The Harvest of Years Part 23

"De Lord forgive you," said Matthias, "you're done gone clar from your senses. I dunno who dat gal is, an I dunno who you is, an' what more kin I say?"

"I know who you are, and I know you were the slave of Sumner down in South Carolina."

"Yaas," said Matthias, "dat's so; but how does you know 'bout me? Did you come down thar? 'Haps dat's de reason you're face kinder makes me look back, an it mos' allus does; 'pears like you mout explain."

"Yes, s'pose I _mout_," said Benton, "and I reckon you will before we get through."

"Wal," said Matthias, "if you wait till you gits evidence fo' you gives dat hidin' you talks 'bout, I've got plenty ob time to go over to de groun' room," and he walked off at his old gait, slow but sure, while I, turning, ran into the house and told mother what I had heard.

She raised her hands in a sort of holy horror, but only said:

"What does it mean?"

"It means," said Aunt Hildy, "that man's a rascal; I told you, Mis'

Minot, he was when I first set eyes on him, and I've kept good track of Emily, for when he see he couldn't get the 'rich widder,' that's what he calls our good little creetur Clara, then he tacked round and set sail for Emily, and he's been a torment to her, and I know it. Thank the Lord, he's shown his cloven foot; I wish Mr. Minot had heard it. _He_ laughs at me, thinks I'm a fool, but I've seen through him if I do wear an old cloak. It's mine, and so is my wit, what little I've got."

Aunt Hildy stepped up lively and worked every moment, keeping time to her thoughts and giving great expression by her peculiar accenting of words. Clara heard us, and came in "to the rescue," she said, "for it sounded as if somebody was getting a scolding."

I repeated my story, and although she rarely used French expressions, this time she clasped her little hands together, sank into a chair, and said:

"Oh! Emelie, j'ai su depuis longtemps, qu'il nous ferait un grand tort.

Le pauvre agneau! Le pauvre agneau!"

"What will father do?" I said to mother.

"I cannot think of anything to do except to help the poor girl; his own punishment is sure, Emily; we are not his masters. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" she quoted calmly.

"Yes," said Aunt Hildy, "that's the spirit to have, but I believe if I had really heard it as Emily did, I'd have risked it to throw a pan of dish water on him."

I could not help laughing--we were having a real drama in the kitchen.

Great tears had gathered in Clara's eyes, and I said to her:

"Now this will upset you. I'm sorry you heard it."

"No, no," she said, "but the poor lamb, I can hardly wait for the time when I may see her."

"Can you ever speak to Mr. Benton again?" I said to mother.

"I should hope so, Emily. I feel great pity for him; he might be a better man. We are taught toleration not of principles, but certainly of men, and I think if our Heavenly Father will forgive him, we can afford to, and then it would be very unwise to let him know we are cognizant of this."

My mother reminded me so many times of the light that burns steadily in a light-house on a ledge. The waves, was.h.i.+ng the solid rock, and wearing even the stone at its base, have no power to disturb the lamp, which, well trimmed, burns silently on, throwing its beams far out to sea, and fanning hope in the heart of the sailor, who finds at last the sh.o.r.e and blesses the beacon light.

I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well knew she would be righteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of "the lamb," would soon be forthcoming. I could hardly wait for the recital which I expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin's door at three o'clock precisely.

She was glad to see me, and said cheerily:

"Take off your things, Emily, and I'll show you right in, for Miss Harris is waiting anxiously."

I thought she looked beautiful the night we found her, but to-day she was a marvellous picture, sitting among the white pillows. Her cheeks were touched here and there with pink, as if rose leaves had left their tender stain--her eyes beautifully bright, and such depths of blue, with arched brows above them, and long brown lashes for a s.h.i.+eld. Her hair rippled over her shoulders in brown curls, and around her was thrown the light India shawl she had about her on that sad night. She smiled with pleasure as I entered, and beckoned me to her bedside, while Mrs.

Goodwin said:

"Take the old splint rocker, Emily. I am going to let you stay two long hours."

How gratefully the poor lamb's eyes turned upon the good woman!

"This young lady's name is Harris."

"Yes," said Miss Harris "Mary Abigail Harris, after my mother."

I kissed her forehead, and then took the seat proffered, sitting so near her that I could lean on the side of the bed as I listened to the story.

Mrs. Goodwin left us alone, and the recital began:

"I remembered your eyes, Miss Minot, and I wanted to tell you all about it--how I came to be here, needing the help you so kindly gave. Oh, I shudder," she said, "as I think how it might have been that never again my mother could have seen me!"

Her face grew pale, but no tears came, and I could see a resolute look that gave signs of strong will, and for this I felt inwardly thankful.

"I came from my home," said she, "in search of my husband. Three years ago I was married in my father's house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South from his Northern home on an artist's tour, selling many pictures and painting more. He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a wealthy planter by the name of Sumner." I started involuntarily. "There were two of these gentlemen--brothers--and they owned large plantations with many colored people. Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth. My father gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we were happy. Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and said 'Mary, I must go North--I have left some tangled business snarls there, which I must see to.' He left, promising an early return. The letters I received from him were frequent, and beautifully tender in their expressions of love for me. I was happy; but the days wore into weeks, and his return still delayed. I began to feel anxious and fearful, when I received a letter from Chicago, saying he had been obliged to go to that city on business, and would be unavoidably detained. He would like me to come to him, if it were not for fear of my being too delicate to bear the journey. My parents would have been quite unwilling also, for the promise of the days lay before me, and with this new hope that it would not be so very long ere he would come, I was again contentedly happy. The letters grew less frequent, and the days grew long, and when September came my little girl came too, and how I longed for her father to come.

"My parents telegraphed him of the event, saying also, 'Come, if possible--Mary is in a fever of anxiety,' but he did not come; the telegram was not replied to, and although dangerously ill, I lived. Now the letters came no more, and I, still believing in his goodness, felt sure that he was either sick or dead. My little Mabel lived one year.

Oh, how sweet she was! and one month after her death I received a letter asking why I was so silent, telling me of great trouble and overwhelming me with sorrow. I answered kindly, but my father was convinced by this that he was a 'villain,' to use his own expression. The fact of his not writing for so long, and then writing a letter almost of accusation against me, made me feel fearful, and as I looked back on my suffering, determined, if it were possible to some day know the truth. My answer to the letter I speak of was received, and he again wrote, and this time told me a pitiful tale of the loss by fire of all his artist possessions, and his closing sentence was 'we may never meet again, for in the grave I hope to find refuge from want. If you desire to answer this, write 'without delay. It is hard to bear poverty and want.'

"I felt almost wild, and gave father the letter, hoping to receive a generous donation from him, but my father said, 'Molly, darling, (that is my name at home), the villain lies! no, no, pet, not a cent.' I cried myself ill, and sent him my wedding ring, a diamond, his gift, since which I have heard nothing.

"I told my father after it was gone, and if he had not loved me so much, I should have felt the power of angry words. He was angry, but he thought of all I had suffered, and he took me right up in his arms, and cried over me. 'Mollie, darling, it is too bad; you have a woman's heart. I would to G.o.d the man had never been born.

"I had a dear friend to whom I had confided all my sorrow--a Virginia lady, married and living in Boston. Her husband, Mr. Chadwick, is a merchant there, and every year she spends three or four months with her Southern friends. One brother lives in Charleston, my home. We have been attached to each other for years, and my father and mother love her dearly. Three weeks ago she arrived at her home in Boston, having been South four months, and at her earnest solicitation I came also. She knew my heart and how determined I was to find Mr. Bentley, and felt willing to aid me in any way possible. We went about the city, and I devoted myself especially to looking at paintings and statuary. I found at last by chance a picture with the name, not of 'Bentley,' but of 'Benton' on it. I traced it to Chicago, and proved it to be his, and there from his own friends gathered the facts which led me on his track."

"Oh!" I cried.

"Wait," said she, "More, Miss Minot; he has a wife, or at least there is a poor woman with two boys living in poverty in the suburbs of Boston, to whom he was married ten years ago. I have been to see her, but did not disclose my secret. Mrs. Chadwick has known of this for a long time, but dared not tell me until I got strong, and was in the North with her. I gave that woman money to help her buy bread, and Mrs.

Chadwick will see to her now. She is a lovely character. Benton's home is near this place where she lives, and he goes there once in a great while. Now about my clothes--when I started for this place I was well clad, and the first of my journey quiet and calm, but I think my excitement grew intense, and I must have lost myself utterly. I know it was a week ago when I left Boston, and now as I look back, I remember looking at my baby's picture and everything growing dim in the cars.

This India shawl was thrown about my neck, but it seems when you found me I had no other covering. I found the purse where I had sewed it in my dress, but my cloak and bonnet and furs, all are gone.

"I can remember how the name of this place kept ringing in my ears, and I must have asked for it and found it, even though I cannot remember one word. After the baby's picture your eyes came before me, and then old Peter."

Looking at the clock, she said:

"It is only half an hour since you came in, and will you ask Peter to come in and see me? I'm sure I hear him talking in the other room."

I stepped to the door, and there was Matthias.

I said to Mrs. Goodwin:

"Miss Harris wishes to see Peter, she says."

She looked at Matthias, and then said: