AN HUMBLE WEDDING.
Habitual evils change not on a sudden,
But many days must pass, and many sorrows;
Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt,
To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,
And work a second nature in the soul,
Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.--ROWE'S ULYSSES.
Valentine awoke the next morning with a heavy weight upon his heart and
a thick cloud over his brain.
The first fact that attracted his attention was the circumstance that he
was not in his own apartment, but in his mother's bedchamber. A small
wood fire was burning in the fireplace, and a teakettle was hanging over
the blaze; the red hearth was neat and bright, and the only window was
darkened by the lowered paper blind.
Phaedra sat in her flag-bottomed elbow-chair, at the chimney corner; her
work was on her lap, but she sat with her hands clasped upon it in
idleness, and in an attitude of deepest grief. Such was the picture
immediately before him.
He could not tell the hour, but supposed it to be near midday. He
strove, through the aching of his head and heart, to recall the latest
events of his waking consciousness, before he had fallen into the sleep
or the insensibility from which he had just recovered. And, as memory
came back in a rushing flood, bringing the hideous phantoms of the
previous night's history, overcome with shame and sorrow, he groaned
aloud, and buried his face in the pillow. Still he was in ignorance of
what had occurred after he had sprung from the buggy; and in terror for
what might have happened to Mr. Waring, whom he had left there to guide
as he could, in a state of extreme intoxication, the frightened and
rearing horses.
Phaedra arose and approached the bed.
"Mother! tell me what has happened, for I remember nothing after getting
home," said the boy, in a voice half smothered in emotion.
But Phaedra sank down by the bedside, buried her face in the coverlid,
and sobbed.
"Mother! tell me the worst at once. Was he thrown out? Is he dead?"
asked Valentine, in a deep, breathless, husky voice, as he raised upon
his elbow and leaned forward, his light eyes, from the tangled thicket
of his dark hair, turning upon her like coals at a white heat.
"No, no, he is not dead. But it was a very narrow escape. Oh! Valley,
such a good Providence, my boy," she said, taking his disengaged hand
and hugging it closely to her bosom, and weeping over it, as if that
hand had been saved from some great calamity.
"Tell me all about it, mother."
But Phaedra was sobbing and choking, and could not utter a word more
then.
"Where is he now, mother?" asked Valentine, after a little while.
"In his room--unable to rise, but out of danger, the doctor says."
A few more minutes passed in silence. Phaedra rose and resumed her chair
and her needlework, though the sudden sobs and deep heavings of her
bosom betrayed the storm of grief still beating.
"Mother," said Valentine, after a few moments longer, "can you tell me
now all about it? How did I get home? How did he? What happened to the
buggy?"
"Oh, Valentine, first of all, you came home in a state that made my
heart sick to see. I can't tell you how; but I hope never to see the
like again. I could not have got you upstairs without help, but I
managed to get you in here, and to bed, without any one seeing you."
"Mother----"
This single word, uttered in a tone of deepest regret, and humiliation;
and then his voice broke down, and he covered his face with his hands.
"I had not more than got you to bed, when a violent barking of the dogs
startled me, and I went out, and found it was master that Mr. Hewitt's
niggers had brought home on a door. Dr. Carter, who was coming home from
a night call, had found him lying on the side of the road that runs
along by Mr. Hewitt's cotton field. And he had ridden up to Mr. Hewitt's
house, and roused up the old gentleman and some of the niggers; and they
took a barn door off its hinges, and spread a bed and laid him on it,
and brought him home. It was well that it happened to be Dr. Carter who
found him; for he stayed with him all night, and that has been the means
of saving his life. Oh, Valley, it was such a kind Providence that saved
him!" said Phaedra, breaking off suddenly, and clasping her hands.
"And this morning, mother?" said Valentine, anxiously.
"Oh! This morning the horses were found near the stables, with a part of
the gearing hanging to their necks; and the buggy was found on the road,
broken all to pieces."
"I don't mean them--I mean Mr. Waring."
"He is out of danger this morning, as I told you before. He was stunned
and very much bruised by being thrown from the buggy, but not otherwise
injured."
"What does he say about the accident?"
"He says he doesn't know much about it. He says he supposes he must have
been taking too much wine, and that the horses got unruly, and he
couldn't manage them; and that was how they threw him out, and broke
the carriage."
"Mother! I must get up and go to him now!" said Valentine, hastily.
"Oh, stop! Stay one moment, Valentine! Lie there, and let me speak to
you! I have been praying for you all night, in my master's room, here,
wherever I have been. Reflect; have you no thanks to offer to the Lord
for his providential care, when you so little deserved it? And no
sorrow, Valentine, for what has passed, and no promises for the future?
Oh, Valentine, how is this course you and your master have begun, going
to end?"
"Mother! for my own part, I can affirm that this is the first time I
ever was in such a state as you saw me in last night. All I feel about
it, shall be said in this one oath--I will never taste intoxicating
drink again, so help me Heaven--and shall be proved every day of my
life, in the way I keep it!" exclaimed Valentine, impetuously,
earnestly, tearfully.
Phaedra grasped his hand once more, and hugged it to her heart, and
prayed "God bless" him.
"And now, mother, I must get up and go to him."
Phaedra brought his clothes from the closet in which she had put them,
and then left the room, while Valentine arose and dressed himself, and
went to his master's apartments. It was in painful doubt and humiliating
embarrassment that he sought Oswald Waring's presence. He got to the
door, knocked, and at the words, "Come in," he entered.
Mr. Waring was in bed, and looking very pale and ghastly; and as
Valentine saw him, a pang shot through his heart at the thought that,
but for the merciful intervention of Providence in averting the
consequences of his own rash anger, Oswald Waring might have been lying
there--not a sick man, but a dead one! And a secret vow to forsake
intemperance, in all its forms, material and moral, was made in
Valentine's mind, and registered in heaven.
"Is that you, Valley, old fellow? I had begun to fear that you had
suffered more than myself, when I asked after you this morning and they
told me you were sick. Were you thrown out, also?"
"Good Heaven," thought Valentine, as a new light burst upon him; "he
does not recollect what happened. He must have been much further gone
than myself."
"Well, old fellow, why don't you answer me? I asked you if you were
thrown out. Don't be afraid to tell me, for you see I'm a great deal
better; besides, seeing you there alive and well, I shall not be much
shocked to hear of what might have happened, you know. Come! where were
you pitched, and how much were you hurt, and who picked you up? Tell me,
for I can't get the least satisfaction out of anybody here."
"I was not thrown out--I sprang out."
"When the horses were rearing? A bad plan that, Val.; that is, if you
really did it as you think you did. For my part, I doubt if you know
anything more about it than I do myself; and if my soul were to have to
answer for my memory, I could not tell whether I jumped out or was
thrown out. Bad course we've been pursuing, old boy; like to have cost
us both our lives, really has cost me that beautiful buggy--that is
ruined, they tell me. Bad course; bad course, Val. Not safe for master
and man both to be glorious at the same time. Another evening, old
fellow, do you try to keep sober, when you think it likely that I shall
be--otherwise."
"I never mean to touch another drop of intoxicating drink as long as I
live, sir, so help me Heaven!" said Valentine, fervently.
"Oh, pooh, pooh! old fellow. Resolutions made with a bad headache, the
day after a frolic, are as worthless as the oaths sworn in wine the
night previous, both being the effects of an abnormal state of the soul
and--stomach. Now, wine is a good thing in moderation--it is only a bad
thing in excess. Don't look so dreadfully downcast, old fellow, nor make
such dismally lugubrious resolutions. 'The servant is not greater than
his master,' says the good Book; and, if I was overtaken, how could you
expect to escape? Give me your honest fist, old fellow; those who have
had such a d--d lucky escape together might shake hands upon it, I
should think," said Oswald Waring, offering his hand.
Valentine took it and squeezed it, and then, in the warmth of his
affectionate nature, pressed it to his heart, while tears welled to his
eyes--tears, that came at the thought how nearly he had occasioned the
death of this man--this man, who, with all his faults, had, from their
boyhood, been ever kind, generous, forbearing--more like a brother than
a master. All that was unjust and galling in their mutual relations was
forgotten by Valentine at that moment; he only remembered that they had
been playmates in childhood, companions in youth, and friends always, up
to the present, and that he had narrowly escaped causing Oswald's death;
and, in the ardor and vehemence of emotion, he pressed the hand that had
been yielded up to him, to his heart, exclaiming in a broken voice:
"It was my fault, Master Oswald, all my fault; but I will never--never
touch any sort of intoxicating liquor again--never, as the Lord hears
me."
"Oh, tut, tut! you best fellow that ever was in the world! Who asks you
for any such promises? Only promise that when there is a wine supper or
card party in the wind, or any other signs of the times in the sky to
warn you, you will take care to keep sober, knowing that I shall be
likely to be something else. Wine is a good servant, but a bad master."
"Not good for me, ever, Master Oswald; certainly not good for me;
probably not so for you, either."
"Come, come; you exceed your license, Valentine. You're a pretty fellow
to preach to me, after nearly breaking my neck. However, that's
ungenerous, after once forgiving you; so we'll say no more about it
forever. But don't preach to me, whatever you do. Phaedra nearly wears my
patience out."
"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable, or help the time
along?"
"N-o-o, I think not. Dr. Carter says I must keep quiet, and my head
begins to ache now; so you had better darken the room, and leave me to
rest."
Valentine closed all the shutters, and let down all the curtains, and
then asked:
"Shan't I sit here, Master Oswald, to be at hand in case you should want
anything?"
"No! Lord, no! it must be a d--l of a bore to sit in a dark room, with
no better amusement than to watch somebody going off to sleep. No; go
and take care of yourself, old fellow. I can ring if I should want
anything," said Oswald, cheerfully.
"Always so very considerate when he is in his right mind," thought
Valentine, as he took the tasseled end of the bellrope and put it in
reach of his master's hand, before leaving the room.
That was the last time that Valentine saw his master in his right mind
for many weeks. The effects of his fall, acting upon a system weakened
and vitiated by dissipation, was much more serious than any one had
foreseen. Before night a brain fever, with delirium, had set in, and,
for days after, the life of Oswald Waring hung upon the feeblest chance.
For many weeks of his illness, Phaedra and Valentine nursed him with the
most devoted affection. Poor Phaedra prayed constantly for his recovery,
and also for his reform, and solicited every Sabbath the prayers of the
congregation of her church in his behalf. And Valentine, in deep
despair, daily accused himself of his master's death, as if he had
purposely stricken a fatal blow, and Oswald were already dead. The long
days and nights of watching by the side of the sickbed, that might at
any hour become a deathbed, were very fruitful in good to Valentine.
There he learned to hate and dread the demon anger, that had caused him
so much misery; there he came to listen with patience and reverence to
his poor mother's tearful pleadings and counsels; there he began to
pray. It was six weeks before Mr. Waring left his room, and one more
before he was fully restored to health. And this brought midsummer--a
season that camp-meetings were frequent in the neighborhood.
This summer there was much greater excitement than ever before among the
religious revivalists. The Rev. Mr. M---- and several others, equally
eloquent and successful field preachers, were making a circuit of the
country. Their fame always preceded them as an _avant courier_, and
crowds congregated to hear them.
There was a camp-meeting held, by permission of the owner, in a magnolia
grove where there was a fine spring, upon the grounds of Mr. Hewitt, Mr.
Waring's nearest neighbor. And it was given out that on Sunday morning
the eloquent field preacher, M----, would address the assembled
multitudes. There was a great deal of excitement and anticipation among
all classes in that quiet rural district; and when the Sabbath came,
congregations forsook their own churches, and assembled to hear M----.
Crowds after crowds gathered; some went with the avowed purpose of
getting converted; some to get revived; many to get excited; and most
from motives of idle curiosity. Poor Phaedra went for the candidly
expressed purpose of being warmed and comforted. Valentine went to drive
his master, who went only to kill a dull day.
Now, not only was Phaedra praying with all her soul's strength for her
son's conversion, but naturally that desired consummation was one of the
most likely things in the world to eventuate; for Valentine's nature was
just the one to be most deeply affected and impressed by the magnetic
power of a man like M----, and he was also in the most favorable mood
for receiving such impressions. And while hundreds around him were
swayed, as by a mighty wizard's wand, under the wonderful eloquence of
the most potent preacher since the days of Wesley and Whitefield,
Valentine was deeply and almost fearfully excited.
And from that Sabbath, during the whole time of Mr. M----'s sojourn in
the neighborhood, the boy was a regular attendant upon his ministry, and
in the end was numbered among his converts. This is not the place to
call in question the Rev. Mr. M----'s sincerity or consistency as a
Christian; those who knew him best, believed him to be perfectly sincere
in his religious enthusiasm, however inconsistent was sometimes his
conduct. And, though it may be true that some of his converts were his
only, and not God's, as they afterward demonstrated by their
backsliding, yet it is equally true that many shining lights in the
Christian Church at this day ascribe their first awakening to Christian
life, under Divine Providence, to the electric power of M----'s
eloquence. At the time that I write of, the people of that neighborhood
adored him as an angel sent from God; though some years after the same
people hunted him as a wild beast, from village to village, until old,
poor, ill and exhausted, he died alone--a fugitive from their insane
wrath. But to return.
M---- had succeeded in reviving the religious spirit of that district;
and when he departed, he left behind him many new but zealous laborers
in that vineyard of the Lord.
Among the most enthusiastic in the field of the colored mission of
Magnolia Grove was Valentine. His sincere, ardent, earnest soul; his
natural gift of eloquence; his sympathy with those in his own condition,
if not strictly of his own race; his better education, and even his
beauty of person, grace of manner, and sweetness of voice, all combined
to make him the most popular and effective, and best beloved of all the
class-leaders in the colored mission of Magnolia Grove. "Brother
Valentine's" class was the largest and most important in the church. If
ever Brother Valentine was announced to address the meeting upon any
given day, there was sure to be a crowded house. And if ever Phaedra held
a prayer meeting in her quarter, there was sure to be a crowd to hear
Brother Valentine speak.
Among the most zealous of the church members, and among those who never
failed to be present at Phaedra's weekly prayer meetings, was a young and
pretty quadroon, named Fannie. She was a free girl and an orphan, and
was employed as shop girl in a hair dresser's and fancy store kept by a
respectable old French couple in the city of M. But though her home and
her business was in town, and there were also two or three "colored
missions" in that place, yet Fannie preferred to walk out every Sunday
morning to the little log meeting-house in Magnolia Grove. And those who
were envious of Fannie's beauty did not scruple to say that she came out
so far for the sake of hearing Brother Valentine pray or exhort, or to
let him hear her sing; for Fannie had a voice that might have made her
fortune, had she been white, and had it been cultivated. However that
might be, Phaedra loved Fannie as if she had been her own daughter, and
she always took her home from meeting, to dine and spend the afternoon
at Red Hill. And after an early tea, Valentine always walked home with
Fannie to the city.
It is also true that Valentine became a frequent customer at Leroux's,
the hair-dresser's and fancy store where Fannie was employed; and as
Valentine not only made his own but also his master's purchases, and as
he had a _carte blanche_ for the same, his custom was of no trifling
importance to the establishment. But, valuable as was this patronage, as
soon as the proprietors began to suspect the nature of the attraction to
their store, they felt it to be their duty to warn the young girl, which
they would do in something like these terms:
"Take my advice, Fannie, and send that young fellow about his business;
he may be a very good young man, I dare say; but he is a slave, and
never will be able to do anything for you," Monsieur Leroux would say.
"You are free, Fannie, and you are very pretty, and all that; and you
might look a great deal higher than that," would say Madam Leroux.
"Think, _ma fille_, if you take him, you will always have yourself and
your family to support, for you never can have any help from a slave
husband"--thus Monsieur Leroux.
"Consider, _mon enfant_, if you marry him, he may be sold away next
year, or next month, even! How would you like that?" thus Madam Leroux.
And Fannie would blush, or smile, or pout, or drop a tear, or say to
herself:
"Poor Valley! Maybe something may happen to set him free! Maybe I might
work hard, and save money enough to"--she could not bring herself to say
buy--"ransom him! And, anyhow, it is not his fault if he is not free.
And it must be hard enough, the dear knows, to be as he is, without my
letting him think that it makes any difference to me."
Obstacles and objections which, to cooler-hearted and clearer-headed
people would seem very formidable, if not entirely conclusive, were but
slight impediments in the way of these humble lovers.
Long courtships and protracted engagements are not common among
quadroons, and in this case were not favored by Valentine. He had won
little Fannie's heart and consent to speak to her employers, who, having
advised her against the match, and holding no authority to go further in
their opposition, gave a reluctant consent, with their good wishes and
blessing.
Valentine had, all through the courtship, the hearty approbation of
Phaedra; and, lastly, he had none but his master to consult.
Mr. Waring rallied Valentine unmercifully upon his intended marriage;
swore that, seriously, it was a pity such a fine young fellow as
himself, who was such a favorite among the girls, should leave his gay
bachelor's life, to tie himself down to a wife and family; asked him
what he should do for kid gloves and perfumery, if he had to give all
his pocket money to Fannie and the children; and finally made him a
wedding present of a hundred dollars, and advised him to go out and hang
himself.
In the following Christmas holidays, the slaves' annual Saturnalia in
the South, the marriage of Valentine and Fannie took place. A mad
marriage it was, where the bride had no dower and the bridegroom not
even the ownership of his own limbs to work for their support. An
impossible marriage it would seem, had it not really taken place, and
did we not know, for a certainty, that such marriages between the free
and the enslaved frequently took place.
Phaedra gave a serious little Methodist wedding, and invited all her
favorite brethren and sisters of the church to be present. And the young
master loaned his dining-room for the occasion, and invited himself to
do the lovers the honor of his personal attendance at the marriage
ceremony. And he gave the little bride two testimonials of his friendly
consideration--one in the form of a pretty wedding dress, that was
gratefully received; the other in the guise of a hearty embrace and
kiss, that was not quite so thankfully accepted.
"But now, mommer," whispered little Fannie, in the course of the
evening, to Phaedra, "Valley's young master has been so very kind and
generous to us all, s'pose now he was to make Valley a present of his
free papers, for a wedding gift to-night--to surprise us, you know; to
see how delighted we'd all be, and to hear what we'd say. I think he
might; 'deed, I shouldn't wonder if he did, only for the pleasure of the
thing, you know. Should you, mommer?"
Phaedra sighed; but, then, not to damp the girl's spirits, she replied:
"He may do that some day, honey."
"Something seems to whisper to me that he is thinking of it to-night,
mommer! Ah! the Lord send he may! Wouldn't we be happy? Valley would
have a place in the same store with me; it would suit him, too; he has
so much good taste! And then we could have such a pretty little home of
our own! 'Deed, I believe he is thinking about it now. Look at him. I
shouldn't be the least surprised to see him call Valley aside, and clap
him on the shoulder, and call him 'old fellow,' and tell him he is a
free man!"
The girl had read aright the thoughts of the master. Angels, who
saw the future, with all the phantoms of its bright or dark
possibilities--angels, who loved the goodness latent in his own abused
nature--angels were whispering to him: "Make this young couple
supremely happy--give him only the common right to himself, into which
every creature is justly born--and then rejoice in their exceeding great
joy!"
And never had the face of Oswald Waring looked so bright, benignant and
happy, as when he, for a moment, entertained this thought.
"But pshaw!" he said to himself, directly. "Am I Don Quixote the
younger, that I should be guilty of such a piece of extravagant
generosity? Absurd! I really must begin to learn moderation at some time
of my life. St. Paul says: 'Let your moderation be known unto all men.'"
Now, what on earth can the angels reply, when the other party quotes
Scripture against them? Nothing, of course; and Oswald Waring had no
more generous impulses that evening. But oh! if he had only listened to
those angel whispers; if he had only realized poor little Fannie's
romance; if he had only, for once in his life, yielded to his impulse to
commit that mad, rash, extravagant piece of Quixotism, as he called the
act which, for a moment, he had dreamed of performing--from what
impending anguish, what temptations, crime, and remorse, would they not
have been redeemed!