THE MINISTER.
“——Gentleness
And a strange strength, a calm o’errulling strength,
Are mixed within him so that neither take
Possession from the other—neither rise
In mastery or passion—but both grow
Harmoniously together.”
W. G. SIMMS.
Sophie Churchill was a pretty girl of round _petite_ form, of clear pale
olive complexion, large, soft brown eyes, and dark chestnut hair. Had
her position been different she would have been much admired and
courted—as it was she was neglected and even slandered—yes,
slandered—after the death of her brother, and the marriage of her only
sister, she had, in pure ignorance of the world, kept up exactly the
same manner of life as before. Instead of engaging some respectable
elderly female as housekeeper and companion (which indeed her limited
means did not allow), she preferred remaining alone, and continued to
receive the visits not only of ladies, which of course was in perfect
propriety, but of _gentlemen_—that is to say, of her own and her
father’s familiar friends—the sons and brothers of their near neighbors,
who testified their remembrance of the dead, and their respect for the
living, by sometimes calling to see Sophie and her little charge, and by
sometimes bringing her a brace of wild fowl, a pair of pigeons, or some
other such game from their morning sport upon the moor; until at last
they found that their well meant kindness to the young and pretty orphan
was subjecting her to the invidious remarks of all the thoughtless or
the malicious gossips of the neighborhood. Then their occasional visits
were discontinued, and the poor girl was left almost entirely alone,
especially as the advancing winter and the increasing severity of the
weather precluded the visits of _ladies_ to that desolate heath. And
desolate indeed it was upon this first winter that Sophie passed alone
at the Hall.
As early as the first of December the river was frozen over. With the
thoughtlessness of a young girl upon whom the cares of housekeeping were
exclusively and suddenly thrown, she had neglected to provide for the
exigencies of the severe winters of that particular locality. She had
even from delicacy omitted to send for the wages of the few negroes out
on hire—and the first of December, when the ground was two feet deep in
snow, and the river was a solid block of ice, and even the bay near the
shore was crusted over, found Sophie Churchill destitute of the common
necessaries of life. To augment the evils of her position, the old
negress—who in health was in herself a host—was laid up with the
rheumatism. At this time Sophie was so poor that her little charge (now
three years old) possessed but one suit of clothes; and every night,
after putting the little one to bed, would Sophie go, up to her knees in
snow, away off to the forest, a quarter of a mile distant, to collect
brush, to supply the fire the next day—her little arms and moderate
strength serving to bring so small a quantity at a time that she would
have to make this trip half-a-dozen times a night before a sufficient
quantity was collected. Then she would have to take the bucket and go to
a dell in the same forest to bring water, and after coming home would
take the sleeping Hagar’s only suit of clothes and wash and iron them
for the next day, solaced while at her work by the mutterings of the old
negress, who, with the irritability of sickness, would growl from her
lair—
“Oh, ho! kin tote water, kin you—thought how you was to _deleky_ an’
_saft_ (_delicate and soft_) to tote water from de spring,” &c., &c.
Sophie never paid the slightest attention to this ill-temper; she seemed
not to hear it. It was remarkable that Sophie never once in the whole
course of her life was heard to utter a complaint, lay a charge, or make
a reproach; and that she was perfectly unconscious of the moral beauty
of her own patience. She merely acted out her own nature without
thinking about it.
Sophie had one faithful friend in the aged pastor of the parish—but he,
with his multifarious duties, could seldom find time to visit her. The
Rev. Senex May, with his young wife and only child, lived in a pretty
cottage on the other side of the river, in a grove half way between the
village and the forest. His youthful wife, Emily Wilde, had been an
orphan, a governess from New England, living in the family of a wealthy
planter in the neighborhood. Weary of her friendless, homeless, and
unsettled life, she had given her hand where her deepest reverence had
long been bestowed, and was very happy as “the old man’s darling.” One
child, a boy, had blessed this singular union.
Mr. May and Emily did not surmise the deep destitution into which Sophie
Churchill had fallen. The deep snow and severe cold had prevented them
for several weeks from crossing the river to see her.
At last the weather moderated, the snow melted, the ice-bound river was
freed, a mild dry wind from the South sprang up and dried the ground,
the roads became passable, and the long confined and dreadfully wearied
country neighbors geared up their vehicles of various sorts, from the
ox-cart to the coach and pair, and from the ass’s colt to the high bred
courser, and went “a-visiting.”
It was about ten o’clock in the morning of a beautiful winter’s day,
that Sophie caught a glimpse through the window of the old parson on his
old horse, with Emily seated on a pillion behind him, with her arms
around his waist. Sophie sprang to meet and greet them—and—
“I knew you’d come! I _knew_ you would,” she said, as she held up her
hands to assist Emily, who sprang from the pillion into her arms. And
she burst into tears as she received her.
Poor girl! she had been so lonesome, for so long.
After greeting Mr. May, she drew Emily’s arm within her own and led the
way to the house, while the old parson ambled leisurely up to the
horse-block, alighted, and followed them. When they were seated in the
parlor, and Emily had taken Hagar upon her lap and filled her apron with
the home-made cakes she had brought, Mr. May turned to Sophie, and
stroking her brown hair, inquired—
“How has my little partridge contrived to live through this long, hard
winter?”
Sophie Churchill was thoroughly ingenuous, and in reply she gave a
simple narrative of her life since the setting in of the winter.
It was beautiful to observe, that during her narrative she had uttered
no one word of reflection or reproach against the friends and neighbors
who had so cruelly neglected her. She merely told without complaint, the
simple story of her sufferings as a duty, in answer to her venerated
pastor’s question. He heard with emotion—and—
“Poor ‘stricken deer’—poor shorn lamb—aye! shorn to the very ‘quick,’”
he said.
At the conclusion of her story—
“The Lord loveth whom He chasteneth, and scourgeth every child whom he
receiveth,” he said, reverently. And then he arose and walked soberly
and thoughtfully up and down the floor with his hands clasped behind his
back.
He was a round, stout old gentleman, wore short breeches and silk
stockings, and had his grey hair parted over his venerable brow,
smoothed back and plaited in a queue behind; so you may readily fancy
him as he paced up and down the floor with his hands clasped behind him
and his head bowed upon his chest, while he seemed to be revolving some
plan.
While he walked, Emily sat and played with Hagar on her lap; at last
turning to Miss Churchill she said,—
“Do you know, Sophie, that I am not contented at all—that I am very
_dis_contented? I want a little girl!—I want a little girl _so bad_! I
want one to dress, and to fix, and to play with. My boy is eight years
old, and far too big to be dressed in trimmed clothes—too much of a man,
in his own and his father’s opinion, to wear anything but a plain
broadcloth jacket and trousers. And I do _so_ love to make and trim
children’s clothes. I never go into a dry goods store and see remnants
of pretty calico or merino, but I think what sweet frocks for a little
girl they would make. Last fall I bought some pretty remnants of crimson
merino and orange-colored bombazine, and a bunch of narrow black worsted
braid to trim with, just for a notion—don’t laugh at me, Sophie; and so
this winter, while confined to the house by the dreadful weather, I
passed some of the dreary evenings pleasantly in making and trimming
some little dresses, and as I had no little girl to wear them I made
them to fit _your_ little girl, Sophie. Here they are—try one of them on
her—_please_ try one of them on her—I want to see how they look _so
much_!”
And opening her travelling satchel she produced with glee four beautiful
little dresses suitable for winter—a crimson, and a green merino, and a
blue, and an orange bombazine.
“And that ain’t all,” said she, diving into her satchel; “I have made
half-a-dozen nice little petticoats, and half-a-dozen pair of pantalets,
and I have trimmed them with thread edging, and, to complete the
wardrobe, I bought four pairs of little shoes to match in colors each of
the four dresses; and I have half finished at home a little black velvet
pelisse and a little black plush hat, into which I intend to stick a
small white plume. Won’t our little girl be nice, Sophie?”
Emily’s black eyes were dancing as she dashed back the black ringlets
that kept falling over her face, while she stooped over the basket and
looked up for a reply.
It was just Sophie Churchill’s character to receive this favor with all
the simple, artless frankness with which it was offered. She expressed
no surprise—spoke no thanks; she only passed her hand around Emily’s
neck, turned her face around to meet her own, bent forward, and kissed
her lips.
“There! Now, Sophie, let us go into your chamber and dress her,” said
Emily, setting Hagar off her lap, and beginning to replace the articles
in the satchel, and rising to go upstairs. But her husband now
approached her, and laying his hand affectionately on the top of her
head, pressed her down into her seat, and took the chair by her side,
saying,—
“Emily, how would you like to have your friend Miss Churchill always
with you?”
“Oh! I should be delighted—enchanted!”
“Of course—so I supposed, my dear. Come here, Sophie, my child!”
Sophie was at the side-board, taking out some apples. She replaced them,
however, and went up to her pastor.
“Sophie,” said the old man, “I have to ask your forgiveness, child. I
have sadly neglected my duty as your pastor. I should have seen that you
were comfortably provided for. Do you forgive me, child?” said he,
passing his arm around her waist, and drawing her up to him.
Sophie looked at her pastor with embarrassed surprise, and blushed up to
her eyes. It seemed to her such an inversion of all order for her
venerated pastor to ask _her_ forgiveness. She only raised his hand to
her lips in silent reverence, then stood before him waiting his further
communication.
He passed his hand once or twice across his brow, and looked at Emily
with imploring embarrassment; but Emily could not or would not come to
his assistance, when he said,—
“Sophie Churchill, my dear, it is neither proper for you to live in this
ruined old house in this sterile heath, nor is it christian in me to
permit it. And now you say that people have been speaking ill of you—and
you tell me this, without excitement, as though it were the most natural
thing in the world, and you tell me that in consequence you are quite
neglected, without resentment, as though it were the justest fate on
earth. This must not go on so—Sophie, will you come and live with us? I
do not ask you in any way to become dependent upon me, for, alas! I know
too well the unconquerable pride of the Churchills of Heath Hall!” and
he smiled with a half reproving, half caressing air. “This property
well-managed is quite enough to support you and your little charge very
handsomely. But _you_ cannot manage it! Now, Miss Churchill, what I wish
is, to unite the little families of Heath Hall and Grove Cottage. You
and Hagar shall come and live with us at Grove Cottage nine months in
the year. I will repair and re-furnish a part of this old Hall, and we
will all come down here for sea-bathing during the three summer months.
I will also beg the privilege of catching fish, crabs, and oysters from
your fishing landing here—and of shooting wild fowl on your moor. I will
take upon myself the collection of all your out-standing debts, paying
them into your own hands. Come, Miss Churchill! what say you to this
plan of uniting our families? Though just now, for the first time,
proposed to Emily—the project is very near to her heart. She needs a
companion near her own age and of her own sex, and will be delighted to
have you with her, especially as she can then have a ‘little girl to
dress and fix,’” said he smiling—
“Oh! did _you_ hear that?” laughed Emily.
“Yes, my darling! I heard _that_. Well, Sophie,” he said, turning
anxiously to Miss Churchill.
He need not have beat about the subject so long, as fearing difficulty
with Miss Churchill. Sophie was too natural, too simple, frank, and
entirely unworldly to feel any doubts, fears, or scruples upon the
subject. Her pastor proposed the plan—and that fact carried with it a
weight of authority that would have constrained her acceptance of a much
less agreeable proposition—for in her heart she liked this project—the
only drawback being her dislike to leave as her home, the Hall of her
own and her fathers’ nativity. She expressed her glad acquiescence in
the plan—and Emily sealed the contract with a kiss on her brow. “Now,
Emily, my darling, we will hurry home—the sooner that we may begin to
fit up the rooms for Miss Churchill. This is Monday—by Saturday, Miss
Churchill, we shall be ready for you—and on Saturday morning Emily shall
drive over and fetch you and Hagar, so that we may all go to church
together on Sunday. As for this old hall, it can be shut up for the
present and left in charge of old Cumbo, who, Guinea nigger like, is
never half so happy as when left entirely alone. You will like our
little lad, as well as Emily loves your little girl, Miss Churchill—you
could not help it if you were to try, my dear—and you and Emily and the
children will be very happy—if I can make you so—for I love to see happy
faces about me.”
The old man smiled gravely and sweetly as he said this, and arose to
take leave.
“Mind, dear Sophie,” said Emily, “_we_ shall be ready—do _you_ be ready
also—for I will be sure to be at your door early on Saturday morning.”
“If it be the will of God,” said the pastor.
“Oh! certainly, I always _mean that_,” said Emily.
“Always _say_ it then, my dear—somehow or other my heart sank within me
as I heard you promise so confidently to be here on Saturday morning.
Alas! who can tell? Some of us may be in our graves Saturday morning!” A
shadow had fallen on his brow. The two young women felt serious. He
recovered himself with an effort, saying, “I must not darken young
hearts with my gloom! Come! smile, Emily. Bid your friend good-by—and
know that every event is ordered by infinite wisdom and love.” And they
took leave and rode away.