his collar, Hepsy!"
"She shan't!" screamed Willie, throwing himself on the defensive. "I'll
bite her!"
"Come, come!" said Mr. Royden; "Willie is going to be a good boy, and go
to meeting like a man."
"He shall go into the closet, and stay there one hour!" exclaimed his
mother, snatching him up roughly.
Willie met with a providential escape. While he was kicking and
screaming in his mother's arms, the noise of a dire disaster filled the
kitchen, and contributed to drown his cries.
Georgie, reaching up to the water-pail which stood on the sink-shelf, to
get a dipper-full of drink, had somehow pulled it over. Its entire
contents spouted upon his face, his bosom, his fresh collar and nice
clothes, and the pail came with him to the floor. After the shock, and
the jar, and a little gasping, he began to shriek. Mrs. Royden dropped
Willie, and ran to the rescue. It was well for the drenched boy that his
father arrived first at the spot, and lifted him up. Hepsy was
terrified; but Sam, who had hobbled to the door, to tell Mr. Royden that
the team was ready, laughed till he was too weak to stand.
Mrs. Royden, incensed by the lad's insolence, made a rapid dash at him;
but Sam dodged, and rolled down the steps. Willie, diverted from his own
woes by the mischance which had befallen his brother, crept into a
corner in the sitting-room, where he hid away from his mother's wrath.
How the storm would have ended it is impossible to say, had not Father
Brighthopes made his appearance, serene and glowing from his morning
devotions.
"Ah! what has happened to my little friend?" he cried, as Mr. Royden
held Georgie up to let him drip.
Mr. Royden had kept his temper with astonishing success; but he was on
the point of giving way to his irritable feelings. The old man's
appearance was timely. The perplexed father remembered a resolution he
had made, and was calm in a moment.
"Oh," said he, "Georgie has been taking a big drink at the water-pail.
It was rather too much for him."
"Accidents will happen," cried the clergyman, cheerfully. "Bear it
bravely, my fine fellow! You will get dry again soon. It helps nothing
to cry about it, my little man."
Georgie was hushed almost instantly. He seemed ashamed to make a great
ado about his disaster, and smothered his cries into sobs. Meanwhile,
Mrs. Royden, with a mighty effort, had controlled her boiling and
bursting temper, and hastened to her room.
It was now impossible that Georgie should go to meeting. Hepsy undressed
him, while Mrs. Royden got herself ready with nervous haste. All the
neighbors bound for church had gone by before the family began to pile
into the carriage. Mr. Royden's patience was fast ebbing away.
"Come, come, wife!" he said. "I told you you would be too late."
She flew around confusedly, doing everything amiss, in her hurry.
Three times, when on the point of getting into the carriage, she went
back for something she had forgotten. Then Georgie, unwilling to stay at
home, began to whimper aloud, and struggle fiercely with Hepsy, who
restrained him from running after the family. To make matters worse, the
yearling colt got out of the barn-yard, Sam having afforded him an
opportunity by leaving the doors open on both sides of the barn. Mr.
Royden had to get him back; for it would not do to let him follow the
team to church, and Sam, with his lame foot, could not have kept him out
of the road.
Mrs. Royden took advantage of this delay to arrange some portion of her
dress, which she had neglected in her haste. Her husband had shut the
colt up, and returned to the horse-block, before she was ready. His
temper was now on the point of bursting forth, as the clergyman saw by
his fiery face, knitted brows and quivering lips.
"Calmly, calmly, brother!" said Father Brighthopes, cheerily. "Take it
easy. Keep cool. Heat and passion always make bad things worse."
"I know it!" exclaimed Mr. Royden. "I will keep cool."
He laid down the reins, and took his seat quietly on the horse-block,
wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Let affairs take their course," said he. "If we don't get to meeting at
all, it will not be my fault. I have done my best."
"Mother, why don't you come?" cried Sarah, impatiently.
Mrs. Royden bustled out of the house, pulling on her gloves. Her husband
helped her up very deliberately, then took his seat calmly and coolly
with Father Brighthopes. At length they started, Sam holding the large
gate open as they drove through.
"Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, looking back.
Mr. Royden stopped the horses.
"You needn't stop. I can tell her what I want to."
"If you have any directions for her, we may as well wait," said he,
quietly.
"Drive on, if you are in such a hurry," retorted Mrs. Royden. "I only
wanted to tell her something about the spare-rib. I thought I could make
her understand."
They now flew over the ground at a rapid rate, until Willie began to
scream.
"Oh, my hat! my hat!"
"Father, why don't you stop?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, grasping her
husband's arm.
"Whoa! whoa! What is the matter?"
"Willie's hat has blown off."
This seemed the climax of disasters. Willie's hat lay in the road,
already forty yards behind. Mrs. Royden began to scold Sarah for not
attending to the strings, and tying them so that it could not be lost.
Meanwhile Mr. Royden, struggling with his temper, got down and went back
for the hat. On his return, his wife seized it, and, in no very pleasant
mood, put it on Willie's head,--reprimanding Mr. Royden for moving so
slowly.
"I have made up my mind that it is best never to be in a hurry," he
replied, in a gentle tone.
However, he drove very fast, and arrived at the meeting-house steps
shortly after the last peals of the bell died upon the air. Nothing he
disliked more than to go in late; but he was a little cheered at seeing
the Dustans, who lived so near, roll up to the graveled walks, in their
grand carriage, while he was helping his family out.
XVII.
FATHER BRIGHTHOPES IN THE PULPIT.
During all the unpleasant hurry and confusion of the morning, Father
Brighthopes had remained beautifully serene. He seemed to enjoy the ride
on that still Sabbath--so different, in its calm and quiet loveliness,
from all other days in the week--as much as if nothing inharmonious had
occurred. But he was more thoughtful than usual, talking little, as if
his meditations took a higher and holier range than on common occasions.
His venerable aspect attracted general attention, as he entered the
aisle with the family, at the close of the prayer. His aged form was
slightly bent, his calm eyes downcast, and his step very soft and light;
while his countenance beamed with a meek and childlike expression of
reverence and love.
The old man seated himself with his relatives, in a humble attitude; but
Mr. Corlis, after reading the hymn, invited him, through Deacon Dustan,
to come up into the pulpit. He could not well refuse, although he would
have preferred to remain in his obscure position. He ascended the hidden
stairway, which always looked so mysterious to young children, and soon
his fine, noble head, with its expansive forehead, and thin, white locks
of hair, appeared above the crimson cushions of the desk.
From the pulpit, he glanced his eye over the congregation, as they arose
with the singers and stood during the hymn. He was very happy, looking
kindly down upon so many strangers, who seemed all dear brothers and
sisters to his great heart,--near relations and friends, no less than
they who sat in Mr. Royden's pew, and Sarah and Chester in the choir.
The sermon was one of the best Mr. Corlis had ever preached. It was not
so flowery as many of his discourses, nor so deep in doctrinal research
as others, but it contained more practical Christianity than any of his
previous productions. When Father Brighthopes, who was agreeably
disappointed in its character, expressed his gratification to his younger
brother, at its close, the latter should, perhaps, have confessed how
much of its merits were owing to his influence; for, after his interview
with the old clergyman, Mr. Corlis, touched to the quick by new
convictions of duty, had re-written a large portion of the sermon
prepared during the week, and poured into it something of the vital
spirit of love and truth which had been awakened within him.
Father Brighthopes read the closing hymn in clear, musical, feeling
tones of voice, while the congregation listened with unaccustomed
attention and pleasure. When the services were over, a great many sought
to be introduced to him, and Deacon Dustan insisted that he should go
home with him and dine. But there was a Sunday-school between morning
and afternoon services, and he expressed a desire to remain and witness
the teachers' labors.
"Perhaps," said he, smiling, "with my experience, I can throw out some
useful hints. However, as I think a breath of air will do me good," he
added, turning to Mr. Corlis who had asked him to walk over to the
parsonage, "I accept your kind invitation. I can return in the course of
half an hour, and still have time to utter a great deal more wisdom than
I shall be capable of, I fear."
Mr. Corlis had hardly expected this, and, it may be, he was not very
pleasantly surprised. It had been impossible for him to foster any
resentment from over-hearing the old man's remarks, two days before,
touching the duties of clergymen; yet he could not feel altogether
comfortable in his presence.
Even this sensation of uncongeniality could not last long. Father
Brighthopes was so frank, so humble, so full of love and kindly
enthusiasm, that in ten minutes his conversation had swept away the
barriers between them. Mr. Corlis really began to like him, and feel
that his counsel and support might be of great assistance to him in his
labors.
After partaking sparingly of a tempting collation, to which he was
welcomed by the bright eyes and rosy lips of Mrs. Corlis, the old man
proposed to return to the Sabbath-school; and the young preacher
volunteered to be his companion.
The appearance of Father Brighthopes in the school-room was a memorable
event. The teachers soon closed up the business of their classes, to
listen to what he had to say. All was attention, as he arose, venerable,
yet simple and smiling, to address the school.
Hitherto, this had been of a rather gloomy character. Many of the
teachers had fallen into a melancholy, droning manner of talking to
their pupils about the horrors of sin and the awfulness of God's wrath.
The old clergyman's cheerful discourse had so much the better effect,
from the contrast. How happy and bright was religion, according to his
faith! How glorious was truth! How unutterably sweet was the conviction
of God's infinite goodness and love!
It was like the pouring down of sunshine through murky clouds,--that
earnest, beautiful discourse. The children never forgot it; and, happily
for them, the teachers treasured it in their hearts.
Mrs. Royden thought it did not do her much good to go to meeting. She
was so nervous, during the morning service, that it had been quite
impossible for her to fix her mind on the sermon, or enjoy the singing.
"I may as well give up going to meeting altogether," she said to her
husband, on their way home at noon. "There is so much to be done, every
morning, before we start, that it is all hurry--hurry--hurry; and if I
take my time, then we are late."
He could not make her believe that she did a thousand things, on such
occasions, which she might just as well leave undone; and, to "have
peace," he gave over the argument.
The baby had been very cross, and Mrs. Royden concluded to stay at home
in the afternoon. This was melancholy intelligence for Sam, who had
enjoyed a fine season of fun in the morning, playing with the cat,
cracking "but'nuts," and plaguing Hepsy. With the old lady around the
house, fun was out of the question on the Sabbath.
Hepsy got ready, and returned with Mr. Royden in the afternoon. Father
Brighthopes preached, and his sermon was just such a one as the poor
girl needed, to cheer her hopeless, doubting heart. In listening to it,
she quite forgot how many eyes regarded her deformed figure and plain
face with scorn and dislike; she remembered not the pangs which had shot
through and through her sensitive heart, when Chester told her of his
intended marriage; the world faded, with its selfishness, pride and
envy, and heaven opened, with its angels of peace and love. The old
man's eloquent sermon delighted old and young; but there were few
fainting, thirsty souls, who drank in its glorious thoughts with such
intensity of feeling as did the afflicted Hepsy.
XVIII.
MR. KERCHEY.
Chester, in the meantime, had made the acquaintance of a new resident in
the neighborhood.
This was a somewhat singular individual, about thirty years of age,
unmarried, and very rich. He was the son of a merchant in New York; but,
in consequence of feeble health, together with certain eccentric notions
with regard to society, he had resolved to become a gentleman farmer. He
had purchased a valuable estate, lying not far from Mr. Royden's farm;
and there he now lived with a trustworthy tenant, of whom he was
learning the agricultural art.
Mr. Lemuel Kerchey was not easy to get acquainted with. The admirers of
wealthy young men, in the neighborhood he had chosen, courted his
society in vain. He was not timid, but exceedingly taciturn; he was a
good listener, but as a talker he failed. His sociability was of the
negative or passive sort. He could do justice to any good dinner to
which he was invited, but somehow he could not be got acquainted with.
Mr. Kerchey sat alone in one of the most expensive pews in church; and
every Sunday he looked directly at the minister during sermon and
prayer, without once removing his eyes; and appeared just as intent
gazing up at Sarah Royden's rosy face, in the choir, during the
singing.
At noon Mr. Kerchey accepted an invitation to call at Deacon Dustan's,
and partake of a lunch; on which occasion he met Chester. Being
introduced to him, and learning that he was Sarah's brother, the
bachelor made a mighty effort to talk; but he found it so difficult to
express his ideas, that it was really painful to listen to him. However,
Chester inclined to encourage the acquaintance, and spared him the
trouble, by talking so fast himself, that even Jane Dustan, who was a
famous chatterbox, could hardly get in a word.
Mr. Kerchey had driven to church alone in an elegant "buggy," and at the
close of the afternoon services he invited Chester to ride with him. In
return, the latter asked the bachelor to call at his father's house.
"I shall be--much--ah--pleased," said Mr. Kerchey, in his usual hard way
of expressing himself, "to--to--ah--get better acquainted
with--with--your people."
Mrs. Royden was preparing a sumptuous meal. Dinner and supper were
condensed into one grand repast on Sundays. She liked to have the
children come home with keen appetites, which gave their food so
delightful a relish.
But Georgie, that afternoon, had burnt his fingers with a wire Sam was
heating to perforate an elder-stalk for a fife; the baby was unwell and
cross, and, by some unaccountable oversight, Mrs. Royden had let the
spare-rib cook a little too hard and brown on one side. Everything had
gone wrong with her that day, and when the family came home they found
her flushed and fretful.
"Hepsy," said she, "do you change your dress as soon as you can, and
help me set the table. Put on your apron, Sarah, the first thing. Why do
you scream out so loud, Lizzie? You almost craze me!"
"Why, there comes Chester, in Mr. Kerchey's buggy! He is beckoning for
Sam to go and open the gate, I guess."
Mrs. Royden was interested. She had a liking for wealthy young men, and
was not displeased to see Mr. Kerchey drive into the yard. Hastily
taking off an old tire, assumed to protect her dress, she bustled about
to prepare herself to do credit to the family.
"Take him right into the parlor, Sarah," said she. "Willie, you may keep
on your new clothes, if you will stay in the house. If you get into the
dirt, I shall box your ears."
"I wonder what Chester invited that disagreeable old bach to stop for?"
murmured Sarah, not so well pleased.
She received him politely, however. Mr. Kerchey, in her presence, was
painfully stiff and incapable of words. His position would have been
most embarrassing, had not Chester come to his relief. Afterwards Father
Brighthopes made his appearance, and Sarah, begging to be excused, was
seen no more until supper was announced.
Hepsy, Sam and the two younger children, stayed away from the table; the
first from choice, the others from compulsion. The little boys
especially were hungry, and made a great clamor because they could not
sit down.
"Do let them come, wife!" said Mr. Royden. "There is plenty of room."
"May we?" asked Willie, with big grief in his voice, and big tears in
his pleading eyes.
"No; you can wait just as well," replied Mrs. Royden. "If you tease or
cry, remember what we do with little boys that will not be good. Hush,
now!"
Notwithstanding this dark hint of the closet, Willie burst into tears,
and lifted up his voice in lamentation.
"Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, "take him into the kitchen."
Extreme severity transformed Willie's grief into rage. The cake which
had been given him as a slight compensation and comfort for the
martyrdom of waiting he threw upon the floor, and crushed beneath his
feet.
Mrs. Royden started up, with fire in her eyes; but her husband stayed
her.
"Who blames the boy?" he said. "He is hungry and cross. Come, Willie,
bring your chair, and sit here by me."
The idea had, by this time, insinuated itself into Mr. Kerchey's brain
that the children were made to wait out of deference to him. Mrs. Royden
might consider him as one of the calumniated class of bachelors who
detest the light of little blue eyes, and hate the prattle of innocent
tongues. After one or two attempts to speak, he succeeded in
articulating, "I--I think it would be--would be--ah--pleasant to have
the children at the table."
"It is so annoying to be troubled with them when we have company!"
murmured Mrs. Royden, relenting. "Well, Hepsy, bring their plates."
To see the happiness shining in the little fellow's eyes, which were as
yet hardly dry, must have been sufficient to soften any grim old
bachelor's heart. Mr. Kerchey struggled to express his gratification, in
order not to be outdone by the cheerful and talkative clergyman; but he
could only smile in an embarrassed manner upon the boys, and coin these
tough and leaden syllables:
"I--rather--ah--like young people of this description."
Mrs. Royden was glad to have peace, for she saw how much the few
unpleasant words which had been spoken vexed the proud and sensitive
Chester, and was not desirous to have a family scene enacted in presence
of the stranger.
The meal was a very cheerful one; Father Brighthopes being in one of his
most delightful moods, and the family in good humor generally. Sarah
manifested a large talent for quiet fun, in her mischievous endeavors to
draw Mr. Kerchey into conversation.
The poor bachelor did his best, but he had never found the expression of
ideas a more difficult and laborious task. In vain the kind-hearted Mr.
Royden winked for Sarah to desist; in vain the good clergyman delicately
filled up the painful pauses in Mr. Kerchey's remarks with natural
observations, suggestive and helpful: Sarah persisted, and the guest
was forced to talk.
When young ladies are suspected of being objects of attraction, they
think they have a legitimate right to make fun of all newly-developed
admirers. They may marry them next year; they perhaps look upon such an
event as probable and desirable; but they will laugh about them to-day,
alike regardless of the pain they inflict on their victims, should they
perceive the ridicule, and careless of the distress of prudent mothers
and friends.
Fortunately for Mr. Kerchey, his talent for observation was not
remarkable. Phrenologically speaking, his perceptive faculties were
small, as well as "language" and "concentration." He was rather
flattered by Sarah's attentions than otherwise, and very readily
accepted an invitation to prolong his call until evening.
"Would you--ah--would you like to--ride--a little ways--ah--after my
pony?" he asked of Sarah, as they were sitting in the parlor, after
supper.
"Thank you; but I hardly think I ought to go this evening," replied the
ready girl.
What a relief it was to hear her silver-ringing voice, after Mr.
Kerchey's painful efforts to speak!
"You--you are--you are not--partial to riding--perhaps?"
"Oh, I like it well; but a carriage seems monotonous. Horseback
exercises for me!"
"You--like--you like it?"
"Passionately!" cried Sarah. "Oh, how I love a spirited, prancing,
bounding pony!"
With his usual labor of enunciation, Mr. Kerchey said that, if she could
inform him where a side-saddle was to be obtained, he would be
"most--ah--happy" to give her his best horse to ride that evening. He
was five minutes occupied in expressing so much.
"We have a ladies' saddle," said Sarah; "but I'd rather not go and ride
on Sundays merely for pleasure."
"Ah! a thousand--ah--pardons!" rejoined Mr. Kerchey, conscious of having
committed an indiscretion. "Some--some other time?"
Sarah excused his freedom, and gayly told him "almost any time;" and
when he finally took his leave, declared that she had "got well rid of
him, at last."
Meanwhile, Sam had decoyed Willie and Georgie into the orchard, and
betrayed them into a game of ball. He made his lame foot a good excuse
to sit upon the grass and enjoy all the "knocking" or "licks," while the
boys threw and "chased."
"What are you about there, you rogue?" cried Mr. Royden, who had enough
natural religious feeling to desire that his family should behave
decorously on the Sabbath.
"Oh, nothing much," said Sam; "only playing ball a little."
"Do you know what day it is?"
"It an't Sunday after sundown, is it? You always let us play then."
"But the sun isn't down yet."
Mr. Royden pointed to the great luminary which still glowed amid the
trees in the west.
"Golly! I thought it was!"
"What a story that is! The sun is nearly half an hour high. You could
not help seeing it."
Sam looked with amazement, squinting across his ball-club, and dodging
his head this way and that, as if to assure himself that it was no
delusion.
"It _an't_ down, _is_ it?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed,
I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before."
XIX.
MONDAY MORNING.
"I am not going to put off washing until the middle of the week, to wait
for any girl!" said Mrs. Royden, positively. "We shall have enough to do
after Margaret comes, without keeping a great heap of dirty clothes to
be washed."
"Well, do as you like," replied her husband, with a dissatisfied air.
"But I know just how it will be. You and the girls will wear yourselves
out before noon. If you would only take things quietly, and not try to
do too much, you would get along better; but you see so much to
accomplish, that you fly into a heat and a hurry, which you seldom
recover from for two or three days."
Mrs. Royden was resolved. The regular Monday's work was to be done, and
nothing could induce her to postpone it. The great boiler was put on the
kitchen stove before breakfast, and the clothes got ready for the wash.
It seemed her nature to be cross on such days, and the children knew
what to expect. There could be no fun on Monday morning. All must do
something,--even Georgie must pull out the stitches of a seam, and
Willie must rock the baby. It seemed that poor Hepsy did everything, and
gave satisfaction in nothing.
That was a hard day for Sam. The mowers came, one after the other, and
he had to turn the grindstone for them to grind their scythes in
succession. They were good-natured, energetic men; and, not wishing them
to know how lazy he was, he worked industriously at the crank, before
and after breakfast. But the last man "bore on enough to break the
stone," Sam said; and he groaned under the infliction, asking, from time
to time, if the scythe was "most finished."