The Harvest of Years Part 11

"You admit this as a fact?"

"Yes; before a judge, if you desire," I said.

"That being the case, let me here say from my heart I am not as much in love with Mrs. Desmonde as I might be, and one reason is that I find her more and more enveloped in the strange fancies peculiar, I judge, to herself alone."

"What am I to understand from this? Strange fancies, indeed! If truth and love are strange fancies, she is indeed enveloped. My darling Clara!

She is a light leading to the eternal city. I knew you could not understand her."

"Well, Miss Minot, let me explain. I know she is graceful, and beautiful, and truly good, but none can know positively there is an eternal city, and I must say I do not feel interested in the dreamy talk, which is, after all, only talk."

"Goodness!" I exclaimed, "are you an infidel?"

"I cannot vouch for anything beyond this life."

"If I felt I could not, I'd commit suicide to-morrow."

He laughed heartily at this, and, as we were at Aunt Peggy's door, could not answer until we turned toward home, when he said:

"Instead of taking my life, I desire to keep it as long as I can, and get all the enjoyment possible on this side the grave. I hope I have made myself understood, and disarmed every fear of your friendly heart."

"The days will tell," I replied, and our walk at last was ended.

It had been thoroughly uncomfortable to me, although he had seemed to be enjoying every step. I went to my room that night, and in my dreams tried to find the garden of Eden somewhere in our town, while a snake, with eyes like Wilmur Benton's, seemed to be crawling close behind me, and with the daybreak, I said:

"That dream means something."

Aunt Peg told me she should go to work and clean up the ground-room, and if father had any old "chunks of wood he could spare, Plint could come over and get 'em, and when that new n.i.g.g.e.r came, there'd be a prospect awaitin'."

I carried the message, and father thought it would be a good plan to have Matthias Jones appear, as he had more wood cut in the forest than he could haul with Ben's help, and doubtless this poor man would be glad of the job. Mother said the room could be made ready, she thought, inasmuch as there was an extra high-post bedstead in our attic chamber.

Aunt Hilda added, "I've got a good feather mattress to put on it, and a straw-bed is easily fixed."

So I wrote a letter to Aunt Phebe, and Plint came over for the chunks of wood, riding back on a load of things we had gathered. When the ground-room was ready for occupancy, it was not a cheerless place. A nicely-made bed in its north-west corner, a deal table at the east side of the room, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a straight-backed rocker, two breadths of carpet lying through its centre, the wide-mouthed fireplace, with well-filled wood-box at its right hand,--all savored of comfort. To cap the climax, Clara put up to the windows some half curtains of unbleached cotton, bound with bright French red. It really looked nice, and Aunt Peg said: "I do hope, mam, he's clean."

The days sped on quickly, and Clara felt better. Mr. Benton had evidently dropped all thought of her, and his uniformly kind treatment of us, began, after a little, to make me feel ashamed of the suspicions which had crossed my mind. Letters from Louis came as usual, and I wish I could give them now--such beautifully-expressed thoughts, such tender touches did he give to his word pictures, that I read and re-read them.

Treasures they were, and I have them all yet; not one but is too sacred to lose. My heart grew strong in its love for him, and his thoughts were all as hands reaching for my own.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TEACHING OF HOSEA BALLOU.

February first brought Matthias Jones. Father met him at the village, and our curiosity which was aroused regarding this new comer, was thoroughly gratified at his appearance. A better specimen of a southern negro was never seen. He was above the medium size, broad-shouldered; his hair thick and wooly, sprinkled with grey, and covering a large, flat surface on the top of his head. His nose was of extra size, mouth in proportion, and his eyes, which were not dull, expressed considerable feeling, and you would know when you looked at them he was honest. His gait was slow, slouchy as I called it, and, as he walked leisurely along the path, Ben whispered, "My soul, what feet!" Sure enough, they seemed to stretch back too far, and they were immense.

He took supper with us, and then father and Ben both went over to his future home with him, and introduced him to Aunt Peg and Plint. He was to work for father, and would be over in the "mornin'," he said.

"I wonder if he was a slave, Emily?" said Ben.

"I think so," said I. "We will question him to-morrow if we get a chance," and we did, for the day was stormy, and father did not go to the woods, but kept Matthias at work in the barn cleaning up, etc. About four o'clock his work was finished, and we invited him to come in and sit awhile.

"Now, Ben," I said, and we seated ourselves for a conference.

"Mr. Jones," said I, "you came from the South, did you?"

"'Pears like I did, Miss, an' it's a mighty cool country yere; I'm nigh froze in de winter, I is sartin."

"Were you a slave?"

"Yes'm," and the old man gave a long sigh.

"Would you mind telling us about it? Ben and I never saw a person before from the South."

"Never did? There's a heap on 'em, wud 'jes like ter see ye. Long time awaitin', but de promise ov de Ma.s.sa mus' be true," and again a thoughtful look came over his dusky face. "I don't mind tellin' ye a little if I ken. I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good ma.s.sa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then--wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar c.u.m sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de n.i.g.g.e.rs an' get _all_ de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin. De nex'

ma.s.sa had de debbil fur his father, sure; nothin' go rite; made me go an' marry, fus thing, an' to a gal I didn't like, nohow. Little n.i.g.g.e.rs come along, an' I done bes' I cud by 'em, but what cud I do? Nothin' at all; an' fus thing I knew--he'd done gone an' sold ebery one ob dat family, and den he mus' hab me marry agin. Dis secon' marriage was better'n that; fur I did like de gal mighty well. 'Pears like we's gwine to take sum comfort, and when we'd had de meetins to our cabin, oh! how we did jes pray fur dat freedom we hear'm tell 'bout--pray mos'

too loud, for dat old Mas'r Sumner tink we's alltogeder too happy, an'

den, he up and sold dat pretty gal ob ourn, what was jes risin' uv her fourth year, Miss, an' as pretty as could be. Dis broke my wife's heart, an' den he sold one more to a trader; and not long fur de wife an' two last' chilun was gone. Den I jes swore rite up, Miss--rite into dat Masr's face an' eyes--'I'm neber gwine to hab no more chilun,' an' he says to me, 'Matt, you got to do jes as I say,' an' I swear agin, an' he cuss and swear, an' then, I got sich a floggin'--Miss, but I didn't keer, an' I would never done as dat man sed, an' I 'spected to die, but a New Orleans trader c.u.m dat way, an' I was sold, and Mas'r Sumner said, de las' thing, 'You'll get killed now, Matt.' 'All right, Mas'r,' I sed, 'de Lord is a waitin' an' He's a good fren, too,' an' off I went. Dar we wur in a pen in New Orleans, waitin' fur we didn't know what, an' on come a fever an' dat trader know he's got to die. Den, to make peace wid de Lord at the las't jump he done giv us all freedom, an' money to git us into dat great city ov New York; an' mine lasted me clean up to Misse Hungerford's door (Aunt Phebe), an' las' night, when I see dat nice room over thar an' that good fire, oh! my," and the old man buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, then looking up, he said, "Ef I cud only ahad my chilun in thar; 'pears de Lord Himself might ahelped me a minnit sooner--but dey is gone, all done gone, an' 'taint no use."

"You may meet them again, Mr. Jones; I hope we shall know each other there in that better country, and if we do you'll surely know and find them."

"Oh! Miss, that's the bery thing, it takes a load right off yere, when I think about it," and he laid his hand on his heart, "but I'd better be shufflin' off home, an' I'll tell you a heap more sometime," and as he went through the yard, I heard him singing "dat New Je-ru-sa-lem,"

prolonging the last word, as if it was too musical to lose.

I told it all to Clara, and she said:

"Oh! Emily, is he not one of G.o.d's children, and is it not true that all have that within which points to better things? How could the soul of this poor negro stay within his body if it were not for this hope that covers his troubles, and, like a lantern-light, throws a gleam into the path which lies before? I hope he will live now in comfort and die in peace. He must have been sent to you. Next time let me listen to his story." And she did, for the next evening we walked together over to his home, and spent two hours pleasantly enough.

Clara could not rest until sure of just how he could get along there, and finally made an arrangement with Aunt Peg to give him his meals when he should be there. The voice of the old man--he looked more than sixty years, but said his age was fifty, I think he did not know--quivered with emotion, as he said:

"Thank yer, mam, thank yer kindly, I'll tote a load forty miles for ye any day, and I kin tote pretty 'harbaneous' loads too."

"Never mind that, Mr. Jones, I like to see you comfortable."

"Strange talk, mam," he said; "these yere ole ears been more used to, 'git up thar, yer lazy n.i.g.g.e.r, this yere cottin mus be got into de market.'"

He proved a valuable acquisition to my father, and before this month of February, whose beginning brought him to us, had pa.s.sed, father said to mother:

"I hardly see how I could get on without Matthias. He is so trusty, and he is smart too. If the poor fellow had been given half a chance, he would have made a good business man, for he has good ideas as to bringing things around in season."

"Truth is stranger than fiction," said mother. "Two cla.s.ses of society have been perfectly represented in those who have been brought to us during this last year."

"How strangely things work, and there seem to be ways under them all that will work out in spite of us," said father.

The Sabbath on which we had expected to go to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou preach proved cold and rainy, and a month would elapse ere he came again. We were impatient waiters, but the time came at last, on the Sabbath after the arrival of Matthias, and he was to come over and attend to the early milking, while Hal and Mr. Benton would have supper ready for us on our return.

That day was to me like a never-to-be-forgotten sunrise. Although gleams of light had before this crossed my vision, never had so radiant a morning of perception opened the door of my soul. New yet old, unknown yet longed for, those words fell like golden sun-rays into the room of my understanding; they bathed me with light, and baptized me with tenderness, while I stood at the fount of living inspiration. That grand old man, then about seventy-two years of age, talked to the a.s.sembled congregation from this text: "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of G.o.d; an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" (Second Corinthians, fifth chapter and first verse). It was all as natural as a part of himself could be, and he was a power. Pure and dispa.s.sionate, the plea he made rested on the ground of revealed truth. He told us of what the history of the past furnished, and carried us clear on into the life beyond.

"The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life; as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive."