Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Your critics mention that there’s often what they call ‘unseemly behavior’ in your meetings, don’t they?” Mrs. Rocklin asked.

  “That is not a new charge, Mrs. Rocklin,” Finney said. “Even in the ministry of Jesus, it was made. When the Savior was passing by and blind Bartimaeus began crying out very loudly for help, the crowd told him to be quiet, that his behavior was ‘unseemly,’ as we might put it. Every time a move of God comes to men, it is always the same. When John Wesley came and preached in the fields, men and women often were struck down by the power of God. The same was true with George Whitefield and Jonathan Edwards in our country. There are always those enemies of the cross to cry out that such things are not dignified.” Finney’s eyes burned, and his voice rose as he said, “Would it be better to remain dignified and let sinners go to hell? No! There have been excesses, certainly, but when God moves upon men, there will be brokenness—and that brokenness will often be displeasing to those who must have their religion in orderly rituals!”

  It was a strange dinner, the strangest the Rocklins had ever attended. Finney had one burning interest, the gospel, and there was such power in the man that the other guests sat spellbound, listening to his words.

  Dinner was over when Amos Steele asked, “Have you heard about Rev. Finney’s innovation at Oberlin?”

  “What is that, sir?” Gideon asked.

  “He has opened the doors to females,” Steele said proudly.

  “The first college in America to do so!”

  There was much interest in this, and Finney explained that in Christ there is “neither male nor female,” so he was assured that both men and women were entitled to college training.

  Clay suddenly asked, “Doesn’t the Bible say there is ‘neither bond nor free,’ Reverend?”

  Finney gave Clay a searching look. “You speak of the Negro race?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you welcome them to your college?”

  A sudden shock of silence filled the room, but Finney didn’t hesitate. “The day will come in this country when we will see dark-skinned men and women in colleges.”

  “Not in the South!”

  Amos said hotly, “The Negroes are human beings, Clay!”

  Instantly Stephen said, “This would not be a good time to debate the slavery issue, I think.”

  Rev. Finney agreed. “No, but the time is coming when the question will have to be dealt with on a national level.” Then he leaned forward, and a gentle light came into his stern eyes. He addressed Clay in a voice that was kind indeed. “Mr. Rocklin, no man has the wisdom to know how this matter should be handled, so I will not try to impose my political view on you, and certainly not my feeling about slavery. All I can say is that the first duty of all of us is to make our peace with God. And that can only be done through the blood of Jesus Christ.”

  Clay was prepared for an attack from the minister, so the simple words disarmed him. He flushed, nodded, and said merely, “You are certainly right about that, Reverend.”

  Later, when Gideon and Melanie were alone, preparing for bed, they spoke of Clay.

  “He’s been drinking a lot,” Gideon said. “You can see it in his face.”

  Melanie gave him a quick glance, then said, “Do you think he hates us, Gid? I couldn’t tell much about him. He was always so lively. There’s a sadness in him now.”

  “Well, he lost you, Mellie. That’s enough to make a man sad.” Gid paused, then said slowly, “I’m surprised that your father let him bring Ellen here.”

  “Ellen has a way with Father. She can wheedle him into doing what she wants.”

  “Well, what she wants now is Clay.” Gid’s face was heavy, and he shook his head. “I see real trouble there for her. I don’t think Clay will be interested in women for a long time.”

  Melanie nodded reluctantly, but there was a troubled frown on her face. “I suppose you’re right, Gid—but she does have a way with men!”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE WRONG BRIDE

  Clay Rocklin had never planned to stay in Washington for any longer than it took to deliver Ellen, but for some obscure reason not clear even to himself, he lingered in the city. He asked himself many times why he had come in the first place, for he was honest enough to admit he had not come simply to escort Ellen. She was well able to make the short journey alone, or her uncle could have found someone else to accompany her if he had refused the task.

  He had no one to talk to, at least not about what was going on inside him. Except for Ellen, that is. The two of them had been thrown together much by necessity, and she had kept him busy seeing the city and attending the nightly parties that went on in his aunt Ruth’s circle. It was due to Ellen that he stayed in the city, for she kept him busy, and Washington was more interesting than Gracefield in the winter. The two of them attended the theater more than once, and it was on the way home from an evening at the Ford Theater that she finally succeeded in getting him to speak some of the thoughts that had been bottled up inside.

  The snow was still on the streets, and the air was biting cold as they drove through the silent streets late that night. A clock from the large Presbyterian church on Pennsylvania Avenue boomed out the hour as they passed. The sound was sudden, breaking the sibilant noise of the runners of the sleigh—and Ellen suddenly gave a start, grabbing at his arm.

  “It’s midnight, Clay!” she said, counting the strokes, then gave his arm a squeeze. “We’ll be locked out.”

  Clay was feeling more relaxed than he had since coming to Washington, and the idea of having to wake his uncle and aunt amused him. “They might turn us away,” he answered. “We’d have to spend the whole night in this sleigh.” They had gone to a restaurant after the performance, eaten a late supper, then afterward sat there talking about the play. Clay drank liberally, and Ellen not a great deal less, so that when they finally left the restaurant, they were both giggling with their attempts to climb into the sleigh.

  The sharp air numbed their faces but did little to sober them up. Suddenly Ellen moved closer to him, laughing up into his face. “I don’t care if they lock us out,” she declared. “We could sleep in the sleigh.”

  “Be mighty cold,” Clay answered. They were passing under a streetlight, and the golden gleam of the lamp made Ellen look bewitching. Her eyes were half-lidded, which made them look sultry, and the rich swell of her full lower lip gave a sensuous cast to her face. He was acutely conscious of the pressure of her body as she leaned against him, and he thought again of what an attractive woman she was.

  Without thinking about it, he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her. The alcohol had loosened them both, and she put her hand behind his head, drawing him closer. Her lips, softer than feathers, had a pressure of their own, and he drew her closer, savoring the kiss.

  Finally they parted, and he said, “You’re what a man needs, Ellen.”

  She did not withdraw fully but kept close beside him. “I know what it means to be disappointed, Clay,” she said, her eyes dropping to study her hands. The kiss was not her first, for she had been pursued by many men, but it had shaken her. She had been drawn to Clay from the time she’d first seen him, and although she knew that he was a man who knew women well, she thought no less of him for that.

  She didn’t elaborate on her statement, knowing well that men didn’t want to hear about the troubles of a woman. “You’ve had a bad time,” she said instead. “But it won’t last forever. Things change.”

  Clay studied her curiously. There was some sort of knowledge in her that most women lacked, and it appealed to him. He knew little about her past, save that there was some sort of tragedy concerning her parents. Whatever it was, it seemed to have given her a toughness, which he admired. Now he said, “I thought love was supposed to be eternal. That’s what all the poets say.”

  Ellen stirred against him, turning her face to look at him. A smile curved the edges of her lips upward. “All the poets who write about love are men,” she said. “And they
really know better. Love is for now, Clay. Poets may write about a love they lost years before, but I’d guess most of them want more than a poem in their bed.”

  “Now that’s speaking right out,” Clay said, smiling at her frankness. “So you think love doesn’t last?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ellen said. She thought about it as they moved along the dimly lit streets. The coronas of the streetlamps glowed, but the feeble rays were swallowed up in the darkness, and there was something surrealistic in the sight of the street so busy by day, now deserted. “Love can last,” she said, “but it can die, too. Look at your uncle and aunt. They were in love once, I suppose. Now they just live in the same house. I can’t imagine them being in love, can you?”

  Clay shook his head. “No,” he replied slowly. “But we all get old.” He said no more for a few blocks, then suddenly began to speak of himself. He was not entirely sober, and the kiss had opened him up to her. “I can’t figure out what I’m doing here, Ellen,” he said. “I didn’t have to come. Mr. Benton could have gotten someone else to bring you to Washington.”

  “I asked him to get you to bring me,” Ellen said suddenly. “I wanted you to come and see Gid and Melanie together.” She had thought about telling him this for some time, and now seemed the best time. “I saw what you were doing to yourself, Clay, with all the drinking and carousing. It was destroying you.”

  “And seeing Gid and Melanie is supposed to cure me?”

  Ellen ignored his sardonic tone, saying, “It’s better to look at things straight on, Clay. I thought it would be better for you to see them married than to eat your heart out thinking about it. Maybe I was wrong—but I meant well.”

  Clay thought about what she had said, then nodded. “Maybe you’re right, Ellen. It hurts like fury to see them together—but somehow it’s not as bad as thinking about it. So thanks for trying. Don’t know why you fool with a sorehead like me!”

  “Don’t you, Clay?” Ellen said, giving him a slight smile. “Well, it’s been good for me to have you here. I may be some company for Melanie after Gid leaves, but she doesn’t need me now.”

  “He’s going back to the Point day after tomorrow. Guess I’ll go back to Richmond then.” He sighed heavily, adding, “Not much going on at the farm this time of year.”

  Ellen had blinked when he announced his intention to leave, but she said only, “We’ll have to make the most of our time, then.”

  Gid and Melanie were too occupied with each other to give much attention to Clay, but on the morning of Gid’s departure, they discussed him. Gideon was packing his suitcase, doing it methodically as he did most things, when Melanie came up behind him. Putting her arms around him, she held to him, pressing her face against his wide back.

  “Oh, Gid!” she moaned. “I wish you didn’t have to go! Or that I could go with you!”

  He unclasped her hands, turned, and took her in his arms. His eyes were sober, but he allowed a smile to touch his broad lips. “That would make for an interesting life. Every one of the boys would fall in love with you.” He stood there holding her, hating the idea of leaving but trying not to let it show. “You’ll have Ellen for company, and it won’t be forever.”

  “Yes, it will!” she pouted. “And Ellen is no substitute for a husband. Besides, she’s always with Clay.”

  “She sure is.” He drew back, his eyes thoughtful. “I guess he’ll go back to Gracefield, won’t he?” Moving away from her, he picked up his shaving equipment from the washstand and placed it in the suitcase, then shut it. “I’m surprised he’s stayed this long. I don’t think I’d want to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Hang around and watch you being married to another man. If you’d chosen Clay, I’d have gotten as far away from you as I could. He’s a peculiar fellow, Clay is. I don’t really understand him.” Then he looked at his watch, saying abruptly, “I’ve got to go. Don’t want to miss my train.”

  His departure was an event, with the entire family going out to the carriage. His parents bid him a fond good-bye, and all the servants came to wish him well. Finally he shook hands with Clay. “I’m glad you came,” he said simply. He wanted to say more, but others were listening, and he could not have said it in any case. “Take care of yourself, Clay,” was all that came to him, and he hated the inadequacy of the bare statement. He had tried more than once to put his feelings into words but had not been able to break through the barrier that had risen between him and his cousin. He could not blame Clay, for he doubted he could have handled such a loss as well.

  “Good-bye, Ellen,” he said, taking her hand. “Take care of Melanie,” he said, then got into the sleigh. “Let’s go, Pompey!” He hated good-byes and had forbidden anyone to go with him to the station. He was actually relieved when the final words were spoken and the sleigh turned the corner, and he settled down in the seat, his face somber and thoughtful. He forced himself to think of his remaining days at the Point, wishing they were over and he was with Melanie at some distant station. But Gideon Rocklin was a practical man, not given to much wishing, and he left Washington determined to do his best at his job.

  For a week after Gid’s departure, Clay remained in Washington. Each day he got up determined to leave, for somehow Melanie alone made his loss more bitter than when she had been with Gid. He grew morose and silent, and if it had not been for Ellen, he would have gone home the day after Gid left. But each morning she would meet him with a new plan, something that was taking place in the city that would entertain him. But it actually was something inside of Clay himself that kept him from fleeing Melanie’s presence.

  Stephen Rocklin pinpointed the young man’s problem one evening after Clay had taken Ellen to a party. Melanie had gone to bed early, and he and Ruth were sitting in front of the fireplace. “I wish Clay would go home,” he said abruptly, breaking into his wife’s account of some problem with one of the servants.

  Ruth looked at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s mooning around like a lovesick puppy,” Stephen answered. “The trouble with Clay is that he’s gotten everything he wanted up to now. And that’s not good for a man.” He got up and went to peer out the window into the darkness. Framed by the window, he looked sturdy and powerful. Finally he turned, saying, “I may have to talk to him about leaving.”

  “Oh, Stephen, don’t do that!” Ruth shook her head quickly, adding, “Clay needs a little time, that’s all.”

  “He needs to get away from here, Ruth. I wish he hadn’t come at all.”

  “Why, I thought you liked Clay.”

  “I do like him, Ruth. That’s why I want him to go. He’s not helping himself any hanging around here. He’s drinking too much, and he’s going to make a fool out of himself if it keeps up.”

  His words were not intended to be prophetic, but Clay had seen the disapproval in his uncle’s face. “I’ve got to leave, Ellen,” he said that night when they returned from the party. “I’m like a ghost at the party.”

  Ellen said quickly, “Well, not tomorrow. You promised to take me to see the Ethiopian Eccentricity—whatever that is.”

  She had seen a poster advertising a performance by Alex Carter’s Black Face Minstrels and had forced him to agree to take her.

  “Well, all right,” he agreed, “but I’m catching a train out of here on Tuesday.”

  Melanie noticed that Ellen was in a strange mood all day Monday. She had none of her usual cheerfulness but seemed to be thinking of something else. “Don’t you feel well, Ellen?” she asked as the other woman was getting dressed to go to the minstrel show.

  “I’m fine,” Ellen answered, but when she left with Clay, Melanie was worried about her. She knew that Clay would be leaving and was astute enough to know that Ellen would miss him. She felt sorry for her cousin but was relieved that Clay was going back to Virginia. The strain had been greater than she had anticipated, especially since Gideon had left. Clay will be better off at Gracefield, she said to hers
elf firmly. And maybe Ellen can see more of him when she goes back after her visit here.

  Ellen was bright and filled with excitement that evening. She carried Clay along with her, making him laugh at her outrageous comments on the minstrel show, which proved to be no better or worse than average. A pair of white artists with cork-blackened features clogged “Old Zip Coon,” and the audience broke out into gales of applause. “Misto’ Interlocutuh” wagged his preposterous woolly head and flung a series of conundrums to various members of his entourage. Mr. Alex Carter came on to sing, first “Blue Juanita,” a long, sentimental ballad, and next a catchy tune called “Buffalo Gals.” A pair of real Negroes then executed a very brisk buck-and-wing as a finale, to the evident enjoyment of the audience.

  After the show was over, Clay and Ellen went out to eat, and as usual Clay drank quite a bit. After the supper, he was feeling the effects of the liquor. “I’m drunk, Ellen,” he remarked owlishly.

  “No, you’re just feeling good,” she said at once. Then she leaned forward, smiling, to say, “Did you know there’s a boxing match tonight?”

  “A boxing match? No, I didn’t know it.”

  “Well, there is. It’s in a big warehouse down by the river. And we’re going to see the match.”

  Clay laughed at her. “Women don’t go to see such things, Ellen!”

  “This one does!”

  Shaking his head, he argued, “They wouldn’t even let you in. No women allowed, I tell you.”

  “But I’m not going as a woman. Didn’t you see the bag I put in the carriage? It’s got men’s clothing in it. I’m going to change this dress for a suit, put my hair up under a derby, and we’ll be two young fellows at the fight!”

  Clay stared at her. “You’re not serious!”

  “You just wait here, Clay Rocklin.” Ellen grinned. “Give me half an hour; then meet me at the carriage.”