—except that baggy old brown one she wears to church!”

  “She does now. I went with her to town and helped her pick out a dress and gave it to her for her birthday. Got her new shoes, too. Now you get on over there. She’s waitin’ for you.”

  “Ma, she can’t even dance.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Why, I don’t know. She just don’t look like she can dance. She’s mighty good at coon huntin’, and she ain’t a-scared of snakes, but she ain’t the kind of girl a fellow would take to a dance.”

  “You gave me your word, Clinton. Now, you get on your way. Take the buggy.”

  “All right, Ma—but it’s just because you forced me into it.”

  Clinton left looking gloomy, and Jerusalem stood watching him, smiling as he went. “That young man needs to be cut down to size, and I think this might be what does it!”

  Clinton was in no hurry. He dreaded going to the dance, and memories of how he had had a fight with Tom Ellis, who had insulted Al, came back to him. “Maybe we can be real late and leave real early,” he said to the horses. “That’s about the only hope I got.”

  He drove the horses at a leisurely walk, and when he pulled up at the Stuart house, it was nearly six-thirty. “Still too early,” he muttered. “Maybe one of the horses will break a leg or something, or maybe she decided not to go.” Holding this hope, he jumped out of the wagon and walked up the steps. He knocked on the door and was met by Al’s grandmother, Anne.

  “Howdy, Miz Stuart.”

  “Why, come in, Clinton.” As soon as Clinton stepped inside, Mrs.

  Stuart opened her eyes and shook her head in admiration. “Well, ain’t you the finest-lookin’ thing I ever seen! You look like a Philadelphia lawyer.”

  “I hope not,” Clinton said, trying to smile. He looked around and said, “Is Al sick, maybe, not able to go?”

  “No. She ought to be ready by now. I’ll go get her.”

  Caleb Stuart came in from the kitchen and admired Clinton duly and then said, “I tell you what. I never seen Al look so happy as when she found out you had asked her to go to this dance.”

  “Well—I’m proud she feels that way, Mr. Stuart.” Guilt rose in him, for he knew that he on his own would never have asked Al Stuart to go anywhere except maybe fishing on the river.

  He heard the sound of Mrs. Stuart’s voice and turned. She was coming down the hall, and he could see Al behind her, but not until Mrs.

  Stuart said, “Here she is, Clinton,” and stepped aside did Clinton get a full view of Aldora Stuart. For a moment he was unable to speak, and he thought, There’s got to be some big mistake here. This ain’t Al.

  Indeed, Aldora Stuart was not wearing baggy overalls. She did not have a hat on that was too big for her pulled down over her ears, and she was not wearing the large men’s shoes that she usually wore while working around the homestead. She was dressed in one of the prettiest dresses Clinton had ever seen. It was made of a light pink silk that complemented her blond hair, which had been pulled back from her face, curled into long ringlets, and held in place with mother-of-pearl combs in the back. The dress had a long-waisted bodice of white taffeta that draped with folds to form a V-shape to the waist. A dark pink sash was tied into a bow at the back, and the neckline was edged with a delicate white lace. The sleeves were straight and came to her wrists and ended with the same lace, and the full, long skirt had three deep flounces also edged with more of the same lace.

  “Hello, Clinton,” Aldora said.

  When she smiled, her lips curved up in such a way that reminded Clinton of the time he had kissed her on the way back from New Orleans.

  He’d always felt that was one of the rare mistakes in his life, but now as he stared at her, he could not think of a single thing to say—perhaps a milestone in the life of Clinton Hardin!

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Al said.

  “You . . . you look real nice, Al.”

  “Thank you, Clinton.”

  Clinton stood there staring at her until finally Mrs. Stuart said nervously. “Is something wrong, Clinton?”

  “What? Oh no, not at all. I guess we’ll be on our way. May be a little late, but these dances last a long time.”

  “We trust you, Clinton. You stay until it’s all over,” Mr. Stuart said.

  The two went out on the porch and stepped toward the buggy.

  Clinton started around the horses, when he suddenly realized that Al was standing, waiting.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, coming back.

  “I want you to help me in the buggy.”

  It had never occurred to Clinton to help Al do anything, for she was so self-sufficient. But now he flushed and said, “I guess I forgot.”

  “I guess you did.” Al held her hand out, and Clinton put his own out and helped her in. She had on perfume that brushed against his senses, and when she settled down, he stood there staring at her. “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then why are you staring at me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just—”

  Clinton could not complete a sentence, it seemed. He hurried around, got in the seat beside her, and took up the lines. “Your ma is so nice to me, Clinton. She bought me these new clothes, and she helped me do my hair and gave me some perfume. You’ve got the best mother in the whole world!”

  “I reckon that’s right.”

  “She said you wanted so much to take me to the dance.”

  Clinton’s head seemed to give off an alarm. Well, that’s the first lie my ma ever told in her whole life. I’ll have to speak to her about that!

  “I guess I did,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you ask me yourself, Clinton?”

  “I guess I was workin’ too hard, but I knew Ma would take care of it.

  We’d better get on our way now. I don’t want us to be late.” He slapped the horses with the lines, and they broke out into a fast clip.

  “What’s your hurry? You’re going to turn us over.”

  “No, I won’t. I never turn buggies over.”

  They were barely half a mile down the road when the left wheel hit a pothole, and the buggy careened wildly. Aldora was thrown against Clinton, and he put his arm around her. “I guess I’d better hold on to you. I don’t want to lose my girl on the way to the dance.”

  “You never worried about it before.”

  “Well, you’ve changed a lot, Al, and I’ve had some serious thoughts myself about you.”

  Aldora was pressed against Clinton now, and she said, “You don’t have to hold me so tight.”

  “Oh, it’s dangerous. A wild pair of horses like this, you just can’t control ’em.”

  “That’s Bess and Herman. They’re the m
ildest and gentlest horses you folks have got.”

  “Oh, well, I mistook ’em for a couple of other horses.”

  Al laughed. “Well, let me go. You’re messing up my dress.”

  Clinton took his arm away, but he kept stealing glances as he slowed the horses down. Usually, as Clay had remarked, Clinton could talk the legs off a kitchen stove, but he had very little to say on the way to the dance. This stranger riding beside him was so different! He kept looking for signs of the old Al with whom he had fished crawdads out of the river for bait, but he saw very little of her there. When they rode into town, he said, “I guess I’d better tell you, Al. I don’t much care for my girl dancin’ with other fellas.”

  “You don’t?”

  He turned to her and said, “You do dance, don’t you?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Well, I’m the best dancer in Texas, so you’d better just stay with me.”

  “But what if someone asks me for a dance?”

  “You just tell ’em to come to me. I’ll handle it.”

  Al hid her smile behind her hand and did not answer. She knew very well that Clinton’s mother had arranged all this, and it somehow did her good to see Clinton becoming possessive. No one had ever acted this way toward her before, and she determined to make the most of it.

  To say that Aldora Stuart created a sensation among the young, unmarried segment of Jordan City’s young men would be an understatement. The minute Clinton walked in with her on his arm every unattached young man in the hall had made it his business to try to secure a dance with her. Clinton had fought them off as best he could. He had tried every trick he knew, saying to one, “Aldora here is not a very good dancer,” but Tom Hicks had said, “That’s all right. I’m a good teacher,” and had swung off with her.

  Indeed, no matter how much Clinton protested, Aldora was certainly the belle of the ball!