The Harvest of Years Part 9

Aunt Phebe was free from all vanity; she dressed simply, and was truly economical. Her hands were never idle; she had always something to do; and during the few days she spent with us she insisted on helping. A huge basket of mending yielded to her deft hands, and patches and darns were made without number. These were among our great necessities, for, as in every other household, garments were constantly wearing out, and st.i.tches breaking that must be again made good, and nothing could be appreciated more than her services in this direction. Mother felt, however, that she was doing wrong to let her work at all.

"Phebe," I heard her say one afternoon, as they sat in our middle room together, "you have st.i.tches enough to take at home, and I feel condemned to see you so busy here. You should have every moment to rest in; I wish you could stay longer, for I believe when these carpet rags are cut you will find nothing more to do, and then we could rest and talk together. How I wish Sally and Polly and Thirza could be with us, and our brothers too! Have you heard from Peter lately?"

"I heard only a few days before I left; one of the girls came down, and she said Peter was well, but oh, how they miss their own mother! Peter's first wife was the best mother I ever knew; those little girls looked as neat as pins, with their blue and iron-rust dresses, and she taught them to do so much--not half do it, but to finish what they began. I think of her with reverence, for her ways were in accordance with her ideas of duty, and she was no ordinary woman. It seems too bad she could not have lived."

And Aunt Phebe sighed, and then added:

"You ask what makes me work? Work has been my salvation. In the needs of others I have forgotten my own terrible experiences, and although the first time I washed a bedquilt I said 'I can never do that thing again,' I have since then washed many; and done also the thousand kinds of work that only a woman can do. Force of circ.u.mstances has made me self-reliant, and so long as I can work I am not lonely, and if there comes a day when the labor of my hands is less needed, I shall be only too glad to take the time for reading I so much desire."

"Oh, Phebe!" said my mother, "I often think of you as you were when young; slender and lithe as a willow, with a cheek where the rose's strength did not often gather; and then I think of all you have done since, and looking at you to-day, you seem to me a perfect marvel; for you have lived, and borne hard work and sorrow, and your face is fresh, your fingers taper as of old, and on your cheek is the tinge of pink that becomes you so well. You are only five years younger than I, and you look every day of twenty; you may outlive me--yes, I'm sure you will."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Aunt Phebe said:

"Speaking of work makes me think to tell you about an old colored man who came to my door last winter. He was so cold he could hardly talk, but seeing some coal before the door wanted to put it in for me. I asked him in, and he grew warmer after a little. I made a cup of hot composition tea for him, and while he was putting in the coal hunted up an old coat that one of our neighbors had given me for carpet rags, and when the poor old man told me his story I felt like proclaiming it to the city. Never mind that now. He lived through the winter and did not freeze, and last summer found considerable work, but I have thought for some time how valuable his help would be to William, my father, and I wonder if he could find a place to live in here among you. His name is Matthias Jones, and he is faithful though slow, but the constant dropping, you know, wears a stone. I like the old man, and you would, for he is honest and ambitious. He might have owned a farm himself if the evil of slavery had not crushed under its foot the seeds of growth that lay within him. Mr. Dutton has helped to get him work."

"Phebe," said mother, interrupting her, "are you going to marry that Mr.

Dutton?"

"I can't say," said Aunt Phebe, and their conversation closed, for father came in and supper-time drew near.

CHAPTER X.

MATTHIAS JONES.

Father was consulted regarding the coming of Matthias Jones, and he thought it would be a good plan, for our farming people had often cause to hire help, and it had always been scarce, since it was only in the busiest time there were such needs.

Aunt Phebe and myself were delegated to go over to the house of Jacob Lattice and Plint Smith, who were the only colored people among us, and who lived about a mile to the west of our house. We thought there might be a chance for a home among them, and so it proved.

Jacob Lattice's wife had no room; "hardly enough for themselves," Mrs.

Lattice said depreciatingly, "much less any place for strange folks"; but Mrs. Smith, known to us all as Aunt Peg, gave us a little hope. She had a peculiar way of addressing people, and sometimes her talk seemed more like the grunting of words strangely mixed. When she saw Aunt Phebe with me, her face radiated in smiles (and as her mouth was large, these smiles were broad grins) and, jerking her small wool-covered head while she hastily smoothed out her long ap.r.o.n, she said:

"Come in, Miss Minot."

"This is my aunt,--you have seen her before," I replied.

"Yes, seen her to meetin' with ye; come in, mam," and she dropped a low curtsey and set forward two chairs, whose sand-scoured seats were white and spotless, for Aunt Peg was a marvel of neatness.

I told our errand, and with one of her queer looks, she said:

"Is he clean?"

Aunt Phebe replied, "Why, I think the old man does the best he can, a lone man can't do as well as a woman, you know."

"Well, there's that ground room of mine he kin have if Plint is willin', and if he ain't, for that matter; for Plint himself arn't good for nothin' but fiddlin', and you see if I want bread I get it. I s'pose wimmen ought to be a leetle worth mindin', 'specially if they get their own bread," and a look of satisfaction crept over her face as if pleased with this thought.

"Well," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to see the room, and also know the price of it; of course, you must have some pay for it, and then, if Matthias should be ill, or prove troublesome to you in any way, it will not be so hard for you."

"Oh, the pay, bless the Master, mam, I never get pay for anything hardly, not even the work I did up to Deacon Grover's for years! I jist wish I had that money in a chist in the cellar. He kep' it for me, he said, an' so he did, an' he keeps it yet, and--oh! but the room, come right along, this way, mam," and we followed her steps.

She led us out of the little door, which in the summer was covered with those dear old cypress vines my mother used to have, and though the lattice was made by her own hands of rude strips, when it was well covered with the cypress intergrown with the other vines, there was great beauty round that little door.

When Clara saw it, and I told her of its construction, and remarked on Aunt Peg's love for flowers, she said:

"Ah, Emily, it is typical of our nature! We do seem so rudely made in the winter of our ignorance, and through the lattice of our untutored thoughts the cold winds of different opinions blow and we are troubled.

But when the summer of our better nature dawns, and the upturned soil catches seed, even though dropped by a careless hand, the vines of love will cover all our coldness, and the scarlet and white blossom of our beautiful thoughts appear among the leaves. Aunt Peg's earthly hand made the lattice, and the love of her undying soul planted the cypress seeds."

I thought of it this cold winter's day, and told Aunt Phebe, as we pa.s.sed out of the door, how many flowers she had in summer and how pretty the vines were. Aunt Peg heard me, and smiled graciously. Then we went around to a side door, which opened into the ground room, as she called it.

Her house was on a bank, or at least its main part, and while a valley lay on one side, the ground rose upon the other. The door-sill of this room was, therefore, even with both the ground and the floor, and on either side of it were two windows, both door and windows facing the south. The sides and back of the room had no windows, the back part.i.tion being that which divided it from Aunt Peg's little cellar; and the east and west sides were hedged in by the bank which came sloping down from both front and back doors.

"This is a very comfortable little room," said Aunt Phebe. "Now, what will be the rent?"

"Well, if you are bent on payin', I don't want to say less than ten dollars a year."

"I would call it twelve, and that will be one dollar a month, Mrs.

Smith."

"Thank you, mam, it'll be a great help; I have the sideache sometimes, and can't do nothing for a day or so, not even get the wool rolls off my wheel, and that is jist play when I'm smart: he may come neat or not neat, Plint or no Plint," and the bargain was finished, and Matthias Jones was to appear on, or near, the first of March.

My rehearsal of our visit at the dinner-table provoked great mirth, and Mr. Benton smiled on me more kindly than ever before, but I could not but think, whenever I looked at him, that he must die pretty soon, because Clara could not love him, and he had told her his life was dependent on her love.

The days of Aunt Phebe's visit drew too quickly to their close, and the time to go came on a bright sun-shiny morning. Father carried her to the railway station; we filled a large trunk with the farm products, so welcome to those who live in cities. Aunt Hildy put in a bundle the contents of which she did not even want me to guess. She was a firm friend to Aunt Phebe, and shook her hand when she left, as if loath to let it go, and said:

"Come again as soon as you can, and if I am in my own little nest, come and stay with me, and we'll have some more good sensible talk that helps our wings to grow; we are only covered with pin-feathers so far."

Aunt Phebe appreciated this good old soul, and said, earnestly, "G.o.d bless you, Mrs. Patten," as my father started the horses.

Aunt Hildy watched them until they were out of sight, saying as she came in, "That woman will have an easier time before she dies. My Bible says, 'He that is faithful over a few things shall be made ruler over many.'

She will have a home of her own, jest as true as preachin' is preachin', Mrs. Minot."

"She ought to," said mother. "May the day be hastened!" and again that never-to-be-neglected work claimed our attention.

Since Louis' departure Clara had had several "pale" days, as she called them. After Aunt Phebe left us, she seemed to grow weak. I felt worried, and could not refrain from asking her what troubled her. She turned her beautiful eyes full on me, and putting both her hands in mine, said:

"I know that Louis heard it, and that he told you, and your secret sympathy has been a strength to me. It will pa.s.s over, Emily, but Professor Benton is not satisfied. He will not be content that I may not answer his demand for love. Yes, Emily, his words were soft, but a blade was beneath them and I could feel that it would have cut my heart-strings. I thank our Father that I do not love him; I should be so starved. Emily, I can love your brother,--no, no, not with that best love," she said quickly, noting, I suppose, the look of wonder in my eyes, "but I can have that love for him that is founded on great respect and faith in his pure heart. It is only their art draws them together; they are not alike, and they will not come too near. The days will sunder them, and it will be better that they should. But, Emily, I must, I fear, call Louis back to give me strength. He is a great help to me.

On his heart as on his arm I can rest myself, and I need him so much. I cannot tell you now, but you will know some time when you are no longer as strong as now, how the spirit feels the darts that are shot from the mind of another, and bury their poisoned points in the quivering life."

She looked so weak as she spoke, her face was so transparently white, that I trembled with fear.

That night we slept together--she alone slept, however, for my eyes were open, their lids refusing to close until after midnight, and it was long after that hour before I fully lost consciousness. I felt wretched the next day in both body and mind, and my spirit was roused within me.

"I will avert it," I said to myself--thinking first to ask mother how, and afterward saying aloud "No, I'll do it myself, Emily will do it,"

and the harder I thought the faster I worked.