Hence their removal to Appledale.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LITTLE TIME--HOW IMPROVED--FITNESS FOR REFINED SOCIETY--MORNING REFLECTIONS--RUTH AND BOAZ--CHARITY AND COURTESY--THE VISIT.

The little time allotted Emma seemed important, not only as it regarded her duty to others, but also in respect to herself. She desired a complete fitness for the refined society which she was about to enter.

She wished, above all things, to become meet for an inheritance with the saints in light; and for this fitness she strove, using with diligence every means relative to this end which G.o.d had placed within her reach; and, as a valuable means, she availed herself of the spiritual perception and Christian fidelity of good Dora, who was always ready to aid her.

"Tell me," she would say, "all that you see or _fear_ that is wrong in me; help me to examine my motives, emotions, and affections:" and Dora covenanted with Emma to this effect,--a sacred covenant, and one that should be oftener made among those who would be made perfect.

It was in accordance with this covenant that Emma had spoken fully of her feelings and impressions respecting f.a.n.n.y Brighton; and we have seen how faithfully this good woman kept her part of this covenant, by pointing out to Emma the judgment of charity and the judgment of self.

Emma still sat by the open window, upon that fine morning, thinking and feeling, as she long had done, of the heart's great depth of deceitfulness, which no man could know, and no human power could reach, when she saw Mr. Graffam coming along the road.

Poor Graffam, though in his sober senses, had been longer crossing the plain that morning than usual. Far down in the depths of his beclouded soul there was a love of the beautiful, and that love on this morning had been stirred within him. His eyes had been open to see the glittering dewdrops upon the tall wild flowers and green herbage of the plain, to see the giant trees stretch their green arms toward the sky; and his ears had been open to hear a sweet concert upon their topmost branches. Poor buried soul!--how it struggled for a resurrection; now leaping with joy at the thought of its own affinity for the pure and beautiful, and now sinking, sinking, sinking with the one blighting thought of human scorn richly merited.

Night after night had poor Graffam reeled from side to side of that gra.s.s-tufted road, while the plain seemed to him an interminable lake of fire, amid whose scalding waves there rolled and tossed poor wretches like himself; and morning after morning he had returned by the same road, feeling as though a frost-breath had pa.s.sed over the lake of fire, leaving it rough and leaden like a lava-deluged plain. But now, whence came the wonderful beauty of the widespread landscape? He knew in part, and brushed his old jacket sleeve across his swollen eyes. He feared that the vision was fated to pa.s.s away, "For my character is gone," said he; "n.o.body respects me; they call me 'old Pete,' and I am doomed." But a new feeling now came over him. He was nearing Snag-Orchard. The old chimneys were seen among the tree-tops, and strange to himself, (for years had pa.s.sed since he had cared for his personal appearance,) he found his right hand tucking up its brother's dirty wristband, and adroitly turning the torn part of his old hat-rim to the side opposite Appledale.

"Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Graffam," was the cheerful greeting coming to him from a chamber window.

But lo! he has forgotten the torn rim, and now it is flapping most gracefully, as the hat descends from the head, and is waved toward the window.

"Stop, if you please," said Emma; and she ran down the stairway, and along the garden-walk, toward the gate.

"Why, who is Emma flying to see?" asked Martha, as she saw her sister's white dress flitting past the window.

One of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for laughter, pointed out poor Graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in his hand, and his long s.h.a.ggy hair falling in tangled ma.s.ses over his neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered him.

"How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma.

"Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at him; or _began_ to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should forfeit her respect.

"It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may please G.o.d to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the world."

Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made for a curse."

"I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of utter indifference to him.

"If it please G.o.d," added Emma.

"It has pleased G.o.d," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for we are----"

"Are what, sir?"

"Poor and despised, miss."

"G.o.d does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and companions."

"Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away: "if poverty were all----"

"He does not despise the _sinner_ either," said Emma, softly; "so far from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake."

Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her face.

"There was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to me. Then to know that G.o.d was my friend, was enough, and I was happy; but that time is pa.s.sed. I parted with his friendship to gain that of the world, and now I have lost, hopelessly lost all--all!"

This was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it called tears of pity to Emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,--

"O do not say that _his_ friendship is hopelessly lost, Mr. Graffam; for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. He hates nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the sinner, and makes him an object of love. Jesus, Mr. Graffam, is the _sinner's friend_."

"Yes, miss," replied the poor man; though Emma saw that the faith of this great truth did not enter his heart. There was no room as yet for so pure a faith. The soul's great idol, whatever it be,--the "man of sin" sitting in the place of G.o.d,--must be dethroned before the Holy will enter in. Yet Emma's words stirred still more those powers of the soul which Graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with their chains. There was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad "good-morning."

"O," thought Emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help?

Poor Mr. Graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might live out among people, and be happy. I pity them from my very heart;"

and thinking over the matter, Emma walked out into the road, wandering down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters glided very soberly that morning. Here she paused awhile, looking over the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale face. "O Emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art hastening."

Slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then away in his field, working busily, she saw friend Sliver. She knew him by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe.

Intent upon his work, he hoed long with his eyes upon the ground: but at last he paused, and holding the hoe in one hand, drew a checkered handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face; in doing this, he glanced toward the road, and saw Emma leaning over the wall, apparently inspecting his work.

"Good-morning, Mr. Sliver," said Emma.

[Ill.u.s.tration: EMMA AND THE QUAKER.]

"Ah, how does thee do?" replied the good man, with evident pleasure. "I was not looking for thee in the potato field."

"I suppose not," replied Emma, smiling. "I am like Ruth, the Moabitess, who went to glean in the fields of Boaz: only she wanted grain, and I want counsel."

Friend Sliver laid down his hoe, and coming up to the wall, asked, "What is it, child?"

"You know Mr. Graffam, sir?"

"Thee means Peter, who lives upon the plains?"

"Yes, sir."

"O yes, I have known him some years; given to drink, Emma."

"I know it," replied Emma; "but need he be lost, sir? He has a wife and four pretty children; can't he be saved?"

"I see but one way," replied the old gentleman; "and that is to get him employment away from the mills. Motley keeps spirit for his hands. I have tried to help Peter by employing him myself, but he is very sullen when not in drink."

"I will tell you the reason of that," said Emma; "the poor man has naturally great self-esteem, and people irritate and crush him by showing him no respect."