hope to as many more. There are worse faces than yours to kiss here
to-night."
"Oh, you are always so good--so good!" murmured Hepsy, with gushing
tears.
"Now, tell me what has occurred to make you feel bad," insisted her
cousin, very kindly.
The poor girl required much urging, but at length she confessed.
"Josephine Smith called me stupid and sour, because I sat in the corner
watching the rest."
"Josephine Smith did?" cried Chester, indignantly. "But never mind.
Don't cry about it. Do you know, you are as much better--brighter than
she is, as light is brighter and better than darkness? You are ten times
more agreeable. She has nothing to compare with your pure soul."
"You are so kind to say so! But others do not think it, if you do,"
murmured Hepsy. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief,
"it was cruel in her, to be Henry Wilbur's judge, and sentence him to
kiss me!"
"Did she?"
"Yes; then they all laughed, and she ran out in the sitting-room after
you; and the rest thought it such a joke, that anybody should have to
kiss _me_!"
Hepsy spoke very bitterly, and Chester's blood boiled with indignation.
"I can't believe they were making fun at your expense," said he, in a
suppressed tone. "If I thought they were so heartless----"
"Oh, they did not know how I would feel about it, I am sure,"
interrupted the girl.
"Did Henry laugh?"
"No,"--with a melancholy smile,--"it was no laughing matter with
him!--No!--Henry was very gentlemanly about it. He did not hesitate,
although I saw him turn all sorts of colors; but came right up to do
penance, like a hero. I thanked him in my heart for the good will he
showed; but I would not let him kiss me, for I knew it would be
disagreeable to him."
"That is all your imagination," cried Chester, cheerily. "So think no
more about it. Remember that there is one who loves you, at any rate,
let what will happen."
"I know there is one very good to me," replied Hepsy, with emotion. "Oh,
you don't know what a comfort your kindness is! I would not--I could
not--live without it! I sometimes think everybody hates me but you."
"You are too sensitive, Coz. But since you imagine such things, I'll
tell you what: when I am married, you shall come and live with me. How
would you like that?"
A quick pain shot through Hepsy's heart. A faintness came over her. Her
cold hand dropped from Chester's, and fell by her side.
"I will tell my wife all about how good you are," he continued, in a
tone of encouragement; "and she must love you too. She cannot help it.
And we will always be like brother and sister to you."
He kissed her white cheek, and went on hopefully:
"I have a secret for you, which I have not even revealed to Sarah or
James. I will tell it to you, because I know how it will please you." He
took her hand again. "The truth is, I am--engaged."
Hepsy did not breathe; her hand was like stone.
"To a glorious girl, Coz. Oh, you cannot help loving her. You can form
no idea how sweet and beautiful she is. She's tall as Sarah, but more
slender and graceful. You should see her curls! When she speaks, her
soft eyes----But what is the matter?"
"The air--is--close!" gasped Hepsy.
"You are fainting!"
"No; I am--better now."
Hepsy made a desperate effort, and conquered her emotion.
Chester, always delicately thoughtful of the feelings of others, except
when his enthusiasm carried him away, proceeded with his description,
every word of which burned like fire in the poor girl's heart. And
he--fond soul!--deemed that he was pouring the balm of comfort and the
precious ointment of joy upon her spirit! For how could he pause to
consider and know that every charm he ascribed to the professor's
daughter demonstrated to the unhappy creature more and more vividly, and
with terrible force, that she was utterly unlovely and unblest?
Contrasted with the enchanting valley of his love, how arid and desolate
a desert seemed her life!
Meanwhile Miss Josephine Smith had early discovered the absence of
Chester from the circle, and looked about to find him. She could not
rest where he was not. Becoming thirsty again, she made another errand
to the water-pail in the kitchen; but she drank only of the cup of
disappointment. As soon, therefore, as she could do so, without making
her conduct marked, she sought her loadstar in the parlor.
"How dreadfully tholitary you are to-night!" she exclaimed, with a smile
which showed all her teeth. "Do extricate yourself from that frightfully
lonethome corner."
She suddenly discovered that, still beyond the chair in which Chester
was seated, there was another, not unoccupied.
"Ho, ho! what charmer have you there? You are getting to be an awfully
dethperate flirt, Chethter Royden. Oh! nobody but Hepthy!"
"Nobody but my good cousin Hepsy," replied Chester, coldly.
"Dear me! I wouldn't have _thuthpicioned_ you could be tho fathinated
with her!" she cried, in a tone she deemed cuttingly sarcastic.
"Miss Smith," said Chester, quietly, "you need not think, because _you_
happen to have _peculiar_ charms of person, that no others have graces
of a different sort."
"Oh, what an egregiouth flatterer!" returned Josephine Smith, shaking
her meager curls. "Come"--and she boldly seated herself,--"let me know
what your interesting conversation is about."
"We were just speaking of going into the sitting-room," answered the
young man, rising.
He stooped, and whispered to Hepsy.
"Leave me alone a few minutes, then I will come," she murmured.
He pressed her hand, and walked away.
"Don't you thuppose, now," said Miss Smith, following, and taking his
arm familiarly, "I think you have grown wonderfully handthome, thince
you have been at school?"
Chester made some nonsensical reply, and, having conducted her to the
sitting-room, coolly turned about, and reentered the parlor.
Hepsy's face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping convulsively.
"I thought what I said would make you happy," he whispered.
Hepsy started; she choked back her sobs; she wiped her streaming eyes.
"It should make me happy," she articulated, in broken tones.
"But,--leave me alone a little while--I shall feel better soon."
"You are too much alone," said Chester. "You must come with me now."
"My eyes are so red!"
"The company is so much interested in Father Brighthopes' story, that
nobody will see you. Come!--you must."
Chester was obliged to add gentle force to persuasion, to accomplish his
kind design. Finally, she told him to go before, and she would come
directly. He took his place in the circle around the old clergyman, and
presently she glided to an obscure position, behind Mr. Royden's chair.
There, unobserved, she indulged in her melancholy thoughts, until they
were diverted by Father Brighthopes' remarks.
"Thus, my friends," said he, "you see that I have reason to bless the
wisdom that rained upon my head the grievous sufferings of which I
complained so bitterly at the time. Truly, whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth. Steel gets its temper from the furnace. What is gold good
for, unless it has been fused and hammered? All our trials are teachers;
then temptations form themselves into a sort of examining committee, to
see how much we have learned by the discipline,--to see how strong we
are. If all our worldly circumstances were pleasant and smooth, who
would not be contented with them? But storms come; winds blow, and rains
pour; then we turn our eyes inwardly. When earth is dark, we look up.
When men prove false, we remember the Friend who never fails us. In the
gloomy valley of the present, we joyfully turn our sight to the soft
blue hills of an infinite future. Clouds now and then overcast the sky;
but the sun shines forever. So there is an eternal sun of Love pouring
floods of blessed light upon our souls continually, notwithstanding the
misty sorrows that sometimes float between, and cast their momentary
shades.
"Yes," continued the old man, warming and glowing with the theme, "I
bless God for all I have suffered, as all of you will, some day,"--his
clear, bright eye fell upon the miserable Hepsy,--"when you look back
and see the uses of affliction. It seems to me that the happiest souls
in heaven must be those who have suffered most here; patiently, I mean,
and not with continual murmurings, which harden and embitter the heart.
Even in this life, the poor and afflicted _exteriorly_ may always, and
do oftenest, I believe, enjoy _interior_ happiness and peace, with which
the superficial pleasures of life cannot be compared. The great secret
it, Love!--love to God,--love to man,--and a serene and thankful temper.
"But I find that my story has relapsed into a sermon," said Father
Brighthopes, smiling. "You were all so attentive, that I quite forgot
myself. I hope I have not been dull."
"Oh, no! No, indeed!" cried half a dozen voices.
All agreed that they could hear him talk all night. They had never been
so well instructed in the use to be made of afflictions. They had never
seen so clearly the beauty of a serene Christian life.
"It's all _excethively_ pretty!" said Miss Smith.
"Well, I am glad if you have been entertained," said the old man, with
moist but happy eyes. "Good-night! good-night! God bless you all!"
His fervent benediction was very touching. More than one eye was wet, as
it watched him going to his room. There was not much more wild gayety
among the little company that evening, but every heart seemed to have
been softened and made deeply happy by the old man's lesson.
Hepsy stole away to her room. His words still echoed in her soul. They
stirred its depths; they warmed her, they cheered her strangely. All
night long her tears rained upon her pillow,--when she slept, as when
she lay awake,--but she was no longer utterly wretched. A ray had stolen
in upon the darkness of her misery.
"Love!" she repeated to herself. "Love to God, and love to our neighbor.
But love must be unselfish. It must be self-sacrificing. Oh, Lord!" she
prayed, with anguish, "purify my bad heart! purify it! purify it! purify
it!"
She felt herself a broken-hearted child, humbled in the dust. But a
feeling of calmness came over her. Her hot and throbbing heart grew cool
and still. Angels had touched her with their golden wings; and her
spirit seemed to brighten and expand with newly-developed powers of
patience, endurance and love.
Meanwhile, Chester was penning a passionate letter to his affianced,
wholly absorbed, and forgetful even of the existence of poor Hepsy.
XII.
DOMESTIC ECONOMY.
As Father Brighthopes entered the sitting-room on the following morning,
he found Mr. and Mrs. Royden engaged in a warm and not very good-natured
discussion.
"Come, wife, let us leave it to our wise old friend," said the former,
the frown passing from his brow. "I agree to do as he says."
"He cannot possibly appreciate my feelings on the subject," replied Mrs.
Royden, firmly. "But you can tell him what we were talking about, if you
like."
The old man's genial smile was sufficient encouragement for Mr. Royden
to proceed; but his wife added, quickly,
"I don't know, though, why you should weary him with details of our
troubles. It is our business to make him comfortable, and not to call on
him to help us out of our difficulties."
"My dear sister," said Father Brighthopes, warmly, "the joyful business
of my life is _to help_. I did not come to see you merely to be made
comfortable. I shall think I have lived long enough when I cease to be
of service to my great family. These hands are not worth much now," he
continued, cheerfully, "but my head is old enough to be worth something;
and when I am grown quite childish, if I live to see the time, I trust
God will give me still a use, if it is nothing more than to show the
world how hopeful, how sunny, how peaceful, old age can be."
"I cannot think of a nobler use," said Mr. Royden, "since to see you so
must lead the young to consider those virtues to which you owe your
happiness. Selfish lives never ripen into such beautiful old age. But to
our affair. To-day is Saturday; next week commences a busy time. We go
into the hay-field Monday morning. I shall have two stout mowers, who
will board with us, and, as they will probably want some more solid food
than apples and nuts," said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor, "the
consequence will be an increase of labor in the kitchen."
"I should think so!" cried the old man. "What delightfully keen
appetites your strong laborers have!"
"And Mr. Royden insists on it," added the wife, "that I should have a
girl to help me!"
"Certainly, I do; isn't the idea rational, Father Brighthopes?"
"There are a good many objections to it," said Mrs. Royden. "In the
first place, the children recommence going to school Monday morning, and
I shall not have them in the way. If ever I was glad of anything, it is
that Miss Selden is well enough to take charge of the children again;
she has been off a fortnight; and I have been nearly crazed with noise;
but, the truth is, Father Brighthopes, girls are generally worse than no
help at all. Not once in a dozen times do we ever get a good one. I have
had experience; besides, Hepsy is _very_ willing and industrious."
"She works too hard even now, wife--you _must_ see it. She is weakly;
before you think of it, she goes beyond her strength."
"I don't mean she shall hurt herself," observed Mrs. Royden,
incredulously. "Sarah will apply herself more than she has done; and,
for at least a week, Samuel will be too lame to go into the field, and
he can help around the house."
Her husband laughed heartily.
"With your experience, I should not think you would expect to get much
out of him," said he.
"To tell the plain truth, then," added his wife, "we cannot very well
afford the expense of a girl."
"What's a dollar and a quarter a week?"
"We cannot get a good girl for less than a dollar and a half, at this
season of the year; and that is a good deal. It runs up to fifty dollars
in a few months. I don't mean to be close, but it stands us in hand to
be economical."
"There are two ways of being economical," said Mr. Royden.
"It is not the right way to be running up a bill of expense with a girl
who does not, in reality, earn more than her board, which is to be taken
into consideration, you know. We have kept either Sarah or Chester at a
high-school now for two years; in a little while, James will be
going--then Lizzie--then--nobody knows how many more."
"The more the better!"
Mrs. Royden answered her husband's good-natured sally with a sigh.
"You would bring us to the poor-house, some day, if you did not have me
to manage, I do believe," she said.
"Somehow," replied Mr. Royden, "we have always been able to meet all our
expenses, and more too, although you have never ceased to prophesy the
poor-house; and I see nothing rotten in the future. Come, now, I am sure
our old and experienced friend, here, will counsel us to rely a little
more than we have done upon an overruling Providence."
"We must help ourselves, or Providence will not help us," retorted Mrs.
Royden.
"There is a middle course," remarked Father Brighthopes, mildly.
"Define it," said Mr. Royden.
"Have a reasonable care for the things of this world; but there is such
a thing as a morbid fear of adversity. I am convinced that we please God
best when we take life easily; when we are thankful for blessings, and
do not offend the Giver by distrusting his power or will to continue his
good gifts."
"There, wife! what do you think of that?"
"It sounds very well, indeed," said Mrs. Royden; "but even if we forget
ourselves, we must think of the future of our children."
"My experience is wide," answered the old man, smiling, "and it teaches
me that those young people get along the best, and live the happiest,
who commence life with little or nothing. Discipline, of the right kind,
makes a good disposition; and a good disposition is better than silver
and gold."
Something in the tone in which the words were uttered, or in the old
man's simple and impressive manner, struck Mrs. Royden, as well as her
husband, very forcibly. And when Mr. Royden added that "they had always
got along better than they expected, so far, and he did not see the
wisdom of hoarding up money for an uncertain future," she gave a partial
consent to the arrangement he proposed.
"That is enough!" he cried, triumphantly; "I am sick of seeing house
affairs rush forward in haste and confusion, whenever we have workmen. I
mean to take life easier than I have done; and I see no reason why you
should not. What cannot be done easily, let it go undone. Things will
come around somehow, at the end of the year. I have to thank you, Father
Brighthopes," said he, "for a clearer insight into this philosophy than
I ever had before."
The old man's face shone with gratification.
"If I'm to have any girl," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "I prefer the Bowen
girl, if I can get her."
"I'll ride right over for her, after breakfast," replied her husband;
"and Father Brighthopes shall go with me, if he will."
The old man desired nothing better, and the arrangement was resolved
upon.
As soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Royden went to harness Old Bill. He
brought him to the door, and inquired for the clergyman.
"He went to his room," said Sarah; "shall I call him?"
"No; I will go myself."
On entering the parlor, Mr. Royden heard a voice proceeding from the
bedroom beyond, and paused. A strange feeling of awe came over him. He
was not a religious man; but he could not hear the fervent soul of the
clergyman pouring itself out in prayer, without being deeply impressed.
He had never heard such simple, childlike, eloquent expressions of
thankfulness, gush from human lips. The old man prayed for him; for his
family; for the blessings of peace and love to fall thick upon their
heads, and for the light of spiritual life to enter into their hearts.
His whole soul seemed to go up in that strong and radiant flood of
prayer.
When he ceased, Mr. Royden might have been seen to pause and wipe his
eyes, before he knocked at the door. Father Brighthopes opened with
alacrity. His face was glowing with unearthly joy, and there was a
brightness in his eyes Mr. Royden had never observed before.
XIII.
TALK BY THE WAY.
It was another lovely day,--sunny, breezy, and not too warm for comfort.
As Mr. Royden and the old clergyman rode along together, the former
said,
"You seem to have brought the most delightful weather with you, Father.
Everything bright in nature seems to be attracted by you."
"There is more philosophy at the bottom of your remark than you dream
of," replied the old man. "Your words cannot be interpreted literally;
but the attraction you allude to is real, if not actual."
"I do not understand you."
"I mean a bright spirit sees everything in nature bright; it has an
affinity for sunny colors. On the other hand,
'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughts
Benighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'
A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said,
'The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make of heaven a hell, of hell a heaven.'
The principle holds universally, notwithstanding apparent contradictions
and exceptions in various instances. I have seen more pure and perfect
happiness, nestled in poverty, in a laborer's cottage, than I ever met
with in the houses of the rich."
"Then the fault lies with me," said Mr. Royden, thoughtfully, "whenever
my home appears less agreeable and attractive than it might, I suppose."
"In a great measure, the fault is yours, undoubtedly. Do you not think
that an established habit of preserving a serene temper, in the midst of
the most trying scenes, would produce blessed results?"
"But the power is not in me."
"It is in every man," said Father Brighthopes. "Only exercise it."
"You can have no conception of what I have had to go through," replied
Mr. Royden, gloomily. "Everything has conspired to ruin my disposition.
My nature has been soured; I could not help it. I have become irritable,
and the least thing moves me."
The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that
Mr. Royden continued,
"You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?"
"Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled."
"Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the
world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of
romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only
briers."
"You found life a stern and unromantic fact," said Father Brighthopes,
smiling. "The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is
sad--it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson."
"The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my
undisciplined feet," resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. "I came upon
the ledges very suddenly. The haze and sunshine faded and dissolved,
even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent."
"It is plain you allude to your marriage."
Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and
his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke.
"My wife is the best of women at heart," he said. "I feel that I could
not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With
the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy."
"It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure," replied Father
Brighthopes.
"I know it is--I know it is! We did not understand each other before
marriage. Our attachment was a romantic one. She had no thought of what
was in me; she saw me only as a lover attractive enough to please her
girlish imagination. She was very beautiful, and I loved her devotedly.
But--" Mr. Royden's voice was shaken--"when I looked to find my other
ideal self glowing beneath her brilliant exterior, I saw a stranger
there. I found that it was not her character I had loved."
"And she, probably, made a similar discovery in you," said the old man,
cheerfully, but feelingly.
"No doubt--no doubt! But I do wrong to speak of this," murmured Mr.
Royden, brushing a tear from his eye. "It is a subject I could never
talk upon to a living soul, and how I have come to let you into my
confidence I am at a loss to know."
"Some good angel prompted you, perhaps," replied Father Brighthopes, "in
order that something may come, through me, to counsel or comfort you."
"I would gladly think so!" exclaimed his companion. "I want consolation
and instruction: and you are so wise an old head!"
He coughed, spoke to the horse, to urge him into a faster pace, and,
having silenced his emotions, resumed the subject of conversation.
"I had little idea of being a farmer, until I was married. It was
necessary to engage in some pursuit, and I had not prepared myself for
any learned profession. I fondly dreamed that some way would be opened
for me by the magic of my genius; for I was passionately devoted to
music, in which I believed I might excel. Delicious dreams of a bright
career were followed by naked, everyday life--farmers' cares and
farmers' toil. I could not be reconciled to the reality. I murmured
because Sarah was so cold, practical, and calculating; I know I made her
unhappy. I was constitutionally irritable, and a habit of fretfulness
grew upon me. This was not designed to soften her rather harsh nature,
or benefit her temper. With children came an increase of cares and
discords, which sometimes almost maddened me. Oh, why was I formed so
weak, so infirm a mortal?" groaned Mr. Royden. "I have tried in vain to
govern my spleen. It rules me with a finger of fire."
"Do you know," said Father Brighthopes, feelingly, "I have a disposition
naturally very much like yours?"
"You!"
"Your mother was my father's sister; we inherited from the same stock
the same infirm temper. The Rensfords are constitutionally nervous. Our
sense of harmony and discord is too fine; we have bad spleens; and we
lack fortitude. Ill-health, of which we have both seen somewhat,
aggravates the fault."
"But what can cure it?" exclaimed Mr. Royden.