The wedded pair left our town next morning for a brief visit with Mary's friends, and returned in a few days to their little house, which was all ready for occupancy. Aunt Hildy and mother had put a "baking of victuals," according to Aunt Hildy, into the closet, and the evening of their return their own supper table was ready, with mother, Clara, Louis and me in waiting. Louis remarked on Mr. Benton's coming over, and I forgot myself and said, in the old way:
"Can't we have one meal in peace?"
Mother said:
"Why, Emily, you are losing your mind; what would Hal think if Mr. Benton were left alone?"
Father and Ben came over, but not till after supper, and Aunt Hildy persisted in staying at home and doing her duty.
"Let him come, and stay, too," I added, still feeling vexed; and how strangely Louis looked as Mr. Benton came in. "Fairy land," he said.
Mother made some reply, but I sat mute as my thought could make me.
The stage came. Our first supper was pleasant both as a reality and as a type of their future. Hal and Mary were truly married, and through the ensuing years their lives ran on together merged as one. When we stopped to think over the years since his boyhood, to remember the comparatively few advantages he had enjoyed, the ill luck of my father in his early years, and his tired, discouraged way which followed,—it was hard to realize the facts as they were. Grandma Northrop often prophesied of Hal, saying to mother:
"That boy's star will rise. I know his good luck will more than balance his father's misfortune, and in your old age you will see him handsomely settled in life."
It seemed as if the impulse of his youth had all tended to bring him where the light could shine on his art, and from the time he entered Mr. Hanson's employ his good fortune was before him. There is another thought runs by the side of this, and that is one induced by the knowledge of the great power of gold. Mr. Hanson was a man of wealth and good business relations. Liking Hal for himself, and interested in his art, it was easy for him to open many doors for the entrance of his work. Mr. Benton was a help to Hal in his art, and his reward was immediate almost, for Hal had told me Will's pieces had never been appreciated as now. It was astonishing, too, how many people had money to buy these expensive treasures,—but the sea was smooth.
"Every shingle on the house paid for," said Aunt Hildy; "aint that the beginning that ought to end well?"
And now the road of the future lay, as a fair meadowland, whose flowers and grasses should be gathered through the years. Truly life is strangely mixed.
The look of perplexing anxiety had vanished from my father's face, for with Hal's prospects his own had grown bright, and you cannot know how Clara lifted him along, as it were; paying well and promptly and saving in so many ways, was a wondrous help to a farmer's family. There was also the prospect of a new street being opened through the centre of the town, and if my father wished he could sell building lots on one side of it, for it would run along the edge of his land.
"Trouble don't never come single-handed, neither does prosperity, Mr. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.
"Love's Fawn" was a famous little housekeeper, everything was in good order, and I certainly found a well-spring of joy in the society of these two. If Mary needed any extra help, Hal said, "Emily will do it." This was a very welcome change from the old saying.
Ben was a daily visitor, and spoke of sister Mary with great pride. He was a good boy and willing. Hal felt anxious to help him, if he desired it, by giving him more schooling, but he was a farmer born, and his greatest ambition was to own a farm and have a saw mill. He went to the village school, and had as good an education as that could give, for he was not dull. I was glad for his sake he liked farming; it seemed to me a true farmer ought to be happy. Golden and crimson leaves were fluttering down from the forest trees, for October had come upon us and nearly gone, and while all prospects for living were full of cheer, I felt a great wonder creeping over me, and with it, fear. Louis had said no word to me as yet, and could it be he had forgotten the year was at an end? Surely not. Could his mind have changed? Oh, how this fear troubled me! He was as kind as ever, but he said much less to me, and seemed like one pre-occupied. One chance remark of Clara's brought the color to my cheeks, as we sit together.
"Louis, my dear boy, what is it? A shadow crossed your face just then."
He looked surprised, and only half answered:
"The shadow of yourself. I was thinking about you."
Mr. Benton did not talk of leaving us; he had some unfinished pieces, and my father had said:
"Remain as long as you please, if my wife is willing."
After Hal left, I felt his studio marred by Mr. Benton's presence, for he had become a perfect torture to me, and I began to believe he delighted in it, secretly. Then again, I had the room to attend to, and I must in consequence be annoyed. Of this I was tired, and when day after day passed and brought no word from Louis, save in common with the rest, I said, hopelessly:
"Let it go. I will try to love no one but father and mother and Clara and Hal, and oh, dear! when shall I ever be ready to say, 'Now Clara, let me help you'?"
She said to me through these days I was not happy. "Wild flower, what troubles thee?" one day, and again, "Emily, my royal Emily, art thou sighing for wings?"
November came and passed, and the gates of the new year were opening, still all the way lay dark before me. Night after night my tear-stained pillow told my sorrow mutely, and day after day I sighed. Mother was not well, and I felt that everything was wrong. I was worrying myself sick, I knew, and could not help it.
It was a cold, bitter day, and in my heart lay bitter thoughts when Matthias came over to tell us, that "Peg was right sick, 'pears like she's done took sick all in a minit, onions and onions, mustard and mustard, an nothin' don't do no good. Here's a piece of paper I foun' in de road, 'pears like you mus' want it," and he handed it to me.
I put it in my pocket and went to ask Aunt Hildy what to do for Aunt Peg. She proposed to go over, and Ben went with her.
While they were gone I read the paper, which proved to be a letter, evidently written to Mr. Benton, and the signature was plainly, "your heart-broken Mary," I could only pick out half sentences, but read enough to show me the treachery and sorrow, aye, more, a life cursed with shame, and at the hands of Wilmur Benton.
"Thank God," I cried aloud—I was in the sitting-room alone—and then tears fell hot and fast, and I sobbed and cried as if I had found a wide white path that led from the night of my discontent, out into the morning of the day called peace. I could not stay there and cry, I must pass Clara's door to go to my room, and throwing a shawl over my shoulders I rushed out, and fairly flew over the frozen ground to that dear old apple tree. What a strange place to go to, standing under those bare limbs, or rather walking to and fro, but I could not help it! This same old tree had heard my cries and seen my tears for years. I covered my face with both hands, and wept aloud. I could not have been there long, when I felt a presence, and Louis was beside me.
Putting an arm around me, he said tenderly, "Come in, Emily."
"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I cannot, they will see my face, what shall I do? how came you here?" and I still kept crying and sobbing as if my heart would break.
"Why Emily, my royal Emily, come into little mother's room,—she has lain down,—and tell me why you weep."
I yielded gratefully, not gracefully, and we were seated alone, all alone, and he was saying to me:
"Emily, tell me what it is, you have troubled me so long, your eyes have grown so sad. Oh! Emily, my darling, may I not know your secret sorrow? I can wait longer, my year has flown, and three months more, and still my heart is waiting; tell me your sorrow, and then let me say to you what I have waited in patience to repeat."
It was not a dream, my heart beat like a bird, and I could tell him, only too gladly. "Emily will do it."
As soon as I could control my voice I said, "I cannot tell you why I cry so bitterly. I felt so strangely when I read this terrible letter, which Matthias had picked up in the road and given to me. Instead of sorrow covering me, as would seem natural, sorrow for another, not myself, I said, 'thank God,' for it seemed as if I had looked at something that would lead me from darkness to light. I have been so miserable, Louis; Mr. Benton has tormented me so long, that I have been filled with despair, and I begin to believe I shall never be worth anything again; oh! I am grieving so, and yet feel such a strange joy;" and I shook as if with ague.
Louis looked as if wonder-struck, and holding both my hands in one of his, drew my head to his shoulder, and with his arm still round me, put his hand on my forehead.
"Your head is like fire, Emily; the first thing is for you to get quiet; a terrible mistake has been made, and we may give thanks for the help that has strangely come."
I knew it would appear but did not know how. I stillgrieved and sighed and was trying hard to control myself.
"Emily," said Louis, in a tone of gentle authority, "do not try to hold on to yourself so; just place more confidence in my strength and I will help your nerves to help themselves, for you see these nerves you are trying to force into quiet, are only disturbed by your will. Let the rein fall loosely, it will soon be gathered up, for when you are quiet you will be strong, and the harder you pull the more troubled you will be. You must lean on me, Emily, from this day on as far as our earthly lives shall go—you are mine. It is blessed to claim you."
I tried to do as he said, and after a little, the strength he gave crept over me like a tide that bore me up at last; my grieving nerves were still, but my face was pale, as he said again:
"Now, Emily, let me hear from your own lips, 'I love you, Louis,'" and his dark eyes turned to meet my own, which were filled with tears that were not bitter—holy tears that welled from the fountain of my tired and grateful heart.
"I do love you, Louis—and Louis," I cried, forgetting again, impetuously, "I thought you had forgotten. I have suffered so long and you did not know it, and I dared not tell."
"Emily should have done it, but never mind, you say you love me, and shall it be as I desire? will you be my wife, Emily?"
I bowed my head and he continued:
"Thank you, Emily, and I do hope that listening angels hear and know it all. Their love shall sanctionours, and we will do all we can for each other, and also for those who unlike us see not the love, the comfort, and the faith they need. Now you shall be my Emily,—you are christened; this is your royal title,—my Emily through all the years."
Oh, how glad I felt! From the depths of my spirit rose so strong and full the tide of feeling that told me one love was perfect, and it cast out fear.
I said: "Louis, let us wait. Do not look at the dreadful letter now, it will mar this pleasant picture which rests me so, and I have been tired too long. I hope I may never again have to say to myself, 'Emily did it,' or its companion sentence, 'Poor Emily did not do it.' Let me breathe a little first, for I shall be again wrought up."
"Perhaps not," said Louis.
"Oh! I must be, it cannot be avoided, there is a dark passage through which we must pass, but if we go together it will not be so hard."
"As you say, my Emily," and at that moment Clara entered.
"Come in, little mother," said Louis, "come in and seal my title for your royal cousin with a motherly kiss, for she has promised to be my wife—my Emily through time."
And she glided toward us, kissed my forehead tenderly, and then taking a hand of each in one of hers, she turned her eyes upward and said:
"Father, bless my children; they were made for each other. May their lives and love continue, ever as thine, through endless time. Let our hearts be united and thy will be ours," and she knelt on the floor at our feet, herhead resting in my lap, and her hand in Louis', whose face was radiant with the thoughts which sought expression in his features. I marvelled, as I looked on his beauty, that plain Emily Minot could have become so dear to him.
The thought of father's fear, too, came over me, and while we were thus in thoughtful silence, the old corner clock gave warning of the supper hour being near, and I said:
"The supper I must see to, Louis."
He smiled and said:
"My Emily can get supper, I know, for she makes both bread and butter, and is loyal to her calling ever, as to her lover."
Mr. Benton looked sharply at me during the meal, and it seemed to me as if my eyes betrayed the thought which, filled my heart. Aunt Hildy had returned from her errand of mercy, and she said it was "nervous rheumatiz."
"Poor creature, she's broke down with her hard work."
"Perhaps she'll marry that old fellow, Mat Jones," said Mr. Benton. "He'd make a good husband if she isn't too particular," and he laughed as if he thought his remark suggestive of great cunning. No one gave it even a smile. He did not like Matthias, and often spoke slurringly of him. This was strange, for I could see no harm coming to him from this harmless soul who was good and true and faithful as the sun. He was to us the very help we needed, and father could entrust the care of his work to him whenever he desired to rest a day, or it was necessary for him to be absent from home. This was nosmall consideration, and well appreciated by those who knew what the care and work of life on a farm meant. Mr. Benton's remark called forth from Louis after a time one concerning the great evil of slavery.
"And if we suffer from any error this race commit, we must remember it is our own people who have brought it to us," said he. "Africa never would have come to us."
Mr. Benton, apparently nettled, said:
"I imagine you would not enjoy a drove of these people in your care. I had a little taste of the South during two years of my life, and my word for it, Louis, they are not attractive creatures to be tormented with. They are a perfect set of stubborn stupidities, and driving is the only thing to suit them, depend on it."
Louis looked more than he said, only recalling that the blame for this could not rest on the slave alone. "I do not imagine I could enjoy slave-owning. I feel the majority of slave-owners lower themselves until they stand beneath the level of the brutes."
Father said, "It is all wrong."
Aunt Hildy added, "All kind of bondage is ungodly, and the days will bring some folks to knowledge."
"Out of the depth into the light," said Clara, and our meal was over.
The days flew by on wings, each wing a promise, and it was a week after we plighted our vows ere I felt ready to read that letter and hear what Louis had to say. Then something came to prevent, and another week had passed when Louis said:
"My Emily, I must have a talk with your father andmother. I cannot feel quite satisfied, and it is only right they should be consulted, for you are their own good girl. I would wait for their hearts to say, 'take her,' if I waited years, but then, my Emily, it is neither giving nor taking, for every change that is right does not ask us ever to give ourselves or our loved ones away. I dislike that term."
"You may wait, Louis; I will tell mother, and she can tell father."
"No, no, Emily! It is I who ask for your hand, and is it not my privilege as well as duty?"
"What a strange man you are growing to be, Louis! Hal couldn't bear the thought of telling mother or father his heart affairs, and I was the medium of communication between them."
"He feels differently about it," said Louis, "and yet he has the tenderest heart I ever knew within the breast of a man."
"He is a good brother, Louis. I could not ask a better."
"Nor find one if you did."
At that moment Matthias came in. Taking off his hat and saluting us in his accustomed way, he said:
"'Pears like I'll have to ask some of yere to go out in de woods a piece—thar's a queer looking gal out thar, an' she's mighty nigh froze to death; she is, sartin."
"Where is she, Matthias?"
"Clean over thar; quite a piece, miss."
"Near any house?" I said.
"Wall, miss, she mout be two or three good steps from that thar brick-colored house."
"Oh, clear over there? Well," I said, "I'll go over if Lou Desmonde will go with me."
"I will go, only never call me that again. Matthias calls me Mas'r Louis, and he says I remind him of a mighty nice fellow down in South Carliny," said Louis.
"Yis, sah, you does," said Matthias.
Telling mother and Aunt Hildy what we were going out to find, we started.
It was a very cold day, and through our warm clothing the winds of March pierced the marrow of our bones. We found the woman, who proved to be, as Matthias had said, nearly frozen. Louis took her right in his arms to the nearest shelter, Mr. Goodwin's, the brick-colored house, and his good, motherly wife had her put into the large west-room, where the spare bed was made so temptingly clean, and with such an airy feather mattress, that, light as she was, the poor girl sank into it almost out of sight. Matthias brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, and Mrs. Goodwin, Louis and I worked hard for an hour chafing her purple limbs, her swelled feet and hands, and at last she turned her head uneasily, and murmured:
"The baby's dead—she is dead and I am going to her."
Then a few words of home and some pictures.
"Myself! myself!" she'd cry, "my picture; yes, my hair is beautiful; my golden curls, he said; and my baby's hair; let me put it here."
And she passed into a sleep from which it would seem she could never waken. We sent Matthias back to tell mother, and say that we should both stay all night ifnecessary. This girl could not be more than twenty, we thought. Her fingers were small and tapering, and on her right hand she wore a ring set with several diamond stones. Her dress was of silk, and her shawl fine but thin. Her head covering had doubtless fallen off and then been carried by the wind, for we saw nothing of it. She was a beautiful picture as she lay there, for the blood had started and her cheeks were flushed with fever, her lips parted, showing a set of teeth, small, white and regular. Who could she be? Where did she come from? It was about an hour after she fell asleep that she stirred, wakened, and this time opened her eyes in which a conscious light was gathering.
"Where am I? What is it?"
Mrs. Goodwin stepped near her, Louis retreated from the room, and I kept my seat by the hearth.
"Dead, dead, I was dying but I am not dead; do tell me," she said, putting both her hands out to Mrs. Goodwin.
"You are sick, my child. We found you in the road and took you in. You had lost your way."
"Oh! oh!" she murmured, "can I stay all night?"
"Oh, yes, stay a week or two, and get rested!"
"May I go to sleep again? Who knows me here?" and again she fell asleep. By this time Aunt Hildy appeared on the scene, and commanded me to go home and stay there.
"'Tain't no place for you; I've brought my herbs to stay and doctor her. You go home and help your mother." I obeyed, of course, and when I left, kissed the white forehead of the poor girl, and sealed it with a tear that fell.
She murmured: "Yes, all for love,—home, pictures, mother,—all left for love, and the baby's dead. I'm going there."
I went out into the crisp air with Louis' arm for support, and a thousand strange thoughts whirling in my brain. "Great, indeed, must have been the sorrow which could have driven so tender a plant from home."
"Yes," said Louis, "God pity the man whose ruthless hand has killed the blossoms of her loving heart. She looks like little mother, Emily."
"So she does, Louis." And we talked earnestly, forgetting everything but this strange, sweet face. Supper was ready, and the rest were at the table.
"What have you been up to?" said Ben, "you look like two tombstones." I related briefly the history, and concluded by saying:
"She looks as frail as a flower." To which Mr. Benton added:
"Doubtless her frailty, Miss Minot, is the cause of her present suffering."
"Poor lamb," said Clara, "how thankful we should feel that Matthias found her."
"Yes," said Louis, "and if he only could have thought to have carried her into Mr. Goodwin's, and then come over after us, she would not have so hard a struggle for life."
"Do you think she can live?" said Mr. Benton.
"Oh, yes!" said Louis, "the blood has started, and with Aunt Hildy by her bedside she will be, by to-morrow, very comfortable. I think she had not been there long when we found her."
"Perhaps she will not thank you for bringing her back to life, however."
"Perhaps not," said Louis, "still it seems a sacred duty, and in my opinion, not finished with her mere return to life. She looks very beautiful—looks like little mother," turning in admiration to Clara, whose eyes reflected the love she held in her heart for him.
Father and mother were silent, but after supper mother said they would ride over and see if anything was necessary to be done that they could attend to. My mother was too silent and too pale through these days. I looked at the prospect of less work for her with pleasure, and after Mr. Benton left there certainly would be less. Louis would have Hal's room, and Clara then would see to their apartments almost entirely. This would be a relief, and now that my mind was at ease, I knew I could be of more service, while Aunt Hildy would still remain, for she said she would make "Mis' Minot's burden as easy as she could, while the Lord gave her strength to do it."
After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very particular to attend to. I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at her smilingly. "My Emily guesses it," she said, "something for the little lamb. Emily will help me too, have I not said it?" and she passed like a sweet breath from the room.
"Now Louis," I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,—our old-fashioned people called it "soffy,"—"let us look at that letter."
He produced it from the pocket where it had lain inwaiting, and we read. Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered much of it. "The baby is dead—she was beautiful, and if (here were two words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence). Where can your letters —— I am sure you write. If —— then I shall go to find ——. My father will give us ——" and from all these grief-laden sentences, we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide with that of the poor lamb.
"Louis," I said, "if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?"
"We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can. First let us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others. How did Mr. Benton annoy you?"
Then I told him.
"And you did not even think you loved him?"
"Louis," I cried, "how could you think so, when my heart has been yours always? How could you think of me in that light?" And those old tears came into my eyes.
"I could not convince myself that such was the case, but Wilmur Benton gave me so to understand—said you were a coy damsel but a glorious girl, and would make a splendid wife—'just such as I need,' he said, 'congratulate me.'
"When, Louis, did he say this?"
"The night of our walk; and it was this instead of the picture he talked of."
"You were cruel not to tell me," I said.
"I waited for my year to finish as I had said I would, and then, Emily, I waited longer for fear you did not know your heart. Matthias said to me one day, 'Masr' Louis, dat man neber can gain de day ober thar; Miss Emily done gone clar off de books, an he's such a bother—um—um.' This set me to thinking; I asked him how he came to think so. 'Dunno, can't help it, 'pears like dat gal's eyes tell me 'nuf.' All this was good to hear, and I had watched you very closely for days, thinking every morning, 'I will tell her before night;' and several times went into Hal's room purposely, but Mr. Benton was always before me. It was because you felt all this that the letter made you feel truly an opening path—your tearful talk by the old apple tree was the 'sesame' that opened the way to the light."
"I do not like to feel that man is such a character as all these things indicate," I said, adding dreamily, "but I never came very near to him. He is a splendid artist, and still the canvas does not speak of his soul."
"How utterly void of feeling for those in bondage he seems to be! What a cold crust covers him! Emily."
"It hurts me to think you could for a moment believe I preferred him to you."
"You must not for a moment believe that in my soul I did, for it is not true; but I knew your artless, loving heart, and I knew also Mr. Benton had the power to polish sentences of flattery that might for a little dazzle you, as it were."
"And they did sometimes, Louis," I said, for I wanted the whole truth to be made plain, while I felt his glittering eyes fastened on me, "but not long. When I was alone, I saw your face and longed to hear again the words you had said to me. We are both young, Louis, and I feared you did not love me as you thought. I had no right to defend myself against Mr. Benton's attacks by using your name with my own. And when the year was past, then I still felt no right, and further," I added slowly, "to me my love was a sacred picture I could not ask him to look at."
"My Emily forever," said Louis, folding me closely to him. "Your fears were groundless as to the changing of my love for you, but, as you say, the picture was not for his eyes. Your suffering causes me sorrow, but let us hope it has not been in vain."
"It is all right, Louis, now, and I have said to myself, let 'Emily will do it' be the words hereafter, for 'Emily did it' has passed, and with this lesson, too, I hope, the second sin of omission, which in my heart I characterize as 'Emily did not do it.' And now your little mother's words lie just before me, reaching a long way through the years, 'Emily will do it.'"
"Amen," said a sweet voice, which was Clara's. "Emily has begun, and when she goes to see the little lamb here are some things to take."
"Do you want to see her, little mother?"
"Not now, Louis; I cannot now look upon her sorrow. By-and-by," and over her face came a shining mist, and through sweet sympathy's pure tears her eyes looked earnestly, but she did not tell us of what she was thinking.
I think we must all have dreamed of the lovely face over among the pillows in Mr. Goodwin's west room, for we were hardly seated at the breakfast table ere Ben said:
"Wonder how that pretty girl is this morning?"
"She was better when we left last night," said mother, "I thought she appeared as if ready for a comfortable night; but shall hear soon if she is better, Aunt Hildy will be home, and if not, Matthias will be over."
"Wish I could see her—will she go right away?"
"That I do not know," said mother, "we have yet to learn her history. Mrs. Goodwin wanted Matthias to come over to-day, for after you left, Emily, she called for 'Peter, colored Peter,' looking as if expecting to find him. Matthias came into the room and brought some wood, while she was awake, and when she saw him, she said, 'Oh, Peter! stay till I get rested—I want to tell you.' He dropped his wood heavily, it gave him such a start. He says no one ever called him that except some young people down in Carolina, and it seems he named himself Peter, to their great amusement, telling them that he'cakilated to treat his old Mas'r just as Peter treated de good Jesus.'"
"Why, can it be possible he knows her?" I said.
"He thinks not," said mother, "but this calling him Peter is singular enough."
"It seems very strange, and hardly possible she can have come so far," said father. Louis' eyes as well as my own had been covertly scanning Mr. Benton, and he was ill at ease. At the name of Peter his face grew pale and his hand trembled; no one else noticing it, he rallied, but made no remark whatever. Afterward Louis said to him:
"What a strange experience this is of the girl we found!—truths are queer things; I feel a real anxiety to find out about her. Do not you feel interested?" His eyes fell as he answered:
"Can't say that I do. You have more enthusiasm than myself. Having known more years, I am taught to let people look out for themselves very much. But that old Matthias I don't like. It may be all a put up job—something to bring credit or money to himself—you can't trust that darky."
"Why," said Louis, "Iwould trust him, and so far as this young lady is concerned, a different person from Matthias is at the root of the matter. I have a desire to know the truth and help the girl."
"She may be your fate, Louis."
"No," he replied, "Mr. Benton, that is not possible, my 'fate,' as you call it, is my Emily."
"Miss Minot?" said Benton, "great heavens! Has that girl played me false?"
"I think not," said Louis calmly, "and since the subject is broached, perhaps it will be best for me to tell you that Emily is to be my wife, her parents being willing."
"Youare a gentleman, truly! I gave you my confidence and expected"—
"Do not say more," said Louis, raising his hand deprecatingly against the coming falsehood, "do not help me to despise you. I am too sorry that I am forced to know what you said to me was untrue, and also to realize what my Emily has suffered and kept in her own heart."
"Louis Desmonde," said Mr. Benton, "do you realize what you are saying?"
"Only too well, sir; do not force me to say more. I admire your art. I am willing to help you to be a man."
"Indeed!" replied Mr. Benton. "Philanthropicboy! who talks to a man of years and judgment!"
It was a bitter pill for him, and I believe it was the knowledge of Louis' money, and of his own great need of it, that forced him to retreat in silence, while Louis sought and told me of their interview.
"How could you help telling him of the letter, Louis?"
"I did not have to try to help it, for I want to be sure of all I say to him, and as far as I spoke I had perfect authority. He may at some time need my help, though he spurned the aid of his 'philanthropic boy.'"
"Boy," said I, "you are old enough to be his father in goodness, but here comes Aunt Hildy. The poor lamb must be better, else she would not come back so soon," and I opened the door for her entrance.
"I know what you're after," she said, "she's better;the poor thing will get well. Oh dear! land! I wonder, when'll the same old story end."
"Has she told it to you, Aunt Hildy?"
"Partly to me and partly to Mis' Goodwin." (Aunt Hildy never said Mrs. ---- married or single, it was always Miss.) "She'll tell you all about it, I guess, for she wants to see you. She remembers your dark eyes, and Matthias she calls Peter—yes, she does, now she's come clean to her senses, and when she gets a little more strength, she says she must see him, and the dark eyes too; so you'll have to go over. Mis' Goodwin said mebbe you'd better wait till to-morrer, and so says Brother Davis. He come over and brought a few of his powders—he wanted to do something. I told him we could fetch her out straight—Mis' Goodwin and me—and I think he'd better tend to himself—says he's got a dreadful pain under his shoulder blades; acts as if he's goin' to be sick."
"Could the young lady eat anything, Mrs. Patten?" said Louis.
"Mercy! yes, I've made gruel twice for her and she's all right, only she'll be lame and sore-like for a good while, but I must go to work, I've been gone long enough. Where's your mother?" And the dear old soul hastened to her duties.
Our supper table was enlivened by the news that Aunt Hildy brought, all being interested with the exception of Mr. Benton, who was well covered with dignity. Part of that evening, Louis and I spent with Hal and Mary. I longed to tell them all about the letter and Mr. Benton's deceit, but as we entered, Louis whispered, "Let us bediscreet," and I answered, "Emily will do it." He was so much wiser that our years told a story when they said "only a month's difference in their ages." Hal and Mary were much interested in the poor lamb, and like ourselves hoped to learn her history, and help her as she must need. Our visits here were always pleasant, and when we said "good night," a sincere "God bless you" rose from our hearts. We entered our sitting-room, to find Clara sitting between mother and father, and the three evidently enjoying a home talk. After we were seated, and a lull in the conversation came, Louis startled me by saying:
"Mr. and Mrs. Minot, I want to ask of you a favor—greater than the one granted my little mother; perhaps so great that you will fail to grant it; but it is worth the asking, worth the waiting for through years. May I call Emily my wife?"
My father looked strangely, and did not reply for a moment, while mother's face was covered with that pleasant smile, which from earliest years I had considered, "yes." Louis' eyes were bent on my father, who, when he answered, said:
"You are both young, Louis."
"Yes, sir, I know it, and I do not ask to make her my wife now. But I love her, Mr. Minot, and it is not right we should hold a position not sanctioned by you. I shall feel better if you are willing to consider us, as we feel, pledged to each other."
"I cannot sayno, but I have thought—Mr. Benton has asked me the same question, and I hardly know what to say—I said to him, 'If Emily is willing, I will not oppose your suit.'"
"Oh!" I cried, "father, he has told such stories!"
Louis said: "We can explain that satisfactorily, Mr. Minot, but if there are other objections in your mind, let us know what they are."
My father was not a man who expressed himself freely, and Louis was so unlike other young men that he was embarrassed evidently, and there was, as it seemed to me, a long silence ere he said:
"I have no objections, Louis. I believe you mean what you say, and also have enough of your mother in you to treat our girl well. I cannot see why your plans may not be carried out so far as I am concerned."
He looked at mother, who smiled a consent, and Louis stepped toward them both, shook their hands heartily, and said:
"I thank you."
His way of manifesting feeling was purely French, and belonged to him—it was not ours, but we came to like it, and as my father often said, when Clara came she unlocked many a door that had been shut for years. Too many of our best ideas were kept under covering, I knew, and the hand of expressive thought was one which loosened the soil about their roots, giving impetus to their growth and sweetness to their blossoms. We knew more of each other daily, and is not this true through life? Do not fathers and mothers live and die without knowing their children truly, and all of them looking through the years for that which they sorely need, and find it not? Their confidence in each other lacking, lives have been blasted, hopes scattered almost ere they were born, and generations suffered in consequence. It was the blessedbreaking of day to me, the freedom to tell my mother what I thought; and after Clara, became one of us, I could get much nearer to my father. The full tide of her feeling swept daily over the harbor bar of our lives, and we enjoyed together its great power. Her heart was beneficent, and her hand sealed it with the alms she gave freely. She was always unobtrusive, and anxious in every way to avoid notoriety.
Deacon Grover who had heard and known with others of her numerous charities, offered advice in that direction, and said to Aunt Hildy,
"If that rich lady would just walk up and give a few hundreds to the church fund it would help mightily."
Aunt Hildy had replied:
"Yes, yes, Deacon Grover, it would be nice for lazy folks to let the minister do all the saving, and somebody else all the paying. I believe faith without works is jest exactly like heavy bread, and will not be accepted at the table of the Lord."
"He never said another word to me," said she; "that man knows he has a right to be better."
This was a conceded fact, and it always seemed to me he ought not to be carrying his deaconship in one hand, and his miserably small deeds in the other. Hypocrites were in existence among all people, and while thoroughly despised by them, still held their places, and do yet, as far as my knowledge and experience go.
Early the morning of the next day, Matthias came over to tell us about that "poor gal," as he called her.
"She wants to see you, Miss Emily, and they say she wants to talk to me too. Mis' Goodwin said ''pearslike you'd better come over thar 'bout three o'clock to-day, if you can.' She's right peart, an' by 'nuther mornin', 'spect she'll call loud for me."
"Do you think you know her, Matthias?"
"Can't say I do, Miss, but seems queer enough, she 'sists on callin' of me 'Peter'—um—gimme sich a feelin' when she spoke dat word," and Matthias looked as if his heart was turning back to his old home, and its never-to-be-forgotten scenes.
Mother sent a basket of delicacies over by him, and Aunt Hildy said:
"Tell Miss Goodwin I'm goin' to bake some of my sweet cookies and send over, and we can make some bread for her; 'twill help along—don't forget it Matthias."
"No, marm, I'll 'member sure," and off he started. As he passed along the path I thought of a word I wanted to say, and ran out of the door in time to see the shadow of a form which I knew must be waiting in the "angle" as we called it. It was where the east L ended, about ten feet from the main front. In the summer I had a bed of blue violets here, and named it "Violet Angle.' I stopped, for I heard a voice, and saw Matthias turn to this spot instead of passing on to the gate as usual. The first salutation I did not hear, but Matthias' reply was "yaas sah." The voice was Mr. Benton's, and I stood riveted to the spot.
"Who is that girl, Matt?" he said.
"Dunno, sah."
"Don't know? Yes, you do know; you can't play your odds on me. I'm not ready to swallow all I hear.I want you to tell me who that girl is, and how she came here."
"I dunno, sah, sartin."
"Matt, I don't believe a word you say; first tell me the truth."
"Massar Benton, you're a queer man. Dis niggah shan't tell you no lies, but de Lord's truf, I dunno noffin 'bout."
"You don't know me either, do you?" and he laughed ironically.
"Never thought I did," said Matthias; "'pears like long ways back I see some face like yours, but I dunno. Good many faces looks alike roun' yere."
"Yes, yes," says Benton, "you've said enough, you black rascal; and youmark my words, if you've raised the devil, as I think you have, I'll cowhide you. I'll give you something to remember me by, you old fool; and you a'nt a fool either; you're as cunning as Satan is wicked."
"De Lord forgive you," said Matthias, "you're done gone clar from your senses. I dunno who dat gal is, an I dunno who you is, an' what more kin I say?"
"I know who you are, and I know you were the slave of Sumner down in South Carolina."
"Yaas," said Matthias, "dat's so; but how does you know 'bout me? Did you come down thar? 'Haps dat's de reason you're face kinder makes me look back, an it mos' allus does; 'pears like you mout explain."
"Yes, s'pose Imout," said Benton, "and I reckon you will before we get through."
"Wal," said Matthias, "if you wait till you gits evidence fo' you gives dat hidin' you talks 'bout, I've got plenty ob time to go over to de groun' room," and he walked off at his old gait, slow but sure, while I, turning, ran into the house and told mother what I had heard.
She raised her hands in a sort of holy horror, but only said:
"What does it mean?"
"It means," said Aunt Hildy, "that man's a rascal; I told you, Mis' Minot, he was when I first set eyes on him, and I've kept good track of Emily, for when he see he couldn't get the 'rich widder,' that's what he calls our good little creetur Clara, then he tacked round and set sail for Emily, and he's been a torment to her, and I know it. Thank the Lord, he's shown his cloven foot; I wish Mr. Minot had heard it.Helaughs at me, thinks I'm a fool, but I've seen through him if I do wear an old cloak. It's mine, and so is my wit, what little I've got."
Aunt Hildy stepped up lively and worked every moment, keeping time to her thoughts and giving great expression by her peculiar accenting of words. Clara heard us, and came in "to the rescue," she said, "for it sounded as if somebody was getting a scolding."
I repeated my story, and although she rarely used French expressions, this time she clasped her little hands together, sank into a chair, and said:
"Oh! Emélie, j'ai su depuis longtemps, qu'il nous ferait un grand tort. Le pauvre agneau! Le pauvre agneau!"
"What will father do?" I said to mother.
"I cannot think of anything to do except to help thepoor girl; his own punishment is sure, Emily; we are not his masters. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" she quoted calmly.
"Yes," said Aunt Hildy, "that's the spirit to have, but I believe if I had really heard it as Emily did, I'd have risked it to throw a pan of dish water on him."
I could not help laughing—we were having a real drama in the kitchen. Great tears had gathered in Clara's eyes, and I said to her:
"Now this will upset you. I'm sorry you heard it."
"No, no," she said, "but the poor lamb, I can hardly wait for the time when I may see her."
"Can you ever speak to Mr. Benton again?" I said to mother.
"I should hope so, Emily. I feel great pity for him; he might be a better man. We are taught toleration not of principles, but certainly of men, and I think if our Heavenly Father will forgive him, we can afford to, and then it would be very unwise to let him know we are cognizant of this."
My mother reminded me so many times of the light that burns steadily in a light-house on a ledge. The waves, washing the solid rock, and wearing even the stone at its base, have no power to disturb the lamp, which, well trimmed, burns silently on, throwing its beams far out to sea, and fanning hope in the heart of the sailor, who finds at last the shore and blesses the beacon light.
I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well knew she would berighteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of "the lamb," would soon be forthcoming. I could hardly wait for the recital which I expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin's door at three o'clock precisely.
She was glad to see me, and said cheerily:
"Take off your things, Emily, and I'll show you right in, for Miss Harris is waiting anxiously."
I thought she looked beautiful the night we found her, but to-day she was a marvellous picture, sitting among the white pillows. Her cheeks were touched here and there with pink, as if rose leaves had left their tender stain—her eyes beautifully bright, and such depths of blue, with arched brows above them, and long brown lashes for a shield. Her hair rippled over her shoulders in brown curls, and around her was thrown the light India shawl she had about her on that sad night. She smiled with pleasure as I entered, and beckoned me to her bedside, while Mrs. Goodwin said:
"Take the old splint rocker, Emily. I am going to let you stay two long hours."
How gratefully the poor lamb's eyes turned upon the good woman!
"This young lady's name is Harris."
"Yes," said Miss Harris "Mary Abigail Harris, after my mother."
I kissed her forehead, and then took the seat proffered, sitting so near her that I could lean on the side of the bed as I listened to the story.
Mrs. Goodwin left us alone, and the recital began:
"I remembered your eyes, Miss Minot, and I wanted to tell you all about it—how I came to be here, needing the help you so kindly gave. Oh, I shudder," she said, "as I think how it might have been that never again my mother could have seen me!"
Her face grew pale, but no tears came, and I could see a resolute look that gave signs of strong will, and for this I felt inwardly thankful.
"I came from my home," said she, "in search of my husband. Three years ago I was married in my father's house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South from his Northern home on an artist's tour, selling many pictures and painting more. He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a wealthy planter by the name of Sumner." I started involuntarily. "There were two of these gentlemen—brothers—and they owned large plantations with many colored people. Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth. My father gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we were happy. Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and said 'Mary, I must go North—I have left some tangled business snarls there, which I must see to.' He left, promising an early return. The letters I received from him were frequent, and beautifully tender in their expressions of love for me. I was happy; but the days wore into weeks, and his return still delayed. I began to feel anxious and fearful, when I received a letter from Chicago, saying he had been obliged to go to that city on business, and would be unavoidably detained. He would like me to come to him, if it werenot for fear of my being too delicate to bear the journey. My parents would have been quite unwilling also, for the promise of the days lay before me, and with this new hope that it would not be so very long ere he would come, I was again contentedly happy. The letters grew less frequent, and the days grew long, and when September came my little girl came too, and how I longed for her father to come.
"My parents telegraphed him of the event, saying also, 'Come, if possible—Mary is in a fever of anxiety,' but he did not come; the telegram was not replied to, and although dangerously ill, I lived. Now the letters came no more, and I, still believing in his goodness, felt sure that he was either sick or dead. My little Mabel lived one year. Oh, how sweet she was! and one month after her death I received a letter asking why I was so silent, telling me of great trouble and overwhelming me with sorrow. I answered kindly, but my father was convinced by this that he was a 'villain,' to use his own expression. The fact of his not writing for so long, and then writing a letter almost of accusation against me, made me feel fearful, and as I looked back on my suffering, determined, if it were possible to some day know the truth. My answer to the letter I speak of was received, and he again wrote, and this time told me a pitiful tale of the loss by fire of all his artist possessions, and his closing sentence was 'we may never meet again, for in the grave I hope to find refuge from want. If you desire to answer this, write 'without delay. It is hard to bear poverty and want.'
"I felt almost wild, and gave father the letter, hoping toreceive a generous donation from him, but my father said, 'Molly, darling, (that is my name at home), the villain lies! no, no, pet, not a cent.' I cried myself ill, and sent him my wedding ring, a diamond, his gift, since which I have heard nothing.
"I told my father after it was gone, and if he had not loved me so much, I should have felt the power of angry words. He was angry, but he thought of all I had suffered, and he took me right up in his arms, and cried over me. 'Mollie, darling, it is too bad; you have a woman's heart. I would to God the man had never been born.
"I had a dear friend to whom I had confided all my sorrow—a Virginia lady, married and living in Boston. Her husband, Mr. Chadwick, is a merchant there, and every year she spends three or four months with her Southern friends. One brother lives in Charleston, my home. We have been attached to each other for years, and my father and mother love her dearly. Three weeks ago she arrived at her home in Boston, having been South four months, and at her earnest solicitation I came also. She knew my heart and how determined I was to find Mr. Bentley, and felt willing to aid me in any way possible. We went about the city, and I devoted myself especially to looking at paintings and statuary. I found at last by chance a picture with the name, not of 'Bentley,' but of 'Benton' on it. I traced it to Chicago, and proved it to be his, and there from his own friends gathered the facts which led me on his track."
"Oh!" I cried.
"Wait," said she, "More, Miss Minot; he has a wife,or at least there is a poor woman with two boys living in poverty in the suburbs of Boston, to whom he was married ten years ago. I have been to see her, but did not disclose my secret. Mrs. Chadwick has known of this for a long time, but dared not tell me until I got strong, and was in the North with her. I gave that woman money to help her buy bread, and Mrs. Chadwick will see to her now. She is a lovely character. Benton's home is near this place where she lives, and he goes there once in a great while. Now about my clothes—when I started for this place I was well clad, and the first of my journey quiet and calm, but I think my excitement grew intense, and I must have lost myself utterly. I know it was a week ago when I left Boston, and now as I look back, I remember looking at my baby's picture and everything growing dim in the cars. This India shawl was thrown about my neck, but it seems when you found me I had no other covering. I found the purse where I had sewed it in my dress, but my cloak and bonnet and furs, all are gone.
"I can remember how the name of this place kept ringing in my ears, and I must have asked for it and found it, even though I cannot remember one word. After the baby's picture your eyes came before me, and then old Peter."
Looking at the clock, she said:
"It is only half an hour since you came in, and will you ask Peter to come in and see me? I'm sure I hear him talking in the other room."
I stepped to the door, and there was Matthias.
I said to Mrs. Goodwin:
"Miss Harris wishes to see Peter, she says."
She looked at Matthias, and then said:
"Well, come in, and we'll find out what she means, if we can."
He walked solemnly along to her bedside, and stood as if amazed.
"Peter," said she, "you know me; I am Mary Harris, and you lived with Mr. Charles Sumner—do say you know me. You said you would deny your master, and you did it," and she held her hands to him.
He reached forth his own and took the jewelled fingers tenderly in his dark palm as if half afraid; then the tears came, forcing their way, and with an effort he said:
"Oh! oh! honey chile—can't be pos'ble—what's done happin to ye, and whar was ye gwine?"
"Never mind, Peter, but do you remember the man who painted beautiful pictures, and stopped awhile with your master's brother?"
"Sartin, I does."
"William Bentley he said was his name, but it was Benton; he told us a story."
"De great Lord, Molly chile, you's foun' him, sure—de debbil's got a hold on dat man, an'—"
But I looked a warning, and he waited.
"You remember him then, Peter; he had a light moustache, a pleasing mouth—a very nice young man we thought him to be."
"Yas, yas, dar's whar de mistake come in, wit dat 'ar mustaff," said Matthias dreamily.
"What mistake?" she said.
"Oh! de good Lord bress you, honey, what does you want of dis man?"
"I want to tell him something, and I heard he was here, and now will you find him for me?"
"I will, Miss Molly, 'ef I dies dead for it—de Lord help us."
"Do you think you can?"
"I knows dat ar to be a fack."
"Oh, Peter! I am glad; where is he?"
Poor Matthias looked at me, and I said, "Now, Miss Harris, you must not talk anymore, and I will help Matthias, for I think I know where this man is."
She shut her eyes and sank back among her pillows, looking tired and pale—the knowledge that this destroyer of her hopes was so near was, though looked for and expected, more than she could really bear.
Mrs. Goodwin left the room, motioning to Matthias to follow, and I sat quietly thinking of what to do, when she opened her eyes and said to me:
"I have written to Mrs. Chadwick, and also to mother, and she will send mother's letter from Boston. I cannot write to her of this; it would worry her so; and now, as I can see Wilmur and say to him what I desire, I shall leave you."
"It will kill you to see him."
"You are mistaken. I know I look frail, but I can endure much, and I do not love him any more though he was my Mabel's father. I want him to go to his poor wife and do right if he can. She loves him and is deluded into believing the strangest things. Robberies andfires and anything he thinks of are an excuse for not sending her money."
"Oh! he needs hanging," I said.
"No, no, Miss Minot; if he is unfit for our society he certainly would find nobody to love him there; I am not seeking revenge, though his punishment is sure enough. In two days more I shall be strong enough to see him. Oh, I do hope Peter will find him!"
She needed rest, and I said:
"Now it is best for me to go, and when I come again I would like to bring a beautiful friend."
"Oh, yes," she said, "and do come to-morrow!"
She bade me a reluctant "Good bye," and I told Matthias, I wanted him to walk home with me.
My walk homeward with Matthias gave me the needed opportunity to talk with him, where naught save the air wandering off to the hills could hear us. I told him of the conversation which I had overheard, and also that I proposed to take the burden on my own shoulders of revealing to Miss Harris the fact of Mr. Benton being with us. "For," I said, "Matthias, it will hardly be safe for you to bear all this. He believes, I think, that you have helped Miss Harris to find him, and has been looking out for trouble since you came to us, for he warned both Louis and myself, and told us not to trust you. He did not, of course, say he knew you; that would not have done at all. But I will do all she asks, then your poor old shoulders will be relieved a little."
"Jes as you say, Miss Emly, pears like its queer nuf an' all happin too, an' ef he had worn just dat mustaff, without de whiskers, I'd know him yere straight off. I saidlong nuf, he set me on de tinkin groun—um—um—here come Mas'r Louis lookin' arter his gal, I reckin, mighty wise he is; I'd tote a long ways ef 'twas to help him."
Louis went to the village early and had returned to hear from Clara's lips my morning discovery, and came to meet me, anxious to learn the story of the poor lamb, which I rehearsed, having time to tell it all during the rest of the walk, and ending with "it is strange enough to make a book," just as we entered our gate.
Louis said the cloud must break ere long; and when Matthias left I followed along the path behind him, feeling that Mr. Benton might again assail him, and I was not mistaken.
"Look here," came from the angle, and "yas, sah," from Matthias as he turned to answer.
"What did you come home with Miss Minot for?" said Benton.
"Kase she axed me too, sah."
"Whom has she been to see?"
"Dat poor gal."
"Who is that girl, do you know?
"Yas, sah," said the honest old man.
"You know more to-day than you did yesterday."
"Yas, sah."
"Why don't you tell me who she is."
"You did'nt ax me, you said did I know?"
"I don't want any of your nigger talk. I want her name, and by the great ----"
"Look yer, Mas'r Benton, if you's gwine to dip in an' swar, I'll tote long by myself."
"Well, tell me who she is."
"She tole me she was dat little Molly Harris dat lived down in Charleston, an—"
"How in thunder did she get here?"
"Dunno, sah."
"You do know, and I tell you you'll make money to tell me all about it."
"Dunno nothin' moah. I said dat same word, how you git yere, and she say never min 'bout dat."
"What else did she say, what does she want?"
"Wall, de res ob what she tell me, 'pears like she didn't 'spect me tell. I'll go over thar, an' tell her you wants to know, an—"
"The devil you will, you impudent rascal—all I want to know is if she wants to find me."
"De good Lord, dat's de berry secret I don't want to tell."
"Ah! ha! my fine fellow, caught at last."
"Well," said he, "ef de Lord was right yere in dis vilit angil he'd say Matt dunno nothin' 'bout how de poor lamb got roun' to dis town."
"I don't know how to believe this, but now look here, Matt, if you'll go over there and tell her I've gone to Chicago, I'll do something nice for you. I'll get you a suit of nicer clothes than you ever had, and a shiny hat—hey, what do you say?"
"Mas'r Benton," said Matthias slowly, "I'm never gwine to tell a lie an' set myself in de place whar Satan hisself can ketch a holt an me. No, sah, 'pears like I'm ready to do what's right, but dat ain't right nohow, an' 'pears, too, its mighty funny you's so scart of dat poor little milk-faced gal. Trus' in de Lord, Mas'r Benton, an' go right on over thar—she can't hurt you nohow."
"Don't talk your nonsense to me; you're on her side, she's bought you, but I'll be even with you; I'll slap your face now to make a good beginning."
"No, sah," said Matthias, "I'm done bein' a slave jes now, an' ef you want to make me hit you I shall jes do it; fur you no bizness in de law specially tryin' to put it on a poor ole nigger who can't go by ye 'thout your grabbin' at him jes ready to kill, an' all kase you's done suthin' you's shamed of an' tinks he knows it. I'm gwine over to the groun' room."
I feared Mr. Benton would strike him, and I ran to the gate, and stood there while Matthias passed out and along the road. Mr. Benton disappeared suddenly.
Supper-time was at hand, and there had been no time to tell mother what I had heard of Miss Harris' history. At the table Ben, as usual, had inquiries to make, and I said, "Oh! she is better, Ben; you shall see her, for she will stay a long time."
"Where did she come from, Emily?"
From Charleston, South Carolina.
"Well, ain't that funny?" said he; "that's the very place Matthias came from, and perhaps she does know him after all."
"Oh! yes, she does," I replied, and raising my eyes to meet Mr. Benton's gaze, I shot the truth at him with a dark glance; his own eyes fell, and he looked as if overwhelmed with confusing thoughts; and the consciousness of being foiled roused the demon within him. This, however, was not the time or place to unbottle his wrath, and it must swell silently within.
My father began to feel the shadows thickening roundhim, and he kindly forbore to say a word regarding the matter, as did also mother. Aunt Hildy moved a little uneasily in her chair, and I knew she could have said something as cutting as a knife, but did not. As for me, I could and did talk on other things, and congratulated myself on another victory. I afterward told mother all Miss Harris said, and she remarked quietly:
"I am very thankful she is his wife."
"Well, but she isn't," I said.
"Yes, I know, Emily, the previous marriage would be held as the only lawful tie, but it is much better than it might have been. She has a good home and parents, and is young. Years will restore her. I cannot see, however, why she should have taken the pains to find him here."
"For the reason that she desires to plead with him for the wife and boys that are in need, and is a strong noble woman too,—why, she will have the strength of a lion when she gets well, and there is a resolute determination on her part to place before Mr. Benton a plain picture of his duty."
"Hem!" said Aunt Hildy, "she can get her picture all ready and put on the prettiest paint in the market,—that man will be gone in less than twenty-four hours. Can't I see which way his sails are set?" Our back door-sill never was swept cleaner than where this sentence fell.
"That may be," said mother; "I hope he will, for it seems to me we have too great a duty to perform if he stays. I feel ill able to undertake the task."
Aunt Hildy turned to hang up her broom, saying as she did so:
"I'd like to have your sister Phebe give him a lecture—she'd tear him all to pieces jest as easy as shellin' an ear of corn. I like to hear her talk; she ain't afraid of all the lies that can be invented. What a good hit she give Deacon Grover that night when he come in with his ideas of nothin' spillin' over. She talked good common sense, and hew as the subject, for it was all about a hypocrite. He did'nt stay to see if he could get a mug of cider to save his own, but set mighty uneasy and was off for home before eight o'clock. That done me good."
That evening was spent by me in conversation with Louis. Next morning at the breakfast table the subject of the poor lamb was not broached, and directly after, when the stage came along, Mr. Benton took it to go to the village on business.
"There," said Aunt Hildy, "he never'll step on to this door-sill again—but I would'nt throw a horseshoe after him if I knew it would be good luck. He don't deserve any."
"Why, he hasn't taken as much as a carpet-bag," said my father, "of course, he will be back again."
"No, sir, Mr. Minot; that feller is up to snuff—he ain't going to stop now for any duty pictures," and she turned to her work as if satisfied with having made a true prophecy.
I spoke to Clara about going over to see Miss Harris, and she felt inclined to go that morning.
"Louis, too, may go," she said. "Come, dear boy."
We were very welcome, and found Miss Harris seated in the old rush-chair before the fire-place. Her dress was a most becoming wrapper of blue (she found it in Clara'sbundle) her hair falling as on the previous day in natural curls, and the same India shawl thrown over her sloping shoulders. She was exactly Clara's size, and when the two came together, Clara said, "We are sisters surely." But afterward, as they sat side by side, I could see such a difference. Alike in form and complexion, also having regular features, yet the light in our Clara's eyes was incomparably purer, savored less of earth. Miss Harris' face was sweet, truthful, the lines of her mouth alone defining her powerful will and courage. She was very beautiful, but earthly, while over my own Clara's face there fell the unmistakable light of something beyond. Oh! my saving angel, how my heart beat as I sat there drawing the comparison, giving to Miss Harris a place in the sitting-room of my womanly feeling, and yielding to my beloved Clara the entire room where lay the purest thoughts which had been boon to my spirit, coming to life at the touch of her tender hand! She was a beacon light in the wilderness of thought.