I have stated, elsewhere, that the dogma of the plenary inspiration of
the Scriptures was held, at this period, throughout the length and
breadth of Virginia. It was held, in truth, in a way to warm the heart
of a thoroughgoing theologian; for to doubt it was to be totally bereft
of reason. But many of my middle-aged fellow-citizens who are accustomed
to laugh at the Catholic doctrine of papal infallibility, will be
surprised when I remind them that, at that day, we believed, also, in
something very nearly akin to the plenary inspiration of sermons (those
of our own sect, of course).
And my Bushwhackerish candor compels me to go further, and to add that
it seems to me that we Virginia Protestants, at that day, carried the
dogma of parsonic infallibility to even greater lengths than Catholics
do that of the papal. For, as I understand it, it is only in matters of
faith that the Pope cannot err (and if he be infallible more than that,
I kiss his holiness’s toe and beg absolution); whereas, our Protestant
pontiffs did not hesitate to pronounce on all manner of
questions,—questions of hygiene, for example; going so far as to add an
eleventh commandment. As it is short, I will give it:
“Thou shalt not dance!” they cried in thunder tones; and, trembling,
their flocks obeyed!
Yet dancing is (as you may find in the first dictionary you shall lay
your hands on)—dancing is but the rhythmic capering of the young of our
species for a brief season (ah, _how_ brief and fleeting!). The rhythmic
capering of the boys and girls, reinforced, perhaps, by an occasional
widower (vivacious, high-prancing, nor hard to please), or else a
sporadic widow or so, forgetting her first and for getting her second.
This capering our Protestant pontiffs put down. Motion, _per se_, they
argued, was harmless; for the lamb, most scriptural of animals, frisketh
where he listeth. ’Twas the rhythm of motion that was hurtful.
“Miss Sally,” cried a colored slave and sister to her young mistress,
“you jump de rope and swing in de hammock, and you a member o’ de
church!” [Her very words; nor were they the remains of a half-forgotten
African fetich. They were a legitimate deduction from the theology
current in my young days.]
“Thou shalt not dance!” they thundered.
As though one bade the birds cease singing. And Virginia bowed her head
and obeyed.
We had our youthful sinners, of course, who wickedly refused to be
content with Blind Man’s Buff and Who’s Got the Thimble? (just as His
Holiness is bothered with his heretics). The Pope, however, wisely
remembering that this is the nineteenth century, would probably leave it
to the astronomers to say whether the earth revolves around its axis;
but as to the exclusively physiological question whether it were
injurious to dance a Virginia reel, no Virginian of those days ever
dreamed of consulting his family physician.
Am I beyond the mark, reader, when I say that the papal infallibility
pales in presence of the parsonic?
Can you wonder, then, that our poor little Mary was pale as ashes as she
hurried home that day?
Her mother walked beside her in silence. That was bitter; for during
these two months past Mrs. Rolfe had been more and more won over to the
side of the Don by what she had heard, not only from Mrs. Carter and
Alice, but from several of her acquaintance who had met him in Leicester
during the winter; and the aggregate of her favorable impressions had
been greatly strengthened by a little incident that had recently come to
her ears.
It appears that Mrs. Poythress had been greatly interested in having a
new roof and other repairs put upon the old church, and had succeeded in
raising the whole amount, with the exception of eighty dollars. Now, one
Sunday, as she was coming out of church with the congregation, a negro
man, taking off his hat, handed her a small parcel, saying, “I were
inquested to han’ you dis, ma’am,” and immediately bowed himself around
the corner of the building and disappeared. When this was opened it was
found to contain five twenty-dollar gold-pieces and a strip of paper on
which was written the word _roof_ in a disguised hand. The incident made
some stir, as such things will, in a country neighborhood. Who was this,
who was hiding from his left hand what his right hand did? The negro was
hunted down by amateur female detectives, and proved to be none other
than our friend Sam (who, it will be remembered, caught Charley and
Alice at their love-making in the Argo). But nothing could be gotten out
of honest Sam. “I was not to name no names,”—that was all he would say
(adding thereunto, in the Elmington kitchen that night, that eff a
five-dollar note wouldn’t shet a nigger mouf, twan’t no use to wase
stickin’-plaster on him).
It was never discovered who had contributed the hundred dollars, but it
was generally believed that it was the Don. As for Mrs. Rolfe, she never
doubted for one moment that it was he, basing, too, upon this
conclusion, half a dozen inferences, all favorable to the young
man,—first, that his not going to church was a transient eccentricity;
secondly, that he was a man of means; and, thirdly, that he was
freehanded with the said means, etc., etc., etc.
This trait, as I presume everybody knows, is that which, next to
personal courage, women most admire in a man. With what enthusiasm will
a bevy of girls hail a bouquet, costly beyond the means of the giver,
while the recipient of it, as she passes it from nose to nose, actually
tosses hers with pride,—yes,—because her lover has not had the
prudence to lay by what he gave for it against a rainy day and shoes for
the children. Which is enough to make a philosopher rage; and it is all
I can do to restrain my hand from levelling a sneer at the whole sex;
and I’ll do it yet, one of these days, and come out as a wit,—one of
these days when I can manage to forget that I once had a mother.
The more, therefore, Mrs. Rolfe heard of the Don, the more favorable she
grew to his suit; and the more favorable she grew to his suit the more
frequently did she allude to the absolute necessity of Mr. Rolfe’s
seeing the young man and hearing his account of himself, before he could
be allowed even to look at her Mary. It would be time enough, etc.,
etc.; but let a cloud appear on her daughter’s brow,—let her come down
to breakfast pale and worn—
“I believe, Mary,” Alice used to say, “that you often assume a rueful
countenance simply to lead your mother on to sing his praises.”
Never, in truth, had Mary felt herself so drawn to her mother as during
this trying period of her young life; and to her ineffably tender,
maternal solicitude her heart made answer with an unspoken yet
passionate gratitude.
And now this mother, who was always ready with a soothing word, walked
by her side in silence.
And Alice,—Alice, the merry and the brave,—where was she? Why does
she, contrary to her custom, hang back so far in the rear, talking to
Mr. Whacker in undertones? See, she has crossed over, and is walking
down the street on the other side! Has she, too, deserted me? Oh, that
terrible, terrible sermon! She ran up-stairs, locked her door, and threw
herself upon the lounge.
Mary was right. The same words of the preacher which had stunned her had
staggered her mother and Alice. Such was the power of the pulpit in
those days. To both, as they stepped from the church-door into the
street, the responsibility of combating the fulminations of their pastor
seemed too heavy for their shoulders.
But our plucky little Alice was only staggered, and soon rallied. She
would not go to see Mary that evening, so she told me; next morning
would be better.
And so the shades of evening came, and the shades of evening deepened
into night; and still she came not. Is it not enough that my mother
should desert me? The clock struck nine. No hope! There, the bell rang!
A soft tap on her door; not Alice’s merry rub-a-dub. A young slave and
sister announced the cousin. Mary sprang to her feet: “I won’t see him,”
she almost screamed; “tell him that!” cried she, advancing upon her late
pupil in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” with looks so fierce and gestures
so vehement as to drive her back in alarm upon the door which she had
just entered with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” stammered the Pilgrim, fumbling over the
door-knob in her confused effort to escape. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,”
added she, courtesying herself out, and shutting the door softly behind
her.
“Hi!” half whispered, half thought she to herself, as she stood upon the
landing, collecting her breath and her wits. “Hi, what de matter wid
Miss Mary? Fore Gaud, I was afeard she was gwine to bite me, I was! What
he done do, I wonder? Oh, I tell you. She done git tired o’ him a-comin’
round and a-comin’ round, and f’reverlahstin’ coughin’, and coughin’ and
coughin’, same like one o’ dese here little fice-dogs what bark and bark
and never tree nothin’, dough he do drive off de oder varmints dat you
mought cotch; and no gal don’t like dat, be she white _or_ black. He’s a
nice gent’mun, I don’t ’spute dat; but he _are_ powerful wizzened up,
dat’s a fac’. Howsomdever, I ain’t got de heart to give him no sich
message. A gent’mun is a gent’mun, for all dat, and I ain’t had no sich
raisin’. Nebberdeless, I ain’t a-blamin’ Miss Mary. She tired o’ dat
kind. Well, I likes ’em spry and sassy myself, I does, and I s’pose
folks is folks, dough dey _be_ diff’ent colors. Ahem! Ahem!”
She was nearing the parlor-door, and was clearing her throat for a
polite paraphrase, when she saw the front door gently close.
He had heard, and was gone.
Mary never saw him again. When he died, about a year afterwards, she
said that she had forgiven him; but I doubt if she knew her own heart.
There are some things a woman can never pardon.
Nor do I think that Alice has ever quite forgiven herself for her delay
at this crisis. For she feels to this day, I suspect, that had she gone
to see Mary that evening this story might have ended like a fairy-tale,
with everybody happy, just as it fares in real life. But she waited till
next morning.
And she awoke with the first twittering salutations of the birds to the
dawn; the dawn of a lovely April day. She too (for she was young and
happy) saluted Aurora; but with a sleepy smile; and readjusting the
pillow to her fair head, dozed off again; dozed off again, just as her
friend across the way, exhausted with pacing her room, had thrown
herself, all dressed as she was, upon her bed. Her mother, stealing
softly in, found her lying there, shortly afterwards, pale, haggard,
breathing hard, her features bearing, even while she slept, traces of
the struggle through which she had passed. And every now and then her
overwrought frame shook with a quick nervous tremor. Her mother wrung
her hands in silence, and turned to leave the room.
There was a letter, scaled and addressed, lying upon the table at which
her daughter wrote; while all about her chair lay fragments of other
letters, begun, but torn in pieces, and thrown upon the floor, though a
basket stood near at hand. “This will not do,” thought her mother. “She
must tell me what is in that letter before she mails it. We must look
into this matter, carefully, before any irrevocable step be taken. Shall
I take possession of it now? No, I will speak to her after breakfast.
Poor child! Poor child!” And she stole out on tiptoe.
This was not the first time that Mrs. Rolfe had visited her daughter
that night. At two o’clock in the morning, detecting the sound of
footsteps in Mary’s room, she had gone up-stairs and found her pacing
her room. She had entreated her to go to bed,—begged her to compose
herself,—had pressed her daughter to her heart and wept upon her
shoulder and bidden her good-night. Mary, hearing her mother coming, had
hoped for a word of encouragement. But Mrs. Rolfe had not dared to give
it, with the words of the preacher still resounding in her ears.
“It is all over, then,” she thought, when her mother closed the door;
and seizing her pen, began to write. Wrote letter after letter, each in
a different vein; each to be torn in pieces in turn. At last she wrote
one which was barely two pages long. As she folded the letter there fell
upon it a big tear, which she quickly dried with her handkerchief.
That tear-stain, poor child, had you left it there,—but it was not to
be.
Another fell upon the address, blotting it. She got another envelope.
This time, as she wrote the address, she averted her head. The hot tears
fell upon the table.
That would tell no tales.
Her mother had seen the letter lying there, and was startled. She would
talk to her daughter after breakfast.
After breakfast. That was Alice’s plan, too, you remember.
Mr. Rolfe, that man of peace, had slept through all the turmoil of the
night. “Where is Mary?” asked he, as he seated himself at table, next
morning; a question which evoked two simultaneous, though divergent
replies: one from Mrs. Rolfe that Mary was rather indisposed, and would
hardly be down to breakfast; the other from the Pilgrim, to the effect
that her young mistress had gone out, betimes, for a walk. “D’yar she is
now,” she added, as Mary’s footsteps were heard in the front hall.
Mr. Rolfe greeted his daughter with a smile of bright benignity. He
praised the roses in her cheeks. After all, there was nothing like fresh
air and exercise. As she bent over him and kissed him with unusual
affection, he patted her cheek; accompanying each tap with a sort of
cooing little murmur, which was his way when she caressed him. He was
delighted. He couldn’t remember when he had seen her so gay. She must
walk before breakfast every morning. What would she have? No doubt her
walk had made her ravenous. No? Yes, we all lose our appetites in
spring.
But her mother’s eye saw no roses painted by the breath of morning, but
a burning flush, rather; and when she took her daughter’s hand in hers,
it was icy cold. Her gayety, too, which rejoiced her father’s heart,
made her mother’s ache.
Presently, and while our party still lingered around the
breakfast-table, Alice came tripping in, fresh and cheery, the very
personification of that April which was abroad in the land.
Alice was not long in detecting the hysteria which lurked beneath Mary’s
assumed joyousness. What had happened? An acute attack of curiosity,
complicated with anxiety, seized upon her; and in less than a quarter of
an hour she and Mary stood in the hallway across the street, exchanging
a few words with Mrs. Carter.
“Let us go up to my room,” said Alice.
“State secrets, I suppose,” said Mrs. Carter.
“Oh, of course.” And the two girls tripped lightly up the stairs.
“How jolly you are to-day, Mary,” called out Mrs. Carter.
“Oh,” replied she from the first landing, “as merry as a lark. It’s the
bright spring weather, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s right; be happy while the sun shines, my child. The clouds
will come soon enough.”
No sooner had the girls entered Alice’s room than her face became
serious. “Sit down in that chair,” said she, in her quick, business-like
manner. “And now,” added she, drawing a seat close beside Mary, and
taking her hand, “now tell me,—what is all this?”
“I am happy, that’s all.”
“Happy?”
“Yes, it is all over—and I am free—and so-o-o-o ha-ha-ha-happy!” And
throwing herself on Alice’s neck, she sobbed convulsively.
Alice stroked her friend’s hair in silence, waiting till she should
recover from this paroxysm of bliss. At last Mary began to speak.
“It is all over,” she sobbed. “It was more than my strength could bear.
After that sermon—” and she shivered.
“How all over?”
“I have broken off the engagement.”
“How? when? where?”
“I wrote the letter last night.”
“Oh,” said Alice, with a sigh of relief. “Will you just be so kind as to
let me have that letter?” added she, reaching out her hand.
“It is already mailed.”
“Mailed!” shouted Alice, springing to her feet.
“Yes. I took it to the post-office myself before breakfast.”