Father Brighthopes Part 24

Carrying this, Chester went to the field with gloves on, and his cravat looped loosely about his neck.

Hepsy's tender eyes beheld the young man as he went through the orchard.

How handsome he looked, in his tow trousers, straw hat and snowy shirt-sleeves! To her mind, nothing became him so well as his farmer's rig; and as he disappeared over the hill, she clasped her hands with intense emotion, and wept.

"I'm tired just about to death!" said Sam, pretending that he could with difficulty get the crank around. "Them men bore on all they could, only to make it hard for me. But Ches was worse than either on 'em."

"Pshaw! turn away!"

"And then Ches was going to lick me."

"No, he was not. Chester would not hurt you," said Mr. Royden. "Come, come! turn faster."

"I can't!" groaned Sam. "But he _was_ going to; that's what he cut this switch for."

"Well, I shall have to use it in his place, if you don't stop talking, and work better," replied Mr. Royden, with good-natured impatience.

"He said 'twas 'cause I got flung from the horse," muttered Sam. "You won't let him lick me for that, will you?"

"No; not if you behave yourself," answered Mr. Royden. "What makes you so lazy? I shall not get this scythe ground to-day."

It seemed such hard work for the boy to turn the grindstone, that the kind-hearted farmer, taking pity on him, brought the tool to an edge as soon as possible, and let him go.

"Now, you must be a good boy, and help the women," said he, driving the wedge which married the scythe to the snath.

"Help the women!" repeated Sam, with an expression of disgust. "I'd rather go and spread hay."

"But your foot is lame."

"Well, I can't pound clothes half so well as I can spread hay. I have to walk around the barrel----"

"No more of your nonsense!" said Mr. Royden. "Hepsy!" he cried, seeing his niece in the doorway of the shed, "you can have Samuel to help you now."

There was no escape for the unhappy youth. He saw Mr. Royden depart towards the meadow with dismay. He was left in the hands of one who knew no mercy. Mrs. Royden was driving business with furious energy. She had commands for all, and kind words for no one. It was interesting to see her seize upon Sam. His complaints of being "tired to death" were like chaff sown upon the wind. The tempest of her temper scattered them; inexorable fate controlled the hour; and Sam hopped from the grindstone to the "pounding-barrel" with despair and discontent in his soul.

He worked pretty well, however, until Mrs. Royden was called to see to the children, who were about starting for school. The moment she was out of sight, he began to swing lazily upon the "pounder," and make fun of Sarah, at work over the wash-tub close by.

"You'll get your pay for this," said the young lady, rubbing away, industriously. "Mother will be back in a minute."

"S'posin' Mr. Kerchey should pop in, jest now!" retorted Sam, grinning.

"I'd like to have him ketch you over the wash-tub!"

"I would not care if he did; I am not ashamed of it," replied Sarah.

"I'd rather do anything than wash clothes; but when I am about it, I'm not lazy."

She looked beautiful, with her rosy cheeks, brown hair, and fair, full brow, shaded by the plain hood thrown loosely upon her head; her white arms bare, and her hands all covered with the thick, snowy foam of the suds. Sam made some saucy rejoinder, and, laughing, she stepped up to him quickly, with a garment dripping and soapy from the tub. Before he was aware of her design, she had covered his face with it, rubbing vigorously up and down and to and fro, with pleasant malice.

Sam struggled, gasped, and screamed; he tumbled down, and, clawing the disagreeable application from his face, spit like a cat; while Sarah stood over him laughing, and threatening him with another similar experiment.

"There!" exclaimed Sam, waxing angry, "I won't work now, to pay for it!

And, if you do that again, I'll----"

Splash went the garment into his face once more, across his eyes, and over his open mouth! It was just as he was getting up from the floor. At that moment Mrs. Royden reappeared in the shed. She could not have chosen a worse time. To see "such actions going on," when there was so much work to be done, was "enough to try the temper of a saint." Her hands must have ached, from boxing Sam's ears; her heart must have ached, with such a storm of pa.s.sion bursting it.

It seemed with a mighty effort of self-control that she refrained from striking Sarah; but the latter, making no reply to the deep tones of her displeasure, quietly resumed her work, and, burning, palpitating with anger, she returned to finish preparing the children for school.

Ten minutes later, serene from his morning meditations, Father Brighthopes came out of the parlor. His face was full of tranquil joy; but a noise of dire confusion a.s.sailed his ear, and he paused upon the threshold.

Lizzie, neatly dressed for school, but smarting and burning under the pain of boxed ears, was marching sulkily out of the sitting-room, with a satchel of books; Willie, rubbing both fists into his red eyes, was crying grievously; and Georgie was walking very straight, with a book under his arm, and his looks downcast, fearful and watchful, as if momently expecting the afflictive dispensation of his mother's hand.

As soon as the children were well off, the old clergyman came forward.

Mrs. Royden was tossing the baby in her arms, and endeavoring to still its cries. The storm was yet raging; she seemed angry with the innocent infant even; when, looking up, she saw Father Brighthopes, with countenance saddened and pale, stand before her.

"Will you let me take the babe? I think I may soothe it," he said, in a very soft and earnest tone.

It was like casting oil upon raging waves. Mrs. Royden made an effort, and appeared more calm. But only the surface of the angry sea was smoothed; still the depths of her soul were broken up and troubled.

"No," said she; "I will not inflict the trial upon you. What _can_ I do, to quiet it?" she added, impatiently.

"Perhaps my nerves are calmer than yours," replied the old man, still extending his hands. "A great deal depends upon that. Babes are very susceptible to mesmeric influences."

The idea astonished Mrs. Royden. She doubted if there was any truth in it; but, abandoning the babe to his arms, she saw the thing demonstrated at once. The child seemed to feel itself in a new atmosphere, and what the mother failed to do, in her nervous state, a stranger accomplished by the exercise of a tranquil will.

"I am infinitely obliged to you," said she, as he laid the babe in the cradle, now perfectly still and quiet. "A great deal must depend upon the nerves, and I acknowledge mine were in a bad condition."

"I cannot tell how much I grieve to see you so," replied Father Brighthopes, so kindly that she could not take offence.

"It was wrong; it was very wrong," she murmured. "But I could not help it. Everything goes wrong to-day."

"Is not such always the case, when you have too much work on hand?"

"Yes, I do believe it. Why is it? I'd like to know. The children are obstinate and fretful when I have most to do. I cannot understand it."

"My dear sister," said the old man, taking her hand, and speaking in a voice full of tender and earnest emotion, "do pardon me for my freedom, when I tell you I think everything depends upon yourself."

"Upon _me_?"

"Your example, dear sister, is all-powerful. You have no conception of the immense influence you exert over those young and impressive minds.

Oh, do not be offended, if I am plain with you!"

Mrs. Royden told him to go on; she needed his counsel; she would not be offended.

"Every mother," said he, "makes the moral atmosphere of her household.

She is the sky overhead; they are lambs in the pasture. How they shiver and shrink beneath the shelter of the fences, and look sullenly at the ground, when the sky is black with storms, and the wind blows cold and raw and damp from the dismal northeast! But look when the drizzling rain is over, when the clouds break away, when the wind shifts around into the southwest, when the bright sun pours floods of soft, warm light upon the earth; how the gra.s.ses then lift up their beaded stalks, and shake their heads, heavy with tears; how the streams laugh and babble; how the little lambs skip about, and crop the moist herbage, and rejoice that the sky is blue again, the breezes balmy and mild!"

"But storms will come, sometimes," said Mrs. Royden.

"You cannot control the weather out of doors, but you may make just the kind of weather you choose in your household. Only keep the sky of your own heart cloudless and blue. And you can do it. Every one can.

Parents, of all persons, should do this. They owe it to their children; they owe it to the good Lord, who has given them those children, to train aright the vines of their wayward affections, in their tender youth. Sister, you do not realize your responsibility. What are the petty trials of to-day, compared with _their_ immortal destiny?"