Читать книгу Who Would Have Thought It? - María Ruiz de Burton - Страница 16

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It was the anniversary of some great day in New England when the Misses Norval were to make their farewell appearance in church before leaving for Europe, --some great day in which the Pilgrim fathers had done some one of their wonderful deeds. They had either embarked, or landed, or burnt a witch, or whipped a woman at the pillory, on just such a day. The reverend gentlemen of our acquaintance were to hold forth to their respective congregations, who idolized them, and would have mobbed and lynched any one daring to hint that the two divines solaced themselves with a jug of whisky after hose edifying sermons; that it was "John Barleycorn, and not John the Baptist," Mr. Hackwell said he liked to consult after church. They did not know how many puns the witty Hackwell had made on Demi-John, and Saint John, and Jolly-John, which last was himself.

The open carriage, with its handsome pair of black horses, stood at the gate, waiting to convey the Misses Norval to church. The doctor and Mrs. Norval would walk. Mrs. Norval did not wish to harass the ladies of the village to the verge of distraction by having her two carriages at once at her gate. Unless the weather was too inclement, she always walked to church; in fact, she walked everywhere most of the time, for she knew that many of her neighbors were nearly thrown into convulsions to see her daughters drive out through the village, and Mrs. Norval did not wish to be hated, although she did not particularly desire to be loved, either. Her mind loved dignified repose, that was all.

At the gate the doctor's family always separated, he and his wife went to Mr. Hackwell's church, whilst the girls went to Mr. Hammerhard's. At first Mrs. Norval had insisted on Lola's going with her; but the child cried so much, or behaved so irreverently at church, that Mrs. Norval with great reluctance permitted her to go with Lavinia and her daughters to the other church. This was better than to allow her to learn anything about popery. Now, however, Lola had been for a year at school in the neighboring town, where she could get a better music-teacher, and also lessons in French and Spanish, but where there was no Catholic church. Of this Mrs. Norval had been very careful. She did not object, however, to her sister and daughters going to a different church from her own,--an inconsistency which had made the doctor smile. To him it seemed a laughable freak of his serious, dignified wife, to be so careful about the religion of the child she disliked so intensely, whilst she seemed almost indifferent about that adopted by her own daughters. He was thinking of this whilst helping his daughters into their carriage; and Mrs. Norval, noticing his smile, asked him what caused it. The doctor answered, as they walked towards church alone, "I was thinking of the parallel that the Frenchman made between his country and ours."

"And what was that?" asked Mrs. Norval.

"He said that the greatest difference between France and the United States is, that in France there is great variety of sauces, and only one religion; whereas in the United States there is great variety of religions, but only one sauce, and that is buttersauce."

"How I do hate foreigners!" exclaimed Mrs. Norval, vehemently. At which exclamation the doctor laughed, saying,

"I am glad that hating foreigners agrees with your constitution so well. It is well to have something to stimulate the liver. Hatred is your stimulant." Mrs. Norval only gave for answer one of her lofty stares, and they walked to church without further conversation.

The doctor behaved very well at church. He did not smile, as he sometimes did, when Mr. Hackwell meant to be most edifying. Mrs. Norval had on one or two occasions heard her husband mutter to himself, "What a smart rogue he is!" and this when she felt her eyes fill with tears drawn forth by "the beautiful eloquence," as Mrs. Cackle expressed it, of Mr. Hackwell. On this day, however, the doctor listened attentively, and Hackwell surpassed himself. His theme, to be sure, was the hackneyed one of the sublime love of religious freedom, which made the Pilgrim fathers abandon home, civilization, and friends, to come to a comfortless wilderness to encounter horrible savages and privations of all kinds, all for the sake of that one thing dearer to them than all else, viz., FREEDOM OF OPINION," which is the "individual liberty of the soul," said Mr. Hackwell, and launched forth with renewed vigor upon the threatened rebellion, and called the Southerners and their Northern friends all the names to be found in the Bible most derogatory to mankind, commencing with Beelzebub and ending with Judas Iscariot. Many of his remarks were evidently aimed at the doctor; at least so Mrs. Norval thought; and she nodded her head slightly in approbation, which caused Hack's eloquence only to glow the more and emit brighter sparks. The congregation also noticed this decorous by-play, and began to look at the doctor; but he did not seem to notice anything. He sat still and listened attentively.

When the service was over, and the congregation had gone home, various were the comments upon the sermon. The majority, however, were of opinion that if Mr. Hackwell had "really meant to lash the doctor, it would only be serving him right."

There was no doubt that the mind of New England was greatly exasperated by the doctor. All New England knew that the doctor had gone down to Washington expressly to help Senator Crittenden and other influential men in their efforts to avoid a war with the South. The doctor might say what he pleased about loving his country too well to have too much partiality for one section. They, the New Englanders, knew better; and if the doctor had not felt too strong a partiality for the wicked South he would have stayed quietly at home, and then have gone and thrashed them back if they rebelled.

Moreover, it was known that the doctor was in the Senate when the Southern Senators delivered their farewell addresses and retired as aliens from the halls in which they had legislated as distinguished citizens. The doctor wept as each stately Senator, with sad but resolute mien, arose, and, bidding farewell to his colleagues and fellow-citizens, bowed a head grown gray in the service of a common country, and then departed, as he thought, forever.

The doctor staggered as he arose from his seat in the Senate gallery, as if he had received a blow upon the breast. He leaned his throbbing head upon the cold marble balustrade; then, feeling calmer, went down slowly with downcast eyes. Mr. Mirabeau Cackle, the newly-elected member from the doctor's district, wrote home that the doctor was crying like a child as he went down-stairs. Mrs. Cackle, of course, took care to repeat what her distinguished son Beau had written.

The doctor had not been the same man (his friends said) since he came back from Washington after the South had seceded. He was no longer the cheerful, genial man. He was silent and serious. He read or wrote all the time, never made any visits, saw but few visitors, and never spent an evening with his family. Immediately after tea he would retire to his own room to read or write.

The evening after Mr. Hackwell's sermon the doctor spent with his family, and conversed quite cheerfully with the many friends who came to wish the young ladies a pleasant journey. On the morrow the Misses Norval, accompanied by their mother as far as New York, would leave for Europe. The friends bade their adieus; the family retired for the night.

The doctor put out the light, and lay down by his wife.

Wonderful to relate, and to the utter astonishment of the doctor, his wife put her arm around him (a thing she had not done since the wicked Southerners had fired on Fort Sumter), and said,

"I am glad you liked Mr. Hackwell's sermon."

"Yes. I approve of letting everybody enjoy freedom of conscience," said the doctor, patting her hand.

"So do I," said she, slightly pressing his. "I am glad to hear you say so.

I was afraid you would oppose me. The more I think of it, the more plainly I see that it is my duty, and that I am in honor bound, to obey the wishes of Lolita's mother, and send the child to be educated in the faith of her ancestors. That was the last prayer of the unfortunate lady, and I must obey it. Don't you think so?"