Father Brighthopes Part 17

'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'

A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said,

'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make of heaven a h.e.l.l, of h.e.l.l a heaven.'

The principle holds universally, notwithstanding apparent contradictions and exceptions in various instances. I have seen more pure and perfect happiness, nestled in poverty, in a laborer's cottage, than I ever met with in the houses of the rich."

"Then the fault lies with me," said Mr. Royden, thoughtfully, "whenever my home appears less agreeable and attractive than it might, I suppose."

"In a great measure, the fault is yours, undoubtedly. Do you not think that an established habit of preserving a serene temper, in the midst of the most trying scenes, would produce blessed results?"

"But the power is not in me."

"It is in every man," said Father Brighthopes. "Only exercise it."

"You can have no conception of what I have had to go through," replied Mr. Royden, gloomily. "Everything has conspired to ruin my disposition.

My nature has been soured; I could not help it. I have become irritable, and the least thing moves me."

The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that Mr. Royden continued,

"You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?"

"Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled."

"Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only briers."

"You found life a stern and unromantic fact," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is sad--it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson."

"The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my undisciplined feet," resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. "I came upon the ledges very suddenly. The haze and suns.h.i.+ne faded and dissolved, even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent."

"It is plain you allude to your marriage."

Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke.

"My wife is the best of women at heart," he said. "I feel that I could not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy."

"It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure," replied Father Brighthopes.

"I know it is--I know it is! We did not understand each other before marriage. Our attachment was a romantic one. She had no thought of what was in me; she saw me only as a lover attractive enough to please her girlish imagination. She was very beautiful, and I loved her devotedly.

But--" Mr. Royden's voice was shaken--"when I looked to find my other ideal self glowing beneath her brilliant exterior, I saw a stranger there. I found that it was not her character I had loved."

"And she, probably, made a similar discovery in you," said the old man, cheerfully, but feelingly.

"No doubt--no doubt! But I do wrong to speak of this," murmured Mr.

Royden, brus.h.i.+ng a tear from his eye. "It is a subject I could never talk upon to a living soul, and how I have come to let you into my confidence I am at a loss to know."

"Some good angel prompted you, perhaps," replied Father Brighthopes, "in order that something may come, through me, to counsel or comfort you."

"I would gladly think so!" exclaimed his companion. "I want consolation and instruction: and you are so wise an old head!"

He coughed, spoke to the horse, to urge him into a faster pace, and, having silenced his emotions, resumed the subject of conversation.

"I had little idea of being a farmer, until I was married. It was necessary to engage in some pursuit, and I had not prepared myself for any learned profession. I fondly dreamed that some way would be opened for me by the magic of my genius; for I was pa.s.sionately devoted to music, in which I believed I might excel. Delicious dreams of a bright career were followed by naked, everyday life--farmers' cares and farmers' toil. I could not be reconciled to the reality. I murmured because Sarah was so cold, practical, and calculating; I know I made her unhappy. I was const.i.tutionally irritable, and a habit of fretfulness grew upon me. This was not designed to soften her rather harsh nature, or benefit her temper. With children came an increase of cares and discords, which sometimes almost maddened me. Oh, why was I formed so weak, so infirm a mortal?" groaned Mr. Royden. "I have tried in vain to govern my spleen. It rules me with a finger of fire."

"Do you know," said Father Brighthopes, feelingly, "I have a disposition naturally very much like yours?"

"You!"

"Your mother was my father's sister; we inherited from the same stock the same infirm temper. The Rensfords are const.i.tutionally nervous. Our sense of harmony and discord is too fine; we have bad spleens; and we lack fort.i.tude. Ill-health, of which we have both seen somewhat, aggravates the fault."

"But what can cure it?" exclaimed Mr. Royden.

"I never saw my remedy until my eyes were opened to the sublime beauty of Christ's character. The wisdom he taught filled me with the deepest shame for my folly of fretting at the trivial perplexities of life. I cried out, in agony, 'Oh, G.o.d give me strength!' Strength came. It will come to those who ask for it with earnest, unselfish hearts."

Observing that Mr. Royden was thoughtful, and plunged in doubt, the old man changed the conversation. He spoke of Mrs. Royden. He expressed his sympathy for her, and indirectly showed his companion how tender he should be of her, how charitable towards her temper, how careful not to make her feel the hedge of thorns which their ill-matched dispositions had placed between them. He went so far as to teach how, by mutual forbearance, forgetfulness of the past and hope for the future, pleasant discourse and serene contentment with the ways of Providence, these briers might be made to blossom thick with roses.

"Talk with her--talk with her!" said Mr. Royden, with gus.h.i.+ng emotions.

"Oh, if you could create such harmony between us, I would bless you, not for our sakes alone, but for our children's. We are spoiling them; I see it every day. I am not severe with them; but one hour I am fretful, and the next too indulgent. My wife thinks it necessary to counteract my too easy discipline by one too strict. She punishes them sometimes when she is angry, and that is sure to make them worse."

If Mr. Royden had said she never punished the children except when she was angry, he would not have gone far from the truth.

XIV.

DEACON DUSTAN'S POLICY.

Our friends met a ruddy farmer on horseback. He reined up on the road-side, and stopped. Mr. Royden also stopped, and said,

"Good-morning, Deacon Dustan."

"Good-morning, good-morning, neighbor," cried Deacon Dustan, heartily, his sharp gray eyes twinkling as he fixed them on the old clergyman's face. "Good-morning to you, Father. Mr. Rensford, I believe? I heard of your arrival, sir, and intended to call and make your acquaintance."

The old man acknowledged the compliment in his usual simple and beautiful manner.

"We thought of getting around to your place yesterday, deacon," said Mr.

Royden. "But we found we had not time."

"Try again, and better luck!" replied Deacon Dustan. "By the way," he added, in an off-hand, careless manner, "I suppose you will put your name on our paper for the new meeting-house?"

"Is the thing decided upon?"

"Oh, yes. The old sh.e.l.l has held together long enough. The other society has got the start of us, at the village; and we must try to be a little in the fas.h.i.+on, or many of our people will go there to meeting."

"I don't know; but I suppose I must do something, if a new house is built," said Mr. Royden. "The old one seems to me, though, to be a very respectable place of wors.h.i.+p, if we are only a mind to think so."