The Harvest of Years Part 8

"Well, as the youngest has spoke, I suppose I may express my feelin's, and I must say I never heerd a worse sermon. I have been a steddy meetin-goer for forty years, and have tried to hold a peaceful spirit that would be jest such as the Master would recommend if he was among us; but I believe we all allow we are sinners more or less, and after all do daily the things we should not do. Still if anybody wanted my help, I should hate to have 'em chase me with a broomstick, for I couldn't do a thing for 'em if they did; and if we think anybody is going into a ditch of a wrong idee, we'd better not scare 'em to death hollerin at 'em, it would be apt to send 'em in head first, while if we could kinder creep along behind, and speak a few words kindly, they would turn round, and we could tell 'em of their danger." Her similes were original, and we involuntarily smiled an approval of her sentiment, when Mr. Benton said:

"Do you not think the fear of h.e.l.l helps to hold people in the right path sometimes, Mrs. Patten?" Aunt Hildy looked at him with a wondrous light in her eyes, as she answered:

"_No, sir_, I don't; my Bible says perfect love casteth out fear. The woman that's afraid of her husband can't love him if she dies for it, and the boy who hates his father through fear, can't muster up respect enough to love him if he tries." And her knitting needles clicked again as if to say, "that's the truth."

A few moments and then Clara spoke (Aunt Hildy stopped knitting the moment she began, as if expecting a treat). "We are taught," she said, "that our Father loves us; that he rejoices with great joy in the return of a prodigal to his fold. The truth that he loves us better than we can ever love each other here, that none of us shall ask for bread and receive a stone, neither fish and receive a serpent, was spoken to us from the ages past. Christ came into the world as the bearer of all essential truths. His enemies, the Jews, knew he told the truth and hastened to crucify him, saying in plain words--'If he live, all men will believe on him, crucify him, crucify him,' and it was done, but he left behind him the great token of his love, and he hath said, 'Whosoever believeth on me, even though he were dead yet shall he live,'

etc. If we can understand him, he means us all, every child of our Father, and are we not all his? The law of Moses was buried when the law of Christ was given, which is the law of our omnipotent Father. I am ready," and down her cheeks tears coursed their way; "I do so want to know more of this beautiful faith, for it has ever been my own; I say to you to-night and I have already said it to my heavenly Father, I will yield my life, if I can help the poor, tired hearts, the needy souls of men, to embrace this glorious truth, 'Love ye one another.'" Tears filled the eyes of all save those of Wilmur Benton, who sat as if covered with astonishment, and I could see that he was puzzled; and if he spoke his thought might have said, "What manner of woman is this, and how can I touch the strings of her heart."

Clara's eyes grew large and full of light as she continued:

"I care not for the name, for what manner of difference can that make--we are to be known and know each other by and by; we can and should have our heaven below; we can and should have love for one and all; and while my loyal friend Emily speaks harshly of the minister, who, fearing a new path before some of his people, feels it his duty to not only call, but drive them back into the square pen of the old ideas; yet we must not condemn him, neither measure his heart exactly by the words of his text or sermon. The circ.u.mference of the tree is more than three times its diameter, and yet we know the width of the board we use is found in the diameter. Words are a circ.u.mference which encircle the breadth of a diameter, and we may feel and know that this man, standing as he does within the bounds of a belief whose main foundation embraces the two thoughts, heaven and misery, cannot, if he believes this to be true, do less than urge it upon us all. But if we stop and think, we can say, perhaps the heart of this religious tree he represents may not be sound, and when the axe of advancing ideas trims its branches and buries its blade within its trunk, we shall, as I believe, have proof of this; and then, perhaps his eyes will turn with ours to the outstretched arms of a n.o.ble oak, whose leaves are green, whose heart is sound, and at whose base we all may gather, against whose sides we all may rest. It has waited long, and grown in our father's forest until at last its giant dimensions have been apparent. The leaves of its upper branches caught the eye of a ranger on truth's high mountain, and the underbrush must now be cut away to make a path for our feet. Let the winds annihilate the dogmas of a creed, let our hearts open to all good thoughts, and let this one also be as the anchor of our souls, this glorious thought of our Father's love, this binding together of his children. Patience and work both are needed: will not my dear boy help me? I know he will, and our Emily; G.o.d give to me the help I need from these two young hearts," and she held out her hands to us.

I said "Oh, Clara!" and sank on the floor beside her, put my head in her lap, and let the tears fall as they would, unmindful of all else save my dear, beautiful friend. Louis sat on the other side of her with his arm around her waist, and her head lay on his shoulder. The curtain of the evening slowly fell, and in slumbers I drew her thoughts close to my heart, Aunt Hildy's "G.o.d help us" floating like music through my dreams.

CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW FAITH.

"Emily will help me!" Oh, how those words haunted me! I would help her; yes, if I could, but when should I ever stop making blunders, when should I lose the impetuous nature that drove me too often on the beach of thought, with s.h.i.+pwrecked sentences that fell far short of my thought, and expressed nothing of my real self. Why was it, as I grew older, I came to realize, that if I had been born a little later, it would have been easier? I was standing on tip-toe trying in vain to touch that which lay beyond my reach; of course I must be constantly falling, and the security of growth I could not then wait for. I must keep reaching and falling, covering myself with disappointments, while in the hearts if not on the lips of those about me must rest the same old words, "Emily did it."

Clara says I can do something, and having grown to feel that her words were almost prophecy, I felt sure there was something ahead, and repeated again and again, "Emily will do it." Mr. Benton was looking beyond his depth, and still did not hesitate to try and swim across the difficult waters that lay between himself and Clara, and before Louis left us, something occurred which I must tell about. I had been called over the hill on an errand, was obliged to go alone, and was then detained somewhat, and when I came back, Louis met me, and taking my arm, said:

"Walk slowly, I have something I must say."

I thought of Clara at once, and it was a true impression, for he said:

"My little mother is in trouble; I have heard what I would never know if I could avoid it--Professor Benton has been telling her that he loves her. He has forced this upon her, I know, for these are his words to which I unwillingly listened: 'Why, Mrs. Desmonde, do you shun me, why turn you eyes whenever they meet my own, why call Miss Minot to your side when an opportunity presents for us to be alone together? I cannot be baffled in my love for you; no woman has ever before touched the secret spring of my heart, no voice has ever reached my soul--yours is music to me; and, Mrs. Desmonde, I need great love and sympathy; I am not all I want to be; my lot in life has been in some respects very hard to bear; I never knew my mother's love, and when old enough to desire the companions.h.i.+p man needs, I had an experience which killed the flower of my affection--I thought its roots were as dead as its leaves, until I met you. Oh! Mrs. Desmonde, do you not, can you not return this feeling?

My life is in your hands.' It was hard for my little mother, and I stood riveted to the spot, Emily, expecting to be obliged to enter and catch her fainting form, for I knew in my heart each word was a thorn, but here is her reply:"

"Professor Benton, I had hoped to be spared this pain, I have avoided you, because I could do no other way. I am so sorry! I can never, never love you as you desire! I have a husband--my Louis Robert waits for me in heaven, and he is my constant guide here. He will always be near me while I tarry, and I have no love to give you in return for yours. I can be your good friend always, I can help you as one mortal helps another.

I can call you a brother, and I can be your sister; but do not dream falsely. I shall not learn to love you; my heart is full, and it is through no fault of mine that you have raised false hopes in your bosom, but I am very sorry--more sorry than I can tell you."

"Is that all, and is it final?" I heard him say.

"It is all that I can ever say," she said.

"I drew back from the door, and, pa.s.sing through your middle room, came into my own, in time to see Professor Benton step into Halbert's studio.

I entered then the room where little mother sat, and held her in my arm awhile, saying no word to her of what I had heard. She was not exhausted, and after a little time I left her to come and meet you. Tell me, Emily, if you know about it--has she said anything to you?"

Of course I told him all, and then added her, "'Say no word to Louis,'

but under these circ.u.mstances she could not blame me, could she, Louis?"

"No, no, Emily," he replied, "but what can we do?"

"I do not know," I said, and he added:

"Do you like Professor Benton?"

"I cannot see anything in him to like very much, Louis," I replied; "when I met him in Hal's sick-room, he seemed really beautiful. His eyes looked so large and dreamy, and he had such sympathy for Hal, and I like him now, for that, but otherwise he jars me so I say all sorts of uncomfortable things, and his talk always irritates me. No, I could not imagine your mother loving him, for she is so much better than I am, and I could never love him in the world."

Louis' hold on my arm tightened, and he said:

"Ah! Miss Emily, you are beginning to know yourself, you are learning to understand others, and I am glad," and to his eyes came again that earnest look, "for I long to be known by you; I have brought you a Christmas present, and the New Year is at hand before I give it to you--wear this in the dark, until your heart says you love me, then let the light fall on it."

He put a box in my hand, and when I opened it in my own room I found a small and finely linked chain of gold, and attached to it a locket holding Louis' picture. One side was inlaid with blue enamel in a spray of flowers, and on the other the name "Emily." My heart told me that I did love Louis, and then there came so many changeful thoughts, that I felt myself held back, and could not express myself to Louis.

This evening was spent in our middle room, and Mr. Benton, being obliged to write letters, was not with us. Of this I was glad, for it gave relief to the three who were cognizant of what had pa.s.sed. The subject of universal salvation was again brought before us, and this time my mother expressed herself greatly in favor of giving the new thoughts a hearing, and to my utter astonishment and pleasure, my father proposed going sometime to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou, who was then preaching over his society in Boston, and came sometimes to preach for the few in a town lying to the north and east of us. There were no houses of wors.h.i.+p dedicated to the Universalists nearer than the one I speak of, and though it was a ride of ten miles, that was nothing for a span of good horses.

"When can we go?" rose to my lips quickly.

"Are you also desirous of hearing him, Emily?"

"Oh, father!" I said, "I want something beside the fire of torment to think of. You know the Bible says, 'He that is guilty in one point, is guilty of the whole.' If that is true, father, I am not safe; but if these new thoughts are truths, I am; and can you blame me if I want to know about it. I am afraid I knew very little of what I needed when I was united to our church."

"It is not singular, Emily," my father said, "and I desire only to help you, if you really want to know. We need not fear to investigate, for if the doctrines are erroneous, they are too far below our own standard of truth to harm even the soles of our feet, and if they are true, it must be they lie beyond us, and we shall feel obliged to reach for them, and be glad of the opportunity. Halbert, have you nothing to say? are you to go with us? the three-seated wagon will hold us all."

"Yes," added mother, "and we will take our dinner and go to cousin Belinda Sprague's to eat it."

Halbert looked a little puzzled and then replied:

"I guess the rest of you may go the first time, and I will stay at home with Will (Mr. Benton), for I know he would as soon stay at home as go."

Then said Ben, "Let me go, father, I'm young and I need starting right; don't you think so?"

We all laughed at this, and my father looked with fondness at his boy, as he answered:

"Ben, it shall be, and a week from next Sabbath, the day, if nothing happens."

I believe it was a relief to my father, this hope that there might be something more beautiful beyond than he had dared to dream; and Clara was absorbed with the prospect of his getting hold of the truth, which, though unnamed by her, had always been, it seemed, her firm belief. She said nothing to me of what had occurred, and the days wore on until the morning came when Louis said "good-bye," and left us for school.

Directly after his departure, Aunt Phebe (mother's sister) wrote us she was coming to visit us for a few days. Of this I was glad, and I rehea.r.s.ed to Clara her virtues, told her of her early years, the sorrows which she had borne, the working early and late to maintain the little family of four children (for at the age of twenty-eight she was left widowed and alone in a strange city). Her native town was not far distant from the one in which we lived, and when she came I expected a treat, for together these two sisters unshrouded the past, took off the veil of years that covered their faces, and walked back, hand in hand, to their childhood--its years, its loves, its friends, its home--and it was never an old tale to me.

I loved to hear of grandfather Lewis, who went as minister's waiter in the War of Seventy-six, going with old Minister Roxford, whose name has been, and is still to be handed down through generations as a good old man of Connecticut. Grandfather was only sixteen years at that time, and though he saw no hard service, but was dressed up in ruffled s.h.i.+rt, etc., received through life a pension of ninety-six dollars per year, having enlisted for a period of six months, whereas some of his friends, who saw hard service, and came out of the contest maimed for life, received nothing.

Grandfather was of French extraction, and he boasted largely of this, but I could not feel very proud of the fact that he traded with the British, carrying to them hams, dried beef, poultry, and anything in shape of edibles, receiving in return beautiful silk stockings, bandanna handkerchiefs, and the tea that the old ladies were so glad to get.

Several times he was nearly captured, and once thrust into a stone wall, in the town of Stratford, a quant.i.ty of silk stockings, with which his pockets were filled. He was so closely pursued at that time, that he lay down close to a large log and covered himself with dead leaves, and one of his pursuers, a moment after, stood on that very log and peered into the distance, saying, "I wonder which track the scamp took."

I must not tell you more about this grandfather, whose history filled me full of wonder, but must hasten on to meet Aunt Phebe, who came according to appointment, and found a warm reception. She had a fine face, was tall and well-formed, her hair was a light-brown, and her eyes a bright, pure blue; she had a pleasant mouth and evenly set teeth, and she was a sweet singer. She is yet living, and sings to-day a "Rose tree in full blooming" with as sweet a cadence as when I was a child.

Clara was drawn toward her, and brought some of her best thoughts to the surface; read to her some of her own little poems, and wrote one for her, speaking tenderly of the past and hopefully of the future. Aunt Phebe had a nature to appreciate the beautiful, and ought herself to have been given the privilege of a later day, that she might have expressed her own good and true thoughts. She was a member of the Baptist church, and while we had no fear of condemnation from her lips, we knew she had not as yet tested this new thought that was now agitating our minds. She said she would like to go with us to hear "Father Ballou," as he was called by the Universalist people, and Clara, said:

"Well, Mrs. ----, the day is coming when all shall see and rejoice at the knowledge they have long desired; this will be the real fruit that has been promised by the hope of the soul for years; and it is not new, it is an old, old truth, and for this reason there will be less preparation needed to accept it. The soil is ready, and the hand of the age will drop the seed in the furrows which the years have made."

"This talk is as good as a sermon," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to hear you every week. Learning the work of wisdom is not an easy task, and all these thoughts come as helping hands to us; we are never too old to learn."