I have said,—it was all so sudden, and I didn't know what I was saying,—but things that I must never say again. The day is fixed for next week. It is all the same as if you had found me his wife."
"Not quite," said James, his voice cutting the air with a decided manly ring. "I have some words to say to that yet."
"Oh, James, will you be selfish? will you tempt me to do a mean, dishonorable thing? to be false to my word deliberately given?"
"But," said James, eagerly, "you know, Mary, you never would have given it, if you had known that I was living."
"That is true, James; but I did give it. I have suffered him to build all his hopes of life upon it. I beg you not to tempt me,—help me to do right!"
"But, Mary, did you not get my letter?"
"Your letter?"
"Yes,—that long letter that I wrote you."
"I never got any letter, James."
"Strange!" he said. "No wonder it seems sudden to you!"
"Have you seen your mother?" said Mary, who was conscious this moment only of a dizzy instinct to turn the conversation from where she felt too weak to bear it.
"No; do you suppose I should see anybody before you?"
"Oh, then, you must go to her!" said Mary. "Oh, James, you don't know how she has suffered!"
They were drawing near to the cottage-gate.
"Do, pray!" said Mary. "Go, hurry to your mother! Don't be too sudden, either, for she's very weak; she is almost worn out with sorrow. Go, my dear brother! Dear you always will be to me."
James helped her into the house, and they parted. All the house was yet still. The open kitchen-door let in a sober square of moonlight on the floor. The very stir of the leaves on the trees could be heard. Mary went into her little room, and threw herself upon the bed, weak, weary, yet happy,—for deep and high above all other feelings was the great relief that he was living still. After a little while she heard the rattling of the wagon, and then the quick patter of Miss Prissy's feet, and her mother's considerate tones, and the Doctor's grave voice,—and quite unexpectedly to herself, she was shocked to find herself turning with an inward shudder from the idea of meeting him. "How very wicked!" she thought,—"how ungrateful!"—and she prayed that God would give her strength to check the first rising of such feelings.
Then there was her mother, so ignorant and innocent, busy putting away baskets of things that she had bought in provision for the wedding-ceremony.
Mary almost felt as if she had a guilty secret. But when she reflected upon the last two hours, she felt no wish to take them back again. Two little hours of joy and rest they had been,—so pure, so perfect! she thought God must have given them to her as a keepsake to remind her of His love, and to strengthen her in the way of duty.
Some will, perhaps, think it an unnatural thing that Mary should have regarded her pledge to the Doctor as of so absolute and binding force; but they must remember the rigidity of her education. Self-denial and self-sacrifice had been the daily bread of her life. Every prayer, hymn, and sermon, from her childhood, had warned her to distrust her inclinations and regard her feelings as traitors. In particular had she been brought up to regard the sacredness of a promise with a superstitious tenacity; and in this case the promise involved so deeply the happiness of a friend whom she had loved and revered all her life, that she never thought of any way of escape from it. She had been taught that there was no feeling so strong but that it might be immediately repressed at the call of duty; and if the thought arose to her of this great love to another, she immediately answered it by saying, "How would it have been, if I had been married? As I could have overcome then, so I can now."
Mrs. Scudder came into her room with a candle in her hand, and Mary, accustomed to read the expression of her mother's countenance, saw at a glance a visible discomposure there. She held the light so that it shone upon Mary's face.
"Are you asleep?" she said.
"No, mother."
"Are you unwell?"
"No, mother,—only a little tired."
Mrs. Scudder set down the candle, and shut the door, and, after a moment's hesitation, said,—
"My daughter, I have some news to tell you, which I want you to prepare your mind for. Keep yourself quite quiet"
"Oh, mother!" said Mary, stretching out her hands towards her, "I know it. James has come home."
"How did you hear?" said her mother, with astonishment.
"I have seen him, mother."
Mrs. Scudder's countenance fell.
"Where?"
"I went to walk home with Cerinthy Twitchel, and, as I was coming back, he came up behind me, just at Savin Rock."
Mrs. Scudder sat down on the bed and took her daughter's hand.
"I trust, my dear child," she said. She stopped.
"I think I know what you are going to say, mother. It is a great joy, and a great relief; but of course I shall be true to my engagement with the Doctor."
Mrs. Scudder's face brightened.
"That is my own daughter! I might have known that you would do so. You would not, certainly, so cruelly disappoint a noble man who has set his whole faith upon you."
"No, mother, I shall not disappoint him. I told James that I should be true to my word."
"He will probably see the justice of it," said Mrs. Scudder, in that easy tone with which elderly people are apt to dispose of the feelings of young persons. "Perhaps it may be something of a trial, at first."
Mary looked at her mother with incredulous blue eyes. The idea that feelings which made her hold her breath when she thought of them could be so summarily disposed of! She turned her face wearily to the wall, with a deep sigh, and said,—
"After all, mother, it is mercy enough and comfort enough to think that he is living. Poor Cousin Ellen, too,—what a relief to her! It is like life from the dead. Oh, I shall be happy enough; no fear of that!"
"And you know," said Mrs. Scudder, "that there has never existed any engagement of any kind between you and James. He had no right to found any expectations on anything you ever told him."
"That is true also, mother," said Mary, "I had never thought of such a thing as marriage, in relation to James."
"Of course," pursued Mrs. Scudder, "he will always be to you as a near friend."
Mary assented.
"There is but a week now, before your wedding," continued Mrs. Scudder; "and I think Cousin James, if he is reasonable, will see the propriety of your mind being kept as quiet as possible. I heard the news this afternoon in town," pursued Mrs. Scudder, "from Captain Staunton, and, by a curious coincidence, I received from him this letter from James, which came from New York by post. The brig that brought it must have been delayed out of the harbor."
"Oh, please, mother, give it to me!" said Mary, rising up with animation; "he mentioned having sent me one."
"Perhaps
