Part 7

On the following morning the Roydens made early preparations for attending church. The cows were milked and turned away into the pasture; the horses were caught, curried and harnessed; and the great open family carriage was backed out of the barn.

Meanwhile, Hepsy and Sarah washed the boys, combed their hair, and put on their clean clothes. Willie's bright locks curled naturally, and in his white collar and cunning little brown linen jacket he looked quite charming. It was delightful to see him strut and swagger and purse up his red lips with a consciousness of manly trousers, and tell Hepsy to do this and do that, with an air of authority, scowling, now and then, just like his father. Georgie was more careless of his dignity; he declared that his collar choked him, and "darned it all" spitefully, calling upon Sarah to take it off, that he might go without it until meeting-time, at any rate.

Mrs. Royden busied herself about the house, cleaning up, here and there, with her usual energy of action.

"Come, wife!" exclaimed her husband, who was shaving at the looking-glass in the kitchen, "you had better leave off now, and get ready. We shall be late."

"I can't bear to leave things all at loose ends," replied Mrs. Royden. "I shall have time enough to change my dress. Hepsy! If you let the boys get into the dirt with their clean clothes, you will deserve a good scolding."

"Isn't Hepsy going to church?" asked Mr. Royden.

"No; she says she had just as lief stay at home; and somebody must take care of the baby, you know."

"If Sam wasn't such a mischief-maker, we might leave the baby with him."

"Dear me! I'd as soon think of leaving it with the cows! And, Hepsy, do you keep an eye on Samuel. Don't let him be cracking but'nuts all day. Where's Lizzie? Is she getting ready?"

"I think she is," replied Hepsy. "She was tending the baby; but that is still now."

"I can't conceive how we are all going to ride," added Mrs. Royden. "I don't know but I had better stay at home. The carriage will be crowded, and it seems as though I had everything to do."

"There will be plenty of room in the carriage," said her husband, taking the razor from his chin, and wiping it on a strip of newspaper. "Father Brighthopes and I can take Lizzie on the front seat with us, and you and Sarah can hold the boys between you. Chester and James are going to walk."

Mrs. Royden continued to work, until she had but a few minutes left in which to get ready. The second bell was ringing, and carriages were beginning to go by.

"Come, wife!" again her husband exclaimed; "we shall be late. There go Mr. Eldridge's folks."

"They are always early," said she, impatiently. "Do let me take my time!"

But Mr. Royden called her attention to the clock.

"Dear me! who would have thought it could be so late?" she cried. "Where the morning has gone to I can't conceive. Hepsy, come and help me slip on my silk dress."

"Willie wants to ride his stick," said Hepsy; "and it is all dirt."

"Willie cannot ride his stick to-day!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sharply. "Do you hear?"

Willie began to pout and mutter, "I will, too! so there!" and kick the mop-board.

His mother's morning experience had not prepared her for the exercise of much patience. She rushed upon the little shaver, and boxed his ears violently.

"Do you tell me you will?" she cried. "Take that!"

Willie blubbered with indignation, being too proud to cry outright, with his new clothes on.

"Stop that noise!"

Willie could not stop; and his mother shook him. This was too much for his dignity, and he bawled with open mouth.

"You shall stay at home from meeting!" muttered Mrs. Royden. "Take off 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.