The Harvest of Years Part 17

"You know the tenets of our belief embrace both eternal comfort and eternal misery," said Mr. Davis; "it is what we are taught."

"I know," said my father. "I have considered my church obligations seriously, and am prepared to say, if it is inconsistent for me, in the eyes of my preacher or of his people, that I, holding these thoughts, should remain in fellows.h.i.+p with them as before, I can only say I have grown strong enough now to stand alone, and I should think I ought to stand aside. I cannot see why we may not agree on all else."

"I believe we do; I respect your opinions, Mr. Minot; we cannot afford to lose you either. May I ask with what denomination you would propose to unite?"

"None at all," said my father, "unless the road comes clearer before me.

I love our old meeting-house, Mr. Davis; my good old father played the violin there for years, and when a youth, I stood with him and played the ba.s.s viol, while my brother, now gone, added the clear tones of the clarionet, and the voice of my sweet sister Lucy could be heard above all else, in the grand old hymns 'Silver Street' and 'Mear.'" At these recollections my father's voice choked with emotion, and strange for him, tears fell so fast he could say no more.

"Brother Minot," said Mr. Davis, rising to his feet and taking his hand, his eyes looking upward, "let the G.o.d who seeth in secret hold us still as brothers; keep your pew in the old church. This one difference of opinion can have no weight against either of us. This is all the church meeting we need or will have, and if I ever judge you falsely, may I _be_ thus judged."

Aunt Hildy said: "Amen, Brother Davis, your good sense will lead you out of the ditch, that's certain."

Clara's eyes were looking as if fixed on a far-off star. She was lost in gazing, the thin white lids covered her beautiful eyes for a moment or two, then she turned her pure face toward Mr. Davis, and said:

"It is good for us all to be wise, and it is not easy to obey the scriptural injunction, 'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.'

Ever growing, the human mind must reach with the tendrils of its thought beyond the confines of to-day. The intuition of our souls, this G.o.dlike attribute which we inherit directly from our Father, is ever seeking to be our guide. None can be so utterly depraved that they have not sympathy either in one way or another with its utterances. Prison bars and dungeon cells may hold souls whose central thoughts are pure as noon-day; and sometimes hard-visaged men, at the name of home and mother, are baptized in tears. The small errors of youth lead along the way to greater crimes, and I sometimes ask myself if it is not true that living with wants that are not understood, causes men to seek the very things their souls do not desire, and they are thus led into deep waters. If Mr. Minot's soul reaches for a G.o.d of compa.s.sion and mercy, is it not because that soul whispers its need of this great love; and if it asks for this, will it not be found; for can it be possible with this spark of G.o.d within us, the living soul can desire that which is not naturally designed for it?

"Why, my dear friends," she continued, "this is the great lesson we need to make us, on this earth, all that we might and should be. It is not true that the thought of eternal love will warrant us in making mistakes here; on the contrary, it will help us to see all the beauty of our world, and to link our lives as one in the chain which binds the present to the enduring year of life to come. Duty would be absolute pleasure, and all they who see now no light beyond the grave, would by this unerring hand be led to the mountain top of truth's divine and eternal habitation. In your soul, Mr. Davis, you ask and long for this.

Doctrinal points confuse you when you think upon them, and you have lain aside these thoughts and said, 'the mysteries of G.o.dliness may not be understood;' but my dear sir, if this be true, why are we told to be perfect even as our 'Father in Heaven is perfect;' for would not that state be G.o.dly, and could there be mysteries or fear connected with it?"

"_Never, never_," said Aunt Hildy.

Then, with her hands stretched appealingly toward him, Clara said:

"Oh, sir, do not thrust this knowledge from the door of your heart! Let it enter there. It will warm your thoughts with the glow of its unabating love, and you will be the instrument in G.o.d's hand of doing great good to his children."

She dropped her hands, the tender lids covered again those wondrous eyes, and we sat as if spell-bound, wrapt in holy thought.

"Let us pray," said Mr. Davis, and we knelt together.

Never had I heard him pray like this, and I shall ever remember the last sentences he uttered; "Father, if what thy handmaid says be true, give me, oh, I pray thee, of this bread to eat, that my whole duty may be performed, and when thou shall call him hither, may thy servant depart in peace."

Mr. Davis shook hands with us all just as the clock tolled nine, and to Clara he said:

"Sister, angels have anointed thee; do thy work."

This was a visit such as might never occur again. Truly and strangely our life was a panorama all these days. I dreamed all night of Clara and her thoughts, and through her eyes that were bent on me in that realm of dreams, I read chapters of the life to come.

CHAPTER XIV.

LOUIS RETURNS.

It would be now only a few days to Mr. Benton's return, and I dreaded it, never thinking of him without a shudder pa.s.sing over me; Aunt Hildy would have called it "nervous creepin'." I felt that this was wrong, and especially so since I knew I was thus hindered in the well-doing for which I so longed.

"Happiness comes from the inner room," said Aunt Hildy; "silver and gold and acres of land couldn't make a blind man see."

Her comparisons were apt, and her ideas pebbles of wisdom, clear and white, gathered from experience and polished by suffering. Both she and Clara were books which I read daily. How differently they were written!

and then how different from both was the wisdom of a mother whose light seemed daily to grow more beautiful. It seemed when I thought of it as if no one had ever such good teachers. And now if I could only break these knots which had been tangled through Mr. Benton's misunderstanding of me, there seemed no reasonable excuse for not progressing. Church affairs had been happily regulated, so far as Mr. Davis and our few nearer friends were concerned, and the sermon on good deeds which he preached the Sabbath after his visit to us was more than worthy of him.

Clara said, "He talked of things he really knew; facts are more beautiful than fancies."

"And stand by longer," added Aunt Hildy.

Louis was to come on the first of July, his mother not deeming it advisable for him to study through that month; but Mr. Benton preceded him and came the first day of June. It was a royal day, and he entered the door while the purplish tinge of sunset covered the hills and lay athwart the doorway.

"Home again," was his first salutation.

"Very welcome," said Hal and father; mother met him cordially, and I came after them with Clara at my side, and only said:

"How do you do, Mr. Benton?"

He grasped my hand and held it for an instant in a vice-like grasp. I darted a look of reproof at him, and the abused look he wore at our last talk came back and settled on his features.

It seemed to me the more I tried to keep out of his way the more fate would compel me to go near him. Hal was very busy, and it seemed as if Clara had never spent so much time in her own room as now, when I needed her so much. Mother was not well, and every afternoon took a long nap, so I was left down stairs, and no matter which side of the house I was in he was sure to find me. The third day after his arrival he renewed his pleading, trying first to compliment me, saying:

"What a royal woman you are, and how queenly you look with your ma.s.sive braids of midnight hair fastened with such an exquisite comb!" (Louis'

gift).

"Midnight hair," I said. "I've seen many a midnight when I could read in its moonlight; black as a crow would be nearer the truth," and I laughed.

The next sentence was addressed to my teeth. He liked to see me laugh and show my teeth; they looked like pearls.

"I wish they were," I said, "I'd sell them and buy a nice little house for poor Matthias to live in."

"Ugh!" he said, and looked perfectly disgusted; but he was not, for he said more foolish things, and at last launched out into his sober sentiment. Oh, dear, if I could have escaped all this!

"Have you not missed me? You have not said it."

"I have not missed you at all," I said, "and I do wish you would believe it."

"You have no welcome, then, no particular words of welcome?"

"Mr. Benton, you know I am a country girl."

"Yes, but you remind me of a city belle in one way. You gather hearts and throw them away as recklessly as they do, throwing smiles and using your regal beauty as a fatal charm. I must feel, Miss Minot, that it would have saved me pain had we never met."

This touched a tender spot. "Mr. Benton," I cried, "cease your foolish talk, you know that I never tried to captivate you, that I take no pleasure in an experience like this. You say that I am untrue to myself, false to my highest perception of right and justice. If you claim for me what you have said, you do not believe it, Wilmur Benton; you know in your soul you speak falsely."

"Why, Emily," he said, "you are imputing to me what you are unwilling to bear yourself; do you realize it?"

"I think I do," I replied, "and further proof is not needed to convince me."

"Really, this is a strange state of affairs, but (in a conciliatory tone), perhaps I spoke too impulsively, I cannot bear your anger; forgive me, Emily."