IT is a hard condition of our existence here, that every exaltation
must have its depression. God will not let us have heaven here below,
but only such glimpses and faint showings as parents sometimes give
to children when they show them beforehand the jewelry and pictures,
and stores of rare and curious treasures, which they hold in store for
the possession of their riper years. So it very often happens that the
man who, entranced by some rapturous excitement, has gone to bed an
angel, feeling as if all sin were for ever vanquished, and he himself
immutably grounded in love, may wake the next morning with a sick
headache; and if he be not careful may scold about his breakfast like a
miserable sinner.
We will not say that our dear little Mary rose in this condition next
morning; for although she had the headache, she had one of those
natures in which somehow or other the combative element seems to be
left out, so that no one ever knew her to speak a fretful word. But
still, as we have observed, she had the headache and the depression,
and then came the slow, creeping sense of a wakening-up through all her
heart and soul, of a thousand thousand things that could be said only
to _one_ person, and that person one that it would be temptation and
danger to say them to.
She came out of her room to her morning work with a face resolved and
calm, but expressive of languor, with slight signs of some inward
struggle.
Madame de Frontignac, who had already heard the intelligence, threw
two or three of her bright glances upon her at breakfast, and at
once divined how the matter stood. She was of a nature so delicately
sensitive to the most refined shades of honour, that she apprehended
at once that there must be a conflict; though, judging by her own
impulsive nature, she made no doubt that all would at once go down
before the mighty force of reawakened love.
After breakfast she would insist upon following Mary about through all
her avocations. She possessed herself of a towel, and would wipe the
teacups and saucers while Mary washed. She clinked the glasses and
rattled the cups and spoons, and stepped about as briskly as if she had
two or three breezes to carry her train; and chattered half-English and
half-French, for the sake of bringing into Mary’s cheek the shy, slow
dimples that she liked to watch. But still Mrs. Scudder was around,
with an air as provident and forbidding as that of a setting hen who
watches her nest; nor was it till after all things had been cleared
away in the house, and Mary had gone up into her little attic to spin,
that the opportunity long sought came, of diving to the bottom of this
mystery.
‘_Enfin, Marie, nous voilà!_ are you not going to tell me anything,
when I have turned my heart out to you like a bag? _Chère enfant!_ how
happy you must be!’ she said, embracing her.
‘Yes, I am very happy,’ said Mary, with calm gravity.
‘_Very happy!_’ said Madame de Frontignac, mimicking her manner. ‘Is
that the way you American girls show it when you are very happy? Come,
come, _ma belle_, tell little Verginie something. Thou hast seen this
hero, this wandering Ulysses. He has come back at last—the tapestry
will not be quite as long as Penelope’s. Speak to me of him. Has he
beautiful black eyes, and hair that curls like a grape-vine? Tell me,
_ma belle_.’
‘I only saw him a little while,’ said Mary; ‘and I _felt_ a great deal
more than I saw. He could not have been any clearer to me than he
always has been in my mind.’
‘But I think,’ said Madame de Frontignac, seating Mary as was her wont,
and sitting down at her feet, ‘I think you are a little “_triste_”
about this! Very likely you pity the poor priest! It is sad for him,
but a good priest has the church for his bride, you know.’
‘You do not think,’ said Mary, speaking seriously, ‘that I shall break
my promise, given before God, to this good man?’
‘_Mon Dieu, mon enfant!_ You do not mean to marry the priest after all!
_Quelle idée!_’
‘But I _promised_ him,’ said Mary.
Madame de Frontignac threw up her hands with an expression of vexation.
‘What a pity, my little one, you are not in the true Church! Any good
priest could dispense you from that.’
‘I do not believe,’ said Mary, ‘in any earthly power that can dispense
us from solemn obligations which we have assumed before God, and on
which we have suffered others to build the most precious hopes. If
James had won the affections of some girl, thinking as I do, I should
not feel it right for him to leave her and come to me. The Bible says
that the just man is he that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not.’
‘This is the sublime of duty!’ said Madame de Frontignac, who, with
the airy facility of her race, never lost her appreciation of the fine
points of anything that went on under her eyes. But nevertheless she
was inwardly resolved, that picturesque as this ‘sublime of duty’ was,
it must not be allowed to pass beyond the limits of a fine art, and so
she recommenced.
‘_Mais c’est absurde!_ This beautiful young man, with his black eyes
and his curls—a real hero—a _Theseus_, Mary; just come home from
killing a Minotaur—and loves you with his whole heart—and this dreadful
promise! Why haven’t you any sort of people in your Church that can
unbind you from promises? I should think the good priest himself would
do it!’
‘Perhaps he would,’ said Mary, ‘if I would ask him; but that would be
equivalent to a breach of it. Of course no man would marry a woman that
asked to be dispensed.’
‘You are an angel of delicacy, my child; _c’est admirable!_ but after
all, Mary, this is not well! Listen now to me: you are a very sweet
saint, and very strong in goodness. I think you must have a very strong
angel that takes care of you; but think, _chère enfant_, _think_ what
it is to marry one man while you love another.’
‘But I love the Doctor,’ said Mary, evasively.
‘_Love!_’ said Madame de Frontignac. ‘Oh, Marie! you may love him well,
but you and I both know that there is something deeper than that! What
will you _do_ with this young man? Must he move away from this place,
and not be with his poor mother any more? Or can you see him, and hear
him, and be with him after your marriage, and not feel that you love
him more than your husband?’
‘I should hope that God would help me to feel right,’ said Mary.
‘I am very much afraid He will not, _ma chère_’ said Madame. ‘I asked
Him a great many times to help _me_ when I found how wrong it all was,
and He did not. You remember what you told _me_ the other day, “that
if I would do right I must not _see_ that man any more.” You will have
to ask him to go away from this place. You can never see him, for
this love will never die till _you_ die! That you may be sure of. Is
it wise? Is it right, dear little one? _Must_ he leave his home for
ever for you? Or must you struggle always, and grow whiter and whiter
and whiter, and fade away into heaven like the moon this morning,
and nobody know what is the matter? People will say you have the
liver-complaint, or the consumption, or something. Nobody ever knows
what we women die of.’
Poor Mary’s conscience was fairly posed. This appeal struck upon her
sense of right, as having its grounds. She felt inexpressibly confused
and distressed.
‘Oh, I wish somebody would tell me exactly what _is_ right!’ she said.
‘Well, _I_ will!’ said Madame de Frontignac. ‘Go down to the dear
priest and tell him the whole truth. My dear child, do you think if he
should ever find it out after your marriage, he would think you used
him right?’
‘And yet _mother_ does not think so! Mother does not wish me to tell
him!’
‘_Pauvrette!_ Always the mother! Yes, it is always the mothers that
stand in the way of the lovers. Why cannot she marry the priest
herself?’ she said, between her teeth, and then looked up, startled
and guilty, to see if Mary had heard her.
‘I _cannot_!’ said Mary. ‘I cannot go against my conscience, and my
mother, and my best friend—’
At this moment the conference was cut short by Mrs. Scudder’s provident
footstep on the garret stairs. A vague suspicion of something _French_
had haunted her during her dairy-work, and she resolved to come and put
a stop to the interview by telling Mary that Miss Prissy wanted her to
come and be measured for the skirt of her dress.
Mrs. Scudder, by the use of that sixth sense peculiar to mothers, had
divined that there had been some agitating conference, and had she been
questioned about it, her guesses as to what it might be, would probably
have given no bad _résumé_ of the real state of the case. She was
inwardly resolved that there should be no more such for the present,
and kept Mary employed about various matters relating to the dresses so
scrupulously, that there was no opportunity for anything more of the
sort that day.
In the evening James Marvyn came down, and was welcomed with the
greatest demonstrations of joy by all but Mary, who sat distant and
embarrassed after the first salutations had passed.
The Doctor was innocently parental; but we fear there was small
reciprocation of the sentiments he expressed on the part of the young
man.
Miss Prissy, indeed, had had her heart somewhat touched, as good little
women’s hearts are apt to be by a true love story, and had hinted
something of her feelings to Mrs. Scudder in a manner which brought
such a severe rejoinder as quite humbled and abashed her, so that she
coweringly took refuge under her former declaration, that ‘to be sure
there couldn’t be any man in the world better _worthy_ of Mary than
the Doctor.’ While still at her heart she was possessed with that
troublesome preference for unworthy people which stands in the way of
so many excellent things. But she went on vigorously sewing on the
wedding-dress, and pursing up her small mouth into the most perfect
and guarded expression of non-committal, though, she said afterwards
‘it went to her heart to see how that poor young man did look sitting
there, just as noble and as handsome as a pictur’. She didn’t see for
_her_ part how anybody’s heart _could_ stand it. Then, to be sure, as
Mrs. Scudder said, the poor Doctor ought to be thought about. Dear,
blessed man! What a pity it was things _would_ turn out so! Not that
it was a pity that Jim came home! _That_ was a great providence! But a
pity they hadn’t known about it sooner. Well, for her part, she didn’t
pretend to say; the path of duty did have a great many hard places in
it,’ &c.
As for James, during his interview at the cottage, he waited and tried
in vain for one moment’s solitary conversation. Mrs. Scudder was
immovable in her motherly kindness, sitting there smiling and chatting
with him, but never stirring from her place by Mary.
Madame de Frontignac was out of all patience, and determined in her
small way to do something to discompose the fixed state of things. So,
retreating to her room, she contrived, in very desperation, to upset
and break a wash-pitcher, shrieking violently in French and English at
the deluge which came upon the sanded floor and the little piece of
carpet by the bedside.
What housekeeper’s instincts are proof against the crash of breaking
china? Mrs. Scudder fled from her seat, followed by Miss Prissy—
‘Ah, then and there was hurrying to and fro’
—while Mary sat, quiet as a statue, bending over her sewing, and James,
knowing that it must be now or never, was, like a flash, in the empty
chair by her side, with his black moustache very near the bent, brown
head.
‘Mary,’ he said, ‘you _must_ let me see you once more. All is not said!
is it? Just hear me—hear me once alone!’
‘Oh, James! I am too weak! I dare not! I am afraid of myself.’
‘You think,’ he said, ‘that you _must_ take this course, because it is
right; but _is_ it right? _Is_ it right to marry _one_ man when you
love another better? I don’t put this to your inclination, Mary; I know
it would be of no use. I put it to your conscience.’
‘Oh, I never was so perplexed before!’ said Mary. ‘I don’t know what I
_do_ think. I must have time to reflect. And you, oh, James! you _must_
let me do right. There will never be any happiness for me if I do
wrong—nor for you either.’
All this while the sounds of running and hurrying in Madame de
Frontignac’s room had been unintermitted, and Miss Prissy, not without
some glimmerings of perception into the state of things, was holding
tight on to Mrs. Scudder’s gown, detailing to her a most capital
receipt for mending broken china, the history of which she traced
regularly through all the families in which she had ever worked,
varying the details with small items of family history, and little
incidents as to the births, marriages, and deaths of different people
for whom it had been employed, with all the particulars of how, where,
and when, so that the time of James for conversation was by this means
indefinitely extended.
‘Now,’ he said to Mary, ‘let me propose one thing. Let _me_ go to the
Doctor and tell him the truth.’
‘James, it does not seem to me that I can. A friend who has been so
considerate, so kind, so self-sacrificing and disinterested, and whom
I have allowed to go on with this implicit faith in me so long. Should
_you_, James, think of _yourself_ only?’
‘I do not, I trust, think of myself only,’ said James. ‘I hope that I
am calm enough and have a heart to think for others. But I ask you,
is it doing right to _him_ to let him marry you in ignorance of the
state of your feelings? Is it a kindness to a good and noble man to
give yourself to him only seemingly, when the best and noblest part of
your affection is gone wholly beyond your control. I am quite sure of
_that_, Mary. I know you do love him very well, that you would make a
most true, affectionate, constant wife to him, but what I _know_ you
feel for me is something wholly out of your power to give to him, is it
not now?’
‘I think it is,’ said Mary, looking gravely and deeply thoughtful. ‘But
then, James, I ask myself, what if all this had happened a week hence?
My feelings would have been just the same, because they are feelings
over which I have no more control than over my existence. I can only
control the expression of them. But in _that_ case you would not have
asked me to break my marriage vow, and why now shall I break a solemn
vow deliberately made before God? If what I can give him will content
him, and he never knows that which would give him pain, what wrong is
done him?’
‘I should think the deepest possible wrong done me,’ said James, ‘if,
when I thought I had married a wife with a whole heart, I found that
the greater part of it had been before that given to another. If you
tell him, or if I tell him, or your mother, who is the more proper
person, and he chooses to hold you to your promise, then, Mary, I have
no more to say. I shall sail in a few weeks again, and carry your image
for ever in my heart; nobody can take that away, and _that_ dear shadow
will be the only wife I shall ever know.’
At this moment Miss Prissy came rattling along towards the door,
talking, we suspect designedly, in quite a high key. Mary hastily said,
‘Wait, James, let me think. To-morrow is the Sabbath-day. Monday I will
send you word or see you.’
And when Miss Prissy returned into the best room, James was sitting at
one window and Mary at another, he making remarks in a style of most
admirable commonplace on a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, which he had
picked up in the confusion of the moment, and which at the time Mrs.
Katy Scudder entered, he was declaring to be a most excellent book, and
a really truly valuable work.
Mrs. Scudder looked keenly from one to the other, and saw that Mary’s
cheek was glowing like the deepest heart of a pink shell, while in
all other respects she was as cold and calm. On the whole she felt
satisfied that no mischief had been done.
We hope our readers will do Mrs. Scudder justice. It is true that she
yet wore on her third finger the marriage ring of a sailor lover,
and his memory was yet fresh in her heart; but even mothers who
have married for love themselves somehow so blend their daughter’s
existence with their own as to conceive that she must marry _their_
love and not her own.
Beside this, Mrs. Scudder was an Old Testament woman, brought up
with that scrupulous exactitude of fidelity in relation to promises
which would naturally come from familiarity with a book where
covenant-keeping is represented as one of the highest attributes of
Deity, and covenant-breaking as one of the vilest sins of humanity.
To break the word that had gone forth out of one’s mouth was to lose
self-respect and all claim to the respect of others, and to sin against
eternal rectitude.
As we have said before, it is almost impossible to make our
light-minded modern times comprehend the earnestness with which these
people lived. It was in the beginning no vulgar nor mercenary ambition
that made Mrs. Scudder desire the Doctor as a husband for her daughter.
He was poor, and she had had offers from richer men. He was often
unpopular, but he was the man in the world she most revered, the man
she believed in with the most implicit faith, the man who embodied her
highest idea of the good; and therefore it was that she was willing to
resign her child to him.
As to James, she had felt truly sympathetic with his mother and with
Mary in the dreadful hour when they supposed him lost, and had it not
been for the great perplexity occasioned by his return she would have
received him as a relative with open arms. But now she felt it her
duty to be on the defensive, an attitude not the most favourable for
cherishing pleasing associations in regard to another. She had read the
letter giving an account of his spiritual experience with very sincere
pleasure as a good woman should, but not without an internal perception
how very much it endangered her favourite plans. But when Mary had
calmly reiterated her determination, she felt sure of her. For had she
ever known her to say a thing she did not do?
The uneasiness she felt at present was not the doubt of her daughter’s
steadiness, but the fear that she might have been unsuitably harassed
or annoyed.