A REMEDY FOR WRONG-TALKING.
I could not believe what Mr. Benton said of Matthias, and did not
refrain from speaking of it to Clara, whose opinions were golden to me,
and her reply was perfectly in accordance with my own feelings. Each
took her own route to the conclusion, but her interpretation came as an
intuitive perception, while mine was more like something which fell into
my mind with a power whenever his eyes met my own.
"Emily," said Clara, "I have taken his dark hand in mine. I have come
close to his white heart, when from his lips have fallen the words
telling his history, and I would trust him everywhere. If any trouble
comes to you, Emily, trust Matthias; he is as true as truth itself, and
his soul is pure--purer, perhaps, than the souls of many who have had
great advantages, and whose forms have been molded in a more beautiful
shape. Our Father judges from within; let our judgment be like his."
This was good for me to hear. I felt glad that I could sometimes come so
near to Clara's thoughts. I was greatly wrought upon by Matthias' tales
of the South; and yet he venerated the people of that country, and
said:
"The Northerners are too cold-blooded: they didn't invite folks to have
a bite without first feelin' in their pockets to see if they could find
money there."
I knew nothing from experience of Southern hospitality, but believed all
he told me, and I thought it the greater pity that such a lovely land
should be so marred with this terrible trade in lives, and I said to
Clara, when we were discussing this subject:
"Is it not too bad, and does it seem possible that this great evil will
be suffered to endure forever?"
"No," said Clara, "neither possible nor probable. I may not live to hear
with these earthly ears the glad news, but you, Emily, will live to see
the bond go free, and the serpent of slavery lie at the feet of America,
who will place her heel on its crushed and bleeding head. This will be,
must be, and the years will not number so very many between now and
then."
"Why do you think so, Clara?"
"Oh! I do not think it; I know it to be true; I have long known it; it
stands by the side of the beautiful truth we have heard from the lips of
that venerated preacher, Emily, and I cannot see why we may not all be
in some measure the recipients of these truths, for they lie all around
us on every hand. Did you ever read, Emily, of the man called Dr. De
Benneville?"
"Never," said I; "tell me, please, his history."
"It was printed about 1783. I think I have it."
"Well, tell me, Clara, a little; I cannot wait for that now."
She smiled and said:
"Dear child, how glad I am that you have so good a heart, and some day
these impulses will drive your boat on the shore of peace that lies
waiting for us on the bay of truth. But you are anxious and I will tell
you. Dr. George De Benneville was the son of a Huguenot, who fled to
England from persecution, and was employed at court by King William. His
mother was a Granville, and died soon after his birth in 1703. He was
placed on board a ship of war--being destined for the navy--at the early
age of twelve years, and received on the coast of Barbary singular
religious impressions, induced, it is said, by his beholding the
kindness of the Moors to a wounded companion. He had great doubts
regarding salvation, but after suffering for months with doubts, the
light was made clear to him, and he held to his heart the faith in a
universal restitution. His great sense of duty led him to preach, and he
commenced in the Market-house of Calais in his seventeenth year. He was
fined and imprisoned, but did not desist. He sought and found
co-laborers, and persisted two years in preaching in the woods and
mountains of France. At Dieppe he was seized, and with a friend, Mr.
Durant, condemned. Durant was hanged, and while the preparations for
beheading De Benneville were in progress, a reprieve from Louis IX
arrived, and after a long imprisonment in Paris, he was liberated
through the intercession of the Queen."
"Good," I said, "she had a heart."
"He then spent eighteen years in Germany preaching and devoting himself
to scientific studies, and at the age of thirty-eight he emigrated to
this country. He claimed no denominational name, but preached this
glorious truth. I can come nearer to him than any other whose history I
have known, for was he not called of God, and did he not fulfil his
mission gloriously? He was ill on board the ship which brought him to
America, and when it arrived in Philadelphia, a man by the name of
Christopher Sower came on board, saying he was looking for a man who was
ill, and whom he wished to take to his house. This man Sower was also
divinely led, for he received a commandment in a dream to go seven miles
from his home in Germantown to a certain wharf in Philadelphia, and
inquire on board a ship just arrived for a man who was ill, to take him
home and to specially care for him. He hitched his horse to his
carriage, and followed the instructions of his dream."
"Were these facts the doors that led you out into light?" I asked.
"I never read these facts, Emily, until after my vision was made clear,
and I saw the future that lives and waits for all."
"Girls," called Aunt Hildy, "ef you've got through with the meetin', I
want to ask about these biscuit; I'm afraid they're going to be poor;
come look at 'em, Emily."
"The biscuit are all right, Aunt Hildy. Did you hear what the preacher
said."
"No, not really, heard all I could without neglectin' of my work."
"She has been telling me a story of a good man. We will ask her to
preach again."
"Perhaps," said Aunt Hildy, "more'n just you and I will hear her. I
can't see how all these ideas are comin' out, and 'pears to me, it looks
as ef we'd got to meet, and have a battle somewhere before long. The
troubles are simmerin' over the fire of different minds, and I shall
never sell my birthright over a mess of pottage; that's jest what I
shan't do. It has stuck to me where everything else has failed, and I'm
never agoin' to let go of it."
I knew to what she alluded, for our good minister had stirred the waters
with his sermons, and they were, of course, induced by his fearing the
progress of liberal thought in our midst. We had ourselves received a
sermon evidently directed at us, which described the act of going to
hear Mr. Ballou as a wrong step. Even if we had not been clear-sighted
enough to have taken the sermon to ourselves, we should have been
reminded of it by the looks of some of the congregation, who sought out
our pew with strong reproof in their eyes; among those whose eyes met
mine in this manner, I remember most distinctly Jane North and Deacon
Grover. I smiled involuntarily, and with a glance of horror at my
wickedness, they turned their faces toward the preacher.
Clara was not with us that Sabbath, for which I was glad. I wondered
what would be done, and the week after mother left us, Jane North came
over, and I expected to hear some talk concerning it.
She brought her knitting in a little gingham bag on her arm, and there
was no way to get rid of her or of her coming talk, which, I confess, I
dreaded.
"Oh, dear!" I said to Clara, "that wretched meddler is coming. What
shall we do with her?"
"I will try and help you, Emily. Perhaps she has a good heart after all,
and meddles only because her conditions in life have fitted her for
nothing better."
"It isn't so, Clara; she tells stories about everybody; I would not
believe her under oath."
"Charity," she said softly, and through the door came Jane.
"Good afternoon, Emily."
"Take a seat," I said, bowing.
"Good afternoon, Mis' Densin," to Clara.
"Mrs. _De-mond_," I said, pronouncing the name rather forcibly.
"Oh! _De_-mond is it?" with accent on the first syllable
"That is more like it," said Clara. "How do you do to-day? let me take
your things."
"Don't feel very scrumptious, and ain't sick neither, kinder so so. How
are all here? I heard Mis' Minot was gone. Ain't you lonesome?"
"We do miss her sadly," said Clara.
"Gone to a weddin', ain't she?" I laughed aloud.
"Only for a change," said Clara.
"Why, Mis' Grover"--
Clara waited for no news, but said quickly:
"You were very kind, thinking we were lonely, to come over and see. Come
into the other side of the house," and she led the way to her
sitting-room.
"Oh! ain't this be-yoo-ti-ful! What a wonderful change from the old side
of this house! I declare, I should think Mr. Minot would be thankful
enough for this addition to his house."
"Oh! I am the one to be thankful," said Clara, "he was so kind as to
build it for me."
"Oh! he built it, hey; with his own money, did he?"
"Certainly, he never would use any other person's. Cousin Minot in a
very nice man."
"Is he your cousin?" said Jane in astonishment.
"Why, of course he is. Did you not know of it?"
"Never heard of it before."
"What are you knitting?" said Clara.
"Stockings," was the monosyllabled reply.
"Did you ever knit silk?"
"Shouldn't think I did. I ain't grand enough to afford that."
"You could, though, I know," said Clara.
"Why, I dunno,--praps so." Jane North was foiled, and she succumbed as
gracefully as she could, although awkwardly enough; but Clara went on:
"I have some beautiful silk thread, I have had it for years. My
grandfather's people, over in France, were silk weavers. It is through
my mother that I am related to Mr. Minot; my father's people were
French," she said, noticing an incredulous look in the eyes of Jane. "I
have a lot of silk in thread and floss: I'll get the box and show it to
you," and she did.
My own curiosity led me into the room--I had stood back of the door all
this time--and the silk was beautiful; rich dark shades and fancy colors
mingled, and a quantity of it too. Although kept so long, it was strong,
having been of such fine material.
"Sakes alive! I should be scar't to death to own all that," said Jane.
"Well," said Clara, "if you will show me how to knit some for myself, I
will be willing to scare you a little. I would like to give you enough
to make a pair or two of stockings for yourself. Chose your own colors,"
and she emptied the contents of the box on the lounge at her side.
"You don't mean it, Mis' De-mond."
"Certainly I do, take any shade you prefer, and if Emily has needles, we
will go right to work on our cutting."
The right string was touched, the cutting started, and when Jane North
left us, she whispered to me:
"I like that woman, and I don't care whether she is a Baptist, or what
she is, she's a lady."
Those stockings averted much, for her head was full of wonder talk.
I reminded Clara of the indignation she felt at her expressions, when
she first saw her, and told her I did not suppose she ever would desire
to look at her again.
"Why, Emily," she said, "I never feel like annihilating people whose
ideas are all wrong. They are but representatives at the most, and I
would rather desire to help these eaters of husks to find the true bread
that shall bring to them comfort and peace. I should wish to fill their
hearts so full that the rays of this inner light shall radiate around
them, touching with the magic of good deeds all the suffering our world
contains. This would leave no empty rooms in the house of our
understanding; all would be filled with tenants of good-will and loving
faith, bearing charity and love each toward the other; and uncultivated
fields would be found no more. I thought if I could touch Miss North in
the right spot, I might fill her mind, for a few brief hours at least,
with something beside her gossip. If this could be done every day in the
week, she would lose sight of it altogether, and like a tree engrafted
with better fruit, on these new thought-branches beautiful wisdom
apples might grow and ripen. If she comes again I will find something
as new to her, I hope, as I have found to-day."
"What a wonderful compound you are, Clara," I said, "and what perfect
symmetry nature has given to you, while I am your antipodes."
"What's that you are calling yourself?" said Aunt Hildy.
"Oh, something just different from all that is good and true enough to
belong to Clara!"
"'Pears to me you're gettin' some dretful big word now-a-days; when you
want me to understand you, talk plain English."
Hal, who had entered that moment, laughed heartily. "So I say, Aunt
Hildy. Our Emily is going to be a blue-stocking, I fear. Housework will
suffer before long, for housework and book cannot go together."
"No more than ploughs and plaster," I added.
"Not a bit more, sister mine," and he passed his arm around my
waist,--he often did this now-a-days,--and whispered, "give me a chance
to say something to you."
I nodded an assent, and he passed on through the room, whistling to
himself "Bonny Doon." I embraced the first opportunity to follow him,
and found him alone in his studio. He seated himself beside me, took one
hand in his and passed an arm around me. I wished he could have been my
lover then, in fact, I often wished it, for he was as good as he was
handsome, both noble hearted and noble looking. He was to me the
embodiment of all that was good and all that went to make the best man
in the world.
"Emily," he began, "you have been a blessed sister to me; I have loved
you always, even though I plagued you so much, and you have been
faithful to me. I entrusted to you the first great secret of my life,
when I sought you under the apple tree."
"Why could you not have told me more?" I said.
"For the sole reason it would have been hard for you to have kept it
from mother, and I wanted to surprise you all at home. Your hand, Emily,
was the one that held the cup of life to my lips; and Louis," he added
in a tender tone, "with his sympathy and the power of his heart and
hand, led me slowly back to strength. Louis is a grand boy. Now, Emily,"
and he drew me still closer, "I have something else to tell you."
"Don't go away, Hal."
"I desire to stay, but, Emily, I love Mary Snow. I want to tell you of
it. I cannot speak positively as to what may happen, but I love her very
dearly. Could you be glad to receive her as a sister?"
Selfish thoughts arose at the thought of losing Hal, but I banished them
at once, and my heart spoke truly when I said:
"Mary Snow is good enough for you, Hal. I have always liked her so much,
but how stupid I am, never to have dreamed of this."
"No?" said he, as if surprised. "Never dreamed of it? Do you think it
strange that I should tell you, Emily? I have seen the time when it
would seem very silly to me, but I have learned to realize how great is
the tie that binds us, and I hope through all the years you and I will
never be apart. I ask of you, too, one promise. Do not tell even Clara,
and if ever you have such a secret, tell me frankly, for we should love
each other, and our joys should be mutual."
I said not a word, but I thought of Louis, and I longed to show him the
chain and locket, which I constantly wore, but I could not, and I have
wished since that I might have been wiser. At this moment Mr. Benton
entered, and our position did not escape him.
"Truly, Hal," he said, "you make a capital picture. Courting, eh?"
"Call it that if you please; we are very near in spirit, thanks to the
Father."
The thought of work came over me, and I left them to help about getting
supper. To be in Hal's confidence and to feel the trust he reposed in me
had made me very happy. Precious indeed did this seem to me, and if all
brothers and sisters were as near, how much of evil would be averted.
Young men might find at home the love and society they need, and less
temptation and fewer penalties to pay would be the good result.
Mother's absence was nearly at an end, and father had gone on Saturday
to Aunt Phebe's to spend the Sabbath, and was to bring mother back on
Monday.
Sabbath evening Hal went over to Deacon Snow's, Clara was in her room
writing to Louis, Ben reading in the kitchen, and I was left with Mr.
Benton in Hal's room. This night was never to be forgotten, for although
from time to time I had been forced to notice the great change in his
manner toward me, I was unprepared for what occurred, and unconscious
that he had so misunderstood and perverted my motives in that fated
talk. I cannot tell you all he said, nor how he said it, but I was
thoroughly confused and startled by his protestations, and could only
say:
"Mr. Benton, I do not desire to hear this; I cannot understand it; you
have been mistaken," etc.
To all of which he replied as if deeply pained, and I believed in his
sorrow and despised myself. I could not and did not tell him of Louis,
for when I thought of it, it seemed too sacred, and he had no right to
this knowledge. I was overwhelmed with strange and unpleasant feelings;
there was no satisfaction in the thought of having heard these
declarations; it was an experience I would fain have avoided. His talk
to Clara, too, came to my aid, and rallying a little, I said:
"It is not long since you felt you could not live without the love of
Clara's heart; how strangely all your feelings must have changed. This
perplexes me, Mr. Benton."
He raised his head from his hands--he had been sitting some moments in a
despairing attitude, evidently struggling with great emotion--and
answered:
"It is natural that this should perplex you, and I am prepared for it.
Years of lonely waiting and yearning for the love of a true heart, have,
perhaps, made me seize too readily on any promise of hope and sympathy.
I was certainly fascinated with Mrs. Desmonde, and told her of my
feelings, prematurely as it proved, for the more I knew of her, the more
convinced I grew of her unfitness, I might almost say for earth,
although she still is beautiful to me. But you, Emily, are a woman of
strength and will, of a strength that will grow, for your years do not
yet number twenty-one; these years have already given you maturity and
power, and I respect and admire you, and I believe I could worship you
if you would let me."
This was stranger talk than I could endure, and I broke out
passionately:
"You need not ever try; I do not want you to, for I shall never love
you, and you are also old enough to be my father." I cannot tell why I
should have made this great mistake for which I immediately reproached
myself.
The lines in Mr. Benton's face grew a little sharper, and the gleam of
his eye for a second was like a fierce light, and he answered gravely:
"My years do number more, but in my heart I stand beside you. I would
have waited longer to tell you, but I am going away." I looked
wonderingly. "A friend is ill. I go to him; then to Chicago to see some
of our statuettes, and then if your parents will board me here, shall
return for the summer, unless," and his eyes dropped hopelessly, his
voice trembled, "unless," raising his eyes to mine appealingly, "I shall
be too unwelcome a friend to remain."
Dear Hal and his art rose before me, and pity and love caused me to say:
"Oh, come back, Mr. Benton! Hal needs you."
"We will consider then that we are friends, Emily?"
"Certainly," I said, glad enough to pass out of this door. Would it had
been wider!
Advancing to me he took my hand, and said:
"My friend always, if I may never hope for more. I leave to-morrow
morning, let us say good-bye here."
This was a strange scene for a plain country girl like Emily Minot.
Don't blame me if I was bewildered, and if I failed for a moment to
think of the snake I had dreamed about: neither wonder that in this last
act in Mr. Benton's drama, he seemed to have gained some power over me.
He knew, for I was no adept at concealing, that he had won some vantage
ground, and that I blamed myself and pitied him.
Morning came, and he left us, and Aunt Hildy said: "Gone with his great
eyes that allus remind me that still water runs deep. Can't see how
Halbert and that man can be so thick together."
Matthias, who was there early, ready to go to work, said to himself as
the stage rolled away: "De Lord bless me, if dat man don't mos' allus
set me on de thinkin' groun. Pears like he's got two sides to hisself,
um, um."
I heard this absent talk of Matthias', and also Aunt Hildy's words, and
I marvelled, saying in my heart, "Emily Minot, what will be done next?"