The Old Stone House - Constance Fenimore Woolson (each kindness read aloud txt) 📗

apply to Mrs. Chase, I believe. Although she has never attended the chapel-services, he knows her to be generous and kind-hearted.”

“Rich, too, Aunt Faith. It is very easy to be generous when one is rich,” said Sibyl, with a shade of bitterness in her tone.

“Riches are comparative, Sibyl. Mrs. Chase is rich, but she has very many depending upon her assistance.”

“Mr. Leslie had no right to make such a demand of me,” said Sibyl, after a pause.

“Perhaps he thought you had given him the right to guide you,” said Aunt Faith.

“I have never given him any right,” said Sibyl, hastily. “I presume he thinks I am a selfish, hard-hearted creature,” she added in another tone.

“He thinks more highly of you than your own aunt did, Sibyl; he said so himself. He believes, or has believed, firmly in the purity of your religious faith and firm principle. I have several times been surprised to see how sure he was of you.”

“He asked too much,” said Sibyl; “he is too severe with me.”

“Not more severe than he is with himself, my dear. He has taken all his little savings for Margaret Brown, and I presume those savings represent comforts, not luxuries like pearls.”

“Mr. Leslie should not try me by the same test he uses for himself; I cannot stand it.”

“That is where he made his mistake, my dear. He thought you could.”

Sibyl colored angrily. “Mr. Leslie is an enthusiast,” she said; “he expects people to throw down all their treasures at his feet.”

“Not at his feet; at the foot of the cross, dear.”

“Aunt Faith, do you really believe people can be happy in such a life?” said Sibyl vehemently.

“Mr. Leslie is happy, my child.”

“He is a single man with few cares. I am alluding to married people, burdened with responsibility and anxiety.”

“If they are so burdened, my dear, so much the more reason why they should seek help from Him who said ‘come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”

“But in every-day life there are so many petty annoyances, aunt.”

“Will they be any the less annoying without His aid, dear?”

“They will be less annoying if people are rich, Aunt Faith.”

“Some of the most unhappy women I have ever known, have been rich, Sibyl.”

“But I would not be one of those, aunt. I would be rich and happy at the same time.”

“If you could, my dear. But wealth brings with it its own troubles; sometimes in the shape of the donor; I trust you would not marry for money?”

“Not for money alone, aunt. But I see no reason why a rich man might not be loved for himself as well as a poor man. It does not follow that because a man is rich he must therefore be selfish or ill-tempered.”

“Certainly not, my dear; but we will not discuss it any longer, at present. You are young, and I wish you to understand yourself thoroughly. Take no rash steps, and remember that wealth is as nothing compared to a true heart, and that this world’s best treasures are perishable, while religious faith abides with us through life and death into eternity.”

In the afternoon Mr. Leslie came again to the old stone house, and inquired for Mrs. Sheldon. “I have come to ask for your horses,” he said, as Aunt Faith entered the parlor; I have secured a large carriage that will take all the family, and now, if you will send Jonas down with the horses, we can hope to have Margaret safely established at Mr. Green’s before night.”

“Certainly, Mr. Leslie. Is there nothing more I can do?”

“Not to-day, thank you. I shall go out with them myself.”

“How are the children?”

“Worse, I fear; but I have large faith in country air.”

“I shall be anxious to know how they bear the ride.”

“I will stop on my way home as I must come back with the carriage,” said the young clergyman as he went away.

“Was not that Mr. Leslie?” asked Hugh, coming in from the dining-room a few moments afterward.

“Yes,” replied Aunt Faith; “he came to see me on business.”

“Didn’t he ask for Sibyl?” said Hugh.

“No,” replied Aunt Faith, with a warning look at her nephew, as Sibyl came in. But Hugh was not to be warned. “Sibyl,” he said, “Mr. Leslie has been here and did not ask for you.”

“Is that so very surprising?” said his sister coldly; she had regained all her composure and her face was calm and quiet.

“Of course it is surprising,” said Hugh bluntly. “He has been in the habit of coming here to see you for months, and, let me tell you, Sibyl, he is one in a thousand; he is a hero, every inch, and I heartily respect and like him.”

“I have said nothing to the contrary, Hugh.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Sibyl,” said Hugh with brotherly frankness. “I am not good at splitting hairs, but there is no more comparison between Mr. Leslie and Graham Marr, than there is between an eagle and a sickly chicken.”

“I have never thought of comparing them, Hugh. I do not like comparisons, and yours is entirely unjust. But even supposing it was correct, I have no taste for standing on a mountain-peak, in the icy air of unknown heights, and gazing at the sun all day as an eagle does,” said Sibyl, as she crossed the hall into the parlor. In a few moments the Spring-Song sounded forth from the piano, and under cover of the music, Hugh said to Aunt Faith, “There is nothing wrong between them I hope?”

“There is nothing between them either right or wrong,” replied Aunt Faith with a sigh. “Sibyl is not suited to Mr. Leslie.”

“Then it is her fault,” said Hugh warmly. “There is no doubt in my mind that John Leslie is deeply interested in her, and I should be proud and glad to have him for a brother. He is the truest, most honest man I know.”

“That is because he is such a sincere, earnest Christian.”

“I know it, aunt. He works hard, and he thoroughly believes in his work. He really thinks there is nothing in the city so vitally important as that little chapel, and those workmen.”

“He is right, Hugh. To him there should be nothing so important as their welfare.”

“Yes, I suppose so; that is, if I could look at it with his eyes. But it is rare to see practice so consistent with theory in every-day life.”

“It is, as you say, rare indeed; but he is a rare man, Hugh.”

“He is, truly. That is the reason why I feel Sibyl’s manner. Can it be possible that she really prefers Graham Marr?”

“I do not know, Hugh. Graham will be rich some day.”

“That is the worst of it, aunt. Who would have thought Sibyl could be so mercenary!”

“Do not judge her harshly, dear. She has none of that impulse which you admire, but her heart has always been true,—at least so far,” said Aunt Faith gently. Then, after a pause, she continued in a lower tone, “Hugh, if you like and admire Mr. Leslie so much, why are you not willing to follow his example?”

“What! Become a clergyman, Aunt Faith?”

“Not that, unless you feel an inward call towards the blessed vocation,” replied Aunt Faith reverently; “but why do you delay to come forward and make your open profession of faith? Is it honest, is it manly, to hang backward?”

“Oh, Aunt Faith, I am not good enough!” said Hugh quickly.

“Goodness is not required of any of us, Hugh; only repentance, and an earnest endeavor to improve. My dear boy, I never see you come and go, without an aching desire to have you enrolled under His banner, to have you a soldier of the Cross, openly, before all men. Have you thought over our last conversation on this subject?”

“Yes, aunt, many times; but I have such a high idea of a professing Christian. It seems to me that such an one ought to be like Mr. Leslie, working with all his might for the salvation of souls.”

“It is not required that all professing Christians should be ministers of the word, Hugh. There are many other spheres of action, and many qualifications, varied according to our varied temperaments and positions. The Bible makes that point very clear. You read it, I hope?”

“Yes; but I always read the same part, the Gospel of St, John. I like it best of all. There are so many beautiful verses in it which are found nowhere else, so much love and warm faith! For instance; ‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ And ‘I will not leave you comfortless, I will come unto you.’ And, ‘woman, behold thy son; behold thy mother;’ to me one of the most touching incidents in the Gospel. Then there is the story of Lazarus, and the verse ‘Jesus wept.’ He sorrowed for the mourners, too! Oh, I cannot understand how true Christians can mourn so bitterly for their dead, when they believe that this loving Saviour cares for them.”

“It is not always so much for their lost ones as for themselves, Hugh; their own loneliness, their crushed hopes, and perhaps their remorse that in the lifetime of those they mourn they did not do more for their happiness.”

“You have lost many dear ones, Aunt Faith,” said Hugh thoughtfully.

“Yes; my husband, my parents, and among my intimate friends, all my generation.”

“Do you often think of them, aunt?”

“Yes, Hugh, very often. At first with tears and sadness, but gradually with hope, and a certain looking forward instead of backward. At first I kept all my anniversaries sacred, the many days hallowed by associations with my dear ones; but gradually I tried to break up the habit, and now I only think of their heavenly birthdays,—the days when they left the earth,—and even these have come to be pleasant. I have always been fond of autumn. There is something that charms me in the hazy air and colored foliage. It is not sadness,—it is not joy,—but a sweet peace. Then, my dead always seem near to me. If you like, I will give you something I once wrote on the subject, expressing this feeling.”

“Do, aunt!” said Hugh, earnestly: for so seldom did Aunt Faith allude to her past life and its sorrows, that all the cousins held it in reverent respect, and although they often spoke of it among themselves, they never broke through the bounds of Aunt Faith’s silence. In her own room hung the portrait of her husband, Lester Sheldon, a young man’s face, with blue eyes, and thick golden hair, tossed carelessly back from the white forehead, while below, the firm mouth told of decision and self-control beyond his years. Once, when Bessie was a child, she sat looking at this portrait for some time in silence. Then she said, “Aunt Faith, if that is your husband, what makes him so young when you are so old?”

“He died when he was a young man, little Bessie.”

“But he won’t know you when you go to heaven, I’m afraid,” continued the child, looking anxiously at her aunt’s gray hair.

“Oh, I shall be young then, too, Bessie. Here is a picture of me when I was eighteen,” said Aunt Faith, taking a box from her drawer, and drawing out a miniature. It was one of those lovely, old-fashioned ivory pictures, showing a fresh young face with dimples, and a sunny smile.

“Oh, auntie, that isn’t you!” Bessie had exclaimed, and the other children having come into the room, the picture was shown to