University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONCERNING MARRIAGE, DEATH, GOSSIP, AND GOING HOME.

The occasion which called the few friends together at the
cottage, the next morning, was sad and touching, as well as
joyful. At least, each one felt that the usual cheerful sympathy
with consummated love would be out of place, in circumstances
so unusual and solemn. The widow felt that she was
robbing her daughter's marriage of that sunshine which of
right belonged to it, but in this, as in all other important decisions
of life, she was guided by “the spirit.” She perceived,
indeed, that Hannah had not yet reached the full consciousness
of her love—that the fixed characteristics of her mind fought
continually against her heart, and would so fight while any
apparent freedom of will remained; and, precisely for this reason,
the last exercise of maternal authority was justified to her
own soul. In the clairvoyance of approaching death she
looked far enough into the future to know that, without this
bond, her daughter's happiness was uncertain: with it, she
saw the struggling elements resolve themselves into harmony.

Woodbury suspected the mother's doubt, though he did not
share it to the same extent. He believed that the fierceness
of the struggle was over. The chain was forged, and by
careful forbearance and tenderness it might be imperceptibly
clasped. There were still questions to be settled, but he had
already abdicated the right of control; he had intrusted their
solution to the natural operation of time and love. He would
neither offer nor accept any express stipulations of rights, for
this one promise embraced them all. Her nature could only
be soothed to content in its new destiny by the deeper knowledge

which that destiny would bring, and therefore, the
mother's request was perhaps best for both. It only imposed
upon him a more guarded duty, a more watchful self-control,
in the newness of their relation to each other.

Mrs. Waldo, unable to sleep all night from the excitement
of her honest heart, was with Hannah Thurston early in the
morning. It was as well, no doubt, that the latter was allowed
no time for solitary reflection, as the hour approached. By
ten o'clock the other friends, who had first driven to the Cimmerian
Parsonage, made their appearance in the little sitting-room.
Woodbury came in company with Mr. Waldo, followed
by Bute and Carrie. He was simply dressed in black, without
the elaborate waistcoat and cravat of a bridegroom. But for
the cut of his coat collar, the Friends themselves would not
have found fault with his apparel. His face was calm and
serene: whatever emotion he felt did not appear on the
surface.

Mrs. Merryfield, in a lavender-colored silk, which made her
sallow complexion appear worse than ever, occasionally raised
her handkerchief to her eyes, although there were no signs of
unusual moisture in them.

The door to the invalid's room was open, and the bed had
been moved near it, so that she could both see and converse
with the company in the sitting-room. Her spotless book-muslin
handkerchief and shawl of white crape-silk were
scarcely whiter than her face, but a deep and quiet content
dwelt in her eyes and gave its sweetness to her feeble voice.
She greeted them all with a grateful and kindly cheerfulness.
The solemnity of the hour was scarcely above the earnest
level of her life; it was an atmosphere in which her soul
moved light and free.

Presently Hannah Thurston came into the room. She was
dressed in white muslin, with a very plain lace collar and knot
of white satin ribbon. Her soft dark hair, unadorned by a
single flower, was brought a little further forward on the temples,
giving a gentler feminine outline to her brow. Her face

was composed and pale, but for a spot of red on each cheek,
and a singularly vague, weary expression in her eyes. When
Woodbury took her hand it was icy cold. She received the
greetings of the others quietly, and then went forward to the
bedside, at the beckon of her mother. The latter had been
allowed to direct the ceremony according to her wish, and
the time had now arrived.

The bridal pair took their seats in the sitting-room, side by
side, and facing the open door where the invalid lay. The
guests, on either side of them, formed a half-circle, so arranged
that she could see them all. She, indeed, seemed to be the
officiating priestess, on whom depended the solemnization of
the rite. After a few moments of silence, such as is taken for
worship in Quaker meetings, she began to speak. Her voice
gathered strength as she proceeded, and assumed the clear,
chanting tone with which, in former years, she had been wont
to preach from the gallery where she sat among the women-elders
of the sect.

“My friends,” she said, “I feel moved to say a few words
to you all. I feel that you have not come here without a
realizing sense of the occasion which has called you together,
and that your hearts are prepared to sympathize with those
which are now to be joined in the sight of the Lord. I have
asked of them that they allow mine eyes, in the short time
that is left to me for the things of earth, to look upon their
union. When I have seen that, I can make my peace with
the world, and, although I have not been in all things a faithful
servant, I can hope that the joy of the Lord will not be
shut out from my soul. I feel the approach of the peace that
passeth understanding, and would not wish that, for my
sake, the house of gladness be made the house of mourning.
Let your hearts be not disturbed by the thought of me. Rejoice,
rather, that the son I lost so long ago is found at the
eleventh hour, and that the prop for which I sought, for
strength to walk through the Valley of the Shadow, is mercifully
placed in my hands. For I say unto you all, the pure

affection of the human heart is likest the love of the Heavenly
Father, and they who bestow most of the one shall deserve
most of the other!”

She ceased speaking, and made a sign with her hand. The
hearts of the hearers were thrilled with a solemn, reverential
awe, as if something more than a human presence overshadowed
them. Woodbury and Hannah arose, in obedience to her
signal, and moved a step towards her. The former had learned
the simple formula of the Friends, and was ready to perform
his part. Taking Hannah's right hand in his own, he spoke
in a clear, low, earnest voice: “In the presence of the Lord,
and these, our friends, I take Hannah Thurston by the hand,
promising, through Divine assistance, to be unto her a loving
and faithful husband, until Death shall separate us.”

It was now the woman's turn. Perhaps Woodbury may
have felt a pulse fluttering in the hand he held, but no one saw
a tremor of weakness in her frame or heard it in the firm,
perfect sweetness of her voice. She looked in his eyes as she
pronounced the words, as if her look should carry to his heart
the significance of the vow. When she had spoken, Mr. Waldo
rose, and performed the scarcely less simple ceremonial of the
Cimmerian Church. After he had pronounced them man and
wife, with his hands resting on theirs linked in each other, he
made a benedictory prayer. He spoke manfully to the end,
though his eyes overflowed, and his practised voice threatened
at every moment to break. His hearers had melted long before:
only the Widow Thurston and the newly-wedded pair
preserved their composure. They were beyond the reach of
sentiment, no matter how tender. None of the others suspected
what a battle had been fought, nor what deeper issues
were involved in the victory.

The two then moved to the bedside, and the old woman
kissed them both. “Mother,” said Woodbury, “let me be a
son to you in truth as in name.”

“Richard!” she cried, “my dear boy! Thee is welcomer
than Richard, for Hannah's sake. Children, have faith in each

other—bear each other's burdens. Hannah, is there peace in
thy heart now?”

“Mother, I have promised,” she answered; “I have given
my life into Maxwell's hands: peace will come to me.”

“The Lord give it to thee, as He hath given it to me!”
She closed her eyes, utterly exhausted, but happy.

The marriage certificate was then produced and signed by
those present, after which they took their leave. Woodbury
remained until evening, assisting his wife in her attendance on
the invalid, or keeping her company in the sitting-room, when
the latter slept. He said nothing of his love, or his new claim
upon her. Rightly judging that her nature needed rest, after
the severe tension of the past week, he sought to engage her
in talk that would call her thoughts away from herself. He
was so successful in this that the hours fled fast, and when he
left with the falling night, to return to Lakeside, she felt as if
a stay had been withdrawn from her.

The next morning he was back again at an early hour, taking
his place as one of the household, as quietly and unobtrusively
as if he had long been accustomed to it. Another atmosphere
came into the cottage with him—a sense of strength and reliance,
and tender, protecting care, which was exceedingly
grateful to Hannah. The chaos of her emotions was already
beginning to subside, or, rather, to set towards her husband in
a current that grew swifter day after day. The knowledge
that her fate was already determined silenced at once what
would otherwise have been her severest conflict; her chief
remaining task was to reconcile the cherished aims of her
mind with the new sphere of duties which encompassed her
life. At present, however, even this task must be postponed.
She dared think of nothing but her mother, and Woodbury's
share in the cares and duties of the moment became
more and more welcome and grateful. It thrilled her with a
sweet sense of the kinship of their hearts, when she heard him
address the old woman as “mother”—when his arm, as tender
as strong, lifted that mother from the bed to the rocking-chair,

and back again—when she saw the wasted face brighten
at his coming, and heard the voice of wandering memory call
him, in the wakeful watches of the night. She, too, counted
the minutes of the morning until he appeared, and felt the
twilight drop more darkly before the cottage-windows after
he had gone.

But, as the widow had promised, she did not part them
long. On the fifth day after the marriage she sank peacefully
to rest, towards sunset, with a gradual, painless fading out of
life, which touched the hearts of the watchers only with the
solemn beauty and mystery of death, not with its terror.
Her external consciousness had ceased, some hours before, but
she foresaw the coming of the inevitable hour, and there was
a glad resignation in her farewell to her daughter and her
newly-found son. “Love one another!” were her last, faintly-whispered
words, as her eyes closed on both.

Hannah shrank from leaving the cottage before the last
rites had been performed, and Miss Sophia Stevenson, as
well as Mrs. Waldo, offered to remain with her. Woodbury
took charge of the arrangements for the funeral, which were
simple and unostentatious, as became the habit of her sect.

A vague impression of what had happened was floating
through Ptolemy, but was generally received with an incredulity
far from consistent with the avidity of village gossip.
The death of the Widow Thurston had been anticipated, but
the previous marriage of her daughter was an event so astounding—so
completely unheralded by the usual prognostications,
and so far beyond the reach of any supposable cause—
that the mind of Ptolemy was slow to receive it as truth. By
the day of the funeral, however, the evidences had accumulated
to an extent that challenged further doubt. But doubters and
believers alike determined to profit by the occasion to gratify
their curiosity under the Christian pretext of showing respect
to the departed. The rumor had even reached Atauga City
by the evening stage, and the Misses Smith, having recently
supplied themselves with lilac dresses, which, as a half-mourning

color, would not be inappropriate, resolved also to attend
the funeral services.

As the hour drew nigh, the road in front of the little cottage
was crowded with vehicles. It was a mild, sunny October
afternoon, and as the room in which the corpse lay would
not contain a tenth part of the guests, they filled the yard and
garden and even the side-walk in front, entering the house as
they arrived, to take that silent look at the dead which is suggested,
let us believe, more by human sympathy than by human
curiosity. And, indeed, a solemn loveliness of repose
rested on the thin, composed features of the corpse. All
shadow of pain had passed away, and an aspect of ineffable
peace and comfort had settled in its place. Her hands were
laid, one over the other, upon her breast—not with the stony
pressure of death, but as if in the light unconsciousness of
sleep. Upon the coffin-lid lay a wreath of life-everlasting, its
gray, silvery leaves and rich, enduring odor, harmonizing well
with the subdued tastes and the quiet integrity of the sect to
which the old widow had belonged. Even the Rev. Lemuel
Styles, to whom the term “Quaker” implied a milder form
of infidelity, stood for a long time beside the coffin, absorbed
in the beauty of the calm, dead face, and murmured as he
turned away: “She hath found Peace.”

Two old Friends from Tiberius, with their wives, were also
in attendance, and the latter devoted themselves to Hannah,
as if it were a special duty imposed upon them. Before the
coffin-lid was screwed down, they sat for some time beside the
corpse, with their handkerchiefs pressed tightly over their
mouths. Their husbands, with Mr. Waldo and Merryfield,
bore the coffin to the hearse. The guests gathered around
and in front of the house now began to open their eyes and
prick their ears. The daughter must presently appear, as first
of the mourners, and in company with her husband, if she
were really married. They had not long to wait. Hannah,
leaning on Woodbury's arm, issued from the front door of
the cottage, and slowly passed down the gravel walk to the

carriage in waiting. Her unveiled face was pale and profoundly
sad; her eyes were cast down, and none of the company
caught their full glance. Woodbury's countenance indicated
the grave and tender sympathy which filled his heart.
He saw the spectators, without seeming to notice them,
and the keenest curiosity was baffled by his thorough self-possession.
Both were surrounded by an atmosphere of sorrow
and resignation, in which all expression of their new
nuptial relation was lost. They might have been married for
years, so far as any thing could be guessed from their manner.

The other carriages gradually received their occupants and
followed, in the order of their nearness to the deceased,
whether in the bonds of sect or those of friendship. Among
these the Waldos claimed a prominent place and the Merryfields
were close behind them. The procession was unusually
large; it seemed, indeed, as if all Ptolemy were present. On
reaching the Cimmerian churchyard, Bute and the farmers
whose lands adjoined Lakeside were on hand to assist the
mourners and their friends in alighting from the carriages, and
to take care of the horses. The grave was dug at a little distance
from those of the Cimmerians, in a plot of soft, unbroken
turf. Supports were laid across its open mouth, and
when the coffin had been deposited thereon, preparatory to being
lowered, and the crowd had gathered in a silent ring, enclosing
the mourners and their immediate friends, one of the Friends
took off his broad-brimmed hat and in simple, eloquent words,
bore testimony to the truth and uprightness, to the Christian
trust and Christian patience of the departed. The two women
again pressed their handkerchiefs violently upon their mouths,
while he spoke. Woodbury took off his hat and reverently
bent his head, though the other Friend stood bolt upright and
remained covered.

Mr. Waldo then followed, with an earnest, heart-felt prayer.
He was scarcely aware how much he risked in thus consecrating
the burial of a Quaker woman, and it was fortunate
that no laxity of doctrine could be discovered in the brief sentences

he uttered. It was not Doctrine, but Religion, which
inspired his words, and the most intolerant of his hearers felt
their power while secretly censuring the act. He, too, referred
to the widow's life as an example of pious resignation, and
prayed that the same Christian virtue might come to dwell in
the hearts of all present.

When the coffin had been lowered, and the first spadeful
of earth, though softly let down into the grave, dropped upon
the lid with a muffled, hollow roll, Hannah started as if in pain,
and clung with both hands to her husband's arm. He bent
his head to her face and whispered a word; what it was, no
other ear than hers succeeded in hearing. The dull, rumbling
sounds continued, until the crumbling whisper of the particles
of earth denoted that the coffin was forever covered from
sight. Then they turned away, leaving the mild Autumn
sun to shine on the new mound, and the thrush to pipe his
broken song over the silence of the dead.

The moment the churchyard gate was passed, Ptolemy returned
to its gossip. The incredulous fact was admitted, but
the mystery surrounding it was not yet explained. In the few
families who considered themselves “the upper circle,” and
were blessed with many daughters, to none of whom the rich
owner of Lakeside had been indifferent, there was great and
natural exasperation.

“I consider it flying in the face of Providence,” said Mrs.
Hamilton Bue to her husband, as they drove homewards;
“for a man like him, who knows what society is, and ought
to help to purtect it from fanaticism, to marry a strong-minded
woman like she is. And after all he said against their doctrines!
I should call it hypocritical, I should!”

“Martha,” her husband answered, “If I were you, I
wouldn't say much about it, for a while yet. He's only insured
in the Saratoga Mutual for a year, to try it.”

Mrs. Styles consoled her sister, Miss Legrand, who at one
time allowed herself dim hopes of interesting Woodbury in
her behalf. “I always feared that he was not entirely firm in

the faith; he never seemed inclined to talk with Mr. Styles
about it. She, you know, is quite an Infidel, and, of course,
he could not have been ignorant of it. It's very sad to see a
man so misled—`the lust of the eye,' Harriet.”

“I should say it was witchcraft,” Harriet remarked, with a
snappish tone; “she's a very plain-looking girl—like an owl
with her big gray eyes and straight hair.” Miss Legrand
wore hers in ropy ringlets of great length.

“I shouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my
own eyes!” exclaimed Miss Celia Smith to her sister, Miss
Amelia. “I always thought they were dead set against each
other.” Miss Celia was more inclined to be emphatic than
choice in her expressions.

“They made believe they were,” her sister replied. “She must
have been afraid he'd back out, after all, or they wouldn't have
been married so, right off the reel. It was her last chance:
she's on the wrong side of thirty-five, I should say.” Miss
Amelia was thirty-three, herself, although she only confessed
to twenty-five. The memory of a certain sleigh-ride the
winter before, during which her incessant fears of an overturn
obliged Woodbury to steady her with his arm, was fresh in
her mind, with all its mingled sweet and bitter. Several
virgin hearts shared the same thought, as the carriages went
homeward—that it was a shame, so it was, that this strong-minded
woman, whom nobody imagined ever could be a rival,
should sneak into the fold by night and carry off the pick of
the masculine flock!

Meanwhile, the objects of all this gossip returned to the
desolate cottage. When they entered the little sitting-room,
Hannah's composure gave way, under the overwhelming sense
of her loss which rushed upon her, as she saw that every thing
was restored to its usual place, and the new life, without her
mother, had commenced. Her tears flowed without restraint,
and her husband allowed the emotion to exhaust itself before
he attempted consolation. But at last he took her, still sobbing,
to his breast, and silently upheld her.

“Hannah,” he said, “my dear wife, how can I leave you here
alone, to these sad associations? This can no longer be your
home. Come to me with your burden, and let me help you
to bear it.”

“Oh, Maxwell,” she answered, “you are my help and my
comfort. No one else has the same right to share my sorrow.
My place is beside you: I will try to fill it as I ought: but—
Maxwell—can I, dare I enter your home as a bride, coming
thus directly from the grave of my mother?”

“You will bring her blessing in the freshness of its sanctity,”
he said. “Understand me, Hannah. In the reverence
for your sorrow, my love is patient. Enter my home, now, as
the guest of my heart, giving me only the right to soothe and
comfort, until you can hear, without reproach, the voice of
love.”

His noble consideration for her grief and her loneliness
melted Hannah's heart. Through all the dreary sense of her
loss penetrated the gratitude of love. She lifted her arms
and clasped them about his neck. “Take me, my dear husband,”
she whispered, “take me, rebellious as I have been,
unworthy as I am, and teach me to deserve your magnanimity.”

He took her home that evening, under the light of the rising
moon, down the silence of the valley, through the gathering
mists of the meadows, and under the falling of the golden
leaves. The light of Lakeside twinkled, a ruddy star, to greet
them, and with its brightening ray stole into her heart the
first presentiment of Woman's Home.