MARY HARRIS.
I think we must all have dreamed of the lovely face over among the
pillows in Mr. Goodwin's west room, for we were hardly seated at the
breakfast table ere Ben said:
"Wonder how that pretty girl is this morning?"
"She was better when we left last night," said mother, "I thought she
appeared as if ready for a comfortable night; but shall hear soon if she
is better, Aunt Hildy will be home, and if not, Matthias will be over."
"Wish I could see her--will she go right away?"
"That I do not know," said mother, "we have yet to learn her history.
Mrs. Goodwin wanted Matthias to come over to-day, for after you left,
Emily, she called for 'Peter, colored Peter,' looking as if expecting to
find him. Matthias came into the room and brought some wood, while she
was awake, and when she saw him, she said, 'Oh, Peter! stay till I get
rested--I want to tell you.' He dropped his wood heavily, it gave him
such a start. He says no one ever called him that except some young
people down in Carolina, and it seems he named himself Peter, to their
great amusement, telling them that he 'cakilated to treat his old Mas'r
just as Peter treated de good Jesus.'"
"Why, can it be possible he knows her?" I said.
"He thinks not," said mother, "but this calling him Peter is singular
enough."
"It seems very strange, and hardly possible she can have come so far,"
said father. Louis' eyes as well as my own had been covertly scanning
Mr. Benton, and he was ill at ease. At the name of Peter his face grew
pale and his hand trembled; no one else noticing it, he rallied, but
made no remark whatever. Afterward Louis said to him:
"What a strange experience this is of the girl we found!--truths are
queer things; I feel a real anxiety to find out about her. Do not you
feel interested?" His eyes fell as he answered:
"Can't say that I do. You have more enthusiasm than myself. Having known
more years, I am taught to let people look out for themselves very much.
But that old Matthias I don't like. It may be all a put up
job--something to bring credit or money to himself--you can't trust that
darky."
"Why," said Louis, "_I_ would trust him, and so far as this young lady
is concerned, a different person from Matthias is at the root of the
matter. I have a desire to know the truth and help the girl."
"She may be your fate, Louis."
"No," he replied, "Mr. Benton, that is not possible, my 'fate,' as you
call it, is my Emily."
"Miss Minot?" said Benton, "great heavens! Has that girl played me
false?"
"I think not," said Louis calmly, "and since the subject is broached,
perhaps it will be best for me to tell you that Emily is to be my wife,
her parents being willing."
"You _are a gentleman_, truly! I gave you my confidence and expected"--
"Do not say more," said Louis, raising his hand deprecatingly against
the coming falsehood, "do not help me to despise you. I am too sorry
that I am forced to know what you said to me was untrue, and also to
realize what my Emily has suffered and kept in her own heart."
"Louis Desmonde," said Mr. Benton, "do you realize what you are saying?"
"Only too well, sir; do not force me to say more. I admire your art. I
am willing to help you to be a man."
"_Indeed!_" replied Mr. Benton. "Philanthropic _boy_! who talks to a man
of years and judgment!"
It was a bitter pill for him, and I believe it was the knowledge of
Louis' money, and of his own great need of it, that forced him to
retreat in silence, while Louis sought and told me of their interview.
"How could you help telling him of the letter, Louis?"
"I did not have to try to help it, for I want to be sure of all I say to
him, and as far as I spoke I had perfect authority. He may at some time
need my help, though he spurned the aid of his 'philanthropic boy.'"
"_Boy_," said I, "you are old enough to be his father in goodness, but
here comes Aunt Hildy. The poor lamb must be better, else she would not
come back so soon," and I opened the door for her entrance.
"I know what you're after," she said, "she's better; the poor thing
will get well. Oh dear! land! I wonder, when'll the same old story end."
"Has she told it to you, Aunt Hildy?"
"Partly to me and partly to Mis' Goodwin." (Aunt Hildy never said Mrs.
---- married or single, it was always Miss.) "She'll tell you all about
it, I guess, for she wants to see you. She remembers your dark eyes, and
Matthias she calls Peter--yes, she does, now she's come clean to her
senses, and when she gets a little more strength, she says she must see
him, and the dark eyes too; so you'll have to go over. Mis' Goodwin said
mebbe you'd better wait till to-morrer, and so says Brother Davis. He
come over and brought a few of his powders--he wanted to do something. I
told him we could fetch her out straight--Mis' Goodwin and me--and I
think he'd better tend to himself--says he's got a dreadful pain under
his shoulder blades; acts as if he's goin' to be sick."
"Could the young lady eat anything, Mrs. Patten?" said Louis.
"Mercy! yes, I've made gruel twice for her and she's all right, only
she'll be lame and sore-like for a good while, but I must go to work,
I've been gone long enough. Where's your mother?" And the dear old soul
hastened to her duties.
Our supper table was enlivened by the news that Aunt Hildy brought, all
being interested with the exception of Mr. Benton, who was well covered
with dignity. Part of that evening, Louis and I spent with Hal and Mary.
I longed to tell them all about the letter and Mr. Benton's deceit, but
as we entered, Louis whispered, "Let us be discreet," and I answered,
"Emily will do it." He was so much wiser that our years told a story
when they said "only a month's difference in their ages." Hal and Mary
were much interested in the poor lamb, and like ourselves hoped to learn
her history, and help her as she must need. Our visits here were always
pleasant, and when we said "good night," a sincere "God bless you" rose
from our hearts. We entered our sitting-room, to find Clara sitting
between mother and father, and the three evidently enjoying a home talk.
After we were seated, and a lull in the conversation came, Louis
startled me by saying:
"Mr. and Mrs. Minot, I want to ask of you a favor--greater than the one
granted my little mother; perhaps so great that you will fail to grant
it; but it is worth the asking, worth the waiting for through years. May
I call Emily my wife?"
My father looked strangely, and did not reply for a moment, while
mother's face was covered with that pleasant smile, which from earliest
years I had considered, "_yes_." Louis' eyes were bent on my father,
who, when he answered, said:
"You are both young, Louis."
"Yes, sir, I know it, and I do not ask to make her my wife now. But I
love her, Mr. Minot, and it is not right we should hold a position not
sanctioned by you. I shall feel better if you are willing to consider
us, as we feel, pledged to each other."
"I cannot say _no_, but I have thought--Mr. Benton has asked me the same
question, and I hardly know what to say--I said to him, 'If Emily is
willing, I will not oppose your suit.'"
"Oh!" I cried, "father, he has told such stories!"
Louis said: "We can explain that satisfactorily, Mr. Minot, but if there
are other objections in your mind, let us know what they are."
My father was not a man who expressed himself freely, and Louis was so
unlike other young men that he was embarrassed evidently, and there was,
as it seemed to me, a long silence ere he said:
"I have no objections, Louis. I believe you mean what you say, and also
have enough of your mother in you to treat our girl well. I cannot see
why your plans may not be carried out so far as I am concerned."
He looked at mother, who smiled a consent, and Louis stepped toward them
both, shook their hands heartily, and said:
"I thank you."
His way of manifesting feeling was purely French, and belonged to
him--it was not ours, but we came to like it, and as my father often
said, when Clara came she unlocked many a door that had been shut for
years. Too many of our best ideas were kept under covering, I knew, and
the hand of expressive thought was one which loosened the soil about
their roots, giving impetus to their growth and sweetness to their
blossoms. We knew more of each other daily, and is not this true through
life? Do not fathers and mothers live and die without knowing their
children truly, and all of them looking through the years for that which
they sorely need, and find it not? Their confidence in each other
lacking, lives have been blasted, hopes scattered almost ere they were
born, and generations suffered in consequence. It was the blessed
breaking of day to me, the freedom to tell my mother what I thought; and
after Clara, became one of us, I could get much nearer to my father. The
full tide of her feeling swept daily over the harbor bar of our lives,
and we enjoyed together its great power. Her heart was beneficent, and
her hand sealed it with the alms she gave freely. She was always
unobtrusive, and anxious in every way to avoid notoriety.
Deacon Grover who had heard and known with others of her numerous
charities, offered advice in that direction, and said to Aunt Hildy,
"If that rich lady would just walk up and give a few hundreds to the
church fund it would help mightily."
Aunt Hildy had replied:
"Yes, yes, Deacon Grover, it would be nice for lazy folks to let the
minister do all the saving, and somebody else all the paying. I believe
faith without works is jest exactly like heavy bread, and will not be
accepted at the table of the Lord."
"He never said another word to me," said she; "that man knows he has a
right to be better."
This was a conceded fact, and it always seemed to me he ought not to be
carrying his deaconship in one hand, and his miserably small deeds in
the other. Hypocrites were in existence among all people, and while
thoroughly despised by them, still held their places, and do yet, as far
as my knowledge and experience go.
Early the morning of the next day, Matthias came over to tell us about
that "poor gal," as he called her.
"She wants to see you, Miss Emily, and they say she wants to talk to me
too. Mis' Goodwin said ''pears like you'd better come over thar 'bout
three o'clock to-day, if you can.' She's right peart, an' by 'nuther
mornin', 'spect she'll call loud for me."
"Do you think you know her, Matthias?"
"Can't say I do, Miss, but seems queer enough, she 'sists on callin' of
me 'Peter'--um--gimme sich a feelin' when she spoke dat word," and
Matthias looked as if his heart was turning back to his old home, and
its never-to-be-forgotten scenes.
Mother sent a basket of delicacies over by him, and Aunt Hildy said:
"Tell Miss Goodwin I'm goin' to bake some of my sweet cookies and send
over, and we can make some bread for her; 'twill help along--don't
forget it Matthias."
"No, marm, I'll 'member sure," and off he started. As he passed along
the path I thought of a word I wanted to say, and ran out of the door in
time to see the shadow of a form which I knew must be waiting in the
"angle" as we called it. It was where the east L ended, about ten feet
from the main front. In the summer I had a bed of blue violets here, and
named it "Violet Angle.' I stopped, for I heard a voice, and saw
Matthias turn to this spot instead of passing on to the gate as usual.
The first salutation I did not hear, but Matthias' reply was "yaas sah."
The voice was Mr. Benton's, and I stood riveted to the spot.
"Who is that girl, Matt?" he said.
"Dunno, sah."
"Don't know? Yes, you do know; you can't play your odds on me. I'm not
ready to swallow all I hear. I want you to tell me who that girl is,
and how she came here."
"I dunno, sah, sartin."
"Matt, I don't believe a word you say; first tell me the truth."
"Massar Benton, you're a queer man. Dis niggah shan't tell you no lies,
but de Lord's truf, I dunno noffin 'bout."
"You don't know me either, do you?" and he laughed ironically.
"Never thought I did," said Matthias; "'pears like long ways back I see
some face like yours, but I dunno. Good many faces looks alike roun'
yere."
"Yes, yes," says Benton, "you've said enough, you black rascal; and you
_mark my words_, if you've raised the devil, as I think you have, I'll
cowhide you. I'll give you something to remember me by, you old fool;
and you a'nt a fool either; you're as cunning as Satan is wicked."
"De Lord forgive you," said Matthias, "you're done gone clar from your
senses. I dunno who dat gal is, an I dunno who you is, an' what more kin
I say?"
"I know who you are, and I know you were the slave of Sumner down in
South Carolina."
"Yaas," said Matthias, "dat's so; but how does you know 'bout me? Did
you come down thar? 'Haps dat's de reason you're face kinder makes me
look back, an it mos' allus does; 'pears like you mout explain."
"Yes, s'pose I _mout_," said Benton, "and I reckon you will before we
get through."
"Wal," said Matthias, "if you wait till you gits evidence fo' you gives
dat hidin' you talks 'bout, I've got plenty ob time to go over to de
groun' room," and he walked off at his old gait, slow but sure, while I,
turning, ran into the house and told mother what I had heard.
She raised her hands in a sort of holy horror, but only said:
"What does it mean?"
"It means," said Aunt Hildy, "that man's a rascal; I told you, Mis'
Minot, he was when I first set eyes on him, and I've kept good track of
Emily, for when he see he couldn't get the 'rich widder,' that's what he
calls our good little creetur Clara, then he tacked round and set sail
for Emily, and he's been a torment to her, and I know it. Thank the
Lord, he's shown his cloven foot; I wish Mr. Minot had heard it. _He_
laughs at me, thinks I'm a fool, but I've seen through him if I do wear
an old cloak. It's mine, and so is my wit, what little I've got."
Aunt Hildy stepped up lively and worked every moment, keeping time to
her thoughts and giving great expression by her peculiar accenting of
words. Clara heard us, and came in "to the rescue," she said, "for it
sounded as if somebody was getting a scolding."
I repeated my story, and although she rarely used French expressions,
this time she clasped her little hands together, sank into a chair, and
said:
"Oh! Emélie, j'ai su depuis longtemps, qu'il nous ferait un grand tort.
Le pauvre agneau! Le pauvre agneau!"
"What will father do?" I said to mother.
"I cannot think of anything to do except to help the poor girl; his own
punishment is sure, Emily; we are not his masters. 'Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord,'" she quoted calmly.
"Yes," said Aunt Hildy, "that's the spirit to have, but I believe if I
had really heard it as Emily did, I'd have risked it to throw a pan of
dish water on him."
I could not help laughing--we were having a real drama in the kitchen.
Great tears had gathered in Clara's eyes, and I said to her:
"Now this will upset you. I'm sorry you heard it."
"No, no," she said, "but the poor lamb, I can hardly wait for the time
when I may see her."
"Can you ever speak to Mr. Benton again?" I said to mother.
"I should hope so, Emily. I feel great pity for him; he might be a
better man. We are taught toleration not of principles, but certainly of
men, and I think if our Heavenly Father will forgive him, we can afford
to, and then it would be very unwise to let him know we are cognizant of
this."
My mother reminded me so many times of the light that burns steadily in
a light-house on a ledge. The waves, washing the solid rock, and wearing
even the stone at its base, have no power to disturb the lamp, which,
well trimmed, burns silently on, throwing its beams far out to sea, and
fanning hope in the heart of the sailor, who finds at last the shore and
blesses the beacon light.
I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along
in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well
knew she would be righteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also
that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of "the lamb," would
soon be forthcoming. I could hardly wait for the recital which I
expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin's door at
three o'clock precisely.
She was glad to see me, and said cheerily:
"Take off your things, Emily, and I'll show you right in, for Miss
Harris is waiting anxiously."
I thought she looked beautiful the night we found her, but to-day she
was a marvellous picture, sitting among the white pillows. Her cheeks
were touched here and there with pink, as if rose leaves had left their
tender stain--her eyes beautifully bright, and such depths of blue, with
arched brows above them, and long brown lashes for a shield. Her hair
rippled over her shoulders in brown curls, and around her was thrown the
light India shawl she had about her on that sad night. She smiled with
pleasure as I entered, and beckoned me to her bedside, while Mrs.
Goodwin said:
"Take the old splint rocker, Emily. I am going to let you stay two long
hours."
How gratefully the poor lamb's eyes turned upon the good woman!
"This young lady's name is Harris."
"Yes," said Miss Harris "Mary Abigail Harris, after my mother."
I kissed her forehead, and then took the seat proffered, sitting so near
her that I could lean on the side of the bed as I listened to the story.
Mrs. Goodwin left us alone, and the recital began:
"I remembered your eyes, Miss Minot, and I wanted to tell you all about
it--how I came to be here, needing the help you so kindly gave. Oh, I
shudder," she said, "as I think how it might have been that never again
my mother could have seen me!"
Her face grew pale, but no tears came, and I could see a resolute look
that gave signs of strong will, and for this I felt inwardly thankful.
"I came from my home," said she, "in search of my husband. Three years
ago I was married in my father's house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South
from his Northern home on an artist's tour, selling many pictures and
painting more. He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a
wealthy planter by the name of Sumner." I started involuntarily. "There
were two of these gentlemen--brothers--and they owned large plantations
with many colored people. Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a
gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth. My father
gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we
were happy. Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and
said 'Mary, I must go North--I have left some tangled business snarls
there, which I must see to.' He left, promising an early return. The
letters I received from him were frequent, and beautifully tender in
their expressions of love for me. I was happy; but the days wore into
weeks, and his return still delayed. I began to feel anxious and
fearful, when I received a letter from Chicago, saying he had been
obliged to go to that city on business, and would be unavoidably
detained. He would like me to come to him, if it were not for fear of
my being too delicate to bear the journey. My parents would have been
quite unwilling also, for the promise of the days lay before me, and
with this new hope that it would not be so very long ere he would come,
I was again contentedly happy. The letters grew less frequent, and the
days grew long, and when September came my little girl came too, and how
I longed for her father to come.
"My parents telegraphed him of the event, saying also, 'Come, if
possible--Mary is in a fever of anxiety,' but he did not come; the
telegram was not replied to, and although dangerously ill, I lived. Now
the letters came no more, and I, still believing in his goodness, felt
sure that he was either sick or dead. My little Mabel lived one year.
Oh, how sweet she was! and one month after her death I received a letter
asking why I was so silent, telling me of great trouble and overwhelming
me with sorrow. I answered kindly, but my father was convinced by this
that he was a 'villain,' to use his own expression. The fact of his not
writing for so long, and then writing a letter almost of accusation
against me, made me feel fearful, and as I looked back on my suffering,
determined, if it were possible to some day know the truth. My answer to
the letter I speak of was received, and he again wrote, and this time
told me a pitiful tale of the loss by fire of all his artist
possessions, and his closing sentence was 'we may never meet again, for
in the grave I hope to find refuge from want. If you desire to answer
this, write 'without delay. It is hard to bear poverty and want.'
"I felt almost wild, and gave father the letter, hoping to receive a
generous donation from him, but my father said, 'Molly, darling, (that
is my name at home), the villain lies! no, no, pet, not a cent.' I cried
myself ill, and sent him my wedding ring, a diamond, his gift, since
which I have heard nothing.
"I told my father after it was gone, and if he had not loved me so much,
I should have felt the power of angry words. He was angry, but he
thought of all I had suffered, and he took me right up in his arms, and
cried over me. 'Mollie, darling, it is too bad; you have a woman's
heart. I would to God the man had never been born.
"I had a dear friend to whom I had confided all my sorrow--a Virginia
lady, married and living in Boston. Her husband, Mr. Chadwick, is a
merchant there, and every year she spends three or four months with her
Southern friends. One brother lives in Charleston, my home. We have been
attached to each other for years, and my father and mother love her
dearly. Three weeks ago she arrived at her home in Boston, having been
South four months, and at her earnest solicitation I came also. She knew
my heart and how determined I was to find Mr. Bentley, and felt willing
to aid me in any way possible. We went about the city, and I devoted
myself especially to looking at paintings and statuary. I found at last
by chance a picture with the name, not of 'Bentley,' but of 'Benton' on
it. I traced it to Chicago, and proved it to be his, and there from his
own friends gathered the facts which led me on his track."
"Oh!" I cried.
"Wait," said she, "More, Miss Minot; he has a wife, or at least there
is a poor woman with two boys living in poverty in the suburbs of
Boston, to whom he was married ten years ago. I have been to see her,
but did not disclose my secret. Mrs. Chadwick has known of this for a
long time, but dared not tell me until I got strong, and was in the
North with her. I gave that woman money to help her buy bread, and Mrs.
Chadwick will see to her now. She is a lovely character. Benton's home
is near this place where she lives, and he goes there once in a great
while. Now about my clothes--when I started for this place I was well
clad, and the first of my journey quiet and calm, but I think my
excitement grew intense, and I must have lost myself utterly. I know it
was a week ago when I left Boston, and now as I look back, I remember
looking at my baby's picture and everything growing dim in the cars.
This India shawl was thrown about my neck, but it seems when you found
me I had no other covering. I found the purse where I had sewed it in my
dress, but my cloak and bonnet and furs, all are gone.
"I can remember how the name of this place kept ringing in my ears, and
I must have asked for it and found it, even though I cannot remember one
word. After the baby's picture your eyes came before me, and then old
Peter."
Looking at the clock, she said:
"It is only half an hour since you came in, and will you ask Peter to
come in and see me? I'm sure I hear him talking in the other room."
I stepped to the door, and there was Matthias.
I said to Mrs. Goodwin:
"Miss Harris wishes to see Peter, she says."
She looked at Matthias, and then said:
"Well, come in, and we'll find out what she means, if we can."
He walked solemnly along to her bedside, and stood as if amazed.
"Peter," said she, "you know me; I am Mary Harris, and you lived with
Mr. Charles Sumner--do say you know me. You said you would deny your
master, and you did it," and she held her hands to him.
He reached forth his own and took the jewelled fingers tenderly in his
dark palm as if half afraid; then the tears came, forcing their way, and
with an effort he said:
"Oh! oh! honey chile--can't be pos'ble--what's done happin to ye, and
whar was ye gwine?"
"Never mind, Peter, but do you remember the man who painted beautiful
pictures, and stopped awhile with your master's brother?"
"Sartin, I does."
"William Bentley he said was his name, but it was Benton; he told us a
story."
"De great Lord, Molly chile, you's foun' him, sure--de debbil's got a
hold on dat man, an'--"
But I looked a warning, and he waited.
"You remember him then, Peter; he had a light moustache, a pleasing
mouth--a very nice young man we thought him to be."
"Yas, yas, dar's whar de mistake come in, wit dat 'ar mustaff," said
Matthias dreamily.
"What mistake?" she said.
"Oh! de good Lord bress you, honey, what does you want of dis man?"
"I want to tell him something, and I heard he was here, and now will you
find him for me?"
"I will, Miss Molly, 'ef I dies dead for it--de Lord help us."
"Do you think you can?"
"I knows dat ar to be a fack."
"Oh, Peter! I am glad; where is he?"
Poor Matthias looked at me, and I said, "Now, Miss Harris, you must not
talk anymore, and I will help Matthias, for I think I know where this
man is."
She shut her eyes and sank back among her pillows, looking tired and
pale--the knowledge that this destroyer of her hopes was so near was,
though looked for and expected, more than she could really bear.
Mrs. Goodwin left the room, motioning to Matthias to follow, and I sat
quietly thinking of what to do, when she opened her eyes and said to me:
"I have written to Mrs. Chadwick, and also to mother, and she will send
mother's letter from Boston. I cannot write to her of this; it would
worry her so; and now, as I can see Wilmur and say to him what I desire,
I shall leave you."
"It will kill you to see him."
"You are mistaken. I know I look frail, but I can endure much, and I do
not love him any more though he was my Mabel's father. I want him to go
to his poor wife and do right if he can. She loves him and is deluded
into believing the strangest things. Robberies and fires and anything
he thinks of are an excuse for not sending her money."
"Oh! he needs hanging," I said.
"No, no, Miss Minot; if he is unfit for our society he certainly would
find nobody to love him there; I am not seeking revenge, though his
punishment is sure enough. In two days more I shall be strong enough to
see him. Oh, I do hope Peter will find him!"
She needed rest, and I said:
"Now it is best for me to go, and when I come again I would like to
bring a beautiful friend."
"Oh, yes," she said, "and do come to-morrow!"
She bade me a reluctant "Good bye," and I told Matthias, I wanted him to
walk home with me.
My walk homeward with Matthias gave me the needed opportunity to talk
with him, where naught save the air wandering off to the hills could
hear us. I told him of the conversation which I had overheard, and also
that I proposed to take the burden on my own shoulders of revealing to
Miss Harris the fact of Mr. Benton being with us. "For," I said,
"Matthias, it will hardly be safe for you to bear all this. He believes,
I think, that you have helped Miss Harris to find him, and has been
looking out for trouble since you came to us, for he warned both Louis
and myself, and told us not to trust you. He did not, of course, say he
knew you; that would not have done at all. But I will do all she asks,
then your poor old shoulders will be relieved a little."
"Jes as you say, Miss Emly, pears like its queer nuf an' all happin too,
an' ef he had worn just dat mustaff, without de whiskers, I'd know him
yere straight off. I said long nuf, he set me on de tinkin
groun--um--um--here come Mas'r Louis lookin' arter his gal, I reckin,
mighty wise he is; I'd tote a long ways ef 'twas to help him."
Louis went to the village early and had returned to hear from Clara's
lips my morning discovery, and came to meet me, anxious to learn the
story of the poor lamb, which I rehearsed, having time to tell it all
during the rest of the walk, and ending with "it is strange enough to
make a book," just as we entered our gate.
Louis said the cloud must break ere long; and when Matthias left I
followed along the path behind him, feeling that Mr. Benton might again
assail him, and I was not mistaken.
"Look here," came from the angle, and "yas, sah," from Matthias as he
turned to answer.
"What did you come home with Miss Minot for?" said Benton.
"Kase she axed me too, sah."
"Whom has she been to see?"
"Dat poor gal."
"Who is that girl, do you know?
"Yas, sah," said the honest old man.
"You know more to-day than you did yesterday."
"Yas, sah."
"Why don't you tell me who she is."
"You did'nt ax me, you said did I know?"
"I don't want any of your nigger talk. I want her name, and by the great
----"
"Look yer, Mas'r Benton, if you's gwine to dip in an' swar, I'll tote
long by myself."
"Well, tell me who she is."
"She tole me she was dat little Molly Harris dat lived down in
Charleston, an--"
"How in thunder did she get here?"
"Dunno, sah."
"You do know, and I tell you you'll make money to tell me all about it."
"Dunno nothin' moah. I said dat same word, how you git yere, and she say
never min 'bout dat."
"What else did she say, what does she want?"
"Wall, de res ob what she tell me, 'pears like she didn't 'spect me
tell. I'll go over thar, an' tell her you wants to know, an--"
"The devil you will, you impudent rascal--all I want to know is if she
wants to find me."
"De good Lord, dat's de berry secret I don't want to tell."
"Ah! ha! my fine fellow, caught at last."
"Well," said he, "ef de Lord was right yere in dis vilit angil he'd say
Matt dunno nothin' 'bout how de poor lamb got roun' to dis town."
"I don't know how to believe this, but now look here, Matt, if you'll go
over there and tell her I've gone to Chicago, I'll do something nice for
you. I'll get you a suit of nicer clothes than you ever had, and a shiny
hat--hey, what do you say?"
"Mas'r Benton," said Matthias slowly, "I'm never gwine to tell a lie an'
set myself in de place whar Satan hisself can ketch a holt an me. No,
sah, 'pears like I'm ready to do what's right, but dat ain't right
nohow, an' 'pears, too, its mighty funny you's so scart of dat poor
little milk-faced gal. Trus' in de Lord, Mas'r Benton, an' go right on
over thar--she can't hurt you nohow."
"Don't talk your nonsense to me; you're on her side, she's bought you,
but I'll be even with you; I'll slap your face now to make a good
beginning."
"No, sah," said Matthias, "I'm done bein' a slave jes now, an' ef you
want to make me hit you I shall jes do it; fur you no bizness in de law
specially tryin' to put it on a poor ole nigger who can't go by ye
'thout your grabbin' at him jes ready to kill, an' all kase you's done
suthin' you's shamed of an' tinks he knows it. I'm gwine over to the
groun' room."
I feared Mr. Benton would strike him, and I ran to the gate, and stood
there while Matthias passed out and along the road. Mr. Benton
disappeared suddenly.
Supper-time was at hand, and there had been no time to tell mother what
I had heard of Miss Harris' history. At the table Ben, as usual, had
inquiries to make, and I said, "Oh! she is better, Ben; you shall see
her, for she will stay a long time."
"Where did she come from, Emily?"
From Charleston, South Carolina.
"Well, ain't that funny?" said he; "that's the very place Matthias came
from, and perhaps she does know him after all."
"Oh! yes, she does," I replied, and raising my eyes to meet Mr. Benton's
gaze, I shot the truth at him with a dark glance; his own eyes fell, and
he looked as if overwhelmed with confusing thoughts; and the
consciousness of being foiled roused the demon within him. This,
however, was not the time or place to unbottle his wrath, and it must
swell silently within.
My father began to feel the shadows thickening round him, and he kindly
forbore to say a word regarding the matter, as did also mother. Aunt
Hildy moved a little uneasily in her chair, and I knew she could have
said something as cutting as a knife, but did not. As for me, I could
and did talk on other things, and congratulated myself on another
victory. I afterward told mother all Miss Harris said, and she remarked
quietly:
"I am very thankful she is his wife."
"Well, but she isn't," I said.
"Yes, I know, Emily, the previous marriage would be held as the only
lawful tie, but it is much better than it might have been. She has a
good home and parents, and is young. Years will restore her. I cannot
see, however, why she should have taken the pains to find him here."
"For the reason that she desires to plead with him for the wife and boys
that are in need, and is a strong noble woman too,--why, she will have
the strength of a lion when she gets well, and there is a resolute
determination on her part to place before Mr. Benton a plain picture of
his duty."
"Hem!" said Aunt Hildy, "she can get her picture all ready and put on
the prettiest paint in the market,--that man will be gone in less than
twenty-four hours. Can't I see which way his sails are set?" Our back
door-sill never was swept cleaner than where this sentence fell.
"That may be," said mother; "I hope he will, for it seems to me we have
too great a duty to perform if he stays. I feel ill able to undertake
the task."
Aunt Hildy turned to hang up her broom, saying as she did so:
"I'd like to have your sister Phebe give him a lecture--she'd tear him
all to pieces jest as easy as shellin' an ear of corn. I like to hear
her talk; she ain't afraid of all the lies that can be invented. What a
good hit she give Deacon Grover that night when he come in with his
ideas of nothin' spillin' over. She talked good common sense, and hew as
the subject, for it was all about a hypocrite. He did'nt stay to see if
he could get a mug of cider to save his own, but set mighty uneasy and
was off for home before eight o'clock. That done me good."
That evening was spent by me in conversation with Louis. Next morning at
the breakfast table the subject of the poor lamb was not broached, and
directly after, when the stage came along, Mr. Benton took it to go to
the village on business.
"There," said Aunt Hildy, "he never'll step on to this door-sill
again--but I would'nt throw a horseshoe after him if I knew it would be
good luck. He don't deserve any."
"Why, he hasn't taken as much as a carpet-bag," said my father, "of
course, he will be back again."
"No, sir, Mr. Minot; that feller is up to snuff--he ain't going to stop
now for any duty pictures," and she turned to her work as if satisfied
with having made a true prophecy.
I spoke to Clara about going over to see Miss Harris, and she felt
inclined to go that morning.
"Louis, too, may go," she said. "Come, dear boy."
We were very welcome, and found Miss Harris seated in the old rush-chair
before the fire-place. Her dress was a most becoming wrapper of blue
(she found it in Clara's bundle) her hair falling as on the previous
day in natural curls, and the same India shawl thrown over her sloping
shoulders. She was exactly Clara's size, and when the two came together,
Clara said, "We are sisters surely." But afterward, as they sat side by
side, I could see such a difference. Alike in form and complexion, also
having regular features, yet the light in our Clara's eyes was
incomparably purer, savored less of earth. Miss Harris' face was sweet,
truthful, the lines of her mouth alone defining her powerful will and
courage. She was very beautiful, but earthly, while over my own Clara's
face there fell the unmistakable light of something beyond. Oh! my
saving angel, how my heart beat as I sat there drawing the comparison,
giving to Miss Harris a place in the sitting-room of my womanly feeling,
and yielding to my beloved Clara the entire room where lay the purest
thoughts which had been boon to my spirit, coming to life at the touch
of her tender hand! She was a beacon light in the wilderness of thought.
"Tell me, Miss Minot," said Miss Harris, "tell me all you know, for I
feel you do know much."
I explained Mr. Benton's coming to stay with us, and when I said he took
the stage this morning for town, and will be back, I suppose--
"Never," she interrupted, "he has heard I am here."
"Yes," I said, and repeated his conversation with Matthias.
"I am then foiled, but he will not elude the truth that goes with him.
He may have gone to his waiting wife. Mrs. Chadwick will write me, for
she will not lose sight of her."
No tears came to her eyes, but the determined look deepened as it were
into strength, and she said:
"It is too bad. I did hope to be able to make him do his duty. Now I
must hasten to become strong, and go back to Boston. I will find him
yet--I'm sure I will."
She talked freely of her Southern home, and expressed comfort at the
hope of one day seeing us there.
"I need a little help to get there myself," she said; "I have no
cloak--can you get one for me, Miss Minot? I am fortunate enough to be
able to pay for it, my purse being with me."
Louis looked admiringly at the girl-woman (for such she seemed to be),
and when our call ended said to her:
"When you are strong enough to leave, may you receive great help to do
what seems to be your whole duty; and if little mother or myself can aid
you, please command us."
"Thank you," she said, "you remind me much of my dark-eyed Southern
friends." We took our departure. It was only one week after that the old
stage carried her from our sight; but we did not forget her, nor the sad
experience which had developed in her so great a strength.
Mr. Benton did not return, as Aunt Hildy predicted, and the stage
brought a note for Hal, in which he said he was unavoidably detained,
having found important letters at the village. He would write him a long
letter, and the letter came after ten days' waiting, bearing the
postmark of ---- (he was with his wife). He wrote that he was with a
friend, and some unexpected business relations would keep him there for
a time. He desired his belongings sent to him, if it would not trouble
Hal too much. He feared that it would be a long time ere he would be
again situated amongst such pleasant surroundings, "and they are, as you
well know, so much needed by an artist," he said. I do wonder what the
man thought. Hal and Mary had not known Miss Harris' story, but Louis
had read the letter to Hal, and his perfidy was apparent to all. No word
had been said, however, and I presume he (not learning about the
letters) thought Hal still a good friend, which was in fact the case.
Hal said:
"I would not lose sight of him for the world. Emily, his hand was one of
those which led me across the bridge of sighs when my art was coming to
life, and I shall help him. He may yet need more than we know."
"We can afford to pity him, but what about his wife, Hal?"
"His wife I intend to see. Let us hope he will yet prove of some
assistance to her."
"Good brother! blessed brother! I have felt so angry with him, Hal, but
I will try to be good. Of course Mary will be with you."
"She thinks he needs a little punishment, but I tell her to be patient,
and to let the days tell us their story."
"Amen," said the voice of our Clara, who was always in the right place,
"and may we not hope for all the suffering ones. There are bruised
hearts all around us. Let the precious nutriment of our love and care
fall on them as the dew, calling forth tender blossoms, whose perfume
may mingle with their lives. Wisdom and strength, my Emily, will help us
to these things, and the prayer of England's church be not so sadly
true."
It was a relief to us all, and we could take long breaths now that Mr.
Benton had gone, and mysteries solved had opened before us a vista of
quiet days, into which our feet would gladly turn. We had to talk him
over thoroughly, and I was glad to be able to say at last:
"Peace to his memory; let him rest."
The letter we expected from the sweet girl-woman came, and we heard each
week of her and her unrewarded search going on. At last, when out from
the snows blue violets sprang, there came a letter, saying,
"It is done. I found him looking at a lovely picture, one of his own. It
was a fancy sketch, but the face, eyes and hair, those of Mrs. Desmonde,
I know. He had clothed her in exquisitely lovely apparel, and she was
looking out over a waste of waters, but I cannot describe it justly. If
her son were here, he would secure it at any price. I touched his
shoulder; he turned, and with the strangest look in his eyes. He sought
even then to avoid me, thinking probably I might prove a tempest in a
teapot, and make a terrible scene. I said quietly, 'I am only desirious
of two hours' conversation with you;' introduced Mrs. Chadwick to him as
to a friend, and invited him to call; gave him my card and turned away,
naming an hour the ensuing day; for I knew he would come. My manner
disarming him, I really believe he felt relieved to know I was not on
his track with weapons of law. He came, and I received him almost
cordially. The parlor had been left for us, and my friend, at my
request, sat outside the door where she could hear all that passed. Of
course, I cannot tell you what I said, but my revelations were
startlingly true, and he could not gainsay them, neither did he try to.
He seemed rather astonished that I no longer desired his companionship
and the great love which every true woman needs. I answered with spirit,
and just as I felt, that while his love might be boundless, it could no
longer be anything for me. I knew his soul was capable of maintaining
the appearance of purity of thought long enough to delineate its outline
on canvas, and while I admired his talent in verse, I had tasted the
bitter dregs of his falseness, and was now thoroughly undeceived as to
his character. Never again could I be misled by the semblance of a love
which had no reality beneath its honeyed words. I told him also that our
angel Mabel had been orphaned by his cruelty. And oh! how strong I felt
when I said, 'Go to your own wife, whose burden I would not increase by
revealing my own terrible secret. Live for her and those two boys.
Redeem yourself in the eyes of your God as well as before those whom you
have so foully wronged. If you will do this, I will say the peace of
well-doing be with you.' He really felt the power of my words, and
honored me for them, I know, and when he left my presence, he said:
"'If life should hold for me henceforth some different purposes, would
you be my friend? and if in the great hereafter we shall meet, will
Mabel be with me there? I wish I could have seen her. Forgive me, Mary;
you are heaping coals of fire on my head. I thought you sought my utter
destruction.'
"'My father would have appealed to you only through the law,' I said,
'but that would have been wrong, and would leave you no chance to grow
better. Go, and do right, and there is yet time for redemption.'
"'But you--what of you?' he asked.
"'I rise from beneath the weight of sorrow that covered me so early in
life, to find there is yet much worth living for. I shall live and be
happy.' They were not false tears, the drops that fell on my hand at
parting; and I said, after he had gone:
"'Thank God who giveth me the victory.' My friend expected me to faint
or moan, or make some sign of distress. No, I felt a great joy within,
and I believe he will do better. I inclose to you some verses he sent me
at the time he wrote me the terrible letter of want and despair. They
had their effect, as I told you. Monday I leave for the South; I shall
write you immediately after my return. God bless you all.
Mary."
We read the letter together, Clara, Louis and I--and here is the poetry,
which speaks for itself of the talent this man possessed, and tells us,
as Clara said, how fruitful the soil would have proved if it had been
properly tilled.
I was a poet nerved and strung
Up to the singing pitch you know,
And this since melody first was young
Has evermore been the pitch of woe:
She was a wistful, winsome thing,
Guileless as Eve before her fall,
And as I drew her 'neath my wing--
Wilmur and Mary, that was all.
Oh! how I loved her as she crept
Near and nearer my heart of fire!
Oh! how she loved me as I swept
The master strings of her spirit's lyre!
Oh! with what brooding tenderness
Our low words died in her father's hall,
In the meeting clasp, and parting press--
Wilmur and Mary, that was all!
I was a blinded fool, and worse,
She was whiter than driven snow,
And so one morning the universe
Lost forever its sapphire glow;
Across the land, and across the sea,
I felt a horrible shadow crawl,
A spasm of hell shot over me,
Wilmur and darkness, that was all!
Leagues on leagues of solitude lie,
Dun and dreary between us now,
And in my heart is a terrible cry,
With clamps of iron across my brow.
Never again the olden light--
Ever the sickly, dreadful pall;
I am alone here in the night,
Wilmur and misery, that is all!
For the solemn haze that soon will shine,
For the beckoning hand I soon shall see,
For the fitful glare of the mortal sign
That bringeth surcease of agony,
For the dreary glaze of the dying brain,
For the mystic voice that soon will call,
For the end of all this passion and pain,
Wilmur is waiting--that is all.
The letter and poem finished, we talked long of our new friend, and the
strange experiences brought into our quiet lives, and Clara said:
"Oh! how long must all the good in the world of thought wait for the
hand of love to open the avenues of work for willing doers! Cannot
strong men weep; and must not angels sorrow to realize the darkness and
the errors where light should dawn, and in a morning of new life men and
women stand as brothers and sisters in the grand work of helping each
other to do all that lies on either hand! Fields whiten for the harvest,
but the reapers are not many. These experiences come to us as teachers,
and oh, Louis and Emily, let your hearts search to find these sorrowing
ones! May your hands never be withheld from the needed alms, and may you
work in quiet love and patience through the years! The mists will shroud
the valley, and ere long, my dear ones, I shall leave you, for I cannot
stay too long away from all that awaits me there. If I had more strength
I could stay longer--but strength is what we need to hold the wings of
our soul closely down, and when the physical chain grows weak, all that
is waiting comes nearer. Spiritual strength grows greater, and the
waiting soul plumes its wings for flight. It does not seem so far, and
Louis, Emily, when my visible presence goes from you, your prayers will
come to me. I shall hear, perhaps I shall answer you also, for I shall
be your guardian angel. Then--is it not beautiful to think of the long,
long years, and no death for evermore?"
She closed her eyes, and looked serenely happy, but I was weeping
bitterly, and Louis' eyes swam in tears, as he said:
"Little mother, wait still longer, we cannot let you go."
"Oh! Louis, my dear boy, it is not now, it may be just a few years yet,
but it is sure to come--and I love to talk with you of this change. It
is natural for us to pass into the next room. If I go I must say all the
things I need to first."
Aunt Hildy and mother entered, and we talked again of our new friend
Mary. When God touched me that night with his magic wand, I dreamed of
fairies, and saw wondrous changes at their hands, earth and heaven
strangely mingling.