Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells
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A Covenant of Love © 1992 by Gilbert Morris
Gate of His Enemies © 1992 by Gilbert Morris
Where Honor Dwells © 1993 by Gilbert Morris
Print ISBN 978-1-60260-178-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-509-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-508-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Covenant of Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Gate of His Enemies
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Where Honor Dwells
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
GENEALOGY OF THE ROCKLIN FAMILY
GENEALOGY OF THE YANCY FAMILY
A COVENANT OF LOVE
To Johnnie—from her husband
We Have Saved the Best—!
Weep not because our love’s first spring is past—
And hold no wake for trembling young delight,
For we have saved the best, my Love, till last!
O yes, I know the sands of time run fast—
For us these are but golden days and nights.
Weep not because our summer’s love is past.
The wine we quaffed with our love’s first repast
Has aged—and does more now than blur our sight,
For we have saved the best, my Love, till last!
We’ve sipped together from Time’s silver flask;
We’ve heard, Sweetheart, love’s golden chimes by night!
Weep not because our autumn love is past,
Swirled like aging leaves by winter’s blast
Into some dreary grave far from the light,
For we have saved the best. My love, ‘twill last
For us just long enough for earth’s delight,
And then we’ll drink forever from His cask!
Weep not because our love’s first spring is past—
For we have saved, my Love, the best till last!
PART ONE
The Rivalry—1840
CHAPTER 1
A BALL AT GRACEFIELD
Clay Rocklin! You let me go this minute, you hear?”
Melanie Benton’s voice was sharp, but her blue eyes were filled with laughter and her lips curved upward as she tried to pull away from the tall young man who held her easily. She showed no sign of alarm, but as he drew her closer, she glanced over her shoulder quickly, saying, “If my father sees us, he’ll shoot you!”
Rocklin’s grip on her waist tightened. “He can’t see us,” he said with a reckless grin. “This old scuppernong vine arbor is useful for something besides good wine, Mellie. From the house you can’t see what’s going on inside it. And I’d risk getting shot anytime for a kiss from the prettiest girl in the county!”
Melanie turned her head aside just in time to catch his kiss on one satiny cheek. “It’s a wonder some jealous husband hasn’t shot you before this, Clay,” she said sternly. But she was pleased by his words, as she was by his appearance.
Clay Rocklin was the handsomest of all the Rocklin men. He was six feet two inches tall, lean and muscular, and as Melanie tilted her head back to look up at him, she thought, not for the first time, He’s too good-looking for his own good! Clay was one of the “Black Rocklins,” deriving his raven dark hair, black eyes, and olive skin from his father. The strain of Welsh blood that flowed through his veins showed in the strong, clean features: straight nose, wide cheekbones, deep-set eyes under black brows, and the cleft in the determined chin. He might have been charged with being too pretty save for the mouth that was too wide and the chin with the deep cleft that jutted out too aggressively.
The tendrils of the scuppernong vine overhead blocked out the warm April sun, throwing lacy patterns of shade on Melanie’s face. Clay’s voice grew husky as he murmured, “Mellie, you’re so beautiful!” Then he kissed her, and as she stood there in his arms, Melanie tried to resist. She had always been able to handle Clay at such times, but now there was a power in his arms. Suddenly she found herself kissing him back with an ardor that she had never shown to any man. Then she realized that her hands were behind his head, and with a shock she pulled her lips away and pushed at his chest.
“I—mustn’t!” she whispered. When he released her, she added, “You shouldn’t do that, Clay!”
“I only did half of it, Mellie.”
Though his answer angered her, she knew he was right. “Well, I shouldn’t be letting you kiss me,” she said. Her hands were trembling, and she turned suddenly, clasping them. “It’s wrong.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, then put his hand under her chin. “What’s so wrong with a kiss? Especially when you know how I feel about you.”
“Clay, you’ve courted half the girls in Richmond,” Melanie insisted. “And you’ve told most of them the same thing you’re tel
ling me.”
A slight flush tinged Clay’s cheeks, but he shook his head stubbornly. “A man’s got to look around, doesn’t he? Well, I’ve seen a few girls, but now I’m sure, Mellie. I love you, and I’ll never love another woman.”
Melanie was startled by the intensity in Clay’s voice. She had never encouraged his attention; indeed, she had discouraged him frequently. They had grown up together, their families living only ten miles apart, bound by common interests. James and Alice Benton, Melanie’s parents, ruled over the second-largest plantation in the county. But their holdings were only slightly less than Gracefield, the Rocklin estate.
Theirs was a feudal society, and it was no less rigid than the world of the Middle Ages. At the bottom of the pyramid lay the black slaves, owners of nothing, not even their own bodies. Over them, the poor whites, struggling for survival. Next were the shopkeepers and small businessmen, then the professional men—the lawyers and doctors who touched on all worlds.
At the top, at the apex of Virginia society of 1840, were the elite group of plantation owners whose estates ran into thousands of acres—and whose whims were law to the slaves and free whites who kept the cotton and rice flowing out of the rich earth. The South was ruled by this upper class, by men like Wade Hampton of South Carolina and the Lees and Hugers of Virginia.
The Rocklins and the Bentons, like most wealthy planters, liked to think of themselves as heirs to the traditions of knights and cavaliers, and they played the part stylishly. It was their code to practice chivalry toward women, kindness to inferiors, and honor among equals. They cultivated a taste for blooded horses, fine foxhounds, handmade firearms, and the Southern belles of affluent families. Many studied the arts of war, though seldom with the intention of actually using what they learned. A Mississippi planter, Jefferson Davis, stated with pride that only in the South did gentlemen who did not intend to follow the profession of arms go to a military academy.
In such a world, the marriages of sons and daughters were almost as carefully planned as those of the royal families of Europe. In the latter instance, only a young man of royal blood was considered eligible for a princess. Both the Bentons and the Rocklins would have stated promptly that the only candidates they would welcome into their family must come from the minutely small group that made up the “royalty” of Richmond.
The rigid caste system of her people was not in Melanie’s thoughts as she stood facing Clay—at least, not consciously. But in another sense, there was never a time when knowledge of such things was not with her. She could not have put her finger on a specific time when her parents had said to her, “You must marry a man who is from your world, Mellie; who is wealthy, cultured, and Southern.” And yet, as she looked up at Clay, her blood still not cooled after his embrace, she was aware (as she had been for years) that he was one of the very few men who would be welcomed without reservation by her parents.
Seeing her hesitate, Clay smiled roguishly and grasped her shoulders. “You do love me, Mellie! I know you do!” He would have kissed her again, but just at that moment the sound of a voice filtered through the arbor, startling both of them. They stepped apart quickly, and Melanie smoothed her hair nervously.
“Clay? You in here?”
Noah Rocklin’s cane tapped on the stone walk that led from the house to the arbor, and his pace was so halting and slow that by the time he rounded the corner and saw his grandson and Melanie, the pair seemed calm and uninvolved. “Here we are, Grandfather,” Clay said quickly, stepping forward to meet the old man. “We were making plans for the ball tomorrow. Here, sit down and help us.”
“No time for that, boy.” Noah Rocklin studied them, his black eyes sharp as ever despite his seventy-three years. Time may have bent his tall figure and transformed his coal-black hair to silver, but he had lost none of the astuteness that had enabled him to create an empire out of nothing. Fifty years earlier he had stepped off a boat at the dock in Richmond, a penniless lad from the coal mines of Wales. With no backing, no influence, and little education, he had shouldered his way into the cloistered world of the rich planters of Virginia. He had gotten his start by means of a bay mare that could beat any horse in the country for a quarter of a mile. Moving around from meet to meet, he had won purses, then invested in a worn-out farm that he bought for almost nothing. He had purchased one slave, Jacob, and in their first year together, the two of them had wrenched a bumper crop of cotton from the woebegone farm. Noah still had Jacob, along with 160 other slaves—and that first farm of 120 acres was now lost in an ocean of 50,000 acres, all rich, black land that sprawled over much of the county.
Only one thing held as much importance in Noah Rocklin’s heart as his self-made empire, and that was his wife, Charlotte. She had brought him great joy and had blessed him with four sons—Stephen, Thomas, Mason, and Mark—and with his only daughter, Marianne. The fierce devotion Noah felt for Gracefield was nominal compared to his feelings toward his family.
Of course, Noah Rocklin’s rise to power had not been unopposed—and the stories of his fits of anger were legendary.
He had fought in the War of 1812, rising to the rank of major. When that was over, he had fought three duels, winning each with contemptuous ease. Perhaps it was because he recognized too much of his own fiery temper and wild youth in his grandson Clay that he scowled now, saying, “I heard about that trouble you had with Louis Waymeyer, boy. Bad business!”
“It was a matter of honor, sir!”
“Honor!” Noah scoffed, punching his cane against the stones angrily. “It was a brawl over a silly woman between two empty-headed young men!”
His remark caused both young people to redden, but Noah went on. “You’re going to get your head shot off if you keep messing around with that kind of woman, Clay.”
“Grandfather, you shouldn’t speak that way in front of Mellie!”
“Why not? Why, boy, she’s heard the story a dozen times—and I’d guess you got some of the minute details, didn’t you, missy?” A stricken look came to Melanie’s face, and he laughed loudly. “Why, I heard at least six versions of it myself, and the women don’t let a thing like that die!”
Clay clamped his lips shut, saying nothing, but he noticed that Melanie seemed more amused than upset. It had been a piddling affair. He had cut Louis out with Dora Seller, and Louis had called him an unpleasant name. “I had to give him satisfaction, Grandfather,” he insisted.
“If some of my family has to die, I’d rather see them die over something more important than Dora Seller’s petticoats.” Then he laughed again. “Look at her,” he said suddenly, waving toward Melanie. “You thought what the boy did was romantic, didn’t you? Well, you better watch out for this one. He’s too much like I was at his age!”
“I think that’s a great compliment to Clay, Major Rocklin,” Melanie said with a smile and patted his arm. “If I get a husband half as handsome and romantic as you, I’ll be happy.”
“Romantic!” Noah recoiled as if she had put a snake on his arm. “I deny it, girl!”
“You can’t.” Melanie giggled. “Your wife showed me some of your old letters to her!”
Noah stared at her, then muttered, “I’ll beat that woman! See if I don’t—and it’s long overdue!” He saw that his threat didn’t impress the pair and changed the subject abruptly. “Stephen and his family will be on the 1:15, Clay. You get the large buggy and bring them here.”
“Yes, sir.” Clay nodded. “How many will there be?”
“Why, Stephen and Ruth and the baby, of course. And Laura and that abolitionist she married.”
“I’m surprised you’d let him come, Grandfather,” Clay said, smiling. “You said before the wedding you’d horsewhip him if he ever stepped foot on Gracefield.”
“Never mind what I said!” Noah snapped. “They’ll have my great-grandson with them. He’s bound to be an improvement over you young whelps I call grandsons!”
Melanie knew that the old man was fiercely proud of his gra
ndsons, and asked, “Will Gideon be here?”
“Stephen said he would. I think he pulled some strings to get leave for him.” Gideon, Stephen’s son, was about to graduate from West Point, and this military career gave him a special favor with Noah Rocklin—indeed, with most of the family.
“I’ll go along, Clay,” Melanie said suddenly. When he gave her a sharp look, she added quickly, “To help Laura hold the baby. I’m sure she’ll be worn out after that long ride from Washington.”
Clay said stiffly, “Be pretty crowded in the carriage, Mellie.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she answered with a sly smile. Clay walked off with a frown on his face, and she turned to see that Noah was studying her with his black eyes. “Why—I guess he doesn’t want me to go, Major. But I am anxious to see Laura’s baby.”
His shrewd eyes studied her for a moment. “’Course it’s the baby you’re anxious to see. Who else would it be? Certainly not that good-looking soldier grandson of mine,” he said dryly.
Melanie flushed uncomfortably and glanced away. “I think I’ll go anyway. Clay won’t mind,” she said stubbornly, then walked quickly out of the arbor. As soon as she left, the old man pulled a very old silver flask out of his hip pocket. When he had taken two large swallows, he took a deep breath, then said, “Ahhhhhh!” He sat there, the sunlight creeping through the branches causing him to narrow his eyes. He grinned suddenly, saying out loud, “‘Making plans for the ball tomorrow.’ Ho! I know what you and that girl were doing, Clay Rocklin!” The thought amused him, and he lifted the flask again.
Suddenly a voice very close made him jump so abruptly that he spilled some of the liquor down the front of his shirt.
“Yas! I kotched you, din’t I?” A tall, gangling Negro dressed in black pants and a white shirt had emerged from the far end of the arbor and approached to stand beside Noah. The Negro’s hair was white as cotton, and despite the lines that were etched in his face, his eyes were sharp. “You gimme dat liquor now!” he insisted, holding out a pink palm. “You know Miz Charlotte and the doctuh say you kain’t have no mo’!”