exciting scene. The storm seemed inevitable. Getting the hay into cocks
that would shed rain, Chester and the men worked almost miraculously.
It seemed as if they had husbanded their strength during the week for
this crisis. They were not jaded and disheartened laborers, but bold and
active workmen.
Meanwhile the new load swelled and loomed up prodigiously.
"When I give the word, James," cried Mr. Royden, "drive to the stack as
straight as you can go. It must be topped off somehow, before it gets
wet."
The clouds roared and wheeled in the sky. The lightnings were vivid and
frequent. The sultry air grew rapidly cool, and there was a gale rising.
A deep gloom had settled upon all the earth, coloring the scene of
hurried labor with a tinge of awfulness, as if some dread event were
impending.
A few heavy drops came hissing down upon the hay.
"Drive to the stack, James!" cried the farmer. "Go with what you have
got."
"Take the rest of this win'row," said Mark; "hadn't we better? I can
heave it up in a minute."
"Be quick, then; for we must secure the stack."
"If the shower will hold off ten minutes, I do believe the boys will
have the rest of the hay safe in the cock," observed Father Brighthopes.
"How they work!"
The shower did hold off wonderfully. Mark and Mr. Royden threw on the
remainder of the windrow, making a large, unshapely load.
With a feeling of triumph, the farmer saw the horses start at a quick
pace for the stack.
"The rain is coming!" said the jockey, glancing at a dark fringe of
showers dropped from the thunder-clouds over the woods.
"It must come, then!" returned Mr. Royden. "We can pitch enough on the
stack, though, to make it shed rain, I hope. The rest of the load we
will run right into the barn."
The farmer sprang to a stone-heap, where he had left his coat, seized
it, and threw it over the old clergyman's shoulders.
"Walk fast," cried he, "and you will get to the barn before the shower."
"A little rain won't hurt me, if I keep at work," replied Father
Brighthopes. "I'll stay and help the boys."
Mr. Royden remonstrated in vain. A cry from Mark called his attention
from the old man.
"That load will be off!"
The farmer uttered an exclamation of impatience. The great bulk of hay,
thrown on in such haste, and trampled down without much regard to shape
or order by the boys, was reeling over the side of the rick. James,
encumbered with the reins, scrambled to the left as fast as he could, to
keep the balance, calling upon Sam to do the same. But the latter was
too busily engaged in tying a straw around a large horse-fly to heed the
danger.
Mark and Mr. Royden ran to steady the load with their forks; but
suddenly one of the wagon-wheels fell into a little hollow, and they had
scarcely time to escape from the avalanche, as it plunged over them, and
settled like a cloud upon the ground.
About a third of the load remained on the wagon, which fortunately did
not upset; and James had skilfully managed, not only to stop the horses,
but to avoid falling off, when the great bulk went over. Not so with
Sam. Deep buried in the soft bed he had made, he was too late to save
himself, when he discovered the reality of the danger. It was lucky he
did not fall upon Mark's fork. As it was, he came down easily, with a
very small portion of the load under him, and a very large portion
sweeping down upon him. He was quite buried from sight; but in a moment
his head appeared amid the billows of hay, and he floundered upon the
firm ground.
Sam hardly knew what had taken place. At first he stared about him,
looking at the wagon, and its contents on the ground; then he examined
the straw, which he still held firmly clasped in his right hand.
"Thunder and broomsticks!" cried he, "if the darned old load an't off!
and I've lost my horse-fly!"
Everybody else, except this thoughtless lover of mischief, who witnessed
the disaster, expected to see Mr. Royden thrown into a violent passion.
Father Brighthopes feared that his patience could not hold out. But the
irritable farmer had not exercised his temper during the week to no
purpose. He astonished everybody by his coolness.
"So much for being in a hurry," said he. "I ought not to have expected
such a load to ride across the lot. Now let us be more deliberate, and
do well what we do at all. There's no use of crying for an accident that
cannot be helped."
He and Mark took hold, and threw on enough hay to bind what was left on
the rick; and James drove on, just as a sharp shower was commencing. It
grew very dark, and they topped off the stack in the rain. But the
clouds acted very capriciously. After sifting a little water, they
wheeled away to the south, where the rain could be seen streaking down
over the woods. But there was no more of it on the meadow for some time;
and when at last it began to come down in volleys, the stack was
secured, the hay left in the field was thrown up in shapely cocks, the
load which had fallen off was once more on the rick and going into the
barn, the horses on a keen trot; and the laborers, shouldering their
rakes, were hastening from the field.
Mr. Royden was never in better humor than when he found the old
clergyman, somewhat heated, and perspiring freely, wrapped up in his
great mantle, in the kitchen corner, prattling with George and Willie,
who had just come home from school.
XXV.
A STREAM OF PEACE.
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,--_then_ we'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.
XXVI.
THE RAINY DAY.
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, this
_Barnes' Notes_ interests 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 of _Barnes_ makes
my faith _stable_."
This little jest appealed to the sympathies of the farmers, and they
honored it with a laugh. Job was radiant with joy.
"I wish the _Notes_ was 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 get _over_, 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 as
_thank'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 melancholy _good-evening_; and Job stumped to the door on his wooden
leg to see them off.
XXVII.
"OLD FOLKS" AND "YOUNG FOLKS."
"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.