Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  By early afternoon, the sun had dried the ground. Unable to stand the gloom of the empty house, Blythe went out to the barn, saddled Treasure, and rode out. Lost in her own thoughts, she gave the horse her head and soon found they were on the familiar path bordering Cameron land.

  She had not consciously planned it, but she was not surprised to see Rod astride Sultan, coming toward her along the path. Nor was the joyful lifting of her heart at the sight of him completely unexpected. Blythe felt her pulse race, a sudden inner trembling as he reined his horse alongside hers.

  “Beautiful day!” he greeted her, his eyes shining as they swept over her.

  “Yes. It’s wonderful… after all the rain,” she murmured, turning to look at the river, afraid her expression might betray her happiness at coming upon him.

  She knew her words sounded stiff, but her heart was thudding so loudly she could hardly speak. What was different about today from any of the other days she and Rod had been together? She knew only that something tangible, yet unspoken, sparked the very air around them.

  In silent agreement, they walked their horses down the little hill that led over the curved, rustic bridge and into the clearing where, just beyond, they could see the small house.

  At the bridge, Rod swung out of his saddle and tied Sultan to one of the posts before walking over to Blythe and holding up his hands to lift her down. His hands circling her waist remained a minute longer, then he quickly released her and went to loop Treasure’s reins around the other post.

  Together, they walked to the middle of the bridge, leaning on the railing and looked down into the water flowing over the rocks with a rushing sound. The woods behind them were still. Not even a bird song or the stirring of a leaf disturbed the utter quiet.

  Then Rod spoke softly, “Do you remember the day we sat in the arbor at Eden Cottage and ate grapes … and you asked me if I knew the Scriptures well?”

  Blythe nodded. That sun-splashed day of happiness wrenched her memory. It had been perfection—without shadow of any kind. Then, she had gone home to find Malcolm had returned from Massachusetts without Jonathan, and her world had begun to change.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, look up Deuteronomy 28:30.” Rod was looking at her with a peculiar intensity.

  As their eyes met, there was the stunned realization of what was possible. For an instant, the rush of the water below was deafening; the sunlight, dazzling; the bridge beneath her feet, unsteady. Rod’s gaze held hers as if his eyes could plumb the very deepest part of her soul.

  It was a moment of recognition, knowing that what she saw in Rod’s eyes mirrored her feelings. With that knowledge came the awareness of danger.

  “Blythe—” On Rod’s lips, her name had never sounded so beautiful.

  As he leaned toward her, Blythe drew back, one hand to her throat.

  “Oh, Rod!” she cried in a choked voice. “We can’t!”

  Spinning around, she ran to Treasure, untied the reins, and swung herself up into the saddle. Without a backward look, she started in a gallop for Montclair.

  By the time she reached the barn, the mare was in a lather. Taking off the saddle, Blythe rubbed her down, gave her water, then slipped a feedbag of oats over her head. With weighted steps, she walked toward the house, feeling so exhausted that when she reached the porch, she clung to one of the columns.

  She closed her eyes, swaying dizzily. She knew she would have to forget that moment on the bridge, what she had seen in Rod’s eyes, what she had felt. There could never be anything but friendship between them. If either one of them acknowledged there was more, it would end forever that companionship she had found so sweet, so comforting—the only joy she had known since coming to Montclair.

  They must not let that happen. Even if what they felt for each other were real, there could be no happy ending for them.

  Blythe went in the house. There was no sign that Malcolm had returned. It could be hours or even days before she saw him again. She mounted the steps, one foot dragging behind the other.

  In her bedroom, she took off her boots and was beginning to unfasten her riding skirt when she remembered the Scripture Rod had suggested she look up.

  Curious, she got out the Bible the minister’s wife in Lucas Valley had given her after the wedding. “Every couple startin’out should have a family Bible,” she had said. Pointing to a glossy page in the center, she had explained, ‘There’s places to set down all the important events of your marriage—the names and birthdates of your children—”

  Children! Blythe thought, as she thumbed through the index. That hope had long since vanished.

  Then she found the verse Rod had given her and read it over and over, trying to comprehend what he was saying to her.

  “Thou shalt betroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her: thou shalt build an house, and thou shalt not dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard, and shalt not gather the grapes thereof.”

  In searching honesty, Blythe probed her conscience. Had she, in her loneliness and disillusionment, sought the solace of Rod’s love, encouraged it?

  “God, help me!” she moaned, slipping to her knees. “I never meant for this to happen. Tell me what to do.”

  The words came into her mind, but she tried not to hear them, for they were too hard for her to bear. Yet they repeated themselves gently, insistently, irrevocably. you must be ruthlessly honest with yourself and with Rod, Give up even the thought of him, what might have been between you.

  She knew in her heart of hearts that if she and Rod yielded to their feelings, it would be sin. Stripping away all illusion, all romantic fantasy, the truth was it would be wrong.

  It didn’t matter that Malcolm did not love her. She was still his wife and, now and forever, not free to love anyone else.

  Blythe felt a tearing hurt, knowing that emptiness inside her would remain unfilled, that she might never know the keenest joy a human being can know on earth. The pain was real as she surrendered her will, but she begged to be free of a love that was not hers to enjoy.

  When she got to her feet, the breaking had begun.

  chapter

  24

  MALCOLM did not come home that night or the next.

  Blythe had resigned herself to the tragic reality of what she was helpless to change. Indeed, she had come to the conclusion that the only person she could change was herself, and this she resolved to do. It was clear that she must not see Rod again, and, in order to avoid a chance encounter with him, she kept to the paths on Montrose land, no longer riding into the woods or to the clearing near Eden Cottage.

  She went about her duties in the house with dogged determination and, since the weather remained unseasonably warm, worked in the gardens, too. Choosing those tasks that required the most physical exertion, she wore herself out until, exhausted, she fell into bed each night to sleep deeply and dreamlessly. Though she was suffering, she felt renewed courage and strength.

  On the third day of Malcolm’s absence, Lonnie spoke up as they folded linens together. “I’s gwine to hab to leave early dis evenin’, Miss Blythe,” the black woman said. ‘Tonight’s de first night of de revival, and I doan want to miss it.”

  “Revival?”

  “Yes’m. The circuit-rider is here, and de/s a tent meetin’ tonight in de grove ‘tween here and Cameron Hall. Old Mr. Montrose always gib permission to the preacher to hold dem on de grounds in de old days and, since Freedom, we jes’ do lak always.”

  “Is it like church?” Blythe asked curiously.

  “Yes’m. Some say it even better than regular church. Lots of folks gets saved. Then they^ a baptism in the river on Sunday.”

  Blythe was curious. “Is it just for … you know … your people?”

  “Oh, no ma’m! Mr. Neville, he preach to black and white folks jes’the same. He say befo’God, all men alike. No diffrence ‘long as our souls are washed clean by the Blood.”

  Blythe looked at Lonnie in amazement. “Ho
w do you know all this?” She knew the nearest church was in Mayfield, and the former slaves rarely got into town.

  “Oh, I’s been knowin’’bout Jesus since I was jes’a li’l gal. My Aunt Tilda, she teach me from the Bible. She was Miss Rose’s maid and Miss Rose taught her to read. Tilda gone up Nö'th now, but she done sent me a Bible after she left, and I’m teachin’my own chilien.” Lonnie nodded in satisfaction.

  “Would it be all right, do you think, if I went to the revival tonight, Lonnie?”

  “Oh, yes’m. You’s welcome. All white folks is,” Lonnie replied. “De tent’s real easy to find. You can see it in the clearin’from the top o’the hill.”

  Something stirred within Blythe. She missed going to church as they had on a few occasions in Lucas Valley. Those church suppers and socials were warm memories, but somehow she sensed that, tonight, she would find something quite different from the usual fellowship.

  Lonnie told her the service began at six o’clock, but that the singing and “praying up” began earlier. So Blythe saddled Treasure and left just at dusk. Sure enough, she spotted the tent in the little clearing, just as Lonnie had described.

  Inside, the tent was close and hot, the smell of canvas and sawdust mingling with the peculiar odor of warm bodies, the starch of freshly laundered clothes, the leathery one of Bibles.

  Blythe slipped into a seat in one of the back rows where a handful of white people, mostly women, had already gathered. She did not recognize any of them, but quickly spotted several of the Montrose servants and tenant-farmers.

  Her heart was pounding, and every nerve was taut with a kind of excited anticipation. Blythe had not a clue as to what awaited her.

  After awhile, the murmured conversations hushed and a ripple of movement flowed through the assembly. Blythe stretched her neck a little to see what was happening at the front.

  A large man with a wild thatch of graying hair had mounted the improvised platform. He was gaunt, rather stooped of shoulder, yet with a commanding demeanor. He wore a shabby, swallow-tailed coat, and he was clutching a Bible, so worn it looked as if it might fall apart.

  A lectern had been placed in the center of the platform. Beside it on a small table was a pitcher of water and a tumbler. But Mr. Neville did not go directly there. Instead, he paced back and forth, head down, mumbling in an audible voice.

  All around her, Blythe heard expressions new to her: “Lord! Lord!” and “He prayin’hissef up,” and, from the front row, a high-pitched voice saying, “Merciful Jesus! Preacher gittin’ready!” She felt herself growing tense. What in the world would happen now?

  At length, Brother Neville strode over to the makeshift pulpit. His voice was resonant, piercing.

  “I aim to speak about the Commandments of God, how Moses brung them down from the mountaintop to the people. The Lord has spoke to my heart. Hear this! Many here tonight are not keepin’God’s Laws.”

  There was a rumble of “Amens” from the crowd.

  “If they wasn’t meant for us to obey, why did God give ‘em?” the preacher demanded in a loud voice.

  Spellbound, Blythe listened as Brother Neville exhorted his listeners, repeatedly punctuating his thoughts with two or three gestures that appeared to be characteristic. Occasionally, he would pound the lectern, raising the Bible in one hand. At those times a few pages would inevitably escape and come drifting to the stage. As his preaching grew more and more fervent, he loosened his cravat, wiping perspiration from his brow with a large handkerchief.

  “I tell you, brethren and sisters, that the Lord meant what He said when He told the Israelites: Don’t steal! Don’t lie! Don’t envy! And Jesus said the same thing … different method, mebbe … but the same message, for He said He had come, not to do away with the laws of Moses, but to fulfill ‘em! And Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever!”

  The crowd was following every word, every gesture. As he wound into his sermon, he was accompanied by an ongoing chorus of voices, crying out for mercy or encouraging the preacher with their “Amens.”

  “But even though the Law was give first to the Israelites,” Brother Neville continued, “it was meant for all. The Laws of Moses sometimes seem downright hard, but Jesus came to show God’s love, came to show us he understands our struggles. God don’t see our failures. He sees us as covered by the blood of Jesus … if we open up our hearts and take Him in as Lord and Savior. If not—” And here Blythe held her breath. What dire prediction would he make for those who had not done so? “You need to decide tonight where you want to spend eternity. Will it be heaven … or hell?”

  There was not a sound throughout the tent. As one body, the congregation leaned forward, intent on hearing every word. Blythe found herself praying for those lost souls who might be present, for herself! And what about Malcolm? Had he really come to a place of faith in Jesus Christ? His present actions made it questionable.

  Brother Neville’s next words jolted her to awareness again. “And should you be excusin’yourself from this sermon, think on your own life. If you are a Christian, are you actin’ like it? Have you trusted the Lord to take you through the wilderness? Are you countin’on Him to take care of you, or are you eat up with cares and worries? Have you turned it all over to Him? He’s waitin.’”

  Blythe gasped. He must be reading her thoughts!

  Then, very abrupdy, Brother Neville stopped his pacing and stood with closed eyes, obviously in deep prayer. As if on some unspoken cue, the singing began, softly at first, then rising to a glorious crescendo as, one by one, the people joined in a hymn of praise and commitment.

  “Counted with the few, the loyal, brave and true, I want to be counted with the few….”

  Blythe found herself singing along with the rest, clapping her hands instinctively to the rhythm of the music.

  The singing went on and on, moving from one hymn to another without a break. Then, unlike anything Blythe had ever heard before, a song broke out—a plaintive, throbbing, soul-stirring blend of voices that brought her to unexpected tears.

  Above the wondrous music, Brother Neville’s voice could be heard. “Don’t any of you think you came here tonight on your own. You are here by divine appointment, drawn here by Jesus Himself. There was somethin’He wanted to say to you, somethin’He wanted to give you. Don’t leave this place without it!”

  All around her Blythe felt people moving, then she saw them spilling into the aisles, making their way to the front of the tent, falling to their knees there. The singing continued, high, sweet, and with a sort of unearthly melody.

  To her amazement she felt herself get up, propelled by something she could not fathom, drawn by an unseen force. The next thing she knew, she was on her knees on the sawdust floor. Mr. Neville was coming down the row, laying hands on the bowed heads of the other seekers. Blythe closed her eyes tight, thinking wildly, What am I doing?

  Then she felt the pressure of hands on her head, heard the preacher’s deep rumbling voice above her head. “Just give up. Let Him take all your heavy burdens. And, if you’ve never asked Jesus to save you from eternal damnation, just open up your heart right now and repeat these words after me: O God, I confess with my lips that Jesus died for my sins and that God raised Him from the dead in glory. I ask Him now into my heart to be Lord of my life, and thank Him mightily for His salvation.”

  Blythe repeated the words, adding her own prayer for guidance and direction. As she did so, her heart stopped pounding, and a warm sensation flooded her.

  Somehow she found her way back to her seat. The congregation was singing again, this time a rousing hymn, ‘There is power, power, wonder-working power in the precious blood of the Lamb.”

  Choked with emotion, Blythe slipped out of the tent into the night, gulping the fresh, frosty air. She felt wonderfully clear-headed, but also dazed by the amazing thing she had done.

  She found Treasure with no trouble, for it was almost as bright as day. A full moon, high in the dark sky, lighted their
way back to Montclair. Nearing the house, Blythe did not feel her usual depression. Tonight she had been touched by a loving Presence, and she was no longer afraid.

  chapter

  25

  BLYTHE CAME awake as the first gray fingers of dawn crept through her bedroom windows. She had not slept soundly. She never did anymore. But now, instead of letting fear overtake her, Blythe lay awake and prayed—prayed that no harm would come to him, wherever he was, whatever he was doing.

  Since the night of the tent meeting, Blythe had felt a new strength, a new resolve to live each day as the Lord would have her live it. She and Lonnie sometimes read the Bible together after the chores, before Lonnie left. It was a precious time, for Blythe needed support, and Lonnie was a rock of faith.

  Blythe lay there a few minutes longer, listening hopefully for some sound. But the echoing silence of the empty house gave her the answer to her question. She whispered the prayer she had begun to use each morning: “Dear Lord, I give you this day. Be with me and guide me. Give me courage to face whatever lies ahead. In Jesus’name, I ask. Amen.” Then she rose and dressed.

  She moved down the stairway in the tomblike stillness, along the downstairs hall with its gloomy shadows, out to the kitchen. When she pushed open the door, she started back with a frightened gasp. Malcolm was seated at the table, his arms crossed, his head down, his shoulders shaking.

  At the sound of the door opening, his head jerked up, and Blythe saw that he had been weeping. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed. When he looked at her, he winced and wiped away the tears with the back of his hand.

  Experience had taught her what to look for now. It was obvious that Malcolm had been drinking. But he was sober—cold sober, Blythe realized. She stood there, unable to move or speak.

  It was Malcolm who broke the tense moment. Shaking his head sorrowfully, he said, “Poor Blythe. You’ve picked the wrong man to idealize.”

  Blythe longed to go to him, throw her arms around him, cradle his dark head against her breast, comfort him, but something in his expression stopped her.