THE LOVELY AND THE UNLOVED.
With all his vain and superficial qualities, the young man had a kind heart. He thought of Hepsy most when she was most neglected by others. He knelt down by her where she sat, and took her thin hand in his.
"Come, you mustn't feel bad to-night," said he gently.
She was startled; her heart beat wildly, and she hastened to wipe her tears.
"Has anything unpleasant happened?" he asked.
Hepsy tried to smother her sobs, but they burst forth afresh.
"I've come for you to go and hear Father Brighthopes tell his stories," pursued Chester. "Will you come?"
She was unable to answer.
"It's the best joke of the season!" he continued, cheerfully. "Our company made the sourest faces in the world, when they learned that the old clergyman was to be within hearing. 'Oh, we couldn't have any fun,' they said. They wished him a thousand miles away. And now they have left their silly sports to listen to him."
"I was much happier out there than after you brought me in here," murmured Hepsy, in a broken voice.
"I wish, then, I had left you there," rejoined Chester. "But I thought you would enjoy the company, and made you come in."
"I couldn't play with the rest," said the unhappy girl.
"Why not? You could, if you had only thought so."
Hepsy smiled, with touching sadness.
"Who would have kissed me? I must have such a hideous face! Who could?"
She cried again; and Chester, feeling deeply pained by her sufferings, kissed her cheek.
"I could; and I have kissed you hundreds of times, as you know; and I hope to as many more. There are worse faces than yours to kiss here to-night."
"Oh, you are always so good—so good!" murmured Hepsy, with gushing tears.
"Now, tell me what has occurred to make you feel bad," insisted her cousin, very kindly.
The poor girl required much urging, but at length she confessed.
"Josephine Smith called me stupid and sour, because I sat in the corner watching the rest."
"Josephine Smith did?" cried Chester, indignantly. "But never mind. Don't cry about it. Do you know, you are as much better—brighter than she is, as light is brighter and better than darkness? You are ten times more agreeable. She has nothing to compare with your pure soul."
"You are so kind to say so! But others do not think it, if you do," murmured Hepsy. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief, "it was cruel in her, to be Henry Wilbur's judge, and sentence him to kiss me!"
"Did she?"
"Yes; then they all laughed, and she ran out in the sitting-room after you; and the rest thought it such a joke, that anybody should have to kiss me!"
Hepsy spoke very bitterly, and Chester's blood boiled with indignation.
"I can't believe they were making fun at your expense," said he, in a suppressed tone. "If I thought they were so heartless——"
"Oh, they did not know how I would feel about it, I am sure," interrupted the girl.
"Did Henry laugh?"
"No,"—with a melancholy smile,—"it was no laughing matter with him!—No!—Henry was very gentlemanly about it. He did not hesitate, although I saw him turn all sorts of colors; but came right up to do penance, like a hero. I thanked him in my heart for the good will he showed; but I would not let him kiss me, for I knew it would be disagreeable to him."
"That is all your imagination," cried Chester, cheerily. "So think no more about it. Remember that there is one who loves you, at any rate, let what will happen."
"I know there is one very good to me," replied Hepsy, with emotion. "Oh, you don't know what a comfort your kindness is! I would not—I could not—live without it! I sometimes think everybody hates me but you."
"You are too sensitive, Coz. But since you imagine such things, I'll tell you what: when I am married, you shall come and live with me. How would you like that?"
A quick pain shot through Hepsy's heart. A faintness came over her. Her cold hand dropped from Chester's, and fell by her side.
"I will tell my wife all about how good you are," he continued, in a tone of encouragement; "and she must love you too. She cannot help it. And we will always be like brother and sister to you."
He kissed her white cheek, and went on hopefully:
"I have a secret for you, which I have not even revealed to Sarah or James. I will tell it to you, because I know how it will please you." He took her hand again. "The truth is, I am—engaged."
Hepsy did not breathe; her hand was like stone.
"To a glorious girl, Coz. Oh, you cannot help loving her. You can form no idea how sweet and beautiful she is. She's tall as Sarah, but more slender and graceful. You should see her curls! When she speaks, her soft eyes——But what is the matter?"
"The air—is—close!" gasped Hepsy.
"You are fainting!"
"No; I am—better now."
Hepsy made a desperate effort, and conquered her emotion.
Chester, always delicately thoughtful of the feelings of others, except when his enthusiasm carried him away, proceeded with his description, every word of which burned like fire in the poor girl's heart. And he—fond soul!—deemed that he was pouring the balm of comfort and the precious ointment of joy upon her spirit! For how could he pause to consider and know that every charm he ascribed to the professor's daughter demonstrated to the unhappy creature more and more vividly, and with terrible force, that she was utterly unlovely and unblest? Contrasted with the enchanting valley of his love, how arid and desolate a desert seemed her life!
Meanwhile Miss Josephine Smith had early discovered the absence of Chester from the circle, and looked about to find him. She could not rest where he was not. Becoming thirsty again, she made another errand to the water-pail in the kitchen; but she drank only of the cup of disappointment. As soon, therefore, as she could do so, without making her conduct marked, she sought her loadstar in the parlor.
"How dreadfully tholitary you are to-night!" she exclaimed, with a smile which showed all her teeth. "Do extricate yourself from that frightfully lonethome corner."
She suddenly discovered that, still beyond the chair in which Chester was seated, there was another, not unoccupied.
"Ho, ho! what charmer have you there? You are getting to be an awfully dethperate flirt, Chethter Royden. Oh! nobody but Hepthy!"
"Nobody but my good cousin Hepsy," replied Chester, coldly.
"Dear me! I wouldn't have thuthpicioned you could be tho fathinated with her!" she cried, in a tone she deemed cuttingly sarcastic.
"Miss Smith," said Chester, quietly, "you need not think, because you happen to have peculiar charms of person, that no others have graces of a different sort."
"Oh, what an egregiouth flatterer!" returned Josephine Smith, shaking her meager curls. "Come"—and she boldly seated herself,—"let me know what your interesting conversation is about."
"We were just speaking of going into the sitting-room," answered the young man, rising.
He stooped, and whispered to Hepsy.
"Leave me alone a few minutes, then I will come," she murmured.
He pressed her hand, and walked away.
"Don't you thuppose, now," said Miss Smith, following, and taking his arm familiarly, "I think you have grown wonderfully handthome, thince you have been at school?"
Chester made some nonsensical reply, and, having conducted her to the sitting-room, coolly turned about, and reëntered the parlor.
Hepsy's face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping convulsively.
"I thought what I said would make you happy," he whispered.
Hepsy started; she choked back her sobs; she wiped her streaming eyes.
"It should make me happy," she articulated, in broken tones. "But,—leave me alone a little while—I shall feel better soon."
"You are too much alone," said Chester. "You must come with me now."
"My eyes are so red!"
"The company is so much interested in Father Brighthopes' story, that nobody will see you. Come!—you must."
Chester was obliged to add gentle force to persuasion, to accomplish his kind design. Finally, she told him to go before, and she would come directly. He took his place in the circle around the old clergyman, and presently she glided to an obscure position, behind Mr. Royden's chair. There, unobserved, she indulged in her melancholy thoughts, until they were diverted by Father Brighthopes' remarks.
"Thus, my friends," said he, "you see that I have reason to bless the wisdom that rained upon my head the grievous sufferings of which I complained so bitterly at the time. Truly, whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. Steel gets its temper from the furnace. What is gold good for, unless it has been fused and hammered? All our trials are teachers; then temptations form themselves into a sort of examining committee, to see how much we have learned by the discipline,—to see how strong we are. If all our worldly circumstances were pleasant and smooth, who would not be contented with them? But storms come; winds blow, and rains pour; then we turn our eyes inwardly. When earth is dark, we look up. When men prove false, we remember the Friend who never fails us. In the gloomy valley of the present, we joyfully turn our sight to the soft blue hills of an infinite future. Clouds now and then overcast the sky; but the sun shines forever. So there is an eternal sun of Love pouring floods of blessed light upon our souls continually, notwithstanding the misty sorrows that sometimes float between, and cast their momentary shades.
"Yes," continued the old man, warming and glowing with the theme, "I bless God for all I have suffered, as all of you will, some day,"—his clear, bright eye fell upon the miserable Hepsy,—"when you look back and see the uses of affliction. It seems to me that the happiest souls in heaven must be those who have suffered most here; patiently, I mean, and not with continual murmurings, which harden and embitter the heart. Even in this life, the poor and afflicted exteriorly may always, and do oftenest, I believe, enjoy interior happiness and peace, with which the superficial pleasures of life cannot be compared. The great secret it, Love!—love to God,—love to man,—and a serene and thankful temper.
"But I find that my story has relapsed into a sermon," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "You were all so attentive, that I quite forgot myself. I hope I have not been dull."
"Oh, no! No, indeed!" cried half a dozen voices.
All agreed that they could hear him talk all night. They had never been so well instructed in the use to be made of afflictions. They had never seen so clearly the beauty of a serene Christian life.
"It's all excethively pretty!" said Miss Smith.
"Well, I am glad if you have been entertained," said the old man, with moist but happy eyes. "Good-night! good-night! God bless you all!"
His fervent benediction was very touching. More than one eye was wet, as it watched him going to his room. There was not much more wild gayety among the little company that evening, but every heart seemed to have been softened and made deeply happy by the old man's lesson.
Hepsy stole away to her room. His words still echoed in her soul. They stirred its depths; they warmed her, they cheered her strangely. All night long her tears rained upon her pillow,—when she slept, as when she lay awake,—but she was no longer utterly wretched. A ray had stolen in upon the darkness of her misery.
"Love!" she repeated to herself. "Love to God, and love to our neighbor. But love must be unselfish. It must be self-sacrificing. Oh, Lord!" she prayed, with anguish, "purify my bad heart! purify it! purify it! purify it!"
She felt herself a broken-hearted child, humbled in the dust. But a feeling of calmness came over her. Her hot and throbbing heart grew cool and still. Angels had touched her with their golden wings; and her spirit seemed to brighten and expand with newly-developed powers of patience, endurance and love.
Meanwhile, Chester was penning a passionate letter to his affianced, wholly absorbed, and forgetful even of the existence of poor Hepsy.