True womanhood a tale |
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| 19. | CHAPTER XIX. |
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 | CHAPTER XIX. True womanhood |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
On the following Saturday, the grand jury returned a true
bill, and the previous arrangements having been completed, and
new bail furnished, the “prisoner at the bar,” as the prosecutor
persisted in calling him, with great emphasis and something of
spite, was forthwith arraigned.
“George A. Pendleton, stand up!” said the imperious clerk.
The Major stood up — calm and self-assured, though rather
pale.
“Hearken to an indictment found against you by the grand
jury,” &c. &c. &c.
“Silence there! silence!” cried the sheriff.
And then the indictment, which was what lawyers would call
rather lengthy, being varied in about half a dozen different ways
to meet every supposable case, and alleging substantially very
different offences, and rather hard to be dealt with, under the
revised statutes of New York, was read slowly and deliberately,
— the prosecutor eyeing the judge a little sideways, and taking
snuff at him, pinch after pinch, with a very significant air, as if
they were soon to have their hands full, and then glancing, first
at one jury-box, and then at the other, and adjusting his spectacles
at the foreman of each, for a dead shot, to begin with,
before the skirmishers were thrown forward, or the main body
brought up.
At last the clerk finished, and folding the paper, as he spoke,
he called out with a sharp creak in his voice, which attracted
universal attention, and seemed especially meant for the accommodation
of Mr. Attorney, the prosecutor, — “Prisoner at the
bar!”
Mr. Fay smiled, — but his deep, clear eyes flashed fire.
“What say you to this indictment? guilty or not guilty?”
continued the clerk, half dropping into a chair as he spoke.
“Not guilty.”
“Are you ready for your trial?”
The prisoner stooped over to Mr. Fay, who sat leaning back
in his chair, and playing with a bit of twisted paper fashioned
like a lamplighter. While they were yet whispering together —
Mr. Fay looking untroubled — and the prisoner a little flushed
— and the clerk, who had come to his senses, and found his feet
again, appeared to be growing a little impatient, not withstanding
the assurance he had received from Mr. Fay, that he should be
able to answer in a few minutes, after a word or two with his
client, a tall man was seen elbowing his way through the crowd,
with his hat on, and pressing toward the parties in consultation,
without regarding the officers in attendance, or the looks of the
bar, as he pushed and hustled along up to the table.
It was William Bayard himself — with countenance heated
and flushed, and eyes uncommonly bright.
Mr. Fay was somewhat startled; and when Mr. Bayard stooped
and touched the prisoner on the elbow, and whispered so as to
be overheard by the prosecutor himself, “Say thee's ready for
trial, George!” he was not a little astonished, “say so, I tell
thee, — don't keep the man waiting!”
“But, my dear Sir,” said the Major, — “I am not ready for
trial.”
“Thee is, I tell thee, — say so, at once!”
“What are we to do, Mr. Fay?” asked the Major, “I cannot,
of course, go to trial without my witnesses; and I do not like
saying I am ready, when I am not.”
“By Jove!” said Mr. Fay — who never came out plump
with what might be called a downright Christian oath — “I am
satisfied from that look of our venerable friend that you will be
safe in following his advice.”
“Be it so, Mr. Fay, — I do not well understand your reasons
for changing the battle-ground, — but, if you say so, I am ready.”
Mr. Bayard was delighted, and after another look into his
glowing eyes, Mr. Fay nodded, and the Major turning toward
the bench, said, — “We are ready for trial, your honor.”
The prosecutor was evidently astonished and perplexed by
the manœuvre.
A consulation followed, and after a few minutes, the case was
set down for trial on the next Tuesday following. Mr. Fay
and the Major preferred Monday morning, the first thing; but
Mr. Attorney was not quite sure of all his witnesses, and the
court left him, of course, to manage the case in his own way.
That something was to be feared from the alertness and promptitude
of Mr. Fay, the prosecutor felt assured; but what it was,
he could not possibly imagine. If a trap was to be sprung, the
best way would be to refuse whatever might be asked for, in the
progress of the trial; and to yield nothing — not an inch — not
a hair's-breadth — and to take nothing for granted.
All eyes were upon the Major, and every look and motion,
however natural, was watched, as if it betokened some deep and
mysterious, though calmly matured purpose. The reputation of
Mr. Fay, and the serene self-assurance of his manner, as well as
the lofty composure and gentlemanly seriousness of the Major—
while they foreshadowed something out of the common way, had
a soothing effect upon the bar, and upon most of the bystanders,
though not upon the prosecutor, the clerk, nor upon certain of
the subordinates, understrappers, door-keepers, and outsiders, who
get their bread by their belief in the guilt of every human being
who has been charged by a grand jury, and openly arraigned
for any offence — no matter what — for suicide would be no
exception.
The day being fixed, and the arrangements for trial completed,
the Major and Mr. Fay withdrew into the large antechamber,
and seating themselves together by an open window, and apart
from all eavesdroppers, not so much for consultation, the time for
that having now gone by, as for the interchange of thought,
whereby each might understand the feelings of the other, without
any direct or troublesome questioning, began to review the leading
facts of the case.
“You look disturbed and anxious, my dear Sir,” said Mr.
Fay, with a pleasant smile, after they had got through, — “I
hope you have no serious misgivings?”
“To tell you the truth,” answered the Major, “I hardly know
though not so much on my own account, as you know. Having
the power to vindicate myself at any moment — time being
allowed me to bring in my witnesses — though I could never do
so without impeaching a dear friend, no longer alive to defend
himself, as he might, if he were here — I have been hoping, and
hoping, against hope, I acknowledge, till within the last half-hour,
that if the trial were postponed, something might turn up
to clear me, without committing him, or disquieting his family;
or that, if the worst happened, his vindication might be as clearly
established as my own, though not so directly perhaps, by the
very same witnesses. But now — since we are not even to ask
for delay, and are to go to trial on Tuesday next, under the
last arrangement, happen what may; and I am left wholly in the
dark, for the reasons that have decided you at this late hour to a
change of operations, you must not wonder, if, with so much at
stake — everything under heaven, my dear Sir, that would make
life endurable — you find me looking troubled and anxious; but,
as I have told you before, and as you have seen from the first, I
have such entire confidence in your judgment, that I am willing to
leave the arrangements altogether with you, to abandon all my
first purposes, and to ask no more questions of you, my counsel,
than I would ask of a physician, after he had made himself master
of my case, and fixed upon a course of treatment for me.”
“From the bottom of my heart I thank you, my dear Sir! and
all the more, because, to tell you the truth, my reserve with you
just now, is not only unlike anything I was ever guilty of before,
but unprofessional. We need the utmost freedom with our clients,
— but I am under a pledge; and having entire faith in the good
sense and cool judgment of your friend, Mr. Bayard, notwithstanding
his peculiarities, I must beg of you to tranquillize yourself,
and put your trust in him, as I do.”
“I put my trust in the Lord, Mr. Fay, — otherwise I should
be downhearted, if not absolutely frightened, when I call to mind
that Mr. Bayard, whatever else he may be, is no lawyer.”
“I beg your pardon, Major. Mr. Bayard is not only a lawyer
— but a very able lawyer — so far as a knowledge of the
great principles of jurisprudence, and the administration of law
to him, for many valuable suggestions in the progress of
your business; I do not know that he ever practised at the bar,
though he was admitted many years ago, not only into all the
higher courts of Pennsylvania, but into the Supreme Court of the
United States; hence my willingness to be led, contrary to my
first purposes, and my ready acquiescence in that last proposition,
which startles you so much. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes — if you are.”
“I wish he would allow me to communicate some things he
has told me, or to say what I believe with regard to some
others, which he still keeps to himself; but thus much I can say,
and I will say — he would never have urged you, as he did just
now, to say that you were ready for trial, without being sure that
he had the game in his own hands. What he means to do —
what he has heard, to justify a change of front in the presence of
the enemy — for when he left me last evening, he concurred
with me altogether in the necessity of delay — I do not know;
but one look into his lighted eyes and glowing countenance just
now, when he touched your elbow and insisted on your answering
that you were ready for trial, satisfied me that something had
happened to justify him in the change of procedure — and to
satisfy both you and me.”
The Major smiled — but there was an air of deep, mournful
sadness underneath the smile; and when he shook hands with
Mr. Fay and walked off, that gentleman saw, that notwithstanding
the generous confidence manifested by his client, there was a
feeling of disquietude to be overcome, which he wanted courage
to meddle with; and he followed him to the door, and even to
the steps of the carriage, without being able to suggest a word
more of encouragement or comfort, — or to say anything whatever
in relation to that which he himself was looking for, human
help; though he spoke in a cheerful voice, and begged him, as
they parted, with a hearty grasp of the hand, to be of good cheer,
and give himself no sort of uneasiness for the morrow.
“`Wretched comforters are ye all,'” thought our friend, the
Major; and he was on the point of saying as much, by way of
a word in season; but something withheld him — his heart was
being satisfied with himself.
The weather was warm; the blue skies, the rustling leaves,
the cool plashing of the Park fountain, with its “loosened silver,”
very soothing and pleasant; and at another time they would have
filled his heart with joy and thankfulness, and a childlike, cheerful
trust; but now there was a cloud about his way — darkness
within and without — and when he looked up to the blue empyrean,
he found himself no longer able to see through the transparent
depths, or to find the throne “high and lifted up,” which
he yearned for; and the noise of the wind among the tree-tops,
instead of foretelling an abundance of rain, foreshadowed nothing
but tears; and the lively rattling of the water, was, at the best,
only a kind of distant, half-subdued, half-smothered murmuring,
which the air seemed to be full of, so that when he listened to
the beating of his own heart, he found the murmuring there,
like a mysterious echo.
He began to grow nervous, and more and more unhappy, as
the carriage trundled along the crowded thoroughfare. Afraid
to be left alone — yet unwilling to make others unhappy — restless
and peevish — he determined not to present himself at the
cottage, until he had overcome the Adversary and the Accuser in
what now threatened to be a death-grapple.
With a view to while away the time, he left the carriage and
took a ramble, and went wandering hither and thither, hour after
hour, almost without knowing where he was, and completely bewildered
at times, till his attention was called by a large placard
in a by-street he was wholly unacquainted with, inviting all to
enter the house of God, for a few minutes of prayer. He durst
not disobey the call. Passing through a dark, wide passage-way,
he entered a room which appeared to be thronged and crowded
with shadows and spectres — motionless and silent as the grave.
But before he had reached his seat, a murmur of prayer was
heard afar off, growing louder and louder — the light streamed
in from a large colored window, and becoming reconciled to
the dimness, he was able to see gray-haired men and mothers
in Israel, and a multitude of young and fashionably-dressed people,
sitting with their heads bowed in silent prayer. Suddenly
the house — and then a few words of earnest exhortation —
and then a note was read, asking prayers for a child afar off;
and for a whole hour these exercises were continued, until the
man of sorrow, who had found himself in their midst, without
knowing wherefore, began to feel soothed, and tranquillized, and
softened like Saul, as if an evil spirit of unbelief had been played
to — and not in vain. Twice he partly rose to offer a word of
prayer; but his heart died away within him, — and he had no
voice — no strength — and he was obliged to take his seat, and
cover his face with his hands; being for a while too unhappy for
worship — too much troubled with secret misgivings to go to his
Father — and having no hope from earthly friends, was in no
humor for seeking others. But these feelings were not allowed.
He began to believe, with the Patriarch, that God was there —
and he knew it not. He trembled — rose up — and after a short
struggle, broke forth into a simple, fervent, and very earnest cry,
the substance of which was, “Help, Lord, or I perish!” And
straightway there fell a shadow upon all the faces round about —
and then there was a sound of sobbing — and then there came
an answer of peace. Others followed, and prayed for the stranger;
and when he left the church, his heart was full to overflowing
with new trust and hopefulness, and with a solemn joy.
Soon after this, he found himself near Delmonico's, and feeling
weary and faint, he entered; and going away off into a far
corner by himself, sat a long while, covering his face with his
hands, and resting his elbows on the table before him, without
speaking or moving.
“What would you please to have, Sir?” said a smart, glossy-haired,
perfumed waiter, in a white jacket and apron, like a fashionable
hair-dresser.
“Nothing at present, thank you.”
“Have the paper, Sir?”
“Thank you.”
And the paper was handed to him, which he did not even look
at; and the bill of fare was laid before him, and the plates were
changed, and the silver forks rubbed, and the chairs moved, as if
to accommodate others; but all to no purpose — he did not look
looking mysterious, and shaking his head portentously, however,
as he went away.
At last, a step was heard — another chair was moved — and a
voice came to him, as if somebody was near enough to breathe
into his very ear, saying, — “Watchman! what of the night?”
The Major started, as if his own thoughts had become audible;
for with him it was already nightfall — near midnight, indeed,
— and growing darker and darker every moment, with the
growing stillness, and the slow heaving of his chest, and he began
to be wholly disheartened once more.
“Oh, is it you, my excellent friend? How glad I am to see
you!” said he, looking up.
“Not half so glad as I am to see thee, George, — but what
business has thee here?”
“Well, — I hardly know. I was faint and hungry, and being
pretty well acquainted, happened to look up in passing the door,
and then I took my seat here, to be out of the way.”
“But thee has ordered nothing, I see.”
“I believe you are right, my dear Sir. Waiter!”
“Sir!”
“What will you have, Mr. Bayard? Just choose for yourself,
will you?” handing the card.
Mr. Bayard, after glancing over it, ordered a cup of coffee,
and a plate of terrapin stew.
“What wine will you have, Mr. Bayard?”
“Only what I have ordered — coffee — I never meddle with
anything nearer the fermented juice of the grape.”
“Do thee often dine here?” continued he, on seeing the
waiter, who had grown exceedingly attentive all at once, bring
two or three plates, and set them on the table before the Major.
“Very seldom of late, my dear Sir; but when we first arrived,
I used to breakfast here two or three times a week, to avoid the
tiresome regulations of our hotel.”
“But thee seems to be low-spirited — under a cloud, friend
George. I hoped better things of thee, after what fell from thy
mouth at the prayer-meeting to-day.”
The Major started — and a superstitious thrill shot through
followed, upon a variety of subjects, foreign to that which had
taken possession of his whole mind before, till Mr. Bayard, pushing
away his cup, and wiping his mouth with the napkin held by
the ends at arm's length — as none but people who have been
abroad ever think of doing, turned suddenly upon the Major, and
asked him where he was at the time of his brother-in-law's death?
“In South America,” was the reply.
“How soon did thee hear of his death?”
“Not until I returned to Philadelphia, where I found a parcel
waiting for me, with letters from Elizabeth, and a ring — this
ring, you see here.”
“Let me see that ring, if thee please.”
The Major drew it from his finger, and put it into his hands.
“Does thee know the history of this ring, friend George?”
“I believe not, — something I have heard about its having
once belonged to Tippoo Saib; a story I never believed, though
my poor brother-in-law did, to his dying day.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Bayard, taking out a penknife and touching
a very delicate spring, which caused one of the serpents to
gape, and set the carbuncle eyes of both sparkling, as with rage,
— “I hope there is no deadly poison here now.”
“None, whatever. I took very good care to have that question
settled, at once and forever, as soon as the ring came into
my possession; for, to tell you the truth, I did not feel half satisfied
with what I was told of the deadly drop; nor would I wear
the ugly thing as I do, though I believe it to be harmless now,
but for the desire expressed by Harper upon his death-bed, that
I should always wear it; and that, when I was done with it, I
should bequeath it to his boy, Arthur; because to that ring, he
said, he was indebted for his life, and for something indeed more
precious than life — escape from dishonor. I never understood
what he meant, and have always intended to ask; but whither
should I go? My poor sister knows nothing more than I do —
nor does Arthur — but I see by your looks, my dear Sir, that
you do. Can you clear up the mystery?”
“I can.”
“And will you?”
“Yes; but upon the condition that thee never allows thy sister,
or thy nephew, to know the truth.”
“If you think I may safely make such a promise, my dear
Sir — though I never did such a thing in my life before — I
will do so.”
“I think thee may. Listen. Harper Maynard was my dearest
friend for twenty-five or thirty years. After his marriage,
he went abroad. I followed him, and saw more or less of him,
year after year, till I found him getting too adventurous, and
going into what I believed to be dangerous and unbusiness-like
operations. I remonstrated. He persisted. A coolness then
sprang up between us, and I went on my travels. About the
time of the great commercial panic of 1839 — after the failure
of the United States Bank — I happened to be on my way home
to America, when circumstances led me through London. The
very first day of my arrival, amidst the many stoppages and failures,
I heard the house of Maynard & Co. mentioned as tottering.
I called on him at once, — we shook hands, and forgave
each other. I questioned him about his affairs. He acknowledged
that they were in a very precarious condition — that having
always relied upon the Bank of England for discounts, they had
reckoned upon it as usual for the paper they held, which one
week before might have been cashed for three per cent., — but
so many failures had happened that the bank was frightened,
and obliged to refuse the best of paper. I was not satisfied, —
and as I understood that on the morrow the crisis would come,
I resolved to bestir myself, without allowing him to know my
purpose, and if he could satisfy me, to apply whatever means
I might be able to command, in any way, to his relief. My
arrangements were all made before ten o'clock that evening,
and I had just put aside the Book, and was about going to bed,
when, all at once, it occurred to me that there was something
very strange in the wild earnestness of his manner — and in the
trembling of his hands — when we parted on the steps of his
door; his look was mournful, and he clung to me, I now remembered,
as he had never done before. At the time, I thought
very little of these things; we had been separated for a long
while, and had just been reconciled, and of course were likely to
uneasy; and in short, after struggling awhile against a superstitious
foreboding, till I could bear it no longer, instead of going to
bed, I went directly to his house. At first, I was denied. The
servant said he was not at home. I knew better, and told him
so — for I saw a light in his little study; and twice, while I was
waiting there, I saw a shadow pass before the window, and stop,
and throw up its arms — and I knew that I had no time to lose.
I sent the man up with my name on a letter, having no card —
we never use cards — he returned, saying that Mr. Maynard was
not very well, but hoped to see me on the morrow. Whereupon,
I pushed by the man, — who fled before me, as if I had been a
thief or a house-breaker, and following hard after him, entered
the study without notice.
“Thy brother, who was then sitting by a table, in his dressing-gown
and slippers — and pale as death — looked up, and then
tried to conceal something he held in his hand, which attracted
my attention. It was that very ring. I saw at once what he
had in view, for he had long worn it, with the drop of deadly
poison, as he himself told me, concealed therein. Though I
never put much faith in the story, and never had the least fear
of his making any use of it, I had remonstrated with him over
and over again, upon the folly and rashness of wearing such a
dangerous jewel, which, by some possibility, might fall into the
hands of another, and lead to fatal consequences. To oblige me,
though he said no stranger, unacquainted with the secret spring
which opened the reservoir, would ever be able to find it, he
consented to put the dangerous bauble away where it would be
safe, and wear it no longer himself; nor had he worn it for years.
“And now — there lay that ring on the table, — and near it,
a small narrow-bladed penknife, open — the very knife he had
once used in my presence to touch the delicate spring I have
mentioned.
“While talking with him, I managed to lean over the spot
where he had shuffled the ring underneath a file of loose papers,
and got possession of it. A brief explanation followed — tears and
sobs — and prayerful acknowledgment to our heavenly Father;
and then we embraced, like two brothers; and I never left him
better go home, George. Thee is wanted, I know; — and they
may be troubled more than thy sister would be willing to acknowledge,
if thee should keep dinner waiting.”
“Will you go with me?”
“Yes, — I should like to see thy sister Elizabeth before the
trial.”
“And stop over night?”
“Yes; if nothing happens to change my purpose, or drive me
away, as before.”
On board the ferry-boat, they found the people talking more
about revivals, and awakenings, and the wonderful conversions,
and strange behavior of their friends and acquaintances, than
about business, or stocks, or the last European advices.
“When I was here last fall,” said a serious-looking Downeaster,
of a commanding presence and great simplicity of manner,
“go where I would, the great question was, — `What will
become of us?' Three months later, in going my business rounds
among the very same people, the question was, — `What shall we
do to be saved?' And now, at every turn, wheresoever I go, I
hear substantially the question, — `Who is on the side of the
Lord?'”
A deep silence followed, and great thoughtfulness; and if there
had been a few miles farther to go, the passengers would have
resolved themselves into a prayer-meeting perhaps, — and why
not? — stranger things had happened. There were symptoms
not to be mistaken, before they touched the landing-place; people
coming together, and shaking hands in silence; and others
going by themselves and whispering together; and some distributing
tracts, — and all that was overheard went to show that
most of the bystanders were familiar with what was going on,
either at the John Street Church, or at the business-men's prayer-meeting,
on Broadway, or at Dr. Cheever's, or at the Stuyvesant
Institute.
On their way home, after they had crossed the ferry, the Major
and his venerable associate entered into conversation upon the
subject of prayer; and after awhile the Major was led to acknowledge,
that within the last few days, just when he most
in the exercise than he had months before, when, superadded to
all that he now had to fear, was the belief that all his plans in
life were defeated, that he and his poor sister, and the children,
were beggars. How strange! that just now, when the cloud was
lifted, and all his other worldly prospects were brightening, and
he had so much reason for thankfulness, and only one thing to
fear, — and that, however shapeless, and vast, and overwhelming,
under the aspect in which it first presented himself, no longer
terrible, since, judging by all he understood from Mr. Fay, he
had, to use that gentleman's language, the game in his own hands,
— how strange that he should feel the pressure more than ever!
and that, feeling it as he did, more and more every day, so that
he could neither eat, nor sleep, nor sit still, nor avoid feeling
unhappy himself, and making others unhappy, nor control his
impatience and fretfulness, there should be no relief in prayer.
“Strange! do thee say? It may be so to thee; but I have
had a longer, if not a larger experience, friend George, and to
me it is far from being strange,” said his companion. “When
we are tried with but one great heavy sorrow, we always give
way; but when these heavy sorrows are multiplied, and grow
more and more discouraging, until we are beset on every side,
within and without, as we are sure to be at last, if nothing else
will do — and we know not which way to look, and have no hope
in ourselves — we sometimes feel uplifted and strengthened by
the very greatness of the pressure. The largest pearls are found
in the deepest waters; and the diver who goes down to a great
depth, and who would be crushed, if the tremendous pressure
were confined to a portion of his body, is able to withstand a
thousand times more, if it be equalized; and grows buoyant by
the help thereof. The atmosphere of trial, too, is like the atmosphere
we breathe. If allowed to press upon a few square inches
of our bodies, we perish; but if it bear with the weight of tons,
or of mountains upon us, above and below, and within and without,
and on every portion alike, how freely we move! — like the
dwellers in the deep sea.”
“Your illustrations, my friend, are very beautiful and very
true; and when I am altogether myself — as in the morning,
with dreams, till the hair of my flesh rose — I begin to breathe
freely and see clearly, and am ready to acknowledge that the fault
is my own; — that I am asking a miracle of God for my help,
and growing impatient under his fatherly administration.”
“Well, persevere. He is trying thee, as gold, seven times in
the fire. Be patient and hopeful, and put thy trust in the Lord,
— in that friend who `sticketh closer than a brother,' — `the Man
of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.' Much of thy trouble,
George, proceeds, I verily believe, from the fact that thee has
forsaken the way of thy fathers — gone over to the Church of
England, without being fully satisfied — and art now exercised
by these revivals and prayer-meetings, and unsettled perhaps.”
“I believe you are right, my friend; but inasmuch as the
Episcopalians themselves, our conservatives, are coming into the
movement, and bishops are found in the chair, urging the people
to speak and pray for themselves, and the great brotherhood of
worshippers are beginning to acknowledge one another as belonging
to the same household of faith — why may we not hope
that we shall yet see these denominational distinctions overlooked
for a while, as in the presence of God the Father, and the whole
nation, whether believers or unbelievers, worldly or unworldly,
brought to their knees — and perhaps all the nations of the
earth?”
The venerable man was moved to uncover his head for a few
minutes, and to hold his hat before his eyes, in silent prayer;
and then he drew forth a small and very much worn pocket-Bible,
and opening it, read as to himself — though loud enough
to be understood by his companion — the following passage:
“Why art thou cast down, O my soul! and why art thou disquieted
within me?”
The silence continued, till they reached the cottage — or
Hazelwood, as they began to call it now, — not because anything
in the shape of a hazelwood was to be found in that whole region
round about, so far as they knew; but simply because they had
to choose between cedar, arbor vitæ, and hazel, with their compounds
— all other pleasant and easy names in the neighborhood
having been pre-appropriated.
Not a little to their surprise, the first person they saw, as they
stepped upon the piazza, was Mr. Fay himself, whom they had
left so busy that he could not promise to see them for a whole
week, and near him, Julia. They were standing together at the
window, as if in very earnest conversation; and Julia looked
flushed and troubled, though her eyes danced with gladness, at
something Mr. Fay said just as Arthur passed the window.
Dinner had been delayed a whole hour — and when it was
served, Arthur could not help seeing that his mother had so
managed as to bring Mr. Fay and Julia together, and that, for
some reason, which he tried in vain to fathom, their conversation
was carried on in so low a tone, that his mother only was able
to take a part in it from time to time. Julia colored when their
eyes met, and when she raised the glass to her lips, her hand
shook; but still she seemed on the best of terms with Mr. Fay,
though Arthur caught her studying the countenance of that gentleman,
while he was engaged in conversation with her uncle or
Mr. Bayard, in a way that puzzled him.
After the cloth was removed, the whole party entered into a
free conversation upon matters and things in general, instead of
segregating, or crystallizing into groups and pairs; and Arthur
learned from his mother, who seemed a little anxious to divert his
attention from Julia and Mr. Fay, that all the arrangements had
been completed for bringing over Mrs. Archibald, little Edith,
Charley, and the dog; but owing to the unexpected turn the trial
had just taken, they had given up the idea for the present, for,
in the midst of their anxiety and sorrow, when they so much desired
to be alone with the Comforter, how could they bear the
presence of comparative strangers? No, no; it was no longer
to be thought of, until the question of life or death was determined
for Uncle George; and then, if the issue were what they
all hoped for, and, upon their faith in Mr. Fay, now resolutely
believed in — if their continual asseverations might be trusted,
— how much happier they would be for the delay! While, on
the contrary, if, by any possibility, it should turn out otherwise
— but no! they would not allow themselves to think of any such
possibility. They turned away from the shuddering darkness,
and shut their eyes — all of them — and all without breathing
and how much afraid they were to acknowledge their misgivings
and forebodings, even to themselves.
Mr. Fay would not consent to take a bed, nor even to stay
long after the coffee; but he had time, nevertheless, for a private
interview with Uncle George, and for much whispering with Julia
and her aunt Elizabeth, or, if not whispering — downright whispering
— for a good hour's talk, first and last, in very low tones.
By and by, however, something happened which startled Julia,
and gave quite a new expression to her beautiful face, eager,
and almost impassioned, but changeable as the shadows of a sunset
sky upon deep water.
Of his own accord, and rather abruptly, Mr. Fay introduced
the very subject upon which Mr. Bayard and the Major had
been talking on their way to the cottage. He too, it seemed, had
been struck — and, as he acknowledged, not a little amused, by
the conversation about him, as they were crossing the ferry.
Instead of the walking fore and aft, and the continued rustle of
newspapers, and cracking of peanuts, which had always been the
subject of complaint or remonstrance, the people were either
silent, or engaged in low, half-whispered conversation, and whenever
a word reached his ear, he found that, instead of being
about business, or the news from Europe, or the police, or the
opera, or the monstrous pretensions of some Fifth Avenue
sharper — it was almost always about prayer, and the answers to
prayer, as reported in the Observer, and the Tribune, and other
newspapers.
Mr. Fay was not fully aware of the effect produced upon all
about him, by his acknowledgment that he had been amused with
what he heard and saw on board the ferry-boat. There was no
scoffing — no sneering — no irreverence — for Mr. Fay was too
much a man of the world, whatever his unacknowledged opinions
might be, and much too familiar with the aspect of the times, to
hazard anything offensive on the subject of prayer, though, while
toying with a bunch of grapes, he managed to have it understood
that he had no faith in prayer; or, to use the very language he
employed, “that he had never been able to satisfy himself on the
subject of prayer;” and this, while he acknowledged, “that our
the beginning, the priests and prophets and kings of old were
always praying — and to whom? — to the Unchangeable Jehovah!”
There was a something in the quiet self-complacency of their
guest, when he said this, even more than in the language he employed,
which appeared to trouble Mrs. Maynard and her
brother, while it alarmed Julia, and roused Arthur.
“I grant you,” continued Mr. Fay, with the serene, self-assured
look of one who is quite sure of his position, but being
a philosopher, and, of course, indulgent by nature to human
weakness, pitied all who entertained a different opinion — “I
grant you that the unchangeable Jehovah is sometimes represented
as changeable.”
“Ah! and how so, Winthrop?” asked William Bayard.
“Sometimes by repenting, and sometimes by granting a reprieve,
after judgment has been entered on, and execution issued.”
Julia grew more and more uneasy, and a look was interchanged
with her aunt, which Arthur did not quite understand,
though he felt pleased, in spite of himself.
“For example,” continued the philosopher in that low, quiet,
smooth voice, which Arthur so hated — and so feared — “he
sends the prophet to Hezekiah, to say to him, that he shall die
and not live. The message is delivered — Hezekiah turns his
face to the wall, and weeps and prays — and God relents, and
fifteen years are added to his life. And so too, when the
prophet Jonah is sent to Nineveh — I wish you would turn to
the passage, Miss Julia, and read it for us — will you?”
At any other time, and under almost any other circumstances,
had she been requested to do this, at a dinner table, and among
strangers, Julia would have shrunk from the trial with fear and
trembling, but now her spirit was up — she breathed hurriedly
— her color came and went — she felt herself called upon as a
witness for the truth — and she obeyed.
“Beautiful, exceedingly!” murmured Mr. Fay, just loud
enough to be overheard by Arthur, as Julia finished the chapter.
“And now, just observe the language — there is no qualification
announces from the unchangeable Jehovah that, after forty days,
Nineveh shall be destroyed; but lo! the king and people repent
in sackcloth and ashes — and Nineveh is spared!”
“And these are the very cases you rely upon,” said Arthur,
with kindling eyes, and great earnestness of manner, as if replying
to a sneer, — “these! — to show the utter worthlessness of
prayer!”
The philosopher was thunderstruck — astonished beyond
measure, at the suddenness, and startling boldness of the attack;
and Julia trembled from head to foot, while Mr. Bayard and
her aunt Elizabeth looked as if they were afraid to acknowledge
what they felt; and the philosopher, with a compassionate smile,
began casting about for a reply.
“Not so fast, my venerable friend!” he replied, with a glance
of encouragement for Julia, which betrayed not only a secret
uneasiness, but some degree of embarrassment.
“Why, what do these two cases prove, my dear Sir!” continued
his youthful antagonist, “but that our heavenly Father
does hear and answer prayer, and this, however unchangeable
he may be — and what more do we require to know?”
Julia turned to Arthur with a look he never forgot; her eyes
flashed, and then filled — and then she turned her face toward
his mother; and William Bayard clutched Arthur's knee, upon
which his hand had been resting, with a suddenness and strength
which made him jump.
“Very fair,” continued the imperturbable Mr. Fay; “but then
observe, what becomes of God's unchangeableness? You give
that up, of course.”
“I do not see why,” said Arthur — hesitating, and then shutting
his eyes for a moment, as if in secret prayer — while his
mother and uncle, and Mr. Bayard and Julia sat looking at
him, and waiting his reply, as if they trembled for him, “though
God be unchangeable, man is not; and if we repent, and turn
from our wickedness, He declares that he will abundantly pardon;
and this too, without any qualification or condition.”
“Not so bad!” exclaimed the philosopher, glancing at Julia,
as if he had only been playing with jackstraws for her amusement,
Arthur; “but you must remember that in both cases
mentioned, the judgment pronounced is unconditional. The unchangeable
Jehovah does not say to Hezekiah, `Thou shalt die,
and not live — except thou turn thy face to the wall, with prayer
and weeping,' nor to Nineveh, `within forty days, thou shalt be
destroyed, unless thou repent in sackcloth and ashes.'”
“And why should he?” retorted Arthur, his color mounting,
as he spoke, and the deep, musical vibration of his chest betraying
a great inward struggle, “as the supreme Lawgiver of the
universe, you will not deny that he may prescribe his own conditions,
Mr. Fay?”
Mr. Fay nodded complacently.
“And, as the Supreme Lawgiver, — why may he not publish
those conditions beforehand — or withhold them — according to
his own good pleasure, and still be the unchangeable Jehovah?”
Mr. Fay was evidently astonished. He saw too, that Arthur
had all the others with him; and so, springing from his chair, he
exclaimed, “Capital! give me your hand! if I had thought you
so cunning of fence, I would have seen you hanged, before I
would have entered the list with you — as Sir Andrew Aguecheek
would say; — but I must be off — good-night all!” and
thereupon he ordered his carriage, and the controversy ended,
as such controversies rarely do, and Arthur and Julia were
almost on good terms together, before they withdrew for the
night.
| CHAPTER XIX. True womanhood | |