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 passing 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 massive 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."
"Well," I answered merely.
"Can you forget it all?" he said.
"I will see," I replied, and just then I saw Halbert coming over the hill, and I was relieved from further annoyance. I cannot say just how this affected me. I felt in one sense free, but still a sense of heaviness oppressed me and all was not clear. My mental horizon was clouded, and I could see no signs of the clouds drifting entirely away, but on one point I was determined. I would give no signs of even pity for Mr. Benton, even should I feel it as through days I looked over my words and thoughts. He should not have even this to hold in his hand as a weapon against me. I would say nothing to Hal, for Louis would come, and in the fall, the year of his waiting would be at an end. He would tell me again of his great love, and I would yield to him that which was his. Oh, Louis, my confidence in your blessed heart grows daily stronger!
While these thoughts were running through my mind, Matthias' voice was heard, a moment more and he was saying:
"Guess he's done gone sure dis time; he drink an fiddle, an fiddle an' drink; and nex' ting I knowed he's done dar at the feet of dem stars all in a heap by hisself."
"Who's that?" I cried.
"Plint, Miss. He's done gone, sure, an' I came roun' to get some help 'bout totin' him up stars. Can't do nothin', an' Mis' Smith she's jes gone scart into somebody else. She don't 'pear to know nuthin', an' when I say help me, she jest stan' an' holler like mad."
"I'll go over," said Aunt Hildy, wiping her hands, and turning for sun bonnet and cape.
"I'll go," said Hal.
"Me, too," cried Ben, and off they started.
Poor Plint was gone, surely enough; dead, "a victim to strong drink and fiddlin'," Aunt Hildy said. His funeral was from the church, for we all respected Aunt Peg and pitied Plint, and Mr. Davis only spoke of God's great mercy and his tenderness to all his flock; never putting a word of endless torment in it.
Poor Aunt Peg had great misgivings concerning Plint, and groaned audibly throughout the entire service. Matthias was a great comfort to her through her trouble, and she told Clara and me when we called on her, that he was not as clean as she wished, but he was a mighty comfort to her, and the greatest blessing Aunt could have sent. Plint's fiddle hung against the wall in her little room with whitened floor and straight-back chairs, and I could not keep back the tears when I noticed that she had a bunch of wild violets tied to the old bow. She noticed it and burst into tears herself, crying:
"That there fiddle was no use no way, but seems now I kinder reckon on 't." She was true to these intuitions of the soul, these thoughts that cover tenderly even the remembrance of a wasted life, and we could not but think that if Plint had not loved cider so well, he might perhaps have developed rare musical talent.
I had been true to myself as far as Mr. Benton was concerned, and since our last stormy interview, treated him with respectful indifference. He had two or three times attempted to bring about a better state of affairs, but I could not and did not give him any encouragement. I felt wronged and also justified in the establishment of myself where I should be safe from greater trouble at his hands.
The first day of July, the day for Louis' coming, dawned auspiciously, and I was as happy as a bird. It seemed to me my trouble was nearly over, and Louis, when he came in at our door that night, looked admiringly at me, and after supper he said:
"Emily, you are growing beautiful, do you know it?"
"I hope so," I said honestly, "you know how homely I have always been."
"No, no, I do not, you have been to me my royal Emily ever since I first met you."
"I must have compared strangely with your city friends and their bewildering costumes."
"It was more strange than you know; you made the picture and they were the background," he said, and I thought, perhaps, he was going to cut short the year of waiting and say more. Instead, he looked off over the hills, and held my hand tighter. We were in Hal's room, and Mr. Benton entered, saying with great joy in his tones:
"Louis, I have made a success, take a little walk with me and I will tell you about it."
Louis looked at me a moment, as if to tell me it is the picture, and with a tender light in his eyes, went out under the sky, which was beautiful with the last tinge of sunset clinging to it, as if loath to leave its wondrous blue to the rising moon and stars.
As they passed out, I thought I saw Matthias coming, but must have been mistaken, as he did not appear. An hour passed and Louis and Mr. Benton returned, the latter looking wonderfully satisfied and happy, Louis thoughtful, and I should have thought him sad had I not known of Clara's picture.
The days passed happily, but through them all I was not as happy as I had expected. Louis must be sick, I thought; he was so quiet, and almost sad. Perhaps he had met with less, and I longed to ask him but could not. I was annoyed also by Mr. Benton, who would not fail to embrace every opportunity that offered, to talk with me alone, holding me in some way, for moments at a time. If I was dusting in Hal's studio, and this was a part of my daily duties, he was sure to be there, and several times Louis came in when we were talking together, I busy at work and Mr. Benton standing near.
Clear through the months that led us up to the door of October, these almost daily annoyances troubled me. It was not love-making, for since the day of my righteous indignation he had not ventured to approach me on that ground; but any thought which came over him, sometimes regarding his pictures and sometimes a saying of Aunt Hildy's,—anything which could be found to talk upon, it seemed to me, he made a pretext to detain me, and since he did this in a gentlemanly manner, how could I avoid it! It was a perfect bore to me, and yet I thought it too foolish a trouble to complain of. That was not the summer full of joy to which I had been looking, but it was full of work and care, and over all the mist of uncertainty.
Hal's house had been built; it was a charming little nest, just enough room for themselves and with one spare chamber for company.
"Don't git too many rooms nor too big ones," said Aunt Hildy. "If six chairs are enough, twenty-five are a bother. One loaf of bread at a time is all we want to eat. I tell you, Halbert, you can't enjoy more'n you use; don't get grand idees that'll put your wife into bondage. There are all kinds of slavery in this world," and between every few words a milk-pan went on the buttery shelf. She always worked and preached together.
Hal had a nice room for his work; then they had a sitting-room, kitchen and bedroom down stairs, and two chambers. It was a cottage worth owning, and Clara, as usual, did something to help.
"Allus putting her foot down where it makes a mark," said Aunt Hildy.
She furnished Hal's room entirely, and gave Mary so many nice and necessary things that they were filled with thanksgiving. The marriage ceremony was performed at Deacon Snow's, and I cried every moment. I sat between Louis and Clara, notwithstanding Mr. Benton urged a seat upon me next himself; and on our return home he appeared to think I needed his special care, but I held close to Clara, and Louis, whose arm was his little mother's support, walked between us. He was sadly thoughtful, saying little.
The wedded pair left our town next morning for a brief visit with Mary's friends, and returned in a few days to their little house, which was all ready for occupancy. Aunt Hildy and mother had put a "baking of victuals," according to Aunt Hildy, into the closet, and the evening of their return their own supper table was ready, with mother, Clara, Louis and me in waiting. Louis remarked on Mr. Benton's coming over, and I forgot myself and said, in the old way:
"Can't we have one meal in peace?"
Mother said:
"Why, Emily, you are losing your mind; what would Hal think if Mr. Benton were left alone?"
Father and Ben came over, but not till after supper, and Aunt Hildy persisted in staying at home and doing her duty.
"Let him come, and stay, too," I added, still feeling vexed; and how strangely Louis looked as Mr. Benton came in. "Fairy land," he said.
Mother made some reply, but I sat mute as my thought could make me.
The stage came. Our first supper was pleasant both as a reality and as a type of their future. Hal and Mary were truly married, and through the ensuing years their lives ran on together merged as one. When we stopped to think over the years since his boyhood, to remember the comparatively few advantages he had enjoyed, the ill luck of my father in his early years, and his tired, discouraged way which followed,—it was hard to realize the facts as they were. Grandma Northrop often prophesied of Hal, saying to mother:
"That boy's star will rise. I know his good luck will more than balance his father's misfortune, and in your old age you will see him handsomely settled in life."
It seemed as if the impulse of his youth had all tended to bring him where the light could shine on his art, and from the time he entered Mr. Hanson's employ his good fortune was before him. There is another thought runs by the side of this, and that is one induced by the knowledge of the great power of gold. Mr. Hanson was a man of wealth and good business relations. Liking Hal for himself, and interested in his art, it was easy for him to open many doors for the entrance of his work. Mr. Benton was a help to Hal in his art, and his reward was immediate almost, for Hal had told me Will's pieces had never been appreciated as now. It was astonishing, too, how many people had money to buy these expensive treasures,—but the sea was smooth.
"Every shingle on the house paid for," said Aunt Hildy; "aint that the beginning that ought to end well?"
And now the road of the future lay, as a fair meadowland, whose flowers and grasses should be gathered through the years. Truly life is strangely mixed.
The look of perplexing anxiety had vanished from my father's face, for with Hal's prospects his own had grown bright, and you cannot know how Clara lifted him along, as it were; paying well and promptly and saving in so many ways, was a wondrous help to a farmer's family. There was also the prospect of a new street being opened through the centre of the town, and if my father wished he could sell building lots on one side of it, for it would run along the edge of his land.
"Trouble don't never come single-handed, neither does prosperity, Mr. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.
"Love's Fawn" was a famous little housekeeper, everything was in good order, and I certainly found a well-spring of joy in the society of these two. If Mary needed any extra help, Hal said, "Emily will do it." This was a very welcome change from the old saying.
Ben was a daily visitor, and spoke of sister Mary with great pride. He was a good boy and willing. Hal felt anxious to help him, if he desired it, by giving him more schooling, but he was a farmer born, and his greatest ambition was to own a farm and have a saw mill. He went to the village school, and had as good an education as that could give, for he was not dull. I was glad for his sake he liked farming; it seemed to me a true farmer ought to be happy. Golden and crimson leaves were fluttering down from the forest trees, for October had come upon us and nearly gone, and while all prospects for living were full of cheer, I felt a great wonder creeping over me, and with it, fear. Louis had said no word to me as yet, and could it be he had forgotten the year was at an end? Surely not. Could his mind have changed? Oh, how this fear troubled me! He was as kind as ever, but he said much less to me, and seemed like one pre-occupied. One chance remark of Clara's brought the color to my cheeks, as we sit together.
"Louis, my dear boy, what is it? A shadow crossed your face just then."
He looked surprised, and only half answered:
"The shadow of yourself. I was thinking about you."
Mr. Benton did not talk of leaving us; he had some unfinished pieces, and my father had said:
"Remain as long as you please, if my wife is willing."
After Hal left, I felt his studio marred by Mr. Benton's presence, for he had become a perfect torture to me, and I began to believe he delighted in it, secretly. Then again, I had the room to attend to, and I must in consequence be annoyed. Of this I was tired, and when day after day passed and brought no word from Louis, save in common with the rest, I said, hopelessly:
"Let it go. I will try to love no one but father and mother and Clara and Hal, and oh, dear! when shall I ever be ready to say, 'Now Clara, let me help you'?"
She said to me through these days I was not happy. "Wild flower, what troubles thee?" one day, and again, "Emily, my royal Emily, art thou sighing for wings?"
November came and passed, and the gates of the new year were opening, still all the way lay dark before me. Night after night my tear-stained pillow told my sorrow mutely, and day after day I sighed. Mother was not well, and I felt that everything was wrong. I was worrying myself sick, I knew, and could not help it.
It was a cold, bitter day, and in my heart lay bitter thoughts when Matthias came over to tell us, that "Peg was right sick, 'pears like she's done took sick all in a minit, onions and onions, mustard and mustard, an nothin' don't do no good. Here's a piece of paper I foun' in de road, 'pears like you mus' want it," and he handed it to me.
I put it in my pocket and went to ask Aunt Hildy what to do for Aunt Peg. She proposed to go over, and Ben went with her.
While they were gone I read the paper, which proved to be a letter, evidently written to Mr. Benton, and the signature was plainly, "your heart-broken Mary," I could only pick out half sentences, but read enough to show me the treachery and sorrow, aye, more, a life cursed with shame, and at the hands of Wilmur Benton.
"Thank God," I cried aloud—I was in the sitting-room alone—and then tears fell hot and fast, and I sobbed and cried as if I had found a wide white path that led from the night of my discontent, out into the morning of the day called peace. I could not stay there and cry, I must pass Clara's door to go to my room, and throwing a shawl over my shoulders I rushed out, and fairly flew over the frozen ground to that dear old apple tree. What a strange place to go to, standing under those bare limbs, or rather walking to and fro, but I could not help it! This same old tree had heard my cries and seen my tears for years. I covered my face with both hands, and wept aloud. I could not have been there long, when I felt a presence, and Louis was beside me.
Putting an arm around me, he said tenderly, "Come in, Emily."
"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I cannot, they will see my face, what shall I do? how came you here?" and I still kept crying and sobbing as if my heart would break.
"Why Emily, my royal Emily, come into little mother's room,—she has lain down,—and tell me why you weep."
I yielded gratefully, not gracefully, and we were seated alone, all alone, and he was saying to me:
"Emily, tell me what it is, you have troubled me so long, your eyes have grown so sad. Oh! Emily, my darling, may I not know your secret sorrow? I can wait longer, my year has flown, and three months more, and still my heart is waiting; tell me your sorrow, and then let me say to you what I have waited in patience to repeat."
It was not a dream, my heart beat like a bird, and I could tell him, only too gladly. "Emily will do it."