Part 15 (1/2)
Then the old leader said, ”Let us engage in prayer for our strange brother.”
And the marquis bowed his knees upon the hard floor.
He could not understand much that was said, but he knew that they were praying for him; that this white-haired cla.s.s leader, and the old ladies in the corner, and Priscilla, were interceding with the Father of all for him. He felt more confidence in the efficacy of their prayers than he had ever had in all the intercessions of the saints of which he was told when a boy. For surely G.o.d would hear such as Priscilla!
It happened not long after this that D'Entremont was drawn even nearer to this simple Methodist life, which had already made such an impression on his imagination, by an incident which would make a chapter if this story were intended for the New York Weekly Dexter.
Indeed, the story of his peril in a storm and freshet on Indian Creek, and of his deliverance by the courage of Henry Stevens, is so well suited to that periodical and others of its cla.s.s, that I am almost sorry that Mrs. Eden, or Cobb, Jr., is not the author of this story.
Either of them could make a chapter which would bear the t.i.tle of ”A Thrilling Incident.” But with an unconquerable aversion to anything and everything ”thrilling,” the present writer can only say in plainest prose that this incident made the young marquis the grateful friend of his deliverer, Henry Stevens, who happened to be a zealous Methodist, and about his own age.
The effort of the two friends to hold intercourse was a curious spectacle. Not only did they speak different languages, but they lived in different worlds. Not only did D'Entremont speak a very limited English, while Stevens spoke no French, but D'Entremont's life and thought had nothing in common with the life of Stevens, except the one thing that made a friends.h.i.+p possible. They were both generous, manly men, and each felt a strong drawing to the other. So it came about that when they tired of the marquis's English and of the gulf between their ideas, they used to call on Priscilla at her home with her mother in the outskirts of the village. She was an interpreter indeed! For with the keenest sympathy she entered into the world in which the marquis lived, which had always been a sort of intellectual paradise to her. It was strange indeed to meet a living denizen of a world that seemed to her impossible except in books. And as for the sphere in which Stevens moved, it was her own. He and she had been schoolmates from childhood, had looked on the same green hills, known the same people, been molded of the same strong religious feeling. Nothing was more delightful to D'Entremont than to be able to talk to Stevens, unless it was to have so good an excuse for conversation with Priscilla; and nothing was so pleasant to Henry Stevens as to be able to understand the marquis, unless it was to talk with Priscilla; while to Priscilla those were golden moments, in which she pa.s.sed like a quick-winged messenger between her own native world and the world that she knew only in books, between the soul of one friend and that of another. And thus grew up a triple friends.h.i.+p, a friends.h.i.+p afterward sorely tried. For how strange it is that what brings together at one time may be a wall of division at another.
I can not pretend to explain just how it came about. Doubtless Henry Stevens's influence had something to do with it, though I feel sure Priscilla's had more. Doubtless the marquis was naturally susceptible to religions influences. Certain it is that the socialistic opinions, never very deeply rooted, and at most but a reaction, disappeared, and there came a religious sentiment like that of his friends. He was drawn to the little cla.s.s meeting, which seemed to him so simple a confessional that all his former notions of ”liberty, fraternity, and equality” were satisfied by it. I believe he became a ”probationer,”
but his creed was never quite settled enough for him to accept ”full members.h.i.+p.”
Some of the old folks could not refrain from expressions of triumph that ”the Lord had got a hold of that French infidel”: and old Sister Goodenough seized his hand, and, with many sighs and much upturning of the eyes, exhorted him: ”Brother Markus, give up everything! give up everything, and come out from the world and be separated!” Which led D'Entremont to remark to Stevens, as they walked away, that ”Madame Goodenough was vare curus indeed!” And Brother Boreas, the exhorter, who had the misfortune not to have a business reputation without blemish, but who made up for it by rigid scruples in regard to a melodeon in the church, and by a vicarious conscience which was kindly kept at everybody's service but his own--old Brother Boreas always remarked in regard to the marquis, that ”as for his part he liked a deeper repentance and a sounder conversion.” But the gray-haired old Scotch cla.s.s leader, whose piety was at a premium everywhere, would take D'Entremont's hand and talk of indifferent subjects while he _beamed_ on him his affection and Christian fellows.h.i.+p.
To the marquis Priscilla was a perpetual marvel. More brilliant women he had known in Paris, more devout women he had seen there, but a woman so gifted and so devout, and, above all, a woman so true, so modest, and of such perfect delicacy of feeling he had never known. And how poorly these words describe her! For she was Priscilla; and all who knew her will understand how much more that means than any adjectives of mine. Certainly Henry Stevens did, for he had known her always, and would have loved her always had he dared. It was only now, as she interpreted him to the marquis and the marquis to him, idealizing and elevating the thoughts of both, that he surrendered himself to hope.
And so, toward the close of the summer, affairs came to this awkward posture that these two sworn friends loved the same woman.
D'Entremont discovered this first. More a man of the world than Henry Stevens, he read the other's face and voice. He was perturbed. Had it occurred two years before, he might have settled the matter easily by a duel, for instance. And even now his pa.s.sion got the better for a while of all his good feelings and Christian resolutions. When he got back to the Le Vert House with his unpleasant discovery he was burning like a furnace. In spite of a rain storm just beginning and a dark night, he strode out and walked he knew not whither. He found himself, he knew not how, on the bank of the Ohio. He untied a skiff and pushed out into the river. How to advance himself over his rival was his first thought.
But this darkness and this beating rain and this fierce loneliness reminded him of that night when he had clung desperately to the abutment of the bridge that spanned Indian Creek, and when the courage and self-possession of Henry Stevens had rescued him. Could he be the rival of a man who had gone down into the flood that he might save the exhausted marquis?
Then he hated himself. Why had he not drowned that night? And with this feeling of self-disgust added to his general mental misery and the physical misery that the rain brought to him, there came the great temptation to write ”_Fin_,” in French fas.h.i.+on, by jumping into the water. But something in the influence of Priscilla and that cla.s.s meeting caused him to take a better resolution, and he returned to the hotel.
The next day he sent for Henry Stevens to come to his room.
”Henry, I am going to leave to-night on the mail boat. I am going back to New Orleans, and thence to France. You love Priscilla. You are a n.o.ble man; you will make her happy. I have read your love in your face.
Meet me at the river to-night. When you are ready to be married, let me know, that I may send some token of my love for both. Do not tell mademoiselle that I am going; but tell her good-by for me afterward.
Now, I must pack.”
Henry went out stupefied. What did it mean? And why was he half glad that D'Entremont was going? By degrees he got the better of his selfishness.
”Marquis d'Entremont,” he said, breaking into his room, ”you must not go away. You love Priscilla. You have everything--learning, money, travel. I have nothing.”
”Nothing but a good heart, which I have not,” said D'Entremont.
”I will never marry Priscilla,” said Henry, ”unless she deliberately chooses to have me in preference to you.”
To this arrangement, so equitable, the marquis consented, and the matter was submitted to Priscilla by letter. Could she love either, and if either, which? She asked a week for deliberation.
It was not easy to decide. By all her habits of thought and feeling, by all her prejudices, by all her religious life, she was drawn toward the peaceful and perhaps prosperous life that opened before her as the wife of Henry Stevens, living in her native village, near to her mother, surrounded by her old friends, and with the best of men for a husband.
But by all the clamor of her intellectual nature for something better than her narrow life, by all her joy in the conversation of D'Entremont, the only man her equal in culture she had ever known, she felt drawn to be the wife of the marquis. Yet if there were roses, there were thorns in such a path. The village girl knew that _madame la marquise_ must lead a life very different from any she had known. She must bear with a husband whose mind was ever in a state of unrest and skepticism, and she must meet the great world.
In truth there were two Priscillas. There was the Priscilla that her neighbors knew, the Priscilla that went to church, the Priscilla that taught Primary School No. 3. There was the other Priscilla, that read Chaucer and Shakespeare, Moliere and De Stael. With this Priscilla New Geneva had nothing to do. And it was the doubleness of her nature that caused her indecision.
Then her conscience came in. Because there might be worldly attractions on one side, she leaned to the other. To reject a poor suitor and accept a rich and t.i.tled one, had something of treason in it.