The two friends sat down and talked ever so much more. Alice did not
show Charley’s letter to Mary, but before she said good-night she
exacted a promise from her to give up her religious warfare upon the
Don.
Mary meant to keep her word, but the fates were too strong for her.
Among her relatives there was a young man—a second cousin, I
believe—whose society she greatly enjoyed; for he was well-read,
naturally bright, and a capital talker. He had studied law, and, in
fact, been admitted to the bar; but he was not strong enough for that
laborious profession, and, being an ardent student, soon broke down.
During Mary’s stay at Elmington he had had an alarming hemorrhage. This
visitation (it had occurred on Christmas Day, too) he looked upon as a
call to the ministry, to use the language of the period. And so the man
whom she had left, two months before, a bright ambitious young lawyer,
she found, on her return, an exceedingly serious theological student.
In Virginia, the relations existing between cousins of opposite sex are
pleasanter, I believe, than in most other parts of the world. At any
rate, these two were almost like brother and sister.
What kind of man was this Don? and, most important of all, in his eyes,
how did he stand as to the question of questions? It was some time
before he got the whole truth out of Mary; partly because she was loath
to tell it, partly because, as a Virginian of the period, it was
difficult for him to take it in. But it dawned on him by degrees, and
gave him all the greater concern, knowing Mary, as he did, so
thoroughly. Mary had, in fact, made an exception of him in her sceptical
days, and told him everything. And now again (when once the ice was
broken) she was as unreserved. She felt that her heart would burst if
she could not pour forth her troubles into some sympathetic ear. She had
Alice, it is true; but there are many things which a woman would sooner
say to a man than to one of her own sex.
And especially, during these conferences, was she never tired of
sketching the Don. But, as line after line of his character came out in
bolder and bolder relief, more and more convinced became her cousin that
it would be a fatal blunder on Mary’s part to unite her destiny with
that of this man, whose convictions were as firm as they were
objectionable. It was easy to see who would lead and who follow in such
partnership.
And at first he had joined the crusade against the erroneous tenets of
the Don: lending books and suggesting arguments to Mary; but he soon
gave up even the slender hopes he at first had of success, and from that
day, to Alice’s great indignation, left no stone unturned to induce Mary
to break with her lover.
And his words had great weight with Mary. His strength was rapidly
failing. The hectic flush on his wan cheeks and the unnatural lustre of
his eyes showed but too plainly that he was not long for this world; and
his hollow voice seemed to Mary, at times, almost a warning from the
next. Between him and Alice it was an even battle; victory inclining
first to one standard and then to the other. Just at the present
juncture she is perched on Alice’s banner. For Mary has promised to let
Hume and Voltaire take care of themselves for the future; and, since
logic had failed, to trust to love.
She slept well that night, and awoke next morning blithe and gay. Awoke
singing rather than sighing. Her song was short.
That evening her cousin came. She told him of her resolution. He seemed
unusually ill that day; and whether from that cause (he coughed a good
deal) or because he deemed it useless to remonstrate, he said little,
and soon took his leave, giving her, as he bade her good-night, a look
full of affectionate compassion.
Two or three days after this, on Sunday, Mary took her seat in her
mother’s pew, nestling in her accustomed corner. I hardly think she
heard much of the service; and when the pastor gave out chapter and
verse (of his sermon), his voice fell upon her outward ear merely. Her
thoughts were far away.
Ah, brother and sister Virginians, who can wonder that we stream to
church so, on Sunday? What serener half-hour can there be than when the
good man is talking to us? Have we not sat under his teaching for years?
And doth not all the world allow him to be orthodox? Shall we watch him,
then? Shall we weigh his words? _That_, being a safe man, _he_ will do.
Let him talk! He will say the right thing, never fear! Trust him! Give
him room! While we, free from the anxieties of business and the petty
cares of home, sit there, peacefully dreaming, each one of us the dreams
that each loves best!
No; I am afraid Mary did not even hear what chapter and verse the text
was from that Sunday. That Sunday, particularly; for the very day before
she had received a letter in which her lover had said something like
this: Yes, _he_ went to church now; that is, he sat in the Argo every
Sunday, from eleven till one; sat there and thought of nothing but
her,—and so found that heaven which she sought.
Strictly speaking, these were what were thought wicked words in those
days (ole Virginny neber tire); but Mary forgave, though she did not
even try to forget them. And no sooner had she taken her seat than her
thoughts flew to the Argo. She could see him as plainly as though he
stood before her; and he was thinking of her. And of her only, of all
the world!
Are you in love, lovely reader? Then you will not be hard on my poor
little heroine, who ought to have waited, I allow, till Monday.
“You will find the words of my text in II. Corinthians, vi. 14.”
In those days I sat in the Carters’ pew. The Rolfes were across the
aisle, a few pews in advance of us. Mary’s cousin was still nearer the
pulpit.
I suppose it is none of my business, but when I cast my eyes over the
placid faces of a congregation, I always fall to wondering what they are
thinking about. Not the grandmothers in Israel, but the rest?
“II. Corinthians, vi. 14,” repeated the preacher, slowly emphasizing the
figures. They all do it.
There was to be heard that faint rustle that we all know, of the people
making themselves comfortable. Here a little foot peeps cautiously
around, and, finding the accustomed stool, draws it deftly beneath snowy
skirts. There a wide sole seeks unoccupied space; while length of limb
penetrates unexplored regions, avoiding cramp. Let us adjust ourselves,
you in that corner, I in this, where we can sit and muse according to
the bent of our several backs and minds.
“II. Corinthians, vi. 14.”
My eye chanced to fall on Mary’s face just at that moment. It wore the
usual Sunday-dreamy look.
“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”
She shivered.
Alice glanced quickly towards her; but the thrill had already passed.
She had regained outward composure, and sat looking at the preacher,
calm and unobtrusively attentive.
The cousin fidgeted in his seat and coughed softly in his hand.
Alice fixed her eyes upon him.
Perhaps he felt them, for a deeper glow suffused his hectic cheek.
The preacher, after a few introductory remarks on the state of things
which led the apostle to use these words, began with a sort of apology
for calling the attention of his flock to such a text. And again Alice
fixed her eyes upon the cousin, and again he seemed to feel their glow.
I shall not attempt to reproduce the sermon. His sketch of the advance
of skepticism in Europe, in England, and in the North, struck me as
labored; showing clearly that he had been set upon the task. But I shall
not criticise it. He was at home, certainly, when he pictured the life
of a pious, Christian woman whose yoke-fellow was an atheist. It was a
fearful picture (from the point of view of his hearers,—and he was
preaching to them), of which every detail was harrowing. But I leave
that picture to the imagination of my readers.
It is the last feather that breaks the camel’s back.
Alice had lost.
The dying cousin had won.