PRECIOUS THOUGHTS.
I like to drift with the days, and scan them one by one, but as I recall
all that I have written, I say to myself: "Emily must take some long
step now, else the tale of her life will never be told, even though the
changes came day by day, falling drop by drop into the lap of the
waiting years."
Mother was feeling better, and when the rose-covered days of June came
over us our hearts were singing. Clara seemed well (for her) and I
forebore to grieve over her prophecy of leaving us, though for a few
days after she had said those words, an icy feeling crept over me as I
thought on what they foreboded. I could not see how we could bear to
lose her presence; life without her would be an empty vial, not only for
us, but for all. We loved her devotedly. In this beautiful June I felt
younger than ever before, and believed that the constant saying to
myself, "I will do right," was brightening all the world for me.
I was twenty-one years old the previous March, and it seemed to me I
looked much younger than when two years ago we saw for the first time
the face of our Clara Desmonde. March was a sort of wild month to find
one's birthday in, and I never think of it without recalling the saying
of one who had seen hard work and sorrow as well. It was a lady I met
once at Aunt Phebe's, who came to bring a book for her to read, and in
the course of conversation she said:
"Mrs. Hungerford, I was born in March, and have come to the delightful
conclusion that all who dare to be born in this month must fight the
beasts at Ephesus."
This year I had certainly fought Mr. Benton, and perhaps I should find
another experience in the next March month that came.
Ben was seventeen years old in January, and this was a great year for
him; he had sought and obtained father's consent to manage a farm for
himself. Hal could not, of course, till the land he owned, and Ben had
made arrangements to do it. He wanted the entire care, and Hal told him
to go right ahead the same as if he owned it all and see what he could
do. This was quite a step, and, as it proved, a successful one. He was
at home in his old room at night, but ate at Hal's table, and Mary said
he was so good they could never keep house without him. I rejoiced that
he could fill a position for which he was fitted, albeit father and Hal
were both disappointed that he could not have book knowledge enough to
place him in some position in public life.
"That was mere ambition," mother said, and Aunt Phebe remarked
concerning him, that he should be let alone, and to help him to be an
honest man was the wisest course possible.
"So I think," said Aunt Hildy; "common sense has got power to last a
good while, and high ideas sometimes kill everything."
Louis was enjoying the summer "hugely," as he expressed it, and Clara
was very willing to aid him in everything he undertook, and he was not
an idle dreamer, for though he did dream beautifully, and talked often
of the fairy land, as he called the home of his pure, good thoughts, he
was a worker in all ways. If a sudden shower threatened the meadow, he
was there with the men, doing all he could to aid them, and not slow to
learn the use of rake and pitchfork. If Aunt Peg needed attention he was
soon over to see her, and when he went to the village, he was the errand
boy for any and all. He became well known among us, and the dear old
home among the hills gave him a hearty welcome. Even Deacon Grover came
to the conclusion that the city chap didn't put on airs, and told me he
should think I'd almost want to catch him, laughing heartily at his own
words. I always disliked this; it is a mark of a small brain to tell a
story or say something witty, and crown your own talk by laughing at
yourself--that would spoil the best joke in the world for me.
One August afternoon I called Clara to the window to watch Louis and
Matthias coming along slowly together in a close and evidently
interesting conversation. They came in together, and the face of our
dusky friend was covered with the light of a new thought.
"Why, how happy you look!" I said.
"He feels happy," answered Louis; "they are going to have a wedding over
at Aunt Peg's, and I am first man."
"Yes," said Matthias, "'pears like I kin get married now. Miss Smith,
she feels lonesome, and I bother her 'bout my vittles, an' we kin set by
one fire jes' as well."
"I shall write Aunt Phebe to-morrow, and ask her," I said, laughing.
"Um--um," said he, "reckon she's 'gaged to make me two white shirts
'reddy."
"Why, when did she know it?"
"Oh! she dunno nothing definite, but she said long ago she'd make 'em
for me when I git married, an' I done come over to see ef you'd sen' a
word about it to her."
"I will most certainly, but how long before you will be married?"
"'Bout tree weeks, I guess; haint set on no day. Let Miss Smith do
that."
"And you'll have a wedding?"
"No, Miss Em'ly. For de lan' sake, you don't 'spect we's gwine into dat
yere meetin' 'ouse for de folks to call it a nigger show, duz ye? We's
too ole to be gwine roun' to be laf at."
"I didn't mean to plague you, Matthias; please excuse me," for he looked
the least bit provoked. "I'll make some cake, though, and you'll want
witnesses, so Louis and I can come, anyway."
"'Spect you two need to get used to dat yere ceremony more'n de rest of
de folks yere; yas, you kin come."
Oh! how Louis laughed at this, saying:
"There, Emily, Matthias knows too much; look out for breakers when you
talk to him."
The old man laughed heartily also, and left us to talk over the coming
event.
"Two shipwrecked lives trying to keep close to the shore of content for
the rest of the journey, that's what they are," said Louis, "and we will
help them, and do God's service by ministering to their small needs, for
'Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me.'"
He had so many Scriptural quotations at his tongue's end nowadays, I
often told him he would be a minister, I knew. Many of his days were
spent in the society of Mr. Davis, and they read the Bible through
together. Louis said the New Testament had great charms for him, and Mr.
Davis said to Clara and myself when we called upon him, that the
Scriptures had never been so blessed to his heart as now.
"Your son," turning to Clara, "is not my student; he has the most lucid
perception, and transfers his thoughts to my heart with wonderful
strength, and yet he stirs the soil of years with tender hand, and never
forgets I am growing old. Some day he will have a pulpit of his own."
"Do you think so?" I said.
"Oh, it must be! He is like his mother; chosen for the good work. I
delight in his society, and hope never to miss it while I stay. I am not
strong, and some day I fear I shall not be able to preach when the
Sabbath dawns. If I do fail at any time, I shall secure his help." Clara
only said:
"My dear boy shall do that which he can do well, for there will be no
stumbling blocks laid in his path; if he starts right, and I believe he
has, the way will be made plain, and as day unto day shall utter speech,
so night unto night shall show its knowledge."
"He seems benevolent," said Mr. Davis, "and he will devote much of his
time, and substance as well, to the uplifting of the degraded, and the
exalting of mankind through daily practice."
"So be it," said Clara; "I shall be glad if he can uplift the lantern
light of truth, that it may shine over all the dark and devious ways of
ignorance, and when my feet shall walk beside his father's on the hills,
may our souls call to him, and his heart receive from us the strength
which our love can give--angels to minister to his wants. Oh! this is
beautiful to think upon."
The eyes of our good minister filled with tears, and I thought how
wisely and well Clara sows the seed. I felt ashamed to think how
unmindful of this tolerance of ideas I had been when his fiery sermon
aroused my spirit, and I have often since felt that we all possess too
much intolerance each toward the other. Mr. Davis was original in
thought, and had always regilded as it were the old texts in his sermon,
until they could not fail to interest us; and when, yielding to pressure
of conviction regarding eternal punishment, he warned his flock, Clara
judged him rightly, and I was wrong; for while the idea was horrible to
me, I had not wisdom or judgment to express myself, whereas Clara had
opened wide the door of love to his heart, and he received and
acknowledged the baptism of pure and elevating thought.
His absolute fire died away into the description of conscience torment,
and through his later years the mellow ripeness of new thought took in
large part the place of the old. Mr. Davis was very anxious concerning
his health, and we did not wonder, for his cheeks grew pale and thin. He
seemed much older than he really was, and in two years of time had
gained ten in the defining face lines. These were, it seemed,
ineffaceable, and as the months wore on grew deeper still.
Matthias' marriage came off in September, and our whole household were
invited. Aunt Hildy said she'd send them something, "but no weddins for
me," and she shook her head when I asked whether she was going.
Mother was busy and did not feel like sparing the time, so at last,
Clara, Louis and I went over, and Mrs. Davis came with her husband, who
performed the ceremony in a pleasant way. I think no couple ever had
just such wedding presents. A blanket and some home-spun towels from
Aunt Hildy; a large silk bandana handkerchief, a chintz dress pattern,
and a little bead purse with some bits of gold from Clara (how much I
never knew), and from Louis a load of shingles, and the services of a
carpenter to re-shingle the little house, with some sensible gifts from
Hal and our people. Aunt Peg was beside herself with joy which she could
not express to suit her, and at last she said, "won't try to tell you
nothin'--can't do it."
Mr. and Mrs. Davis stayed only a few minutes after the ceremony, but we
three had a long chat with our good friends, and when we left them at
the door, tears of gratitude fell from Aunt Peg's eyes. I looked back,
after we had started toward home, to see them sitting on the door stone
side by side, and their dark faces resting in the shadow of the Cyprus
vine was a pleasant picture.
"Their cup runneth over," said Louis; "I am glad and 'we shall rejoice
with those that rejoice, and mourn, with those that mourn.'"
"Another Bible quotation, Louis?"
"Yes," said he, "and why may we not have these truths, like blessed
realities, walk side by side with us through life. Every day might let
the sunshine into the room of our thought, through the bars of
understanding that stand as defining lines between them.
"Mr. Davis says you are to be a preacher. I believe you are already,"
said I.
"Would my Emily object? I think not, for has not little mother said,
'Emily will do it, Emily will help you?'"
I did not answer with words, but my eyes spoke volumes, and he read them
truly.
Letters came to us monthly from our Southern Mary, and Clara often said
she had hope of seeing her again. Mrs. Chadwick had kept track of Mrs.
Benton, and that strange compound of villainy and taste--her
husband--had really been touched by Mary's plea and was living with his
family. I could hardly believe it, and when Hal stepped in one evening
with "love's fawn" at his side, and a letter from that veritable Benton,
we had a grand surprise. I will not try to tell you of this well written
epistle, but this interesting item I will relate; here are his words:
"You will doubtless be surprised when I say I am married and keeping
house. I found my wife here; she has two nice boys. If you come to this
part of the globe, as I hope you will, call on us. You will be
welcome."
"My soul!" said Aunt Hildy, "if the other world did have a fiery pit for
liars, that man would have the best seat, and nearest the fire."
Mother smiled and said, "He does not know, of course, that we have heard
of this wife, for how should he?"
"Why, certainly not," said Hal, "and I shall never tell him. Let him do
right if he can, and we perhaps can hardly blame him if he does want to
hold on to the few who have proven their friendship, for I think his
friends do not number many. He needs them all."
"Judgment is mine saith the Lord," said Aunt Hildy.
"Well, that may be true, but I cannot feel that we are His direct agents
for cursing the man."
"Neither are we," said Louis, "and if we obey the commandment, 'Love ye
one another,' where can the curse come? No, no, Mrs. Patten, we must
wait for the spirit of the man to grow good and true, and the weakness
of the flesh by this will be overcome; he cannot forget all the wrong,
and probably might recall the words, 'The spirit is willing but the
flesh is weak.'"
"Well," said Aunt Hildy, "I 'spose that's the Gospel good and true, but
I do get riled at his cuttings up. I've seen 'em before, yes I've seen
'em before."
And she sat as if feeling her way back through the mist of years. I
wondered what she had suffered, but she kept her own secrets close to
her heart and held steadfastly to the truth doing much good. Her busy
fingers through the long winter evenings kept adding to the store of
stockings she was knitting for somebody who needed--and the needy would
surely come in her path.
Aunt Peg and Matthias were quietly happy, and they came out of church
every Sabbath and walked with a pleasant dignity homeward. Matthias had
memorized the old hymns and he could pick many of them out, having
learned to designate them by their first word or line, and this he
called reading.
"'Pears like I kin read a few himes, Miss Emily," he said. This is the
way with us through life. It seems to me we get the first word or line
and then go blindly on making mistakes and grievously sinning in our
ignorance, unknowing of the great beauty that awaits us in the perfect
rendering of life's beautiful psalm.
Clara said we were like children running through a meadow, trampling the
daisies and clovers under our feet, and with breathless impatience
hurrying on through the long day to the fall of night, and when the
sunset of our earthly life came on, pausing then at the corner of the
meadow, we gathered the few tired blossoms at our feet and passed out
into the unknown.
"Oh, my Emily!" she said, "if our steps could be even and slow we should
pick our comfort-daisies and our love-clovers on either side, while our
feet still kept the one small path of our greatest duty; and this to me
is the straight and narrow path spoken of."
Her types of thought were so purely beautiful, and yet she drew them
from the plainest facts. She was growing nearer heaven daily, or perhaps
we were seeing her soul more clearly through the days. I thought and
comforted myself that we should not lose her.
Louis and I talked sometimes of the coming time when we should receive
the sacred seal of marriage, and when the year for which he asked had
expired and the fall term opened in the seminary, he said:
"Little mother tells me she cannot let me go back, she is too tired to
live without me. I knew it before she told me; her strength is very
little without mine, and," he added, "even if we do all we can, that
little mother must leave us before many years. You know, Emily, how I
have wanted all my life to be an artist. Perhaps I shall, sometime, but
now before me I can see a need that will bring me into different work,
and it may be also (his eyes were far away) I can, after all, do better
service by painting living faces."
"What do you mean, Louis?
"I mean, Emily, that when the tired hearts we find, feel comfort
creeping over them, the work shines through the eyes and glows within
the smiles that beam upon us. Did we not paint a pleasant picture at the
wedding, and are not these works of art appreciated through endless
time? Will they not repay us with something better than the gold which
we may lose, the earthly things that perish? And again, I have seriously
thought that it is not right for me to take the work that others who
need might have. Side by side with our great love must walk these
truths. I cannot see yet how our future plans are to be arranged, or
where our home will be. What does your good heart say, Emily?"
"Oh! I cannot tell you, Louis. I sometimes imagine a little cosy home
like Hal's, and then it dissolves beyond my reach and I say 'Time will
tell it all.' Your mother taught me that one of the greatest lessons in
life is to learn to wait, and move with the tide if we can instead of
against it. These hills are very dear to me."
"May they never be less!" said Louis, gathering me to himself; while I
reverently thought, "How glorious a manhood is his! how great the love
he gives me!"
Time passed rapidly. Ben's first season as a real farmer had passed, and
storehouse and barn were filled. His hands grew strong and his blows
were telling. A handsome woodpile was one of the things he was truly
proud of, and everything was done in good season and with perfect
system. Hal said that he and Mary were living with Ben. Father was
surprised at his success, and when, in the winter, he walked in with a
dozen brooms of his own make, Aunt Hildy said:
"Industry and economy were two virtues that the Lord would see well
rewarded. You'll be a rich man and a generous one too. Wish your Aunt
Phebe'd come up to see us."
"She's coming," said Ben. "I've written to her to come to our house and
stay a week. I want her to come and see my broom-corn room. I'll bet
she'll be interested in it, and I'm going to give her six brooms to take
home with her. But did you know Deacon Grover's very sick?"
"Why, no, indeed!" said I.
"Well, he is, and Mrs. Grover wants Louis to come over. He'd better go
back with me. They expect he'll die; he is troubled to breathe."
I called Louis and he went over. He came back to supper and told us he
was going to stay with him all night.
"Mr. Davis says he cannot save his life, and they are to have Dr. Brown
from the village. The man is terribly frightened; he knows he must go.
He says he's afraid he has been too mean to get into heaven, and he
moans piteously. His poor wife is nearly distracted."
"Shall I go with you, Louis?" I said.
"You might go over but I hardly think I need you all night there. He has
been ill more than a week. I should not be surprised if he left us
before morning."
"Small loss to us," said Aunt Hildy, "but if the poor critter knows he's
been mean, perhaps he'll see his way through better. I'll go over if it
wont torment him."
"You are just the one," said Louis.
"Well, I hope I sha'nt set him to thinking about--never mind what I say.
Let me get my herb bag and start along."
We found the poor man no better, and wise Dr. Brown shook his head
ominously. He was a regular grave-yard doctor, and I thought it a pity
to set up the deacon's tomb-stone while yet he breathed. His poor wife
was taking on terribly (as Aunt Hildy expressed it). When Deacon Grover
saw Louis he tried to speak. Louis went near and took his hand, and he
whispered:
"Peace, you bring me peace."
"It is all right over there," said Louis; "do not fear."
"All right," said the sufferer, and then, looking at his wife, he said,
"Be her friend." A smile passed over his face, his eyes closed, and
Deacon Grover was dead.
Mr. Goodman and Matthias came over to help Louis lay him out, and his
funeral took place from the church the following Sunday. Louis was a
great help to Mrs. Grover and she needed all the aid he could give. Her
spirits were broken in her early days, and she followed the deacon in a
little less than a year, her brain failing rapidly, her body having been
weak for years.
Many changes had occurred during this year of my life, and when the
beads upon my rosary of years numbered twenty-two, it seemed hardly a
day since I had counted twenty-one. How little time from one birthday to
another, and in childhood how long the time between!
I was growing older, and the days challenged each other in their
swiftness, but they were all pleasant to me, even though the church-bell
often tolled the passing of souls, and the quiet of our hills was broken
by the ringing of improvement's hammer as it fell on the anvil of our
possessions. Long lines of streets passed through the meadow-lands, and
where, in less level places, rocks and stones were in the path, the
power of inventive genius was applied and the victory gained. Some of
our people felt it keenly. To father it was an advantage, but to Aunt
Hildy, the opposite.
"Goin' to pass right through my nest, Mr. Minot, and I tell you it aint
so easy to think of that spot of ground as a grave-yard. 'Twont be
nothin' else to me, never. Oh, the years I bury there!"
Father ventured to suggest remuneration.
"No, no, nothin' can't pay; they don't know it, Mr. Minot, but it's a
bitter pill." And a shadow overspread her resolute features. She
determined on making our house her home "forever and a day arter" she
said, and bore it as patiently as she could; but I saw great drops fall
from her eyes as she looked over to that little home and watched its
demolition. She said she had prayed for a strong wind to do the work,
but this was not granted. My own heart leaped to my throat in sympathy,
but knowing her so well I said nothing.
Louis was more than busy. I wondered when my birthday came if he would
remember it. He did, and all the evening of that day we sat together and
talked of our future.
"Emily, I am feeling glad to-night; my heart sings loud for joy. You
cannot think how beautiful you have grown in my eyes; even though you
filled my heart long days ago, that heart-room does expand with growth,
and your queenly beauty still fills it to completeness. Let your hair
fall over your shoulders; look out over the future days with your
speaking eyes as if you were a picture, my Emily." And as he said this
my shell-comb was in his hand and my long and heavy hair lay about me
like a mantle. He liked to see it so, and I sat as if receiving a
blessed benediction.
"Can you see nothing before you?" he asked.
"Mists, like drapery curtains, shade the days," I said: "What is it you
would have me find?"
"Find the month of June's dear roses,
Find a trellis and a vine;
Ask your heart, my queenly darling,
If the sun will on us shine,
And my heart, love's waiting trellis,
Then receive its clinging vine.
Have I spoken well and truly?
Does your soul like mine decide?
And, with June's dear wealth of roses,
Shall I claim you for a bride?
Do the old hills answer, darling?
Unto me they seem to say:
'Two young hearts in truth have waited;
Emily may name the day.'"
As the words of his impromptu verse died away, the moon, looking through
the rifted clouds, beamed an affirmation, and I said:
"Let June be the month, Louis; the day shall name itself."
Clara called: "It is nine o'clock, my dear ones;" and we said "good
night."