Since Monday, Hepsy had been quite unwell. She had lost her appetite, of late; and although she seemed more cheerfully resigned to her unhappy lot than ever before, it was easy to perceive that continually she had to struggle with some great pain.
Father Brighthopes talked with her a good deal during her illness, and his conversation was an unspeakable comfort to her suffering heart. He imparted a strange power of endurance to her weak nature; he lifted the dark veil from her future; he showed her, opening at the end of the rugged, steep and thorny path she traveled, a paradise of purity, odorous with orange groves and flowery fields, murmurous with falling fountains, and bright with the sunlight of the Saviour's love. There stood angels, too radiant for the weak eye of the doubting spirit to look upon, smiling to welcome her, beckoning with their snowy hands, and chanting psalms of praise to the Being who had given them this labor of love to do. And soon one among them, called Hope, with luminous wings, and a face like the morning star, came down to her, scattering roses and tufts of softest moss upon the jagged stones in her way, and bound a pair of shining sandals upon her bleeding feet. Love, an angel from the highest heavens descended to earth, where mortals behold her divine countenance but dimly, through the misty exhalations of their impure natures, twined her gentle arms about her neck, and kissed her, pointing upward to the infinite Father of all. Then Faith, a seraph serene and strong, took her by the hand, and bathed her pallid brow and fainting lips in the life-giving light of her own immortal eyes.
Such pictures the clear vision of the happy old man perceived, and discovered to her soul with a power which seemed like inspiration. Tears of joy stole down her sallow cheeks, as her mind followed his. And when he showed her another path, a little removed from the rocky steeps she climbed,—a circuitous, tempting road, shaded with trees, many of which bore fruits lovely to look upon, but all ashes to the taste, and bordered with flowers that faded continually at the touch; a long, easy way, peopled by the fairest ones she knew, who, stopping momently to eat of the fruits and pluck the flowers, journeyed—Oh, how slowly!—towards the heavenly fields; and when she saw that what seemed glittering gems under their feet were only flakes of mica, while the very rocks she trod upon, now worn a little, began to sparkle with native diamonds, burning beneath her sandals; she no longer repined at her destiny, but thanked God for the discipline which led her soul thus early up to Him.
Already Hepsy began to understand the substantial meaning of these pictures. It seemed that everybody was kinder to her than before. Chester never came to the house without sitting down, if only for a minute, by her side, and speaking some tender and brotherly word for her tremulous heart. But others were more changed than he; for in others there had been more need of change. Mrs. Royden seemed a different being. She had become singularly thoughtful and careful of the poor sick girl; and, for some reason, which nobody knew so well as the clergyman, I suppose, she appeared uncommonly even-tempered towards the children, reminding them, from time to time, that "poor Hepsy was sick, and they should do all they could to comfort her, and not disturb her with their noise."
On Saturday evening, when the rain lashed the clap-boards of the house, and streaked the window-panes, it was pleasant for all to look back upon the week which was past. The rolling ball of time runs smoothly in the golden grooves of peace. There had been so few jars and discords in the family, that even the children seemed conscious that they had entered upon a new era of life.
Owing to the gloom of the storm, the candles were lighted all of an hour earlier than usual, and Father Brighthopes, taking his place by Hepsy's side, who occupied the rocking-chair, with pillows, in the sitting-room, told his pleasant stories, with the family gathered about him, and the little ones on his knees. The beating of the rain was music to all hearts that night; and when the children went to bed, later than was their custom, their happy souls sank softly into slumber, lulled by the rain on the roof.
On the following morning, the sky was clear, and the sun shone freshly upon the wet earth. The storm broke away a little before dawn, and when the Sabbath threw open its gateway of gold a thousand birds came fluttering through to announce, in songs of joy, the appearance of the heavenly visitant. A gentle breeze shook the beaded rain from glistening boughs, and dried the drenched grasses, while shining mists stole out of swampy hollows, and faded in the sun.
Margaret Bowen, the wooden-legged shoemaker's daughter, who had worked very faithfully and cheerfully since Wednesday without hearing an unpleasant word from Mrs. Royden, wished to go home that morning; and after breakfast James carried her over in the wagon. Willie went too; and the little fellow, overjoyed at his mother's indulgence, took great delight in listening to the birds, in looking at the sparkling leaves and grass, and in watching the wheels as they cut through the puddles and furrowed the softened sand of the road.
All the family went to meeting, except Hepsy, Mrs. Royden and the baby. Sam rode behind on an extra seat,—a board placed across the wagon-box,—and fell off twice, without doing material injury to his person; after which trifling accidents he became cautious how he suffered his devotion to fun to send him wheeling over backwards when the horses started suddenly. Chester and James, who walked, witnessed one of his falls, as the wagon passed them on the road. They thought Sam's neck was broken, and ran to pick him up; but, after brushing the moist sand from his clothes, and getting him in the wagon again, they found that he was about as good as new.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kerchey took pains once more to invite Chester to ride with him; and, in no way discouraged by his painful deficiency in the brilliant graces of conversation manifested on a former occasion, readily consented to gratify the family with his presence at supper.
Mrs. Royden was pleased with Mr. Kerchey's condescension. Her fears that he might have taken offense at Sarah's freedom were happily dissipated; and, speaking with the latter aside, she told her, in a kind and motherly tone, that "she sincerely hoped she would treat their neighbor well."
Mr. Kerchey took them by surprise. He made some strikingly original and sensible remarks, without any of his ordinary hesitation. At the table he expressed some sentiments with regard to children which were quite refreshing, and his description of the storm on the previous day was rather picturesque.
But no shrewd observer, like Sarah, could fail to see that his language was studied and elaborate.
"He has got a little handful of speeches by heart," she whispered to Chester. "He will use them all up soon,—thenwe'll see if he can talk!"
She was confirmed in her suspicions when, questioning some ideas he advanced, she found him utterly unable to answer her in the same easy strain as before. To excuse himself, he, with great difficulty, confessed that those thoughts had been forming themselves in his mind, and that he would have to consider her argument before making a definite reply.
"My—ah—words—you see—they are very slow," he observed. "I—frequently have to—ah—note down what I—intend to—express—on particular times—or occasions."
"Words are the husk, and thoughts are the corn, of our conversation," said Father Brighthopes, with an encouraging smile. "Too many persons bring only the husks, which they heap upon us in rather uncomfortable abundance."
"Yes, sir;—very—ah—true," returned Mr. Kerchey, gratefully. "I think I have—ah——"
Here he broke down, appearing utterly incapable of finding the words he wanted.
"You have considerably more of the corn than the husk," rejoined the old man; "an excellent and quite excusable fault."
"I think, if there is anything disagreeable, it is an everlasting talker," remarked Sarah, her bright eyes sparkling with fun.
Chester asked her if it was because she wished to usurp the conversation herself; upon which Mr. Kerchey managed to observe, in his very hardest way, that there were some persons of whose talk he could never tire.
He looked intently at Sarah,—just as if he meant her, Lizzie suggested, in a low tone, to James.
At this moment Willie diverted the conversation by crying out,
"Sam's pinching me!"
"Oh, I didn't!" said Sam.
"Why do you tell such a story?" demanded Mrs. Royden, with a slight degree of impatience. "I saw you pinch his arm."
"I was only brushing a fly off," replied Sam.
"He asked me how thick my sleeve was, and he took right hold of skin and all!" whined Willie, rubbing his arm.
Sam was reprimanded and Willie was consoled with rind from his father's plate.
Monday was showery. Tuesday was fair, and on Wednesday there was a settled rain. It was anything but fine haying weather. The mowers got down a good deal of grass, but it was mostly left lying in the swath.
The Roydens took advantage of the dull time to visit at Deacon Dustan's, on Wednesday, with the old clergyman. There was quite a large company present, consisting of old and young people, among the choicest families in Mr. Corlis' society.
After dinner the rain "held up," and towards evening the elderly gentlemen of the party went out to walk. Deacon Dustan took great pleasure and no less pride in showing his guests the fairest portions of his goodly estate. Meanwhile he was too shrewd to neglect introducing the discussion of a subject which lay very near his heart.
The company were in excellent humor for a favorable consideration of the project of the new meeting-house; and Mr. Corlis became very eloquent on the subject.
"Come, Neighbor Royden," cried Deacon Dustan, "you are the only influential man in the society who has not expressed a decided opinion, one way or the other."
"It is because I haven't a decided opinion, I suppose," replied Mr. Royden, laughing. "You have heard the case, Father," he added, turning to the old clergyman: "what is your opinion?"
"I have hardly come to any conclusion yet," replied Father Brighthopes. "I have some ideas about such projects, however."
"Well, we would thank you to let us hear them, Father," rejoined Deacon Dustan. "They must be of value, from your long experience."
"Is this Job Bowen's house?" asked the old man; for they were walking leisurely past the shoemaker's residence.
"Yes; here lives patient Job, the wooden-legged philosopher," returned Deacon Dustan, good-humoredly. "What of him?"
"I was there, the other day, and promised to come again. I don't know when I shall have a better time. After I have said good-day to the family, I will tell you something about new meeting-houses. Will you go in too, Brother Corlis?"
Mr. Corlis could not refuse, although he would much rather have remained without.
"We will all look in at the door, if you please, gentlemen," said Deacon Dustan. "Job is a curiosity."
"I was just thinking that Job's family would have considered a dish from your generous table to-day a very pleasant curiosity," observed Father Brighthopes.
"Oh, Job is not quite a stranger to my dishes," returned the deacon, quickly. "I should be sorry to say that he was; and I should be sorry to have you think so."
With a smile of sunshine, the old man disclaimed the remotest idea of insinuating such a suspicion.
"A fat dish may be considered a curiosity to a poor man at any time, you know," he added, with tender humor. "Even a cold potato and a crust of bread are often great sources of delight, when accompanied with a kind word, and a cheerful, encouraging smile, from the charitable giver."
Deacon Dustan opened the door, without knocking.
"How are you to-day, Job?" he cried, with his great, strong, energetic lungs.
"Ah! my kind friends!" said Job, rubbing his hands, "I wish I could run to welcome you; but you will excuse me, and come in."
He spoke in his usual soft and subdued voice. He was sitting on his bench, with the window looking out upon the west behind him; and his bald pate and prominent ears were clearly defined, with a picturesque effect, upon the crimson background of the fiery sunset clouds.
"We're too many of us, Brother Job," said the old clergyman, with a smile of sympathetic pleasure: "perhaps you would not like to see us all in your little shop at once?"
"The more the better, bless you!" rejoined the soldier shoemaker, in a sort of glow; "only I'm sorry we haven't chairs enough for all of you."
"Never mind chairs," observed Father Brighthopes, taking Mrs. Bowen's hand, as she was arranging what available seats there were, with her customary melancholy air. "And how are you to-day, sister?"
"I'm pretty well for me," answered the poor woman, in her broken voice. "But we've been hard pushed for means this week; and, besides, since Margaret has been to Mr. Royden's, my other darter has been wo'se, and everything has come upon me."
"Yes; she's had a rather hard time on 't," put in Job, mildly, and with a faint smile. "But she does remarkable, that woman does, my friends—remarkable! She means to make the best of everything."
"He! he! he!" laughed the grandmother, starting up in the corner, and drawing the blanket around her. "That was a chicken-pie not to be ashamed of," she mumbled, in shrill tones, between her toothless gums. "I han't tasted nothing like it these forty year. Our company was wet and hungry enough when they got there; and you'd better believe that 'ere pie had a relish!"
"Bygones, bygones!" whispered Job, touching his forehead, with a tender glance at the old woman. "You mustn't mind her, my friends: we never do. She is a nice old lady, but all out of date, and very deaf."
"How does Margaret get along?" asked Mrs. Bowen, in her most ghastly tone.
"Oh, very well indeed. She is the best girl we ever had, by all odds," replied Mr. Royden.
"I don't know but I shall have to have her come home for a few days," proceeded the other. "I shall, if my other darter continues so sick. I shall want her help more than the money, though we need that bad enough, Lord knows. We're all out of flour; and, if it wan't for the potatoes you sent over Sunday morning, I don't know what we should do."
"Oh, we shall do very well, my good wife!" cried Job, cheerily. "The Lord won't forget us! He is our friend: he is on our side, he is. It'll all be right in the end—glory be to God for that thought!"
"And for every suffering you will have your reward, my noble Christian brother," exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with kindling enthusiasm. "Believe it: you will come out of the fire all the purer and brighter for the ordeal."
Job squeezed a tear from his eye, and, looking up with a countenance full of emotion, as the red light from the western clouds fell upon it, took a book from the bench by his side.
"I don't know how I shall thank you for all the comfort I owe you," he said, with a tearful smile. "What you tell me is wonderful consoling for me to think about here at work, and to repeat over to my good woman, when she has her trials. But I take it as kind as anything your sending me the books by Margaret. I don't have much chance to read, and they will last me a good while: the better for me, I s'pose. You see, I read a sentence, then I hammer away at my work, thinking it over and over, and explaining it to my good woman: it does her good when she's having her bad spells."
"Which of the books do you like best?" asked the clergyman.
"The story of the Pilgrim's Progress is a glorious thing for a lonesome and fainting traveler on the same road, like me!" exclaimed Job. "But I had read that before, and got it pretty well by heart. Now, thisBarnes' Notesinterests me as much as anything; there was so many things in the Testament I wanted to have explained."
"I am delighted to think you are comforted by any of the books," said the old clergyman, warmly.
"Oh, I get a world of good out of this one, especially. Wife sometimes tells me 't an't no use to read it; but," said Job, with a gleaming intelligence in his queer face, as the sunset glow deepened upon it, "what do you think I tell her?"
Father Brighthopes knew some pleasant sally was coming, and encouraged him to proceed.
"I tell her," said Job, quietly chuckling, "the study ofBarnesmakes my faithstable."
This little jest appealed to the sympathies of the farmers, and they honored it with a laugh. Job was radiant with joy.
"I wish theNoteswas condensed into half the number of volumes," he proceeded, under this encouragement. "If I had time to read them, the more the better. But I find them like the waters of a deep stream."
Father Brighthopes saw a joke in Job's twinkling eyes, and asked him to explain the comparison.
"Ha! ha!" Job laughed, in spite of himself. "It's a little conundrum I made to amuse my good woman, in one of her bad turns. Why are Barnes' Notes like the waters of a deep stream?Answer,—because one would find them easier to getover, if they were a-bridged."
The company laughed again; and the clergyman thought it best that they should take leave at the moment when Job was elated with his brilliant success.
"It was in the year 'seventeen," spoke up the grandmother, rousing from her dreams, as they were going away; "I remember it as well as if 'twas yesterday."
"Poor woman!" muttered Job, with feeling, "I've no doubt but she remembers it a great deal better, whatever it is."
"Come again, and I'll tell ye all about it," proceeded the old lady, with a shrill laugh. "I actually gi'n that creatur' three pecks of inions and a pan of dried apples; and she never said so much asthank'e, to this day! I might have expected it, though; for she was a Dudley on her mother's side, and everybody knowed how mean that race of Dudleys always was, partic'larly the women folks. Airly in March, in the year 'seventeen."
She relapsed again into her dreams; Mrs. Bowen bid the visitors a hoarse and melancholygood-evening; and Job stumped to the door on his wooden leg to see them off.
"Now, then, about the new meeting-house," remarked Father Brighthopes, in a spirited tone, carrying his hat in his hand.
The sun was down, the fiery glow was fading from the clouds, and, as the dying light fell upon his large pale forehead and thin white locks of hair, tinging them faintly with gold, Mr. Corlis thought he had never seen so striking a picture of beautiful and venerable age.
"We hear you," said Deacon Dustan.
"Well," proceeded the old man, "my notion is simply this: if your society can afford to build a new meeting-house, build it, by all means."
"There's wisdom for you!" cried the deacon, triumphantly. "My own ideas simplified and expressed in three words,If we can afford to build; and who will say we cannot afford so much?"
"What is it, to afford?" asked Mr. Royden, perplexed by the old clergyman's decision.
"Have you the means to spare for the purpose?" suggested Mr. Corlis.
"Ay, that is the question," said Father Brighthopes. "I don't know but you have. I hope you have. But you must consider that to do this thing for your own glory, and not in the service of our Saviour, will be other than acceptable in his sight."
"We trust to do all things, connected with the church, to the praise and glory of God," returned Mr. Corlis.
"Then your labors will bring their reward. But there are still important considerations claiming our attention. I think the Lord is better pleased with other things than pretty meeting-houses. They who build up his CHURCH find more favor in his sight than the mere constructors of elegant place of worship."
"But, to build up the church, we must commence with the frame-work to shelter it," observed Deacon Dustan; "at least, it appears so to me."
"The true church of Christ is in our own hearts," returned the old man, with a gentle smile.
Deacon Dustan's mind was of too material a cast fully to appreciate this truth; so he only nodded mechanically, and said,
"In one sense, certainly."
"To build that up, should be our first care. That we can do without carpenter's tools, plank or plaster.Righteousnessis the great building material, andLoveis the head workman. Christ has not said, 'Rear me stately edifices, and make my houses pleasing unto me with velvet, gilding and paint.' But he has told his followers to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to visit the afflicted and comfort them, to lift up the downt-rodden. My brethren," said the old man, "this do as long as ye have any in poverty and distress among you; then, I say, if you canaffordit, build a meeting-house of gold, and the Lord will be pleased with the work."
The rebuke, although uttered in all kindness and love, came home, with overwhelming force, to all hearts at that time, when they had just witnessed the squalor and rags of a faithful Christian brother in their very midst. Mr. Corlis, who was expected to reply, was struck speechless.
"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," observed Deacon Dustan, after a painful silence. "Some of it applies to us, without doubt; but not so much as you suppose. In our own society, you will not find any one left to suffer poverty. If we have ever neglected poor Job Bowen,—and, I confess, I, for one, have not been so thoughtful of him as I should be, even if he were the vilest sinner in the world,—our excuse is, that he differs from our persuasion. He is not one of our brethren."
"Christknows not one sect from another, it is thehearthe judges," said the old man. "'Whoeverdoeth the will of my Father, the same is my brother.' For my part, I never thought to inquire into the creed of our poor Christian friend, Job Bowen. It is enough for me to know that his Saviour is my Saviour."
Nobody made answer; and, after a pause, Father Brighthopes added,
"Ah! how sweetly the evening comes on! Look, there is the evening star in the soft blue sky! You will have fine weather for haying to-morrow."
The subject of the new meeting-house was not renewed.
By way of contrast with the foregoing scenes, let us now turn to others, of a different nature.
Scarcely had Deacon Dustan and the elder portion of his gentlemen guests set out on their walk, when Mr. Benjamin Smith, a brother of our old acquaintance, Josephine, drove up to the door with a load of saddles.
Benjamin had been to collect them around the neighborhood. The young people were going to ride. Equestrian exercises had been hinted at by Mr. Kerchey, whose fine, spirited horses were at the disposal of the party, and the girls had caught eagerly at the idea.
Mr. Kerchey was not used to the saddle; but Sarah Royden was, and that was enough for him to know. He himself was a little afraid of mounting a mettled horse; but, since she was so fond of the recreation, he had no desire to consult his own feelings in the matter.
"I—I wish you would tell me how—ah—these girths go," he said to Chester, after laboring hard for a quarter of an hour saddling his handsomest horse for Sarah. "I wish—one of my—ah—hired men was here—so that I—ah—would not have to—would not be obliged to trouble you."
"No trouble at all," cried Chester, who, meanwhile, had saddled four horses in front of Deacon Dustan's barn.
He stepped to the stable to see what Mr. Kerchey was about, and, at a glance, burst into a roar of laughter. The amateur farmer had put on the side-saddle, not exactly bottom upwards, but turned square around; and he was trying to buckle the girths upon the stirrup-strap.
"I think Sarah would hesitate to ride with the saddle just in this position," said Chester, checking his merriment.
He skilfully made the required change, and buckled the girths with such rapidity as struck Mr. Kerchey with amazement, and quite discouraged him from ever touching a side-saddle again.
"You see—I—I—I am not—ah—accustomed to this sort of—of business," he stammered, coloring very red.
A dozen horses were saddled and led to the door. In the meantime the girls had prepared themselves for the sport.
"Oh!" screamed Miss Josephine Smith, as the gallant Chester helped her mount from the block, "my nervth are tho delicate!"
How different Sarah! She sat Mr. Kerchey's handsome horse like a queen, holding her head proudly, as he playfully pranced and reared.
"I—I—hope—I hope there is no—ah—danger?" articulated the amateur farmer, as he reluctantly loosed his hold of the bridle.
Sarah laughed merrily, and boldly struck the animal with her whip. It made Mr. Kerchey gasp to see him bound and plunge. But she kept her balance miraculously.
After seeing that every girth was well fastened, and every fair rider safely mounted, Chester leaped into his own saddle from the turf, without touching foot to stirrup. But he dismounted again immediately, smothering his laughter as well as he could.
All the gentlemen were mounted, except Mr. Kerchey.
His horse, excited by seeing his mate, governed by Sarah, dance about the yard, would not stand still an instant, or come up to the block. Harry Dustan, laughing at his distress, had cantered gayly away with Miss Sedley, the "school-ma'am." Only Chester was thoughtful enough to go to Mr. Kerchey's relief.
The latter, heated, agitated, and wofully perplexed, was beginning to see that riding horseback was a far more serious affair than he had imagined. He witnessed the bold riding of his neighbors with dismay. Galloping was to him a perfect mystery. His courage and ambition had never gone beyond a gentle trot. The mere thought of dashing off side by side with Sarah made him dizzy.
"Can't you mount?" asked Chester, soberly, considering the circumstances.
"No—I—that is—perhaps—on the whole—I'd better not—ah—attempt it."
"Oh, that won't do! What will the girls say?"
"But, you see—it is all—ah—new to me," stammered Mr. Kerchey.
"You'll get into the way of it at once," replied Chester, in an encouraging tone. "It's as easy as running down hill, or running up—an account. Now,"—he wheeled the horse to the block,—"put your leg over the saddle. No! the other leg,—your right one,—unless you want to ride backwards."
After considerable trouble, Mr. Kerchey was mounted, with his feet thrust into the stirrups up to the ankles.
Chester, perceiving the smiling faces of the old ladies at the windows and at the door, watching the performance, was so convulsed with mirth that he could with difficulty get once more into the saddle. But the girls had now all galloped up the road, and, with no inducement to make a display of agility and strength, he braced his toe in the stirrup, and leisurely mounted.
Mr. Kerchey was a little ahead of him, making too ludicrous an appearance to be easily described. He looked like an animated bag of flour, Chester said, awkwardly balanced, jolting painfully, and seeming momently ready to tumble off.
"Oh, you do bravely!" cried the young man, dashing past him, on a smart gallop.
Mr. Kerchey groaned, and grasped the saddle with his left hand, desperately, resolved to ride faster.
The party had halted a little way up the road, and Chester made haste to send Sarah back to keep Mr. Kerchey company. At first she refused to go, but conceiving the idea of some fun, consented to the arrangement, and rode to meet her admirer.
In order that he might not observe the mirth indulged at his expense, the rest of the party galloped on, Chester riding by the side of the sociable Jane Dustan.
"What a delightful creature this is!" cried Sarah, wheeling sharply around Mr. Kerchey. "I could ride him night and day without wearying."
"Ah! glad to h—h—hear it!" said the amateur farmer, still holding the saddle with a fearful grasp.
"I see you are very careful of your horse," she added, letting her animal prance daintily on before. "Is he lame?"
"No—not—not exactly——"
"Ha! ha! I see! You are preserving his wind in order to outstrip us towards the close of the ride! I shall look out for you, Mr. Kerchey!"
"I—beg—to—assure—you—" replied the tortured man, each word jolted out of his lungs by the hard-trotting horse, "I—have no—no such intention."
"How I envy you the advantages of living in a city!" exclaimed Sarah. "You have riding-schools there; you must have enjoyed them a great deal, Mr. Kerchey."
If, on ordinary occasions, it was difficult for the amateur farmer to express his ideas, what shall we say of him in his present painful situation? All his faculties were called into activity by the threatening danger. His own horse was beginning to prance and amble sidewise; and it was only by the exercise of great vigilance that he kept his balance at all. Let the reader endeavor to carry on a sprightly conversation with a saucy girl and add up a long column of figures at the same time, and he may be able to form a dim conception of the ordeal through which Mr. Kerchey was compelled to pass.
"I—I—never—rode much," he managed to articulate.
"Indeed? you surprise me," cried Sarah, carefully committing the trifling mistake of touching his horse with the tip of her whip.
The animal leaped into the air, breaking so suddenly into a gallop that Mr. Kerchey barely escaped being thrown to the ground.
"Whoa—whoa—whoa!" he ejaculated, in an agitated voice, letting go one of the reins, in his confusion.
The horse dashed to the corner of the fence, and stopped so suddenly that Mr. Kerchey, thrown clear over the pommel of the saddle, rested on his neck. Fortunately, having come to this stand, the animal did not move until he had had time to regain his seat; for, as it was, had it not been for the proximity of the rails, on which he braced his hands, the rider must have plunged head foremost to the ground.
Sweating a cold sweat, and trembling in every limb, Mr. Kerchey seized both reins, one in each hand, resolved to hold the animal "in," at all hazards.
"Whoa—whoa—whoa!" he kept repeating, in tremulous tones, as he once more got into the road.
Sarah choked with emotion.
"Wouldn't you like a whip!" she asked, as soon as she could summon sufficient gravity to speak.
"Oh—no—thank you," gasped Mr. Kerchey.
"You'd better. You'll manage your horse much more easily with one. Will you take mine?"
Sarah rode up to him, and extended the frightful whip, at sight of which Mr. Kerchey's horse bounded to the side of the road like a frightened deer. Off flew his hat; his hands grasped saddle and mane; and he cried "Whoa—whoa!" again, with all the energy of fear.
But some horses, after submitting to a degree of insult, will have their revenge. Mr. Kerchey's thought he would try what virtue there was in running away. Thanks to his feet, thrust ankle-deep in the stirrups, the rider kept his seat this time, but he could not manage the reins and keep his hold of the saddle at the same time. He went by the amazed party of equestrians on the speed of the wind. The horse turned up to the meeting-house, and made for one of the sheds.
"He'll break his head!" cried Sarah, terrified at the mischief she had done, reining up to Chester's side.
Chester spurred forward, to do what he could to avert so uncomfortable an accident. But already Mr. Kerchey saw his danger, and pulled the bridle with his left hand, still clinging to the saddle with his right. The horse was sufficiently under control to obey the direction. He described a beautiful curve, and went around the meeting-house, reappearing on the opposite side of the green.
The immediate danger passed, the spectators began to laugh. Mr. Kerchey reminded Jane Dustan of the celebrated monkey, Andrew Jackson, who rode the pony in the circus-ring "last fourth of July." Mr. Kerchey's performance was more public. He rode in view of the whole neighborhood, his hat off, his feet thrown behind, in the stirrups, his hands still holding on desperately. Around the meeting-house he went again, faster than before. A third time the horse consented to perform the amusing evolution, then rebelled. Wheeling suddenly, he threw Mr. Kerchey sprawling into a black puddle of indescribable water, near one of the sheds.
It was well for both horse and rider that the latter had instinctively extricated his feet from the stirrups. As it was, the animal, more indignant, it seemed, than terrified, quietly turned under the shed, and stopped.
A magnificent splashing of the water celebrated Mr. Kerchey's descent into the element. He came down like an immense frog, with outstretched arms and legs, sublime. But like anything else than a frog he began to scramble and gasp, and flounder in the puddle.
Chester dashed to the spot, dismounted, and helped him out.
To describe the ludicrous appearance of the strangling, drenched, muddy, hatless equestrian, or the effect it had upon the convulsed spectators, would be superfluous. With the exception of Chester, only Miss Sedley, a young lady of the finest feelings, and Sarah, whose conscience upbraided her for the mischief she had done, were at all able to control their mirth.
"Take me—somewhere!" gasped Mr. Kerchey seeking his handkerchief, to wipe his streaming face. "I'm—hurt. My shoulder—Oh!"
"You haven't put any bones out, I hope?" said Chester.
"I don't know. I'm afraid," moaned the equestrian, with a most ludicrous expression of mingled grief, pain, fright and mud. "Oh dear! what a—a mournful termination to—to my folly!"
He sank upon the ground, and sat with his feet in the puddle, a picture of utter woe.
"Excuse me," he said, feebly, "I—I am very—faint."
"He is seriously injured, I fear," observed Miss Sedley.
"You won't let me—die—here in the filth—will you?" groaned Mr. Kerchey, looking up with a despairing expression into the faces of the spectators.
Even Chester had to hide his face for laughing. But Sarah, more and more alarmed, felt never less susceptible to merriment.
"Do take him right over to Dr. Sackett's!" she exclaimed, with deep solicitude.
"Yes," murmured the unhappy man, "if you can get me there. I—I can't walk—I am sure!"
"We can carry you," replied Chester. "Come, boys!"
"Be careful that I—I don't die by the way!" whispered Mr. Kerchey, on the point of swooning.
The young men fastened their horses under the shed, rolled up their sleeves, and "took hold." Happily, the doctor's house was close by, and they arrived seasonably at the door, with their companion still groaning and moaning piteously. No wonder! The doctor found his excuse. Mr. Kerchey had broken an arm, besides doing some extensive damage to his shoulder.
When informed of the true state of the case, the company were sobered at once; and Sarah, especially, was very much distressed.
"I was the cause of it all!" she exclaimed, with strong feelings of self-reproach.
"To make ample reparation," said Jane Dustan, "all you have to do is to take care of your victim during his recovery."
"And I'll do it, laugh as you may!" exclaimed Sarah.
She kept her word as far as practicable. Mr. Kerchey was carried home the next day; and every afternoon, during the long week he was confined to his room, she called to inquire about his health, and often stopped to make his broth with her own hands, or to read the newspaper for him.
Mr. Kerchey loved the broth only because she made it, and when she read he was entertained by the sweet tone of her voice alone. Of course, he forgave her for frightening the horse; and if ever there was a poor fellow in love with a kind-hearted, mischievous, merry girl, it was Mr. Kerchey, convalescent, in love with Sarah Royden.
How fast the time fled! How quickly, yet how smoothly, the old clergyman's vacation rounded to its close!
Looking back to the day of his arrival, it was hard to realize that more than three weeks had glided away. Yet when he and his friends remembered what had been done, and how many happy and profitable hours they had spent together, the wonder was that so much could have been crowded within so brief a space of time.
The present chronicle of the old clergyman's vacation is necessarily meager. It would require a larger volume to do anything like justice to the scenes which opened, shifted and closed, during his stay. I have only seized upon a few salient points, that presented themselves to my mind, and portrayed them with as few hasty touches as I could, without order, and with little study for effect. How much must be gone over in silence, and left entirely to the imagination!
The day before that which Father Brighthopes had set for his departure, Mrs. Royden gave a dinner-party. He had become so extensively known and so widely beloved in the society of the neighborhood, that old and young wished to assemble and bid him an affectionate farewell.
Was ever a more cheerful gathering? We doubt it. It was a jolly, democratic party. Father Brighthopes was grand-master of the ceremonies. If there was one present more humble than another, he made it his business to take him encouragingly and lovingly by the hand, and lift him up. If it was a sister, how delicately, how tenderly he talked to her, and showed her that bright angel of Hope, his guardian spirit, or genius, and the ready consoler of sorrowing hearts!
Deacon Dustan was there,withouthis new meeting-house schemes; his quiet wife, and Harry and Jane, who were not so quiet, came in his carriage. The Smiths were present; the deacon and his lady. Benjamin, and Josephine, who was so "ecthethively fond of minithterth," and who was sure she could not "thurvive the loth" of so delightful an old man as Father Brighthopes.
Mr. Corlis came early, and had a long and earnest conversation with his elder brother, to whom he already owed so much for his kindly warnings and wise suggestions. Mark Wheeler was invited, but he did not come, being unused to such society; but there was one, still less accustomed to the ways of the world, who could not excuse himself, when Mr. Royden sent to have him brought by main force.
It was Job, the soldier-shoemaker. He came, with his wooden leg, his subdued voice, his sunny old face, his queer bald pate and prominent ears, and the exhaustless fountain of good humor within his heart.
It was the first honor of the kind Job had ever received at the hands of his neighbors. But of late a good deal of interest had been taken in his family, and some who had laid up money to aid in the new meeting-house project had been induced to invest a little of it in comforts and necessaries for the poor man. He felt as though he could really afford to abandon his bench for that day, and enjoy himself, his only objection being the impossibility of Mrs. Bowen leaving the house and going with him. But she was comfortable now at home, and Job was easy in his mind about her.
We should not forget to mention that the old soldier made his appearance in an entirely new suit of clothes, and with his Sunday leg on. He joked a good deal about these externals, and amused the company by his genial humor. His coat was one presented him by Mr. Corlis; the waistcoat had belonged to Deacon Dustan, and the trousers were a gift from Father Brighthopes. Job acknowledged half a dozen shirts from the fair hands of Miss Sedley, the school-ma'am, Sarah Royden and Julia Keller; one of which he had on his back. The handkerchief he wore was a present from Chester. His boot alone was the product of his own labor.
Job had cut off the trousers to fit his wooden leg, and made a jaunty cap of the fragment. The leg itself was an extra one he had kept by him a long time, using it only on Sunday, Fast Day, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. It was quite a handsome stick, elegantly finished, and "well seasoned," Job declared.
"I am careful of this leg," he said, in his subdued voice, and quiet, cheerful manner, when the old clergyman joked him about it. "I always keep it on the top shelf at home, with a newspaper around it, to protect it from dust and flies. If you had the gout, sir, you couldn't be more careful of your limbs."
This was after dinner. Job was sitting in the easy-chair, out doors, where the shadow of the house sloped across the grassy lawn. The guests were forming a circle around him and the old clergyman, some sitting upon the green sward, others supporting their dignity upon chairs, and a few of the young people lying at their ease along the ground.
Mr. Kerchey, who happened to be standing near, with his arm in a swing, exerted himself to speak, and made a comparison between his useless and painful member and Job's comfortable leg.
"Get a wooden one, get a wooden one," said Job. "But, then, an arm of that sort wouldn't be so convenient as a leg. I don't think I could make shoes with only one hand. Dear me! when I think of it, how thankful I ought to be that only my leg was taken off! Supposing I had lost an arm,—or my head,—and been obliged to get a new one?"
"You wouldn't be the first man to go about with a wooden pate," said Chester. "There are plenty of block-heads in the world."
"I believe I was one when I enlisted," laughed Job.
"At least, your head was turned," quietly observed Father Brighthopes.
Anything the old clergyman said in a facetious vein was sure to raise a laugh. When silence was restored, Job replied,
"Very good! capital!"—in his soft half-whisper, and rubbing his hands. "And I am thankful that, although my head was turned then, only my leg has been turned since. My folly was cut off with my offending member, and my ambition was buried with it."
The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one desired it should be checked.
But at length Job himself refused to talk any more.
"I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father Brighthopes will have toprimeme. I haven't another joke that isn't musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention, every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you."
The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to respond.
"Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are too big to be hanging around his neck."
"She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was comfortably seated in the midst of the group.
The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old man's venerable and beloved head.
At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up, radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through his glorious old face.
We wish there had been a reporter on the spot. That speech would well be worth preserving, word for word. But we are able to give only a meager outline of it, very imperfect, and without regard to the order in which the sentiments—like so many waves of liquid light—rippled upon the hearts of his hearers.
The speaker was about to bid farewell, he said, to all those kind friends. (Sensation.) He would leave them, and be soon forgotten. (Cries of "No, no! never!" from old and young. Job smites his wooden leg, and exclaims, with enthusiasm, "Not that, by a long thread!")
"Well," continues Father Brighthopes, with suffused features, "I thank you. I hope you will remember me, as I shall remember you. God has been very good to me, in giving me friends, all my life long."
"You deserve them, if anybody does," whispers Job, loud enough to be heard by the entire audience.
He rubs his hands as if he meant it.
"Let me give you a little hint about getting and keeping friends," adds the clergyman, smiling around upon the old people in the chairs, and the young people on the grass or standing up. "I thank Brother Job for suggesting the thought."
"Hear, hear!" says Mr. Royden, pulling Willie away from the speaker's legs, and silencing Georgie, who is inclined to blow his grass "squawker."
"My friends have generally been of the right kind," proceeds the old man. "If you wish to have your friends of the right kind,"—glancing at the younger portion of the audience,—"I'll tell you how to go to work.
"Be always ready to lend a helping hand to those who need assistance. Do so with a hearty good will, not feeling as though you were throwing something away; for, although you get no material return,—which should be the last thing to expect,—you will find in the end that you have been exercising your own capacities for happiness, which grow with their use. Do good for the sake of good, and you will see that the bread thus cast upon the waters comes right back to feed your own hungry souls.
"Be ready to sacrifice all externals to friendship, but maintain your integrity. Give the glittering bubbles of the stream and the current will still be yours, clear and strong as ever. What I mean is, abandon circumstances and outside comforts for the sake of those you love, but never desert a principle to follow any man or set of men. If you do, few friends will be obtained, and they will not be firmly attached; while many who would soon have come round to you will be lost forever. But plant yourself on the rock of principle; and, however men may shun it at first, it shall in the end prove a magnet to draw all true souls to your standard. Royal hearts shall then be yours. They can rely on you, and you on them; so there will be no falling off, when the wind shifts to the northeast. Truth is the sun which holds friends in their orbits, like revolving planets, by the power of its magnetism. If the sun forsake its place in the heavens, and go chasing after the bright tail of some gay comet, what will become of the planets? Let the sun be true to itself, and even the comet comes around in time."
The old man looks at Chester with a smile which asks, "Is it not so?"
"Your philosophy is excellent for men of courage, like yourself," says Chester. "But few can bear to be hated all their lives by the mass of their fellow-men, as many have been, for the sake of the truth."
"Those men who do bear that cross are martyrs of the noblest sort," returns Father Brighthopes. "They are not only men of true courage, but men of fortitude, which is a sort of enduring and perpetual courage. To them the truth, and the few who see and love that truth,—if only a handful of poor fishermen and three or four pious women,—will be more precious than all the kingdoms of the earth. If the devil of ambition whispers that by forsaking the former the latter may be gained, they can resist the temptation; for they know the value of internal convictions of right, and the worthlessness of external shows and shadows and happiness.
"Great truths, when first revealed to mankind, need such martyrs. Opposition assists in the development of principles, as alternate frosts and heats in spring heave and loosen the soil. New truths, like sheaves of grain, must be well threshed by the flail of persecution, and winnowed by the wind of criticism, to separate the pure wheat from the straw and chaff.
"But to none of us, I am confident, will be given the crown of martyrdom. Mankind is too enlightened to make many martyrs now-a-days. We gravitate to truth, and we crucify no more the prophet who reveals it to our sight. This is an age in which principles may be demonstrated, and will always be respected. Then let us embrace them, and have that ballast to steady us in the stormy voyage of life."
"Men of principle, even to-day," Chester replies, "are accused of fickleness and inconsistency, and all sorts of unworthy motives, by those who do not understand them."
"Very well; I can bear to be misunderstood for a little while," says the old man. "Those who are not established on the same ground of truth imagine that I waver, while it is themselves who are continually shifting. It took the earth a great while to learn that the sun and stars did not revolve around it every twenty-four hours. What cared the eternal sun? A ledge upreared in the midst of a swift river seems to be swimming up-stream; but it is only the water moving. Look up at the moon on a windy night when a storm is breaking away, and she appears to be flying wildly across the floor of heaven. It is the clouds that hurry, and the moon feels nothing of the optical delusion. Let us take example of the stars, the sun, the moon and the planets, in order that the true astronomers of the heart may know how to measure our distances and compute our orbits."
"That's my idea, well expressed," says Job, who rubs his hands, feeling that the right kind of friends have finally come around to him; "and that's what I've always told my good woman."
The old man pats Job on the shoulder, and says some pleasant word, which makes everybody laugh. He then proceeds with his speech. He goes from the great principle of integrity to the exercise of the minor domestic virtues. He dwells upon the happiness of the home in which love and contentment dwell, contrasting it with the raw atmosphere which pervades houses of the opposite stamp. How plainly his philosophy demonstrates the necessity of an even temper and a sweet disposition!
"You can keep house without silver spoons, but not without these," he says. "Charity and kindness are the soft music which regulates the march of life, and cheers the hearts of the soldiers."
This allusion to his old profession reminds Job of his wooden leg, which he pats affectionately whistlingYankee Doodlevery softly.
The old clergyman goes on. He has a good deal to say to the young folks about the active life upon which they are just entering,—its perils and temptations. He warns them against selfishness, and tells them how it narrows and shrivels the soul. But his favorite theme is LOVE; and he dwells much upon the beauty of its offspring, kindness, contentment, cheerfulness. His language is so simple that even Willie can understand all he says.
"Well," he remarks, in conclusion, "I am talking too long."
"Not a bit of it! I defy you!" cries Job Bowen.
"Go on! go on!" exclaim a dozen voices.
"I must take leave of you soon; and we can spend the little time that remains to us more pleasantly than in speechifying, or listening to a speech. It is doubtful if I ever meet you again. I am growing old," says Father Brighthopes, with a serene smile. "I have but a little while to stay here on earth. I am going home. Our Father has given me my work to do, and it is almost done. Oh, would I could tell you how joyfully I shall put off corruption for incorruption, and exchange mortality for immortality!
"But I shall see you all again, even though we meet here no more. Let us hope so. Let us so live that it shall be so. The Saviour's loving arms are outstretched to receive us all in his embrace."
A pause; silence and tears. Mrs. Royden endeavors to conceal emotion by arranging Hepsy's cape. Others resort to their handkerchiefs. The speaker's voice is choked, and there are shining drops gliding down his aged cheeks. To fill up the pause, he lifts Willie in his arms, as that young gentleman is tying long grass around his feet, and murmuring something about keeping him always; kisses him, and presses him to his heart.
"What are you crying for?" asks the boy, breaking the silence.
With his little brown hand he touches a straw to one of the crystal drops on the old man's face, and strings it off upon it like a bead.
"Thus may all our tears become bright gems!" says Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly upon the child. "But you cannot realize this, my darling. You teach us a lesson quite unconsciously to your young heart. You show us how hope is born of affliction, and how joy springs from the dark soil of distress. My friends, let us look up. Never look down. Remember what an eternity opens above us, beyond all the clouds of this life. And may the good God bless you all!"
It was evening when the company dispersed. Father Brighthopes took affectionate leave of each individual, and had a kind and hopeful word for every one. They seemed to be bidding farewell to some beloved old patriarch, who had lived all his days amongst them.
The clergyman was left alone with his friends, the Roydens. The evening was spent in sober, sweet communion. In the morning the family was up early; for the old man was to be off at eight o'clock.
"Oh, we cannot express how much we owe to you, good Father!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, on meeting him in the parlor. "My husband seems a different man since you have been with us. And you have taught me a lesson I shall endeavor to profit by. It is hard to overcome fixed habits, and I know I shall often and often—as I do now every day—yield to the dictates of my harsh temper; but I trust I shall come off conqueror in the end!"
"We are all weak, of ourselves," said the old man, affectionately. "But there is One who giveth strength."
Father Brighthopes found an opportunity to have a farewell talk with poor Hepsy. She could not bear the thought of his going away. This was now her only sorrow; for he had filled her soul with immortal hopes, and taught her to endure patiently all the ills of life. But she feared lest she might go back into the dark, when he was no longer near to reflect the light from above upon her spirit. Had he not promised to write to her, she would hardly have been consoled for his loss; as it was, it seemed as if the sun was going into a dense, cold mist.
At length the breakfast was out of the way; the old man had offered up his morning prayer in presence of the family, as, by request of the parents, he had been accustomed to do, of late; his trunks were packed and ready, and the time had come to say the last farewells.
James brought the horse to the door, at sight of which Willie just began to comprehend that the old man was really going.
"I want to go too!" he cried, clinging to his knees.
Father Brighthopes stooped to kiss his plump brown cheek.
"Oh, let me go!" exclaimed Georgie, who had not thought of such an arrangement before.
"Would you go and leave your father and mother, and Chester and James, and all?" asked the clergyman.
"You show me how to do my sums better than they do; and you give me story-books," replied Georgie, bashfully.
"And they do a thousand times more for you," said the old man, embracing the boy. "They give you clothes, and food, and send you to school, and do more things for you than anybody can think of."
"Oh, you will come again next summer, won't you, Father?" cried Lizzie, kissing him impulsively, when his head was down.
"I am too old and feeble to make any promise for another year," replied Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly. "But I shall come and see you all again, if Providence grant me that indulgence. Be this as it may, I shall always remember you and love you."
How gently then he kissed the affectionate girl! He turned and gave his hand to Sarah, whose eyes filled with tears as she received his blessing.
Mr. Royden took the old man's arm, and led him to the wagon.
"But where is Samuel? I must not neglect him," said Father Brighthopes.
At that moment a groaning was heard behind the shed, under the tree where the grindstone stood.
"Is that Sam?" asked Mr. Royden.
"Yes, sir," replied James. "Something is the matter with him; I don't know what it is. He was taken sick when we were harnessing."
"What is the matter, my son?" asked the old man, cheerily, looking over the gate.
Sam lay upon the turf, with his head on his arm, for a pillow.
"Nothing," he muttered, in a ghastly tone, without looking up.
"Come, I am going away. I want to bid you good-bye."
Sam groaned again; but endeavoring to conquer his malady, he sat up, and raised his swimming eyes. Mr. Royden took him by the shoulder, and helped him to his feet.
"What is the matter?" he demanded.
"Nothing, sir," said Sam. "I'm a little sick, that's all. I shall have to set down again."
He sank upon the turf, and groaned, with his face in the grass.
Father Brighthopes was expressing a great deal of sympathy for him, when Chester came and explained the mystery.
"He has been chewing tobacco," said he, with a cruel laugh. "I told him it would make him sick."
"You foolish fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Royden; "what did you do that for?"
"I only jest wanted to learn how," moaned Sam.
"Learn how!"
"'Cos all the men chew," added the boy, sitting up again, and burying his face in his hands, as the deathly feeling came over him once more.
"Well, well," said the old man, in an encouraging tone, "let this experience be a lesson to you. Let alone the weed. You can be a man without it, if you try. Good-by, good-by, my son!"
He got into the wagon, leaving the unhappy lad still moaning and writhing with anguish on the green-sward.
Mark Wheeler arrived at the gate, having come to take leave of Father Brighthopes, just as Chester and his father were driving away with their aged friend.
The jockey rode the one-eyed colt, which he still retained in his possession,—a perpetual remembrancer of a memorable day in his rugged and uneven life.
He dismounted, and shook hands with the old man. Mark was much affected by his kind wishes and gentle admonitions; but the presence of Mr. Royden and Chester embarrassed him, and he could not express his feelings.
"Come," said Mr. Royden, observing the state of affairs, "I suppose we have not much time to lose."
"I will ride along with you," replied Mark, throwing himself upon the back of the one-eyed colt.
Mrs. Royden, Hepsy and the children, watched the little party as they rode away, Chester driving, while his father sat with the gray-haired clergyman on the seat behind him, and Mark trotted his colt along on the road-side, at their right hand; and they who were left at home felt strange emotions of loneliness steal over their hearts, at the thought that the venerable and beloved form then vanishing from sight might never more repose beneath that roof.
There was no quarreling nor loud words among the children, that morning, as they set out for school; but their faces were expressive of unusual soberness, and their young hearts quite sad; until the bright birds singing by the way-side, the breezes playing in their hair, and the sunshine flooding all the earth, dispelled their gloom, and led them to forget that the gentle old man they loved was riding on his journey, to his field of labor far away.