The Harvest of Years Part 26

"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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sed. 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 companions.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d touched me that night with his magic wand, I dreamed of fairies, and saw wondrous changes at their hands, earth and heaven strangely mingling.

CHAPTER XVII.

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 s.h.i.+rts 'reddy."