“John, I do not see all this. Below I see the green and gray and brown of earth, except off in the valley the silver thread-like rivulet. When I lift my eyes towards the sun I see only the clouds and the sky. That is all; though my face is fanned and my hair tousled by the south wind that whispers to me. Do you hear what the south wind says? You have never tousled it, John, except when as little children we played together; never so much as caught a button of your coat in a stray strand and only the wind has played sweetheart and kissed my face. Oh! You need not move over. But when you were at William and Mary’s and I climbed to John Calvin Rock—I like the name—you are not tempest-tossed like other men, but sail a stormless sea or ride too deep for tossing—and looked out upon the valley, I always saw the same, allowing for change of season and sky. But when I closed my eyes, I looked through the peep hole of the old partition and saw a little boy in homespun of oak-bark brown—and when I said ‘’ittle boy peek [pg 180] through,’ he would not peek, but sat on the church bench as a thing of bronze, doubtless greatly shocked at my frivolity. Then the same little fellow took me to the mountain top and showed me the valley and the kingdom of men below; and talked of things I did not understand, as he continues to do. Again it was the same little boy who was the knight of my first adventure, and without a show of fear wiped away my tears. Then we came to live in the Valley and he was my nearest neighbor and, though my own age, taught me more than the master. I have long since given up hope of escape from him. Why has it always been the same little boy?—because it is going to be the same man, John. Oh, John! John!” And her eyes were filled with tears and John wiped them away.
That night John met Captain Fairfax as he was returning from looking after his horses, which had been grain-fed preparatory to continuing their journey in the morning; and without preliminary, as was his way, asked for his daughter.
The Captain, taken by surprise, as bluntly declined. Then ashamed of his bluntness, explained: “You know Dorothy is of gentle birth as are you on your father’s side. Your mother’s people for generations have been preachers or teachers, they are of an old family though not of the nobility, and she is as good a woman as ever lived. My objection is not to your family; and I know you would make Dorothy a good husband; but you have been educated for and expect to be a Presbyterian minister. As such you will not make a living sufficient to support Dorothy. Your father and I are no longer rich men, having given all except our lands to the cause of the Colonists. I am a Presbyterian, but I want Dorothy to marry a lawyer, or a planter—not a minister. I doubt if [pg 181] a minister in this new country should marry; he is almost a creature of charity. If you will go to Lexington or Danville and practice law or to the ‘cane country’ and with your father’s and my help buy a thousand acres and improve it, in two or three years I will give my consent. If not, in my opinion, you should remain unmarried. It is the church or Dorothy for your bride. Son, it is up to you.”
John did not answer but walked out into the night.
When Captain Fairfax went into the partly finished house and told his wife what had occurred, she burst into tears and upbraided him for showing an unchristian spirit, saying: “No good will result from your decision. John is just the husband I would have chosen for Dorothy. I had hoped that they would marry.”
She left the room, looking for Dorothy and sent her to find John.
Though the moon was full and one could see quite distinctly it was sometime before she found him in the shadow of a great elm near the creek. She came up as though it were accidental.
“Why in the shadow and so pensive when we were so happy today? Let us walk in the moonlight or sit on that great rock at the head of the riffle and watch the moonbeams play with the running water.”
John, before answering, took her by the hand and led her to a seat on the great boulder. Then he said: “Your father refuses. He looks at the matter from a different view point and his may be the correct one. Whether he or I am right rests with you; not upon your decision but your nature. If we do not marry it may mean a happier life for you, though for me a necessary sacrifice. I offer very little more than my love and fidelity; offsetting this, as he puts it, is a life of privation, hardship and sacrifice—if [pg 182] service can be so called. What he expects for you to have is what you have been brought up to expect—and I can never give.”
“John, I love life and joy and gayety but I also love helping others. I love serving God; but as a king should be served, with praise and thankfulness. I think a song of thanksgiving is as divine worship as tears of penitence, though each in order. If you will wait, and you and I are but twenty, in time he will come around to mother’s and my way of thinking. We run the Captain, though he is often victor in the preliminary skirmish. Mother said she had always expected me to be your wife and I have never thought of any one else for a husband.”