University of Virginia Library

35. 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.

“No; do you suppose I should see anybody
before you?”

“Oh, then, you must go to her!” said Mary.
“Oh, James, you don't know how she has suffered!”

They were drawing near to the cottage-gate.

“Do, pray!” said Mary. “Go, hurry to your
mother! Don't be too sudden, either, for she's
very weak; she is almost worn out with sorrow.
Go, my dear brother! Dear you always will be
to me.”

James helped her into the house, and they
parted. All the house was yet still. The open

kitchen-door let in a sober square of moonlight
on the floor. The very stir of the leaves on the
trees could be heard. Mary went into her little
room, and threw herself upon the bed, weak,
weary, yet happy, — for deep and high above all
other feelings was the great relief that he was
living still. After a little while she heard the rattling
of the wagon, and then the quick patter of
Miss Prissy's feet, and her mother's considerate
tones, and the Doctor's grave voice, — and quite
unexpectedly to herself, she was shocked to find
herself turning with an inward shudder from the
idea of meeting him. “How very wicked!” she
thought, — “how ungrateful!” — and she prayed
that God would give her strength to check the
first rising of such feelings.

Then there was her mother, so ignorant and innocent,
busy putting away baskets of things that
she had bought in provision for the wedding-ceremony.

Mary almost felt as if she had a guilty secret.
But when she looked back upon the last two
hours, she felt no wish to take them back again.
Two little hours of joy and rest they had been,
— so pure, so perfect! she thought God must have
given them to her as a keepsake to remind her
of His love, and to strengthen her in the way of
duty.

Some will, perhaps, think it an unnatural thing

that Mary should have regarded her pledge to the
Doctor as of so absolute and binding force; but
they must remember the rigidity of her education.
Self-denial and self-sacrifice had been the daily
bread of her life. Every prayer, hymn, and sermon,
from her childhood, had warned her to distrust
her inclinations, and regard her feelings as
traitors. In particular had she been brought up
to regard the sacredness of a promise with a superstitious
tenacity; and in this case the promise
involved so deeply the happiness of a friend whom
she had loved and revered all her life, that she
never thought of any way of escape from it. She
had been taught that there was no feeling so
strong but that it might be immediately repressed
at the call of duty; and if the thought arose to her
of this great love to another, she immediately answered
it by saying, “How would it have been
if I had been married? As I could have overcome
then, so I can now.”

Mrs. Scudder came into her room with a candle
in her hand, and Mary, accustomed to read
the expression of her mother's face, saw at a
glance a visible discomposure there. She held the
light so that it shone upon Mary's face.

“Are you asleep?” she said.

“No, mother.”

“Are you unwell?”

“No, mother, — only a little tired.”

Mrs. Scudder set down the candle, and shut the
door, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, —

“My daughter, I have some news to tell you,
which I want you to prepare your mind for. Keep
yourself quite quiet.”

“Oh, mother!” said Mary, stretching out her
hands towards her, “I know it. James has come
home.”

“How did you hear?” said her mother, with
astonishment.

“I have seen him, mother.”

Mrs. Scudder's countenance fell.

“Where?”

“I went to walk home with Cerinthy Twitchel,
and as I was coming back he came up behind
me, just at Savin Rock.”

Mrs. Scudder sat down on the bed and took
her daughter's hand.

“I trust, my dear child,” she said. She stopped.

“I think I know what you are going to say,
mother. It is a great joy, and a great relief; but
of course I shall be true to my engagement with
the Doctor.”

Mrs. Scudder's face brightened.

“That is my own daughter! I might have
known that you would do so. You would not,
certainly, so cruelly disappoint a noble man who
has set his whole faith upon you.”

“No, mother, I shall not disappoint him

I told James that I should be true to my
word.”

“He will probably see the justice of it,” said
Mrs. Scudder, in that easy tone with which elderly
people are apt to dispose of the feelings of
young persons. “Perhaps it may be something
of a trial at first.”

Mary looked at her mother with incredulous
blue eyes. The idea that feelings which made
her hold her breath when she thought of them
could be so summarily disposed of! She turned
her face wearily to the wall, with a deep sigh,
and said, —

“After all, mother, it is mercy enough and comfort
enough to think that he is living. Poor
Cousin Ellen, too, — what a relief to her! It is
like life from the dead. Oh, I shall be happy
enough; no fear of that!”

“And you know,” said Mrs. Scudder, “that
there has never existed any engagement of any
kind between you and James. He had no right
to found any expectations on anything you ever
told him.”

“That is true also, mother,” said Mary. “I had
never thought of such a thing as marriage, in relation
to James.”

“Of course,” pursued Mrs. Scudder, “he will
always be to you as a near friend.”

Mary assented.

“There is but a week now, before your wedding,”
continued Mrs. Scudder; “and I think
Cousin James, if he is reasonable, will see the
propriety of your mind being kept as quiet as
possible. I heard the news this afternoon in
town,” pursued Mrs. Scudder, “from Captain
Staunton, and, by a curious coincidence, I received
from him this letter from James, which
came from New York by post. The brig that
brought it must have been delayed out of the
harbor.”

“Oh, please, mother, give it to me!” said Mary,
rising up with animation; “he mentioned having
sent me one.”

“Perhaps you had better wait till morning,”
said Mrs. Scudder; “you are tired and excited.”

“Oh, mother, I think I shall be more composed
when I know all that is in it,” said Mary, still
stretching out her hand.

“Well, my daughter, you are the best judge,”
said Mrs. Scudder; and she set down the candle
on the table, and left Mary alone.

It was a very thick letter of many pages, dated
in Canton, and ran as follows: —