"Tell me, Miss Minot," said Miss Harris, "tell me all you know, for I feel you do know much."
I explained Mr. Benton's coming to stay with us, and when I said he took the stage this morning for town, and will be back, I suppose—
"Never," she interrupted, "he has heard I am here."
"Yes," I said, and repeated his conversation with Matthias.
"I am then foiled, but he will not elude the truth that goes with him. He may have gone to his waiting wife. Mrs. Chadwick will write me, for she will not lose sight of her."
No tears came to her eyes, but the determined look deepened as it were into strength, and she said:
"It is too bad. I did hope to be able to make him do his duty. Now I must hasten to become strong, and go back to Boston. I will find him yet—I'm sure I will."
She talked freely of her Southern home, and expressed comfort at the hope of one day seeing us there.
"I need a little help to get there myself," she said; "I have no cloak—can you get one for me, Miss Minot? I am fortunate enough to be able to pay for it, my purse being with me."
Louis looked admiringly at the girl-woman (for such she seemed to be), and when our call ended said to her:
"When you are strong enough to leave, may you receive great help to do what seems to be your whole duty; and if little mother or myself can aid you, please command us."
"Thank you," she said, "you remind me much of my dark-eyed Southern friends." We took our departure. It was only one week after that the old stage carried her from our sight; but we did not forget her, nor the sad experience which had developed in her so great a strength.
Mr. Benton did not return, as Aunt Hildy predicted, and the stage brought a note for Hal, in which he said he was unavoidably detained, having found important letters at the village. He would write him a long letter, and theletter came after ten days' waiting, bearing the postmark of —— (he was with his wife). He wrote that he was with a friend, and some unexpected business relations would keep him there for a time. He desired his belongings sent to him, if it would not trouble Hal too much. He feared that it would be a long time ere he would be again situated amongst such pleasant surroundings, "and they are, as you well know, so much needed by an artist," he said. I do wonder what the man thought. Hal and Mary had not known Miss Harris' story, but Louis had read the letter to Hal, and his perfidy was apparent to all. No word had been said, however, and I presume he (not learning about the letters) thought Hal still a good friend, which was in fact the case. Hal said:
"I would not lose sight of him for the world. Emily, his hand was one of those which led me across the bridge of sighs when my art was coming to life, and I shall help him. He may yet need more than we know."
"We can afford to pity him, but what about his wife, Hal?"
"His wife I intend to see. Let us hope he will yet prove of some assistance to her."
"Good brother! blessed brother! I have felt so angry with him, Hal, but I will try to be good. Of course Mary will be with you."
"She thinks he needs a little punishment, but I tell her to be patient, and to let the days tell us their story."
"Amen," said the voice of our Clara, who was always in the right place, "and may we not hope for all the suffering ones. There are bruised hearts all around us. Let the precious nutriment of our love and care fall onthem as the dew, calling forth tender blossoms, whose perfume may mingle with their lives. Wisdom and strength, my Emily, will help us to these things, and the prayer of England's church be not so sadly true."
It was a relief to us all, and we could take long breaths now that Mr. Benton had gone, and mysteries solved had opened before us a vista of quiet days, into which our feet would gladly turn. We had to talk him over thoroughly, and I was glad to be able to say at last:
"Peace to his memory; let him rest."
The letter we expected from the sweet girl-woman came, and we heard each week of her and her unrewarded search going on. At last, when out from the snows blue violets sprang, there came a letter, saying,
"It is done. I found him looking at a lovely picture, one of his own. It was a fancy sketch, but the face, eyes and hair, those of Mrs. Desmonde, I know. He had clothed her in exquisitely lovely apparel, and she was looking out over a waste of waters, but I cannot describe it justly. If her son were here, he would secure it at any price. I touched his shoulder; he turned, and with the strangest look in his eyes. He sought even then to avoid me, thinking probably I might prove a tempest in a teapot, and make a terrible scene. I said quietly, 'I am only desirious of two hours' conversation with you;' introduced Mrs. Chadwick to him as to a friend, and invited him to call; gave him my card and turned away, naming an hour the ensuing day; for I knew he would come. My manner disarming him, I really believe he felt relieved to know I was not on his track with weapons of law. He came, and I receivedhim almost cordially. The parlor had been left for us, and my friend, at my request, sat outside the door where she could hear all that passed. Of course, I cannot tell you what I said, but my revelations were startlingly true, and he could not gainsay them, neither did he try to. He seemed rather astonished that I no longer desired his companionship and the great love which every true woman needs. I answered with spirit, and just as I felt, that while his love might be boundless, it could no longer be anything for me. I knew his soul was capable of maintaining the appearance of purity of thought long enough to delineate its outline on canvas, and while I admired his talent in verse, I had tasted the bitter dregs of his falseness, and was now thoroughly undeceived as to his character. Never again could I be misled by the semblance of a love which had no reality beneath its honeyed words. I told him also that our angel Mabel had been orphaned by his cruelty. And oh! how strong I felt when I said, 'Go to your own wife, whose burden I would not increase by revealing my own terrible secret. Live for her and those two boys. Redeem yourself in the eyes of your God as well as before those whom you have so foully wronged. If you will do this, I will say the peace of well-doing be with you.' He really felt the power of my words, and honored me for them, I know, and when he left my presence, he said:
"'If life should hold for me henceforth some different purposes, would you be my friend? and if in the great hereafter we shall meet, will Mabel be with me there? I wish I could have seen her. Forgive me,Mary; you are heaping coals of fire on my head. I thought you sought my utter destruction.'
"'My father would have appealed to you only through the law,' I said, 'but that would have been wrong, and would leave you no chance to grow better. Go, and do right, and there is yet time for redemption.'
"'But you—what of you?' he asked.
"'I rise from beneath the weight of sorrow that covered me so early in life, to find there is yet much worth living for. I shall live and be happy.' They were not false tears, the drops that fell on my hand at parting; and I said, after he had gone:
"'Thank God who giveth me the victory.' My friend expected me to faint or moan, or make some sign of distress. No, I felt a great joy within, and I believe he will do better. I inclose to you some verses he sent me at the time he wrote me the terrible letter of want and despair. They had their effect, as I told you. Monday I leave for the South; I shall write you immediately after my return. God bless you all.
Mary."
We read the letter together, Clara, Louis and I—and here is the poetry, which speaks for itself of the talent this man possessed, and tells us, as Clara said, how fruitful the soil would have proved if it had been properly tilled.
I was a poet nerved and strungUp to the singing pitch you know,And this since melody first was youngHas evermore been the pitch of woe:She was a wistful, winsome thing,Guileless as Eve before her fall,And as I drew her 'neath my wing—Wilmur and Mary, that was all.Oh! how I loved her as she creptNear and nearer my heart of fire!Oh! how she loved me as I sweptThe master strings of her spirit's lyre!Oh! with what brooding tendernessOur low words died in her father's hall,In the meeting clasp, and parting press—Wilmur and Mary, that was all!I was a blinded fool, and worse,She was whiter than driven snow,And so one morning the universeLost forever its sapphire glow;Across the land, and across the sea,I felt a horrible shadow crawl,A spasm of hell shot over me,Wilmur and darkness, that was all!Leagues on leagues of solitude lie,Dun and dreary between us now,And in my heart is a terrible cry,With clamps of iron across my brow.Never again the olden light—Ever the sickly, dreadful pall;I am alone here in the night,Wilmur and misery, that is all!For the solemn haze that soon will shine,For the beckoning hand I soon shall see,For the fitful glare of the mortal signThat bringeth surcease of agony,For the dreary glaze of the dying brain,For the mystic voice that soon will call,For the end of all this passion and pain,Wilmur is waiting—that is all.
I was a poet nerved and strungUp to the singing pitch you know,And this since melody first was youngHas evermore been the pitch of woe:She was a wistful, winsome thing,Guileless as Eve before her fall,And as I drew her 'neath my wing—Wilmur and Mary, that was all.
Oh! how I loved her as she creptNear and nearer my heart of fire!Oh! how she loved me as I sweptThe master strings of her spirit's lyre!Oh! with what brooding tendernessOur low words died in her father's hall,In the meeting clasp, and parting press—Wilmur and Mary, that was all!
I was a blinded fool, and worse,She was whiter than driven snow,And so one morning the universeLost forever its sapphire glow;Across the land, and across the sea,I felt a horrible shadow crawl,A spasm of hell shot over me,Wilmur and darkness, that was all!
Leagues on leagues of solitude lie,Dun and dreary between us now,And in my heart is a terrible cry,With clamps of iron across my brow.Never again the olden light—Ever the sickly, dreadful pall;I am alone here in the night,Wilmur and misery, that is all!
For the solemn haze that soon will shine,For the beckoning hand I soon shall see,For the fitful glare of the mortal signThat bringeth surcease of agony,For the dreary glaze of the dying brain,For the mystic voice that soon will call,For the end of all this passion and pain,Wilmur is waiting—that is all.
The letter and poem finished, we talked long of our new friend, and the strange experiences brought into our quiet lives, and Clara said:
"Oh! how long must all the good in the world of thought wait for the hand of love to open the avenues of work for willing doers! Cannot strong men weep; and must not angels sorrow to realize the darkness and the errors where light should dawn, and in a morning of new life men and women stand as brothers and sisters in the grand work of helping each other to do all that lies on either hand! Fields whiten for the harvest, but the reapers are not many. These experiences come to us as teachers, and oh, Louis and Emily, let your hearts search to find these sorrowing ones! May your hands never be withheld from the needed alms, and may you work in quiet love and patience through the years! The mists will shroud the valley, and ere long, my dear ones, I shall leave you, for I cannot stay too long away from all that awaits me there. If I had more strength I could stay longer—but strength is what we need to hold the wings of our soul closely down, and when the physical chain grows weak, all that is waiting comes nearer. Spiritual strength grows greater, and the waiting soul plumes its wings for flight. It does not seem so far, and Louis, Emily, when my visible presence goes from you, your prayers will come to me. I shall hear, perhaps I shall answer you also, for I shall be your guardian angel. Then—is it not beautiful to think of the long, long years, and no death for evermore?"
She closed her eyes, and looked serenely happy, but I was weeping bitterly, and Louis' eyes swam in tears, as he said:
"Little mother, wait still longer, we cannot let you go."
"Oh! Louis, my dear boy, it is not now, it may be just a few years yet, but it is sure to come—and I love to talk with you of this change. It is natural for us to pass into the next room. If I go I must say all the things I need to first."
Aunt Hildy and mother entered, and we talked again of our new friend Mary. When God touched me that night with his magic wand, I dreamed of fairies, and saw wondrous changes at their hands, earth and heaven strangely mingling.
I like to drift with the days, and scan them one by one, but as I recall all that I have written, I say to myself: "Emily must take some long step now, else the tale of her life will never be told, even though the changes came day by day, falling drop by drop into the lap of the waiting years."
Mother was feeling better, and when the rose-covered days of June came over us our hearts were singing. Clara seemed well (for her) and I forebore to grieve over her prophecy of leaving us, though for a few days after she had said those words, an icy feeling crept over me as I thought on what they foreboded. I could not see how we could bear to lose her presence; life without her would be an empty vial, not only for us, but for all. We loved her devotedly. In this beautiful June I felt younger than ever before, and believed that the constant saying to myself, "I will do right," was brightening all the world for me.
I was twenty-one years old the previous March, and it seemed to me I looked much younger than when two years ago we saw for the first time the face of our Clara Desmonde. March was a sort of wild month to findone's birthday in, and I never think of it without recalling the saying of one who had seen hard work and sorrow as well. It was a lady I met once at Aunt Phebe's, who came to bring a book for her to read, and in the course of conversation she said:
"Mrs. Hungerford, I was born in March, and have come to the delightful conclusion that all who dare to be born in this month must fight the beasts at Ephesus."
This year I had certainly fought Mr. Benton, and perhaps I should find another experience in the next March month that came.
Ben was seventeen years old in January, and this was a great year for him; he had sought and obtained father's consent to manage a farm for himself. Hal could not, of course, till the land he owned, and Ben had made arrangements to do it. He wanted the entire care, and Hal told him to go right ahead the same as if he owned it all and see what he could do. This was quite a step, and, as it proved, a successful one. He was at home in his old room at night, but ate at Hal's table, and Mary said he was so good they could never keep house without him. I rejoiced that he could fill a position for which he was fitted, albeit father and Hal were both disappointed that he could not have book knowledge enough to place him in some position in public life.
"That was mere ambition," mother said, and Aunt Phebe remarked concerning him, that he should be let alone, and to help him to be an honest man was the wisest course possible.
"So I think," said Aunt Hildy; "common sense has got power to last a good while, and high ideas sometimes kill everything."
Louis was enjoying the summer "hugely," as he expressed it, and Clara was very willing to aid him in everything he undertook, and he was not an idle dreamer, for though he did dream beautifully, and talked often of the fairy land, as he called the home of his pure, good thoughts, he was a worker in all ways. If a sudden shower threatened the meadow, he was there with the men, doing all he could to aid them, and not slow to learn the use of rake and pitchfork. If Aunt Peg needed attention he was soon over to see her, and when he went to the village, he was the errand boy for any and all. He became well known among us, and the dear old home among the hills gave him a hearty welcome. Even Deacon Grover came to the conclusion that the city chap didn't put on airs, and told me he should think I'd almost want to catch him, laughing heartily at his own words. I always disliked this; it is a mark of a small brain to tell a story or say something witty, and crown your own talk by laughing at yourself—that would spoil the best joke in the world for me.
One August afternoon I called Clara to the window to watch Louis and Matthias coming along slowly together in a close and evidently interesting conversation. They came in together, and the face of our dusky friend was covered with the light of a new thought.
"Why, how happy you look!" I said.
"He feels happy," answered Louis; "they are going to have a wedding over at Aunt Peg's, and I am first man."
"Yes," said Matthias, "'pears like I kin get married now. Miss Smith, she feels lonesome, and I bother her 'bout my vittles, an' we kin set by one fire jes' as well."
"I shall write Aunt Phebe to-morrow, and ask her," I said, laughing.
"Um—um," said he, "reckon she's 'gaged to make me two white shirts 'reddy."
"Why, when did she know it?"
"Oh! she dunno nothing definite, but she said long ago she'd make 'em for me when I git married, an' I done come over to see ef you'd sen' a word about it to her."
"I will most certainly, but how long before you will be married?"
"'Bout tree weeks, I guess; haint set on no day. Let Miss Smith do that."
"And you'll have a wedding?"
"No, Miss Em'ly. For de lan' sake, you don't 'spect we's gwine into dat yere meetin' 'ouse for de folks to call it a nigger show, duz ye? We's too ole to be gwine roun' to be laf at."
"I didn't mean to plague you, Matthias; please excuse me," for he looked the least bit provoked. "I'll make some cake, though, and you'll want witnesses, so Louis and I can come, anyway."
"'Spect you two need to get used to dat yere ceremony more'n de rest of de folks yere; yas, you kin come."
Oh! how Louis laughed at this, saying:
"There, Emily, Matthias knows too much; look out for breakers when you talk to him."
The old man laughed heartily also, and left us to talk over the coming event.
"Two shipwrecked lives trying to keep close to the shore of content for the rest of the journey, that's what they are," said Louis, "and we will help them, and do God's service by ministering to their small needs, for 'Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me.'"
He had so many Scriptural quotations at his tongue's end nowadays, I often told him he would be a minister, I knew. Many of his days were spent in the society of Mr. Davis, and they read the Bible through together. Louis said the New Testament had great charms for him, and Mr. Davis said to Clara and myself when we called upon him, that the Scriptures had never been so blessed to his heart as now.
"Your son," turning to Clara, "is not my student; he has the most lucid perception, and transfers his thoughts to my heart with wonderful strength, and yet he stirs the soil of years with tender hand, and never forgets I am growing old. Some day he will have a pulpit of his own."
"Do you think so?" I said.
"Oh, it must be! He is like his mother; chosen for the good work. I delight in his society, and hope never to miss it while I stay. I am not strong, and some day I fear I shall not be able to preach when the Sabbath dawns. If I do fail at any time, I shall secure his help." Clara only said:
"My dear boy shall do that which he can do well, for there will be no stumbling blocks laid in his path; if hestarts right, and I believe he has, the way will be made plain, and as day unto day shall utter speech, so night unto night shall show its knowledge."
"He seems benevolent," said Mr. Davis, "and he will devote much of his time, and substance as well, to the uplifting of the degraded, and the exalting of mankind through daily practice."
"So be it," said Clara; "I shall be glad if he can uplift the lantern light of truth, that it may shine over all the dark and devious ways of ignorance, and when my feet shall walk beside his father's on the hills, may our souls call to him, and his heart receive from us the strength which our love can give—angels to minister to his wants. Oh! this is beautiful to think upon."
The eyes of our good minister filled with tears, and I thought how wisely and well Clara sows the seed. I felt ashamed to think how unmindful of this tolerance of ideas I had been when his fiery sermon aroused my spirit, and I have often since felt that we all possess too much intolerance each toward the other. Mr. Davis was original in thought, and had always regilded as it were the old texts in his sermon, until they could not fail to interest us; and when, yielding to pressure of conviction regarding eternal punishment, he warned his flock, Clara judged him rightly, and I was wrong; for while the idea was horrible to me, I had not wisdom or judgment to express myself, whereas Clara had opened wide the door of love to his heart, and he received and acknowledged the baptism of pure and elevating thought.
His absolute fire died away into the description of conscience torment, and through his later years the mellowripeness of new thought took in large part the place of the old. Mr. Davis was very anxious concerning his health, and we did not wonder, for his cheeks grew pale and thin. He seemed much older than he really was, and in two years of time had gained ten in the defining face lines. These were, it seemed, ineffaceable, and as the months wore on grew deeper still.
Matthias' marriage came off in September, and our whole household were invited. Aunt Hildy said she'd send them something, "but no weddins for me," and she shook her head when I asked whether she was going.
Mother was busy and did not feel like sparing the time, so at last, Clara, Louis and I went over, and Mrs. Davis came with her husband, who performed the ceremony in a pleasant way. I think no couple ever had just such wedding presents. A blanket and some home-spun towels from Aunt Hildy; a large silk bandana handkerchief, a chintz dress pattern, and a little bead purse with some bits of gold from Clara (how much I never knew), and from Louis a load of shingles, and the services of a carpenter to re-shingle the little house, with some sensible gifts from Hal and our people. Aunt Peg was beside herself with joy which she could not express to suit her, and at last she said, "won't try to tell you nothin'—can't do it."
Mr. and Mrs. Davis stayed only a few minutes after the ceremony, but we three had a long chat with our good friends, and when we left them at the door, tears of gratitude fell from Aunt Peg's eyes. I looked back, after we had started toward home, to see them sitting on the door stone side by side, and their dark faces restingin the shadow of the Cyprus vine was a pleasant picture.
"Their cup runneth over," said Louis; "I am glad and 'we shall rejoice with those that rejoice, and mourn, with those that mourn.'"
"Another Bible quotation, Louis?"
"Yes," said he, "and why may we not have these truths, like blessed realities, walk side by side with us through life. Every day might let the sunshine into the room of our thought, through the bars of understanding that stand as defining lines between them.
"Mr. Davis says you are to be a preacher. I believe you are already," said I.
"Would my Emily object? I think not, for has not little mother said, 'Emily will do it, Emily will help you?'"
I did not answer with words, but my eyes spoke volumes, and he read them truly.
Letters came to us monthly from our Southern Mary, and Clara often said she had hope of seeing her again. Mrs. Chadwick had kept track of Mrs. Benton, and that strange compound of villainy and taste—her husband—had really been touched by Mary's plea and was living with his family. I could hardly believe it, and when Hal stepped in one evening with "love's fawn" at his side, and a letter from that veritable Benton, we had a grand surprise. I will not try to tell you of this well written epistle, but this interesting item I will relate; here are his words: "You will doubtless be surprised when I say I am married and keeping house. I found my wife here; she has two nice boys. If you come to this part of theglobe, as I hope you will, call on us. You will be welcome."
"My soul!" said Aunt Hildy, "if the other world did have a fiery pit for liars, that man would have the best seat, and nearest the fire."
Mother smiled and said, "He does not know, of course, that we have heard of this wife, for how should he?"
"Why, certainly not," said Hal, "and I shall never tell him. Let him do right if he can, and we perhaps can hardly blame him if he does want to hold on to the few who have proven their friendship, for I think his friends do not number many. He needs them all."
"Judgment is mine saith the Lord," said Aunt Hildy.
"Well, that may be true, but I cannot feel that we are His direct agents for cursing the man."
"Neither are we," said Louis, "and if we obey the commandment, 'Love ye one another,' where can the curse come? No, no, Mrs. Patten, we must wait for the spirit of the man to grow good and true, and the weakness of the flesh by this will be overcome; he cannot forget all the wrong, and probably might recall the words, 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.'"
"Well," said Aunt Hildy, "I 'spose that's the Gospel good and true, but I do get riled at his cuttings up. I've seen 'em before, yes I've seen 'em before."
And she sat as if feeling her way back through the mist of years. I wondered what she had suffered, but she kept her own secrets close to her heart and held steadfastly to the truth doing much good. Her busy fingers through the long winter evenings kept adding tothe store of stockings she was knitting for somebody who needed—and the needy would surely come in her path.
Aunt Peg and Matthias were quietly happy, and they came out of church every Sabbath and walked with a pleasant dignity homeward. Matthias had memorized the old hymns and he could pick many of them out, having learned to designate them by their first word or line, and this he called reading.
"'Pears like I kin read a few himes, Miss Emily," he said. This is the way with us through life. It seems to me we get the first word or line and then go blindly on making mistakes and grievously sinning in our ignorance, unknowing of the great beauty that awaits us in the perfect rendering of life's beautiful psalm.
Clara said we were like children running through a meadow, trampling the daisies and clovers under our feet, and with breathless impatience hurrying on through the long day to the fall of night, and when the sunset of our earthly life came on, pausing then at the corner of the meadow, we gathered the few tired blossoms at our feet and passed out into the unknown.
"Oh, my Emily!" she said, "if our steps could be even and slow we should pick our comfort-daisies and our love-clovers on either side, while our feet still kept the one small path of our greatest duty; and this to me is the straight and narrow path spoken of."
Her types of thought were so purely beautiful, and yet she drew them from the plainest facts. She was growing nearer heaven daily, or perhaps we were seeing her soul more clearly through the days. I thought and comforted myself that we should not lose her.
Louis and I talked sometimes of the coming time when we should receive the sacred seal of marriage, and when the year for which he asked had expired and the fall term opened in the seminary, he said:
"Little mother tells me she cannot let me go back, she is too tired to live without me. I knew it before she told me; her strength is very little without mine, and," he added, "even if we do all we can, that little mother must leave us before many years. You know, Emily, how I have wanted all my life to be an artist. Perhaps I shall, sometime, but now before me I can see a need that will bring me into different work, and it may be also (his eyes were far away) I can, after all, do better service by painting living faces."
"What do you mean, Louis?
"I mean, Emily, that when the tired hearts we find, feel comfort creeping over them, the work shines through the eyes and glows within the smiles that beam upon us. Did we not paint a pleasant picture at the wedding, and are not these works of art appreciated through endless time? Will they not repay us with something better than the gold which we may lose, the earthly things that perish? And again, I have seriously thought that it is not right for me to take the work that others who need might have. Side by side with our great love must walk these truths. I cannot see yet how our future plans are to be arranged, or where our home will be. What does your good heart say, Emily?"
"Oh! I cannot tell you, Louis. I sometimes imagine a little cosy home like Hal's, and then it dissolves beyond my reach and I say 'Time will tell it all.' Yourmother taught me that one of the greatest lessons in life is to learn to wait, and move with the tide if we can instead of against it. These hills are very dear to me."
"May they never be less!" said Louis, gathering me to himself; while I reverently thought, "How glorious a manhood is his! how great the love he gives me!"
Time passed rapidly. Ben's first season as a real farmer had passed, and storehouse and barn were filled. His hands grew strong and his blows were telling. A handsome woodpile was one of the things he was truly proud of, and everything was done in good season and with perfect system. Hal said that he and Mary were living with Ben. Father was surprised at his success, and when, in the winter, he walked in with a dozen brooms of his own make, Aunt Hildy said:
"Industry and economy were two virtues that the Lord would see well rewarded. You'll be a rich man and a generous one too. Wish your Aunt Phebe'd come up to see us."
"She's coming," said Ben. "I've written to her to come to our house and stay a week. I want her to come and see my broom-corn room. I'll bet she'll be interested in it, and I'm going to give her six brooms to take home with her. But did you know Deacon Grover's very sick?"
"Why, no, indeed!" said I.
"Well, he is, and Mrs. Grover wants Louis to come over. He'd better go back with me. They expect he'll die; he is troubled to breathe."
I called Louis and he went over. He came back to supper and told us he was going to stay with him all night.
"Mr. Davis says he cannot save his life, and they are to have Dr. Brown from the village. The man is terribly frightened; he knows he must go. He says he's afraid he has been too mean to get into heaven, and he moans piteously. His poor wife is nearly distracted."
"Shall I go with you, Louis?" I said.
"You might go over but I hardly think I need you all night there. He has been ill more than a week. I should not be surprised if he left us before morning."
"Small loss to us," said Aunt Hildy, "but if the poor critter knows he's been mean, perhaps he'll see his way through better. I'll go over if it wont torment him."
"You are just the one," said Louis.
"Well, I hope I sha'nt set him to thinking about—never mind what I say. Let me get my herb bag and start along."
We found the poor man no better, and wise Dr. Brown shook his head ominously. He was a regular grave-yard doctor, and I thought it a pity to set up the deacon's tomb-stone while yet he breathed. His poor wife was taking on terribly (as Aunt Hildy expressed it). When Deacon Grover saw Louis he tried to speak. Louis went near and took his hand, and he whispered:
"Peace, you bring me peace."
"It is all right over there," said Louis; "do not fear."
"All right," said the sufferer, and then, looking at his wife, he said, "Be her friend." A smile passed over his face, his eyes closed, and Deacon Grover was dead.
Mr. Goodman and Matthias came over to help Louis lay him out, and his funeral took place from the church the following Sunday. Louis was a great help to Mrs.Grover and she needed all the aid he could give. Her spirits were broken in her early days, and she followed the deacon in a little less than a year, her brain failing rapidly, her body having been weak for years.
Many changes had occurred during this year of my life, and when the beads upon my rosary of years numbered twenty-two, it seemed hardly a day since I had counted twenty-one. How little time from one birthday to another, and in childhood how long the time between!
I was growing older, and the days challenged each other in their swiftness, but they were all pleasant to me, even though the church-bell often tolled the passing of souls, and the quiet of our hills was broken by the ringing of improvement's hammer as it fell on the anvil of our possessions. Long lines of streets passed through the meadow-lands, and where, in less level places, rocks and stones were in the path, the power of inventive genius was applied and the victory gained. Some of our people felt it keenly. To father it was an advantage, but to Aunt Hildy, the opposite.
"Goin' to pass right through my nest, Mr. Minot, and I tell you it aint so easy to think of that spot of ground as a grave-yard. 'Twont be nothin' else to me, never. Oh, the years I bury there!"
Father ventured to suggest remuneration.
"No, no, nothin' can't pay; they don't know it, Mr. Minot, but it's a bitter pill." And a shadow overspread her resolute features. She determined on making our house her home "forever and a day arter" she said, and bore it as patiently as she could; but I saw great drops fall from her eyes as she looked over to that little homeand watched its demolition. She said she had prayed for a strong wind to do the work, but this was not granted. My own heart leaped to my throat in sympathy, but knowing her so well I said nothing.
Louis was more than busy. I wondered when my birthday came if he would remember it. He did, and all the evening of that day we sat together and talked of our future.
"Emily, I am feeling glad to-night; my heart sings loud for joy. You cannot think how beautiful you have grown in my eyes; even though you filled my heart long days ago, that heart-room does expand with growth, and your queenly beauty still fills it to completeness. Let your hair fall over your shoulders; look out over the future days with your speaking eyes as if you were a picture, my Emily." And as he said this my shell-comb was in his hand and my long and heavy hair lay about me like a mantle. He liked to see it so, and I sat as if receiving a blessed benediction.
"Can you see nothing before you?" he asked.
"Mists, like drapery curtains, shade the days," I said: "What is it you would have me find?"
"Find the month of June's dear roses,Find a trellis and a vine;Ask your heart, my queenly darling,If the sun will on us shine,And my heart, love's waiting trellis,Then receive its clinging vine.Have I spoken well and truly?Does your soul like mine decide?And, with June's dear wealth of roses,Shall I claim you for a bride?Do the old hills answer, darling?Unto me they seem to say:'Two young hearts in truth have waited;Emily may name the day.'"
"Find the month of June's dear roses,Find a trellis and a vine;Ask your heart, my queenly darling,If the sun will on us shine,And my heart, love's waiting trellis,Then receive its clinging vine.Have I spoken well and truly?Does your soul like mine decide?And, with June's dear wealth of roses,Shall I claim you for a bride?Do the old hills answer, darling?Unto me they seem to say:'Two young hearts in truth have waited;Emily may name the day.'"
As the words of his impromptu verse died away, the moon, looking through the rifted clouds, beamed an affirmation, and I said:
"Let June be the month, Louis; the day shall name itself."
Clara called: "It is nine o'clock, my dear ones;" and we said "good night."
Louis' birthday came on the 24th of June, and it seemed very appropriate to me that this should be the day of our wedding, and, as I said to him; the day named itself, and it also came on Sunday. I had no thought of being married in the old church, but Louis was positive that it would be best.
"You know," he said, "that all these good people around us feel an interest very natural to those who are acquainted with everybody in their own little town. They will enjoy our marriage in the church where all can come and none be slighted, and the evening after they can be invited to call on us at home."
"Oh, Louis!" I said, "I would much rather go quietly over to Mr. Davis'."
"Yes, Emily," he replied, "to take one of our pleasant walks over the hill and step in there; but after all I can see how it will be wiser for us not to be selfish in this matter. Never mind how we feel: these friends of ours are of much account, and the many new thoughts that brighten their existence as well as our own must fall, I believe, on us as a people as well as individually. A private wedding will cause unkind remarks, and perhaps unpleasant feelings, and idle conjectures may grow to be stern realities. Let us avoid all this, and as we have heretofore been among them, let us still keep our vessel close to the shore of their understanding, though we may often drift out into the ocean unseen by them, and gather to ourselves the pearls of new and strengthening thought 'Let him who would be chief among you be your servant.' Do you understand me?"
"I do, Louis, and 'Emily will do it,' for she knows you are right; but I should never have thought of it; and now another important consideration."
"The bridal robe?" said Louis.
"Yes," I said, "just that; the thought of being elaborately dressed is distasteful to me as well as unsuited to our desires, for a wedding display would certainly arouse the spirit of envy if nothing more."
"Trust that to little mother, Emily; she desires to have that privilege, I know."
"Let it be so."
And here we fixed the arrangement for the birthday and wedding day to be one; but it came on a Sunday, and hence the necessity of a talk with Mr. Davis, which resulted in the arranging for a short afternoon sermon, and after it the ceremony. We were not to enter the church until the proper moment, and Ben said he could manage it, for when the minister began his last prayer he would climb the rickety ladder into the old square box of a belfry and hang out a yard of white cloth on a stick.
"And then," he added, "you can jump right into the wagon and be there in three minutes."
He was the most perfect boy to plan at a moment's notice, but Louis told him not to hazard his life on the belfry ladder for we could manage it all without.
"And besides," he said, "you, Ben, must walk into church with us; we are not going unprotected. Hal and Mary, Ben and little mother, and Mr. Minot with his wife and Aunt Hildy. That is the programme as I have it."
You should have seen those eyes of the young farmer dilate with surprise as he gave a long and significant whistle and turned toward home, doubtless thinking to surprise Hal and Mary with this new chapter in his experience.
The 10th day of June brought us a letter from Aunt Phebe with news of her marriage.
"Weddins don't never go alone more'n funerals," said Aunt Hildy. "Here Miss Hungerford's been married since February, and we've just heard tell of it. Hope she's got a good, sensible man, but 'taint likely; no two very sensible folks get very near each other, that is, for life. She's a good woman. What does he do to git a livin'?"
"Teaches school," I replied.
"Hem!" said she, "school teachers don't generally know much else. Eddicated men aint great on homelife; they want a monstrous sight of waitin' on."
"Let us hope for the best in this case," said I. "Here comes Matthias; he knows Mr. Dayton, I believe."
"Yas, Miss Em'ly, I does," said Matthias, who heard my last remark.
"Is he a nice man?"
"Um, um! reckin that jes' hits dat man; why, de good Lord bress us ef dat man ha'nt done, like he was sent,fur de slaves, Miss Em'ly. He knows jes' whar dat track is,—de down-low track, I means, whar de 'scapin' from de debbil comes good to dese yere people when dey gits free. Mas'r Sumner an' a'heap mo' on 'em would jes' like fur to kill dat Mas'r Dayton ef dey could cotch him. Preaches like mad his ablishun doctrine, as he call it, an' down on rum, sure sartin. He works jes' all de time fur de leas' pay you never heard tell of. Is he comin' up yere?"
"I hope so, some time; but he is Aunt Phebe's husband now, and we want to know something about him."
"I reckin dat ye needn't be oneasy, honey, 'bout dat, fur Miss Hungerford is 'zackly de one fur to take ker ob dat man; he's got his head 'way up 'mong de stars, an' 'way down in de figgerin' mos' all de time."
"Do you mean that he is an astronomer, Matthias?"
"Dunno nothin' 'bout dat, but he looks into de stars straight through a shiny pipe, Miss Em'ly, dat he sticks up on tree leg; an' when dem peart fellers In dat college where dey lives, gits into figgerin whar dey's done stuck and can't do it no how, dey comes right down to dat man, an' he trabbles 'em right out ob all dese yere diffikilties. Um, um! dat man knows a heap ob dem tings. Miss Hungerford's all right. 'Pears like dere's good deal ob marryin' roun' de diggins."
"You set the example," I said, "and the rest must follow. Louis and I expect your hearty congratulations when our day comes to step out of the world."
"You kin 'pend on good arnest wishes for a heap o' comfort, Miss Em'ly, but 'stead o' leavin' the world you jes' gits into it; dunno nothin' 'bout livin' till ye hev tomin' eberything yourself. But I 'spect you'll walk along purty happy-like, fur Mas'r Louis he's done got hevin right in his soul, an' you, Miss Em'ly, 'pears like you's good enough fur him."
And the old man stood before me like a picture, his eyes beaming with the thoughts which filled his soul, utterance to which he could not wholly give; and I thought they grew like a fire within him, and that some day, beyond the pale of human life, they would speak with force and power, and all the buds of beauty there burst into flowers of eternal loveliness. And I said to him, as he rose to go:
"Your good wishes are worth much to me; I want you always for my faithful friend."
"Dat's jes' what I'se gwine to be," he replied, and as he passed along the path, I thought I saw the corner of his coat sleeve near his eye.
The 24th of June was a royal day. The blue sky flecked with fleecy clouds sailing over us like promises; the air sweet with the mingling breath of flowers (we had multitudes of them about us). The south wind came up to us as pleasant breaths that sought our own, and the robins and blue-birds sang in the trees all day the song, "It is well." My heart echoed their music, and I moved in a dream, and when I felt Clara's fingers wandering over my hair I could not realize that her noble Louis was waiting to claim me as his wife—plain Emily Minot. But the blue-birds' "It is well" covered all these thoughts.
"Just a white dress, Emily, and violets to fasten your hair," said Clara, "which I will coax to curl for this one day."
And so, from under her hands, I came in a simple toilette of white mull, with my much-loved violets fastened at my throat and nestling among my black hair. Not a jewel save the ring that Louis had given me in the days before, and the chain, which was just one shining thread about my throat. I must have looked happy, but more than this I could not see, even though I hazarded a long, full look in Clara's mirror.
But Louis, ah! he should have stood beside a princess, I thought. It was contrast, not comparison, when I stopped to realize the difference. It was not his garb that made him regal, for he was clad in a suit of simple black with a vest and necktie of spotless white.
"A violet or two in your coat lappel?" said Clara.
"No, no, little mother; my royal rose begirt with violets will stand beside me. Put them in your own brown hair."
And he smiled, as taking them from her hand he placed them in her hair.
"Just a veil over your head, little mother; no bonnets among the wedding party."
Aunt Hildy insisted at first that she could not "parade around that church and stand up there before the minister. I'd feel like a reg'lar idiot, Louis."
At last she changed her mind, but preferred to walk with Ben, and he, who always loved her well, did not object.
So our entrance by one of the side aisles (the body of the church was filled with pews) was in the following order: Father, mother and Clara, Louis and Emily, Hal and Mary, and Ben and Aunt Hildy. The latter wouldwalk to the church anyway, and when our old carryall reached the door, I felt like screaming to see her sitting there on the steps fanning herself with her turkey-feather fan and waiting for us to appear. We all entered with uncovered heads, and as our feet crossed the threshold the choir sang one verse of "Praise ye the Lord." Mr. Davis had descended from his pulpit and stood before it upon a little elevated platform arranged for special occasions. Mother, father and Clara passed him where he stood, leaving the place for Louis and myself before him, with Hal and Mary, Ben and Aunt Hildy at Louis' left. It was a short and beautifully-worded ceremony, and when my eyes, already moist, looked upward to the pulpit and noticed a drapery of rose and vine which encircled it, those same tears fell fast over my cheeks, and while Louis' "I will" fell as a clear and strong response upon the air, my own assent was given silently and with only a slight bowing of my head, my lips murmuring not a syllable. After pronouncing us man and wife, Mr. Davis, at Louis' request, gave an invitation to all our friends to call on us the following evening, and again the choir and the people sang sweetly and with great feeling, as, turning, we passed down the opposite aisle toward the door.
When about half way to the door I was conscious of seeing Aunt Peg and Matthias; a moment more, and she with her white apron, and he with his high hat full of roses, were walking before us and throwing them in our path.
When we reached the door they stepped to either side, and still throwing roses, Matthias said in a tone I shall never forget:
"May de days do for ye jes' what we's doin' now, scatter de roses right afore ye clear to de end ob de journey."
This touched our hearts, and when we got into the carryall all eyes were moist, and I of course was crying as if my best friend were dead. Aunt Hildy said:
"Lord-a-massy! wonder he hadn't hit us in the head; that's the queerest caper I ever did see."
We all laughed heartily, and Louis said:
"My Emily, you are a rainbow of promise; the sun shines through your tears."
We had made preparations to receive our friends Monday evening, and had huge loaves of cake awaiting with lemonade, and something warm for those who desired it. An ancient service of rare and unique design was brought out by Clara for the occasion. It belonged to her husband's family in France and came to him as an heirloom. The contrast between it and the mulberry set which mother gave me struck me as singular, but the flowers and figures of the mulberry ware did not fall into insignificance. They were to me the embodiment of beauty. Among my earliest disappointments was the giving of grandmother's china to Hal, and I cried for "just one saucer," and this was a fac-simile and met a hearty appreciation. I bedewed it with tears, and Aunt Hildy said it was dretful dangerous to give me anything, and she should'nt try it.
"You'll want two or three handkerchiefs to cry on to-night, for the folks'll bring over a lot o' things to you."
"I do not expect a single present, neither desire any if I have to make a speech," I said.
"Keep close to me, Emily," said Louis, "and I will make the speeches if it becomes a duty."
I feared Clara would get tired out, but she said:
"Oh, no, they will come early, you know, and go away early also, and with you and Louis to hold me up I shall be borne on wings!"
At six o'clock they began to appear. We had our supper at four, and were ready to receive them. Louis and I sat in Clara's sitting-room, and Aunt Hildy said:
"It's my business to 'tend to the comin' in. 'Better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than dwell in the tents of wickedness;' so that's settled." And with this she established herself in a chair before the open door. Mother was near to assist, and I smiled to hear Aunt Hildy repeat:
"Good arternoon; lay by your things," until I thought her lips must be parched with their constant use. I was not prepared for the demonstration of love and friendship coming from these people of our town; for, until Louis and Clara came to us, I had, as I told you in the beginning of my story, not longed for their society, and had found few for whom I really cared. It was only from learning my duty, when my eyes, with the years and the wisdom Clara brought, were opened, that I could see the advantage gained by considering with respect even those whom I had dominated as selfish. Miserly and mean Jane North had grown into a different woman, and Deacon Grover had left us, blessing the love and strength of this wisdom which brought peace to cover the last hour of struggle; and many hearts, in the quiet ministering of one angel, had been touched. Home friendswere growing round us I knew, but I had no realization of things as they really were, and the events of this greeting gave me a substantial evidence which was to my soul a platform. On it I reared a temple of love, and in the windows of my temple every face and heart and gift were set, as pure crystal in the sash of delightful remembrance.
First came the Goodins, and their hands yielded to us thoroughly appreciated gifts: one dozen linen towels spun, woven and bleached by the hands of Mrs. Goodwin; her husband adding for Louis the solid silver knee and shoe buckles his grandfather wore when a revolutionary officer, the trusty sword that hung by his side, and his uniform coat with its huge brass buttons, with the trunk of red cedar where for years they have been kept.
"Thank you," we both said simultaneously, and they passed along for others to come near. Not one of all that country town forbore to come and bring also tokens of their kindly feeling. Among the early arrivals was Jane North. I heard Matthias say:
"Be ye goin' to tote it in there?" and, as Jane answered resolutely, "I certainly am," I looked toward the door to see what it was that was approaching. At my feet Matthias dropped his burden, and the donor said:
"There is a goose-feather bed and a pair of pillows, and I picked every feather of 'em off my geese; them two linen sheets and two pair of piller-cases done up with 'em I made myself. I want you to use that bed in your own room, Mis'De-Mond (I started to hear that name applied to myself), and for the sake of the good Lordwho sent salvation to me through your blessed mother-in-law, in prayer for yourself don't never forget me. I've said all the hateful things I ever mean to."
She held her hands out to us both, and we mingled our tears of gratitude with those that filled her eyes.
"Thank you," I said.
"God bless your true heart," said Louis, "and may your last days be your happiest."
"Amen," said Jane, and she passed into the next room, Matthias putting the present in a corner where it would take less space. Mr. Davis followed her, and beside him stood a clock which father had helped him to bring in.
"This clock, my young friends, is the one which has stood in the corner of my study for years. I have taken an especial pride in its unvarying correctness, and the man in the moon is unfailing in his calculation, showing his face at the appropriate season. The clock's tick is strong and well becomes the old veteran, and the coat of mahogany he wears is one that can never need a stitch. To you, above all others, I would yield this treasure; it is worth far more to me than any gift I might purchase, and I know that you," turning to Louis, "rejoice in keeping bright the old-time landmarks linking forever the past and the present."
This brought Louis to his feet, and Clara and myself rose too, for his arms encircled us.
"Mr. Davis," he said, grasping his outstretched hand, "you have done me great honor; may I have the pleasure to retain through endless ages the confidence you place in me and my blessed wife, my Emily."
"The years will brighten the lustre of your true heart,"said Mr. Davis; and here his wife handed me a patchwork quilt, while her husband said:
"May your lives and loves be welded by a double chain as long as my wife's handiwork shall last."
It seemed to me I could not bear all this, and when father came forward at this moment and handed me a deed of some of his best land, I should, I believe, have screamed had not Louis' hand held me tightly. Gifts multiplied like flakes of falling snow, until we were surrounded by them. I can only mention a few more, and before me rise plainly now the faces of Aunt Peg and Matthias, as bowing low before me they laid at our feet their offerings.
"Only jest a little intment; that's all they is when we looks at the rest; but we wanted to bring you sunthin'," said Aunt Peg.
A beautiful mat bordered with her own choice of bright colors, a clothes-basket made by Matthias, and in the latter three pairs of beautifully-knitted wool stockings for Louis.
"Peg spun dis wool," said Matthias, "an' de stockins is good: dis baskit," he added despairingly, "I tried my bes' to put some sky color on, but I reckin ef de bluin' bottle had jes' spill over it 'twould do more colorin' and better too. May de Lord help ye to live an' war it out, and then I'll make another."
"That was a good speech," said Louis, and we shook hands with these two white-hearted friends, and they also passed on out of sight, leaving me still at the mercy of the coming.
It seemed to me there could be nothing more to come,when a loud "baa, baa" started us, and Ben appeared, leading the whitest little lamb you ever saw. He had tied a blue ribbon about its neck, and it trotted along up to us as if pleased with the novelty of its situation.
"Your namesake and my gift," said Ben. I was truly surprised, but thanked him heartily, and the friends about us laughed immoderately. This caused the lamb to look for some way out, and Ben went with it at a quick pace, shouting back, "I raised Emily myself, and she's a beauty." The next surprise was from Hal and Mary—two pieces from the hand of my artist brother, "Love's Fawn," and "Aunt Hildy." Duplicates of these were at that time hastening across the water with Mr. Hanson, who was anxious to take a venture over for Hal. When they were placed before us, Louis and myself exclaimed admiringly:
"How beautiful!"
Aunt Hildy, who stood near, said, "There, Halbert Minot, you've done it now!" and passed, like a swift wind through the room. I feared she felt hurt, but was disarmed of this thought, for she returned in a moment, and over the statuette she threw her old Camlet cloak.
"That is my present to you two," she said, standing beside it as if empowered with authority. "To God's children I give this, and you shall share it with 'em. I make one provision," she added. "Mis' Hungerford-Dayton is to have the sleeves for carpet-rags; you can cut it up when she comes. It's all I've got to give; but the Lord will make it blest." We took this as a crowning joke; and still to me it seemed to embrace a solid something, and set me dreaming.
When the hour of ten arrived the last of our guests were leaving; and, as I stood at the door with Louis saying "Good-night," the echo of the words went ringing over the hills; and when it fluttered back, seemed to my heart to say, "It will be morning soon."
As we went into the sitting-room, Clara said: "Now that the guests have all examined my gifts, it will do for my dear ones to look also," and she led the way into our old middle-room, and pointing to the antique service, said:
"These are yours; I have them for my boy. There are false bottoms to the three largest pieces, and within them you will find the gift your father left you, Louis, to be given to you when you should become a man. I did not tell the others of this," she added. "Here, my Emily, is something you I know will prize,—the set of pearls my Louis Robert gave me on my wedding day. They are very valuable. Keep them; and if changes should ever bring want before you, you have a fortune here. See how beautiful they are." And she held up a string of large, round pearls to which clung an ornament, in shape somewhat like an anchor, of the same precious gems, two of which were pear-shaped and very large. The ear-rings and brooch were of the most exquisite pattern. I had never seen anything so beautiful, and had no word for expression, and Clara said:
"Your eyes tell it all, my royal Emily; you are tired, and the night is here."
Then, kissing us both good-night, Louis gathered her in his arms and carried her over the stairs, saying, as he turned to come down:
"Pleasant dreams, my fairy mother; your hand is a magic wand."