To four people at Elmington that was a happy week. I suspect it was
rather a dull one to every one else.
The friendship of Alice and Mary had renewed its youth. Each had told
the other everything. That is, they did what they could; for there was
always no end left to tell. Not a word was wasted, not a moment spent on
any subject but one. Never had two young men been more talked about.
“We are both so well suited,” said Alice. “To a matter-of-fact body like
me, Mr. Frobisher—”
“Oh, Alice, he is just too charming, with his quaint, humorous ways; and
then _so_ devoted!”
“Do you _think_ so?”
“Why, the poor man is _just dying_ with love, and—”
“But just think of your affair, Mary! _When_ are you going to let him
tell you who he is? Oh, I’ll tell you. Suppose we let them both come up
to Richmond at the same time to interview our respective and respected
papas. Oh, won’t it be _dreadful_!” And with that they fell on each
other’s necks and giggled.
“Mr. Frobisher says he will be hanged if he speaks to my father. He says
he thinks it a liberty to ask any man for his daughter; so he intends to
speak to mother. Bashful? O-o-o-oh!”
Charley and the Don, too, had their confabulations, but how was any one
to find out what they said? But a merrier, jollier soul than the latter
it would have been hard to find. (I believe my grandfather would have
been somewhat scandalized at the way he profaned the Guarnerius with his
jigs, had not Charley made casual mention of the _gigas_ of Corelli and
the old Italian school; which seemed to lend a certain air of classicity
to their homely Virginia descendants.)
These four, then, were happy. But upon the horizon of Mary’s dreams
there hung a speck of cloud. It was no bigger than a man’s hand, but its
jagged edges, splotching the rosy east, marred the perfection of the
dawn.
To say what that cloud was, brings up a subject upon which I touch with
extreme reluctance.
A Bushwhacker discussing the problems of religion,—what will be said of
him? Love—feeling my inability to depict that, I accepted the kind
offices of our friend Alice. But where, among the bishops and other
clergy—regular officers,—am I to find one willing to be associated
with a guerilla like myself? Who among them would write a few chapters
for this book? But the chapters must be written.
The reader will recall, I beg, one of the earlier incidents recorded in
this narrative; where the writer calls upon the Don at his rooms in
Richmond, to invite him to spend Christmas at Elmington. It will be
remembered that I found him reading a small book, which he laid down
upon my entrance, and that chancing to glance at the little volume as I
passed out of the room, I saw with surprise that it was a copy of the
New Testament. With surprise. I would not be understood (not for the
world) as casting a slur upon the youth of Virginia. They read their
Bibles, of course; but generally, I believe, at the beginning and end of
the day. At any rate, whether it was the hour of the evening or the man
himself, I was astonished.
When I told the girls what I had seen, they were variously affected,
according to their several natures. Here, thought Lucy, is one more good
young man,—good not being, with her, a term of contempt. Mary’s
imagination was fired. Behold, thought she, a high, brave young spirit
that hath chosen the better part. Alice, being what neither of the
others was, in the main an average Virginia girl,—Alice could not help
it,—the little scamp laughed. I don’t know that it occurred to her that
these very good young men are, take them “by and large,” no better than
the bad young men (and not half so interesting); all I know is that she
laughed, and made the others laugh, too, though against their will.
And not once only. For weeks afterwards she never spoke of the Don save
as Parson (or, rather, Pass’n) Smith. Her merry fancy played countless
variations upon this single string; but it snapped one day,—snapped
very suddenly, the first Sunday after her and Mary’s arrival at
Elmington.
“I wonder,” said Alice, as she and the other girls were getting ready
for church,—“I wonder whether the Pass’n will go with us? Has any one
heard him inquiring about a meeting-house? What a favorite he would be
among the sistern of the county!”
As they went down-stairs, they could see him leaning against a pillar on
the porch.
“Look, Mary; your Pass’n has his Sunday face on. How dreadfully serious
he looks! Mind, girls, no frivolity! I’ll be bound he says ‘Sabbath.’”
“No gentleman ever speaks of Sunday as ‘the Sabbath,’” said Mary,
reproachfully.
“Very true; and he is a gentleman if he _is_ a pass’n. Hang this glove!
Mr. Whacker,” she continued, “here we are; and all ready, for a wonder,
in time.”
Wheels were crunching along up to the steps; horses, held by boys, were
pawing the earth; and on the piazza there was the rustle of dresses and
the subdued hum of preparation. The Don alone seemed to have no part in
the proceedings. Alice drew two girls’ heads together.
“The exhorter looks solemn! The drive will be hilarious in the carriage
that takes _him_! Listen!”
“By the way,” Mr. Whacker was saying, “I had forgotten to ask you,—will
you take a seat in the carriage, or would you prefer going on
horseback?”
“Horseback, by all means,” whispered Alice; “the jolting might cheer up
his Riverence.”
The Don, looking down, changed color, and was visibly embarrassed. “I
remember,” said he, presently, raising his eyes to those of Mr. Whacker,
“that one of the first things you said to me, when you welcomed me to
Elmington, was that it was ‘Liberty Hall.’”
“Certainly, oh, certainly,” rejoined my grandfather, in his cordial way.
“Choose for yourself. That pair of thoroughbreds may look a trifle
light; but you will find they will take you spinning. Then there is the
buggy. But perhaps you would prefer to ride? I can recommend that sorrel
that Zip is holding.” (Zip gave a furtive pressure on the curb which
made the sorrel arch his neck and paw the ground.)
“I have not made myself clear,” said the Don, with a constrained smile.
“I meant to beg you to—to let me take care of ‘Liberty Hall’ to-day.”
“You mean,” said my grandfather, taking in the idea with some
difficulty, “that you do not wish to go to church to-day?”
The Don bowed.
“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Whacker, with some eagerness; for he felt that
he had inadvertently pressed his guest beyond the limits of good
breeding. “Certainly, of course, I had not thought of it. Of course you
have not yet quite recovered your strength.”
The Don bowed his head deferentially, as though willing to let this
explanation of his host pass unchallenged; but a certain something that
lurked beneath his rather mechanical smile showed that that explanation
was Mr. Whacker’s, not his. A sudden constraint came over the company,
and they were glad to get off.
When the party returned, the Don was absent, walking; and when, at
dinner, there was the usual rambling discussion of the sermon, the
singing, and so forth, he took no part in the conversation. The next
Sunday, when the vehicles and horses came up to the door, the Don was
found to be missing; having absented himself purposely, as seemed
likely; and so on the next Sunday—and on the next—to the end.
It was remarked, too, that never once did he take part in those innocent
little theological discussions which are apt to spring up in Virginia
homes, around the family hearth, after tea, Sunday evenings. As he was
not a talker, as a rule, his silence would not have been obtrusive, save
for his persistency in maintaining it. As it was, in the end his very
silence seemed a sort of crying aloud. Alice had called him “Pass’n” for
the last time.
All this gave Mary, for reasons of her own, great concern,—far greater
concern than an average girl would have felt. What those reasons were I
shall explain at the proper time. Suffice it to say at present, that
just in proportion as her interest in this singular man deepened did her
anxiety as to his religious views grow keener. The time had come, at
last, when she felt that she had the right to question him; but the very
thought (though ever in her mind) of asking him why he never went to
church made her shiver. Strange! Now that he was her avowed lover, her
awe of him was greater than ever before. He was now frank, joyous,
playful—
But even when a caged lion is romping with his mate, you shall ofttimes
see the glitter of his mighty teeth!