HA! HA! THE WOOING ON'T.
It was twilight when Meshach Milburn closed his story, and silence and
pallid eve drew together in the Custis sitting-room, resembling the two
people there, thinking on matrimony, the one grave as conscious
serpenthood could make him, the other fluttering like the charmed bird.
Vesta spoke first:
"How intense must be your head to create so many objects around it
within the world of a hat! You have only brought the story down a little
way towards our times."
"I began the tale of Raleigh out of proportion," said Milburn, "and it
grew upon the same scale, like the passion I conceived for you so
intensely at the outset, that in the climax of this night I am scarcely
begun."
"Yet, like Raleigh, I see the scaffold," said Vesta, with an attempt at
humor that for the first time broke her down, and she raised her hands
to her face to hush the burst of anguish. It would not be repressed, and
one low cry, deep with the sense of desertion and captivity, sounded
through the deepening room and smote Milburn's innermost heart. He
obeyed an impulse he had not felt since his mother died, starting
towards Vesta and throwing his arms around her, and drawing her to his
breast.
"Honey, honey," he whispered, kissing her like a child, "don't cry now,
honey. It will break my heart."
The act of nature seldom is misinterpreted; Vesta, having labored so
long alone with this obdurate man, her young faculties of the head
strained by the first encounter beyond her strength, accepted the
friendship of his sympathy and contrition, as if he had been her father.
In a few moments the paroxysm of grief was past, and she disengaged his
arms.
"You are not merciless," said Vesta. "Tell me what I must do! You have
broken my father down and he cannot come to my help. Take pity on my
inequality and advise me!"
"Alas! child," said Milburn, "my advice must be in my own interest,
though I wish I could find your confidence. I am a poor creature, and do
not know how. It is you who must encourage the faith I feel starting
somewhere in this room, like a chimney swallow that would fain fly out.
Chirrup, chirrup to it, and it may come!"
Standing a moment, trying to collect her thoughts and wholly failing,
Vesta accepted the confidence he held out to her with open arms.
Blushing as she had never blushed in her life, though he could not know
it in the evening dark, she walked to him and kissed him once.
"Will that encourage you to advise me like a friend?" she said.
"Alas! no," sighed Milburn fervently, "it makes me the more your unjust
lover. I cannot advise you away from me. Oh, let me plead for myself. I
love you!"
"Then what shall I do," exclaimed Vesta, in low tones, "if you are
unable to rise to the height of my friend, and my father is your slave?
Do you think God can bless your prosperity, when you are so hard with
your debtor? On me the full sacrifice falls, though I never was in your
debt consciously, and I have never to my remembrance wished injury to
any one."
"Would you accept your father's independence at the expense of the most
despised man in Princess Anne?" Milburn spoke without changing his kind
tone. "Would you let me give him the fruit of many years of hard toil
and careful saving, in order that I shall be disappointed in the only
motive of assisting him--the honorable wooing of his daughter?"
She felt her pride rising.
"Your father's debts to me are tens of thousands of dollars," continued
Milburn. "Do you ask me to present that sum to you, and retire to my
loneliness out of this bright light of home and family, warmth and
music, that you have made? That is the test you put my love to:
banishment from you. Will you ask it?"
"I have not asked for your money, sir," said Vesta. "Yet I have heard of
Love doing as much as that, relieving the anguish of its object, and
finding sufficient joy in the self-denying deed."
"I do not think you personally know of any such case, though you may
have read it in a novel or tract. Men have died, and left a fortune they
could no longer keep, to some cherished lady; or they have made a
considerable sacrifice for a beautiful and noble woman; but where did
you ever hear, Miss Vesta, of a famished lover, surrendering every
endowment that might win the peerless one, to be himself returned to his
sorrow, tortured still by love, and by his neighbors ridiculed? What
would Princess Anne say of me? That I had been made a fool of, and hurl
new epithets after my hat?"
Vesta searched her mind, thinking she must alight upon some such example
there, but none suited the case. Meshach took advantage of her silence:
"The gifts of a lover are everywhere steps to love, as I have
understood. He makes his impression with them; they are expected.
Nothing creates happiness like a gift, and it is an old saying that
blessings await him who gives, and also her who takes, and that to seek
and ask and knock are praiseworthy."
"Oh," said Vesta, "but to be _bought_, Mr. Milburn? To be weighed
against a father's debts--is it not degrading?"
"Not where such respect and cherishing as mine will be. Rather exalt
yourself as more valuable to a miser than his whole lendings, and
greater than all your father's losses as an equivalent, and even then
putting your husband in debt, being so much richer than his account."
"Where will be my share of love in this world, married so?" asked Vesta.
"To love is the globe itself to a woman, her youth the mere atmosphere
thereof, her widowhood the perfume of that extinguished star; and all my
mind has been alert to discover the image I shall serve, the bright
youth ready for me, looking on one after another to see if it might be
he, and suddenly you hold between me and my faith a paper with my
father's obligations, and say: 'Here is your fate; this is your whole
romance; you are foreclosed upon!' How are you to take a withered heart
like that and find glad companionship in it? No, you will be
disappointed. It will recoil upon me that I sold myself."
"The image you waited for may have come," said Milburn undauntedly,
"even in me; for love often springs from an ambush, nor can you prepare
the heart for it like a field. I recollect a fable I read of a god
loving a woman, and he burst upon her in a shower of gold; and what was
that but a rich man's wooing? We get gold to equalize nobility in women;
beauty is luxurious, and demands adornment and a rich setting; the
richest man in Princess Anne is not good enough for you, and the mere
boys your mind has been filled with are more unworthy of being your
husband than the humble creditor of your father. Such a creation as Miss
Vesta required a special sacrifice and success in the character of her
husband. The annual life of this peninsula could not match you, and a
monster had to be raised to carry you away."
"You are not exactly a monster," Vesta remarked, with natural
compassion, "and you compliment me so warmly that it relieves the strain
of this encounter a little. Do not draw a woman's attention to your
defects, as she might otherwise be charmed by your voice."
"That also is a part of my sacrifice," said Meshach, "like the money
which I have accumulated. Without a teacher, but love and hope, I have
educated myself to be fit to talk to you. It is all crude now, like a
crow that I have taught to speak, but encouragement will make me
confident and saucy, and you will forget my sable raiment--even my hat."
A chilliness seemed to attend this conclusion, and Vesta touched her
bell. Virgie, entering, took her mistress's instructions: "Bring a tray
and tea, and lights, and place Mr. Milburn's hat upon the rack!"
The girl glanced at the antique hat with a timid light in her eye, but
her mistress's head was turned as if to intimate that she must take it,
though it might be red-hot. Virgie obeyed, and soon brought in the tea.
"It is good tea," spoke Milburn, drinking not from the cup, but the
saucer, while Vesta observed him oddly, "and it is chill this evening.
Let me start your fire!"
He shivered a little as he stood up and walked across the room, and
poking the charred logs into a flame; and, setting on more wood, he made
the walls spring into yellow flashes, between which Vesta saw her
forefathers dart cold glances at her, in their gilt frames--yet how
helpless they were, with all their respectability, to take her body or
her father's honor out of pawn!--and she felt for the first time the
hollowness of family power, except in the ever-preserved mail of a
solvent posterity. She also made a long, careful survey of her suitor,
to see if there was any apology for him as a husband.
His figure was short, but with strength and elasticity in it; better
clothes might fit him daintily, and Vesta re-dressed him in fancy with
lavender kids upon his small hands, a ring upon his long little finger,
a carnelian seal and a ribbon at his fob-pocket, and ruffles in his
shirt-bosom. In place of his dull cloth suit, she would give him a buff
vest and pearl buttons with eyelet rings, and white gaiters instead of
those shabby green things over his feet, and put upon his head a neat
silk hat with narrow brim to raise his height slenderly, and let a coat
of olive or dark-blue, and trousers of the same color, relieve his
ornaments. Thus transformed, Vesta could conceive a peculiar yet a
passable man, whom a lady might grow considerate towards by much praying
and striving, and she wondered, now, how this man had managed to soothe
her already to that degree that she had voluntarily kissed him. She
would be afraid to do it again, but it was as clearly on record as that
she had once put a flower in his hat; and Vesta said to herself:
"He has power of some kind! That story, little as I heard of it, was
told with an opinionated confidence I wish my poor father had something
of. Could I ever be happy with this man, by study and piety? God might
open the way, but it seems closed to me now."
"The night wears on, Miss Custis," spoke Meshach. "Its rewards are
already great to me. When may I return?"
"I think we must determine what to do this night, Mr. Milburn," Vesta
said, with rising determination. "Not one point nearer have we come to
any solution of this obligation of my father. We have considered it up
to this time as my obligation, and that may have unduly encouraged you.
Sir, I can work for my living."
"You _work_?" repeated Milburn.
"Why not? I love my father. As other women who are left poor work for
their children or a sick husband, why should not I for him! Poverty has
no terrors but--but the loss of pride."
"You hazard that, whatever happens," said her suitor, "but you will not
lose it by evading the lesser evil for the greater. I have heard of
women who fled to poverty from dissatisfaction with a husband, but pride
survived and made poverty dreadful. Pride in either case increased the
discontent. You should take the step which will let pride be absorbed in
duty, if not in love."
"Duty?" thought Vesta. "That is a reposeful word, better than Love. Mr.
Milburn," she said aloud, "how is it my duty to do what you ask?"
"I think I perceive that you have a loyal heart, a conscientiousness
that deceit cannot even approach. Something has already made you slow to
marriage, else, with your wonders, I would not have had the chance to
be now rejected by you. Marriage has become too formidable, perhaps, to
you, by the purity of your heart, the more so because you looked upon it
to be your destiny. It _is_ your fate, but you contend against it. Look
upon it, then, as a duty, such as you expect in others--in your slave
maid, for instance."
"Alas!" Vesta said, "she may marry freely. I am the slave."
"No, Miss Vesta, she has been free, but, sold among strangers with your
father's effects, will feel so perishing for sympathy and protection
that love, in whatever ugly form it comes, will be God's blessing to her
poor heart. What you repel in the revulsion of fortune--the yoke of a
husband--millions of women have bent to as if it was the very rainbow of
promise set in heaven."
"How do you know so much of women's trials, Mr. Milburn? Have you had
sisters, or other ladies to woo?"
"I have seen human nature in my little shop, not, like your rare nature,
refined by happy fortune and descent, but of moderate kind, and
struggling downward like a wounded eagle. They have come to me at first
for cheaper articles of necessity or smaller portions than other stores
would sell, looking on me with contempt. At last they have sacrificed
their last slave, their last pair of shoes, and, when it was too late,
their false pride has surrendered to shelter under a negro's hut, or
dance barefooted in my store for a cup of whiskey."
"Sir," exclaimed Vesta indignantly, rising from her rocker, "do you set
this warning for me?"
As she rose Meshach Milburn thought his wealth was merely pebbles and
shells to her perfection, now animated with a queen's spirit.
"Miss Vesta," he said, "pardon me, but I have just issued from many
generations of forest poverty, and knowing how hard it is to break that
thraldom, I would stop you from taking the first step towards it. The
bloom upon your cheek, the mould you are the product of without flaw,
the chaste lady's tastes and thoughts, and inborn strength and joy, are
the work of God's favor to your family for generations. That favor he
continues in laying those family burdens on another's shoulders, to
spare you the toil and care, anxiety and slow decay, that this violent
change of circumstances means. It would be a sin to relapse from this
perfection to that penury."
"I cannot see that honorable poverty would make me less a woman,"
exclaimed Vesta.
"You do not dread poverty because you do not know it," Milburn
continued. "It grows in this region like the old field-pines and little
oaks over a neglected farm. Once there was a court-house settlement on
Dividing Creek, where justice, eloquence, talent, wit, and heroism made
the social centre of two counties, but they moved the court-house and
the forest speedily choked the spot. Now not an echo lingers of that
former glory. You can save your house from being swallowed up in the
forest."
"By marrying the forest hero?" Vesta said, though she immediately
regretted it.
"Yes," Milburn uttered stubbornly, after a pause. "I have met the house
of Custis half-way. I am coming out of the woods as they are going in,
unless the sacrifice be mutual."
"Let us not be personal," Vesta pleaded, with her grace of sorrow; "I
feel that you are a kind man, at least to me, but a poor girl must make
a struggle for herself."
She saw the tears stand instantly in his eyes, and pressed her
advantage:
"Your tears are like the springs we find here, so close under the flinty
sand that nobody would suspect them, but I have seen them trickle out.
Tell me, now, if I would not be happier to take up the burden of my
father and mother, and let us diminish and be frugal, instead of
cowardly flying into the protection of our creditor, by a union which
the world, at least, would pronounce mercenary. My father might come up
again, in some way."
"No, Miss Vesta. Your father can hold no property while any portion of
his debts remains unpaid. The easier way is to show the world that our
union is not mercenary, by trying to love each other. Throughout the
earth marriage is the reparation of ruined families--the short path, and
the most natural one, too. Ruth was poor kin, but she turned from the
harvest stubble that made her beautiful feet bleed, to crawl to the feet
of old Boaz and find wifely rest, and her wisdom of choice we sing in
the psalms of King David, and hear in the proverbs of King Solomon, sons
of her sons."
"I am not thinking of myself, God knows!" said Vesta. "Gladly could I
teach a little school, or be a governess somewhere, or, like our
connection, the mother of Washington, ride afield in my sun-bonnet and
straw hat and oversee the laborers."
"That never made General Washington, Miss Vesta. It was marriage that
lent him to the world; first, his half-brother's marriage with the
Fairfaxes; next, his own with Custis's rich widow. Had they been looking
for natural parts only, some Daniel Morgan or Ethan Allen would have
been Washington's commander."
"Why do you draw me to you by awakening the motive of my self-love?"
asked Vesta. "That is not the way to preserve my heart as you would have
it."
"In every way I can draw you to me," spoke Milburn, again trembling with
earnestness, "I feel desperate to try. If it is wrong, it arises from my
sense of self-preservation. Without you I am a dismal failure, and my
labor in life is thrown away."
"Do you really believe you love me? Is it not ambition of some kind;
perhaps a social ambition?"
"To marry a Custis?" Milburn exclaimed. "No, it is to marry _you_. I
would rather you were not a Custis."
"Ah! I see, sir;" Vesta's face flushed with some admiration for the man;
"you think your family name is quite as good. So you ought to do. Then
you love me from a passion?"
"Partly that," answered Milburn. "I love you from my whole temperament,
whatever it is; from the glow of youth and the reflection of manhood,
from appreciation of you, and from worship, also; from the eye and the
mind. I love you in the vision of domestic settlement, in the
companionship of thought, in the partition of my ambition, in my
instinct for cultivation. I love you, too, with the ardor of a lover,
stronger than all, because I must possess you to possess myself; because
you kindle flame in me, and my humanity of pity is trampled down by my
humanity of desire; I cannot hear your appeal to escape! I am deaf to
sentiments of honor and courtesy, if they let you slip me! Give yourself
to me, and these better angels may prevail, being perhaps accessory to
the mighty instinct I obey at the command of the Creator!"
As he proceeded, Vesta saw shine in Meshach Milburn's face the very
ecstacy of love. His dark, resinous eyes were like forest ponds flashing
at night under the torches of negro 'coon-hunters. His long lady's hands
trembled as he stretched them towards her to clasp her, and she saw upon
his brow and in his open nostril and firm mouth the presence of a will
that seldom fails, when exerted mightily, to reduce a woman's, and make
her recognize her lord.
Yet, with this strong excitement of mental and animal love, which
generally animates man to eloquence, if not to beauty, a weary
something, nearly like pain, marked the bold intruder, and a quiver, not
like will and courage, went through his frame. It was this which touched
Vesta with the sense that perhaps she was not the only sufferer there,
and pity, which saves many a lover when his merits could not win,
brought the Judge's daughter to an impulsive determination.
"Mr. Milburn," she said at last, pressing her hands to her head, "this
day's trials have been too much for my brain. Never, in all my life
together, have I had realities like these to contend with. I am worn
out. Nay, sir, do not touch me now!" He had tried to repeat his
sympathetic overture, and pet her in his arms. "Let us end this conflict
at once. You say you will marry me; when?"
"It is yours to say when, Miss Custis. I am ready any day."
"And you will give me every note and obligation of my father, so that my
mother's portion shall be returned to her in full, and this house,
servants, and demesnes be mine in my own right?"
"Yes," said Milburn; "I have such confidence in your truth and virtue
that you shall keep these papers from this moment until the
marriage-day."
"It will not be long, then," Vesta said, looking at Milburn with a will
and authority fully equal to his own. "Will you take me to-night?"
"To-night?" he repeated. "Not to-night, surely?"
"To-night, or probably never."
He drew nearer, so as to look into her countenance by the strong
firelight. Calm courage, that would die, like Joan of Arc in the flames,
met his inquiry.
"Yes," said Milburn, "at your command I will take you to-night, though
it is a surprise to me."
He flinched a little, nevertheless, his conscience being uneasy, and the
same trembling Vesta had already observed went through his frame again.
"What will the world say to your marriage after a single day's
acquaintance with me?"
"Nothing," Vesta answered, "except that I am your wife. That will, at
least, silence advice and prevent intrusion. If I delay, these
forebodings may prevail, if not with me, with my family, some of whom
are to be feared."
He seemed to have no curiosity on that subject, only saying:
"It is you, dear child, I am thinking of--whether this haste will not be
repented, or become a subject of reproach to yourself. To me it cannot
be, having no world, no tribe--only myself and you!"
Vesta came forward and lifted his hand, which was cold.
"I believe that you love me," she said. "I believe this hand has the
lines of a gentleman. Now, I will trust to you a family confidence. The
troubles of this house are like a fire which there is no other way of
treating than to put it out at once. My father will not be disturbed,
beyond his secret pain, at the step I am to take, for he appreciates
your talents and success. It is for him I shall take this step, if I
take it at all, and I have yet an hour to reflect. But my mother will be
resentful, and her brothers and kindred in Baltimore will express a
savage rage, in the first place, at my father's losing her portion; next
to that, and I hope less bitterly, they will resent my marriage to you.
Exposed to their interference, I might be restrained from going to my
father's assistance; they might even force me away, and break our family
up, leaving father alone to encounter his miseries."
"I see," said Milburn; "you would give me the legal right to meet your
mother's excited people."
"Not that merely," Vesta said; "I would put it out of her power and
theirs to prevent the sacrifice I meditate making. My father's immediate
dread is my mother's upbraiding--that he has risked and lost her money.
It has sent her to bed already, sick and almost violent. I might as well
save the poor gentleman his whole distress, if I am to save him a
part."
"Brave girl!" exclaimed Meshach Milburn, in admiration. "It is true,
then, that blood will tell. You intend to give your mother the money
which has been lost, and silence her complaint before she makes it?"
"Just that, Mr. Milburn, and to say, 'It is my husband's gift, and a
peace-offering from us all.'"
"Is it not your intention, honey," asked the creditor, "to take Mrs.
Custis into your confidence before this marriage?"
She looked at him with the entreaty of one in doubt, who would be
resolved. "Advise me," she said. "I want to do the best for all, and
spare all bitter words, which rankle so long. Is it necessary to tell my
mother?"
"No. You are a free woman. I know your age--though I shall forget it by
and by." This first gleam of humor rather became his strange face. "If
you tell your father, it is enough."
"I hope I am doing right," Vesta said, "and now I shall take my hour to
my soul and my Saviour. Sir, do you ever pray?"
Milburn recoiled a little.
"I do not pray like you," he replied; "my prayers are dry things. I do
say a little rhyme over that my mother taught me in the forest."
"Try to pray for me to do right," said Vesta, "that I may not make this
sacrifice, and leave a wounded conscience. And now, sir, farewell. At
nine o'clock go to our church and wait. If I resolve to come, there you
will find the rector, and all the arrangements made. If I do not come, I
think you will see me no more."
"Oh, beautiful spirit," exclaimed her lover, "oppress me not with that
fear!"
"If another way is made plain to me," Vesta said, "I shall go that way.
If my duty leads me to you again, you will be my master. Sir, though
your errand here was a severe one, I thank you for your sincerity and
the kind consideration you seem to have had for me so long. Farewell."
"Angel! Vesta! Honey!" Milburn cried, "may I kiss you?"
"Not now," she answered, cold as superiority, and interposing her hand.
The door stood wide open, and the slave-girl, Virgie, in it, holding the
Entailed Hat. Milburn, with a shudder, took it, and covered himself, and
departed.