We walked farther than I intended, and Matthias pa.s.sed us on his way over to his "ground room."

I said, "Good evening, Mr. Jones," and he saluted me with uncovered head, saying:

"De Lord keep you, miss, till mornin'."

Realizing how far we had walked, I turned hack so suddenly that Mr.

Benton came near being pushed into the stone wall on the old road corners. On our return he spoke of Matthias.

"I don't like that fellow anyway, Emily."

"Don't like him! why not, pray?"

He gave a sort of derisive e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and added:

"You are a little simpleton, Emily, so good and true, you take all for gold."

"Well," I replied, "Matthias is good, I know; but why do you dislike him?"

"Oh! he belongs to a miserable, low-lived, thievish race, and he knows enough to be a dangerous fellow to have round. If I were you I'd not encourage his hanging round; he'll do something to pay you for your kindness yet."

CHAPTER XII.

A REMEDY FOR WRONG-TALKING.

I could not believe what Mr. Benton said of Matthias, and did not refrain from speaking of it to Clara, whose opinions were golden to me, and her reply was perfectly in accordance with my own feelings. Each took her own route to the conclusion, but her interpretation came as an intuitive perception, while mine was more like something which fell into my mind with a power whenever his eyes met my own.

"Emily," said Clara, "I have taken his dark hand in mine. I have come close to his white heart, when from his lips have fallen the words telling his history, and I would trust him everywhere. If any trouble comes to you, Emily, trust Matthias; he is as true as truth itself, and his soul is pure--purer, perhaps, than the souls of many who have had great advantages, and whose forms have been molded in a more beautiful shape. Our Father judges from within; let our judgment be like his."

This was good for me to hear. I felt glad that I could sometimes come so near to Clara's thoughts. I was greatly wrought upon by Matthias' tales of the South; and yet he venerated the people of that country, and said:

"The Northerners are too cold-blooded: they didn't invite folks to have a bite without first feelin' in their pockets to see if they could find money there."

I knew nothing from experience of Southern hospitality, but believed all he told me, and I thought it the greater pity that such a lovely land should be so marred with this terrible trade in lives, and I said to Clara, when we were discussing this subject:

"Is it not too bad, and does it seem possible that this great evil will be suffered to endure forever?"

"No," said Clara, "neither possible nor probable. I may not live to hear with these earthly ears the glad news, but you, Emily, will live to see the bond go free, and the serpent of slavery lie at the feet of America, who will place her heel on its crushed and bleeding head. This will be, must be, and the years will not number so very many between now and then."

"Why do you think so, Clara?"

"Oh! I do not think it; I know it to be true; I have long known it; it stands by the side of the beautiful truth we have heard from the lips of that venerated preacher, Emily, and I cannot see why we may not all be in some measure the recipients of these truths, for they lie all around us on every hand. Did you ever read, Emily, of the man called Dr. De Benneville?"

"Never," said I; "tell me, please, his history."

"It was printed about 1783. I think I have it."

"Well, tell me, Clara, a little; I cannot wait for that now."

She smiled and said:

"Dear child, how glad I am that you have so good a heart, and some day these impulses will drive your boat on the sh.o.r.e of peace that lies waiting for us on the bay of truth. But you are anxious and I will tell you. Dr. George De Benneville was the son of a Huguenot, who fled to England from persecution, and was employed at court by King William. His mother was a Granville, and died soon after his birth in 1703. He was placed on board a ship of war--being destined for the navy--at the early age of twelve years, and received on the coast of Barbary singular religious impressions, induced, it is said, by his beholding the kindness of the Moors to a wounded companion. He had great doubts regarding salvation, but after suffering for months with doubts, the light was made clear to him, and he held to his heart the faith in a universal rest.i.tution. His great sense of duty led him to preach, and he commenced in the Market-house of Calais in his seventeenth year. He was fined and imprisoned, but did not desist. He sought and found co-laborers, and persisted two years in preaching in the woods and mountains of France. At Dieppe he was seized, and with a friend, Mr.

Durant, condemned. Durant was hanged, and while the preparations for beheading De Benneville were in progress, a reprieve from Louis IX arrived, and after a long imprisonment in Paris, he was liberated through the intercession of the Queen."

"Good," I said, "she had a heart."

"He then spent eighteen years in Germany preaching and devoting himself to scientific studies, and at the age of thirty-eight he emigrated to this country. He claimed no denominational name, but preached this glorious truth. I can come nearer to him than any other whose history I have known, for was he not called of G.o.d, and did he not fulfil his mission gloriously? He was ill on board the ship which brought him to America, and when it arrived in Philadelphia, a man by the name of Christopher Sower came on board, saying he was looking for a man who was ill, and whom he wished to take to his house. This man Sower was also divinely led, for he received a commandment in a dream to go seven miles from his home in Germantown to a certain wharf in Philadelphia, and inquire on board a ship just arrived for a man who was ill, to take him home and to specially care for him. He hitched his horse to his carriage, and followed the instructions of his dream."

"Were these facts the doors that led you out into light?" I asked.

"I never read these facts, Emily, until after my vision was made clear, and I saw the future that lives and waits for all."

"Girls," called Aunt Hildy, "ef you've got through with the meetin', I want to ask about these biscuit; I'm afraid they're going to be poor; come look at 'em, Emily."

"The biscuit are all right, Aunt Hildy. Did you hear what the preacher said."

"No, not really, heard all I could without neglectin' of my work."

"She has been telling me a story of a good man. We will ask her to preach again."

"Perhaps," said Aunt Hildy, "more'n just you and I will hear her. I can't see how all these ideas are comin' out, and 'pears to me, it looks as ef we'd got to meet, and have a battle somewhere before long. The troubles are simmerin' over the fire of different minds, and I shall never sell my birthright over a mess of pottage; that's jest what I shan't do. It has stuck to me where everything else has failed, and I'm never agoin' to let go of it."

I knew to what she alluded, for our good minister had stirred the waters with his sermons, and they were, of course, induced by his fearing the progress of liberal thought in our midst. We had ourselves received a sermon evidently directed at us, which described the act of going to hear Mr. Ballou as a wrong step. Even if we had not been clear-sighted enough to have taken the sermon to ourselves, we should have been reminded of it by the looks of some of the congregation, who sought out our pew with strong reproof in their eyes; among those whose eyes met mine in this manner, I remember most distinctly Jane North and Deacon Grover. I smiled involuntarily, and with a glance of horror at my wickedness, they turned their faces toward the preacher.

Clara was not with us that Sabbath, for which I was glad. I wondered what would be done, and the week after mother left us, Jane North came over, and I expected to hear some talk concerning it.

She brought her knitting in a little gingham bag on her arm, and there was no way to get rid of her or of her coming talk, which, I confess, I dreaded.

"Oh, dear!" I said to Clara, "that wretched meddler is coming. What shall we do with her?"

"I will try and help you, Emily. Perhaps she has a good heart after all, and meddles only because her conditions in life have fitted her for nothing better."

"It isn't so, Clara; she tells stories about everybody; I would not believe her under oath."

"Charity," she said softly, and through the door came Jane.

"Good afternoon, Emily."

"Take a seat," I said, bowing.

"Good afternoon, Mis' Densin," to Clara.

"Mrs. _De-mond_," I said, p.r.o.nouncing the name rather forcibly.

"Oh! _De_-mond is it?" with accent on the first syllable