The Pledge, Value

by Jane Peart

“You still don’t truly understand, do you? How deeply emotions about this war run? I wish to God you didn’t have to, JoBeth.” There was a desperate edge to Wes’s tone.

  “I’m trying to understand,” she hastened to assure him. “I guess I just didn’t want to understand. It hurts too much. To think your aunt and uncle would let something come between their love for you and what you believe. I mean, you’ve been like another son to them both.”

  Wes looked so sad. She knew how much Wes loved the Spencers, respected them, had always wanted to please them. She understood how much their approval meant to him. Impulsively JoBeth reached up on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck, kissed him on the lips. He drew her close, and the kiss deepened into a long, tender one, full of sweetness, tenderness, and tentative hope.

  “I love you, Wes. Nothing else should matter.”

  “I love you, too, JoBeth. But I’m afraid other things do matter. At least at this time, in this place.” He kissed her again, then gently released her, saying, “I’m also aware that what I’m going to have to ask you to do will take more than love. It will take everything either of us has within us. And we can’t do it by ourselves. We’re going to need God’s help, JoBeth. It won’t be easy. In fact, it might be the hardest thing we’ve ever been called on to do.”

  That evening, JoBeth found out just how hard it was going to be, when she timidly approached her uncle. “Uncle Madison, I know Wesley has told you how he feels, and though I know you don’t agree with him, I hope—”

  Before she could finish, he cast aside his newspaper and declared vehemently, “It’s not the government’s place to tell us what we can do with our own property—”

  “Uncle Madison, can’t you try to see it from Wes’s viewpoint? He’s an idealist, and—”

  “How many idealists do you find in history books? Not many, I’ll tell you. It’s the doers like Andrew Jackson we remember, the kind of men that stand up for what they believe.”

  “But that’s exactly what Wesley is doing! Don’t you see that?”

  “I see that you’re a foolish young woman who doesn’t know dreams from reality,” he said coldly. “Reality never measures up to anticipation, and expectation is usually the precursor of disillusionment. You’re heading for a cruel disappointment, my girl.”

  JoBeth felt a rush of antagonism that he should dismiss Wes’s beliefs so harshly. But she would not allow anyone to snatch away her dreams so ruthlessly. Even though she had to remain under this roof and accept that she and her mother were living here mainly at the largesse of their relatives, she was determined not to be defeated by her uncle’s attitude nor to doubt Wes’s staunch convictions.

  JoBeth glanced away as if examining the silver epergne in the center of the table. She knew it was useless to argue further, to plead Wes’s case. Uncle Madison’s mind was closed. In his way of thinking, Wes had become a traitor.

  That night, JoBeth thought long and hard about everything that had transpired in these past three days.

  From being a romantic figure of fantasy and imagination, Wesley had become the central person in her life. Someone on whom so much revolved. In the matter of a few hours, everything had changed. There would be no long summer in which their romance would progress at a leisurely pace. All the things she had dreamed of doing when Wes came home—strolls by the river, long talks, reading poetry together—had been eclipsed by the need to make life-changing decisions. Suddenly they were living out a real drama. One for which there had been no rehearsal, she herself in a role she had never sought to play.

  Wes had said everyone had to take a stand. He was right. She was being forced to choose sides: Wes or her family.

  For her mother’s sake, for the peace of the household, she had to keep her thoughts, her feelings, to herself—and yet she would not betray her loyalty and her love.

  Because she knew now, without doubt, that she loved Wes. Something in him drew her irrevocably. A few days ago, even a few hours, she would never have had this certainty.

  Remembering Wes’s words “We’re going to need God’s help,” she threw herself on her knees beside her bed. JoBeth prayed. But no peace came. Her soul was still in turmoil.

  The serene, safe world she had known, the circle of love and acceptance, of affection and hospitality and shelter, had cracked. Hostility, resentment, anger, had been thrust into its quiet warmth. All the things she had taken for granted seemed to be slipping away.

  Burying her face in her hands, she saw a mental picture of Wes standing alone outside the circle. In that moment, she knew she could not let him stand there alone or turn and walk away from her. I’m mad about him, she thought. I’m half sick with it. She was quivering. Life was so scary and unpredictable.

  It’s not that simple, Wes’s words came back to her. No, it certainly wasn’t. It wasn’t like deciding to accept an invitation to a party, choosing a dress pattern, selecting the color of bonnet ribbons, the simple kind of choices she had made easily most of her life. This choice was different and not simple at all. One choice meant she might never see Wes again. If his conscience demanded he sacrifice everything, his hometown, cousins, family, friends, his love, then she had to decide if she would support that conviction. It was not, after all, debatable.

  She knew she could not let Wes leave without telling him she was willing to stand by him. She got up from her knees, strengthened but trembling.

  JoBeth did not realize she had entered a battle of her own making: the battle between loyalty and love. She had no intention, no matter what the opposition or provocation, of giving Wes up.

  I never spoke that word “farewell” but with an utterance faint and broken;

  A heart yearning for the time when it should never more be spoken.

  Caroline Bowles

  Chapter Five

  Three more days passed. Days of anguish and silent misery such as JoBeth had never spent before in her entire life. JoBeth was well aware that the whole Cady household seemed to be walking on eggshells as they tried to avoid mentioning the subject of Wesley Rutherford around her.

  Finally a note from Wes came, asking her to meet him. Heart racing, she slipped out of the house at a time when no one would miss her and hurried to their favorite place.

  Although she had prayed, hers had been rather undirected prayers: for courage, for strength. She had not dared pray for Wes to change his mind. In her heart of hearts, she knew that the parting she dreaded was about to come. Even knowing that this was inevitable, she had no way to prepare herself for it.

  When she reached him, they clasped hands silently. Was it her imagination, or had Wes aged overnight? He looked pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept. JoBeth’s heart winced in sympathy, as if his pain were her own. Only she fully understood how heart-wrenching it was for him to leave the home that had been his own since childhood, to say good-bye to the aunt and uncle he cherished. Worse still was the way of the leave-taking. In disgrace. As a turncoat. A traitor.

  For a minute, they simply looked at each other wordlessly. Then Wes said brokenly, “I’m so sorry, JoBeth. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought it would all be so different—our future, I mean. I even dreamed we might be married this summer. Now that’s out of the question. Your relatives would never let you marry me now.”

  Impulsively JoBeth burst out, “Oh, Wes, I’d marry you tomorrow, with or without permission.”

  He looked at her with a slight smile. “I wager you would, JoBeth. That’s your sweet, generous nature. But I wouldn’t ask that of you. It was wrong of me to even—”

  “No, it wasn’t. I love you, Wes. I say yes, now or whenever,” JoBeth rushed on, knowing it was unseemly, unladylike, unheard of, but she didn’t care. What did all that matter now? There was so much more at stake here than that.

  “Bless you for saying that. If it weren’t for you”—he paused—“I would feel totally al
one, abandoned. I hope to God I’m doing the right thing, that it’s worth all the people that are being hurt by my decision.”

  His sorrow was too deep for tears. Anything she might have said to ease his suffering would have seemed shallow, banal.

  They walked along in silence, holding hands. There was so much they wanted to say to each other, but it was difficult to speak. Each was locked into a private sense of desolation. Memories still fresh of the past, dreams of the future they had hoped to share. They were both conscious of the heavy shadow hovering over them, the good-bye that must be said.

  They climbed to the top of the hill, where they could look over the town. A soft summer dusk began to fall, and as it deepened, here and there a light winked on. People were setting their oil lamps at the window to welcome others or on a table ready for a family dinner. A kind of timelessness stretched over the scene. From where they watched, it all looked so safe, secure, almost like a toy village. It seemed impossible that such a picturesque scene could harbor hostility, anger, and flaming antagonism.

  Reluctantly JoBeth said, “I’d better be getting home, Wes. There’ll be questions…”

  “Yes, I know, we have to go. But first …” He drew her close, pressed his cheek against hers. Gently stroking her hair, he said, “Before we do, I have something to show you.” He drew a small chamois bag from his pocket. “I guess I was too optimistic—took too much for granted. Here, look for yourself.” He pressed the bag into JoBeth’s hand. She untied the string that closed it, and shook out the contents. Two rings fell out into her palm. Each was a narrow band with two sculpted clasped hands. “Press it gently on the back,” Wes instructed in a low voice. JoBeth did and the tiny hands sprang apart, revealing a heart.

  “Oh, Wes!” she breathed softly. “How lovely!”

  “I had them especially made from a twenty-dollar gold piece, by a Philadelphia goldsmith. One for you and one for me. The smaller one is yours. I intended to give it to you at the end of the summer, when I planned to ask you to marry me. Like a betrothal ring.”

  “They still can be, Wes. Betrothal rings.”

  “You mean that? You still would marry me, in spite of—”

  “Of course, and not in spite of, Wes—because of. I admire you so much. I respect your courage.” She hesitated. Then, with a catch in her throat, she said, “I love you.”

  He drew her into his arms, held her hard against his pounding heart. “JoBeth, it’s you who is brave. How did I ever deserve you?”

  She clung to him, feeling her heart throb wildly, feeling dizzy with the enormity of what was happening. After a minute, he released her and took one of her small hands in his. “Here, I’ll put yours on, then you can put mine on.”

  She tugged her hand away. “But Wes, I can’t wear mine on my finger, where everyone will notice—” Her voice faltered. “I wish it could be for all the world to see.”

  “Of course. I should have thought of that myself.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, I understand. It’s better, safer that way,” he said quietly.

  “I’ll wear it around my neck on a chain. That way it will be closer to my heart.”

  “What a girl you are, JoBeth,” Wes said softly, taking her tenderly into his arms again. They kissed and in the kiss was tenderness, sweetness, commitment, and promise. Finally they drew apart and, arms around each other’s waist, started back down the hillside.

  As they passed the churchyard, Wes paused, looked at the old brick building heavily hung with ivy. He glanced at JoBeth as if for consent. She nodded, understanding what he meant. He agilely hurdled the stone wall and then, putting his hands around her waist, lifted her over it. Winding their way through the cemetery with its monuments, crosses, and stone lambs, they moved into the arch of the entrance to the church.

  Wes took out his ring and handed it to JoBeth, and she gave him hers. Then he took her left hand and said solemnly, “JoBeth, if anything should happen, or if I shouldn’t come back, I don’t want you to feel that this is binding—”

  “Don’t!” With her right hand, she placed her fingers on his mouth, stopping whatever else he was going to say. “Never! Don’t even think it!”

  “All I meant was, if—if that did happen, I would want you to feel free to find someone else—”

  She slipped her hand down from his lips and placed her palm against his heart.

  “Wesley, let’s pledge ourselves to each other for now. No one knows what’s ahead. What we feel at this moment is what counts.”

  “You’re right.” Wes’s voice was husky as he slipped the ring on her third finger.

  “I, John Wesley Rutherford, pledge my life, my faithfulness, my enduring love, to you now and forever. Now you,” he coached gently.

  “I, Johanna Elizabeth Davison, pledge myself to keep this promise to love and wait for you. However long the separation, however long the war lasts, I will be true.”

  Wes leaned down to kiss her and discovered that her cheeks were wet with tears. He wiped them away gently with both thumbs. “Oh, darling, don’t cry.” Then they were in each other’s arms again. She heard the drumbeat of his heart where her ear was pressed against his chest. At length Wes said gently, “It’s getting dark. I’d better get you home.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  His mouth tightened. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m packed, ready to go. I could see that things were not going to get better. Too much has been said that can’t be unsaid. The sooner I leave, the better, the less unhappiness and resentment I’ll cause.” He hesitated. “I’ve decided to leave tomorrow. On the morning train.”

  “So soon? Oh, Wes!” she exclaimed, then said, “I’ll come to see you off.”

  He pressed her hands, shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he said slowly. “To be seen with me might—well, it would get back to your family. They would be angry. It would just make things harder—”

  “Oh, it’s so unfair. So cruel!” she cried. They stood there in the darkness, heart to heart, both fighting to hold back tears. After a moment, hand in hand, they walked on, not talking.

  On the porch post of the Cadys’ house, a lantern had been lit and shone out, illuminating the way from the gate. They walked up the path with lagging steps. Just before they reached the porch, Wes pulled her gently back. Turning so the light shone on her face, he took it in both his hands, lifted it, and looked down into it. “I want to remember how you look, so after I’m gone, I can close my eyes and see you.”

  “I’ll send you my picture,” she whispered.

  “Yes, do that,” he said huskily. Then he took one of her shiny dark curls, wound it gently around his finger. “Good-bye, darling JoBeth. I do love you so.” He drew a deep breath. “Maybe it won’t be long, and after the war, when I come back, we can marry”—he halted, adding in a voice that shook a little—“and live happily ever after.”

  Before she went in the house, JoBeth took off the ring Wes had placed on her finger and put it back inside the small chamois bag, then into her pocket. All evening long, every once in a while, she would put her hand down and touch it as if to see if it was there and if what had taken place between her and Wes that afternoon had really happened. She amazed herself that even while her thoughts were on Wes, she was able to carry on a conversation at supper, help Annie clear the table and assist her in the kitchen, then hold her aunt’s skein of yarn while she rolled it into a ball. Was he packing, making his sad farewells, meeting coldness and disapproval as he prepared to leave? Not once did she give way to her feelings. Perhaps this was preparation for what lay ahead of her in the time she and Wes would be separated by this cruel war.

  It wasn’t until later, when she was alone in the privacy of her own bedroom, that she took out the ring. Inside the little bag, she found a piece of paper folded in tiny squares. Unfolding it, she saw that Wes had written something on it. Taking it closer to the oil lamp by her bed, she read it.

>   My Darling JoBeth.

  In medieval times, the exchange of rings in betrothal was made in church. I found this and thought it appropriate for us. It’s from Hosea 2:19-20: “I will betroth you to me forever, I will betroth you in loving kindness and understanding, I will betroth you with faithfulness.”

  Ever your loving,

  Wesley

  JoBeth reread the Scripture several times. She wasn’t familiar with it. However, Wesley was right. They were pledged to each other. Whether anyone else knew it or not, she intended to keep the promise she had made that day forever.

  Chapter Six

  Wes was gone. And there was a void in JoBeth’s life that she could not freely share with anyone. Any voicing of how much she missed Wes would bring cold stares, even some remark—perhaps unintentional but pointed—expressing the speaker’s personal viewpoint. That would cut her to the quick. Was there no one in all of Hillsboro who shared Wes’s abhorrence at the thought of war, of the dissolution of the Union?

  Neither of them could possibly have imagined that a shot fired at Fort Sumter would resound throughout the land and like a cannonball shatter all their lovely plans.

  Less than a week after Wes declared himself and left town, Alzada Spencer came to pay a call. Her intention for doing so was soon made clear, as was her opinion about her nephew.

  She was seated in the parlor with Aunt Josie and Johanna. When JoBeth joined them, bringing in the tea tray and setting it down for her aunt to pour, she realized that Wes was the subject of the conversation. She quietly sat down and listened intently.

  Mrs. Spencer gave a dramatic sigh and declared, “None of us can understand it, I declare—we simply cannot. It’s all because of Grandmother Blakely, who, bless her soul, cannot help that she was raised by the Philadelphia branch of Lewis’s family and adopted the Quaker religion. Wesley has absorbed it all, ever since his own folks died and he was sent up there to live. Then, of course, he went to that Quaker college—and the damage was done. It’s hard to blame him, but he is a grown man and also a North Carolinian by birth. Wayne has tried to explain it to me”—she shook her head until all her clustered blond curls danced—“and I do try to take a Christian attitude about it, but my dears, if he goes into the Union Army, he will be, the Lord forbid, perhaps someday aiming his gun … at one of his cousins….” She took a dainty handkerchief out of her velvet purse and brushed the tip of her small nose and sighed again.