I could not believe what Mr. Benton said of Matthias, and did not refrain from speaking of it to Clara, whose opinions were golden to me, and her reply was perfectly in accordance with my own feelings. Each took her own route to the conclusion, but her interpretation came as an intuitive perception, while mine was more like something which fell into my mind with a power whenever his eyes met my own. "Emily," said Clara, "I have taken his dark hand in mine. I have come close to his white heart, when from his lips have fallen the words telling his history, and I would trust him everywhere. If any trouble comes to you, Emily, trust Matthias; he is as true as truth itself, and his soul is pure—purer, perhaps, than the souls of many who have had great advantages, and whose forms have been molded in a more beautiful shape. Our Father judges from within; let our judgment be like his." This was good for me to hear. I felt glad that I could sometimes come so near to Clara's thoughts. I was greatly wrought upon by Matthias' tales of the South; and yet he venerated the people of that country, and said: "The Northerners are too cold-blooded: they didn't invite folks to have a bite without first feelin' in their pockets to see if they could find money there." I knew nothing from experience of Southern hospitality, but believed all he told me, and I thought it the greater pity that such a lovely land should be so marred with this terrible trade in lives, and I said to Clara, when we were discussing this subject: "Is it not too bad, and does it seem possible that this great evil will be suffered to endure forever?" "No," said Clara, "neither possible nor probable. I may not live to hear with these earthly ears the glad news, but you, Emily, will live to see the bond go free, and the serpent of slavery lie at the feet of America, who will place her heel on its crushed and bleeding head. This will be, must be, and the years will not number so very many between now and then." "Why do you think so, Clara?" "Oh! I do not think it; I know it to be true; I have long known it; it stands by the side of the beautiful truth we have heard from the lips of that venerated preacher, Emily, and I cannot see why we may not all be in some measure the recipients of these truths, for they lie all around us on every hand. Did you ever read, Emily, of the man called Dr. De Benneville?" "Never," said I; "tell me, please, his history." "It was printed about 1783. I think I have it." "Well, tell me, Clara, a little; I cannot wait for that now." She smiled and said: "Dear child, how glad I am that you have so good a "Good," I said, "she had a heart." "He then spent eighteen years in Germany preaching and devoting himself to scientific studies, and at the age of thirty-eight he emigrated to this country. He claimed no denominational name, but preached this glorious truth. I can come nearer to him than any other whose history "Were these facts the doors that led you out into light?" I asked. "I never read these facts, Emily, until after my vision was made clear, and I saw the future that lives and waits for all." "Girls," called Aunt Hildy, "ef you've got through with the meetin', I want to ask about these biscuit; I'm afraid they're going to be poor; come look at 'em, Emily." "The biscuit are all right, Aunt Hildy. Did you hear what the preacher said." "No, not really, heard all I could without neglectin' of my work." "She has been telling me a story of a good man. We will ask her to preach again." "Perhaps," said Aunt Hildy, "more'n just you and I will hear her. I can't see how all these ideas are comin' out, and 'pears to me, it looks as ef we'd got to meet, and have a battle somewhere before long. The troubles are I knew to what she alluded, for our good minister had stirred the waters with his sermons, and they were, of course, induced by his fearing the progress of liberal thought in our midst. We had ourselves received a sermon evidently directed at us, which described the act of going to hear Mr. Ballou as a wrong step. Even if we had not been clear-sighted enough to have taken the sermon to ourselves, we should have been reminded of it by the looks of some of the congregation, who sought out our pew with strong reproof in their eyes; among those whose eyes met mine in this manner, I remember most distinctly Jane North and Deacon Grover. I smiled involuntarily, and with a glance of horror at my wickedness, they turned their faces toward the preacher. Clara was not with us that Sabbath, for which I was glad. I wondered what would be done, and the week after mother left us, Jane North came over, and I expected to hear some talk concerning it. She brought her knitting in a little gingham bag on her arm, and there was no way to get rid of her or of her coming talk, which, I confess, I dreaded. "Oh, dear!" I said to Clara, "that wretched meddler is coming. What shall we do with her?" "I will try and help you, Emily. Perhaps she has a good heart after all, and meddles only because her conditions in life have fitted her for nothing better." "It isn't so, Clara; she tells stories about everybody; I would not believe her under oath." "Charity," she said softly, and through the door came Jane. "Good afternoon, Emily." "Take a seat," I said, bowing. "Good afternoon, Mis' Densin," to Clara. "Mrs. De-mond," I said, pronouncing the name rather forcibly. "Oh! De-mond is it?" with accent on the first syllable "That is more like it," said Clara. "How do you do to-day? let me take your things." "Don't feel very scrumptious, and ain't sick neither, kinder so so. How are all here? I heard Mis' Minot was gone. Ain't you lonesome?" "We do miss her sadly," said Clara. "Gone to a weddin', ain't she?" I laughed aloud. "Only for a change," said Clara. "Why, Mis' Grover"— Clara waited for no news, but said quickly: "You were very kind, thinking we were lonely, to come over and see. Come into the other side of the house," and she led the way to her sitting-room. "Oh! ain't this be-yoo-ti-ful! What a wonderful change from the old side of this house! I declare, I should think Mr. Minot would be thankful enough for this addition to his house." "Oh! I am the one to be thankful," said Clara, "he was so kind as to build it for me." "Oh! he built it, hey; with his own money, did he?" "Certainly, he never would use any other person's. Cousin Minot in a very nice man." "Is he your cousin?" said Jane in astonishment. "Why, of course he is. Did you not know of it?" "Never heard of it before." "What are you knitting?" said Clara. "Stockings," was the monosyllabled reply. "Did you ever knit silk?" "Shouldn't think I did. I ain't grand enough to afford that." "You could, though, I know," said Clara. "Why, I dunno,—praps so." Jane North was foiled, and she succumbed as gracefully as she could, although awkwardly enough; but Clara went on: "I have some beautiful silk thread, I have had it for years. My grandfather's people, over in France, were silk weavers. It is through my mother that I am related to Mr. Minot; my father's people were French," she said, noticing an incredulous look in the eyes of Jane. "I have a lot of silk in thread and floss: I'll get the box and show it to you," and she did. My own curiosity led me into the room—I had stood back of the door all this time—and the silk was beautiful; rich dark shades and fancy colors mingled, and a quantity of it too. Although kept so long, it was strong, having been of such fine material. "Sakes alive! I should be scar't to death to own all that," said Jane. "Well," said Clara, "if you will show me how to knit some for myself, I will be willing to scare you a little. I would like to give you enough to make a pair or two of stockings for yourself. Chose your own colors," and she emptied the contents of the box on the lounge at her side. "You don't mean it, Mis' De-mond." "Certainly I do, take any shade you prefer, and if Emily has needles, we will go right to work on our cutting." The right string was touched, the cutting started, and when Jane North left us, she whispered to me: "I like that woman, and I don't care whether she is a Baptist, or what she is, she's a lady." Those stockings averted much, for her head was full of wonder talk. I reminded Clara of the indignation she felt at her expressions, when she first saw her, and told her I did not suppose she ever would desire to look at her again. "Why, Emily," she said, "I never feel like annihilating people whose ideas are all wrong. They are but representatives at the most, and I would rather desire to help these eaters of husks to find the true bread that shall bring to them comfort and peace. I should wish to fill their hearts so full that the rays of this inner light shall radiate around them, touching with the magic of good deeds all the suffering our world contains. This would leave no empty rooms in the house of our understanding; all would be filled with tenants of good-will and loving faith, bearing charity and love each toward the other; and uncultivated fields would be found no more. I thought if I could touch Miss North in the right spot, I might fill her mind, for a few brief hours at least, with something beside her gossip. If this could be done every day in the week, she would lose sight of it altogether, and like a tree engrafted with better fruit, on these new thought-branches beautiful wisdom apples "What a wonderful compound you are, Clara," I said, "and what perfect symmetry nature has given to you, while I am your antipodes." "What's that you are calling yourself?" said Aunt Hildy. "Oh, something just different from all that is good and true enough to belong to Clara!" "'Pears to me you're gettin' some dretful big word now-a-days; when you want me to understand you, talk plain English." Hal, who had entered that moment, laughed heartily. "So I say, Aunt Hildy. Our Emily is going to be a blue-stocking, I fear. Housework will suffer before long, for housework and book cannot go together." "No more than ploughs and plaster," I added. "Not a bit more, sister mine," and he passed his arm around my waist,—he often did this now-a-days,—and whispered, "give me a chance to say something to you." I nodded an assent, and he passed on through the room, whistling to himself "Bonny Doon." I embraced the first opportunity to follow him, and found him alone in his studio. He seated himself beside me, took one hand in his and passed an arm around me. I wished he could have been my lover then, in fact, I often wished it, for he was as good as he was handsome, both noble hearted and noble looking. He was to me the embodiment of all that was good and all that went to make the best man in the world. "Emily," he began, "you have been a blessed sister to me; I have loved you always, even though I plagued you so much, and you have been faithful to me. I entrusted to you the first great secret of my life, when I sought you under the apple tree." "Why could you not have told me more?" I said. "For the sole reason it would have been hard for you to have kept it from mother, and I wanted to surprise you all at home. Your hand, Emily, was the one that held the cup of life to my lips; and Louis," he added in a tender tone, "with his sympathy and the power of his heart and hand, led me slowly back to strength. Louis is a grand boy. Now, Emily," and he drew me still closer, "I have something else to tell you." "Don't go away, Hal." "I desire to stay, but, Emily, I love Mary Snow. I want to tell you of it. I cannot speak positively as to what may happen, but I love her very dearly. Could you be glad to receive her as a sister?" Selfish thoughts arose at the thought of losing Hal, but I banished them at once, and my heart spoke truly when I said: "Mary Snow is good enough for you, Hal. I have always liked her so much, but how stupid I am, never to have dreamed of this." "No?" said he, as if surprised. "Never dreamed of it? Do you think it strange that I should tell you, Emily? I have seen the time when it would seem very silly to me, but I have learned to realize how great is the tie that binds us, and I hope through all the years you and I will never be apart. I ask of you, too, one I said not a word, but I thought of Louis, and I longed to show him the chain and locket, which I constantly wore, but I could not, and I have wished since that I might have been wiser. At this moment Mr. Benton entered, and our position did not escape him. "Truly, Hal," he said, "you make a capital picture. Courting, eh?" "Call it that if you please; we are very near in spirit, thanks to the Father." The thought of work came over me, and I left them to help about getting supper. To be in Hal's confidence and to feel the trust he reposed in me had made me very happy. Precious indeed did this seem to me, and if all brothers and sisters were as near, how much of evil would be averted. Young men might find at home the love and society they need, and less temptation and fewer penalties to pay would be the good result. Mother's absence was nearly at an end, and father had gone on Saturday to Aunt Phebe's to spend the Sabbath, and was to bring mother back on Monday. Sabbath evening Hal went over to Deacon Snow's, Clara was in her room writing to Louis, Ben reading in the kitchen, and I was left with Mr. Benton in Hal's room. This night was never to be forgotten, for although from time to time I had been forced to notice the great change in his manner toward me, I was unprepared for what occurred, and unconscious that he had so misunderstood and perverted my motives in that fated "Mr. Benton, I do not desire to hear this; I cannot understand it; you have been mistaken," etc. To all of which he replied as if deeply pained, and I believed in his sorrow and despised myself. I could not and did not tell him of Louis, for when I thought of it, it seemed too sacred, and he had no right to this knowledge. I was overwhelmed with strange and unpleasant feelings; there was no satisfaction in the thought of having heard these declarations; it was an experience I would fain have avoided. His talk to Clara, too, came to my aid, and rallying a little, I said: "It is not long since you felt you could not live without the love of Clara's heart; how strangely all your feelings must have changed. This perplexes me, Mr. Benton." He raised his head from his hands—he had been sitting some moments in a despairing attitude, evidently struggling with great emotion—and answered: "It is natural that this should perplex you, and I am prepared for it. Years of lonely waiting and yearning for the love of a true heart, have, perhaps, made me seize too readily on any promise of hope and sympathy. I was certainly fascinated with Mrs. Desmonde, and told her of my feelings, prematurely as it proved, for the more I knew of her, the more convinced I grew of her unfitness, I might almost say for earth, although she still is beautiful to me. But you, Emily, are a woman of strength and will, of a strength that will grow, for your This was stranger talk than I could endure, and I broke out passionately: "You need not ever try; I do not want you to, for I shall never love you, and you are also old enough to be my father." I cannot tell why I should have made this great mistake for which I immediately reproached myself. The lines in Mr. Benton's face grew a little sharper, and the gleam of his eye for a second was like a fierce light, and he answered gravely: "My years do number more, but in my heart I stand beside you. I would have waited longer to tell you, but I am going away." I looked wonderingly. "A friend is ill. I go to him; then to Chicago to see some of our statuettes, and then if your parents will board me here, shall return for the summer, unless," and his eyes dropped hopelessly, his voice trembled, "unless," raising his eyes to mine appealingly, "I shall be too unwelcome a friend to remain." Dear Hal and his art rose before me, and pity and love caused me to say: "Oh, come back, Mr. Benton! Hal needs you." "We will consider then that we are friends, Emily?" "Certainly," I said, glad enough to pass out of this door. Would it had been wider! Advancing to me he took my hand, and said: "My friend always, if I may never hope for more. I leave to-morrow morning, let us say good-bye here." This was a strange scene for a plain country girl like Emily Minot. Don't blame me if I was bewildered, and if I failed for a moment to think of the snake I had dreamed about: neither wonder that in this last act in Mr. Benton's drama, he seemed to have gained some power over me. He knew, for I was no adept at concealing, that he had won some vantage ground, and that I blamed myself and pitied him. Morning came, and he left us, and Aunt Hildy said: "Gone with his great eyes that allus remind me that still water runs deep. Can't see how Halbert and that man can be so thick together." Matthias, who was there early, ready to go to work, said to himself as the stage rolled away: "De Lord bless me, if dat man don't mos' allus set me on de thinkin' groun. Pears like he's got two sides to hisself, um, um." I heard this absent talk of Matthias', and also Aunt Hildy's words, and I marvelled, saying in my heart, "Emily Minot, what will be done next?" |