THE ICE BROKEN.
Our fathers believed in special answers to prayer. They were not
stumbled by the objection about the inflexibility of the laws of
Nature; because they had the idea, that, when the Creator of the world
promised to answer human prayers, He probably understood the laws of
Nature as well as they did. At any rate, the laws of Nature were His
affair, and not theirs. They were men, very apt, as the Duke of
Wellington said, to "look to their marching-orders,"--which, being
found to read, "Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and
supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto
God," they did it. "They looked unto Him and were lightened, and their
faces were not ashamed." One reads, in the Memoirs of Dr. Hopkins, of
Newport Gardner, one of his African catechumens, a negro of singular
genius and ability, who, being desirous of his freedom, that he might
be a missionary to Africa, and having long worked without being able to
raise the amount required, was counselled by Dr. Hopkins that it might
be a shorter way to seek his freedom from the Lord, by a day of solemn
fasting and prayer. The historical fact is, that, on the evening of a
day so consecrated, his master returned from church, called Newport to
him, and presented him with his freedom. Is it not possible that He who
made the world may have established laws for prayer as invariable as
those for the sowing of seed and raising of grain? Is it not as
legitimate a subject of inquiry, when petitions are not answered, which
of these laws has been neglected?
But be that as it may, certain it is, that Candace, who on this morning
in church sat where she could see Mary and James in the singers' seat,
had certain thoughts planted in her mind which bore fruit afterwards in
a solemn and select consultation held with Miss Prissy at the end of
the horse-shed by the meeting-house, during the intermission between
the morning and afternoon services.
Candace sat on a fragment of granite boulder which lay there, her black
face relieved against a clump of yellow mulleins, then in majestic
altitude. On her lap was spread a checked pocket-handkerchief,
containing rich slices of cheese, and a store of her favorite brown
doughnuts.
"Now, Miss Prissy," she said, "dar's _reason_ in all tings, an' a good
deal _more_ in some tings dan dar is in oders. Dar's a good deal more
reason in two young, handsome folks comin' togeder dan dar is in"----
Candace finished the sentence by an emphatic flourish of her doughnut.
"Now, as long as eberybody thought Jim Marvyn was dead, dar wa'n't
nothin' else in de world _to_ be done _but_ marry de Doctor. But, good
lan! I hearn him a-talkin' to Miss Marvyn las' night; it kinder' mos'
broke my heart. Why, dem two poor creeturs, dey's jest as onhappy's dey
can be! An' she's got too much feelin' for de Doctor to say a word; an'
_I_ say _he oughter be told on't!_ dat's what _I_ say," said Candace,
giving a decisive bite to her doughnut.
"I say so, too," said Miss Prissy. "Why, I never had such bad feelings
in my life as I did yesterday, when that young man came down to our
house. He was just as pale as a cloth. I tried to say a word to Miss
Scudder, but she snapped me up so! She's an awful decided woman when
her mind's made up. I was telling Cerinthy Ann Twitchel,--she came
round me this noon,--that it didn't exactly seem to me right that
things should go on as they are going. And says I, 'Cerinthy Ann, I
don't know anything what to do.' And says she, 'If I was you, I know
what _I'd_ do,--I'd tell the Doctor,' says she. 'Nobody ever takes
offence at anything _you_ do, Miss Prissy.' To be sure," added Miss
Prissy, "I have talked to people about a good many things that it's
rather strange I should; 'cause I a'n't one, somehow, that can let
things go that seem to want doing. I always told folks that I should
spoil a novel before it got half-way through the first volume, by
blurting out some of those things that they let go trailing on so, till
everybody gets so mixed up they don't know what they're doing."
"Well, now, honey," said Candace, authoritatively, "ef you's got any
notions o' dat kind, I tink it mus' come from de good Lord, an' I
'dvise you to be 'tendin' to't, right away. You jes' go 'long an' tell
de Doctor yourself all you know, an' den le's see what'll come on't. I
tell you, I b'liebe it'll be one o' de bes' day's works you eber did in
your life!"
"Well," said Miss Prissy, "I guess tonight, before I go to bed, I'll
make a dive at him. When a thing's once out, it's out, and can't be got
in again, even if people don't like it; and that's a mercy, anyhow. It
really makes me feel 'most wicked to think of it, for he is the most
blessedest man!"
"Dat's what he _is_" said Candace. "But de blessedest man in de world
oughter know de truth; dat's what _I_ tink!"
"Yes,--true enough!" said Miss Prissy. "I'll tell him, anyway."
Miss Prissy was as good as her word; for that evening, when the Doctor
had retired to his study, she took her life in her hand, and, walking
swiftly as a cat, tapped rather timidly at the study-door, which the
Doctor opening said, benignantly,--
"Ah, Miss Prissy!"
"If you please, Sir," said Miss Prissy, "I'd like a little
conversation."
The Doctor was well enough used to such requests from the female
members of his church, which, generally, were the prelude to some
disclosures of internal difficulties or spiritual experiences. He
therefore graciously motioned her to a chair.
"I thought I must come in," she began, busily twirling a bit of her
Sunday gown. "I thought--that is--I felt it my duty--I thought--
perhaps--I ought to tell you--that perhaps you ought to know."
The Doctor looked civilly concerned. He did not know but Miss Prissy's
wits were taking leave of her. He replied, however, with his usual
honest stateliness,--
"I trust, dear Madam, that you will feel perfect freedom to open to me
any exercises of mind that you may have."
"It isn't about myself," said Miss Prissy. "If you please, it's about
you and Mary!"
The Doctor now looked awake in right earnest, and very much astonished
besides; and he looked eagerly at Miss Prissy, to have her go on.
"I don't know how you would view such a matter," said Miss Prissy; "but
the fact is, that James Marvyn and Mary always did love each other,
ever since they were children."
Still the Doctor was unawakened to the real meaning of the words, and
he answered, simply,--
"I should be far from wishing to interfere with so very natural and
universal a sentiment, which, I make no doubt, is all quite as it
should be."
"No,--but," said Miss Prissy, "you don't understand what I mean. I mean
that James Marvyn wanted to marry Mary, and that she was--well--she
wasn't engaged to him, but"----
"Madam!" said the Doctor, in a voice that frightened Miss Prissy out of
her chair, while a blaze like sheet-lightning shot from his eyes, and
his face flushed crimson.
"Mercy on us! Doctor, I hope you'll excuse me; but there the fact
is,--I've said it out,--the fact is, they wa'n't engaged; but that Mary
loved him ever since he was a boy, as she never will and never can love
any man again in this world, is what I'm just as sure of as that I'm
standing here; and I've felt you ought to know it: 'cause I'm quite
sure, that, if he'd been alive, she'd never given the promise she
has,--the promise that she means to keep, if her heart breaks, and his
too. They wouldn't anybody tell you, and I thought I must tell you;
'cause I thought you'd know what was right to do about it."
During all this latter speech the Doctor was standing with his back to
Miss Prissy, and his face to the window, just as he did some time
before, when Mrs. Scudder came to tell him of Mary's consent. He made a
gesture backward, without speaking, that she should leave the
apartment; and Miss Prissy left, with a guilty kind of feeling, as if
she had been striking a knife into her pastor, and, rushing
distractedly across the entry into Mary's little bedroom, she bolted
the door, threw herself on the bed, and began to cry.
"Well, I've done it!" she said to herself. "He's a very strong, hearty
man," she soliloquized, "so I hope it won't put him in a
consumption;--men do go into a consumption about such things sometimes.
I remember Abner Seaforth did; but then he was always narrow-chested,
and had the liver-complaint, or something. I don't know what Miss
Scudder will say;--but I've done it. Poor man! such a good man, too! I
declare, I feel just like Herod taking off John the Baptist's head.
Well, well! it's done, and can't be helped."
Just at this moment Miss Prissy heard a gentle tap at the door, and
started, as if it had been a ghost,--not being able to rid herself of
the impression, that, somehow, she had committed a great crime, for
which retribution was knocking at the door.
It was Mary, who said, in her sweetest and most natural tones, "Miss
Prissy, the Doctor would like to see you."
Mary was much astonished at the frightened, discomposed manner with
which Miss Prissy received this announcement, and said,--
"I'm afraid I've waked you up out of sleep, I don't think there's the
least hurry."
Miss Prissy didn't, either; but she reflected afterwards that she might
as well get through with it at once; and therefore, smoothing her
tumbled cap-border, she went to the Doctor's study. This time he was
quite composed, and received her with a mournful gravity, and requested
her to be seated.
"I beg, Madam," he said, "you will excuse the abruptness of my manner
in our late interview. I was so little prepared for the communication
you had to make, that I was, perhaps, unsuitably discomposed. Will you
allow me to ask whether you were requested by any of the parties to
communicate to me what you did?"
"No, Sir," said Miss Prissy.
"Have any of the parties ever communicated with you on the subject at
all?" said the Doctor.
"No, Sir," said Miss Prissy.
"That is all," said the Doctor. "I will not detain you. I am very much
obliged to you, Madam."
He rose, and opened the door for her to pass out, and Miss Prissy,
overawed by the stately gravity of his manner, went out in silence.