you have. I hope you have. But you must consider that to do this thing
for your own glory, and not in the service of our Saviour, will be other
than acceptable in his sight."
"We trust to do all things, connected with the church, to the praise and
glory of God," returned Mr. Corlis.
"Then your labors will bring their reward. But there are still important
considerations claiming our attention. I think the Lord is better
pleased with other things than pretty meeting-houses. They who build up
his CHURCH find more favor in his sight than the mere constructors of
elegant place of worship."
"But, to build up the church, we must commence with the frame-work to
shelter it," observed Deacon Dustan; "at least, it appears so to me."
"The true church of Christ is in our own hearts," returned the old man,
with a gentle smile.
Deacon Dustan's mind was of too material a cast fully to appreciate this
truth; so he only nodded mechanically, and said,
"In one sense, certainly."
"To build that up, should be our first care. That we can do without
carpenter's tools, plank or plaster. _Righteousness_ is the great
building material, and _Love_ is the head workman. Christ has not said,
'Rear me stately edifices, and make my houses pleasing unto me with
velvet, gilding and paint.' But he has told his followers to feed the
hungry, to clothe the naked, to visit the afflicted and comfort them, to
lift up the downt-rodden. My brethren," said the old man, "this do as
long as ye have any in poverty and distress among you; then, I say, if
you can _afford_ it, build a meeting-house of gold, and the Lord will be
pleased with the work."
The rebuke, although uttered in all kindness and love, came home, with
overwhelming force, to all hearts at that time, when they had just
witnessed the squalor and rags of a faithful Christian brother in their
very midst. Mr. Corlis, who was expected to reply, was struck
speechless.
"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," observed Deacon
Dustan, after a painful silence. "Some of it applies to us, without
doubt; but not so much as you suppose. In our own society, you will not
find any one left to suffer poverty. If we have ever neglected poor Job
Bowen,--and, I confess, I, for one, have not been so thoughtful of him
as I should be, even if he were the vilest sinner in the world,--our
excuse is, that he differs from our persuasion. He is not one of our
brethren."
"<sc>Christ</sc> knows not one sect from another, it is the _heart_ he judges,"
said the old man. "'_Whoever_ doeth the will of my Father, the same is
my brother.' For my part, I never thought to inquire into the creed of
our poor Christian friend, Job Bowen. It is enough for me to know that
his Saviour is my Saviour."
Nobody made answer; and, after a pause, Father Brighthopes added,
"Ah! how sweetly the evening comes on! Look, there is the evening star
in the soft blue sky! You will have fine weather for haying to-morrow."
The subject of the new meeting-house was not renewed.
By way of contrast with the foregoing scenes, let us now turn to others,
of a different nature.
Scarcely had Deacon Dustan and the elder portion of his gentlemen guests
set out on their walk, when Mr. Benjamin Smith, a brother of our old
acquaintance, Josephine, drove up to the door with a load of saddles.
Benjamin had been to collect them around the neighborhood. The young
people were going to ride. Equestrian exercises had been hinted at by
Mr. Kerchey, whose fine, spirited horses were at the disposal of the
party, and the girls had caught eagerly at the idea.
Mr. Kerchey was not used to the saddle; but Sarah Royden was, and that
was enough for him to know. He himself was a little afraid of mounting a
mettled horse; but, since she was so fond of the recreation, he had no
desire to consult his own feelings in the matter.
"I--I wish you would tell me how--ah--these girths go," he said to
Chester, after laboring hard for a quarter of an hour saddling his
handsomest horse for Sarah. "I wish--one of my--ah--hired men was
here--so that I--ah--would not have to--would not be obliged to trouble
you."
"No trouble at all," cried Chester, who, meanwhile, had saddled four
horses in front of Deacon Dustan's barn.
He stepped to the stable to see what Mr. Kerchey was about, and, at a
glance, burst into a roar of laughter. The amateur farmer had put on the
side-saddle, not exactly bottom upwards, but turned square around; and
he was trying to buckle the girths upon the stirrup-strap.
"I think Sarah would hesitate to ride with the saddle just in this
position," said Chester, checking his merriment.
He skilfully made the required change, and buckled the girths with such
rapidity as struck Mr. Kerchey with amazement, and quite discouraged him
from ever touching a side-saddle again.
"You see--I--I--I am not--ah--accustomed to this sort of--of business,"
he stammered, coloring very red.
A dozen horses were saddled and led to the door. In the meantime the
girls had prepared themselves for the sport.
"Oh!" screamed Miss Josephine Smith, as the gallant Chester helped her
mount from the block, "my nervth are tho delicate!"
How different Sarah! She sat Mr. Kerchey's handsome horse like a queen,
holding her head proudly, as he playfully pranced and reared.
"I--I--hope--I hope there is no--ah--danger?" articulated the amateur
farmer, as he reluctantly loosed his hold of the bridle.
Sarah laughed merrily, and boldly struck the animal with her whip. It
made Mr. Kerchey gasp to see him bound and plunge. But she kept her
balance miraculously.
After seeing that every girth was well fastened, and every fair rider
safely mounted, Chester leaped into his own saddle from the turf,
without touching foot to stirrup. But he dismounted again immediately,
smothering his laughter as well as he could.
All the gentlemen were mounted, except Mr. Kerchey.
His horse, excited by seeing his mate, governed by Sarah, dance about
the yard, would not stand still an instant, or come up to the block.
Harry Dustan, laughing at his distress, had cantered gayly away with
Miss Sedley, the "school-ma'am." Only Chester was thoughtful enough to
go to Mr. Kerchey's relief.
The latter, heated, agitated, and wofully perplexed, was beginning to
see that riding horseback was a far more serious affair than he had
imagined. He witnessed the bold riding of his neighbors with dismay.
Galloping was to him a perfect mystery. His courage and ambition had
never gone beyond a gentle trot. The mere thought of dashing off side by
side with Sarah made him dizzy.
"Can't you mount?" asked Chester, soberly, considering the
circumstances.
"No--I--that is--perhaps--on the whole--I'd better not--ah--attempt it."
"Oh, that won't do! What will the girls say?"
"But, you see--it is all--ah--new to me," stammered Mr. Kerchey.
"You'll get into the way of it at once," replied Chester, in an
encouraging tone. "It's as easy as running down hill, or running up--an
account. Now,"--he wheeled the horse to the block,--"put your leg over
the saddle. No! the other leg,--your right one,--unless you want to ride
backwards."
XXVIII.
MR. KERCHEY'S DARING EXPLOIT.
After considerable trouble, Mr. Kerchey was mounted, with his feet thrust
into the stirrups up to the ankles.
Chester, perceiving the smiling faces of the old ladies at the windows
and at the door, watching the performance, was so convulsed with mirth
that he could with difficulty get once more into the saddle. But the
girls had now all galloped up the road, and, with no inducement to make
a display of agility and strength, he braced his toe in the stirrup, and
leisurely mounted.
Mr. Kerchey was a little ahead of him, making too ludicrous an
appearance to be easily described. He looked like an animated bag of
flour, Chester said, awkwardly balanced, jolting painfully, and seeming
momently ready to tumble off.
"Oh, you do bravely!" cried the young man, dashing past him, on a smart
gallop.
Mr. Kerchey groaned, and grasped the saddle with his left hand,
desperately, resolved to ride faster.
The party had halted a little way up the road, and Chester made haste to
send Sarah back to keep Mr. Kerchey company. At first she refused to go,
but conceiving the idea of some fun, consented to the arrangement, and
rode to meet her admirer.
In order that he might not observe the mirth indulged at his expense,
the rest of the party galloped on, Chester riding by the side of the
sociable Jane Dustan.
"What a delightful creature this is!" cried Sarah, wheeling sharply
around Mr. Kerchey. "I could ride him night and day without wearying."
"Ah! glad to h--h--hear it!" said the amateur farmer, still holding the
saddle with a fearful grasp.
"I see you are very careful of your horse," she added, letting her
animal prance daintily on before. "Is he lame?"
"No--not--not exactly----"
"Ha! ha! I see! You are preserving his wind in order to outstrip us
towards the close of the ride! I shall look out for you, Mr. Kerchey!"
"I--beg--to--assure--you--" replied the tortured man, each word jolted
out of his lungs by the hard-trotting horse, "I--have no--no such
intention."
"How I envy you the advantages of living in a city!" exclaimed Sarah.
"You have riding-schools there; you must have enjoyed them a great deal,
Mr. Kerchey."
If, on ordinary occasions, it was difficult for the amateur farmer to
express his ideas, what shall we say of him in his present painful
situation? All his faculties were called into activity by the
threatening danger. His own horse was beginning to prance and amble
sidewise; and it was only by the exercise of great vigilance that he
kept his balance at all. Let the reader endeavor to carry on a sprightly
conversation with a saucy girl and add up a long column of figures at
the same time, and he may be able to form a dim conception of the ordeal
through which Mr. Kerchey was compelled to pass.
"I--I--never--rode much," he managed to articulate.
"Indeed? you surprise me," cried Sarah, carefully committing the
trifling mistake of touching his horse with the tip of her whip.
The animal leaped into the air, breaking so suddenly into a gallop that
Mr. Kerchey barely escaped being thrown to the ground.
"Whoa--_whoa_--_whoa_!" he ejaculated, in an agitated voice, letting go
one of the reins, in his confusion.
The horse dashed to the corner of the fence, and stopped so suddenly
that Mr. Kerchey, thrown clear over the pommel of the saddle, rested on
his neck. Fortunately, having come to this stand, the animal did not
move until he had had time to regain his seat; for, as it was, had it
not been for the proximity of the rails, on which he braced his hands,
the rider must have plunged head foremost to the ground.
Sweating a cold sweat, and trembling in every limb, Mr. Kerchey seized
both reins, one in each hand, resolved to hold the animal "in," at all
hazards.
"Whoa--whoa--whoa!" he kept repeating, in tremulous tones, as he once
more got into the road.
Sarah choked with emotion.
"Wouldn't you like a whip!" she asked, as soon as she could summon
sufficient gravity to speak.
"Oh--no--thank you," gasped Mr. Kerchey.
"You'd better. You'll manage your horse much more easily with one. Will
you take mine?"
Sarah rode up to him, and extended the frightful whip, at sight of which
Mr. Kerchey's horse bounded to the side of the road like a frightened
deer. Off flew his hat; his hands grasped saddle and mane; and he cried
"Whoa--whoa!" again, with all the energy of fear.
But some horses, after submitting to a degree of insult, will have their
revenge. Mr. Kerchey's thought he would try what virtue there was in
running away. Thanks to his feet, thrust ankle-deep in the stirrups, the
rider kept his seat this time, but he could not manage the reins and
keep his hold of the saddle at the same time. He went by the amazed
party of equestrians on the speed of the wind. The horse turned up to the
meeting-house, and made for one of the sheds.
"He'll break his head!" cried Sarah, terrified at the mischief she had
done, reining up to Chester's side.
Chester spurred forward, to do what he could to avert so uncomfortable
an accident. But already Mr. Kerchey saw his danger, and pulled the
bridle with his left hand, still clinging to the saddle with his right.
The horse was sufficiently under control to obey the direction. He
described a beautiful curve, and went around the meeting-house,
reappearing on the opposite side of the green.
The immediate danger passed, the spectators began to laugh. Mr. Kerchey
reminded Jane Dustan of the celebrated monkey, Andrew Jackson, who rode
the pony in the circus-ring "last fourth of July." Mr. Kerchey's
performance was more public. He rode in view of the whole neighborhood,
his hat off, his feet thrown behind, in the stirrups, his hands still
holding on desperately. Around the meeting-house he went again, faster
than before. A third time the horse consented to perform the amusing
evolution, then rebelled. Wheeling suddenly, he threw Mr. Kerchey
sprawling into a black puddle of indescribable water, near one of the
sheds.
It was well for both horse and rider that the latter had instinctively
extricated his feet from the stirrups. As it was, the animal, more
indignant, it seemed, than terrified, quietly turned under the shed, and
stopped.
A magnificent splashing of the water celebrated Mr. Kerchey's descent
into the element. He came down like an immense frog, with outstretched
arms and legs, sublime. But like anything else than a frog he began to
scramble and gasp, and flounder in the puddle.
Chester dashed to the spot, dismounted, and helped him out.
To describe the ludicrous appearance of the strangling, drenched, muddy,
hatless equestrian, or the effect it had upon the convulsed spectators,
would be superfluous. With the exception of Chester, only Miss Sedley, a
young lady of the finest feelings, and Sarah, whose conscience upbraided
her for the mischief she had done, were at all able to control their
mirth.
"Take me--somewhere!" gasped Mr. Kerchey seeking his handkerchief, to
wipe his streaming face. "I'm--hurt. My shoulder--Oh!"
"You haven't put any bones out, I hope?" said Chester.
"I don't know. I'm afraid," moaned the equestrian, with a most ludicrous
expression of mingled grief, pain, fright and mud. "Oh dear! what a--a
mournful termination to--to my folly!"
He sank upon the ground, and sat with his feet in the puddle, a picture
of utter woe.
"Excuse me," he said, feebly, "I--I am very--faint."
"He is seriously injured, I fear," observed Miss Sedley.
"You won't let me--_die_--here in the filth--will you?" groaned Mr.
Kerchey, looking up with a despairing expression into the faces of the
spectators.
Even Chester had to hide his face for laughing. But Sarah, more and more
alarmed, felt never less susceptible to merriment.
"Do take him right over to Dr. Sackett's!" she exclaimed, with deep
solicitude.
"Yes," murmured the unhappy man, "if you can get me there. I--I can't
walk--I am sure!"
"We can carry you," replied Chester. "Come, boys!"
"Be careful that I--I don't die by the way!" whispered Mr. Kerchey, on
the point of swooning.
The young men fastened their horses under the shed, rolled up their
sleeves, and "took hold." Happily, the doctor's house was close by, and
they arrived seasonably at the door, with their companion still groaning
and moaning piteously. No wonder! The doctor found his excuse. Mr.
Kerchey had broken an arm, besides doing some extensive damage to his
shoulder.
When informed of the true state of the case, the company were sobered at
once; and Sarah, especially, was very much distressed.
"I was the cause of it all!" she exclaimed, with strong feelings of
self-reproach.
"To make ample reparation," said Jane Dustan, "all you have to do is to
take care of your victim during his recovery."
"And I'll do it, laugh as you may!" exclaimed Sarah.
She kept her word as far as practicable. Mr. Kerchey was carried home
the next day; and every afternoon, during the long week he was confined
to his room, she called to inquire about his health, and often stopped
to make his broth with her own hands, or to read the newspaper for him.
Mr. Kerchey loved the broth only because she made it, and when she read
he was entertained by the sweet tone of her voice alone. Of course, he
forgave her for frightening the horse; and if ever there was a poor
fellow in love with a kind-hearted, mischievous, merry girl, it was Mr.
Kerchey, convalescent, in love with Sarah Royden.
XXIX.
MRS. ROYDEN'S DINNER-PARTY.
How fast the time fled! How quickly, yet how smoothly, the old
clergyman's vacation rounded to its close!
Looking back to the day of his arrival, it was hard to realize that more
than three weeks had glided away. Yet when he and his friends remembered
what had been done, and how many happy and profitable hours they had
spent together, the wonder was that so much could have been crowded
within so brief a space of time.
The present chronicle of the old clergyman's vacation is necessarily
meager. It would require a larger volume to do anything like justice to
the scenes which opened, shifted and closed, during his stay. I have
only seized upon a few salient points, that presented themselves to my
mind, and portrayed them with as few hasty touches as I could, without
order, and with little study for effect. How much must be gone over in
silence, and left entirely to the imagination!
The day before that which Father Brighthopes had set for his departure,
Mrs. Royden gave a dinner-party. He had become so extensively known and
so widely beloved in the society of the neighborhood, that old and young
wished to assemble and bid him an affectionate farewell.
Was ever a more cheerful gathering? We doubt it. It was a jolly,
democratic party. Father Brighthopes was grand-master of the ceremonies.
If there was one present more humble than another, he made it his
business to take him encouragingly and lovingly by the hand, and lift
him up. If it was a sister, how delicately, how tenderly he talked to
her, and showed her that bright angel of Hope, his guardian spirit, or
genius, and the ready consoler of sorrowing hearts!
Deacon Dustan was there, _without_ his new meeting-house schemes; his
quiet wife, and Harry and Jane, who were not so quiet, came in his
carriage. The Smiths were present; the deacon and his lady. Benjamin,
and Josephine, who was so "ecthethively fond of minithterth," and who
was sure she could not "thurvive the loth" of so delightful an old man
as Father Brighthopes.
Mr. Corlis came early, and had a long and earnest conversation with his
elder brother, to whom he already owed so much for his kindly warnings
and wise suggestions. Mark Wheeler was invited, but he did not come,
being unused to such society; but there was one, still less accustomed
to the ways of the world, who could not excuse himself, when Mr. Royden
sent to have him brought by main force.
It was Job, the soldier-shoemaker. He came, with his wooden leg, his
subdued voice, his sunny old face, his queer bald pate and prominent
ears, and the exhaustless fountain of good humor within his heart.
It was the first honor of the kind Job had ever received at the hands of
his neighbors. But of late a good deal of interest had been taken in his
family, and some who had laid up money to aid in the new meeting-house
project had been induced to invest a little of it in comforts and
necessaries for the poor man. He felt as though he could really afford
to abandon his bench for that day, and enjoy himself, his only objection
being the impossibility of Mrs. Bowen leaving the house and going with
him. But she was comfortable now at home, and Job was easy in his mind
about her.
We should not forget to mention that the old soldier made his appearance
in an entirely new suit of clothes, and with his Sunday leg on. He joked
a good deal about these externals, and amused the company by his genial
humor. His coat was one presented him by Mr. Corlis; the waistcoat had
belonged to Deacon Dustan, and the trousers were a gift from Father
Brighthopes. Job acknowledged half a dozen shirts from the fair hands of
Miss Sedley, the school-ma'am, Sarah Royden and Julia Keller; one of
which he had on his back. The handkerchief he wore was a present from
Chester. His boot alone was the product of his own labor.
Job had cut off the trousers to fit his wooden leg, and made a jaunty
cap of the fragment. The leg itself was an extra one he had kept by him
a long time, using it only on Sunday, Fast Day, Thanksgiving and the
Fourth of July. It was quite a handsome stick, elegantly finished, and
"well seasoned," Job declared.
"I am careful of this leg," he said, in his subdued voice, and quiet,
cheerful manner, when the old clergyman joked him about it. "I always
keep it on the top shelf at home, with a newspaper around it, to protect
it from dust and flies. If you had the gout, sir, you couldn't be more
careful of your limbs."
This was after dinner. Job was sitting in the easy-chair, out doors,
where the shadow of the house sloped across the grassy lawn. The guests
were forming a circle around him and the old clergyman, some sitting
upon the green sward, others supporting their dignity upon chairs, and a
few of the young people lying at their ease along the ground.
Mr. Kerchey, who happened to be standing near, with his arm in a swing,
exerted himself to speak, and made a comparison between his useless and
painful member and Job's comfortable leg.
"Get a wooden one, get a wooden one," said Job. "But, then, an arm of
that sort wouldn't be so convenient as a leg. I don't think I could make
shoes with only one hand. Dear me! when I think of it, how thankful I
ought to be that only my leg was taken off! Supposing I had lost an
arm,--or my head,--and been obliged to get a new one?"
"You wouldn't be the first man to go about with a wooden pate," said
Chester. "There are plenty of block-heads in the world."
"I believe I was one when I enlisted," laughed Job.
"At least, your head was turned," quietly observed Father Brighthopes.
Anything the old clergyman said in a facetious vein was sure to raise a
laugh. When silence was restored, Job replied,
"Very good! capital!"--in his soft half-whisper, and rubbing his hands.
"And I am thankful that, although my head was turned then, only my leg
has been turned since. My folly was cut off with my offending member,
and my ambition was buried with it."
The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to
hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier
heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor
flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one
desired it should be checked.
But at length Job himself refused to talk any more.
"I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father
Brighthopes will have to _prime_ me. I haven't another joke that isn't
musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old
patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention,
every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you."
The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in
the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to
respond.
"Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you
shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are
too big to be hanging around his neck."
"She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was
comfortably seated in the midst of the group.
The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her
cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before
since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old
man's venerable and beloved head.
At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up,
radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through
his glorious old face.