The Harvest of Years Part 21

"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 pa.s.sed 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 in waiting, 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 pa.s.sed, 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.

CHAPTER XVI.

MARY HARRIS.

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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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, "_I_ would 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."

"You _are 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."