University of Virginia Library

5. V.

Year after year passed by, but not without bringing
change to the Mitchenor family. Moses had moved to
Chester County soon after his marriage, and had a good
farm of his own. At the end of ten years Abigail died;
and the old man, who had not only lost his savings by an
unlucky investment, but was obliged to mortgage his farm,
finally determined to sell it and join his son. He was

getting too old to manage it properly, impatient under the
unaccustomed pressure of debt, and depressed by the loss
of the wife to whom, without any outward show of tenderness,
he was, in truth, tenderly attached. He missed her
more keenly in the places where she had lived and moved
than in a neighborhood without the memory of her presence.
The pang with which he parted from his home was weakened
by the greater pang which had preceded it.

It was a harder trial to Asenath. She shrank from
the encounter with new faces, and the necessity of creating
new associations. There was a quiet satisfaction in
the ordered, monotonous round of her life, which might
be the same elsewhere, but here alone was the nook which
held all the morning sunshine she had ever known. Here
still lingered the halo of the sweet departed summer,—
here still grew the familiar wild-flowers which the first
Richard Hilton had gathered. This was the Paradise in
which the Adam of her heart had dwelt, before his fall.
Her resignation and submission entitled her to keep those
pure and perfect memories, though she was scarcely conscious
of their true charm. She did not dare to express
to herself, in words, that one everlasting joy of woman's
heart, through all trials and sorrows—“I have loved, I
have been beloved.”

On the last “First-day” before their departure, she
walked down the meadows to the lonely brake between
the hills. It was the early spring, and the black buds of
the ash had just begun to swell. The maples were dusted
with crimson bloom, and the downy catkins of the swamp-willow

dropped upon the stream and floated past her, as
once the autumn leaves. In the edges of the thickets
peeped forth the blue, scentless violet, the fairy cups of
the anemone, and the pink-veined bells of the miskodeed.
The tall blooms through which the lovers walked still
slept in the chilly earth; but the sky above her was mild
and blue, and the remembrance of the day came back to
her with a delicate, pungent sweetness, like the perfume
of the trailing arbutus in the air around her. In a sheltered,
sunny nook, she found a single erythronium, lured
forth in advance of its proper season, and gathered it as a
relic of the spot, which she might keep without blame.
As she stooped to pluck it, her own face looked up at her
out of a little pool filled by the spring rains. Seen against
the reflected sky, it shone with a soft radiance, and the
earnest eyes met hers, as if it were her young self, evoked
from the past, to bid her farewell. “Farewell!” she
whispered, taking leave at once, as she believed, of youth
and the memory of love.

During those years she had more than once been
sought in marriage, but had steadily, though kindly, refused.
Once, when the suitor was a man whose character
and position made the union very desirable in Eli Mitchenor's
eyes, he ventured to use his paternal influence.
Asenath's gentle resistance was overborne by his arbitrary
force of will, and her protestations were of no avail.

“Father,” she finally said, in the tone which he had
once heard and still remembered, “thee can take away,
but thee cannot give.”

He never mentioned the subject again.

Richard Hilton passed out of her knowledge shortly
after her meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard,
indeed, that his headlong career of dissipation was not
arrested,—that his friends had given him up as hopelessly
ruined,—and, finally, that he had left the city. After
that, all reports ceased. He was either dead, or reclaimed
and leading a better life, somewhere far away. Dead,
she believed—almost hoped; for in that case might he
not now be enjoying the ineffable rest and peace which
she trusted might be her portion? It was better to think
of him as a purified spirit, waiting to meet her in a holier
communion, than to know that he was still bearing the
burden of a soiled and blighted life. In any case, her
own future was plain and clear. It was simply a prolongation
of the present — an alternation of seed-time
and harvest, filled with humble duties and cares, until
the Master should bid her lay down her load and follow
Him.

Friend Mitchenor bought a small cottage adjacent to
his son's farm, in a community which consisted mostly of
Friends, and not far from the large old meeting-house in
which the Quarterly Meetings were held. He at once
took his place on the upper seat, among the elders, most
of whom he knew already, from having met them, year
after year, in Philadelphia. The charge of a few acres of
ground gave him sufficient occupation; the money left to
him after the sale of his farm was enough to support him
comfortably; and a late Indian summer of contentment

seemed now to have come to the old man. He was done
with the earnest business of life. Moses was gradually
taking his place, as father and Friend; and Asenath would
be reasonably provided for at his death. As his bodily
energies decayed, his imperious temper softened, his mind
became more accessible to liberal influences, and he even
cultivated a cordial friendship with a neighboring farmer
who was one of “the world's people.” Thus, at seventy-five
he was really younger, because tenderer of heart and more
considerate, than he had been at sixty.

Asenath was now a woman of thirty-five, and suitors
had ceased to approach her. Much of her beauty still
remained, but her face had become thin and wasted, and
the inevitable lines were beginning to form around her
eyes. Her dress was plainer than ever, and she wore the
scoop-bonnet of drab silk, in which no woman can seem
beautiful, unless she be very old. She was calm and grave
in her demeanor, save that her perfect goodness and benevolence
shone through and warmed her presence; but,
when earnestly interested, she had been known to speak her
mind so clearly and forcibly that it was generally surmised
among the Friends that she possessed “a gift,” which
might, in time, raise her to honor among them. To the
children of Moses she was a good genius, and a word from
“Aunt 'Senath” oftentimes prevailed when the authority
of the parents was disregarded. In them she found a new
source of happiness; and when her old home on the
Neshaminy had been removed a little farther into the past,
so that she no longer looked, with every morning's sun,

for some familiar feature of its scenery, her submission
brightened into a cheerful content with life.

It was summer, and Quarterly-Meeting Day had arrived.
There had been rumors of the expected presence
of “Friends from a distance,” and not only those of the
district, but most of the neighbors who were not connected
with the sect, attended. By the by-road, through the
woods, it was not more than half a mile from Friend Mitchenor's
cottage to the meeting-house, and Asenath, leaving
her father to be taken by Moses in his carriage, set out
on foot. It was a sparkling, breezy day, and the forest
was full of life. Squirrels chased each other along the
branches of the oaks, and the air was filled with fragrant
odors of hickory-leaves, sweet fern, and spice-wood.
Picking up a flower here and there, Asenath walked onward,
rejoicing alike in shade and sunshine, grateful for
all the consoling beauty which the earth offers to a lonely
heart. That serene content which she had learned to call
happiness had filled her being until the dark canopy was
lifted and the waters took back their transparency under
a cloudless sky.

Passing around to the “women's side” of the meeting-house,
she mingled with her friends, who were exchanging
information concerning the expected visitors. Micajah Morrill
had not arrived, they said, but Ruth Baxter had spent
the last night at Friend Way's, and would certainly be
there. Besides, there were Friend Chandler, from Nine
Partners, and Friend Carter, from Maryland: they had
been seen on the ground. Friend Carter was said to have

a wonderful gift,—Mercy Jackson had heard him once, in
Baltimore. The Friends there had been a little exercised
about him, because they thought he was too much inclined
to “the newness,” but it was known that the Spirit
had often manifestly led him. Friend Chandler had visited
Yearly Meeting once, they believed. He was an old
man, and had been a personal friend of Elias Hicks.

At the appointed hour they entered the house. After
the subdued rustling which ensued upon taking their seats,
there was an interval of silence, shorter than usual, because
it was evident that many persons would feel the
promptings of the Spirit. Friend Chandler spoke first,
and was followed by Ruth Baxter, a frail little woman,
with a voice of exceeding power. The not unmelodious
chant in which she delivered her admonitions rang out, at
times, like the peal of a trumpet. Fixing her eyes on vacancy,
with her hands on the wooden rail before her, and
her body slightly swaying to and fro, her voice soared far
aloft at the commencement of every sentence, gradually
dropping, through a melodious scale of tone, to the close.
She resembled an inspired prophetess, an aged Deborah,
crying aloud in the valleys of Israel.

The last speaker was Friend Carter, a small man, not
more than forty years of age. His face was thin and intense
in its expression, his hair gray at the temples,
and his dark eye almost too restless for a child of
“the stillness and the quietness.” His voice, though not
loud, was clear and penetrating, with an earnest, sympathetic
quality, which arrested, not the ear alone, but the

serious attention of the auditor. His delivery was but
slightly marked by the peculiar rhythm of the Quaker
preachers; and this fact, perhaps, increased the effect of
his words, through the contrast with those who preceded
him.

His discourse was an eloquent vindication of the law
of kindness, as the highest and purest manifestation of
true Christian doctrine. The paternal relation of God to
man was the basis of that religion which appealed directly
to the heart: so the fraternity of each man with his fellow
was its practical application. God pardons the repentant
sinner: we can also pardon, where we are offended; we
can pity, where we cannot pardon. Both the good and
the bad principles generate their like in others. Force
begets force; anger excites a corresponding anger; but
kindness awakens the slumbering emotions even of an evil
heart. Love may not always be answered by an equal
love, but it has never yet created hatred. The testimony
which Friends bear against war, he said, is but a general
assertion, which has no value except in so far as they
manifest the principle of peace in their daily lives—in the
exercise of pity, of charity, of forbearance, and Christian
love.

The words of the speaker sank deeply into the hearts
of his hearers. There was an intense hush, as if in truth
the Spirit had moved him to speak, and every sentence
was armed with a sacred authority. Asenath Mitchenor
looked at him, over the low partition which divided her
and her sisters from the men's side, absorbed in his rapt

earnestness and truth. She forgot that other hearers were
present: he spake to her alone. A strange spell seemed
to seize upon her faculties and chain them at his feet: had
he beckoned to her, she would have arisen and walked to
his side.

Friend Carter warmed and deepened as he went on.
“I feel moved to-day,” he said,—“moved, I know not
why, but I hope for some wise purpose,—to relate to you
an instance of Divine and human kindness which has come
directly to my own knowledge. A young man of delicate
constitution, whose lungs were thought to be seriously affected,
was sent to the house of a Friend in the country,
in order to try the effect of air and exercise.”

Asenath almost ceased to breathe, in the intensity with
which she gazed and listened. Clasping her hands tightly
in her lap to prevent them from trembling, and steadying
herself against the back of the seat, she heard the story
of her love for Richard Hilton told by the lips of a
stranger!—not merely of his dismissal from the house, but
of that meeting in the street, at which only she and her
father were present! Nay, more, she heard her own
words repeated, she heard Richard's passionate outburst
of remorse described in language that brought his living
face before her! She gasped for breath—his face was
before her! The features, sharpened by despairing grief,
which her memory recalled, had almost anticipated the
harder lines which fifteen years had made, and which now,
with a terrible shock and choking leap of the heart, she recognized.
Her senses faded, and she would have fallen

from her seat but for the support of the partition against
which she leaned. Fortunately, the women near her were
too much occupied with the narrative to notice her condition.
Many of them wept silently, with their handkerchiefs
pressed over their mouths.

The first shock of death-like faintness passed away,
and she clung to the speaker's voice, as if its sound alone
could give her strength to sit still and listen further.

“Deserted by his friends, unable to stay his feet on
the evil path,” he continued, “the young man left his
home and went to a city in another State. But here it
was easier to find associates in evil than tender hearts
that might help him back to good. He was tired of
life, and the hope of a speedier death hardened him in
his courses. But, my friends, Death never comes to
those who wickedly seek him. The Lord withholds destruction
from the hands that are madly outstretched to
grasp it, and forces His pity and forgiveness on the unwilling
soul. Finding that it was the principle of life
which grew stronger within him, the young man at last
meditated an awful crime. The thought of self-destruction
haunted him day and night. He lingered around
the wharves, gazing into the deep waters, and was restrained
from the deed only by the memory of the last
loving voice he had heard. One gloomy evening, when
even this memory had faded, and he awaited the approaching
darkness to make his design secure, a hand was laid
on his arm. A man in the simple garb of the Friends
stood beside him, and a face which reflected the kindness

of the Divine Father looked upon him. `My child,' said
he, `I am drawn to thee by the great trouble of thy mind.
Shall I tell thee what it is thee meditates?' The young
man shook his head. `I will be silent, then, but I will
save thee. I know the human heart, and its trials and
weaknesses, and it may be put into my mouth to give thee
strength.' He took the young man's hand, as if he had
been a little child, and led him to his home. He heard
the sad story, from beginning to end; and the young
man wept upon his breast, to hear no word of reproach,
but only the largest and tenderest pity bestowed upon
him. They knelt down, side by side, at midnight; and
the Friend's right hand was upon his head while they
prayed.

“The young man was rescued from his evil ways, to
acknowledge still further the boundless mercy of Providence.
The dissipation wherein he had recklessly sought
death was, for him, a marvellous restoration to life. His
lungs had become sound and free from the tendency to
disease. The measure of his forgiveness was almost more
than he could bear. He bore his cross thenceforward with
a joyful resignation, and was mercifully drawn nearer and
nearer to the Truth, until, in the fulness of his convictions,
he entered into the brotherhood of the Friends.

“I have been powerfully moved to tell you this story.”
Friend Carter concluded, “from a feeling that it may be
needed, here, at this time, to influence some heart trembling
in the balance. Who is there among you, my friends,
that may not snatch a brand from the burning! Oh, believe

that pity and charity are the most effectual weapons
given into the hands of us imperfect mortals, and
leave the awful attribute of wrath in the hands of the
Lord!”

He sat down, and dead silence ensued. Tears of emotion
stood in the eyes of the hearers, men as well as women,
and tears of gratitude and thanksgiving gushed warmly
from those of Asenath. An ineffable peace and joy descended
upon her heart.

When the meeting broke up, Friend Mitchenor, who
had not recognized Richard Hilton, but had heard the
story with feelings which he endeavored in vain to control,
approached the preacher.

“The Lord spoke to me this day through thy lips,”
said he; “will thee come to one side, and hear me a minute?”

“Eli Mitchenor!” exclaimed Friend Carter; “Eli! I
knew not thee was here! Doesn't thee know me?”

The old man stared in astonishment. “It seems like
a face I ought to know,” he said, “but I can't place thee.”
They withdrew to the shade of one of the poplars. Friend
Carter turned again, much moved, and, grasping the old
man's hands in his own, exclaimed—

“Friend Mitchenor, I was called upon to-day to speak
of myself. I am—or, rather, I was—the Richard Hilton
whom thee knew.”

Friend Mitchenor's face flushed with mingled emotions
of shame and joy, and his grasp on the preacher's hands
tightened.

“But thee calls thyself Carter?” he finally said.

“Soon after I was saved,” was the reply, “an aunt on
the mother's side died, and left her property to me, on condition
that I should take her name. I was tired of my
own then, and to give it up seemed only like losing my
former self; but I should like to have it back again now.”

“Wonderful are the ways of the Lord, and past finding
out!” said the old man. “Come home with me,
Richard,—come for my sake, for there is a concern on my
mind until all is clear between us. Or, stay,—will thee
walk home with Asenath, while I go with Moses?”

“Asenath?”

“Yes. There she goes, through the gate. Thee can
easily overtake her. I 'm coming, Moses!”—and he hurried
away to his son's carriage, which was approaching.

Asenath felt that it would be impossible for her to meet
Richard Hilton there. She knew not why his name had
been changed; he had not betrayed his identity with the
young man of his story; he evidently did not wish it to be
known, and an unexpected meeting with her might surprise
him into an involuntary revelation of the fact. It
was enough for her that a saviour had arisen, and her lost
Adam was redeemed,—that a holier light than the autumn
sun's now rested, and would forever rest, on the one landscape
of her youth. Her eyes shone with the pure brightness
of girlhood, a soft warmth colored her cheek and
smoothed away the coming lines of her brow, and her step
was light and elastic as in the old time.

Eager to escape from the crowd, she crossed the highway,

dusty with its string of returning carriages, and entered
the secluded lane. The breeze had died away, the air
was full of insect-sounds, and the warm light of the sinking
sun fell upon the woods and meadows. Nature seemed
penetrated with a sympathy with her own inner peace.

But the crown of the benignant day was yet to come.
A quick footstep followed her, and ere long a voice, near
at hand, called her by name.

She stopped, turned, and for a moment they stood
silent, face to face.

“I knew thee, Richard!” at last she said, in a trembling
voice; “may the Lord bless thee!”

Tears were in the eyes of both.

“He has blessed me,” Richard answered, in a reverent
tone; “and this is His last and sweetest mercy. Asenath,
let me hear that thee forgives me.”

“I have forgiven thee long ago, Richard—forgiven,
but not forgotten.”

The hush of sunset was on the forest, as they walked
onward, side by side, exchanging their mutual histories.
Not a leaf stirred in the crowns of the tall trees, and the
dusk, creeping along between their stems, brought with it
a richer woodland odor. Their voices were low and subdued,
as if an angel of God were hovering in the shadows,
and listening, or God Himself looked down upon them
from the violet sky.

At last Richard stopped.

“Asenath,” said he, “does thee remember that spot
on the banks of the creek, where the rudbeckias grew?”

“I remember it,” she answered, a girlish blush rising
to her face.

“If I were to say to thee now what I said to thee
there, what would be thy answer?”

Her words came brokenly.

“I would say to thee, Richard,—`I can trust thee,—
I do love thee!”

“Look at me, Asenath.”

Her eyes, beaming with a clearer light than even then
when she first confessed, were lifted to his. She placed
her hands gently upon his shoulders, and bent her head
upon his breast. He tenderly lifted it again, and, for the
first time, her virgin lips knew the kiss of man.