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

by Gilbert, Morris

  Why didn’t Harriet Beecher Stowe put that in her book? he thought with a stab of irritation. He himself hated slavery and made no bones about it, but he knew full well that the North deceived itself, believing that freeing the slaves would bring them into an Edenic state. He had no answers to offer for the nation’s conflict—but thought of the words of the fanatic John Brown, who had said before being hanged, “This thing called slavery can only be washed away by blood.”

  The pastor sat there in the quietness of the room, trying to find some way to avoid talking to Clay. But he was grimly aware that there was none. He was trapped by his position as minister, and Clay was bound by other forces. Now he could do no less than meet the thing head on.

  “Now you eat this, Brother Irons,” Susanna said, returning with a silver tray filled with coffee, tea, and cake. “I can bake a better cake than Dorrie, but she refuses to admit it. I’m sure you’ll agree.” She smiled at him, pouring his coffee into a fragile china cup that looked small in the pastor’s hand. “Remember that chocolate cake I sent to you last month?”

  Irons smiled at her but said, “Susanna, I’m bound not to say who’s the best cook. An old bachelor like me can’t afford to offend anybody who can cook.” His lips parted in a smile, and humor lit his brown eyes. “Now between ourselves, I’ll admit you’re the best cook in Virginia, but I’ll never repeat that in front of Dorrie.”

  “You’re a fine minister!” Susanna cried out in mock horror. “Dorrie just told me you said she was the best cook in the whole state!”

  “I’m just a poor sinner,” Irons said mournfully, shoving a huge bite of the cake into his mouth. “Especially where cake is concerned, Susanna. Got no character at all.”

  She smiled at him, and he was touched by her warmth. Their close friendship had begun almost as soon as he had come to Grace Church as pastor. He had made enough mistakes to get ten preachers run off, and it had been Susanna Rocklin who had brought him through the difficult years. She had smoothed ruffled feelings among the congregation while she taught Irons that a pastor could be strong and tactful at the same time. He had discovered in the woman a strength that was lacking in her husband, Thomas. It was to her that he often came with his problems.

  Finally, after they had talked quietly, enjoying each other’s company, Susanna asked, “What’s troubling you, Jeremiah?”

  He looked at her with a smile. “I never could hide anything from you, could I?”

  “You can’t hide much from anyone,” she said. “You’re a direct man. It’s hard for you to cover things up.” Susanna sipped her tea, then asked quietly, “I suppose it has something to do with the Rocklin family?”

  “Well, yes—” Dissatisfaction stirred the shoulders of Irons, and he gripped his hands together, which Susanna recognized as a sign of agitation. “I’d rather be whipped than come here with this, Susanna.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about Clay,” he said evenly. “And Melora Yancy.”

  Susanna did not speak but let her eyes remain on the preacher’s face. She had been expecting something unpleasant, and now it was here. The silence ran on, and finally she said, “It’s especially hard for you, Jeremiah.”

  In that one phrase she said a great deal. In it, she indicated that she was aware that Jeremiah Irons was in love with Melora Yancy, which was no secret, since most people suspected it. Susanna had known for a long time of the minister’s love for Melora, though he had never spoken to her of it. Still, Susanna had seen it in his attitude toward the woman, in his eyes when he looked at her, and in the gentleness he always manifested toward her.

  Susanna knew, perhaps better than anyone else, the loneliness in Irons. She was lonely in much the same way. His wife was dead; her husband was removed and weak in many ways. She could no more get close to Thomas than Irons could get close to his dead wife.

  “The elders … they insist that I speak to both of them.” Irons rose, walked to the windows, and peered out, seeing nothing. After a moment, he came back to stand and look down on her. “I ought to resign from the church, Susanna.”

  “What would that accomplish? Whoever came to follow you wouldn’t be God’s man for Grace Church.”

  “He wouldn’t be all tangled up in his own harness, either!” Irons said almost bitterly. “How can I talk to Clay about this? Or Melora?”

  Susanna rose and took his hands. “You’ll talk to them as you talk to everybody, Jeremiah. Honestly and without guile. Do you think they don’t know there’s been talk about them?”

  The preacher’s face flushed, and he shook his head. “I nearly punched the jaw of Elder Matlock when he came to me and said Clay and Melora were too close.”

  “He’s only repeating what others have said,” Susanna said gently. “You can’t go around punching the jaw of every gossiper in the community, can you?” Then she said, “Sit down. We must pray about this.”

  Irons sat down and said quietly, “Yes, we’d better pray, Susanna. Because only God can do anything about this thing. It’s beyond me—beyond anybody!”

  Rena Rocklin and Ann Irons were best friends. They seldom had much time together, so the afternoon was a pleasure for them both. At fifteen, both girls were filled with the fears and anticipations of that particular age. They had grown up together, sharing the same tutors who had come to Gracefield and attending the same church all their lives. Often they had spent the night together, alternating between Gracefield and the parsonage, where the Irons family lived.

  All afternoon they talked eagerly as they roamed the fields together and retired into the summerhouse. Rena found plenty of snacks, and as the two ate cookies and drank fresh milk, they giggled and laughed outright. Rena showed Ann the new drawings she had made, brought her up to date on her “hospital” of sick and wounded animals, and listened in turn as Ann talked about the Jennings family, a new family that had moved into the community and joined the church. She said so much about one family member, a boy named James, that Rena finally grinned, saying, “I think you’ve got a case on him, this James Jennings.”

  Ann stared at her, then cried out, “Oh, Rena, I like him so much—but Papa goes into a fit if I even eat a bowl of ice cream with him at a sociable! I wish I were dead!”

  Rena, well accustomed to the overreactions of her friend, comforted her as well as she could. “Tell me about him, Ann. Is he tall? How old is he?” When she had absorbed all the details, she nodded, saying, “Listen, my birthday is in two weeks. I’ll make Daddy ask him to my party. Then you can eat all the ice cream you want with James Jennings.”

  Ann was ecstatic. She hugged Rena and walked around the room making plans for the unknowing young man. Rena was glad she could do so much for Ann, for she was fond of her. But unfortunately, she blundered into the one topic that brought Ann’s joy to a halt. Forgetting that Ann was the daughter of a minister and therefore was unable to attend dances, she mentioned that her father had just told her that she could attend the Officers’ Ball in Richmond the following week. She was so excited at the prospect that it escaped her notice that the more she spoke of the ball, the more Ann Irons turned gloomy.

  Finally Ann cried out, “It’s not fair! You have all the good times, Rena! I never get to have any fun!”

  Rena was caught off guard, but when she saw the resentment on Ann’s brow, she grew a little angry. “What do you mean I have all the good times? I’ve just told you how I’m going to get that old boy to my party, and just for you!”

  “Who cares about your old party?” Ann snapped back, not meaning a word of it but mortified and stung by Rena’s attack. “What’s a silly old party next to the Officers’ Ball in Richmond?”

  “Well, if you feel like that, you don’t have to come to my party yourself!” Rena regretted the words the moment they left her lips. She was a gentle girl and hated to hurt anyone. She was about to apologize and put her arms around Ann, but she was too late.

  One thing that Ann Irons had inherited from her mother wa
s a quick temper, and it rose up in her at once. “I wouldn’t come to your old party!” she cried out. “My father wouldn’t let me. He doesn’t want me having anything to do with the daughter of an adulterer!”

  The words hung in the air, both girls shocked into silence.

  “Oh, Rena—!” Ann exclaimed, horrified at what she had said, but at that moment the door opened and her father walked in, along with Clay Rocklin.

  The two men had been walking slowly down the path from the house. They had had their talk, and it had been very painful for both of them. Irons had put the matter simply: “Clay, I know you and Melora are innocent, but people are talking. They’re saying that you spend too much time with an unmarried young woman. The elders asked me to speak to you about it, and they’d like you to meet with them. I’ve done that now, so I’ll say no more.”

  Clay had flushed, an angry retort rising to his lips, but when he saw the pain in his friend’s face, he swallowed the words. “It’s hard on you, Jerry,” he had said. “I’ll pray about it.”

  That had been the extent of their conversation, and both of them were saddened by it. Clay had known for a long time that Irons had refused to marry because he was in love with Melora. More than once he had urged the minister to press his case. But Irons had said evenly, “In Melora’s eyes you’re the only man in the world, Clay.” Since then, the two had steered clear of talk about the situation. The fact that they remained close friends despite all this was evidence of the depth and strength of their bond.

  Now as they entered the summerhouse, they looked at the girls. Both men had heard Ann’s angry cry, and Irons said firmly, “Ann, you will apologize for your remark. It’s not true, and you certainly never heard me say any such thing.”

  Clay saw the humiliation on Ann’s youthful face. At once, he went to her and put his arm around her, saying gently, “Don’t make her do that, Reverend. Ann didn’t mean it.”

  Ann looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks. She threw her arms around Clay and whispered, “No! I never did!”

  Catching Irons’s glance, Clay shook his head slightly, and the other man understood. “Well, sometimes we all say things we don’t mean. Don’t cry, Ann.”

  Ann left Clay’s embrace and flew to Rena. The two girls were weeping, and Rena said, “It’s all right, Ann. You mustn’t feel bad!”

  It was a tense time, and Irons made his departure as soon as possible. Rena called out as they were well away from the house, “Don’t forget my birthday party, Ann!” Then she turned to her father, who was watching her strangely. Rena felt awkward, and there was a heaviness in the room, but she looked up and said, “I’m sorry you had to hear what Ann said, Daddy.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear it,” Clay said. He gave her a careful look, then asked, “You’ve heard it before—talk about me and Melora Yancy—haven’t you, Rena?”

  Rena flushed and wished she’d never listened to the gossip. She had heard it from one of the girls at church, a daughter of Elder Swinson, and it had angered her. Then she had heard some of the slaves talking about it, but they had not known she was listening. She had wept herself to sleep over it more nights than one but had never mentioned it to a living soul. Now she lifted her head, her youthful innocence plain to see. “Is—is it so, Daddy?”

  Clay shook his head instantly, more glad than he could say to be able to look his daughter in the eye. “No, Rena. It’s not so. You know Miss Melora. There’s no finer woman on earth than her, and she’d never do what people are saying.”

  “Oh, Daddy! I’m so glad!” Rena went to her father, and he held her closely. The strength of his arms comforted her, and finally she drew back with a frown on her face. “You ought to shoot whoever starts those old stories, Daddy!”

  Clay smiled in spite of himself. “Hey, that’s no way to talk! In the first place, I’d run out of ammunition,” he said, making a joke out of it. Then he paused, his lips growing firm as he said, “It hurts me that I’ve been the cause of harm to Melora. I don’t think we’ll be able to see her much anymore.” He had taken Rena with him to the Yancy place more than once, and the girl had taken to Melora instantly. The two of them had become fast friends.

  Clay looked down at his daughter. “Don’t let this make you hate anyone, Rena. Never let anything do that.” He kissed her, then looked into her clear eyes and said quietly, “I let hate and bitterness get into me once. And it cost me the dearest thing in the world.”

  Rena understood instantly that her father was speaking about whatever it was that had taken him away from Gracefield for so many years. She nodded, her eyes suddenly filled with love for her father. “I promise, Daddy!”

  That was all. Except that when Rena left to go back to the Big House, she asked, “Daddy, when you see Miss Melora, will you tell her why I won’t be coming to see her?”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll understand.”

  Clay stood at the head of the path that led through the trees, watching his daughter make her way between the huge trunks. The scene had torn at his insides, but now he faced something even worse.

  Tomorrow I’ll go tell Melora.

  The thought was painful, and that night he slept little, knowing that it must be done yet dreading it with all his heart.

  Clay Rocklin was no man to put off an unpleasant chore, so he saddled King and left Gracefield early the next morning, just after dawn. The distance was not far and he walked the horse most of the way, but it seemed when he came in sight of the Yancy house that the ride had been very brief. Buford Yancy was working in his barn, shoeing a nervous mare, and he called out as Clay dismounted, “Come in here and help me with this animal, Clay! She’s more likely to shoe me than t’other way around!”

  “Fine mare, Buford,” Clay said, taking the horse’s head and holding her firmly. “Out of Thunderhead, if I remember?”

  The two men talked as they worked, but Clay was thinking back over the years. Buford Yancy was one of the innumerable poor white farmers who filled the South. He was, at the age of fifty-four, stronger and more active than most men half his age. He was six feet tall and lean as a lath, with a pair of quick, greenish eyes and a head of tow hair that he hacked off with a knife when it got in his way. He was as independent as a lion—and proud as one, too.

  Clay thought back to how the two of them had become friends. Clay had been a young fool, filled with pride and arrogance. Then a hunting accident had felled him when he was hunting with Jeremiah Irons, and he had been brought to the Yancy cabin while the minister went for help. Clay smiled as he thought of how he’d learned that it was not the aristocrats who had real pride, but men like Buford Yancy!

  He thought, too, of the small girl who’d taken care of him, how womanlike she had been though she was just a child. Melora … he’d been taken with her childish ways and the wisdom she often displayed that seemed so far beyond her years. The days he’d spent there had taught him much about children—at least about one of them. Melora was bright as a newly minted coin, and when he’d asked her what she wanted for taking care of him, she’d told him she wanted a book.

  That had been the beginning. It had gone on like that, and his delight in bringing her books and reading the difficult ones to her was the chief solace in his troubled life. Her favorite had been Pilgrim’s Progress, and when he’d left to go to the Mexican War, seeking glory to equal that of his cousin who’d married the girl Clay loved, he’d said on his last visit with the child, “I’ll slay a dragon for you, Melora!”

  But he had slain no dragons in Mexico. He had disgraced himself by getting drunk and allowing the men of his company to be butchered by the enemy. He was dishonorably discharged. No sooner had he gotten home than he disgraced himself further by forcing his attentions on Melanie, Gideon’s wife. That had been the end of it. His father had driven him from Gracefield, and he’d wandered the world, a drunken derelict. Finally a ship’s captain had seen something in him, taken him aboard, and trained him. Clay had risen in that busine
ss—the slave running business—until he grew sick of heart and soul at what he was doing and came back to Virginia.

  Now, looking down at Buford as the man worked, Clay felt a quick flash of affection. No matter how many of his old friends—or his family—had shunned him, Buford Yancy had not. He had watched Clay carefully for a time; then one day he said easily, “Glad you come back, Clay.” That had been all, but to Clay Rocklin it had been the equivalent of a brass band and a dozen speeches. Since then he and Yancy had grown close. Clay had found great solace in the friendship he shared with Buford. And with Melora.

  If Buford was one of his closest friends, Melora was … well, she was probably the one person who really knew Clay, really understood him. It had been she, with her quiet ways and solid faith, who had finally lifted Clay out of the blackness that he had thought would destroy him—by leading him to the Lord.

  As Buford’s long figure rose from his work, Clay watched him, then said, “Buford, have you thought about what we talked about last time?”

  “Shore. It’s okay with me, Clay.”

  Rocklin was surprised. He had come a week earlier to convince Buford that he should plant corn and raise hogs instead of raising cotton. Clay had been expecting to have to overcome the tall man’s objections. “You made up your mind already?”

  “Makes sense to me. Cotton ain’t gonna feed nobody this fall. Can’t eat the blamed stuff.” Yancy’s green eyes gleamed with humor as he added, “To tell the truth, Clay, I’ve always hated cotton—blasted stuff!”

  Clay laughed but warned at once, “People will say you’re a fool. They’ve already said as much about me. They say it’s not patriotic to raise anything else.”

  “I never thought it made a man a patriot to raise cotton. Now let’s figure some on this corn business. And how we gonna hold them hogs? Take a heap of fencing, won’t it?”

  The two men went out and sat under a spreading ash as they talked, and it was a pleasure for Clay. He’d been called a fool and a traitor by so many for wanting to break with cotton. Now he knew that he was right. There was an inborn shrewdness in Buford Yancy, and Clay had grown to trust his judgment on anything concerning farming.