The Old Stone House, Constance Fenimore Woolson [e book free reading txt] 📗

the cousins, sometimes with Sibyl alone. A friend had come from the interior of the State to take charge of the chapel during July and August, for the physicians had forbidden any active work during that time; but, although Mr. Vinton preached and attended to the duties of the position, Mr. Leslie retained all his interest in the congregation, and his people felt, that he was with them in spirit, hour by hour, and day by day. They came to him also,—came in greater numbers and with more open affection than ever before; they showed their interest in many different ways,—and the young pastor’s heart was filled with joy at these evidences of love from the flock for which he had labored.

“It takes sickness or affliction to bring hidden love and sympathy to the surface,” he said, one afternoon, as he sat in the parlor with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Bessie, and Sibyl. “We do not see the rainbow until the storm comes; and so people may live on for years in prosperity, and never know, save by intuition, the deep affection in each other’s hearts. But when sorrow strikes them, then love comes to the surface, doubly precious and comforting in the hour of trial.”

“But, Mr. Leslie,” said Hugh, “would it not be far better for the world if people were taught to express their love and sympathy at other times as well as in the house of affliction and sickness? Is there any reason why we should all go on through life in cold silence, living in the same house with those we love the best, and taking everything ‘for granted,’ and leaving it ‘for granted’ also? Why! people may live and die without ever knowing the great joy of expressing how much they love, or of hearing in return how much they are loved, so hard is it to break down these barriers of reserve.”

“We are tongue-tied, here, Hugh. We do not know how to speak the language of the heavenly country, and our best efforts are but stammering, half-expressed utterances. It is a great mercy, however, that the touch of sickness, or affliction, seems for the moment to loosen the bonds, and allow us a few sentences of the heavenly love.”

“It is indeed,” said Aunt Faith. “I remember in the darkest hours of my affliction, people with whom I had but slight acquaintance came to me with tender sympathy, and kind messages were sent from many whom I had always thought cold, and even disagreeable.”

“Still,” said Hugh, “I think it would be better if people tried to express their love more freely, without waiting until the household is clouded with grief.”

“It would certainly be better, but it may not be possible,” said Mr. Leslie; the world has gone on in the same old way for many centuries, and I am inclined to think, Hugh, that this free expression of love will only be given to us in another life. It will form one of the blessings of heaven.”

“What is heaven?” said Hugh abruptly.

“It is perfect peace,” said Aunt Faith.

“It is wonderful new life and hope,” said Bessie.

“It is love,” said Sibyl.

“It is all this and more,” said Mr. Leslie reverently. “Speculations are useless, and our time should be too full of earnest labor to allow us to indulge in them. We should be content to leave it to our Maker, who has made even this world so beautiful, and this life, rightly used, so glorious.”

July gave place to August, and the family of cousins, into whose circle Mr. Leslie had been received, lived a happy life in the old stone house. The heat of the dog-days was tempered by the lake breeze. At ten in the morning it came sweeping over the water from Canada, and men walking through the hot streets, felt its gentle coolness on their foreheads, and took off their straw hats with a sigh of relief. In the evening it came again, rustling through the trees with a refreshing sound as though the leaves were reviving from their parched stillness; people came out to meet it, the piazzas and door-steps were crowded, and all the closed blinds were thrown wide open to catch the blessed coolness which promised refreshing sleep.

“You dwellers by the lakeshore know nothing of the real August heat in the lowlands,” said Mr. Vinton, one evening as he sat among a group of visitors on the piazza of the old stone house. “Here the lake breeze is invariable, but a hundred miles south, days and nights pass with alternate blazing heat and close, lifeless darkness, the latter even more trying than the former. The country where I live is the richest agricultural land in the State; it is a valley with a broad, slow river rolling through it, the very water dark and sluggish with the fertility of the soil. As long as the grain is growing, there is some vitality in the air in spite of the heat, but when the harvest comes, and field after field is shorn, it seems as though the superfluous richness rose from the earth into the air, and filled it with heavy rankness. The sun shines through a haze in the daytime, and the moon through a mist at night; everybody and everything is languid. One goes to bed oppressed with fatigue, sleeps heavily, and rises without refreshment; there is no fresh morning air, nothing but a weary looking forward to the next twelve hours of heat.”

“What a forlorn description!” said Mr. Gay, laughing. “Is this all you can say for the great, rich state of Ohio?”

“It’s very richness brings about what I am describing,” said Mr. Vinton. “But perhaps some of your eastern farmers would endure the Ohio dog-days for the sake of the miles of level grain-fields without a stone, without a break of any kind, which extend through the midland counties. When I first came West, I was overpowered with homesickness for the hills of New England; the endless plains were hateful to me, and I fairly pined to see a rock, or a narrow, winding road. While in this mood, I happened to be riding in a stage-coach through one of the midland counties in company with two New England farmers. They had never been West before, and they were lost in astonishment and admiration at the sight of the level fields on either side of the broad, straight road, stretching away to the right and the left, unbroken by the slightest elevation. ‘This country is worth farming in,’ said number one; ‘Ethan would admire to see it, but he’d hardly believe it, I guess, without seeing.’

“‘Not a stone nor a rock nowhere; none of them plaguey hills neither,’ said number two. ‘Well, now! this is what I call a be-a-utiful country! Western farmers must have an easy life of it.’ You can imagine with what feelings I listened to these men. There I was, longing for the sight of a hill with the longing of a homesick child for its mother.”

“I am afraid you are prejudiced, George,” said Mr. Leslie, with a smile. “You dwell upon the heat of August in Ohio, but you say nothing about the other eleven months of the year.”

“The other eleven months are beautiful, I must acknowledge,” replied Mr. Vinton. “As soon as the frosts come, nothing can surpass the climate; colored October, hazy November, and bright, open December are all perfect. Any New Englander,—even you, Mr. Gay,—would be obliged to yield the palm to the West in respect of winter climate.”

“No sir,” replied the Boston bachelor emphatically; “I would yield no palm under any circumstances. I even prefer a Boston east wind to the mildest western zephyr.”

“Oh, you are prejudiced!” said Bessie, laughing.

“Of course I am, Miss Darrell. It is a characteristic of Massachusetts Bay. We do not deny it,—on the contrary we are rather proud of it.”

Thus, in many conversations, the dog-days passed along.

“It seems to me we do nothing but talk,” said Bessie, after a long evening on the piazza with several visitors.

“The dog-days were intended for conversation,” said Hugh. “Our hands and our brains are busily employed all the rest of the year, but when the thermometer gets up into the nineties, the tongue talks its share and gives the other members a rest.”

“I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that our brains are not employed in our conversation,” said Bessie.

“Not much brain in dog-day conversation,” said Hugh, laughing. “I know that I have been talking nonsense this evening, and from what I have overheard, I suspect the others have not done much better.”

“Oh, you slanderer!” cried Bessie.

“But nonsense is appropriate to the season, Queen Bess. We don’t eat much solid food now; then how can we hear much solid talk! Aunt Faith’s ‘trifle’ is the chief of our diet, and the result is, naturally, trifling conversation.”

August was a happy month to Aunt Faith. She rejoiced in Sibyl’s happiness, and she rejoiced in the triumph of unselfish love and Christian humility over the worldliness and ambition which had sullied her niece’s good qualities. Sibyl was not impulsive; it was not an impulse which had led her to renounce a life of fashionable gayety and wealth for Mr. Leslie. It was a sudden realization of the truth, a sudden conviction of the strength of her own feelings, a sudden horror of the wickedness of falsifying them, and a sudden appreciation of the hollowness of worldly ambition when brought face to face with death. There was no hesitating vacillation in Sibyl’s character. She had been self-deceived, but, as soon as she felt the truth, she threw aside errors with all her might, and gave herself up boldly, wholly and heartily to her new life. Aunt Faith understood her niece thoroughly, and she knew there would be no danger of a relapse into the mistakes of the past; other faults, other temptations would assail her, but these were harmless. Having once seen and realized the falsity of worldliness when compared with religion, the worthlessness of mere money, when compared with true affection, Sibyl could never forget the lesson, for firm reason and resolve were parts of her nature.

Aunt Faith saw, also, that Sibyl was very happy. She was calm as usual, but there was a new light in her eyes, and a new glow on her cheeks. She found a new pleasure in instructing the children of the Chapel Sunday School, and her scholars loved her dearly; she went about among the poor, and devoted much of her time and means to their service. She assisted in the household work; not the light graceful labors which generally fall to the daughters, but the real burden of the day, lifting it from Aunt Faith’s patient shoulders with cordial good will; and in all she did there was a new charm,—the charm of a rare humility, the most difficult of all Christian graces to a proud, self-reliant spirit.

One afternoon, towards the end of August, Aunt Faith found Sibyl resting on the lounge in the sitting-room. The house was still, the children were in the garden, and Bessie and Hugh had gone up to the studio; Sibyl had been out visiting the sick all the morning, and, wearied with the walk, she had thrown herself down on the lounge for a rest before tea-time.

“Do I disturb you, dear?” said Aunt Faith, as she entered.

“Oh, no, aunt. I am not sleeping, only resting.”

“I fear you are doing too much, Sibyl.”

“I think not, aunt. I know how much I can bear, and I would not be so foolish as to overwork myself. It would be a poor preparation for the life to which I look forward with so much hope.”

“It will be a pleasant life, I hope, my dear child.”