The Harvest of Years Part 7

She told me that her heart went out to Aunt Hildy at their first meeting, and I felt convinced now there was something about this new friend that no one save herself could detect, and whether it had shape with her or not was a question.

Three weeks of Mr. Benton's stay had pa.s.sed when this incident occurred, and from that hour there was a marked change in his manner toward her.

I could see, ignorant as I was of the phases of life, how he was attracted to her. This glimpse of her wondrous nature had opened his eyes, and perhaps touched his heart. His age must be about hers, I thought, and how strange if it should be that he loved her. But here I run into a mist where nothing was plain. Days will tell the story, I thought, and we were sure of days and changes while life lasted. It became plain to me after a little that Clara felt the change in his manner toward her, and in every quiet move of hers I detected the disposition on her part to repel any advances. She gave him no opportunity to be with her alone, and if by chance this happened, her sweet voice would call "Emily, come in this way, we are lonely without you," and her eyes would turn on me when I entered with a sort of wistful glance. It always reminded me of a child looking confidently into the eyes of its mother, expecting the help it was sure to find. I hardly enjoyed this, for I knew Mr. Benton thought me old enough to discern a little, and he must have believed us to be in league together, whereas no word had pa.s.sed between us on the subject until just before Christmas, when Louis was expected.

Clara and I were sitting busily sewing and talking of the coming of "her dear boy," when she let her sewing fall and sat as in thought a few moments before she spoke.

"Emily (and she spoke slowly and with earnestness. I felt frightened for her cheek grew white as the words fell from her lips), when Louis comes keep close to me all the time, will you? Oh! I know you will, and since I ask such a favor, it is only right I should tell you all about it. I know, for I feel it in here (and she laid her hand on her head), that Professor Benton desires to talk to me. He must not be allowed to, Emily, for if he does it will hurt me so much. I will tell you why, and I know you will tell it to no one."

I looked an a.s.sent and she continued:

"He thinks that he might like me so well that he would wish me near him for ever. But he does not know that I cannot let him say this to me. It would be hard to make him understand me; he never could. And then if he should know me very well, it would be all wrong. I love my Louis Robert, and he is waiting on the hills for me. Yes, my dear Emily, he waits for me there. Did he not say so when he died, and will he not come for me some day when I shall be a little more weary, and this beating heart grows colder? He says he will and I am always with him in my thoughts.

It almost hurts me to live at all. Can you see, Emily, can you know how it is because I need you all _so_ much that I must stay with you?

Professor Benton has a good heart, but it feels cold to me. His art obscures from him all else; he can love no one as he loves a picture.

Now you will promise me, no not with words--I would only feel your arm around me, and with my hand in yours feel you are my trusted one--my soul friend and my great help."

Silence was ill suited to my feelings at that moment. I gathered her gentle form to me, and held her tight while those ever ready tears of sympathy filled my eyes full, and I spoke honestly when I said:

"I don't care a fig for Mr. Benton, and if he troubles you I will send him back to Chicago, and I wish he had never come at all."

"Oh! oh! do not say it; I shall fear to have you know my heart, it makes you rebellious. It is well that he came, as your brother needs him, and you do wrong to say such words. Wait, Emily, keep quiet, you are like a wind when your thoughts are stirred, and time, my love, will help you to make your hand strong, and your heart also. It is on a full tide and with a steady wind that vessels find the sea, while changeful blasts will shipwreck them, and then cast their wrecks upon the sh.o.r.e. And so it is with mortals; we have to keep saying, wait! while we pray to be guided aright."

"I am always running off the track, Clara, I know; teach me to know myself and let me help you; you are so different; I shall never be like you," I said.

"And you do not wish to be, I hope," was her reply.

"I would like more of your quiet spirit, but that belongs to you, and if I wait and work hard to do it, I shall always be upsetting what I wish to do, and plaguing others instead of helping--" Mother came in and our talk was at an end.

CHAPTER VIII.

FEARS AND HOPES.

Many thoughts filled my mind after what Clara had said, and I thought much of her beautiful faith as to her husband and his waiting for her; of her trust in his coming, and of the reality with which came into her existence this wonderful future that waits for us all if (and sometimes this little conjunction a.s.sumed wonderful proportions) immortality really be ours. My heart told me we were to live, and in my higher thoughts I could sometimes see the light that flooded those old hills near our home, reaching far on to where all those of our household were waiting. I never at these times could think of our beloved friends, my blessed grandmother, of whom we did not even possess a daguerreotype, as an angelic and unearthly something with wings, but rather as a real being, whose face I should recognize, whose hands should touch my own, while her lips would move, and in her dear old way she would say "Come in, Emily," just as she used to when I went as a child to her door, and looked in at her, as she lay on her bed, partly paralyzed. Her hair was white with the cares of seventy-four winters, and her eyes filled then with such a pleasant light. She had lived with us, this dear Grandma Northrop, for years. Hal had always been her special charge; she called him her boy, and up to the last month of her life mended his stockings first; she would go to the door and watch him go for the cows, and when he came back over the west meadows, would say with admiration:

"That boy is worth a dozen such as Ben Davis; he'll do something great before he dies."

My mother spoke often of her, and also recalled her saying, "I hope angels can see men," meaning that she could not bear the thought of leaving Hal.

I was only five years old when she left us, still her memory was sacred to me, and through the summer days I covered her grave with everlasting flowers and daisies. I remembered her as genial, though somewhat peculiar in her ways; she had a warm appreciation of wit, and was ever ready with answers. Mother remembered and told me so many of her happy sayings that it kept her memory fresh among us all, and if angels could both see and hear men, she must have felt grateful that we remembered her with such pleasure. I treasured the hoop ear-rings which she wore, and which bore her initials, "E.L.N." Her name was Elizabeth, but she was called by all "Betsey." To Hal she had left two silver spoons and her snuff-box. He had it among his little treasures, and kept the same bean in it that was there when she died. I wished a thousand times and more that my name might be Elizabeth, but Emily was given me by a sister of father's who desired me to be her namesake, and if I had been more like her in my young years I should never have been likened to a "fierce wind," as Clara so truly termed me. This Aunt Emily had gone to her heavenly home, as had many of my mother's family. She was one of eleven children, and at this date only one brother, Peter, and a sister, Phebe, were living. Mother had a beautiful sister, Sallie, who died young, and whom I loved to hear about. She painted her picture in words for me, and I could see her dark blue eyes, her brown hair that looked like satin, and her pink cheeks, almost as if I had really seen and known her. And when this heaven, that sometimes seemed so like far off mist, grew nearer, I imagined the meeting of them all, and enjoyed the pleasant picture which lay before my mind's eye like a waiting promise of whose fulfillment I felt sure. Clara and Aunt Hildy had long conversations on these subjects, and Aunt Hildy said to me when speaking of these talks:

"Oh! I love her white soul, Emily; she allus brings heaven right down to airth, and even when she don't talk I feel so kind of blessed when I sit near her. Few such folks are let to live, and somehow I'm almost convinced she can't stay long," and the corner of her blue-checked ap.r.o.n would touch her humid eyes, as she turned again to her work.

Work was a matter of principle with her, and to neglect one duty unnecessarily, no light offense. She was as true to her highest conviction of right as the needle to the pole, and held the truth close to her heart--so close that all her outer life was in correspondence with her interior perceptions. Truly her light was not under a bushel.

I hoped her fear of Clara's death would not soon be realized, for it did not seem as if we could bear to lose her presence. Never in any way could she intrude herself, for her nature moved her in perpetual lines, whose shadow never fell on the path of another. I felt sorry that she should be troubled, and I fear my dark eyes now and then shot telling glances at Mr. Benton.

The more she tried, even in her graceful way, to repel his advances, the more determined he was to gain access to her heart. In this I could detect the selfish part of his nature, and while I could not blame him for loving her, I knew that my love for her was so great that I would not knowingly give her any pain, and it seemed to me his love must be less than it should be, for he could not fail to know it troubled her and should have desisted. In a few days after our conversation Louis came.

Clara had, since she realized Mr. Benton's feelings toward her, been very careful in the selection of her wearing apparel, choosing for her daily use the plainest dresses. But on the day of Louis' arrival she said to me, as we went up stairs after dinner was cleared away:

"Emily, will you put on the dress that becomes you so well?" It was a garnet merino she alluded to, a gift from herself.

"We should make a pleasant picture for Louis when he comes; the dear boy loves to see his little mother in blue, and our royal Emily in becoming colors."

"Of course I will," I said, and as I fastened the lace collar, whose pattern was roses and leaves, with the pin she gave me, and looked in my little gla.s.s, I thought what a poor resemblance to royalty I bore, and laughed at the appellation.

Supper was ready, but we waited for the stage, and when it came we were all at the door. Hal met Louis first and then came Mr. Benton; Clara kept drawing me back with her, and he was obliged to greet mother and father and Aunt Hildy also, ere we were visible.

"Little mother! blessed little mother!" and he held her close, kissing her with pa.s.sionate fondness, then turning to me he took both my hands and whispered softly:

"Last but not least," and we followed the rest to the supper table.

Mr. Benton was more than polite during the meal, and afterward delighted Louis with showing him an unfinished portrait of Clara, which he had commenced painting on canvas.

This information was conveyed to me at the first favorable opportunity, and when Louis enjoined secrecy upon me, he expressed great pleasure with Mr. Benton, and said:

"Oh! Miss Emily. Little mother is so beautiful; she is always a picture.

When the artist adds to the charming portrait the dress and the little pearls she wore to receive me, it will be so real I shall want to ask it to speak to me, and when she leaves me I can look at it, and in my heart hear her say 'Louis my dear boy.' You love her very much, do you not, Emily?"

"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "do not talk so, everybody says she is too good and beautiful to live, and it is a thought too bitter, I cannot bear it."

He turned the conversation into another channel, and talked so strongly about his great desire to master this art of painting, while I wondered to myself how it had happened that these hearts were gathered to our own and had become members of our household, coming, as they did, like rare exotics, to live and blossom among us plain hollyhocks and dandelions. Hal I could liken to a rare flower, but then he was only one among our number, and in all our family and friends there were none possessing the gifts of these two souls which had come to us so strangely.

Aunt Hildy said, "The ways of life are past all comprehending." I thought so too. Christmas came on Sunday in this year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-forty-two, and for this I rejoiced and was glad.

When it came on a week-day, it seemed like Sunday, and although now and then we had some really interesting sermons, there was not enough to fill two sabbaths coming so near together, and it gave me a restless sort of feeling, especially so, when I knew how quiet and solemn my father used to be all day, and also his great desire that we should imitate him.

I had been a member of our old church three years, and while I desired to live a Christian life, I could never feel that a long face, and solemnly p.r.o.nounced words made any difference in my real life. Father did not believe any more in long faces than I did, still, I think from fear of neglecting any part of his duty, he maintained a serious demeanor from the break of our Sabbath days to their close. He had an unusually beautiful way of asking a blessing that always gave me a happy feeling. He merely said in a pleasant way, and with open eyes: "We should be very thankful for this meal; may we have wisdom to prepare no unsavory dishes, and strength to earn for ourselves, and others if necessary, the bread we daily need." This gave us a thought (that never grew old with me) of the needs of our neighbor, and also seemed so rational, and fitted our needs so perfectly. Aunt Hildy called it a common-sense blessing. I remember well how she spoke of it, in contrast with Deacon Grover's long-drawn-out table prayers, saying with emphasis; "The man, if he is a deacon, has a right to grow better, and we know he asks G.o.d to bless things cattle couldn't eat."

Christmas, we all went to church, and although it was more than a mile, aunt Hildy refused to ride.

"Let me walk as long as I can, time enough to ride by and by, and I'm only fifty-eight years old, Mr. Minot," she said.

It was useless to urge her, and she came into church a few minutes later than we did, and sat in her own pew next ours. This church was an old-time affair, having been built by the early settlers. It had, as all those old churches had, square pews, a stove in its central portion with huge arms of pipe that stretched embracingly in all ways; and its pulpit was so high that I prevailed on father to sit back from the centre as far as we could and be comfortably warm, for it was breaking ones' neck to look at the minister, and the sermon was half lost if you could not see the play of his features. Our worship was of the Presbyterian order, and our present pastor a worthy man. This was all the church that belonged to us really. In the village which nestled in the valley two and a half miles south-west of us, like a child in the lap of its mother, there were three churches, Baptist, Methodist, and Presbyterian, and many who attended our old church would have liked better to go to one of those, and at times did so, but it was quite a ride in winter, and for this reason our church was better filled at this season than in the summer days.

A new branch of belief had latterly developed itself somewhat in our neighborhood, and this embraced the thought of universal salvation.

There had been meetings held at the houses of some of our friends, and once or twice mother and myself had attended.

The sermon on this Christmas day did me no good, for our minister chose for his subject false doctrines, and the pointed allusions and personalities savored greatly of a spirit that was not calculated to remind us of the humble Nazarene and his lowly spirit.

Tearing the roof down over our heads would not give one an idea of a comfortable home; and surely charity's mantle should at least cover the sins of ignorance, and that certainly was the hardest verdict we could render against those of our number who had become interested in these ideas, for that they were good and true people appeared from their doctrines. The only difference was this: That the love of G.o.d was so great for his children that not one of them would be lost or cast into the terrible fires, which, according to our old belief, burned for the guilty through endless time. And now as I reflect I can surely see it was more through fear of being thus cast off, and not because I could put my hand on anything so terribly wicked in myself or my acts, that I early desired and had communication with the church. Somehow I felt more secure to know I was approved of by men, and my name enrolled on the church list. As I grew older this was a troublesome thought that now and then, asked for a hearing. As we came out of church, Deacon Grover with his small black eyes peering into aunt Hildy's face, said to her:

"Smart sermon; good talk, Miss Patten, how did you enjoy it?"

"Well as I could," and I nearly laughed in his face, although I knew he did not realize what she meant. She never liked fiery sermons, as she called them, and believed that the only way to heap coals of fire on the head of the unrighteous, was by living so rightly as to make them ashamed of their ways and do better. Mr. Benton and Louis walked with Ben and aunt Hildy, and our ride home was a nearly silent one. I knew my father had not been any more edified than myself, but it was not his way to talk of it, and not until the next evening was the subject mentioned.

The fire of reproof was begun by your humble servant, and I said many things which were unnecessary, and expressed my determination to investigate the new doctrine. If father had been with us I should have spoken less freely, and as it was I shocked my mother and almost myself, so severely did I denounce the minister. Louis sat in silence, also his mother, but aunt Hildy spoke as follows, after waiting a few moments to see if any one else had pent up wrath to give vent to: