"I am not going to put off washing until the middle of the week, to wait for any girl!" said Mrs. Royden, positively. "We shall have enough to do after Margaret comes, without keeping a great heap of dirty clothes to be washed."
"Well, do as you like," replied her husband, with a dissatisfied air. "But I know just how it will be. You and the girls will wear yourselves out before noon. If you would only take things quietly, and not try to do too much, you would get along better; but you see so much to accomplish, that you fly into a heat and a hurry, which you seldom recover from for two or three days."
Mrs. Royden was resolved. The regular Monday's work was to be done, and nothing could induce her to postpone it. The great boiler was put on the kitchen stove before breakfast, and the clothes got ready for the wash.
It seemed her nature to be cross on such days, and the children knew what to expect. There could be no fun on Monday morning. All must do something,—even Georgie must pull out the stitches of a seam, and Willie must rock the baby. It seemed that poor Hepsy did everything, and gave satisfaction in nothing.
That was a hard day for Sam. The mowers came, one after the other, and he had to turn the grindstone for them to grind their scythes in succession. They were good-natured, energetic men; and, not wishing them to know how lazy he was, he worked industriously at the crank, before and after breakfast. But the last man "bore on enough to break the stone," Sam said; and he groaned under the infliction, asking, from time to time, if the scythe was "most finished."
At length, to his great joy, it was well ground from heel to point, and its master fastened it to the snath. Shouldering it, and thrusting a "rifle" into his belt, the jolly mower went whistling to the meadow, to join his companions and Mr. Royden, who had gone before.
In the midst of his rejoicing, Sam was dismayed to see Chester make his appearance, with another scythe. It was to be ground, and Sam was just the fellow to help do that work, with his lame ankle.
"Letmehold the scythe andyouturn," whined the lad.
"Turn away!" exclaimed Chester, authoritatively.
Sam turned very slowly, groaning with each revolution of the crank.
"You lazy scamp! I'll cut a sprout, and lay it on your back, if you don't work smarter!"
"Can't!" muttered Sam. "'Most dead. Han't done nothing but turn grindstone since sunrise. Didn't eat no breakfast, nuther."
The grinding apparatus stood under an apple-tree, behind the house. The spot was retired, offering conveniences for the adjustment of private differences; and Chester, who did not return to farm labor, after being so long at school, in very good humor, quietly clipped a thin green sapling from the roots of the tree.
"I haven't settled with you for the caper you cut up with Frank, the other night," he said, between his teeth. "Now go to work, and hold your tongue, or I'll make you wish the horse had run with you to the end of the world, and jumped off!"
"Better not hit me with that!" muttered Sam, growing desperate.
"Will you turn the grindstone?"
There was something dangerous in the flash of Chester's eye, and Sam was afraid to disobey. A minute later, he was glad to see Mr. Royden coming through the orchard, with his hat in his hand, and his sweaty brow exposed to the summer breeze.
"I am afraid you don't know how to grind a tool," said he, smiling indulgently, as he examined the edge of the scythe.
"I will go and mow in your place, if you will finish it," replied Chester.
"Very well; carry some drink to the men. I will get it for you."
Mr. Royden went to the well, drew up a dripping bucket of clear, cold water, drank from the mossy rim on the curb, and afterwards filled a stone jug.
Carrying this, Chester went to the field with gloves on, and his cravat looped loosely about his neck.
Hepsy's tender eyes beheld the young man as he went through the orchard. How handsome he looked, in his tow trousers, straw hat and snowy shirt-sleeves! To her mind, nothing became him so well as his farmer's rig; and as he disappeared over the hill, she clasped her hands with intense emotion, and wept.
"I'm tired just about to death!" said Sam, pretending that he could with difficulty get the crank around. "Them men bore on all they could, only to make it hard for me. But Ches was worse than either on 'em."
"Pshaw! turn away!"
"And then Ches was going to lick me."
"No, he was not. Chester would not hurt you," said Mr. Royden. "Come, come! turn faster."
"I can't!" groaned Sam. "But hewasgoing to; that's what he cut this switch for."
"Well, I shall have to use it in his place, if you don't stop talking, and work better," replied Mr. Royden, with good-natured impatience.
"He said 'twas 'cause I got flung from the horse," muttered Sam. "You won't let him lick me for that, will you?"
"No; not if you behave yourself," answered Mr. Royden. "What makes you so lazy? I shall not get this scythe ground to-day."
It seemed such hard work for the boy to turn the grindstone, that the kind-hearted farmer, taking pity on him, brought the tool to an edge as soon as possible, and let him go.
"Now, you must be a good boy, and help the women," said he, driving the wedge which married the scythe to the snath.
"Help the women!" repeated Sam, with an expression of disgust. "I'd rather go and spread hay."
"But your foot is lame."
"Well, I can't pound clothes half so well as I can spread hay. I have to walk around the barrel——"
"No more of your nonsense!" said Mr. Royden. "Hepsy!" he cried, seeing his niece in the doorway of the shed, "you can have Samuel to help you now."
There was no escape for the unhappy youth. He saw Mr. Royden depart towards the meadow with dismay. He was left in the hands of one who knew no mercy. Mrs. Royden was driving business with furious energy. She had commands for all, and kind words for no one. It was interesting to see her seize upon Sam. His complaints of being "tired to death" were like chaff sown upon the wind. The tempest of her temper scattered them; inexorable fate controlled the hour; and Sam hopped from the grindstone to the "pounding-barrel" with despair and discontent in his soul.
He worked pretty well, however, until Mrs. Royden was called to see to the children, who were about starting for school. The moment she was out of sight, he began to swing lazily upon the "pounder," and make fun of Sarah, at work over the wash-tub close by.
"You'll get your pay for this," said the young lady, rubbing away, industriously. "Mother will be back in a minute."
"S'posin' Mr. Kerchey should pop in, jest now!" retorted Sam, grinning. "I'd like to have him ketch you over the wash-tub!"
"I would not care if he did; I am not ashamed of it," replied Sarah. "I'd rather do anything than wash clothes; but when I am about it, I'm not lazy."
She looked beautiful, with her rosy cheeks, brown hair, and fair, full brow, shaded by the plain hood thrown loosely upon her head; her white arms bare, and her hands all covered with the thick, snowy foam of the suds. Sam made some saucy rejoinder, and, laughing, she stepped up to him quickly, with a garment dripping and soapy from the tub. Before he was aware of her design, she had covered his face with it, rubbing vigorously up and down and to and fro, with pleasant malice.
Sam struggled, gasped, and screamed; he tumbled down, and, clawing the disagreeable application from his face, spit like a cat; while Sarah stood over him laughing, and threatening him with another similar experiment.
"There!" exclaimed Sam, waxing angry, "I won't work now, to pay for it! And, if you do that again, I'll——"
Splash went the garment into his face once more, across his eyes, and over his open mouth! It was just as he was getting up from the floor. At that moment Mrs. Royden reappeared in the shed. She could not have chosen a worse time. To see "such actions going on," when there was so much work to be done, was "enough to try the temper of a saint." Her hands must have ached, from boxing Sam's ears; her heart must have ached, with such a storm of passion bursting it.
It seemed with a mighty effort of self-control that she refrained from striking Sarah; but the latter, making no reply to the deep tones of her displeasure, quietly resumed her work, and, burning, palpitating with anger, she returned to finish preparing the children for school.
Ten minutes later, serene from his morning meditations, Father Brighthopes came out of the parlor. His face was full of tranquil joy; but a noise of dire confusion assailed his ear, and he paused upon the threshold.
Lizzie, neatly dressed for school, but smarting and burning under the pain of boxed ears, was marching sulkily out of the sitting-room, with a satchel of books; Willie, rubbing both fists into his red eyes, was crying grievously; and Georgie was walking very straight, with a book under his arm, and his looks downcast, fearful and watchful, as if momently expecting the afflictive dispensation of his mother's hand.
As soon as the children were well off, the old clergyman came forward. Mrs. Royden was tossing the baby in her arms, and endeavoring to still its cries. The storm was yet raging; she seemed angry with the innocent infant even; when, looking up, she saw Father Brighthopes, with countenance saddened and pale, stand before her.
"Will you let me take the babe? I think I may soothe it," he said, in a very soft and earnest tone.
It was like casting oil upon raging waves. Mrs. Royden made an effort, and appeared more calm. But only the surface of the angry sea was smoothed; still the depths of her soul were broken up and troubled.
"No," said she; "I will not inflict the trial upon you. WhatcanI do, to quiet it?" she added, impatiently.
"Perhaps my nerves are calmer than yours," replied the old man, still extending his hands. "A great deal depends upon that. Babes are very susceptible to mesmeric influences."
The idea astonished Mrs. Royden. She doubted if there was any truth in it; but, abandoning the babe to his arms, she saw the thing demonstrated at once. The child seemed to feel itself in a new atmosphere, and what the mother failed to do, in her nervous state, a stranger accomplished by the exercise of a tranquil will.
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said she, as he laid the babe in the cradle, now perfectly still and quiet. "A great deal must depend upon the nerves, and I acknowledge mine were in a bad condition."
"I cannot tell how much I grieve to see you so," replied Father Brighthopes, so kindly that she could not take offence.
"It was wrong; it was very wrong," she murmured. "But I could not help it. Everything goes wrong to-day."
"Is not such always the case, when you have too much work on hand?"
"Yes, I do believe it. Why is it? I'd like to know. The children are obstinate and fretful when I have most to do. I cannot understand it."
"My dear sister," said the old man, taking her hand, and speaking in a voice full of tender and earnest emotion, "do pardon me for my freedom, when I tell you I think everything depends upon yourself."
"Uponme?"
"Your example, dear sister, is all-powerful. You have no conception of the immense influence you exert over those young and impressive minds. Oh, do not be offended, if I am plain with you!"
Mrs. Royden told him to go on; she needed his counsel; she would not be offended.
"Every mother," said he, "makes the moral atmosphere of her household. She is the sky overhead; they are lambs in the pasture. How they shiver and shrink beneath the shelter of the fences, and look sullenly at the ground, when the sky is black with storms, and the wind blows cold and raw and damp from the dismal northeast! But look when the drizzling rain is over, when the clouds break away, when the wind shifts around into the southwest, when the bright sun pours floods of soft, warm light upon the earth; how the grasses then lift up their beaded stalks, and shake their heads, heavy with tears; how the streams laugh and babble; how the little lambs skip about, and crop the moist herbage, and rejoice that the sky is blue again, the breezes balmy and mild!"
"But storms will come, sometimes," said Mrs. Royden.
"You cannot control the weather out of doors, but you may make just the kind of weather you choose in your household. Only keep the sky of your own heart cloudless and blue. And you can do it. Every one can. Parents, of all persons, should do this. They owe it to their children; they owe it to the good Lord, who has given them those children, to train aright the vines of their wayward affections, in their tender youth. Sister, you do not realize your responsibility. What are the petty trials of to-day, compared withtheirimmortal destiny?"
The old man went on in the same kind but plain and impressive manner. At first Mrs. Royden had been impatient to return to her work; but the words of wisdom, each a golden link, formed a chain to hold her gently back. Her hands fell upon her lap, her eyes sought the floor, and it was not long before her cheeks were wet with downward-coursing tears.
And still the old man talked. Such sweet, simple, earnest and touching eloquence, her soul had never tasted. He did not forget to plead for Hepsy,—the lonely, unhappy and oft down-trodden girl, for whom her pity was seldom moved; and now she wept to think how thoughtless and cruel she had sometimes been.
Mrs. Royden was altogether softened,—was quite melted. Then the old man added words of hope and comfort; he drew a picture of her sensitive, irritable, but loving and noble-hearted husband, made happy by her cheerfulness, aided and encouraged by her to conquer his impetuous and petulant temper; he described the children growing up under mild influences, with such sunny dispositions and gentle natures as reap the golden grain of content, and love, and tranquil joy, in the rich, wide fields of life.
He ceased at the right moment. Pressing her hand affectionately, he took his hat and went forth. She returned to her work. The angels must have smiled, for what a change was there! No more fretting, no more scolding, no more angry looks and impatient words, no more impetuous rushing into the stern arms of labor; but gentleness of manner, a low-toned word now and then, thoughtfulness, and some few silent tears, astonished Hepsy and Sarah, and led the guilty Sam to think that this strange calmness boded ruinous storms, to burst with sudden eruptions of thunder and quick cross-lightnings upon his devoted head.
Father Brighthopes felt much refreshed in the open air. His heart expanded, his soul went up on wings of light towards God.
"I have done my duty, thanks to the Giver of strength!" he murmured, with deep inward peace. "Oh, Lord, bless unto her the seed of truth thy servant has scattered upon the thorny ground of her heart!"
Birds sang around him; fearless squirrels chattered at him, from fences and limbs of trees, with fan-like, handsome tails curved proudly over their backs; and the beautiful sunshine kissed his aged cheek.
In the distance he heard the cheerful sound of the mowers whetting their scythes, in the sweet air of June. His heart leaped with joy, as he followed along the grassy orchard path. In a little while he came in sight of the hay-field. A pleasing picture met his eye, and he stopped to look upon it.
A sturdy laborer stood manfully erect, his scythe at his feet, with the blade buried in a fresh swath, and the water-jug elevated at right angles from his perpendicular, with its nose just beneath his own. Chester, rosy, perspiring, his straw hat set carelessly upon one side of his head, stood leaning on his scythe. His father was whetting the obstinate tool which he had been deterred from grinding properly by the ill-timed laziness of Sam. The second hired laborer was seated upon a heap of grass, under the fence, fanning his brown face with his broad hat-brim; and, still nearer the orchard, James was scattering the swaths with a pitchfork, in the midst of the wide space which the mowers had already gone over.
It was a handsome meadow; the ground high and rolling, the grass waving in the distance, a cornfield on the right, a hilly pasture on the left, and a green grove still further to the south. The old clergyman stood in the midst of the orchard trees, admiring the picture, until Mr. Royden, uttering some pleasant jest, swung his scythe into the tall grass, followed by the two hired men and Chester in regular succession, at each other's heels.
Father Brighthopes found a fork by the orchard fence, and went to help James spread hay. Having gone once across the field with one of Chester's light swaths, he took off his coat, and hung it upon the fence by the pasture; having gone back again, he removed his vest; and one more turn brought off his neckcloth.
"You go to work like an old farmer," cried Mr. Royden, coming out with his swath, and shouldering his scythe.
"Yes," said Father Brighthopes, cheerily; "I ought to, at least, for I was bred a farmer's boy, and now Iam old, sure enough."
"Well, I would advise you to take it easy."
"I mean to; risk me for that!"
"But there is danger of your hurting yourself before you think of it," said the careful farmer.
The clergyman thanked him for the kind warning, and stopped to pick some berries in the corner of the fence. Mr. Royden waited for the other mowers to get out.
"Chester," said he, "you don't point out well. Carry your scythe a little lower as you bring it around. There! You will make a famous mower, with practice," he added, encouragingly. "Don't try to cut too wide a swath."
At that moment James was heard to utter a loud shout, and, looking up, Mr. Royden saw him running at full speed towards the pasture fence.
"What is the matter?"
"That confounded mischievous colt!" cried James.
"I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, suddenly, "that cunning brute has got hold of your coat, Father Brighthopes!"
"Ha!" said the clergyman. "My coat? That will never do, at all. Where is the little rascal?"
"Don't chase him, James!" cried Mr. Royden. "You will only make the matter worse."
But James did not hear. The colt, with the clergyman's coat between his teeth, was capering over the hill. James ran after him, throwing pebble-stones and shouting, while the hired laborers leaned their great strong arms upon the fence, and laughed broadly at the fun.
"What a playful animal!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, laughing as heartily as any. "He thinks he is doing a wonderfully pretty trick."
Suddenly the colt stopped, dropped the garment, and, looking round at James, whom he had distanced by some twenty rods, darted from the top of the hill. This was not all. While the youth ran panting up the acclivity, he returned to the coat, and began to tear it with his teeth and fore-feet; but James put an end to that fun, by sending a well-aimed stone to the very center of his neck, upon which the mischievous animal snatched up the garment again, and went galloping off with it to the further extremity of the field.
Mr. Royden, Chester and one of the hired men, had to go to the assistance of James, and drive the colt into a corner, before the booty could be recovered. When it was finally seized by Chester from under his very feet, it was not worth much. It had been shamefully trampled and torn.
But Father Brighthopes laughed pleasantly, as they brought it back to him.
"The shrewd dog!" said he; "as long as I kept at work, he was too conscientious to touch my coat; but the moment I stopped to pick berries, he thought he would teach me a lesson."
"I am sorry,—sorry!" exclaimed the mortified farmer.
"Oh, it is not a great loss! It will not ruin me. I think I shall recover from the damage. Bad work he made with it, didn't he?" laughed the old man, holding up the wreck of cloth. "It is fortunate I did not wear my best coat out here. It isn't so bad as if I had not another to my back. You have no more colts over in the cornfield, to take as good care of my vest, I trust?"
As the men looked in the direction of the vest, they saw Mark Wheeler, the jockey, coming towards them, across the lot. He was walking very fast, and passion contracted his features.
"Mr. Royden," said he, with forced calmness, "are you pretty busy just now?"
"You see I am holding my own with these hearty young men," replied the farmer.
"I'll work for you enough to make up for lost time," said Mark, "if you will go over and look at my new horse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"He has hurt his eye."
"Hurt his eye? How?" asked Mr. Royden.
"You will see; I can't stop to explain now," answered Mark, showing more and more agitation. "If you can, I wish you would go right over now."
"Oh, well, I will," said Mr. Royden. "Let me carry my scythe to the other end of the swath. Come, Father Brighthopes, would you like to take a short walk?"
The old man, thinking he had exercised about enough for one forenoon, willingly left the meadow in company with Mr. Royden, Chester and Mark the jockey; having first, to the great amusement of the spectators, put on the farmer's loose coat, to avoid getting cold in his aged bones.
"What is the matter with your colt's eye?" asked Chester, as they walked amid the young corn.
"I am afraid it is spoilt," replied Mark, between his teeth.
"Spoilt! Not your new horse,—the splendid sorrel colt you got of Mr. Skenitt?"
"Yes; the splendid sorrel colt; if 'twas either of the others, I wouldn't care so much."
"Howdidit happen?" cried Mr. Royden, deeply pained.
"By——"
The oath came out before Mark thought of it.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he added, with emotion, turning to the old clergyman. "I'm so in the habit of swearing, that I swear without knowing what I am about."
"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, laying his hand kindly upon his shoulder, "I forgive you, from the bottom of my heart. But it is not ofmeyou should ask pardon. I know the slavery of habit. It is only by resolutely breaking its chains that we can be free."
"An oath must shock you," muttered Mark, penitently.
"True, my friend. I look upon profanity as awful, in view of the stern commandment, 'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.' But, if you take an oath, it matters little whether I hear it. Not against me, but against God and your own soul, is the sin."
"I never thought about the sin being so very great."
"At least," said the old man, kindly, "swearing is not wise. You purchase no pleasure, I am sure, by an idle oath."
"Well, but it is not so easy to break off the habit," replied Mark.
"I have heard a story of a converted sailor," said Chester,—to whom the subject seemed an unpleasant one, without spice,—"who, from his youth upwards, had made profane expletives a large proportion of his conversation, so that, when he came to pray, the favorite oaths would, in spite of himself, besprinkle the piety of his prayer. Yet he prayed with a soul convulsed with anguish for his sins, and, with profanity on his lips, pleaded that he might be pardoned the folly of swearing."
"And he was pardoned! believe it, that prayer was accepted and answered!" exclaimed the old man, with enthusiasm. "It is the heart God reads,—the heart, the heart!"
"I was going to tell you about the colt," said Mark, after a pause. "I went into the yard, and found him picking some spears of grass out of the corner of the fence. He didn't see me, and, without thinking, I spoke to him quick; he flung up his head," continued Mark, with emotion, "and the point of a rail struck him right in the eye."
"Did it put it out?"
"I am afraid so. I wouldn't have had it happen—" another oath—"for one hundred dollars!"
Beyond the cornfield was a swampy lot, overgrown with coarse, wild grass, and partially drained by a black, sluggish stream. Mark led the way, treading upon stones, sticks and slabs, in springy spots, or walking upon logs, that lay rotting upon the ground. Mr. Royden followed, and Chester, with Father Brighthopes, came after.
"I hope you will not wet your feet," said the young man, helping the clergyman over a bad place. "Step on this dead limb; it is solid."
"That is well passed," cried the other, cheerily. "What a fine thing it would be, if, in the difficult path of life, we could get over all bad habits as easily!"
"There is one habit," rejoined Chester, in a low tone, "which I trust I have overcome,—thanks to your timely counsel."
"Ah? It is gratifying to me to hear you say so."
"And I feel that I owe you an apology."
"Me? How so?" asked the old man.
"The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky—or rather lucky—day I met you outside the stage-coach."
"Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father Brighthopes.
"Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so. What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of insolence."
"I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all."
"I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously."
"Our only armor against such influences isfirm principle," answered the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this."
"It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?"
"We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose."
"I see," said Chester.
"'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,'
"'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,'
the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first time—they do not always shock us."
"The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is," replied Father Brighthopes. "And there is another thing to be considered. Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent MIND can analyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps his heart is not bad,—what there is of it,—but its virtue is negative. When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is sure to lead us astray."
"I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so prone to smile upon and shake hands with crime," said Chester. "Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree."
"A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind," observed the clergyman, earnestly.
Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a grassy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to call out his deepest feelings.
"I don't know why it is," said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown over the sluggish brook, "but I feel as though I could talk with you more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that Imustapologize to you for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally such grim moralists, that they make me shudder."
"When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I should condemn a brother?" said Father Brighthopes, with suffused features.
Chester was deeply touched.
"I am not a wilful sinner," he muttered, from his heart. "I do love purity, goodness, holiness.I hate myselffor my bad nature!" he exclaimed, bitterly.
"Ah, that will never do," replied the old man, softly and kindly. "My son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature God has given you in his wisdom,—hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward, upward,—higher, higher, still—in the golden atmosphere; its fruits shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed forevermore."
"But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays, and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly.
"Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm. "Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens."
"And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!"
"Theweeds—yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?"
"I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,—those wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,—theyare cast out."
"And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most appropriate for their unsubdued natures."
Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of Mark's house,—a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which stood the barn and stables.
Father Brighthopes and his companion found Mr. Royden examining the injured eye of the sorrel colt, which Mark held by the halter in the yard.
"Can anything be done for it?" asked the jockey, anxiously.
Mr. Royden shook his head, with a pained expression. He loved horses above all other domestic animals, and a fine colt like Mark's he regarded almost as a human being. He could not, it seemed, have felt much worse, had he witnessed the effects of a similar injury upon a fellow-mortal.
"Spoilt, an't it?"
"Yes," said the farmer; "I see no help for it."
"I know," rejoined Mark, "the sight is ruined. But is the eye going to look very bad? Will he show it much?"
"Ah, Mark!" said Chester, rather harshly, for a fresh suspicion had entered his mind; "that hurt can never be covered up. You can't trade him off for a sound horse, if you try."
Mark turned upon him, with a fierce oath.
"An't it enough for me to know it, without having it flung in my teeth?" he demanded.
"You deserve it all," retorted Chester, kindling.
"I do?" muttered Mark, with clenched fists.
"Oh, I am not afraid of you," said Chester, turning slightly pale, but not from fear.
His lips were firmly compressed, and he fixed his fine dark eyes upon the jockey, with a look of defiance.
"Boys, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, impatiently, "what is all this about? Chester, leave the yard!"
"If you say so, I will go."
"I say so, if you can't stay and be on good terms with your neighbor."
"I only tell him calmly what I think," said Chester, with a resolute air.
"And if older persons had not been present," cried Mark, with another oath, "I should have flung you over the fence, like a puppy,—as you are!"
"Be calm, my son! bridle your tongue," said the clergyman, gently, to Chester.
But the young man's pride was touched and his wrath enkindled. He did not pause to consider the consequences of a rash word.
"I should really have liked to see you try that game!" he replied, with cutting sarcasm in his tones.
The jockey uttered a stifled growl, like an enraged bull-dog, and, flinging the halter over the colt's neck, aimed a blow with his fist at Chester's head. But the latter was not unprepared. Avoiding the attack, he skillfully took advantage of Mark's impetuosity, grappled with him, and flung him almost instantly to the ground.
The jockey came down with a tremendous jar, Chester falling upon him. In a moment the latter was upon his feet; when his father, alarmed and highly displeased, seized him by the collar.
"Let go!" muttered Chester, in an excited manner, but not disrespectfully.
"What are you going to do, you foolhardy boy?"
"Nothing; unless I am compelled to. You will let me defend myself, I hope? I don't want to hurt Mark Wheeler; but then Mark Wheeler must keep off."
Meanwhile Mark Wheeler had regained his feet, mad from the fall. His red-burning eyes were like a wild beast's. Father Brighthopes took his arm with a mild and soothing word; but he shook him off, fiercely.
The jockey was a much stronger man than his quick and determined adversary; but either he feared the latter's agility, or blinding passion made him forgetful of every feeling of honor and humanity. His eye fell upon a dangerous weapon, a fragment of a hickory fork-handle, that lay within his reach. He made a spring for it; but the clergyman had picked it up before him.
"Give it to me, old man!" Mark muttered through his teeth.
"Nay, my friend, you must not have it," replied Father Brighthopes, firmly, but kindly.
"I must not? You mean to govern me like a boy, on my own ground?" hissed the angry man. "Let go your hold!"
"I entreat you, pause one minute to consider," said the clergyman, meekly. "Then you shall have the club, to use it as you please."
His words had no effect, except to turn the tide of Mark's fury against him. The angry man raved at him with a tempest of oaths; shaking his fist in his face, he swore that, were it not for his white hairs, he would have crushed him beneath his heel.
"God have mercy on you!" said Father Brighthopes, with solemn earnestness, and with tears.
"None of your pious nonsense here!" thundered Mark, convulsed with passion. "Let go the club, or I shall break your arms."
"You will not break an old man's arms," replied the clergyman, with sublime energy. "No, Mark Wheeler! I know you better. You cannot injure me."
The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to rescue him, he said,
"Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me.I am in the hands of my God."
Mark's fist was raised to strike.
"Ishalltear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage.
"The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,—not if you kill me. Butyour own soulis in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you! You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. Iwillpray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!"
Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.
"My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!"
Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it.
"Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will."
The club dropped upon the ground.
"Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live."
He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnashing his teeth.
"Are you fit to die?" asked the old man, sitting down by his side. "Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of passion?"
Mark started up.
"Ches is to blame!" he said, with an oath. "He provoked me, when I was mad from losing my colt's eye."
"Be calm, my friend. Sit down," replied the clergyman. "If Chester has done wrong, he will acknowledge it."
"I spoke what I thought just and true," added the young man, promptly.
"Why just and true?" echoed Mark, his passion blazing up again.
"You will be angry, if I tell you."
"No, I won't."
"Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye was hurt by any such accident as you described."
"How then?" muttered the jockey.
"It seemed to me," answered Chester, folding his arms, "you got mad training him, andknocked his eye out."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him."
"I acknowledge I whipped him," said Mark. "But——"
"Come, come, boys!" cried Mr. Royden, "drop the subject. You, Chester, are to blame; for, even though your suspicion was correct, you had no right to speak it. I am mortified beyond measure to think your folly has fallen upon the head of our good old friend."
"Father Brighthopes, what shall I say to express my sorrow and shame for what has taken place?" asked Chester, with deep humility.
"Promise me that you will never again speak unkindly to one who has erred," answered the clergyman, with a sad smile, pressing his hand. "It was not well that you should use the cutting tone in which you hinted your suspicion."
"I know it," said Chester, frankly. "Mark, I hope you cherish no ill feeling. Here is my hand, if you will take it."
Mark had covered his face again; he did not look up nor move.
"I don't know but I was wrong in my thoughts," proceeded the young man. "I hope I was. But my blood boils when I see cruelty to animals, and I have not yet learned self-control."
"Which youmustlearn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender earnestness.
"I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr. Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal, and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I wish I could."
"I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is good enough for me. Ches was right.I knocked that eye out with the butt of my whip."
He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse.
Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot faces at the well, in preparation for dinner.
And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands; no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only strong men sob.
The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done.
"I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way, decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep, but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of us."
But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr. Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs into confusion.
When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a storm brewing."
"Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it."
The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and some low growls of thunder came to the ear.
But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the south, not even a white fleece was to be seen.
"It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys; it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high."
The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester; while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing.
The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he had learned to eat meat with the men.
Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and growled in deep and wrathful tones.
"It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load.
"Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-cock.
Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake, and followed along the wagon-track.
While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw Mark Wheeler approaching.
"Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr. Royden.
"I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds will touch us yet a while."
"I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger," rejoined Mark.
"Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time."
"I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?"
"Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can."
Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him.
"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind.
The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand.
"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you."
"Afraid!"
"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."
"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies."
"I shall try—thank you,"—Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."
"Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly.
The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked where he should commence.
"Follow after me, if you please," said the young man, with real kindness in his tones.
The quarrel seemed forgotten.
In a little while, Sam came limping to the field with a jug of fresh water. He was beginning to use his sprained ankle again, but he made awkward work of it. Mr. Royden called him, and drank from the jug, having first offered it to Father Brighthopes.
"Any mice, Jim?" asked Sam, slyly.
"We have no time to think of mice, my son," said the clergyman.
At that moment one of the little animals in question ran away from his rake, and took refuge under the wagon.
"I'll ketch him!" said Sam, with eyes sparkling mischief.
"Come, come! no nonsense this afternoon," cried Mr. Royden. "Go and carry the jug to the men. They're wanting it by this time."
"I'm going right along, sir," replied Sam, starting, but looking back for the mouse.
Mr. Royden went on. Turning presently, he saw the boy in hot pursuit of the unhappy mouse. He had forgotten about his lame foot. He was leaping about on the mown sward, and dancing this way and that, with surprising agility.
The truth is, his ankle had been nearly well for two or three days; and he had cherished the convenient habit of hopping and jumping only to excuse himself from labor. Betrayed into running by a mouse, and by his passion for mischief, he confirmed a suspicion which had already entered Mr. Royden's mind.
"Here, you little rascal!" cried the farmer, provoked, but at the same time not a little amused. "Sam Cone!"
Sam did not hear, or would not heed, so enthusiastic was he in the pursuit of fun. At length he made a seizure, with his hand in the turf, and brought up the mouse, screaming with delight.
"I got him! I got him! I g——Blast your pictur'!"
His song changed suddenly from joy to lamentation. The mouse had bit his finger with its sharp teeth, and would not let go. Sam flirted, yelled, and finally shook him off, with much ado. The animal escaped, while he, reflecting probably that it was a small affair to cry about, became silent, and squeezed the oozing drops of blood from his wounds, glancing sheepishly around, to see who was looking at him.
"So, your foot is well enough to chase mice, is it?" said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor. "Now, supposing you should take a rake, and help the men with those win'rows?"
"Got bit!" muttered Sam. "Darned ol' mouse!"
"Shall we send for a doctor?" laughed James.
"His teeth went clear through!" complained Sam, limping again worse than ever, and sucking his finger.
But he did not argue the propriety of obeying the farmer's directions. He carried the jug to the men, and went slowly, limpingly, to work.
Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up the load.
They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return, Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the way.
"I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone.
"Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch."
"Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do."
Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or be buried.
A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling and darkening the field.
"I vow," said Mark, "that looks like rain!"
"Rain—sure enough!" articulated Mr. Royden, with a troubled expression.
"A big sprinkle struck me right on the nose," cried Sam.
"I wish we had got up the hay that was down, the first thing after dinner, and left the cocks," said the farmer, pricking the horses. "I would have risked it in the stack, if I had known it was so well cured. If there should come up a rain, it would be spoilt."
There was real danger, and each man went to work as if the hay was all his own.
"Don't pitch so fast as you did afore, Mark," whined Sam. "You 'most covered me up, fifteen or sixteen times."
"It'll do you good," replied the jockey, heaving a fraction of a ton from the heavy windrow directly upon Sam's head. "Tread it down!"
Father Brighthopes, who had been some time sitting by the stack, to rest his old limbs, observed the threatening clouds, and came out again with his rake.
"You'd better go to the house, Father," said Mr. Royden, in a hurried tone. "I would not have you get wet and take cold for ten times the worth of the hay."
But the old man would not leave the field, which was now a busy and exciting scene. The storm seemed inevitable. Getting the hay into cocks that would shed rain, Chester and the men worked almost miraculously. It seemed as if they had husbanded their strength during the week for this crisis. They were not jaded and disheartened laborers, but bold and active workmen.
Meanwhile the new load swelled and loomed up prodigiously.
"When I give the word, James," cried Mr. Royden, "drive to the stack as straight as you can go. It must be topped off somehow, before it gets wet."
The clouds roared and wheeled in the sky. The lightnings were vivid and frequent. The sultry air grew rapidly cool, and there was a gale rising. A deep gloom had settled upon all the earth, coloring the scene of hurried labor with a tinge of awfulness, as if some dread event were impending.
A few heavy drops came hissing down upon the hay.
"Drive to the stack, James!" cried the farmer. "Go with what you have got."
"Take the rest of this win'row," said Mark; "hadn't we better? I can heave it up in a minute."
"Be quick, then; for we must secure the stack."
"If the shower will hold off ten minutes, I do believe the boys will have the rest of the hay safe in the cock," observed Father Brighthopes. "How they work!"
The shower did hold off wonderfully. Mark and Mr. Royden threw on the remainder of the windrow, making a large, unshapely load.
With a feeling of triumph, the farmer saw the horses start at a quick pace for the stack.
"The rain is coming!" said the jockey, glancing at a dark fringe of showers dropped from the thunder-clouds over the woods.
"It must come, then!" returned Mr. Royden. "We can pitch enough on the stack, though, to make it shed rain, I hope. The rest of the load we will run right into the barn."
The farmer sprang to a stone-heap, where he had left his coat, seized it, and threw it over the old clergyman's shoulders.
"Walk fast," cried he, "and you will get to the barn before the shower."
"A little rain won't hurt me, if I keep at work," replied Father Brighthopes. "I'll stay and help the boys."
Mr. Royden remonstrated in vain. A cry from Mark called his attention from the old man.
"That load will be off!"
The farmer uttered an exclamation of impatience. The great bulk of hay, thrown on in such haste, and trampled down without much regard to shape or order by the boys, was reeling over the side of the rick. James, encumbered with the reins, scrambled to the left as fast as he could, to keep the balance, calling upon Sam to do the same. But the latter was too busily engaged in tying a straw around a large horse-fly to heed the danger.
Mark and Mr. Royden ran to steady the load with their forks; but suddenly one of the wagon-wheels fell into a little hollow, and they had scarcely time to escape from the avalanche, as it plunged over them, and settled like a cloud upon the ground.
About a third of the load remained on the wagon, which fortunately did not upset; and James had skilfully managed, not only to stop the horses, but to avoid falling off, when the great bulk went over. Not so with Sam. Deep buried in the soft bed he had made, he was too late to save himself, when he discovered the reality of the danger. It was lucky he did not fall upon Mark's fork. As it was, he came down easily, with a very small portion of the load under him, and a very large portion sweeping down upon him. He was quite buried from sight; but in a moment his head appeared amid the billows of hay, and he floundered upon the firm ground.
Sam hardly knew what had taken place. At first he stared about him, looking at the wagon, and its contents on the ground; then he examined the straw, which he still held firmly clasped in his right hand.
"Thunder and broomsticks!" cried he, "if the darned old load an't off! and I've lost my horse-fly!"
Everybody else, except this thoughtless lover of mischief, who witnessed the disaster, expected to see Mr. Royden thrown into a violent passion. Father Brighthopes feared that his patience could not hold out. But the irritable farmer had not exercised his temper during the week to no purpose. He astonished everybody by his coolness.
"So much for being in a hurry," said he. "I ought not to have expected such a load to ride across the lot. Now let us be more deliberate, and do well what we do at all. There's no use of crying for an accident that cannot be helped."
He and Mark took hold, and threw on enough hay to bind what was left on the rick; and James drove on, just as a sharp shower was commencing. It grew very dark, and they topped off the stack in the rain. But the clouds acted very capriciously. After sifting a little water, they wheeled away to the south, where the rain could be seen streaking down over the woods. But there was no more of it on the meadow for some time; and when at last it began to come down in volleys, the stack was secured, the hay left in the field was thrown up in shapely cocks, the load which had fallen off was once more on the rick and going into the barn, the horses on a keen trot; and the laborers, shouldering their rakes, were hastening from the field.
Mr. Royden was never in better humor than when he found the old clergyman, somewhat heated, and perspiring freely, wrapped up in his great mantle, in the kitchen corner, prattling with George and Willie, who had just come home from school.