On the following day Samuel's ankle was so badly swollen as to make a frightful appearance. Mrs. Royden had to call him three times before he could summon courage to get up; and when, threatened with being whipped out of bed, he finally obeyed her summons, he discovered, to his dismay, that the lame foot would not bear his weight.
With great difficulty Sam succeeded in dressing himself, after a fashion, and went hopping down stairs.
"You good-for-nothing, lazy fellow!" began Mrs. Royden, the moment he made his appearance, "you deserve to go without eating for a week. The boys were all up, an hour ago. What is the matter? What do you hobble along so, for?"
"Can't walk," muttered Sam, sulkily.
"Can't walk!"—in a mocking tone,—"what is the reason you cannot?"
"'Cause my ankle's hurt, where I fell down."
"There! now I suppose you'll be laid up a week!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with severe displeasure. "You are always getting into some difficulty. Let me look at your ankle."
Crying with pain, Sam dropped upon a chair, and pulled up the leg of his pantaloons.
When Mrs. Royden saw how bad the hurt was, her feelings began to soften; but such was her habit that it was impossible for her to refrain from up-braiding the little rogue, in her usual fault-finding tone.
"You never hurt that foot by falling over a stone, in this world!" said she. "Now, tell me the truth."
Sam was ready to take oath to the falsehood of the previous night; and Mrs. Royden, declaring that she never knew when to believe him, promised him a beautiful flogging, if it was afterwards discovered that he was telling an untruth. Meanwhile she had Hepsy bring the rocking-chair into the kitchen, where Sam was charged to "keep quiet, and not get into more mischief," during the preparation of some herbs, steeped in vinegar, for his ankle.
The vein of kindness visible under Mrs. Royden's habitual ill-temper affected him strangely. The consciousness of how little it was deserved added to his remorse. He was crying so with pain and unhappiness, that when Georgie and Willie came in from their morning play out-doors, they united in mocking him, and calling him a "big baby."
At this crisis the old clergyman entered. He was up and out at sunrise, and for the last half-hour he had been making the acquaintance of the two little boys, who were too cross to be seen the previous night.
"Excuse me," said he to Mrs. Royden, who looked dark at seeing him in the kitchen; "my little friends led me in this way."
"Oh, you are perfectly excusable," replied she; "but we look hardly fit to be seen, in here."
"Dear me," cried the old man, with one of his delightful smiles, "I am fond of all such familiar places. And you must not mind me, at any rate. I came to be one of the family, if you will let me."
Mrs. Royden replied that he was perfectly welcome; he did them an honor; but she was sure it would be much pleasanter for him to keep the privacy of his own room, where the children would not disturb him.
"There is a time for all things under the sun," answered the old man. "There is even a time to be a child with children. But what have we here? A sprained ankle?"
"Yes, sir," murmured Sam.
"Ah! it is a bad sprain," rejoined the clergyman, in a tone of sympathy. "How did it happen?" sitting down by Samuel, and taking Georgie and Willie on his knees.
Sam mumbled over the old story about falling over a stone.
"And you were mocking him?" said the old man, patting Willie's cheek.
"He cries," replied Willie, grinning.
"And don't you think you would cry, if you had hurt your foot as he has?"
The boy shook his head, and declared stoutly that he was sure he would not cry. But he, as well as Georgie, began actually to shed tears of sympathy, when their new friend made them look at the sprained ankle, and told them how painful it must be.
They were not heartless children; their better feelings only required to be drawn out; and from that time, instead of laughing at Sam, they appeared ready to do almost anything they thought would please him.
"I haven't had such an appetite in months," said the clergyman, as he sat down at the breakfast-table with the family.
And his happy face shed a pleasant sunshine on all around. Mr. Royden invited him to ask a blessing on the food; and, in a fervent tone, and an earnest, simple manner, he lifted up his heart in thankfulness to the great Giver.
As Mrs. Royden poured the coffee, she appeared to think it necessary to make some apologies. They did not often use that beverage in her family, she said, and she was not skilled in its preparation.
"I am afraid it is not very clear," she added.
"No," said the clergyman, "it is not clear enough for me. The only drink that is clear enough for me"—holding up a glass of pure cold water—"is this."
"But you will try a cup of coffee? Or a cup of tea, at least?"
"I never use either, except when I need some such restorative. Last night a fine cup of tea was a blessing. This morning I require nothing of the kind."
"But you cannot make out a breakfast on our plain fare, without something to drink besides water."
The old man smiled serenely.
"Your fare cannot be too plain for me. I often breakfast luxuriously on a slice of brown bread and a couple of apples."
"Brown bread and apples!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, in surprise. "Who ever heard of apples for breakfast?"
"I never feel so well as when I make them a large proportion of my food," replied the clergyman. "People commit a great error when they use fruits only as luxuries. They are our most simple, natural and healthful food."
"You have never worked on a farm, I see," observed Mr. Royden.
"I understand you,"—and the old man, perhaps to illustrate his liberal views, ate a piece of fried bacon with evident relish. "Different natures and different conditions of men certainly demand different systems of diets. If a man has animal strength to support, let him use animal food. But meat is not the best stimulus to the brain. With regard to vegetables, my experience teaches that they are beautifully adapted to our habits of life. Let the man who digs beneath the soil consume the food he finds there. But I will pluck the grape or the peach as I walk, and, eating, find myself refreshed."
"That is a rather poetical thought," remarked Chester. "But I doubt if it be sound philosophy."
"Oh, I ask no one to accept any theory of my own," answered the old man, benignly. "If I talk reason, consider my words; if not,"—smiling significantly, with an expressive gesture,—"let the wind have them."
"But I think your ideas very interesting," said Sarah. "What do you think of bread?"
"It is thestaff of life. The lower vegetable productions are suited to the grosser natures of men. Those brought forth in the sunlight are more suitable to finer organizations. I place grains as much higher than roots, on a philosophical scale, as the ear of corn is higher than the potato, in a literal sense. Therefore, as grain grows midway between vegetables and fruits, it appears to be wisely designed as the great staple of food. But the nearer heaven the more spiritual. If I am to compose a sermon, let me make a dinner of nuts that have ripened in the broad sunlight, of apples that grow on the highest boughs of the orchard, and of grapes that are found sweetest on the tops of the vines."
"Very beautiful in theory," said Chester.
"When you have studied the subject, perhaps you will find some grains of truth in the chaff," replied the clergyman, with a genial smile.
"In the first place," rejoined Chester, with the confidence of a man who has a powerful argument to advance, "speaking of nuts,—let us look at the chestnut. You will everywhere find that the tallest trees produce the poorest nuts."
"I grant it."
"Then how does your theory hold?"
Mr. Rensford answered the young man's triumphant look with a mild expression of countenance, which showed a spirit equally happy in teaching or in being taught.
"I think," said he, "your tall chestnut-tree is found in forests?"
"Yes, sir; and the spreading chestnut, or the second growth, that springs up and comes to maturity in cleared fields, is found standing alone."
"It strikes me, then, that the last iscultivated. You may expect better nuts from it than from the savage tree. And there is good reason why it should not be of such majestic stature. Its body has room to expand. It is not crowded in the selfish society of the woods; and, to put forth its fruits in the sunlight, it is not obliged to struggle above the heads of emulous companions."
"But chestnuts are very unhealthy," said Mrs. Royden, to the relief of Chester, who was at a loss how to reply.
"They should not be unhealthy. If we had not abused our digestive organs, and destroyed our teeth by injurious habits, we would suffer no inconvenience from a few handfuls of chestnuts. As it is, masticate them well, and use them as food,—and not as luxuries, after the gastric juices are exhausted by a hearty dinner,—and I doubt if they would do much harm."
"Dear me!" cried Mrs. Royden, as the clergyman declined tasting the pie Hepsy brought on as a dessert, "you haven't eaten anything at all! You'd better try a small piece?"
The old man thanked her kindly, adding that he had eaten very heartily.
"I am afraid you will not be able to get through the forenoon," she replied.
"Nay, don't tempt me," he said playfully, as she insisted on the pie. "My constitution was never strong; and, with my sedentary habits, I should never have reached the age of seventy-two, if I had not early learned to control my appetites. It is better to go hungry from a loaded table, than run the risk of an indigestion."
"Are youseventy-two?" asked Mr. Royden, in a sad tone.
"The twelfth day of October next is my seventy-second birthday," replied the old man, cheerfully. "Don't you think I have lasted pretty well?"
"Is it possible that you are twenty-eight years older than I?" exclaimed the other.
"Do I not look as old?"
"When your countenance is in repose, perhaps you do; but when you talk,—why, you don't look over fifty-five, if you do that."
"I have observed it," said Sarah. "When you speak your soul shines through your face."
"And the soul is always young. God be praised for that!" replied Mr. Rensford, with a happy smile on his lips, and a tear of thankfulness in his eye. "God be praised for that!"
"But the souls of most men begin to wither the day they enter the world," remarked Chester, bitterly. "Perhaps, in your sphere of action, you have avoided the cares of life,—the turmoil and jar of the noisy, selfish world."
"Heaven has been merciful to me," said the old man, softly. "Yet my years have been years of labor; and of sorrow I have seen no little. Persecution has not always kept aloof from my door."
"Oh, few men have had so much to go through!" spoke up Mr. Royden, in a tone of sympathy. "The wonder is, how you have kept your brow so free from wrinkles, and your spirit so clear from clouds."
"When the frosts have stolen upon me, when the cold winds have blown," replied Mr. Rensford, in a tone so touching that it was felt by every one present, "I have prayed Heaven to keep the leaves of my heart green, and the flowers of my soul fresh and fragrant. The sunlight of love was showered upon me in return. I managed to forget my petty trials, in working for my poor, unhappy brethren. My wife went to heaven before me; my child followed her, and I was left at one time all alone, it seemed. But something within me said, 'They whom thou hast loved are in bliss; repine not therefore, but do thy work here with a cheerful spirit, and be thankful for all God's mercies.'"
"I understand now how you got the familiar name I have heard you called by," said Mr. Royden, with emotion.
"Yes,"—and the old man's fine countenance glowed with gratitude,—"it has pleased my friends to give me an appellation which is the only thing in the world I am proud of,—Father Brighthopes. Is it possible," he added, with tears in his eyes, "that I have deserved such a title? Has my work been done so cheerfully, has my faith been so manifest in my life, that men have crowned me with this comforting assurance that my prayers for grace have been answered?"
"Then you would be pleased if we called you by this name?"
"You will make me happy by giving me the honorable title. No other, in the power of kings to bestow, could tempt me to part with it. As long as you find me sincere in my faith and conduct, call meFather Brighthopes. When I turn to the dark side of life, and waste my breath in complaining of the clouds, instead of rejoicing in the sunshine, then disgrace me by taking away my title."
"I wish more of us had your disposition," said Mr. Royden, with a sad shake of the head.
"There is no disposition so easy, and which goes so smoothly through the world," replied the old man, smiling.
Mr. Royden felt the force of the remark, but, being a man of exceedingly fine nerves, he did not think it would be possible for him to break up his habit of fretfulness, in the midst of all the annoyances which strewed his daily path with thorns. He said as much to his aged friend.
"Do you never stop to consider the utter insignificance of all those little trials, compared with the immortal destiny of man?" replied Father Brighthopes. "I remember when a blot of ink on a page I had written over would completely upset my temper. That was the labor of copying the spoiled manuscript? What are all the trivial accidents of life? What even is the loss of property? Think of eternity, and answer. Afflictions discipline us. Sorrows purify the soul. Once an insulting word would throw me into a violent passion; but to-day I will do what I think right; and smile calmly at persecution."
The old man's philosophy had evidently made an impression. Mr. Royden went about his work in a more calm and self-supported manner than was his wont; and the children had never known their mother in a better humor, at that time of day, than when directing the household affairs, after breakfast.
Lizzie did not fail to remind Father Brighthopes of the book he promised her; and, in opening his trunks, he found not only what she wanted, but volumes to suit all tastes, from Sarah's down to Georgie's, and even a little picture-book for Willie. He also put his hand on something which he thought would interest Sam, laid up with his lame ankle; and selected one of the most attractive books in his possession to cheer the heart of Hepsy.
By this time the children were growing dangerously attached to him. Willie wanted to sit on his knee all the time, and Georgie was unwilling to go and rock the baby, which was crying in the sitting-room, unless the clergyman went out there too.
But Father Brighthopes had a peculiar faculty of governing young people. With a few kind words, and a promise of following soon, he despatched Georgie to work at the cradle, with a good heart; and, telling Lizzie and Willie that he wished to be alone a little while, he sent them away, well contented with the books and kisses he gave them.
Mrs. Royden's household affairs progressed unusually well that morning, and she was remarkably pleasant, until Sam, who could not keep out of mischief, even with his sprained ankle to take care of, occasioned a slight disaster. He had made a lasso of a whip-lash to throw over the children's heads when they should pass through the kitchen, and commenced the exercise of his skill upon the unfortunate Hepsy. Every time she passed he would cast the loop at her neck, but entirely without success in his experiments; and at length the bright idea occurred to him to make an attempt upon her foot. Spreading out the lasso in her way, he pulled up suddenly as she walked over it, and, after several efforts, perseverance resulted in a capture. The loop caught Hepsy's toe.
Sam had not reckoned on the disastrous consequence of such a seizure. The unsuspecting victim was stepping very quick, and the impediment of the whip-lash threw her head-foremost to the floor. She was not much hurt, but an earthen dish she was carrying was shattered to pieces. Frightened at the catastrophe, Sam hastened to undo the loop; but Mrs. Royden was on the spot before he had put the fatal evidence against him out of his hand.
"You careless creature!" she exclaimed, in a sharp key, regarding Hepsy with contracted features, "can't you walk across the floor without falling down? If you can't——"
"Samuel tripped me," murmured Hepsy, gathering up the fragments of the dish.
"O, I didn't!" cried Sam, putting up his elbows as Mrs. Royden flew to box his ears.
"What are you doing with that lash?" she demanded, after two or three vain attempts to get in a blow.
"Nothing; only, it was lying on the floor, and I went to pick it up just as Hepsy was going along; and, you see," stammered Sam, "she ketched her foot and fell down."
"Give me the lash!" said Mrs. Royden, angrily.
"I won't have it out any more!" and Sam put it in his pocket.
"Give it to me, I say!"
"I don't wan't ter; you'll hit me with it."
Mrs. Royden could not bear to be argued with on such occasions. She made a seizure of one of Sam's ears, and pulled it until he screamed with pain.
"There!" said she, "will you mind next time, when I speak?"
"Yes. I don't want the old thing!" and Sam threw the contested property across the room, under the sink.
He knew, by the flash of Mrs. Royden's eye, as she hastened to grasp it, that danger was impending; and, starting from his chair with surprising agility, he hopped out doors. But his lame ankle incapacitated him to endure a long chase. Mrs. Royden pursued into the yard, and, coming up with him, laid the lash soundly upon his head and shoulders, until he keeled over on his back, and, holding his lame foot in the air, pleaded for mercy. There, as she continued to beat him, he caught hold of the lash and pulled it away from her; upon which she returned in her worst humor, to the kitchen.
It was sad to see James escape to the barn when he saw the storm, and Sarah make an errand up stairs.
Poor Hepsy went silently and industriously to work to avoid reproofs, while her blue eyes filled with sorrowful tears. Georgie got his ears boxed for some slight offence, and his crying awoke the baby, which he had but just rocked to sleep.
At this crisis, Mrs. Royden called Lizzie; but Lizzie dreaded her presence, and hid in the garden, with the book Father Brighthopes had given her; and she made Willie lie down behind the currant-bushes and look at the pictures in his primer, while she read.
Mrs. Royden was casting around for some one besides the weak Hepsy to vent her ill-humor upon, when Chester made his appearance.
"I wish you would take that baby, Chester, and get it still! You must not be afraid to take hold and help while you stay at home. What have you got on those pantaloons for, this busy morning? Go and put on an old pair. You needn't think you are to walk about dressed up every day."
"I am going to take Father Brighthopes to ride," answered Chester, briefly.
"It is just as I expected!" exclaimed his mother. "Half your father's time and yours will be taken up in carrying him around, and half of mine in trying to make him comfortable here at home."
"I hopethe childrenwill learn a little sweetness of temper of him, in return," said Chester, significantly.
"You impudent fellow! This is the return you make me, is it, for fitting you out for school, and working my fingers to the bone to keep you there? We'll see——"
"Hush, mother! do!"
With a black frown, Chester strode across the room, having warned his mother of the clergyman's approach. With great difficulty she held her peace, as Father Brighthopes entered.
The advent of the old man's serene countenance was like a burst of sunshine through a storm. Without appearing to remark the darkness of Mrs. Royden's features, he took up the baby, and began to toss it in his arms and talk to it, to still its cries. The little creature was quieted at once.
"It is singular," said the clergyman, "I never yet found a child that was afraid of me. How I love their pure, innocent looks!"
Already ashamed of her ill-temper, Mrs. Royden hastened to take the babe from his arms; but he insisted on holding it. Georgie meanwhile had stopped crying, and Sarah came down from the chamber. To the latter Father Brighthopes finally relinquished the charge, and, taking his hat and cane left the house with Chester.
James brought out the horse, and helped his father put him into the wagon-thills.
"Where are you folks going?" asked Sam, hobbling along on the grass, with his foot in the air.
"Over to the village," replied James.
Sam's heart sank within him; and it was with sickening apprehensions of calamity that he saw Mr. Royden ride off with Chester and the old clergyman. They could not go far, he was sure, without discovering the entire mystery of his lame leg; and the consequences seemed too dreadful to contemplate.
It was a beautiful balmy morning in June; the whole earth rejoiced in the soft sunshine and sweet breezes; and around the sumachs and crab-apple trees, by the road-side fences, where the dew was still cool on the green leaves, there were glad birds singing joyously, as the wheels went humming through the sand.
No careless child could have enjoyed the ride more than the good Father Brighthopes did. It was delightful to hear him talk of the religion to be drawn from fresh meadows, running brooks, the deep solitude of woods, and majestic mountains crags.
"And to think that the good God made all for us to enjoy!" he said, with his clear blue orbs tremulous with tears.
"You give me new ideas of religion," replied Mr. Royden. "It always seemed to me a hard and gloomy thing."
"Hard and gloomy?"—The old man clasped his hands, with deep emotion, and his face radiated with inexpressible joy. "O! how softening, how bright it is! The true spirit of religion makes men happier than all earthly comforts and triumphs can do; it is a cold and mechanical adherence to the mere forms of religion,—from fear, or a dark sense of duty,—which appears gloomy. Look at the glorious sky, with its soft blue depths, and floating silvery clouds; pass into the shadowy retreats of the cool woods; breathe the sweet air that comes from kissing green fields and dallying on beds of flowers; hear the birds sing,—and you must feel your heart opened, your soul warmed, your inmost thoughts kindled with love: love for God, love for man, love for everything: and this is religion."
So the old clergyman talked on; his simple and natural words bubbling from his lips like crystal waters, and filling his companions' hearts with new and refreshing truths.
Chester drove up before a handsome white cottage, which was one of a thin cluster of houses grouped around an old-fashioned country meeting-house.
"Here our minister lives," said Mr. Royden. "You must see him, first of any."
He helped the old man out of the wagon, while Chester tied the horse.
"What a delightful residence!" said Father Brighthopes. "Ah! let me stop and take a look at these busy bees!"
There were two small hives perched upon a bench, under a plum-tree, and the happy insects were incessantly creeping in and out, through the small apertures,—flying abroad, humming in the flowers of the sweet thyme that loaded the air with fragrance, and coming home with their legs yellowed from tiny cups and bells. The old man was so charmed with the scene, that he could hardly be prevailed upon to leave it, and walk along the path towards the cottage door.
"We see so little of such delightful exhibitions of nature, in city life," said he, "that in the country I am like a child intoxicated with novelty."
They made but a brief call on the minister, who was a young and boyish-looking man of about twenty-five. He received them in his study, a luxurious little room, with a window open upon the little garden in front of the house, and shaded by thick jasmines, trained on the wall. He showed no very warm inclination to sociability, but deigned to treat the old man with an air of deference and patronage, for which he no doubt gave himself much credit. It seemed quite a relief to him when his visitors arose to go, and he politely bowed them to the door.
"If any man leads an easy life, Mr. Corlis does," muttered Chester, as they went through the little gate.
"Hush, boy!" said his father, good-humoredly. "You can't expect a minister to go into the fields, to work with his hands."
"I don't say what I expect him to do; but I can tell pretty well what he does. During the week, he compiles commonplaces, which he calls sermons, drinks tea with his parishioners, and patronizes the sewing-circle. On the Sabbath he certainly labors hard, preaching dulness from the high pulpit, and mesmerizing his congregation."
"What do you talk such nonsense for?" returned Mr. Royden, laughing inwardly.
"Young men learn the ministers' trade, in order to live lazy lives, half the time," continued the young man.
"Too often—too often!"—Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly,—"but judge not all by the few. Idleness is a sore temptation to young clergymen, I know. Their position is fraught with peril. Alas for those who prefer their own ease to doing their Master's work! This consists not only in preaching Christianity from the pulpit, but in preaching it in their daily walks; in acting it, living it, carrying it like an atmosphere about them, and warming with its warmth the hearts of the poor and sorrowful. O, Lord, what a lovely and boundless field thou has given thy servants! Let them not lie idle in the shade of the creeds our fathers planted, nor cease to turn the soil and sow the seed!"
The earnest prayer thrilled the hearts of Chester and his father. It may be another heart was touched with its fire. Mr. Corlis overheard the words, as he listened at his study-window, and his cheek and forehead glowed with a blush of shame.
Mr. Royden and Chester took their old friend to make one or two more calls, and returned home for dinner. Samuel Cone felt very faint, as he lay on the grass in the yard, and saw them coming.
"What have you run away from that churn for?" cried Mrs. Royden, appearing at the door. "Go right back, and fetch the butter before you leave it again!"
"I'm tired," muttered Sam.
"Don't tell me about being tired! You can churn just as well as not."
"Hurts my foot!"
"You can lay your foot on a chair, and——Do you hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, growing impatient of his delay. "Don't let me have to speak to you again!"
Sam hopped into the wood-shed, and began to move the dasher up and down with exceeding moderation. When the wagon drove up to the door, he listened with a sick heart to hear if anything was said about the stray horse. Not a word was spoken on the subject. Even the silence frightened him.
He had never worked so industriously as when Chester entered the shed; and, as the latter passed by without looking at him, he felt certain that retribution was at hand. He listened at the kitchen door, and trembled at every word that was spoken, thinking the next would be something about his unpardonable offence. But his agony was destined still to be prolonged.
"They an't going to say nothing about it till my foot gets well," thought he; "then they'll jest about kill me."
Mrs. Royden had been considerably fretted in getting dinner and her fault-finding had worried poor Hepsy almost to distraction, when the arrival of the clergyman lent quite a different aspect to affairs. He drew the attention of the young children, who had been very much in their mother's way, and dropped a few soft words of wisdom from his lips, which could be taken in a general sense, or understood by Mrs. Royden as applying to her own annoyances in particular. Soon the table was ready, and the entire household, excepting Sam and Hepsy, gathered around it. The former, supposed to be churning, having been warned by Mrs. Royden that he could have no dinner until he had "fetched the butter," was listening to hear if there was any conversation about the horse; and the poor deformed girl, who had preferred to wait and take care of the baby, was shedding solitary tears from the depths of her unhappy heart.
After dinner, Father Brighthopes was sitting on the shaded grass in the yard, relating pleasant stories to the children, when an athletic young man made his appearance at the gate, leading a handsome sorrel horse.
"Hillo, Mark!" cried James, "have you been trading again?"
"Is your father at home?" asked the man with the horse.
James answered in the affirmative, and the other led his animal into the yard, making him dance around him as he approached the little group under the cherry-tree.
Even with hunger in prospective, Sam could not apply himself to the churn when he thought there was any fun going on out-doors. He hobbled out, and took his seat on the grass.
All the children were praising Mark's new horse, which he took especial delight in training before their eyes. At length he led him up to the tree, and talked to him coaxingly, smoothing his face and patting his shining neck.
"Where did you get that plaything?" asked Chester, coming out of the house.
"Ha, how do you do, Ches?" replied Mark, turning around. "When did you get home?"
He tied the halter to the tree, and began to feel of the animal's slender ankles, still maintaining a mysterious silence on the subject of his trade.
"Did you put away the brown horse for this?" asked Chester.
"Where is your father?" was Mark's unsatisfactory rejoinder.
Mr. Royden made his appearance. He was a famous judge of horse-flesh, and his shrewd eye examined the colt's admirable points with evident satisfaction.
"Where did you get him?" he inquired.
"How old is he?" asked Mark.
Mr. Royden looked in the horse's mouth a second time, and pronounced him to be four years old.
"Have you been trading?"
"On the whole," said Mark, "what do you think of him?"
"It's a fine colt; but I think here is a faint appearance of a ring-bone."
Mr. Royden pressed the animal's leg.
"I'll bet you a hundred dollars on it!" cried Mark, quickly, his eye kindling.
He was very sensitive about his horse-property, besides being a choleric man generally; and Mr. Royden only smiled, and shook his head.
"Have you got rid of Jake?"
"Never mind that; tell me what the colt is worth."
Mr. Royden expressed a favorable opinion of the beast, but declined to commit himself.
"Well, it don't make no difference," said Mark, with a smile of satisfaction. "He suits me very well," he added, with an oath.
The clergyman's countenance changed. The smile faded from his lips, and he glanced anxiously from Mark to the little boys who sat on the grass at his feet.
"Better look out about swearing 'fore the minister," said Sam, in a low tone, to Mark.
For the first time the latter regarded the old man attentively. At sight of his thin white locks, the color mounted to the jockey's brow; and when Father Brighthopes raised his calm, sad eyes, Mark's fell before them.
But Mark had some manly traits of character, with all his faults.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, frankly. "I wouldn't have used profane language, if I had known there was a minister within hearing."
"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, in a kind but impressive tone, "you have my forgiveness, if that is of any account; but it seems you should rather forbear from using such language before children, whose minds are like wax, to receive all sorts of impressions—good or bad."
"The truth is," said Mark, "I thought nothing of it. It was wrong, I know."
To conceal his mortification, he began to brush the dust from the colt's feet with a wisp of grass. But his cheek was not the only one that tingled at the old man's words. Chester was very warm in the face; but only the clergyman observed the fact, and he alone could probably have understood its cause.
"To tell the truth," said Mark, laughing, "the colt isn't mine; he belongs to Mr. Skenitt, over on the north road; he has hired me to break him."
"I don't believe that," replied Mr. Royden, half in jest, and half in earnest. "Nobody that knows you would trust you to break a young horse."
"Why not?"
"You're so rash and passionate. You can't keep your temper."
"I believe in whipping, when a horse is ugly," muttered Mark, as if half a mind to take offence,—"that's all."
"You mustn't mind my jokes," said Mr. Royden. "Come, how did you trade?"
"I put away the brown horse, and gave some boot," replied Mark. "By the way, you haven't heard of any one's losing a horse recently, have you?"
"No; what do you mean?"
"Why, Skennit's boys saw a stray one in the road last night."
"Nobody this way has lost one," said Mr. Royden.
Sam's heart beat with painful violence. He was very pale.
"He was running, with a saddle, and with the reins under his feet," continued Mark. "Somebody had probably been flung from him, or he had got away by breaking the halter."
"Was he stopped?" asked Chester.
"Not in that neighborhood, at any rate. It is hard stopping a horse after dark. What's the matter, Sam?"
"Nothing," murmured Sam, faintly.
"What makes you look so white?"
"I—I've got a lame foot."
"And I know where you got it?" thundered Chester, seizing him by the shirt-collar. "It is just as I thought, last night."
"Stop, Chester,—don't be rash!" cried Mr. Royden. "Sam, tell the truth, now, about that horse."
"I fell off," blubbered Sam.
"You incorrigible, lying rascal!" ejaculated Chester. "Why didn't you say so last night?"
"I couldn't help it," and Sam wiped his face with his sleeve. "I didn't run him—and—and he got frightened."
"That has nothing to do with the question. Why didn't you tell the truth, the first thing?"
"Cause—I wasn't looking out-and he was going on a slow trot—when a stump by the side of the road scar'd him—and I fell off."
"But what did you lie about it for?" demanded Chester, fiercely.
"I was afraid I'd git a licking," muttered Sam.
"And now you'll get two of 'em, as you richly deserve. If father don't give 'em to you, I will."
"Hush, Chester, I'll attend to him," said Mr. Royden, more calm than usual on such occasions. "James, put the saddle on Old Boy. One of us must ride after the stray horse, and see where he is to be found. Sam, go and finish that churning, and prepare for a settlement."
With a sinking heart, the rogue obeyed. Mark went off, leading his colt; Chester rode to hunt up Frank; Mr. Royden proceeded to the field, and Father Brighthopes sought the privacy of his room to write. The boys clamored a little while at his door, then went cheerfully away to play with Lizzie in the garden.
It was near sundown when Chester returned, having succeeded in finding Frank, and returned him to his owner.
Meanwhile Father Brighthopes had had a long talk with the distressed and remorseful Sam. The old man's kindness and sympathy touched the lad's heart more than anything had ever done before. He could not endure the appeals to his better nature, to his sense of right, and to his plain reason, with which the clergyman represented the folly and wickedness of lying.
"I am sure," said Father Brighthopes, in conclusion, "that, with as much real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost you more pain than half a dozen floggings."
Sam acknowledged the fact.
"Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise? Don't you always feel better to be frank and honest, let the consequences be what they will?"
"I knowed it, all the time," sobbed Sam, "but Idarsn'ttell the truth! I wished Ihadtold it, but Idarsn't!"
"Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Men would tell the truth, if they were not afraid to."
"I s'pose so. But I never thought of what you say before. When I lie, I git licked, and folks tell me I shall go to hell. I don't mind that much; but when you talk to me as you do, I think I never will tell another lie, as long as I live,—never!"
Sam now confessed to all the circumstances of the last night's disaster, and, at the old man's suggestion, repeated the same to Mr. and Mrs. Royden. He asked for pardon; and promised to tell no more lies, and to keep out of mischief as much as he could.
He was so softened, so penitent and earnest, that even the severe Mrs. Royden was inclined to forgive him. Her husband did more. He talked kindly to the young offender, declaring his willingness to overlook everything, and to do as well by Sam as by his own children, if he would be a good and honest boy. The latter was so overcome that he cried for half an hour about the affair in the shed; that is to say, until the cat made her appearance, wearing a portion of the old twine harness, and he thought he would divert his mind by making her draw a brick.
"In mischief again!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, coming suddenly upon him.
"No, sir!" cried Sam, promptly, letting pussy go.
"What were you doing?"
"You see, this butter won't come, and I've been churning stiddy on it all day——"
"What has that to do with the cat?" demanded Mr. Royden.
"Nothing; only I expect to have to go to help milk the cows in a little while; and I was afraid she would jump up on the churn, and lick the cream, while I was gone; so I thought I'd tie a brick to her neck."
Mr. Royden laughed secretly, and went away.
"That was only a white lie," muttered Sam. "Darn it all! I've got so used to fibbing, I can't help it. I didn't think then, or I wouldn't have said what I did."
The boy really felt badly to think he had not the courage to speak the truth, and made a new resolution, to be braver in future.
The relief of mind which followed the bursting of the clouds over his head brought a keen appetite; and he remembered that he had eaten nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Hunger impelled him to apply himself to the churn; five minutes of industrious labor finished the task, and he was prepared to go to supper with the family.
In the evening a number of young people, living in the neighborhood, called, in honor of Chester's return from school. The parlor was opened for the "company," and the "old folks" occupied the sitting-room.
Chester was very lively, for he was fond of sociability, and loved to be admired for his grace and wit; but he seemed at length to find the conversation of his old acquaintances insipid.
"Father Brighthopes," he said, gayly, entering the sitting-room, "I wish you would go in and teach our friends some better amusement than kissing games. I am heartily sick of them."
"If Jane Dustan was here, I guess you would like them," said Lizzie, who had preferred to listen to the clergyman's stories, rather than go into the parlor.
Her eyes twinkled with fun; but Chester looked displeased.
"It's nothing but 'Who'll be my judge?' 'Measure off three yards of tape with so and so, and cut it;' 'Make a sugar-bowl, and put three lumps of sugar in it, with Julia;' 'Go to Rome and back again;' 'Bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best' and such nonsense."
"Ches has got above these good old plays, since he has been at the academy!" and Lizzie laughed again, mischievously. "You used to like kissing well enough."
"So I do now," said he, giving her a smack, by way of illustration; "but stolen waters are the sweetest. Some public kissing I have done to-night has been like taking medicine."
His remarks were cut short by the entrance of a tall young lady, with thin curls and homely teeth. She affected unusual grace of manner; her smile showed an attempt to be fascinating, and her language was peculiarly select, and lispingly pronounced.
"What! are you here?" she cried, pretending to be surprised at seeing Chester. "I thought I left you in the parlor."
Chester smiled at the innocent little deception her modesty led her to practise, and, as a means of getting rid of her, introduced her to the old clergyman.
"I believe I had a glimpthe of you, this forenoon," said Miss Smith, with an exquisite smile. "You called at our houthe, I believe. Father was very thorry he wasn't at home. You mutht call again. You mutht come too, next time, Mrs. Royden. You owe mother two visits. What gloriouth weather we have now! I never thaw tho magnifithent a thunthet as there was this evening. Did you obtherve it, Mithter Royden?" addressing Chester.
"It was very fine."
"It was thurpathingly lovely! What thuperb cloudth! Will you be tho good,"—Miss Smith somewhat changed her tone,—"will you be tho good as to help me to a glath of water?"
Chester was returning to the parlor, and she was just in time to catch him. He could not refuse, and she followed him into the kitchen.
"She has stuck to him like a burr, all the evening," whispered Lizzie. "He can't stir a step, but she follows him; and he hates herdreadfully."
Mrs. Royden reprimanded the girl for speaking so freely, to which she replied, "she didn't care; it was true."
Chester was not half so long getting the water as Miss Smith was drinking it. She sipped and talked, and sipped and talked again, in her most dangerously fascinating manner, until he was on the point of leaving her to digest the beverage alone.
"Theems to me you're in a terrific hurry," she cried. "I hope you an'tafraidof me. Good-neth! I am as harmleth as a kitten."
Miss Smith showed her disagreeable teeth, and shook her consumptive curls, with great self-satisfaction. When Chester confessed that he was afraid of her, she declared herself "infinitely amathed."
"But I don't believe it. Thomebody in the parlor has a magnetic influence over you," she said, archly. "Now, confeth!"
On returning to the sitting-room, they found that two or three other young ladies had followed them from the parlor.
"What a magnet thomebody is!" remarked Miss Smith. "I wonder who it can be."
"I should think you might tell, since you were the first to be attracted from the parlor," remarked Miss Julia Keller.
"Oh, I came for a glath of water." Miss Smith shook her curls again, and turned to Father Brighthopes. "I amecthethivelydelighted to make your acquaintanth, thir, for I amimmenthlyfond of minithters."
The old man smiled indulgently, and replied that he thought younger clergymen than himself might please her best.
"Young or old, it makes no differenth," said she. "Our minithter is a delightfully fathinating man, and he is only twenty-five."
"Fascinating?"
"Oh, yeth! He isextremelyelegant in his dreth, and his manners are perfectlycharming. His language is ectheedingly pretty, and thometimes gorgeouthly thublime."
"I wish you would let Father Brighthopes finish the story he was telling me," said Lizzie, bluntly.
"A story?" cried Miss Smith. "Thertainly. Let me thit down and hear it too. I'mpathionatelyfond of stories."
In taking a seat she was careful to place herself in close proximity to Chester, who was engaged in conversation with Julia.
The clergyman resumed his narrative, in which not only Lizzie, but her father and mother also, had become interested. It was a reminiscence of his own early life. He told of afflictions, trials, all sorts of perplexities and struggles with the world, in experiencing which his heart had been purified, and his character had been formed.
As he proceeded, his audience increased. The company came from the parlor and gathered around him, until the scene of the kissing games was quite deserted. Only one person remained behind. Hepsy, with her face behind the window-curtains, was sobbing.
Chester thought of her, and, stealing out of the sitting-room, to find her, stood for some seconds by her side, before she was aware of his presence.
With all his vain and superficial qualities, the young man had a kind heart. He thought of Hepsy most when she was most neglected by others. He knelt down by her where she sat, and took her thin hand in his.
"Come, you mustn't feel bad to-night," said he gently.
She was startled; her heart beat wildly, and she hastened to wipe her tears.
"Has anything unpleasant happened?" he asked.
Hepsy tried to smother her sobs, but they burst forth afresh.
"I've come for you to go and hear Father Brighthopes tell his stories," pursued Chester. "Will you come?"
She was unable to answer.
"It's the best joke of the season!" he continued, cheerfully. "Our company made the sourest faces in the world, when they learned that the old clergyman was to be within hearing. 'Oh, we couldn't have any fun,' they said. They wished him a thousand miles away. And now they have left their silly sports to listen to him."
"I was much happier out there than after you brought me in here," murmured Hepsy, in a broken voice.
"I wish, then, I had left you there," rejoined Chester. "But I thought you would enjoy the company, and made you come in."
"I couldn't play with the rest," said the unhappy girl.
"Why not? You could, if you had only thought so."
Hepsy smiled, with touching sadness.
"Who would have kissed me? I must have such a hideous face! Whocould?"
She cried again; and Chester, feeling deeply pained by her sufferings, kissed her cheek.
"I could; and I have kissed you hundreds of times, as you know; and I hope to as many more. There are worse faces than yours to kiss here to-night."
"Oh, you are always so good—so good!" murmured Hepsy, with gushing tears.
"Now, tell me what has occurred to make you feel bad," insisted her cousin, very kindly.
The poor girl required much urging, but at length she confessed.
"Josephine Smith called me stupid and sour, because I sat in the corner watching the rest."
"Josephine Smith did?" cried Chester, indignantly. "But never mind. Don't cry about it. Do you know, you are as much better—brighter than she is, as light is brighter and better than darkness? You are ten times more agreeable. She has nothing to compare with your pure soul."
"You are so kind to say so! But others do not think it, if you do," murmured Hepsy. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief, "it was cruel in her, to be Henry Wilbur's judge, and sentence him to kiss me!"
"Did she?"
"Yes; then they all laughed, and she ran out in the sitting-room after you; and the rest thought it such a joke, that anybody should have to kissme!"
Hepsy spoke very bitterly, and Chester's blood boiled with indignation.
"I can't believe they were making fun at your expense," said he, in a suppressed tone. "If I thought they were so heartless——"
"Oh, they did not know how I would feel about it, I am sure," interrupted the girl.
"Did Henry laugh?"
"No,"—with a melancholy smile,—"it was no laughing matter with him!—No!—Henry was very gentlemanly about it. He did not hesitate, although I saw him turn all sorts of colors; but came right up to do penance, like a hero. I thanked him in my heart for the good will he showed; but I would not let him kiss me, for I knew it would be disagreeable to him."
"That is all your imagination," cried Chester, cheerily. "So think no more about it. Remember that there is one who loves you, at any rate, let what will happen."
"I know there is one very good to me," replied Hepsy, with emotion. "Oh, you don't know what a comfort your kindness is! I would not—I could not—live without it! I sometimes think everybody hates me but you."
"You are too sensitive, Coz. But since you imagine such things, I'll tell you what: when I am married, you shall come and live with me. How would you like that?"
A quick pain shot through Hepsy's heart. A faintness came over her. Her cold hand dropped from Chester's, and fell by her side.
"I will tell my wife all about how good you are," he continued, in a tone of encouragement; "and she must love you too. She cannot help it. And we will always be like brother and sister to you."
He kissed her white cheek, and went on hopefully:
"I have a secret for you, which I have not even revealed to Sarah or James. I will tell it to you, because I know how it will please you." He took her hand again. "The truth is, I am—engaged."
Hepsy did not breathe; her hand was like stone.
"To a glorious girl, Coz. Oh, you cannot help loving her. You can form no idea how sweet and beautiful she is. She's tall as Sarah, but more slender and graceful. You should see her curls! When she speaks, her soft eyes——But what is the matter?"
"The air—is—close!" gasped Hepsy.
"You are fainting!"
"No; I am—better now."
Hepsy made a desperate effort, and conquered her emotion.
Chester, always delicately thoughtful of the feelings of others, except when his enthusiasm carried him away, proceeded with his description, every word of which burned like fire in the poor girl's heart. And he—fond soul!—deemed that he was pouring the balm of comfort and the precious ointment of joy upon her spirit! For how could he pause to consider and know that every charm he ascribed to the professor's daughter demonstrated to the unhappy creature more and more vividly, and with terrible force, that she was utterly unlovely and unblest? Contrasted with the enchanting valley of his love, how arid and desolate a desert seemed her life!
Meanwhile Miss Josephine Smith had early discovered the absence of Chester from the circle, and looked about to find him. She could not rest where he was not. Becoming thirsty again, she made another errand to the water-pail in the kitchen; but she drank only of the cup of disappointment. As soon, therefore, as she could do so, without making her conduct marked, she sought her loadstar in the parlor.
"How dreadfully tholitary you are to-night!" she exclaimed, with a smile which showed all her teeth. "Do extricate yourself from that frightfully lonethome corner."
She suddenly discovered that, still beyond the chair in which Chester was seated, there was another, not unoccupied.
"Ho, ho! what charmer have you there? You are getting to be an awfully dethperate flirt, Chethter Royden. Oh! nobody but Hepthy!"
"Nobody but my good cousin Hepsy," replied Chester, coldly.
"Dear me! I wouldn't havethuthpicionedyou could be tho fathinated with her!" she cried, in a tone she deemed cuttingly sarcastic.
"Miss Smith," said Chester, quietly, "you need not think, becauseyouhappen to havepeculiarcharms of person, that no others have graces of a different sort."
"Oh, what an egregiouth flatterer!" returned Josephine Smith, shaking her meager curls. "Come"—and she boldly seated herself,—"let me know what your interesting conversation is about."
"We were just speaking of going into the sitting-room," answered the young man, rising.
He stooped, and whispered to Hepsy.
"Leave me alone a few minutes, then I will come," she murmured.
He pressed her hand, and walked away.
"Don't you thuppose, now," said Miss Smith, following, and taking his arm familiarly, "I think you have grown wonderfully handthome, thince you have been at school?"
Chester made some nonsensical reply, and, having conducted her to the sitting-room, coolly turned about, and reëntered the parlor.
Hepsy's face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping convulsively.
"I thought what I said would make you happy," he whispered.
Hepsy started; she choked back her sobs; she wiped her streaming eyes.
"It should make me happy," she articulated, in broken tones. "But,—leave me alone a little while—I shall feel better soon."
"You are too much alone," said Chester. "You must come with me now."
"My eyes are so red!"
"The company is so much interested in Father Brighthopes' story, that nobody will see you. Come!—you must."
Chester was obliged to add gentle force to persuasion, to accomplish his kind design. Finally, she told him to go before, and she would come directly. He took his place in the circle around the old clergyman, and presently she glided to an obscure position, behind Mr. Royden's chair. There, unobserved, she indulged in her melancholy thoughts, until they were diverted by Father Brighthopes' remarks.
"Thus, my friends," said he, "you see that I have reason to bless the wisdom that rained upon my head the grievous sufferings of which I complained so bitterly at the time. Truly, whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. Steel gets its temper from the furnace. What is gold good for, unless it has been fused and hammered? All our trials are teachers; then temptations form themselves into a sort of examining committee, to see how much we have learned by the discipline,—to see how strong we are. If all our worldly circumstances were pleasant and smooth, who would not be contented with them? But storms come; winds blow, and rains pour; then we turn our eyes inwardly. When earth is dark, we look up. When men prove false, we remember the Friend who never fails us. In the gloomy valley of the present, we joyfully turn our sight to the soft blue hills of an infinite future. Clouds now and then overcast the sky; but the sun shines forever. So there is an eternal sun of Love pouring floods of blessed light upon our souls continually, notwithstanding the misty sorrows that sometimes float between, and cast their momentary shades.
"Yes," continued the old man, warming and glowing with the theme, "I bless God for all I have suffered, as all of you will, some day,"—his clear, bright eye fell upon the miserable Hepsy,—"when you look back and see the uses of affliction. It seems to me that the happiest souls in heaven must be those who have suffered most here; patiently, I mean, and not with continual murmurings, which harden and embitter the heart. Even in this life, the poor and afflictedexteriorlymay always, and do oftenest, I believe, enjoyinteriorhappiness and peace, with which the superficial pleasures of life cannot be compared. The great secret it, Love!—love to God,—love to man,—and a serene and thankful temper.
"But I find that my story has relapsed into a sermon," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "You were all so attentive, that I quite forgot myself. I hope I have not been dull."
"Oh, no! No, indeed!" cried half a dozen voices.
All agreed that they could hear him talk all night. They had never been so well instructed in the use to be made of afflictions. They had never seen so clearly the beauty of a serene Christian life.
"It's allexcethivelypretty!" said Miss Smith.
"Well, I am glad if you have been entertained," said the old man, with moist but happy eyes. "Good-night! good-night! God bless you all!"
His fervent benediction was very touching. More than one eye was wet, as it watched him going to his room. There was not much more wild gayety among the little company that evening, but every heart seemed to have been softened and made deeply happy by the old man's lesson.
Hepsy stole away to her room. His words still echoed in her soul. They stirred its depths; they warmed her, they cheered her strangely. All night long her tears rained upon her pillow,—when she slept, as when she lay awake,—but she was no longer utterly wretched. A ray had stolen in upon the darkness of her misery.
"Love!" she repeated to herself. "Love to God, and love to our neighbor. But love must be unselfish. It must be self-sacrificing. Oh, Lord!" she prayed, with anguish, "purify my bad heart! purify it! purify it! purify it!"
She felt herself a broken-hearted child, humbled in the dust. But a feeling of calmness came over her. Her hot and throbbing heart grew cool and still. Angels had touched her with their golden wings; and her spirit seemed to brighten and expand with newly-developed powers of patience, endurance and love.
Meanwhile, Chester was penning a passionate letter to his affianced, wholly absorbed, and forgetful even of the existence of poor Hepsy.