Read Ebook: The Minister's Wooing by Stowe Harriet Beecher Browne Hablot Knight Illustrator

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Ebook has 1484 lines and 134138 words, and 30 pages

'Well, Mary, you have got into that harbour, through all the sandbars and rocks and crooked channels; and now do you think it right to leave a fellow beating about outside, and not go out to help him in? This way of drawing up, among your good people, and leaving us sinners to ourselves, isn't generous. You might care a little for the soul of an old friend, anyhow!'

'And don't I care, James? How many days and nights have been one prayer for you! If I could take my hopes of heaven out of my own heart and give them to you, I would. Dr. H. preached last Sunday on the text, "I could wish myself accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen;" and he went on to show how we must be willing to give up even our own salvation, if necessary, for the good of others. People said it was hard doctrine, but I could feel my way through it very well. Yes, I would give my soul for yours; I wish I could.'

There was a solemnity and pathos in Mary's manner which checked the conversation. James was the more touched because he felt it all so real, from one whose words were always yea and nay, so true, so inflexibly simple. Her eyes filled with tears, her face kindled with a sad earnestness, and James thought, as he looked, of a picture he had once seen in a European cathedral, where the youthful Mother of Sorrows is represented,

'Radiant and grave, as pitying man's decline; All youth, but with an aspect beyond time; Mournful, but mournful of another's crime; She looked as if she sat by Eden's door, And grieved for those who should return no more.'

James had thought he loved Mary; he had admired her remarkable beauty; he had been proud of a certain right in her before that of other young men, her associates; he had thought of her as the keeper of his home; he had wished to appropriate her wholly to himself;--but in all this there had been, after all, only the thought of what she was to be to him; and this, for this poor measure of what he called love, she was ready to offer an infinite sacrifice.

As a subtle flash of lightning will show in a moment a whole landscape--tower, town, winding stream, and distant sea--so that one subtle ray of feeling seemed in a moment to reveal to James the whole of his past life; and it seemed to him so poor, so meagre, so shallow, by the side of that childlike woman, to whom the noblest of feelings were unconscious matters of course, that a sort of awe awoke in him: like the Apostles of old, he 'feared as he entered into the cloud:' it seemed as if the deepest string of some eternal sorrow had vibrated between them.

After a moment's pause, he spoke in a low and altered voice:--

'Mary, I am a sinner. No psalm or sermon ever taught it to me, but I see it now. Your mother is quite right, Mary; you are too good for me; I am no mate for you. Oh, what would you think of me, if you knew me wholly? I have lived a mean, miserable, shallow, unworthy life. You are worthy, you are a saint, and walk in white! Oh, what upon earth, could ever make you care so much for me?'

'Well, then, James, you will be good? Won't you talk with Dr. H.?'

'Oh, James, can I?'

'Mary I am going to confess my sins. I saw that, somehow or other, the wind was against me in Aunt Katy's quarter, and you know we fellows who take up the world in both fists don't like to be beat. If there's opposition, it sets us on. Now I confess I never did care much about religion, but I thought, without being really a hypocrite, I'd just let you try to save my soul for the sake of getting you; for there's nothing surer to hook a woman than trying to save a fellow's soul. It's a dead-shot, generally, that. Now our ship sails to-night, and I thought I'd just come across this path in the orchard to speak to you. You know I used always to bring you peaches and juneatings across this way, and once I brought you a ribbon.'

'Yes, I've got it yet, James.'

'Well, now, Mary, all this seems mean to me,--mean to try and trick and snare you, who are so much too good for me. I felt very proud this morning that I was to go out first mate this time, and that I should command a ship next voyage. I meant to have asked you for a promise, but I don't. Only, Mary, just give me your little Bible, and I'll promise to read it all through soberly, and see what it all comes to. And pray for me; and if, while I'm gone, a good man comes who loves you, and is worthy of you, why take him, Mary,--that's my advice.'

'James, I'm not thinking of any such things; I don't ever mean to be married. And I'm glad you don't ask me for any promise, because it would be wrong to give it; mother don't even like me to be much with you. But I'm sure all I have said to you to-day is right; I shall tell her exactly all I have said.'

'If Aunt Katy knew what things we fellows are pitched into, who take the world head-foremost, she wouldn't be so selfish. Mary, you girls and women don't know the world you live in; you ought to be pure and good; you are not as we are. You don't know what men, what women,--no, they're not women!--what creatures, beset us in every foreign port, and boarding-houses that are gates of hell; and then, if a fellow comes back from all this and don't walk exactly straight, you just draw up the hems of your garments and stand close to the wall, for fear he should touch you when he passes. I don't mean you, Mary, for you are different from most; but if you would do what you could, you might save us.--But it's no use talking, Mary. Give me the Bible; and please be kind to my dove,--for I had a hard time getting him across the water, and I don't want him to die.'

If Mary had spoken all that welled up in her little heart at that moment, she might have said too much; but duty had its habitual seal upon her lips. She took the little Bible from her table and gave it with a trembling hand, and James turned to go. In a moment he turned back and stood irresolute.

'Mary,' he said, 'we are cousins; I may never come back: you might kiss me this once.'

The kiss was given and received in silence, and James disappeared among the thick trees.

'Come, child,' said Aunt Katy, looking in, 'there is Deacon Twitchel's chaise in sight,--are you ready?'

'Yes, mother.'

THEOLOGICAL TEA.

'There is the Deacon's wife, mother,' said Mary, turning confusedly, and darting to the entry-door.

Enter Mrs. Twitchel,--a soft, pillowy, little elderly lady, whose whole air and dress reminded one of a sack of feathers tied in the middle with a string. A large, comfortable pocket, hung upon the side, disclosed her knitting-work ready for operation; and she zealously cleansed herself with a checked handkerchief from the dust which had accumulated during her ride in the old 'one-hoss shay,' answering the hospitable salutation of Katy Scudder in that plaintive, motherly voice which belongs to certain nice old ladies, who appear to live in a state of mild chronic compassion for the sins and sorrows of this mortal life generally.

When Mrs. Twitchel began to talk, it flowed a steady stream, as when one turns a faucet, that never ceases running till some hand turns it back again; and the occasion that cut the flood short at present was the entrance of Mrs. Brown.

Mr. Simeon Brown was a thriving ship-owner of Newport, who lived in a large house, owned several negro-servants and a span of horses, and affected some state and style in his worldly appearance. A passion for metaphysical Orthodoxy had drawn Simeon to the congregation of Dr. H., and his wife of course stood by right in a high place there. She was a tall, angular, somewhat hard-favoured body, dressed in a style rather above the simple habits of her neighbours, and her whole air spoke the great woman, who in right of her thousands expected to have her say in all that was going on in the world, whether she understood it or not.

On her entrance, mild little Mrs. Twitchel fled from the cushioned rocking-chair, and stood with the quivering air of one who feels she has no business to be anywhere in the world, until Mrs. Brown's bonnet was taken and she was seated, when Mrs. Twitchel subsided into a corner and rattled her knitting-needles to conceal her emotion.

New England has been called the land of equality; but what land upon earth is wholly so? Even the mites in a bit of cheese, naturalists say, have great tumblings and strivings about position and rank: he who has ten pounds will always be a nobleman to him who has but one, let him strive as manfully as he may; and therefore let us forgive meek little Mrs. Twitchel from melting into nothing in her own eyes when Mrs. Brown came in, and let us forgive Mrs. Brown that she sat down in the rocking-chair with an easy grandeur, as one who thought it her duty to be affable and meant to be. It was, however, rather difficult for Mrs. Brown, with her money, house, negroes, and all, to patronise Mrs. Katy Scudder, who was one of those women whose natures seems to sit on thrones, and who dispense patronage and favour by an inborn right and aptitude, whatever be their social advantages. It was one of Mrs. Brown's trials of life, this secret, strange quality in her neighbour, who stood apparently so far below her in worldly goods. Even the quiet positive style of Mrs. Katy's knitting made her nervous; it was an implication of independence of her sway; and though on the present occasion every customary courtesy was bestowed, she still felt, as she always did when Mrs. Katy's guest, a secret uneasiness. She mentally contrasted the neat little parlour, with its white sanded floor and muslin curtains, with her own grand front-room, which boasted the then uncommon luxuries of Turkey carpet and Persian rug, and wondered if Mrs. Katy did really feel as cool and easy in receiving her as she appeared.

The subject in discussion, and what Mrs. Brown supposed to be in her own thoughts, was the last Sunday's sermon, on the doctrine of entire Disinterested Benevolence, in which good Doctor H. had proclaimed to the citizens of Newport their duty of being so wholly absorbed in the general good of the universe as even to acquiesce in their own final and eternal destruction, if the greater good of the whole might thereby be accomplished.

'Well, now, dear me!' said Mrs. Twitchel, while her knitting-needles trotted contentedly to the mournful tone of her voice,--'I was tellin' the Deacon, if we only could get there! Sometimes I think I get a little way,--but then ag'in I don't know; but the Deacon he's quite down,--he don't see no evidences in himself. Sometimes he says he don't feel as if he ought to keep his place in the church,--but then ag'in he don't know. He keeps a-turnin' and turnin' on't over in his mind, and a-tryin' himself this way and that way; and he says he don't see nothin' but what's selfish, no way.

'Mr. Scudder used to say that it took great afflictions to bring his mind to that place,' said Mrs. Katy. 'He used to say that an old paper-maker told him once, that paper that was shaken only one way in the making would tear across the other, and the best paper had to be shaken every way; and so he said we couldn't tell, till we had been turned and shaken and tried every way, where we should tear.'

Mrs. Twitchel responded to this sentiment with a gentle series of groans, such as were her general expression of approbation, swaying herself backward and forward; while Mrs. Brown gave a sort of toss and snort, and said that for her part she always thought people knew what they did know,--but she guessed she was mistaken.

The conversation was here interrupted by the civilities attendant on the reception of Mrs. Jones,--a broad, buxom, hearty soul, who had come on horseback from a farm about three miles distant.

Smiling with rosy content, she presented Mrs. Katy a small pot of golden butter,--the result of her forenoon's churning.

There are some people so evidently broadly and heartily of this world, that their coming into a room always materializes the conversation. We wish to be understood that we mean no disparaging reflection on such persons;--they are as necessary to make up a world as cabbages to make up a garden; the great healthy principles of cheerfulness and animal life seem to exist in them in the gross; they are wedges and ingots of solid, contented vitality. Certain kinds of virtues and Christian graces thrive in such people as the first crop of corn does in the bottom-lands of the Ohio. Mrs. Jones was a church-member, a regular church-goer, and planted her comely person plump in front of Dr. H. every Sunday, and listened to his searching and discriminating sermons with broad, honest smiles of satisfaction. Those keen distinctions as to motives, those awful warnings and urgent expostulations, which made poor Deacon Twitchel weep, she listened to with great, round, satisfied eyes, making to all, and after all, the same remark,--that it was good, and she liked it, and the Doctor was a good man; and on the present occasion, she announced her pot of butter as one fruit of her reflections after the last discourse.

'Well, I'm sure,' said Aunt Katy, 'this will be a treat; we all know about your butter, Mrs. Jones. I sha'n't think of putting any of mine on table to-night, I'm sure.'

And now Mrs. Katy, giving a look at the old clock, told Mary it was time to set the tea-table; and forthwith there was a gentle movement of expectancy. The little mahogany tea-table opened its brown wings, and from a drawer came forth the snowy damask covering. It was etiquette, on such occasions, to compliment every article of the establishment successively as it appeared; so the Deacon's wife began at the table-cloth.

'Well, I do declare, Miss Scudder beats us all in her table-cloths,' she said, taking up a corner of the damask, admiringly; and Mrs. Jones forthwith jumped up and seized the other corner.

'Why, this 'ere must have come from the Old Country. It's most the beautiflest thing I ever did see.'

'It's my own spinning,' replied Mrs. Katy, with conscious dignity. 'There was an Irish weaver came to Newport the year before I was married, who wove beautifully,--just the Old-Country patterns,--and I'd been spinning some uncommonly fine flax then. I remember Mr. Scudder used to read to me while I was spinning,'--and Aunt Katy looked afar, as one whose thoughts are in the past, and dropped out the last words with a little sigh, unconsciously, as to herself.

'Wall, now, I must say,' said Mrs. Jones, 'this goes quite beyond me. I thought I could spin some; but I shan't never dare to show mine.'

'I'm sure, Mrs. Jones, your towels that you had out bleaching, this spring, were wonderful,' said Aunt Katy. 'But I don't pretend to do much now,' she continued, straightening her trim figure. 'I'm getting old, you know; we must let the young folks take up these things. Mary spins better now than I ever did; Mary, hand out those napkins.'

And so Mary's napkins passed from hand to hand.

Mary was vexed to feel the blood boil up in her cheeks in a most unexpected and provoking way at the suggestion; whereat Mrs. Twitchel nodded knowingly at Mrs. Jones, and whispered something in a mysterious aside, to which plump Mrs. Jones answered,--'Why, do tell! now I never!'

'It's strange,' said Mrs. Twitchel, taking up her parable again, in such a plaintive tone that all knew something pathetic was coming, 'what mistakes some folks will make, a-fetchin' up girls. Now there's your Mary, Miss Scudder,--why, there a'n't nothin' she can't do: but law, I was down to Miss Skinner's, last week, a-watchin' with her, and re'lly it 'most broke my heart to see her. Her mother was a most amazin' smart woman; but she brought Suky up, for all the world, as if she'd been a wax doll, to be kept in the drawer,--and sure enough, she was a pretty cretur,--and now she's married, what is she? She ha'n't no more idee how to take hold than nothin'. The poor child means well enough, and she works so hard she 'most kills herself; but then she is in the suds from mornin' till night,--she's one the sort whose work's never done,--and poor George Skinner's clean discouraged.'

'Nor I, neither,' chimed in Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Twitchel,--both anxious to show themselves clear on this leading point of New-England housekeeping.

Here Mrs. Twitchel looked up from her knitting, with apologetic giggle at Mrs. Brown.

'Law, now, there's Miss Brown, she don't know nothin' about it, 'cause she's got her servants to every turn. I s'pose she thinks it queer to hear us talkin' about our work. Miss Brown must have her time all to herself. I was tellin' the Deacon the other day that she was a privileged woman.'

'I'm sure, those that have servants find work enough following 'em 'round,' said Mrs. Brown,--who, like all other human beings, resented the implication of not having as many trials in life as her neighbours. 'As to getting the work done up in the forenoon, that's a thing I never can teach 'em; they'd rather not. Chloe likes to keep her work 'round, and do it by snacks, any time, day or night, when the notion takes her.'

Here, again, Mrs. Brown looked uneasy. To what use was it that she was rich and owned servants, when this Mordecai in her gate utterly despised her prosperity? In her secret heart she thought Mrs. Katy must be envious, and rather comforted herself on this view of the subject,--sweetly unconscious of any inconsistency in the feeling with her views of utter self-abnegation just announced.

Meanwhile the tea-table had been silently gathering on its snowy plateau the delicate china, the golden butter, the loaf of faultless cake, a plate of crullers or wonders, as a sort of sweet fried cake was commonly called,--tea-rusks, light as a puff, and shining on top with a varnish of eggs,--jellies of apple and quince quivering in amber clearness,--whitest and purest honey in the comb,--in short, everything that could go to the getting-up of a most faultless tea.

'I don't see,' said Mrs. Jones, resuming the gentle paeans of the occasion, 'how Miss Scudder's loaf-cake always comes out just so. It don't rise neither to one side nor t'other, but just even all 'round; and it a'n't white one side and burnt the other, but just a good brown all over; and it don't have any heavy streak in it.'

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