The Harvest of Years Part 22

"Louis Desmonde," said Mr. Benton, "do you realize what you are saying?"

"Only too well, sir; do not force me to say more. I admire your art. I am willing to help you to be a man."

"_Indeed!_" replied Mr. Benton. "Philanthropic _boy_! who talks to a man of years and judgment!"

It was a bitter pill for him, and I believe it was the knowledge of Louis' money, and of his own great need of it, that forced him to retreat in silence, while Louis sought and told me of their interview.

"How could you help telling him of the letter, Louis?"

"I did not have to try to help it, for I want to be sure of all I say to him, and as far as I spoke I had perfect authority. He may at some time need my help, though he spurned the aid of his 'philanthropic boy.'"

"_Boy_," said I, "you are old enough to be his father in goodness, but here comes Aunt Hildy. The poor lamb must be better, else she would not come back so soon," and I opened the door for her entrance.

"I know what you're after," she said, "she's better; the poor thing will get well. Oh dear! land! I wonder, when'll the same old story end."

"Has she told it to you, Aunt Hildy?"

"Partly to me and partly to Mis' Goodwin." (Aunt Hildy never said Mrs.

---- married or single, it was always Miss.) "She'll tell you all about it, I guess, for she wants to see you. She remembers your dark eyes, and Matthias she calls Peter--yes, she does, now she's come clean to her senses, and when she gets a little more strength, she says she must see him, and the dark eyes too; so you'll have to go over. Mis' Goodwin said mebbe you'd better wait till to-morrer, and so says Brother Davis. He come over and brought a few of his powders--he wanted to do something. I told him we could fetch her out straight--Mis' Goodwin and me--and I think he'd better tend to himself--says he's got a dreadful pain under his shoulder blades; acts as if he's goin' to be sick."

"Could the young lady eat anything, Mrs. Patten?" said Louis.

"Mercy! yes, I've made gruel twice for her and she's all right, only she'll be lame and sore-like for a good while, but I must go to work, I've been gone long enough. Where's your mother?" And the dear old soul hastened to her duties.

Our supper table was enlivened by the news that Aunt Hildy brought, all being interested with the exception of Mr. Benton, who was well covered with dignity. Part of that evening, Louis and I spent with Hal and Mary.

I longed to tell them all about the letter and Mr. Benton's deceit, but as we entered, Louis whispered, "Let us be discreet," and I answered, "Emily will do it." He was so much wiser that our years told a story when they said "only a month's difference in their ages." Hal and Mary were much interested in the poor lamb, and like ourselves hoped to learn her history, and help her as she must need. Our visits here were always pleasant, and when we said "good night," a sincere "G.o.d bless you" rose from our hearts. We entered our sitting-room, to find Clara sitting between mother and father, and the three evidently enjoying a home talk.

After we were seated, and a lull in the conversation came, Louis startled me by saying:

"Mr. and Mrs. Minot, I want to ask of you a favor--greater than the one granted my little mother; perhaps so great that you will fail to grant it; but it is worth the asking, worth the waiting for through years. May I call Emily my wife?"

My father looked strangely, and did not reply for a moment, while mother's face was covered with that pleasant smile, which from earliest years I had considered, "_yes_." Louis' eyes were bent on my father, who, when he answered, said:

"You are both young, Louis."

"Yes, sir, I know it, and I do not ask to make her my wife now. But I love her, Mr. Minot, and it is not right we should hold a position not sanctioned by you. I shall feel better if you are willing to consider us, as we feel, pledged to each other."

"I cannot say _no_, but I have thought--Mr. Benton has asked me the same question, and I hardly know what to say--I said to him, 'If Emily is willing, I will not oppose your suit.'"

"Oh!" I cried, "father, he has told such stories!"

Louis said: "We can explain that satisfactorily, Mr. Minot, but if there are other objections in your mind, let us know what they are."

My father was not a man who expressed himself freely, and Louis was so unlike other young men that he was embarra.s.sed evidently, and there was, as it seemed to me, a long silence ere he said:

"I have no objections, Louis. I believe you mean what you say, and also have enough of your mother in you to treat our girl well. I cannot see why your plans may not be carried out so far as I am concerned."

He looked at mother, who smiled a consent, and Louis stepped toward them both, shook their hands heartily, and said:

"I thank you."

His way of manifesting feeling was purely French, and belonged to him--it was not ours, but we came to like it, and as my father often said, when Clara came she unlocked many a door that had been shut for years. Too many of our best ideas were kept under covering, I knew, and the hand of expressive thought was one which loosened the soil about their roots, giving impetus to their growth and sweetness to their blossoms. We knew more of each other daily, and is not this true through life? Do not fathers and mothers live and die without knowing their children truly, and all of them looking through the years for that which they sorely need, and find it not? Their confidence in each other lacking, lives have been blasted, hopes scattered almost ere they were born, and generations suffered in consequence. It was the blessed breaking of day to me, the freedom to tell my mother what I thought; and after Clara, became one of us, I could get much nearer to my father. The full tide of her feeling swept daily over the harbor bar of our lives, and we enjoyed together its great power. Her heart was beneficent, and her hand sealed it with the alms she gave freely. She was always un.o.btrusive, and anxious in every way to avoid notoriety.

Deacon Grover who had heard and known with others of her numerous charities, offered advice in that direction, and said to Aunt Hildy,

"If that rich lady would just walk up and give a few hundreds to the church fund it would help mightily."

Aunt Hildy had replied:

"Yes, yes, Deacon Grover, it would be nice for lazy folks to let the minister do all the saving, and somebody else all the paying. I believe faith without works is jest exactly like heavy bread, and will not be accepted at the table of the Lord."

"He never said another word to me," said she; "that man knows he has a right to be better."

This was a conceded fact, and it always seemed to me he ought not to be carrying his deacons.h.i.+p in one hand, and his miserably small deeds in the other. Hypocrites were in existence among all people, and while thoroughly despised by them, still held their places, and do yet, as far as my knowledge and experience go.

Early the morning of the next day, Matthias came over to tell us about that "poor gal," as he called her.

"She wants to see you, Miss Emily, and they say she wants to talk to me too. Mis' Goodwin said ''pears like you'd better come over thar 'bout three o'clock to-day, if you can.' She's right peart, an' by 'nuther mornin', 'spect she'll call loud for me."

"Do you think you know her, Matthias?"

"Can't say I do, Miss, but seems queer enough, she 'sists on callin' of me 'Peter'--um--gimme sich a feelin' when she spoke dat word," and Matthias looked as if his heart was turning back to his old home, and its never-to-be-forgotten scenes.

Mother sent a basket of delicacies over by him, and Aunt Hildy said:

"Tell Miss Goodwin I'm goin' to bake some of my sweet cookies and send over, and we can make some bread for her; 'twill help along--don't forget it Matthias."

"No, marm, I'll 'member sure," and off he started. As he pa.s.sed along the path I thought of a word I wanted to say, and ran out of the door in time to see the shadow of a form which I knew must be waiting in the "angle" as we called it. It was where the east L ended, about ten feet from the main front. In the summer I had a bed of blue violets here, and named it "Violet Angle.' I stopped, for I heard a voice, and saw Matthias turn to this spot instead of pa.s.sing on to the gate as usual.

The first salutation I did not hear, but Matthias' reply was "yaas sah."

The voice was Mr. Benton's, and I stood riveted to the spot.

"Who is that girl, Matt?" he said.

"Dunno, sah."

"Don't know? Yes, you do know; you can't play your odds on me. I'm not ready to swallow all I hear. I want you to tell me who that girl is, and how she came here."

"I dunno, sah, sartin."

"Matt, I don't believe a word you say; first tell me the truth."

"Ma.s.sar Benton, you're a queer man. Dis n.i.g.g.ah shan't tell you no lies, but de Lord's truf, I dunno noffin 'bout."

"You don't know me either, do you?" and he laughed ironically.

"Never thought I did," said Matthias; "'pears like long ways back I see some face like yours, but I dunno. Good many faces looks alike roun'

yere."

"Yes, yes," says Benton, "you've said enough, you black rascal; and you _mark my words_, if you've raised the devil, as I think you have, I'll cowhide you. I'll give you something to remember me by, you old fool; and you a'nt a fool either; you're as cunning as Satan is wicked."