Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 22
"Link by link the chain is made,
Pearl by pearl the costly braid,—
The daily thread of hopes and fears,
Weaves up the woof of many years.—
And well thy labors shall have sped,
If well thou weav'st thy daily thread."
A far more important event than anything that occurred at home awaited Walter's return from college. James Morgan's year of probation drew to a close. Just a year from the night they had the interview, he sat down and wrote the following letter:
"My own beloved Mary,—One year ago to-night I pledged myself before God, in the presence of Walter Claremont, that I would never again touch the intoxicating cup. Through divine help and your influence, Mary, I have kept the pledge. You may call it selfish, but I never should have had the strength to do it if it had not been for you. Many, many times should I have yielded to my craving thirst, but for the agonizing thought of being separated from you forever. Mary, my angel guide, I will conceal nothing from you, so that you shall never have it to say that I deceived you. All my bad deeds you know, and my struggles against temptation will not certainly lower me in your eyes, especially when I have triumphed over them.
One Saturday night it seemed to me I could not live through another Sunday without some kind of excitement. That is the hardest day I have, because it gives me the most leisure. Mr. Brewster and his wife with whom I board are very kind to me, and do every thing they can for my happiness. They give me a plenty of books to read, and invite me to share the society of all the company they have, as much as if I were one of the family, but what is all that compared with one letter to read of your handwriting, Mary, or an hour spent with you? As I lay there thinking it over, and longing for a sight at you, or a talk with Walter which you know was impossible because he was away at college, it suddenly occurred to me that I would slip over to Briar Street Church where you go, the next day, and see if I couldn't get a glimpse of you, Mary, it would do me so much good. It was leaping over the bounds I know, and running the risk of meeting my old associates, some of whom go there, but God protected me; I did riot see one of them. I kept out of sight until all the congregation had gone in, and then I went in and sat down on the back seat where nobody could see me. I could just get a sight at your bonnet, that pretty little white bonnet trimmed with pink and white ribbon that you know I liked so well, Mary. Once when you turned your head round I got a side glimpse of your face. Oh Mary! that did me more good than all the preaching of twenty years against drinking could have done. I felt as if you would not disappoint me, I knew you wouldn't; and when you leaned your head on your hand, I knew you were praying for me, and I prayed for myself.
Never did music sound so sweet before. I felt as if I was wafted on the wings of angels to a better land where all temptation was swept away, and you and I could be perfectly happy in each other's love. Oh my own dear Mary! I am afraid this is too much to think, that I shall never be permitted to realize it. I know I am not worthy of you, that a whole lifetime is not enough to atone for my sins, and I could not blame you if—oh no, I cannot think of that. Do trust me, Mary.
Never since that day have I had such a strong thirst; you overpowered it. My destiny is in your hands,—you will not cast me off. I do not doubt it Mary, only I want it from your own lips that you love me still, and will now become my wife. That has been a blessed thought to me, and my greatest support. If I could keep steady by thinking of you how much more can I do it by being with you. Perhaps you will think I should have done it before, but you do not know how hard it is to resist, when everybody around me was urging me just to drink a little, and then I loved it so and wanted more. I did it without thinking what the end would be. Oh! the cursed viper! how it has maddened and tortured me.
Now you will let me come and see you, won't you? Walter is at home and will take this letter to you. God bless him for what he has done for me. He will bring me word what you say, but I know what you will say. I know you will keep your word, only it seems almost too good to be true that I shall soon see you, and hear you say with your own sweet lips that you still love me James Morgan.
It was a grave responsibility resting on Walter, to be in any way concerned in the future destiny of, this young couple. He had kept up a correspondence with James, and written occasionally to Mr. Brewster whom he had partially acquainted with the circumstances, in order to know better how he kept his promises. The answers he received were very satisfactory.
After he had called on James and taken charge of this letter for Mary, it was a subject of grave discussion between himself and his mother, Ernest and Rosalind, how far it would be wise for him to act as negotiator between them.
"I almost wish," said his mother, "that you had never been mixed up with it, although it was a noble motive that prompted you. Her father is bitterly opposed to the union, and he thinks it is broken off. Perhaps he will turn her out of doors, or lock her up, if she should receive James again, he is such a furious man when angry."
"Suppose he should, I do not see how I could have done otherwise, or how I can refuse to act for them now. I have never advised Mary, of course I should not be so weak as that, but when she made a friend of me and asked my assistance, how could any body help doing for Mary Kingley? Neither would it be honorable for her to break her word with him and refuse to see him, when he has faithfully performed the conditions she required for her sake."
"She will run a great risk even now" said Ernest. "It is one thing to deny himself the gratification of his appetite when the prize is to be won, and another to persevere against all temptation when the die is cast, and he knows, let come what will, there is no longer any outward barrier to restrain him."
"Why, it would be the most cruel thing in the world for her not to have him now when he has given her all the proof he can of his repentance and reform. That love is not worth much that is not willing to trust something."
The slight tone of rebuke conveyed in these impressive words of Rosalind, and the earnestness and enthusiasm with which she uttered them, excited such a comical smile on the lips of Ernest, that when she glanced at him her face and neck were mantled in crimson. Nothing more was said then upon the subject, and Walter, who agreed most heartily with Rosalind, acted according to his own convictions, and carried the letter over to Mary the next morning.
As he was ushered into the parlor lie met her father in the hall just going out, who, hearing his daughter's name called, gave him a cordial grasp, saying,
"Good morning to ye sir, very glad to see ye sir. You'll always be welcome to my house and to mywell, we'll talk about that by and by sir. Ye are pretty young yet, but there's some folks a good deal older'n others at the same age. Hain't got through with your college larnin' yet I 'spose. Well, that's a fine thing to git a good eddication, may be you'll be President yet and beat old Adams all holler. Well, they say, every dog must have his day, and he'll have hisen, I 'spose, but we shall oust him out at the next 'lection, that's sure. Mary 's a fine gal, a fine gal, and will make one of the genteelest ladies in the land."
Walter was somewhat embarrassed by this ambiguous speech, but he walked into the parlor without making any reply. Mary did not make her appearance until her father was gone. Though very pale when she entered, she grew more so on receiving the letter, the handwriting of which she immediately recognized. Thinking his presence might be an intrusion at this time, Walter took his leave, saying he would call again the next day, and asking her if she had any choice when. After pausing a moment she said, "To-morrow morning at ten."
She could scarcely have felt worse on returning to her chamber if that letter had been her death-warrant. It lay in her lap many minutes unopened. The crisis had come, a crisis as it were between life and death. She never faltered a moment as to her duty, nor wavered in her attachment, but she knew as well as Ernest the difference between maintaining self-imposed restraints when there is an object to be gained, and after the conditions requiring them no longer exist. Then reproaching herself for indulging in such a doubtful strain instead of rejoicing over its contents, which she assumed to be what they really were, she began to read it. The tears came thick and fast, causing her to stop many times before it was finished. Stronger than any other consideration rose the all conquering power of love. If she refused him, not only would she incur the risk of his ruin, but carry within her own soul the blight occasioned by the sealing up of her young heart's affections, which would render it callous to every other human love. A sensation of joy and hope, such as those only can know who have witnessed the rescue of a dear one from some imminent danger and anxiously watched the signs of returning consciousness, swept away every emotion of doubt and fear, and her soul rose in thanksgiving to Him who is the source of every joy. As the dinner hour approached she thought of her father and the difficulties that awaited her in gaining his consent, who had always been an indulgent parent, and therefore it would be a much harder struggle to act counter to his wishes. He did not come home until tea-time. At table he looked at Mary with a very benignant smile saying, "Well my bonnie lass, you had a call from Master Claremont this morning didn't you? He's a fine lookin' youngster, improved very much since he's been gone, and many's the gal that'll envy you my lass, but be sure you keep your eye on the money, that's the main pint ye know."
"Father, I don't understand you, what do you mean?"
"All right, all right, Mary, it's perfectly natural that you should feel a little shy about it; that's the way your mother did, and when I went up and put my arm round her so, she acted as if she wanted to get away, but I guess she never had reason to be sorry she married Nicolas Kingley, if he was a poor boy, and had to make his way up in the world, did ye, eh! Poll?"
"Then I suppose you will have no objection to James Morgan, now he is steady?"
Ho started as if a revolver had whistled past his ears.
"hm Morgan, the wretch, have you seen him?"
"No, I have, not seen him."
"Then you shall not see him so long as you live in this house! No! my daughter shan't disgrace my name by marrying a drunkard's son, whether he is drunk or sober; no, never!" bringing his fist down with such force upon the table as to shatter in pieces a very delicate and curiously designed vase standing upon it.
Mary's resolution was not to be shaken. As an act of duty, it was no more than she ought to do to atone for the wrong lie had done James. Though never lacking in filial respect, she was not so blinded by indulgence, as not to sec in its true colors the misery her father had wrought.
The next morning she rose early and looked out at her chamber window, which commanded a romantic view. Hills and vales alternated here and there with a sheet of water which found an inlet from the main stream; manufacturing establishments rose in proud preeminence above the little low-roofed cottages, that seemed to start up wherever there was a convenient spot of ground to erect one; and the children, some half-dressed, were vicing with each other to see who of them would venture nearest the forbidden stream.
Just opposite the window lay the rural cemetery in the bosom of a beautiful grove bordering on the lake. Mary looked at the white gate she had, so often seen swung back to admit the funeral procession, bearing hither some precious treasure that had been the abode of white-robed innocence, torturing disease, or loathesome sin, whose spirit had gone to the bar of its final Judge, freed from the prejudices, the temptations, and the ills of its earthly career, to receive its due reward from the measure of impartial justice; subject only to Him in the light of whose all-seeing eye every secret shall be revealed, and every motive clearly read. She looked beyond the tomb, and felt that life is but a few years, a speck in the balance of eternity, but love is immortal. Whatever changes might betide her, if, in surrendering herself to it, she should reap a life of wretchedness and want, because he in whom she trusted had not strength to resist the overpowering influences of this world, might he not when taken from them become again the pure and loving spirit he now is? Her present duty she saw and would perform it; the future she must trust to God. Oh Love! what magic is thine! no barrier so great but thou cans't o'erleap it! She took her Bible and read a chapter before going down to breakfast. Vanquished was every trace of earthly anguish, and her father's averted look had no terrors for her now. The meal was eaten in silence.
As Mr. Kingley rose to go out she said to him,
"Father, may I speak with you a moment?"
"You know what I told you last night," and his voice grew husky with rage, "if you consent to see James Morgan, you leave this house forever! I am in earnest."
Mary was prepared for this, and preserved her composure. She saw that her only alternative was to take her father at his word and quit the house. Where to go was the question, but she must leave that to be decided when Walter came. Every moment was now needed to make the hasty preparations for her departure leaving no time for reflection or regret. The canary birds in her window sung their liveliest songs, striving to drown the music of the little birds who sang on the apple tree boughs, but she scarcely breathed a sigh at the thought that it was in all probability the last time she would ever listen to their sweet notes, or that the step she was about to take would sever her forever from her childhood's home. Hark! what is that she hears? A light foot is on the stairs, a soft voice is in her ear; her mother stands before her. "Oh Mary, you will not leave me will you?"
It was hard to answer that pleading. Mary was the only sunbeam that had cheered that poor woman's existence since she had led a married life.
Thwarted in her early love by the opposition and interference of her friends, she had accepted Mr. Kingley out of revenge on them, which, alas! fell most heavily on herself. Neither bringing him any love, or receiving any in return, she was borne down under a despotic rule which was submitted to only because she must. Her sympathies were all with Mary, whose trials called up a painful reminiscence of her own bitter experience, but in the loneliness of her heart at the thought of being separated from her, she almost chided her for permitting another love to step between them. Mary looked at her for a few moments with those trusting, modest blue eyes of hers, now beaming with the celestial glow of spiritual triumph, saying, "Mother, it is not all of life to live; the future is beyond. Whatever happiness we are deprived of in this life, we shall certainly reap hereafter if we do our duty; or if we commit an error, shall not he who has himself shared our weakness, out of that unbounded mercy which it was his mission to preach here on earth, bear us in remembrance to the Throne of pardoning grace, where all sins shall be blotted out when, like the prodigal son, we feel the magnitude of our transgression, and return confidingly to the loving Father's arms who never casts us off, but in tender compassion guards us pityingly from the pit our own hands have dug?"
She little thought as she said these last words which had reference to James, how exactly they applied to her mother. Such a devoted, forgiving nature as hers could never have understood those darker passions which would hazard its own purity and integrity in the strife between its own promptings and the malicious designs of others. Mrs. Kingley's heart was full. It seemed as if a new elixir of life quickened her pulse and sent its healing balm through every pore. She said no more to dissuade Mary, but lent her assistance in many little things that she understood best how to manage, without asking a word of her plans and intentions. The trunk was packed and Mary was ready at ten o'clock when Walter came. She met him with a smile, calm and self-possessed. He had the forethought to ask his mother's leave to invite her there to meet James, if it should be deemed advisable, so that point was soon settled to Mary's great relief. At eleven the hack came, when she bade adieu to her childhood's home.
As her mother asked no questions she thought it best to give her no information of her destination, thus enabling Mrs. Kingley to reply to her husband's inquiries that they had held no private interview. She gave her a long and affectionate embrace, leaving a message for her father that she had acted solely on her own responsibility, without asking or receiving the advice of any human being.
It was not without some misgivings Mr. Kingley came home to dinner that day, some vague suspicion that he should not find Mary there. When convinced that she was really gone, his rage knew no bounds. He cursed and swore, charging his wife with being accessory to her plans. When told that all she knew about it was that a hack came and took her away, he said, "And so you let her go all peaceably did you? Why didn't ye send after me you cussed hussy? If you'd 'a gone instead of her it would have been the most fortunate day of my life."
He never thought that Mary would dare to go off, his threats being intended to prevent James from coming there. His pride forbade his making any farther inquiries for her, and he settled down morose and reserved.
An arrangement was made for James to go to Mrs. Claremont's that evening. A great change had taken place in his looks in one year. His large, handsome eyes had recovered their natural, innocent expression, and his erect bearing and reliant step bespoke a noble purpose, and the decision to carry it out.
How Mary's heart fluttered as she beheld with becoming pride the manly form who had wrestled with a greater foe than ball or sword had ever slain, and spoke the sacred words of more than usual solemnity to her, "I will be thine forevermore."
Under the circumstances it was agreed that it would not be best to defer the marriage more than a month. When Walter and his mother were holding a consultation about her remaining there, Rosalind, as usual, decided the question.
"Oh yes, let her stay here and I will help her get ready; and let them be married here, and Walter and I will stand up with them."
"Perhaps Mary will prefer to choose her own bridesmaid," said Walter, laughing.
James wisely decided to remain where he was, and hired a little cottage of Mr. Brewster, near his own residence, where they were to set up house-keeping on a small scale, their means being very limited, but it was for them the most attractive little home, which they would not have exchanged for a palace.
There was a plenty to absorb Rosalind's energies. She worked incessantly from early morning till late at night, and assumed the whole charge of the wedding preparations, having great practical business talent. This was a great help to Mary, who needed the assistance of some one, when contending with so many unpleasant recollections, that she would gladly have foregone all needless ceremony. But Rosalind was not to be put off. Marriage, she said, was something that did not take place every day, and ought to be properly observed. She insisted on getting her a white muslin, to correspond with one of her own, so they might be dressed alike; and white, she said, was the only color suitable for a bride. Mary consented with her sweet, pensive smile, though protesting all the while that she should never wear it afterwards. She did wear it to Rosalind's wedding.
James came over and took tea with her every Sunday afternoon, a custom which Ernest also observed, so that was a joyous night at Orange Grove.
Mrs. Claremont enjoyed it, Walter enjoyed it, and a stranger looking on must have enjoyed the sight of so much happiness. It is seldom we see three young men associated, of such interesting appearance, pure and refined tastes as Ernest, James and Walter. One must feel sure in looking at them and reading their frank, honest countenances, that if either of them committed an error, it was the fault of the head and not of the heart.
Those were halcyon days to all the parties,—days which came back to the memory like the golden tinge of sunset on the fleecy cloud after the fervid glow of the noontide heat. Like all other days these must have an end, and this soft, summer hour of twilight give way to the reality of earnestness with which we must enter the arena of life and accept both its sunshine and its shadows. The wedding day arrived. There was no invited guest save Ernest, and all went on quietly and serenely as that smiling summer day.