The Harvest of Years Part 10

I never washed the dishes so quickly; milkpans were despatched speedily to the b.u.t.tery 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 a.s.sure 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 ent.i.tled 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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.