Part 22 (1/2)
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 a.s.sistance 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 cla.s.ses, 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d's infinite goodness and love!
It was like the pouring down of suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sive 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 appet.i.tes, 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 ap.r.o.n, Sarah, the first thing. Why do you scream out so loud, Lizzie? You almost craze me!”