THE KIND "GOOD-MORNING"--THE HIGH HILL--UNEXPECTED MEETING--ROMANCE AND
REALITY--THE GOOD FARMER--IMPRESSIONS OF CHILDHOOD--WORSHIPING--BEARING
THE CROSS.
"Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," said Emma, who was in the garden when the
poor man of the plain passed along the road on his way to the mills.
We have before said that morning was not the time for this man to talk,
and now he felt inclined, as usual, to pass this early salutation
without notice; but it had been a long time since he had been accosted
in that manner. It was no uncommon thing for people to address him in
this way: "Good-morning, Pete! Feel sober after your last night's high,
eh?" But a respectful "Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," now met his ear. "Can
it be," thought the fallen man, "that I am still _Mr._, or are they
mocking me?" He looked up, but saw neither jest nor scorn upon the fair
face looking over the garden-wall.
"Good-morning, sir," repeated Emma; "it is a fine morning."
Poor Graffam looked with his dull swollen eyes upon the bright-blue
sky, and then upon the wood-crowned hill, and the shaded dell, where
the waters rippled and murmured, and the birds sang cheerily, and his
heart caught some apprehension of beauty, for he answered slowly, "So
it is, miss,--a very fine morning."
"And pray, how is your dear little babe, sir?" asked Emma, in a voice
of tender concern.
This question seemed fully to rouse him. There was a glance both of
surprise and intelligence in his eye, as he replied, "The child is very
sick;" and then repeated, as though it were a fact new to himself,
"Yes, that poor child is very sick indeed."
"I was at your house yesterday," continued Emma, "and promised Mrs.
Graffam that I would bring a good old lady living with us to see her;
but I am not well enough to go to-day."
"Sorry if you are sick," murmured Graffam.
"Thank you," said Emma. "I was going to ask if you would have the
kindness just to call at the gate tonight, and take a small package for
Mrs. Graffam?"
"I will," said he, with a tone and manner something like self-respect
and respect for his wife,--"I will, miss, with pleasure;" and he pulled
his old hat from his head, and bowed low, while Emma bade him good-by.
"Go out upon the hills, my love," called Mrs. Lindsay from her window
to Emma; "it will do you no good to be tying-up flowers, and talking
with ragged old men by the roadside. Put on your bonnet, and walk
briskly over the bridge, and let me see you from my window upon the top
of yonder hill."
Emma cheerfully obeyed, and though she felt extremely languid,
compelled herself to walk briskly as her mother had desired; but coming
to the foot of the hill she paused, and looked doubtfully upon its
steep sides and lofty top. "It reminds me of 'the Hill Difficulty,'"
thought Emma; "but the Christian pilgrim did not allow himself to stop
and think over the difficulties, but 'addressed himself to his
journey.' So must I:" and ceasing to look at the top, but only at the
place for her feet, step by step, she at length gained the summit, and
waved her handkerchief toward the house. The signal was answered from
her mother's window, and then she sat down upon a rock to rest. But the
morning was too dazzlingly beautiful there. She felt oppressed by the
glory of distant mountains, sparkling rivers, and wide-spread fields of
corn and grain; but looking down a gentle slope of the hill she saw a
delightful place--it was a bend of the little brook gliding through the
meadow-ground of Appledale. The pines had cast their spiral leaves
there, so that the hill-side and the borders of the rill looked as
though covered with sunlight, though there was in fact nothing but
shade, for the trees clustered together, and locked their green arms,
as if to shut the brook from day-light; yet close upon the borders of
that brook Emma saw a large flat rock, around which the waters played,
looking so cool and inviting that she longed to be there. She put her
hand into her pocket, and found, to her joy, that the dear companion of
her rambles was there: it was her Bible. Happy for Emma, she had
learned to prize its gentle converse above that of human tongues; and
now, sitting down upon her feet, she smiled to see how glassy the pine
leaves had made the hill-slope, for she could slide along with but
little exertion, and soon found herself upon the broad flat rock.
Taking her little Bible, she was just turning to some passages Dora had
marked, when she heard a deep sigh, and saw, to her surprise, Susan
Sliver seated upon a moss-turf, crying bitterly.
"I am close to Sliver Crook," thought Emma, now for the first time
noticing the house not far beyond the trees. "This may be Miss Susan's
place of retirement, and I have no right here; but I cannot get away
now without being seen; and then she seems unhappy. I should be glad to
comfort her, if I could without----"
Just at that moment Susan looked up, and saw Emma, who sprang from the
rock, and running toward her, said: "I was not aware of a trespass upon
your grounds, Miss Sliver. You will pardon me. It looked so inviting
here, that I was constrained to come down from the hill."
Susan, however, did not appear at all embarrassed at being caught in
tears.
She wiped her face with her apron, and then Emma saw an open book upon
her knee. "My dear Miss Lindsay," said Susan, "it is no intrusion. I am
glad to find a congenial spirit anywhere. My joy at this meeting is
inexpressible; for now I know that there is one in this cold-hearted
place, one beside my sister Margaret, who can appreciate my feelings."
Emma was silent; for she did not understand what those feelings were,
or whether she appreciated them or not.
"Prom my childhood," continued Susan, "I have been among the people of
my race, but not of them. I have stood alone, in a shroud of thoughts,
which were not their thoughts; but few understand me, my dear, for I
live in an ideal world, and whatever calls me back to this gross
creation, makes me perfectly miserable: say, my dear Miss Lindsay, are
these your feelings?"
"Alas, no," replied Emma; "I love the world too well, and have spent
many wretched, sleepless nights because I was unwilling to leave it:
but that time is passed. If I have any fear now, it is that my work on
earth will not be well done before I am called away."
Susan turned a wondering eye upon the pale, weary-looking girl, and for
a moment forgot her intense sympathy for herself. "You are sick," said
she, with an expression of real interest and concern.
"Yes," replied Emma, "that is evident. My friends have tried to hide it
from me, and from themselves. They have sent me from place to place,
but death is following me everywhere. _I_ never felt it so surely as I
do this morning:" and Emma laid her head upon the moss-turf beside
Susan. She looked like a faded lily, as she lay there; her white dress
scarcely more white than the forehead and cheek upon which her dark
damp hair rested heavily. Susan took a handkerchief from her pocket,
and wrung it in the clear, cool waters of the brook, and kneeling upon
the ground beside Emma, wiped her pale face, and tucking up her
sleeves, chafed her poor withered arms, until Emma revived.
"Thank you," said she; "I was a little faint. Mamma is so desirous for
me to exercise in the open air, that I go every day to the farthest
limit of my strength. I was not able to climb that hill this morning."
Susan made no reply, but sat looking mournfully into her face. All the
morning she had been weeping over the sorrows of an imaginary being
whom she had found in a novel wandering about, and falling at every
step into the most superlative misery. It was hard for Susan to read,
and not identify herself with this beautiful suffering shadow; but now
she had come from her ideal world, and was forced, for a time, to
forget both the shadow and herself. Close to her father's old
farm-house, and in the woods of Sliver-Crook, she saw what, described
in a romance, would have been pathetic enough, but which, seen in
reality, called out from her heart the good rational sympathy which,
though buried in sentimental rubbish, was not dead.
"Do you really think," said she, bending over Emma, "that you must----"
Emma smiled, as she replied, "What difficulty we find in pronouncing
that word! One would think that there was a sting in the very _name_ of
death: and so there is, Miss Sliver, until God gives us the victory,
through Jesus Christ."
"Jesus was a beautiful character," said Susan, taking up Emma's Bible,
beside which the red-covered novel lay blushing as if in an agony of
shame. "I have often felt," she continued, "a strong desire to visit
the places hallowed by his personal ministry; the garden where he kept
his sad night-watch, Miss Lindsay; the Mount of Olives, and the
clear-gliding Kedron. O," continued Susan, enthusiastically, "I should
like to stand where the Marys stood, on the dreadful day of his
crucifixion, and visit the tomb where they went, bearing sweet spices.
O, wouldn't it be delightful?"
"Yes," replied Emma, languidly; "but we should not find him there
now,--upon Calvary, or the Mount of Olives; by the sweet-gliding
Kedron, or in the Garden of Gethsemane,--unless we were like him, meek
and lowly, and such can find him anywhere, Miss Sliver. The spirit of
Jesus would hallow _this_ book, making it blessed and holy like the
waters of Kedron; and this high hill might be to us what the Mount of
Olives was to the disciples--for that was sacred only because Jesus
talked with them there. Dora told me last night that the Holy Spirit
could make any place holy."
Susan was silent. Emma had spoken words to which something within bore
witness as truth, and she knew not what to say. Emma, too, lay musing
for some time; and then raising her head, and resting it upon her hand,
she said: "How wonderfully self-denying Jesus was, Miss Sliver. Nobody
appreciated the Saviour when he was upon earth, not even the disciples;
yet this was nothing to him, for he did not seek his own glory. He went
cheerfully about his Father's work, never thinking of himself, and
never feeling himself degraded by the presence of a poor, sick, sinful
multitude."
"I know it," said Susan, thoughtfully; "but the world will never see
another Jesus, Miss Lindsay."
"O, it will, it will," replied Emma, with animation. "When human hearts
are willing to let his Spirit dwell in them, human hands will do the
work which Jesus did; and so his kingdom will come, and the world will
see and acknowledge their King."
A shrill blast from a horn, at the farm-house across the brook, now
interrupted their conversation.
"It is time for me to go home," said Susan; "but I shall not consent to
leave you to climb that hill again today--you must go to our house, and
stay until you are rested."
This kind decision of manner, so unlike anything she had before seen in
Susan Sliver, quite interested Emma. She did not feel averse to a
further acquaintance, and taking her arm they crossed the rustic
bridge, and were soon at the farm-house. An elderly man, wearing a
Quaker hat, had just entered, and Emma heard him talking to a
good-looking old lady, who, both warm and tired, was vehemently beating
a minute pudding. "Thee looks tired, Sarah; where are the girls?"
"Can't say where Susan is," was the reply. "Margaret is up stairs,
sewing."
"Well, there is a time for everything, and the girls are old enough to
know it; but here comes Susan. Come, Susan, thee ought to be helping
thy mother these hot days; but who is this friend?"
"Mrs. Lindsay's daughter," said Susan.
Emma might have saved her graceful courtesy this time; for the old
gentleman did not return it by taking off his broad-brimmed hat: yet
she felt the sincere politeness of his manner, as, offering his hand,
he said, "I am glad to see thee, child; how is thy mother?"
"Very well, thank you," said Emma, taking a seat upon the cushioned
chair, which Susan brought and placed near the open door.
The old lady was not less cordial in her manner toward their visitor;
but she seemed in a great hurry to get dinner upon the table, for the
men were coming from the field, and the sun had crossed the noon-mark.
Emma was glad to see Susan taking hold to help her mother; and
presently Margaret came down stairs, dressed a little too much, and a
little too girlish, but appearing very kind and good-natured.
"What shall I call thy name?" asked the old gentleman.
"Emma, if you please," was the reply.
"Well, then, Emma," he continued, "thee is welcome to our table; take
thy chair along, and eat dinner with us."
Emma felt but little appetite for a farmer's dinner; but she saw that
the family would feel more comfortable if she was at the table with
them, and prompted, not by appetite, but by true courtesy, she did as
she was desired. The farmer folded his hands, and the whole family sat
for a moment in rigid silence. Emma was not accustomed to any form of
thanksgiving before meat; but she understood this silent expression,
and sympathized therein.
"Thee looks delicate," said the old man; "what shall I give thee to
eat, Emma?"
"Anything, sir," answered Emma, with habitual politeness, though she
did feel a preference for the milk which came up to the very rim of a
large pitcher upon a corner of the table.
Margaret began to apologize for the coarseness of their meal: but her
father interposed, saying, "It is good enough for well people, and as
good as we generally have; but if thee has anything a little nice for a
poor appetite, bring it to thy friend."
"Now," thought Emma, "Christian politeness bids me put them at ease in
this respect." So she said frankly, "I would rather have a glass of
your nice milk than anything else."
"Thy wants are easily supplied then," replied the good man, as he
filled her tumbler, and laid a slice of bread upon her plate.
Again Emma thought of the "sincere milk of the word," and looking at
the plain old farmer, she wondered if he had not grown to the stature
of a Christian, by means of this simple charity.
"Has thee been long out of health?" asked the farmer.
Emma was not startled by this question, though her mother and sister,
had they been present, would have considered it a rudeness.
"I was very healthy when a little child," replied Emma. "This
feebleness came on me by degrees,--I can scarcely tell when it
commenced."
"Very likely," replied the farmer. "I lost two sisters by consumption;
they appeared much as thee does."
"Father!" exclaimed Margaret; and the old gentleman recollected
himself. "I don't conclude from this," said he, "that thy case is one
of consumption:" and he looked kindly into Emma's face, as though
desiring to be both considerate and sincere.
"It would not alarm me to hear you call it by that name," replied Emma.
"I am in the habit of regarding death as at the door; and wish so to
do, because I am thus constantly reminded that what my hands find to do
must be done with my might."
"I am glad to hear such a testimony from thee," said the old man,
earnestly. "It is a pity that any of us should forget the work to be
done in this world, and the shortness of time."
The dinner was now over, and Emma, greatly refreshed, shook hands with
the farmer and his family, promising to call again; and then took the
short way of the main road to her own home. The old man looked after
her, as her white dress glanced through the green trees by the
roadside, until she descended the hill, and was out of sight.
"What does thee think of that child, Sarah?" he asked, turning to his
wife.
"Well, Enoch," was the reply; "_I_ think that she is ripening for
glory."
The good woman was not of the same religious persuasion with her
husband; but this small matter never interrupted the most cordial
interchange of religious sympathy between them; and now his eyes filled
with tears, and he felt as he had often done before, that "the Spirit"
moved Sarah to give this testimony.
"Margaret," said he, turning to his daughter, "thee can learn a great
deal from that child, though she is much younger than thyself."
Margaret felt the slight pettishness which always attended a reference
to her age, and was about to ask her father how he knew her to be much
older than Emma Lindsay; but a more rational feeling had been roused in
her heart, and for once it predominated over this folly.
Margaret was not like her sister in the matter of romance and
abstraction from every-day scenes and pursuits, though she loved to
regard Susan as something wonderful, and show off her literary
productions. Margaret's foible, on the contrary, was too great a love
for the present world. Unfortunately, she had fixed her heart upon what
is too evanescent for the love of an immortal. Youth, beauty, and the
graces of fashion were the shadows at whose shrine she worshiped,
though the substance was gone. Thus precious time was spent in seeking
to repair its own breaches, and she saw not that they widened day by
day--saw not how the cunning device by which she sought to hide the
footprint of years, only left that foot-print more visible. God had
given both Margaret and Susan better food for the immortal mind, but
they, like many others, chose to feed upon the wind. No wonder that
they were ever unsatisfied. The plain people of that region, who
boasted of nothing superior to _common_ sense, regarded the Sliver
girls as curiosities. Some called them _soft_, and thought there was a
lack of head wisdom; many laughed about them; but no one, save Fanny
Brighton, laughed _at_ them. Their parents were highly esteemed; and it
may be a matter of wonder how they came to be what they were. The cast
of human character is usually taken in childhood--an important fact to
those charged with so responsible a trust; and it was during Margaret
and Susan's childhood, that a vain and sentimental lady sojourned for
two summers at their father's house. The unsuspecting farmer and his
wife never thought of examining the stock of books with which she
loaded the old case in the "fore-room." Having no time for reading
except Sundays, uncle Enoch never expected to get through "Barclay's
Apology," without neglecting his Bible, and this he had no intention of
doing. It was not, therefore, to be expected, that he would spend time
to read even the titles of Mrs. Coolbroth's books. But Margaret and
Susan, bright, sensible children then, were beginning to feel the
thirst often felt in childhood--the restless craving of the spirit for
something new: no wonder, then, that they seized the fruit so "pleasant
to the eye," and as it seemed to them "desirable to make one wise."
Thus the poor girls were lured from the plain homely path, which, plain
and homely as it is, always proves at last the way of pleasantness and
the path of peace. They knew that people called them odd, and in this
they gloried. Fanny Brighton they regarded as a rude girl, who, though
she vexed them, never put them out of humor with themselves. But now,
strange as it may appear, the quiet Christian words and manner of Emma
Lindsay had done this, and they could not tell why. Those words and
that manner, so courteous and kind, were not calculated to wound, yet
they felt wounded. Emma had not done it--it was the _truth_ dwelling in
her heart, and showing itself in its most appropriate dress, which is
Christian courtesy of manner.
Margaret sat down that afternoon, with a desire to redeem some of the
time which, when she thought of Emma, seemed indeed to be passing away;
and Susan, when she meditated on what Emma had said of Him who never
scorned the humble paths of usefulness, and through his life-long went
about doing good, felt that it was time to examine the spirit that
would worship, without _bearing_ the Saviour's cross.