WHEN Miss Prissy left the room the Doctor sat down by the table, and
covered his face with his hands. He had a large, passionate, determined
nature; and he had just come to one of those cruel crises in life, in
the which it is apt to seem to us that the whole force of our being—all
that we can hope, or wish, or feel—has been suffered to gather itself
into one great wave, only to break upon some cold rock of inevitable
fate, and go back moaning into emptiness.
In such hours men and women have cursed God and life, and thrown
violently down and trampled under their feet what yet was left of
life’s blessings in the fierce bitterness of despair. This or nothing!
the soul shrieks in her frenzy.
At just such points as these men have plunged into intemperance and
wild excess; they have gone to be shot down in battle; they have broken
life, and thrown it away like an empty goblet; and gone like wailing
ghosts out into the dread unknown.
The possibility of all this lay in that heart which had just received
that stunning blow. Exercised and disciplined as he had been by years
of sacrifice, by constant, unsleeping self-vigilance, there was rising
there in that great heart an ocean-tempest of passion; and for a while
his cries unto God seemed as empty and as vague as the screams of birds
tossed and buffeted in the clouds of mighty tempests.
The will that he thought wholly subdued seemed to rise under him as a
rebellious giant. A few hours before he thought himself established
in an invincible submission to God that nothing could shake. Now, he
looked into himself as into a seething vortex of rebellion; and against
all the passionate cries of his lower nature, he could only (in the
language of an old saint) ‘cling to God by the naked force of his
will.’ That will was as determined and firm as that of Aaron Burr. It
rested unmelted amid the boiling sea of passion, waiting its hour of
renewed sway. He walked the room for hours; and then sat down to his
Bible, and wakened once or twice to find his head leaning on its pages,
and his mind far gone in thoughts from which he woke with a bitter
throb. Then he determined to set himself to some definite work; and
taking his Concordance, began busily tracing out and numbering all the
proof-texts for one of the chapters of his theological system; till at
last he worked himself down to such calmness that he could pray; and
then he schooled and reasoned with himself in a style not unlike, in
its spirit, to what a great modern author has addressed to suffering
humanity,—‘What is it that thou art fretting and self-tormenting about?
Is it because _thou_ art not happy? Who told thee that thou wast to be
happy? Is there any ordinance of the universe that _thou_ shouldst be
happy? Art thou nothing but a vulture screaming for prey? Canst thou
not do without happiness? Yea, thou canst do without happiness, and
instead thereof find blessedness.’
The Doctor came lastly to the conclusion that ‘_blessedness_,’ which
was all the portion his Master had on earth, might do for him also. And
therefore he kissed and blessed that silver dove of happiness, which he
saw was weary of sailing in his clumsy old ark, and let it go out of
his hand without a tear.
He slept little that night, but when he came to breakfast all noticed
an unusual gentleness and benignity of manner; and Mary, she knew not
why, saw tears rising in his eyes when he looked at her.
After breakfast he requested Mrs. Scudder to step with him into his
study; and Miss Prissy shook in her little shoes as she saw the matron
entering. The door was shut for a long time, and two voices could be
heard in earnest conversation.
Meanwhile James Marvyn entered the cottage, prompt to remind Mary of
her promise, that she would talk with him again this morning.
They had talked with each other but a few moments, by the
sweetbriar-shaded window in the best room, when Mrs. Scudder appeared
at the door of the apartment, with traces of tears upon her cheeks.
‘Good morning, James,’ she said. ‘The Doctor wishes to see you and Mary
a moment together.’ Both looked sufficiently astounded, knowing from
Mrs. Scudder’s looks that something was impending. They followed Mrs.
Scudder, scarcely feeling the ground they trod on.
[Illustration: _The Sacrifice_
_Page, 347._
Sampson, Low, Son & Co. Sept. 20th, 1859.]
The Doctor was sitting at his table with his favourite large-print
Bible open before him. He rose to receive them with a manner at once
gentle and grave. There was a pause of some minutes, during which he
sat with his head leaning upon his hand. ‘You all know,’ he said,
turning towards Mary who sat very near him, ‘the near and dear relation
in which I have been expected to stand towards this friend; I should
not have been worthy of that relation if I had not felt in my heart the
true love of a husband as set forth in the New Testament; who should
“love his wife even as Christ loved the church and gave Himself for
it;” and if in case any peril or danger threatened this dear soul, and
I could not give myself for her, I had never been worthy the honour
she has done me. For I take it, wherever there is a cross or burden to
be borne by one or the other, that the man who is made in the image of
God, as to strength and endurance, should take it upon himself, and not
lay it upon her that is weaker; for he is therefore strong, not that
he may tyrannize over the weak, but bear their burdens for them, even
as Christ for His church. I have just discovered,’ he added, looking
kindly upon Mary, ‘that there is a great cross and burden which must
come, either on this dear child or on myself, through no fault of
either of us, but through God’s good providence; and, therefore, let
_me_ bear it.
‘Mary, my dear child,’ he said, ‘I will be to thee as a father; but I
will not force thy heart.’
At this moment, Mary, by a sudden, impulsive movement, threw her arms
around his neck and kissed him, and lay sobbing on his shoulder. ‘No,
no,’ she said, ‘I will marry you as I said.’
‘Not if I will not, dear,’ he said, with a benign smile. ‘Come here,
young man,’ he said, with some authority, to James, ‘I give thee
this maiden to wife,’ and he lifted her from his shoulder and placed
her gently in the arms of the young man, who, overawed and overcome,
pressed her silently to his heart. ‘There, children, it is over,’ he
said. ‘God bless you!’
‘Take her away,’ he added, ‘she will be more composed soon.’
Before James left, he grasped the Doctor’s hand in his and said, ‘Sir,
this tells on my heart more than any sermon you ever preached, I shall
never forget it. God bless you, sir!’
The Doctor saw them slowly quit the apartment, and following them,
closed the door, and thus ended
THE MINISTER’S WOOING.