CHAPTER II.

THE MINISTER.

“——Gentleness And a strange strength, a calm o’errulling strength, Are mixed within him so that neither take Possession from the other—neither rise In mastery or passion—but both grow Harmoniously together.” W. G. SIMMS.

Sophie Churchill was a pretty girl of round _petite_ form, of clear pale olive complexion, large, soft brown eyes, and dark chestnut hair. Had her position been different she would have been much admired and courted—as it was she was neglected and even slandered—yes, slandered—after the death of her brother, and the marriage of her only sister, she had, in pure ignorance of the world, kept up exactly the same manner of life as before. Instead of engaging some respectable elderly female as housekeeper and companion (which indeed her limited means did not allow), she preferred remaining alone, and continued to receive the visits not only of ladies, which of course was in perfect propriety, but of _gentlemen_—that is to say, of her own and her father’s familiar friends—the sons and brothers of their near neighbors, who testified their remembrance of the dead, and their respect for the living, by sometimes calling to see Sophie and her little charge, and by sometimes bringing her a brace of wild fowl, a pair of pigeons, or some other such game from their morning sport upon the moor; until at last they found that their well meant kindness to the young and pretty orphan was subjecting her to the invidious remarks of all the thoughtless or the malicious gossips of the neighborhood. Then their occasional visits were discontinued, and the poor girl was left almost entirely alone, especially as the advancing winter and the increasing severity of the weather precluded the visits of _ladies_ to that desolate heath. And desolate indeed it was upon this first winter that Sophie passed alone at the Hall.

As early as the first of December the river was frozen over. With the thoughtlessness of a young girl upon whom the cares of housekeeping were exclusively and suddenly thrown, she had neglected to provide for the exigencies of the severe winters of that particular locality. She had even from delicacy omitted to send for the wages of the few negroes out on hire—and the first of December, when the ground was two feet deep in snow, and the river was a solid block of ice, and even the bay near the shore was crusted over, found Sophie Churchill destitute of the common necessaries of life. To augment the evils of her position, the old negress—who in health was in herself a host—was laid up with the rheumatism. At this time Sophie was so poor that her little charge (now three years old) possessed but one suit of clothes; and every night, after putting the little one to bed, would Sophie go, up to her knees in snow, away off to the forest, a quarter of a mile distant, to collect brush, to supply the fire the next day—her little arms and moderate strength serving to bring so small a quantity at a time that she would have to make this trip half-a-dozen times a night before a sufficient quantity was collected. Then she would have to take the bucket and go to a dell in the same forest to bring water, and after coming home would take the sleeping Hagar’s only suit of clothes and wash and iron them for the next day, solaced while at her work by the mutterings of the old negress, who, with the irritability of sickness, would growl from her lair—

“Oh, ho! kin tote water, kin you—thought how you was to _deleky_ an’ _saft_ (_delicate and soft_) to tote water from de spring,” &c., &c.

Sophie never paid the slightest attention to this ill-temper; she seemed not to hear it. It was remarkable that Sophie never once in the whole course of her life was heard to utter a complaint, lay a charge, or make a reproach; and that she was perfectly unconscious of the moral beauty of her own patience. She merely acted out her own nature without thinking about it.

Sophie had one faithful friend in the aged pastor of the parish—but he, with his multifarious duties, could seldom find time to visit her. The Rev. Senex May, with his young wife and only child, lived in a pretty cottage on the other side of the river, in a grove half way between the village and the forest. His youthful wife, Emily Wilde, had been an orphan, a governess from New England, living in the family of a wealthy planter in the neighborhood. Weary of her friendless, homeless, and unsettled life, she had given her hand where her deepest reverence had long been bestowed, and was very happy as “the old man’s darling.” One child, a boy, had blessed this singular union.

Mr. May and Emily did not surmise the deep destitution into which Sophie Churchill had fallen. The deep snow and severe cold had prevented them for several weeks from crossing the river to see her.

At last the weather moderated, the snow melted, the ice-bound river was freed, a mild dry wind from the South sprang up and dried the ground, the roads became passable, and the long confined and dreadfully wearied country neighbors geared up their vehicles of various sorts, from the ox-cart to the coach and pair, and from the ass’s colt to the high bred courser, and went “a-visiting.”

It was about ten o’clock in the morning of a beautiful winter’s day, that Sophie caught a glimpse through the window of the old parson on his old horse, with Emily seated on a pillion behind him, with her arms around his waist. Sophie sprang to meet and greet them—and—

“I knew you’d come! I _knew_ you would,” she said, as she held up her hands to assist Emily, who sprang from the pillion into her arms. And she burst into tears as she received her.

Poor girl! she had been so lonesome, for so long.

After greeting Mr. May, she drew Emily’s arm within her own and led the way to the house, while the old parson ambled leisurely up to the horse-block, alighted, and followed them. When they were seated in the parlor, and Emily had taken Hagar upon her lap and filled her apron with the home-made cakes she had brought, Mr. May turned to Sophie, and stroking her brown hair, inquired—

“How has my little partridge contrived to live through this long, hard winter?”

Sophie Churchill was thoroughly ingenuous, and in reply she gave a simple narrative of her life since the setting in of the winter.

It was beautiful to observe, that during her narrative she had uttered no one word of reflection or reproach against the friends and neighbors who had so cruelly neglected her. She merely told without complaint, the simple story of her sufferings as a duty, in answer to her venerated pastor’s question. He heard with emotion—and—

“Poor ‘stricken deer’—poor shorn lamb—aye! shorn to the very ‘quick,’” he said.

At the conclusion of her story—

“The Lord loveth whom He chasteneth, and scourgeth every child whom he receiveth,” he said, reverently. And then he arose and walked soberly and thoughtfully up and down the floor with his hands clasped behind his back.

He was a round, stout old gentleman, wore short breeches and silk stockings, and had his grey hair parted over his venerable brow, smoothed back and plaited in a queue behind; so you may readily fancy him as he paced up and down the floor with his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed upon his chest, while he seemed to be revolving some plan.

While he walked, Emily sat and played with Hagar on her lap; at last turning to Miss Churchill she said,—

“Do you know, Sophie, that I am not contented at all—that I am very _dis_contented? I want a little girl!—I want a little girl _so bad_! I want one to dress, and to fix, and to play with. My boy is eight years old, and far too big to be dressed in trimmed clothes—too much of a man, in his own and his father’s opinion, to wear anything but a plain broadcloth jacket and trousers. And I do _so_ love to make and trim children’s clothes. I never go into a dry goods store and see remnants of pretty calico or merino, but I think what sweet frocks for a little girl they would make. Last fall I bought some pretty remnants of crimson merino and orange-colored bombazine, and a bunch of narrow black worsted braid to trim with, just for a notion—don’t laugh at me, Sophie; and so this winter, while confined to the house by the dreadful weather, I passed some of the dreary evenings pleasantly in making and trimming some little dresses, and as I had no little girl to wear them I made them to fit _your_ little girl, Sophie. Here they are—try one of them on her—_please_ try one of them on her—I want to see how they look _so much_!”

And opening her travelling satchel she produced with glee four beautiful little dresses suitable for winter—a crimson, and a green merino, and a blue, and an orange bombazine.

“And that ain’t all,” said she, diving into her satchel; “I have made half-a-dozen nice little petticoats, and half-a-dozen pair of pantalets, and I have trimmed them with thread edging, and, to complete the wardrobe, I bought four pairs of little shoes to match in colors each of the four dresses; and I have half finished at home a little black velvet pelisse and a little black plush hat, into which I intend to stick a small white plume. Won’t our little girl be nice, Sophie?”

Emily’s black eyes were dancing as she dashed back the black ringlets that kept falling over her face, while she stooped over the basket and looked up for a reply.

It was just Sophie Churchill’s character to receive this favor with all the simple, artless frankness with which it was offered. She expressed no surprise—spoke no thanks; she only passed her hand around Emily’s neck, turned her face around to meet her own, bent forward, and kissed her lips.

“There! Now, Sophie, let us go into your chamber and dress her,” said Emily, setting Hagar off her lap, and beginning to replace the articles in the satchel, and rising to go upstairs. But her husband now approached her, and laying his hand affectionately on the top of her head, pressed her down into her seat, and took the chair by her side, saying,—

“Emily, how would you like to have your friend Miss Churchill always with you?”

“Oh! I should be delighted—enchanted!”

“Of course—so I supposed, my dear. Come here, Sophie, my child!”

Sophie was at the side-board, taking out some apples. She replaced them, however, and went up to her pastor.

“Sophie,” said the old man, “I have to ask your forgiveness, child. I have sadly neglected my duty as your pastor. I should have seen that you were comfortably provided for. Do you forgive me, child?” said he, passing his arm around her waist, and drawing her up to him.

Sophie looked at her pastor with embarrassed surprise, and blushed up to her eyes. It seemed to her such an inversion of all order for her venerated pastor to ask _her_ forgiveness. She only raised his hand to her lips in silent reverence, then stood before him waiting his further communication.

He passed his hand once or twice across his brow, and looked at Emily with imploring embarrassment; but Emily could not or would not come to his assistance, when he said,—

“Sophie Churchill, my dear, it is neither proper for you to live in this ruined old house in this sterile heath, nor is it christian in me to permit it. And now you say that people have been speaking ill of you—and you tell me this, without excitement, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and you tell me that in consequence you are quite neglected, without resentment, as though it were the justest fate on earth. This must not go on so—Sophie, will you come and live with us? I do not ask you in any way to become dependent upon me, for, alas! I know too well the unconquerable pride of the Churchills of Heath Hall!” and he smiled with a half reproving, half caressing air. “This property well-managed is quite enough to support you and your little charge very handsomely. But _you_ cannot manage it! Now, Miss Churchill, what I wish is, to unite the little families of Heath Hall and Grove Cottage. You and Hagar shall come and live with us at Grove Cottage nine months in the year. I will repair and re-furnish a part of this old Hall, and we will all come down here for sea-bathing during the three summer months. I will also beg the privilege of catching fish, crabs, and oysters from your fishing landing here—and of shooting wild fowl on your moor. I will take upon myself the collection of all your out-standing debts, paying them into your own hands. Come, Miss Churchill! what say you to this plan of uniting our families? Though just now, for the first time, proposed to Emily—the project is very near to her heart. She needs a companion near her own age and of her own sex, and will be delighted to have you with her, especially as she can then have a ‘little girl to dress and fix,’” said he smiling—

“Oh! did _you_ hear that?” laughed Emily.

“Yes, my darling! I heard _that_. Well, Sophie,” he said, turning anxiously to Miss Churchill.

He need not have beat about the subject so long, as fearing difficulty with Miss Churchill. Sophie was too natural, too simple, frank, and entirely unworldly to feel any doubts, fears, or scruples upon the subject. Her pastor proposed the plan—and that fact carried with it a weight of authority that would have constrained her acceptance of a much less agreeable proposition—for in her heart she liked this project—the only drawback being her dislike to leave as her home, the Hall of her own and her fathers’ nativity. She expressed her glad acquiescence in the plan—and Emily sealed the contract with a kiss on her brow. “Now, Emily, my darling, we will hurry home—the sooner that we may begin to fit up the rooms for Miss Churchill. This is Monday—by Saturday, Miss Churchill, we shall be ready for you—and on Saturday morning Emily shall drive over and fetch you and Hagar, so that we may all go to church together on Sunday. As for this old hall, it can be shut up for the present and left in charge of old Cumbo, who, Guinea nigger like, is never half so happy as when left entirely alone. You will like our little lad, as well as Emily loves your little girl, Miss Churchill—you could not help it if you were to try, my dear—and you and Emily and the children will be very happy—if I can make you so—for I love to see happy faces about me.”

The old man smiled gravely and sweetly as he said this, and arose to take leave.

“Mind, dear Sophie,” said Emily, “_we_ shall be ready—do _you_ be ready also—for I will be sure to be at your door early on Saturday morning.”

“If it be the will of God,” said the pastor.

“Oh! certainly, I always _mean that_,” said Emily.

“Always _say_ it then, my dear—somehow or other my heart sank within me as I heard you promise so confidently to be here on Saturday morning. Alas! who can tell? Some of us may be in our graves Saturday morning!” A shadow had fallen on his brow. The two young women felt serious. He recovered himself with an effort, saying, “I must not darken young hearts with my gloom! Come! smile, Emily. Bid your friend good-by—and know that every event is ordered by infinite wisdom and love.” And they took leave and rode away.