Gray, referring to the requisites of a valid marriage ceremony, said
"the Canon Law was never adopted" in Massachusetts; and this is true in
respect to the particular subject which that learned judge had under
consideration. He never meant it as an unqualified statement, for as
such it would not be true. In 1691 the marriage between Hannah Owen and
Josiah Owen was declared null and void by the Court of Assistants,
because Hannah was the widow of Josiah's brother, and because by "the
Canon Law, as allowed and adopted in England," ever since Archbishop
Cranmer annulled the marriage between Henry VIII. and Catherine of
Aragon, no man could lawfully marry his brother's widow. We do not stop
to consider whether the Canon Law in this respect was right or wrong; we
merely cite this case to show that, as to some things, the Canon Law was
adopted here. In one marked instance the people of Massachusetts
deviated from "the Canon Law as allowed and adopted in England," to
follow the Canon Law as allowed and adopted by the Popes of Rome; they
enacted that, upon the marriage of the parents of any illegitimate
child, such child should thereby become legitimate.
The colonists of Massachusetts had no such blind prejudice against the
Canon Law, or the Church of England, or the Church of Rome, as prevented
them from adopting whatever they found therein which their consciences
and their reason approved. So far from cherishing an unreasoning
prejudice against the Ecclesiastical Courts, the people of Massachusetts
have preserved, in their Probate Courts, substantially the same system
of law and substantially the same method of procedure which were
followed in the Consistory Court of London, and in the Consistory Court
of Rome; notwithstanding that system came to them associated with the
name of one of the most unpopular and yet one of the ablest of their
governors--Sir Edmund Andros.
There were, indeed, two complaints which the Puritans of Old England and
of New England often made against the English Ecclesiastical Courts:
first, that they punished with merciless severity violations of certain
ecclesiastical regulations which involved no moral turpitude; second,
that they were too lax in the punishment of social sins, Sabbath
desecrations, etc., etc. But nowhere among the literary remains of the
Puritans do we find any suggestion that the system of morals which was
recognized by the Canon Law and administered by the Ecclesiastical
Courts was "not suited to their opinions or condition." We shall not be
understood as saying that the Canon Law in its entirety was ever adopted
in New England, or even in Old England; it was not. When Henry VIII.
assumed the prerogatives of supreme head of the Church of England, so
much of the Canon Law as relates to the jurisdiction of the Pope was
abrogated in that kingdom. So when the colonists of Massachusetts
established "a Church without a bishop and a State without a king," so
much of the Canon Law as relates to diocesan episcopacy also fell into
what President Cleveland would call "innocuous desuetude." But they
adopted the decalogue of Moses with as much reverence as did their
fathers before them. They knew as well as the poet Lowell that "The Ten
Commandments will not budge," but that, vitalized by the life of Christ,
those commandments stand "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever."
DORRIS'S HERO.
A ROMANCE OF THE OLDEN TIME.
BY MARJORIE DAW.
"Spin, spin, Clotho, spin," hummed a gay, masculine voice. "Methinks,
fair Mistress Dorris, even the Fates themselves could not be more
devoted to their task than are you to that busy little wheel."
Pretty Dorris Gordon glanced up from her seat by the long window opening
into the cool, grassy orchard, where the sun played hide-and-seek with
the shadows and then came back to rest _caressingly_ on her bent head
crowned with its own sunshine of chestnut hair, but she stayed neither
busy hand nor foot as she answered,--
"Since your mighty mind is bent on mythological comparisons, Capt.
L'Estrange, 'tis but a poor compliment to a fair lady when a gallant
officer compares her to three old Fates,--unless he qualifies the remark
somewhat. Could you not add something about my fairy fingers weaving the
destiny of man? I fear your quick French wits have been dulled by that
cold British bullet in your arm."
"Nay, 'tis not the British bullet, but yourself, _ma belle cousine_,
that bewilders my French wits and inspires me instead with American
patriotism," is the quick retort.
"Far better than your last speech," laughs Dorris, taking from her belt
a deep-red rose fastened by a true-love knot of blue ribbon to a snowy
white bud. "So much better that I will bestow on you my colors. See! the
red, white, and blue! Wilt wear them like a brave and gallant knight?"
"They shall be like Henri of Navarre's plume: ever foremost in the
struggle for right," the young officer answered, bending to kiss the
little hand which held the proffered treasure. "I well know no empty
compliment will please you as that promise, and indeed its sincerity
will soon be tested, for my arm is so much better that I am ready for
action, and next week I am off."
"So soon?" cried Dorris. "Oh, that I were a man, to fight for the stars
and stripes!"
"I am always sure to find the words here set to the tune of Yankee
Doodle," breaks in a new voice with a light laugh. "Still, you deserve a
laurel wreath for that enthusiastic wish. Will a humble offering of
roses be unworthy of notice, fair Goddess of Liberty?" and a shower of
sweet-scented blossoms fell over Dorris' head and shoulders.
"O Mr. Endicott! goddesses are not crowned so unceremoniously. Imagine
Paris pelting Venus with that apple that made so much trouble," says
Dorris, glancing up half angrily, half mirthfully, at the tall intruder
leaning so easily against the window. "I am almost minded to make you
hold this skein of yarn, as a penance, while I wind it."
"Alas! she descends from a goddess to the most prosaic of mortals,"
sighs Endicott; then springing through the low window, "I am ready to
obey; but that skein is imposing. What _is_ its destiny?"
"And why, oh, why this inseparable devotion to that unfeeling wheel?"
adds L'Estrange. "I came for a stroll, and, _voila!_ she cannot leave
her spinning. Is it a trousseau, that must be ready when some lover
comes home from the war?"
Dorris's bright face saddens suddenly, the perfect mouth loses its arch
curves, and a shadow creeps into the brown eyes as the long lashes droop
over them.
"The skein is to be knit into socks for the soldiers," she says simply;
"and as for my wheel, I love it because it is connected with one who has
been more to me than any lover. 'Tis but a homely story, but I will tell
it to such old friends as you. I need not tell you that I have a brother
in the army, but you do not--you cannot--know how dear he is to me, how
he has taken the place of both father and mother. It seems as if brother
and sister had never been bound by ties so close, and when this war came
upon us I watched him day by day, knowing well the thought in his heart,
and trembling for what I knew _must_ come; and yet when Rex came to me
and said, 'Little sister, my country needs me: can you be brave, and
bear it, if I go?' oh, then it seemed to me that I could not bear it!
But I thought of the brave Lafayette leaving his home and loved ones to
fight for us, a foreign nation, and my heart smote me that _I_ could not
be willing to offer my mite for my own dear country, and I bade my
brother, 'Go, and God-speed.' It was only a few weeks before that he had
given me this wheel, and almost his last words were, as he stood smiling
in the door-way, 'Remember, Dorris, I shall expect to find on my return
one dozen handkerchiefs spun and woven by yourself and that wonderful
wheel.' I have remembered that careless injunction, and have obeyed it.
There lies awaiting his return the pile of snowy linen, but we have not
heard from him for long, long weeks, and sometimes my heart seems
breaking, with the constant dread that haunts it. Do you wonder now that
I love my dear little wheel?"
Impulsive, warm-hearted, patriotic Dorris ends with a little sob in her
voice, and L'Estrange welcomes the entrance of the host and hostess of
the old-time mansion, as it covers the awkward emotion of the moment. As
he advances to pay his _devoirs_ to them Keith Endicott seizes his
opportunity to say softly, as he bends over the head buried in the now
idle hands:--
"Sweet friend, you said you wished you were a man, to fight for the
flag; remember, even though 'tis hard, 'They also serve who only stand
and wait.'"
Then, while Dorris tries to change the sob into words, he follows the
others into the wide, long hall, where the breezes, sweeping in through
the open doors at either end, fill the summer air with delicious
coolness, and the scent of roses mingles with that of newly-mown clover.
The breezes, too, bring to Dorris bits of conversation from the hall;
but they fall on unheeding ears until an abrupt speech from her uncle
claims her attention.
"Endicott," says his voice, "why don't you join the army? Such men are
being called for,--young, strong, and able. Why don't you go?"
Dorris almost holds her breath as she awaits the answer. She scarcely
knows how many times she has asked herself that very question. The
answer comes quietly, almost indolently, though she knows that
Endicott's reticent nature must be annoyed beyond measure.
"Why don't I? Really, I do not know, sir. Young, strong, and able, an
idle fellow enough. I think it must be because it hurts, and I'm a
dreadfully selfish fellow."
What reply could be made to his careless, easy tones? And the talk
drifted smoothly on--the more smoothly, perhaps, since no one believed a
word that he said, for Keith Endicott ere this had earned the name of
the soul of bravery and honor; but Dorris dropped to the ground the
roses that had lain all this time in her lap, as if an unseen thorn had
wounded her, and, rising, went away to her own cosey room, where she
flung herself into an arm-chair and fell into a deep study, looking from
her window through the trees to where the blue waters of the Charles
gleamed and rippled in the sunlight. It was a lovely spot, this home of
her aunt in the suburbs of Boston,--a home which Dorris had called her
own since her parents' death, years before, when she and her brother had
been confided to her aunt's tender care. And Dorris loved every spot of
this rambling, old, colonial mansion, from its spacious ballroom, and
its wide porches, to her own room, with its faded tapestry hangings, its
great fireplace and bright brass andirons, its hanging book-shelves with
their store of well-chosen volumes, the English titles varied here and
there by a Latin or French classic (for Dorris had studied with her
brother, and was quite proficient in both languages; indeed, L'Estrange
delighted in calling her a _bas-bleu_ in a vain attempt to tease her),
its tall, brass-handled secretary with its secret drawer, which Dorris
called so tantalizing, because she had no secret to hide in its depths,
and the eight-day clock ticking away in the corner, which now struck the
hour, waking Dorris from her revery into words:--
"I wonder why he does not go: he is no coward; it is not that. I verily
believe it is as he said: he is selfish, and does not want the trouble.
How he laughs, and disbelieves in everybody, even himself! and what a
narrow life he must lead! And yet, sometimes I think better, as I needs
must, of my old playmate. Just now he spoke to me with real feeling, and
truly, it was a sweet and comforting thought he offered me. And yet the
other day, after church, when Gen. Brewster spoke so cordially to Henri
L'Estrange and Lieut. Allen, and then bestowed rather a contemptuous
glance on Keith,--I mean Mr. Endicott,--I caught him quoting, under his
breath, 'The world is a farce, and its favors are follies; but farces
and follies are very dear to human hearts.' I could not help saying,
'When its favors are well-earned I think they cease to be follies.' It
was, at the best, bad taste to cavil in that way at Henri, who is so
brave and enthusiastic, and has come all the way from his own and his
father's native France because his mother's land needed brave, true men.
And he is going away next week; if he could only send us news of Roy!"
"Dorris!" called her aunt's voice. "It is quite time you were ready for
dinner, dear. And do you not think you were failing in courtesy to your
guests to leave them so abruptly?"
"Cousin Henri has had enough of my society, to-day, Aunt Dorothy, and
I've no patience with Keith Endicott; you heard how he answered uncle.
But I'll come in a moment, auntie," answers Dorris; and the arm-chair
loses its fair occupant.
Quaint, dainty little Dorris! What would not I--I, your
great-granddaughter, in this degenerate year of 1885--give to see you
just as you looked then, thinking over this and that in a manner not so
very unlike the maidens of this generation! Ah, well! I must perforce
content myself with that miniature of you as "Madam," in your lavender
brocade, with the feathers in your powdered hair, and the row on row of
pearls about your throat. Very stately and dignified you look there; and
yet, Great-grandmother Dorris, I can see the spice of "innate
depravity," as I doubt not your grave pastor would have called it, and
catch a glimpse of the quick temper and warm heart in those bright eyes
and that saucy little nose.
The evening before Capt. L'Estrange's departure has come, and a few of
the many friends he has made during his short furlough spent with the
Gordons are gathered there to make the last hours of his stay such as
shall afford him pleasant recollections in the future. Dorris makes a
charming little hostess as she flits from room to room, and at last
pauses on the porch before a group of three, L'Estrange, Endicott, and
Lieut. Allen, an old friend who is home on sick-leave, who welcome
warmly and admiringly the slight, graceful figure in its white dress,
with a bag of red, white, and blue hanging from her dimpled elbow, a
fancy of Dorris, enhanced by the red and white roses and blue
forget-me-nots in her hair,--flowers which she found on her
spinning-wheel, with no clew to the giver.
"Mon Capitaine Henri, Aunt Dorothy wants you for a moment," she says
now. "They are all enjoying themselves, so I came out here to rest.
Lieut. Allen," she adds graciously, as her cousin disappears, "I am glad
that we are to have one representative of the army left after my cousin
leaves us."
"I thank you, Miss Gordon," answers the young soldier, "but my stay is
limited; you see I hobble around now with the aid of a crutch. I only
wish I could go with your cousin."
"L'Estrange is in your regiment, is he?" asks Endicott.
"Yes, we fought side by side at Saratoga. You know what a close conflict
that was. Such a din of shot and shell that an order could be scarcely
heard in the tumult. It was hot work I can assure you."
Dorris is leaning forward in breathless interest, and as he pauses asks
a characteristic question: "How did you feel then? What were your
thoughts?"
"Well, it was a most absurd thing, but I found myself, though I could
scarcely hear my own voice, repeating a verse from one of the old
cavalier ballads:--
"'We were standing foot to foot, and giving shoot for shoot;
Hot and strong went our volleys at the blue;
We knelt, but not for grace, and the fuse lit up the face
Of the gunner, as the round shot by us flew.'"
Endicott smiles. "But it was a good battle-cry, Allen. I remember your
reciting verses at Cambridge in your college-days, but it was generally
'A sonnet to your mistress' eyebrows,'--some fair one who had conquered
your heart for a week perhaps."
Dorris is not to be diverted from the absorbing topic of ball and
bayonet, and returns to the charge.
"But how did you feel when you were wounded?" she asks again.
"Oh, I did not know where I was hit. In the midst of the fight I
wondered why I couldn't move my left foot; it was like lead in the
stirrup, and looking down I saw the mark where the ball had struck, and
the blood following it. It was a little quieter then, so I got the
sergeant near me to clip, and ease my foot a little. But you should have
seen L'Estrange: he was wounded then; and when the order came to charge
he rushed on, waving his sword, with the blood dripping from his arm.
How the men rushed after him! And when he came back supporting another
poor fellow, and insisting on his being cared for first, you should have
heard the men cheer him."
"And you, Allen," suggests Endicott,--"how did you get on with that
wound of yours?"
"Well, I was rather faint by the time we were ready to go back to camp;
but somebody set me straight in the saddle when I reeled, and I managed
to get back all right."
"But where was the surgeon all the while?"
"To tell the truth, I was so much better off than most of the poor
fellows, Keith, I made him help the rest. That was all."
"So you took the chance of enjoying a British surgeon's tender mercies,
for the sake of men, who, perhaps, could not live anyway. Allen, you
always were a good-natured Don Quixote."
Allen laughed as if he saw something beneath the words which excused
their lightness, but Dorris frowned, as she looked admiringly at the
manly fellow so ready to see his comrade's unselfish bravery, so
unconscious of his own. She often saw the wounded soldier leaning on
Endicott's arm, and their words seemed grave and earnest, while
Endicott's face seemed for a time to lose its cynical sneers. And then
Dorris had relented, only to harden again at some irreverent words of
this incorrigible Keith. A sharp retort was on her lip now, but she
restrained it as L'Estrange once more joined the group, and the talk
drifted into quieter channels, the young soldiers a little graver than
usual. At last L'Estrange spoke with tender regret of the peaceful
scenes he was to leave so soon behind him, and Endicott answered:--
"Yes; think of all the drives and walks and talks, and all the charms of
civilized life you forego, and then of the camp-life and forced marches,
and chances of broken arms and legs, which you endure, and all for that
one sweet virtue,--patriotism."
This was too much for quick-tempered Dorris. Out flashed her words:--
"Mr. Endicott cares so little for that sweet virtue that he will enjoy
your pleasures while _you_ fight _his_ battles. If you will excuse me
now I will return to the parlors;" and with little head proudly erect,
Dorris started to enter the house, entertaining the fond hope that she
had at last paid Keith for all his trials of her patience and
patriotism. Alas!
"The best laid plans o'mice and men gang aft a-gley;"
and some one had carelessly left a footstool on the porch, and as
Dorris's foot struck it Endicott was the one to spring forward and save
her from falling. Lifting her eyes to acknowledge the courtesy, she met
such a look of quiet reproach that her "Thank you" came very humbly from
so proud a young lady; and when she reflected on the subject at that
trying moment which we have all experienced when we have regained our
temper, and are taking a mental retrospect of the occasion when we very
foolishly lost it, it was in vain that she tried to justify herself by
repeating his sneering words. Remembering the look that followed them,
she said, in self-abasement, "I had no right to judge him," and in her
humiliation avoided meeting him so successfully that for several days
after her cousin's departure she neither saw nor heard of him, until at
last she heard with relief that he had gone away for a short time, on
receiving news of the death of a cousin,--his nearest relative. But when
week after week passed, and Aunt Dorothy had several times wondered
aloud what had become of Mr. Endicott, Dorris began to wonder as well,
and to miss the magnetic presence that made him so charming to all;
indeed, she discovered, to her own uncontrollable disgust, that she
missed him even more than her cousin, whose warm and generous nature had
endeared him to all his new friends.
In the meantime Lieut. Allen called to say farewell to his former
playmate, and the friend of his later years. What if Dame Rumor said he
cherished a latent desire for a nearer title than either of these.
Dorris said they were only firm and true friends; and the tenor of their
talk seemed to prove that she was right, for as she turned from the
old-time spinnet, where she had been singing the lovely little serenade
of Thomas Heywood:--
"Pack clouds away, and welcome day;
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet airs, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, plume thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow!"
Allen said abruptly, "Dorris, for what are you waiting?"
"Waiting?" repeated Dorris, wonderingly.
"Yes; don't you remember
"While year by year the suitors come
To find her locked in silence dumb?"
"If it was any one but my old friend Max I should make you a very low
courtesy, and say, 'By your leave, fair sir, it is a matter of not the
slightest consequence to _you_;' but I'll tell you the truth and nothing
but the truth: I'm waiting for my hero, Max."
"For your hero? Yes; I thought you were. And what is he like? A fairy
prince like the Sleeping Beauty's?"
"Don't be satirical: it doesn't suit you, Max," retorts Dorris.
"Satirical? I'm in the deepest earnest. Won't you describe him? I really
wish to know."
"Well," began Dorris, "it is not exactly an easy thing to describe an
imaginary person. He is no fairy prince, Max, but a strong and earnest
man, a true and noble soul; a man who, for a good cause, would peril
anything, a knight like Bayard of old: _sans peur et sans reproche_."
"Do you think you will ever find this ideal?" questions Max.
"No," is the prompt reply. "If there are such men, I have never met
them. But I would far rather wait for the dim ideal than try the
commonplace reality."
"But is all the reality commonplace? Let me tell you a story, Dorris; I
shall not bore you, for it is not long: When I joined the army, in the
first of the war, I went to tell an old friend, and to take leave of
him. He was a peculiar fellow, seemingly cold, light and satirical,
half-sneering at the ardent blaze of patriotism that was burning all
around him, seeming to have no intention of serving his country in her
need. And yet I knew him to be the truest, noblest, tenderest, and most
loyal fellow among all my friends. He looked at me with real envy, and
then exclaimed: 'I wish to Heaven I could go with you, Allen!' and I
answered: 'Why don't you? I have never asked before because I knew you
had some worthy reason.' After some hesitation, he began: 'Because you
have never doubted or questioned me I will tell you why I am here, when
every feeling is against my inactivity. You will keep my secret?' Of
course I promised, and he went on: 'You know I am very wealthy, Max,
that my income is, for these times, extremely large; but you do not know
that, by my grandfather's will, the next heir, in case of my death, is
my cousin, a man who aids and abets the Tories in every possible way, a
man unscrupulous and unprincipled to the last degree. I have but one
life; I might lay it down in my first battle, and that property, over
which I have no control, would be worse than useless to my country. It
would aid her foes, and, much as she needs men, she needs money even
more. So I stay here, and put my income, as fast as I get it, to the
national use. You know what my income is. I'll show you my expenses';
and he showed me the merest fraction--less than I spend myself, I began
to expostulate on his endurance of suspicion and blame for what might be
so nobly explained, but he would only say, 'Oh, it would sound quixotic
and sentimental; and, after all, what does it matter? I know _myself_
that I am serving my country to the best of my poor ability.' But at
last, Dorris, he is rewarded, for he was born to be a soldier; and when,
three weeks ago, he received news of the sudden death of that cousin, he
immediately enlisted, and is now serving his country in the way he has
so long desired. What do you think of such a man as he?"
"He is a hero," answered Dorris, steadily, though a suspicion, quick as
a ray of light, had flashed through her mind as to who this hero was. "A
hero as true as any my fancy could paint. Who is he--this noble friend
of yours?"
"Keith Endicott," is the quiet answer, adding, quickly, as he rose to
take his leave. "Forgive me, sweet friend, that I could no longer bear
that you should do injustice to him, for those quick words of yours the
last evening we were all together have rankled in my heart, as I know
they have in his, ever since."
Dorris was not too proud to acknowledge when she was in the wrong, and
with winning grace she said, as she gave him her hand:--