CHAPTER LIV.
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!