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 apron, 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
passed 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 partition
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, "God
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 pass 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.
I never washed the dishes so quickly; milkpans were despatched speedily
to the buttery shelves, and at last Aunt Hildy, who was kneading bread,
stopped, and looking at me, said:
"What on airth are you going to do? you work as if you was a gettin'
reddy to go to a weddin', or somethin'--Is there doins on hand among the
folks?"
"No, mam," I replied, "but I have been so full of thoughts I could not
help hurrying."
"I hope you're on the right track, Emily; sometimes ideas that stir one
up so aint jest the kind we ought to have."
"I'm on the track of truth, Aunt Hildy, and that is the right track."
"Well, it ought to be, but sometimes truth has to wait for sin to get by
before it can move an inch. I've seen it so many a time," and a sort of
sigh fluttered to her lips, but the look of resolution that followed it
closely gave it no time to linger, and the lines about her mouth grew
firm as she resumed her bread-kneading.
Clara was better during this day, and while she took her after-dinner
nap, I came quickly down into Hal's studio, and seated myself in his
chair with a book.
Hal was in town all day on business, and I expected Mr. Benton to be
there, and he appeared, saying:
"You look very comfortable, Miss Minot; am I an intruder?"
"No, sir, you are the person I wish of all others to talk to." Where was
my guardian angel then?
"In need of advice, are you?"
"No, sir, not at all; I have some to give, however," and his eyes opened
widely, as he seated himself almost directly opposite me on a lounge,
taking a very artistic position, with his head resting on his hand, and
his arm supported by that of the lounge.
"Proceed, Miss Minot, for I assure you I am much in need of comfort, and
if you had been ready before, I might have been thankful to receive it."
I had begun more abruptly than I meant, and already felt I was stepping
on dangerous ground. I thought for an instant I would turn it aside in a
joke, then Clara's pale face rose before, and I said impetuously:
"I came to speak for another, though without her authority or knowledge.
I desire to ask you not to trouble Clara, by persisting in your suit."
He started to his feet as if a hand had struck him, walked a few steps,
and then turned toward me with a blanched face, and eyes that seemed to
be leaping from their sockets; he was struggling between anger and
policy. The latter prevailed, as he said:
"You are much interested in me; you fear that I shall have a friend. Is
that it?"
"I suggested nothing of that kind; I fear my lovely Clara may die." He
smiled derisively.
"Am I then such a monster that I am feared? Really, Miss Minot, your
picture of me is rather different from anything I have before known."
"I ought to have known you would not understand me. It would have been
equal folly for me to try to explain Clara's nature to you, for you do
not and cannot appreciate it."
"We are getting into deep water," he interrupted, but I continued:
"I have never called you a monster and have treated you as well as I
knew how to. You were my brother's friend, I have not doubted your
esteem for Clara, for how can any see her without loving and respecting
her; that is not the point. Your feelings, she has told you, she cannot
reciprocate; why can you not respect her feelings, even at the sacrifice
of your own? If you would do this, Mr. Benton, you would be stronger."
"Miss Minot, you are braver than I imagined. Let me disarm your fear; I
have no intention of intruding myself where I am not desired. How you
came in possession of these interesting facts is a mystery (insinuating,
I felt, that I had been eavesdropping). Nevertheless I admit them all,
and I admire you greatly. You are, however, as impulsive as a changeful
sea, and you made little preparation for this conversation. Allow me to
suggest that in affairs of the heart you should be a little less stormy.
I am your friend, and I say this in kindness."
"I thank you, sir; you have lived longer than I have, and I know by the
expression in your eye to-day that you can, if you choose, govern all
the love in your nature at the will of your intellect; I cannot, and I
never want to; I like to be impulsive, I like to be true, I hate
policy." As I spoke, my eyes were, I know, like dark fires.
He looked like a man of marble as he said, "Your fears are ungrounded;
you might have spared yourself this trouble," and turning, left me.
"There, 'Emily did it,' and didn't do it all," I said to myself. "Now he
will be more determined than ever, Clara will die, Louis will hate me,
and I shall be bereft doubly. Oh! dear, dear! Emily mistakes--my name
should be." Then the tears came and I sat with my face buried in my
hands, and cried like a child. A hand touched me, an arm crept round
me, "Hal," I said, starting.
"No," said Wilmur Benton in his sweeter tone, "It is I."
"Oh!" I screamed almost, making an attempt to rise, but his arm held me
firmly as he said:
"Forgive me, Miss Minot, if I have caused you pain--I spoke harshly, I
fear."
"You are forgiven," I said, "let me go."
"You are my friend still?" he asked.
"Yes, yes," I said quickly, "do let me go," and I fled to my own room,
and endeavored to wash away the stains of tears, to make my appearance
down stairs, for it was already late and mother would be looking for me.
I felt unlike myself and feared all would discern my uneasiness. Mr.
Benton had, I knew, a mistaken idea, and his polite attentions were
torture to me; he evidently thought my tears needed his commiseration,
whereas, I was only sorry I had not delivered a forcible speech in
Clara's behalf, and caused him (as I had intended) to realize the
necessity of a change in his conduct toward her. I expected him to be
vexed with me and was willing he should be, if it would relieve Clara.
Now, however, he seemed to feel I was entitled to his sympathy. There
was one thought, however, that gave relief; while he was occupying
himself with me, Clara would not be annoyed. Mother said she had a
basket to send to Aunt Peg, and I volunteered to take it. Mr. Benton
smilingly said:
"Let me accompany you, Miss Minot, it will be quite dark ere you
return."
"I am not afraid, thank you, and it will be moonlight," then thinking
of Clara I added, "still I might encounter an assassin on the road."
This did not help the matter any, and only furthered the mistaken
thought of Mr. Benton; nevertheless for the sake of that dear friend,
for whom I knew I could have borne anything, I had, after all, a secret
delight, in being misunderstood. I was a willing martyr to a just cause,
and we started together.
"Take my arm, Miss Minot."
"Thank you, walking is second nature to me, and very easy," I replied.
After walking a little further he said, "I am very glad of this
opportunity to talk with you, Miss Minot; I fear, from what I gathered
in our talk of this afternoon, your idea of me is one which I would fain
alter--it is not pleasant to feel that one is misjudged--"
"I know that," I interrupted.
--"And especially when the charge is a serious one. I cannot understand
why I was so feared; rude enough I must have seemed, and your first
words gave me a shock; I hardly know now how to explain it, and what I
desire is light. Pray tell me by what act of mine, you came to such an
unwarrantable conclusion."
"It was no act of yours at all. Common sense, I suppose, told me you
would not be foiled if you could help it. All men are selfish."
"Are not women?"
"No, sir," I replied, "they are foolish."
"Excuse the question, but has Mrs. Desmonde complained to you?"
"No, sir," I said quickly--that was a little story and then again it was
not, I reasoned.
"So I must conclude that you feared for the safety of your friend,
reading, as you thought you did, the terrible selfishness of my heart.
"I guess that is about right," I said.
"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 nigger 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.