calamity that he saw Mr. Royden ride off with Chester and the old
clergyman. They could not go far, he was sure, without discovering the
entire mystery of his lame leg; and the consequences seemed too dreadful
to contemplate.
VIII.
COUNTRY SCENES.
It was a beautiful balmy morning in June; the whole earth rejoiced in
the soft sunshine and sweet breezes; and around the sumachs and
crab-apple trees, by the road-side fences, where the dew was still cool
on the green leaves, there were glad birds singing joyously, as the
wheels went humming through the sand.
No careless child could have enjoyed the ride more than the good Father
Brighthopes did. It was delightful to hear him talk of the religion to
be drawn from fresh meadows, running brooks, the deep solitude of woods,
and majestic mountains crags.
"And to think that the good God made all for us to enjoy!" he said, with
his clear blue orbs tremulous with tears.
"You give me new ideas of religion," replied Mr. Royden. "It always
seemed to me a hard and gloomy thing."
"Hard and gloomy?"--The old man clasped his hands, with deep emotion,
and his face radiated with inexpressible joy. "O! how softening, how
bright it is! The true spirit of religion makes men happier than all
earthly comforts and triumphs can do; it is a cold and mechanical
adherence to the mere forms of religion,--from fear, or a dark sense of
duty,--which appears gloomy. Look at the glorious sky, with its soft
blue depths, and floating silvery clouds; pass into the shadowy retreats
of the cool woods; breathe the sweet air that comes from kissing green
fields and dallying on beds of flowers; hear the birds sing,--and you
must feel your heart opened, your soul warmed, your inmost thoughts
kindled with love: love for God, love for man, love for everything: and
this is religion."
So the old clergyman talked on; his simple and natural words bubbling
from his lips like crystal waters, and filling his companions' hearts
with new and refreshing truths.
Chester drove up before a handsome white cottage, which was one of a
thin cluster of houses grouped around an old-fashioned country
meeting-house.
"Here our minister lives," said Mr. Royden. "You must see him, first of
any."
He helped the old man out of the wagon, while Chester tied the horse.
"What a delightful residence!" said Father Brighthopes. "Ah! let me stop
and take a look at these busy bees!"
There were two small hives perched upon a bench, under a plum-tree, and
the happy insects were incessantly creeping in and out, through the
small apertures,--flying abroad, humming in the flowers of the sweet
thyme that loaded the air with fragrance, and coming home with their
legs yellowed from tiny cups and bells. The old man was so charmed with
the scene, that he could hardly be prevailed upon to leave it, and walk
along the path towards the cottage door.
"We see so little of such delightful exhibitions of nature, in city
life," said he, "that in the country I am like a child intoxicated with
novelty."
They made but a brief call on the minister, who was a young and
boyish-looking man of about twenty-five. He received them in his study,
a luxurious little room, with a window open upon the little garden in
front of the house, and shaded by thick jasmines, trained on the wall.
He showed no very warm inclination to sociability, but deigned to treat
the old man with an air of deference and patronage, for which he no
doubt gave himself much credit. It seemed quite a relief to him when his
visitors arose to go, and he politely bowed them to the door.
"If any man leads an easy life, Mr. Corlis does," muttered Chester, as
they went through the little gate.
"Hush, boy!" said his father, good-humoredly. "You can't expect a
minister to go into the fields, to work with his hands."
"I don't say what I expect him to do; but I can tell pretty well what he
does. During the week, he compiles commonplaces, which he calls sermons,
drinks tea with his parishioners, and patronizes the sewing-circle. On
the Sabbath he certainly labors hard, preaching dulness from the high
pulpit, and mesmerizing his congregation."
"What do you talk such nonsense for?" returned Mr. Royden, laughing
inwardly.
"Young men learn the ministers' trade, in order to live lazy lives,
half the time," continued the young man.
"Too often--too often!"--Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly,--"but
judge not all by the few. Idleness is a sore temptation to young
clergymen, I know. Their position is fraught with peril. Alas for those
who prefer their own ease to doing their Master's work! This consists
not only in preaching Christianity from the pulpit, but in preaching it
in their daily walks; in acting it, living it, carrying it like an
atmosphere about them, and warming with its warmth the hearts of the
poor and sorrowful. O, Lord, what a lovely and boundless field thou has
given thy servants! Let them not lie idle in the shade of the creeds our
fathers planted, nor cease to turn the soil and sow the seed!"
The earnest prayer thrilled the hearts of Chester and his father. It may
be another heart was touched with its fire. Mr. Corlis overheard the
words, as he listened at his study-window, and his cheek and forehead
glowed with a blush of shame.
Mr. Royden and Chester took their old friend to make one or two more
calls, and returned home for dinner. Samuel Cone felt very faint, as he
lay on the grass in the yard, and saw them coming.
IX.
MARK, THE JOCKEY.
"What have you run away from that churn for?" cried Mrs. Royden,
appearing at the door. "Go right back, and fetch the butter before you
leave it again!"
"I'm tired," muttered Sam.
"Don't tell me about being tired! You can churn just as well as not."
"Hurts my foot!"
"You can lay your foot on a chair, and----Do you hear?" exclaimed Mrs.
Royden, growing impatient of his delay. "Don't let me have to speak to
you again!"
Sam hopped into the wood-shed, and began to move the dasher up and down
with exceeding moderation. When the wagon drove up to the door, he
listened with a sick heart to hear if anything was said about the stray
horse. Not a word was spoken on the subject. Even the silence frightened
him.
He had never worked so industriously as when Chester entered the shed;
and, as the latter passed by without looking at him, he felt certain
that retribution was at hand. He listened at the kitchen door, and
trembled at every word that was spoken, thinking the next would be
something about his unpardonable offence. But his agony was destined
still to be prolonged.
"They an't going to say nothing about it till my foot gets well,"
thought he; "then they'll jest about kill me."
Mrs. Royden had been considerably fretted in getting dinner and her
fault-finding had worried poor Hepsy almost to distraction, when the
arrival of the clergyman lent quite a different aspect to affairs. He
drew the attention of the young children, who had been very much in
their mother's way, and dropped a few soft words of wisdom from his
lips, which could be taken in a general sense, or understood by Mrs.
Royden as applying to her own annoyances in particular. Soon the table
was ready, and the entire household, excepting Sam and Hepsy, gathered
around it. The former, supposed to be churning, having been warned by
Mrs. Royden that he could have no dinner until he had "fetched the
butter," was listening to hear if there was any conversation about the
horse; and the poor deformed girl, who had preferred to wait and take
care of the baby, was shedding solitary tears from the depths of her
unhappy heart.
After dinner, Father Brighthopes was sitting on the shaded grass in the
yard, relating pleasant stories to the children, when an athletic young
man made his appearance at the gate, leading a handsome sorrel horse.
"Hillo, Mark!" cried James, "have you been trading again?"
"Is your father at home?" asked the man with the horse.
James answered in the affirmative, and the other led his animal into the
yard, making him dance around him as he approached the little group
under the cherry-tree.
Even with hunger in prospective, Sam could not apply himself to the
churn when he thought there was any fun going on out-doors. He hobbled
out, and took his seat on the grass.
All the children were praising Mark's new horse, which he took especial
delight in training before their eyes. At length he led him up to the
tree, and talked to him coaxingly, smoothing his face and patting his
shining neck.
"Where did you get that plaything?" asked Chester, coming out of the
house.
"Ha, how do you do, Ches?" replied Mark, turning around. "When did you
get home?"
He tied the halter to the tree, and began to feel of the animal's
slender ankles, still maintaining a mysterious silence on the subject of
his trade.
"Did you put away the brown horse for this?" asked Chester.
"Where is your father?" was Mark's unsatisfactory rejoinder.
Mr. Royden made his appearance. He was a famous judge of horse-flesh,
and his shrewd eye examined the colt's admirable points with evident
satisfaction.
"Where did you get him?" he inquired.
"How old is he?" asked Mark.
Mr. Royden looked in the horse's mouth a second time, and pronounced him
to be four years old.
"Have you been trading?"
"On the whole," said Mark, "what do you think of him?"
"It's a fine colt; but I think here is a faint appearance of a
ring-bone."
Mr. Royden pressed the animal's leg.
"I'll bet you a hundred dollars on it!" cried Mark, quickly, his eye
kindling.
He was very sensitive about his horse-property, besides being a choleric
man generally; and Mr. Royden only smiled, and shook his head.
"Have you got rid of Jake?"
"Never mind that; tell me what the colt is worth."
Mr. Royden expressed a favorable opinion of the beast, but declined to
commit himself.
"Well, it don't make no difference," said Mark, with a smile of
satisfaction. "He suits me very well," he added, with an oath.
The clergyman's countenance changed. The smile faded from his lips, and
he glanced anxiously from Mark to the little boys who sat on the grass
at his feet.
"Better look out about swearing 'fore the minister," said Sam, in a low
tone, to Mark.
For the first time the latter regarded the old man attentively. At sight
of his thin white locks, the color mounted to the jockey's brow; and
when Father Brighthopes raised his calm, sad eyes, Mark's fell before
them.
But Mark had some manly traits of character, with all his faults.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, frankly. "I wouldn't have used
profane language, if I had known there was a minister within hearing."
"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, in a kind but impressive tone,
"you have my forgiveness, if that is of any account; but it seems you
should rather forbear from using such language before children, whose
minds are like wax, to receive all sorts of impressions--good or bad."
"The truth is," said Mark, "I thought nothing of it. It was wrong, I
know."
To conceal his mortification, he began to brush the dust from the colt's
feet with a wisp of grass. But his cheek was not the only one that
tingled at the old man's words. Chester was very warm in the face; but
only the clergyman observed the fact, and he alone could probably have
understood its cause.
"To tell the truth," said Mark, laughing, "the colt isn't mine; he
belongs to Mr. Skenitt, over on the north road; he has hired me to break
him."
"I don't believe that," replied Mr. Royden, half in jest, and half in
earnest. "Nobody that knows you would trust you to break a young horse."
"Why not?"
"You're so rash and passionate. You can't keep your temper."
"I believe in whipping, when a horse is ugly," muttered Mark, as if half
a mind to take offence,--"that's all."
"You mustn't mind my jokes," said Mr. Royden. "Come, how did you trade?"
"I put away the brown horse, and gave some boot," replied Mark. "By the
way, you haven't heard of any one's losing a horse recently, have you?"
"No; what do you mean?"
"Why, Skennit's boys saw a stray one in the road last night."
"Nobody this way has lost one," said Mr. Royden.
Sam's heart beat with painful violence. He was very pale.
"He was running, with a saddle, and with the reins under his feet,"
continued Mark. "Somebody had probably been flung from him, or he had
got away by breaking the halter."
"Was he stopped?" asked Chester.
"Not in that neighborhood, at any rate. It is hard stopping a horse
after dark. What's the matter, Sam?"
"Nothing," murmured Sam, faintly.
"What makes you look so white?"
"I--I've got a lame foot."
"And I know where you got it?" thundered Chester, seizing him by the
shirt-collar. "It is just as I thought, last night."
"Stop, Chester,--don't be rash!" cried Mr. Royden. "Sam, tell the truth,
now, about that horse."
"I fell off," blubbered Sam.
"You incorrigible, lying rascal!" ejaculated Chester. "Why didn't you
say so last night?"
"I couldn't help it," and Sam wiped his face with his sleeve. "I didn't
run him--and--and he got frightened."
"That has nothing to do with the question. Why didn't you tell the
truth, the first thing?"
"Cause--I wasn't looking out-and he was going on a slow trot--when a
stump by the side of the road scar'd him--and I fell off."
"But what did you lie about it for?" demanded Chester, fiercely.
"I was afraid I'd git a licking," muttered Sam.
"And now you'll get two of 'em, as you richly deserve. If father don't
give 'em to you, I will."
"Hush, Chester, I'll attend to him," said Mr. Royden, more calm than
usual on such occasions. "James, put the saddle on Old Boy. One of us
must ride after the stray horse, and see where he is to be found. Sam,
go and finish that churning, and prepare for a settlement."
With a sinking heart, the rogue obeyed. Mark went off, leading his colt;
Chester rode to hunt up Frank; Mr. Royden proceeded to the field, and
Father Brighthopes sought the privacy of his room to write. The boys
clamored a little while at his door, then went cheerfully away to play
with Lizzie in the garden.
X.
COMPANY.
It was near sundown when Chester returned, having succeeded in finding
Frank, and returned him to his owner.
Meanwhile Father Brighthopes had had a long talk with the distressed and
remorseful Sam. The old man's kindness and sympathy touched the lad's
heart more than anything had ever done before. He could not endure the
appeals to his better nature, to his sense of right, and to his plain
reason, with which the clergyman represented the folly and wickedness of
lying.
"I am sure," said Father Brighthopes, in conclusion, "that, with as much
real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost you more pain than
half a dozen floggings."
Sam acknowledged the fact.
"Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise?
Don't you always feel better to be frank and honest, let the
consequences be what they will?"
"I knowed it, all the time," sobbed Sam, "but I _darsn't_ tell the
truth! I wished I _had_ told it, but I _darsn't_!"
"Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Men
would tell the truth, if they were not afraid to."
"I s'pose so. But I never thought of what you say before. When I lie, I
git licked, and folks tell me I shall go to hell. I don't mind that
much; but when you talk to me as you do, I think I never will tell
another lie, as long as I live,--never!"
Sam now confessed to all the circumstances of the last night's disaster,
and, at the old man's suggestion, repeated the same to Mr. and Mrs.
Royden. He asked for pardon; and promised to tell no more lies, and to
keep out of mischief as much as he could.
He was so softened, so penitent and earnest, that even the severe Mrs.
Royden was inclined to forgive him. Her husband did more. He talked
kindly to the young offender, declaring his willingness to overlook
everything, and to do as well by Sam as by his own children, if he would
be a good and honest boy. The latter was so overcome that he cried for
half an hour about the affair in the shed; that is to say, until the cat
made her appearance, wearing a portion of the old twine harness, and he
thought he would divert his mind by making her draw a brick.
"In mischief again!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, coming suddenly upon him.
"No, sir!" cried Sam, promptly, letting pussy go.
"What were you doing?"
"You see, this butter won't come, and I've been churning stiddy on it
all day----"
"What has that to do with the cat?" demanded Mr. Royden.
"Nothing; only I expect to have to go to help milk the cows in a little
while; and I was afraid she would jump up on the churn, and lick the
cream, while I was gone; so I thought I'd tie a brick to her neck."
Mr. Royden laughed secretly, and went away.
"That was only a white lie," muttered Sam. "Darn it all! I've got so
used to fibbing, I can't help it. I didn't think then, or I wouldn't
have said what I did."
The boy really felt badly to think he had not the courage to speak the
truth, and made a new resolution, to be braver in future.
The relief of mind which followed the bursting of the clouds over his
head brought a keen appetite; and he remembered that he had eaten
nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Hunger impelled him to
apply himself to the churn; five minutes of industrious labor finished
the task, and he was prepared to go to supper with the family.
In the evening a number of young people, living in the neighborhood,
called, in honor of Chester's return from school. The parlor was opened
for the "company," and the "old folks" occupied the sitting-room.
Chester was very lively, for he was fond of sociability, and loved to be
admired for his grace and wit; but he seemed at length to find the
conversation of his old acquaintances insipid.
"Father Brighthopes," he said, gayly, entering the sitting-room, "I wish
you would go in and teach our friends some better amusement than kissing
games. I am heartily sick of them."
"If Jane Dustan was here, I guess you would like them," said Lizzie, who
had preferred to listen to the clergyman's stories, rather than go into
the parlor.
Her eyes twinkled with fun; but Chester looked displeased.
"It's nothing but '_Who'll be my judge?' 'Measure off three yards of
tape with so and so, and cut it;' 'Make a sugar-bowl, and put three
lumps of sugar in it, with Julia;' 'Go to Rome and back again;' 'Bow to
the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best_'
and such nonsense."
"Ches has got above these good old plays, since he has been at the
academy!" and Lizzie laughed again, mischievously. "You used to like
kissing well enough."
"So I do now," said he, giving her a smack, by way of illustration; "but
stolen waters are the sweetest. Some public kissing I have done to-night
has been like taking medicine."
His remarks were cut short by the entrance of a tall young lady, with
thin curls and homely teeth. She affected unusual grace of manner; her
smile showed an attempt to be fascinating, and her language was
peculiarly select, and lispingly pronounced.
"What! are you here?" she cried, pretending to be surprised at seeing
Chester. "I thought I left you in the parlor."
Chester smiled at the innocent little deception her modesty led her to
practise, and, as a means of getting rid of her, introduced her to the
old clergyman.
"I believe I had a glimpthe of you, this forenoon," said Miss Smith,
with an exquisite smile. "You called at our houthe, I believe. Father
was very thorry he wasn't at home. You mutht call again. You mutht come
too, next time, Mrs. Royden. You owe mother two visits. What gloriouth
weather we have now! I never thaw tho magnifithent a thunthet as there
was this evening. Did you obtherve it, Mithter Royden?" addressing
Chester.
"It was very fine."
"It was thurpathingly lovely! What thuperb cloudth! Will you be tho
good,"--Miss Smith somewhat changed her tone,--"will you be tho good as
to help me to a glath of water?"
Chester was returning to the parlor, and she was just in time to catch
him. He could not refuse, and she followed him into the kitchen.
"She has stuck to him like a burr, all the evening," whispered Lizzie.
"He can't stir a step, but she follows him; and he hates her
_dreadfully_."
Mrs. Royden reprimanded the girl for speaking so freely, to which she
replied, "she didn't care; it was true."
Chester was not half so long getting the water as Miss Smith was
drinking it. She sipped and talked, and sipped and talked again, in her
most dangerously fascinating manner, until he was on the point of
leaving her to digest the beverage alone.
"Theems to me you're in a terrific hurry," she cried. "I hope you an't
_afraid_ of me. Good-neth! I am as harmleth as a kitten."
Miss Smith showed her disagreeable teeth, and shook her consumptive
curls, with great self-satisfaction. When Chester confessed that he was
afraid of her, she declared herself "infinitely amathed."
"But I don't believe it. Thomebody in the parlor has a magnetic
influence over you," she said, archly. "Now, confeth!"
On returning to the sitting-room, they found that two or three other
young ladies had followed them from the parlor.
"What a magnet thomebody is!" remarked Miss Smith. "I wonder who it can
be."
"I should think you might tell, since you were the first to be attracted
from the parlor," remarked Miss Julia Keller.
"Oh, I came for a glath of water." Miss Smith shook her curls again, and
turned to Father Brighthopes. "I am _ecthethively_ delighted to make
your acquaintanth, thir, for I am _immenthly_ fond of minithters."
The old man smiled indulgently, and replied that he thought younger
clergymen than himself might please her best.
"Young or old, it makes no differenth," said she. "Our minithter is a
delightfully fathinating man, and he is only twenty-five."
"Fascinating?"
"Oh, yeth! He is _extremely_ elegant in his dreth, and his manners are
perfectly _charming_. His language is ectheedingly pretty, and
thometimes gorgeouthly thublime."
"I wish you would let Father Brighthopes finish the story he was telling
me," said Lizzie, bluntly.
"A story?" cried Miss Smith. "Thertainly. Let me thit down and hear it
too. I'm _pathionately_ fond of stories."
In taking a seat she was careful to place herself in close proximity to
Chester, who was engaged in conversation with Julia.
The clergyman resumed his narrative, in which not only Lizzie, but her
father and mother also, had become interested. It was a reminiscence of
his own early life. He told of afflictions, trials, all sorts of
perplexities and struggles with the world, in experiencing which his
heart had been purified, and his character had been formed.
As he proceeded, his audience increased. The company came from the
parlor and gathered around him, until the scene of the kissing games was
quite deserted. Only one person remained behind. Hepsy, with her face
behind the window-curtains, was sobbing.
Chester thought of her, and, stealing out of the sitting-room, to find
her, stood for some seconds by her side, before she was aware of his
presence.
XI.
THE LOVELY AND THE UNLOVED.
With all his vain and superficial qualities, the young man had a kind
heart. He thought of Hepsy most when she was most neglected by others. He
knelt down by her where she sat, and took her thin hand in his.
"Come, you mustn't feel bad to-night," said he gently.
She was startled; her heart beat wildly, and she hastened to wipe her
tears.
"Has anything unpleasant happened?" he asked.
Hepsy tried to smother her sobs, but they burst forth afresh.
"I've come for you to go and hear Father Brighthopes tell his stories,"
pursued Chester. "Will you come?"
She was unable to answer.
"It's the best joke of the season!" he continued, cheerfully. "Our
company made the sourest faces in the world, when they learned that the
old clergyman was to be within hearing. 'Oh, we couldn't have any
fun,' they said. They wished him a thousand miles away. And now they
have left their silly sports to listen to him."
"I was much happier out there than after you brought me in here,"
murmured Hepsy, in a broken voice.
"I wish, then, I had left you there," rejoined Chester. "But I thought
you would enjoy the company, and made you come in."
"I couldn't play with the rest," said the unhappy girl.
"Why not? You could, if you had only thought so."
Hepsy smiled, with touching sadness.
"Who would have kissed me? I must have such a hideous face! Who
_could_?"
She cried again; and Chester, feeling deeply pained by her sufferings,
kissed her cheek.