Part 11

"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 She is a nice old lady, but all out of date, and very deaf."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.

"Ay, that is the question," said Father Brighthopes. "I don't know but 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."

" Christ 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.