 | CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BETROTHED. The minister's wooing |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BETROTHED.
Between three and four the next morning, the
robin in the nest above Mary's window stretched
out his left wing, opened one eye, and gave a
short and rather drowsy chirp, which broke up his
night's rest and restored him to the full consciousness
that he was a bird with wings and feathers,
with a large apple-tree to live in, and all heaven
for an estate, — and so, on these fortunate premises,
he broke into a gush of singing, clear and
loud, which Mary, without waking, heard in her
slumbers.
Scarcely conscious, she lay in that dim clairvoyant
state, when the half-sleep of the outward
senses permits a delicious dewy clearness of the
soul, that perfect ethereal rest and freshness of
faculties, comparable only to what we imagine of
the spiritual state, — season of celestial enchantment,
in which the heavy weight “of all this unintelligible
world” drops off, and the soul, divinely
charmed, nestles like a wind-tossed bird in the
What visions then come to the inner eye
have often no words corresponding in mortal vocabularies.
The poet, the artist, and the prophet
in such hours become possessed of divine certainties
which all their lives they struggle with pencil
or song or burning words to make evident to their
fellows. The world around wonders; but they
are unsatisfied, because they have seen the glory
and know how inadequate the copy.
And not merely to selectest spirits come these
hours, but to those humbler poets, ungifted with
utterance, who are among men as fountains sealed,
whose song can be wrought out only by the harmony
of deeds, the patient, pathetic melodies of
tender endurance, or the heroic chant of undiscouraged
labor. The poor slave-woman, last night
parted from her only boy, and weary with the
cotton-picking, — the captive pining in his cell, —
the patient wife of the drunkard, saddened by a
consciousness of the growing vileness of one so
dear to her once, — the delicate spirit doomed to
harsh and uncongenial surroundings, — all in such
hours feel the soothings of a celestial harmony, the
tenderness of more than a mother's love.
It is by such seasons as these, more often than
by reasonings or disputings, that doubts are resolved
in the region of religious faith. The All-Father
treats us as the mother does her “infant
our fears, or demonstrate their fallacy, but draws
us silently to His bosom, and we are at peace.
Nay, there have been those, undoubtedly, who have
known God falsely with the intellect, yet felt Him
truly with the heart, — and there be many, principally
among the unlettered little ones of Christ's
flock, who positively know that much that is dogmatically
propounded to them of their Redeemer is
cold, barren, unsatisfying, and utterly false, who
yet can give no account of their certainties better
than that of the inspired fisherman, “We know
Him, and have seen Him.” It was in such hours
as these that Mary's deadly fears for the soul of
her beloved had passed all away, — passed out of
her, — as if some warm, healing nature of tenderest
vitality had drawn out of her heart all pain
and coldness, and warmed it with the breath of
an eternal summer.
So, while the purple shadows spread their gauzy
veils inwoven with fire along the sky, and the
gloom of the sea broke out here and there into
lines of light, and thousands of birds were answering
to each other from apple-tree and meadow-grass,
and top of jagged rock, or trooping in bands
hither and thither, like angels on loving messages,
Mary lay there with the flickering light through
the leaves fluttering over her face, and the glow
of dawn warming the snow-white draperies of the
cheek. She lay half-conscious, smiling the while,
as one who sleeps while the heart waketh, and
who hears in dreams the voice of the One Eternally
Beautiful and Beloved.
Mrs. Scudder entered her room, and, thinking
that she still slept, stood and looked down on her.
She felt as one does who has parted with some
precious possession, a sudden sense of its value
coming over her; she queried in herself whether
any living mortal were worthy of so perfect a gift
and nothing but a remembrance of the Doctor's
prostrate humility at all reconciled her to the sacrifice
she was making.
“Mary, dear!” she said, bending over her, with
an unusual infusion of emotion in her voice,
— “darling child!”
The arms moved instinctively, even before the
eyes unclosed, and drew her mother down to her
with a warm, clinging embrace. Love in Puritan
families was often like latent caloric, — an all-pervading
force, that affected no visible thermometer,
shown chiefly by a noble silent confidence, a ready
helpfulness, but seldom outbreathed in caresses;
yet natures like Mary's always craved these outward
demonstrations, and leaned towards them as
a trailing vine sways to the nearest support. It
was delightful for once fully to feel how much
her mother loved her, as well as to know it.
“Dear, precious mother! do you love me so
very much?”
“I live and breathe in you, Mary!” said Mrs.
Scudder, — giving vent to herself in one of those
trenchant shorthand expressions, wherein positive
natures incline to sum up everything, if they must
speak at all.
Mary held her mother silently to her breast,
her heart shining through her face with a quiet
radiance.
“Do you feel happy this morning?” said Mrs.
Scudder.
“Very, very, very happy, mother!”
“I am so glad to hear you say so!” said Mrs.
Scudder, — who, to say the truth, had entertained
many doubts on her pillow the night before.
Mary began dressing herself in a state of calm
exaltation. Every trembling leaf on the tree, every
sunbeam, was like a living smile of God, — every
fluttering breeze like His voice, full of encouragement
and hope.
“Mother, did you tell the Doctor what I said
last night?”
“I did, my darling.”
“Then, mother, I would like to see him a few
moments alone.”
“Well, Mary, he is in his study, at his morning
devotions.”
“That is just the time. I will go to him.”
The Doctor was sitting by the window; and
the honest-hearted, motherly lilacs, abloom for the
third time since our story began, were filling the
air with their sweetness.
Suddenly the door opened, and Mary entered, in
her simple white short-gown and skirt, her eyes
calmly radiant, and her whole manner having something
serious and celestial. She came directly towards
him and put out both her little hands, with
a smile half childlike, half angelic; and the Doctor
bowed his head and covered his face with his
hands.
“Dear friend,” said Mary, kneeling and taking
his hands, “if you want me, I am come. Life is
but a moment, — there is an eternal blessedness
just beyond us, — and for the little time between
I will be all I can to you, if you will only show
me how.”
And the Doctor —
No, young man, — the study-door closed just
then, and no one heard those words from a quaint
old Oriental book which told that all the poetry
of that grand old soul had burst into flower,
as the aloe blossoms once in a hundred years.
The feelings of that great heart might have fallen
unconsciously into phrases from that one love-poem
of the Bible which such men as he read so purely
and devoutly, and which warm the icy clearness
of their intellection with the myrrh and spices of
and blend in one indistinguishable horizon-line, like
sea and sky.
“Who is she that looketh forth as the morning,
fair as the moon, clear as the sun? My dove, my
undefiled, is but one; she is the only one of her
mother. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no
spot in thee!”
The Doctor might have said all this; we will
not say he did, nor will we say he did not; all
we know is, that, when the breakfast-table was
ready, they came out cheerfully together. Madame
de Frontignac stood in a fresh white wrapper,
with a few buttercups in her hair, waiting for the
breakfast. She was startled to see the Doctor entering
all-radiant, leading in Mary by the hand,
and looking as if he thought she were some dream-miracle
which might dissolve under his eyes, unless
he kept fast hold of her.
The keen eyes shot their arrowy glance, which
went at once to the heart of the matter. Madame
de Frontignac knew they were affianced, and regarded
Mary with attention.
The calm, sweet, elevated expression of her face
struck her; it struck her also that that was not the
light of any earthly love, — that it had no thrill,
no blush, no tremor, but only the calmness of a
soul that knows itself no more; and she sighed
involuntarily
She looked at the Doctor, and seemed to study
attentively a face which happiness made this morning
as genial and attractive as it was generally
strong and fine.
There was little said at the breakfast-table; and
yet the loud singing of the birds, the brightness
of the sunshine, the life and vigor of all things,
seemed to make up for the silence of those who
were too well pleased to speak.
“Eh bien, ma chère,” said Madame, after breakfast,
drawing Mary into her little room, — “c'est
donc fini?”
“Yes,” said Mary, cheerfully.
“Thou art content?” said Madame, passing her
arm around her. “Well, then, I should be. But,
Mary, it is like a marriage with the altar, like taking
the veil, is it not?”
“No,” said Mary; “it is not taking the veil; it
is beginning a cheerful, reasonable life with a
kind, noble friend, who will always love me
truly, and whom I hope to make as happy as
he deserves.”
“I think well of him, my little cat,” said Madame,
reflectively; but she stopped something she
was going to say, and kissed Mary's forehead.
After a moment's pause, she added, “One must
have love or refuge, Mary; — this is thy refuge,
child; thou wilt have peace in it.” She sighed
again. “Enfin,” she said, resuming her gay tone,
have Virginie's pearls, my fair one, and look like
a sea-born Venus. Tiens, let me try them in thy
hair.”
And in a few moments she had Mary's long
hair down, and was chattering like a blackbird,
wreathing the pearls in and out, and saying a
thousand pretty little nothings, — weaving grace
and poetry upon the straight thread of Puritan
life.
| CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BETROTHED. The minister's wooing | |