 | XXXVIII.
MR. RUKELY'S GREAT SERMON. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
38. XXXVIII.
MR. RUKELY'S GREAT SERMON.
Mr. Rukely had been all the week engaged in preparing his
great sermon on the “Duties of Christian Citizens in the Present
Crisis;” a theme adjudged highly appropriate to be considered
on the advent of the New Year. No other discourse he had ever
written had cost him so much labor as this. On Saturday night
it was finished. But the young minister's excited brain would not
let him sleep; and towards morning he lay thinking of what he
had written, and imagining the effect it would produce upon his
congregation, until he felt an irresistible impulse to get up, strike
a light, and read over certain passages, which contained the strong
and eloquent points of the sermon. His movements awakened his
wife. “Don't be disturbed, my dear,” said he. “I am going to
write a little.”
Bertha, languidly: “I thought your sermon was finished.”
Mr. Rukely, rubbing a match: “It is, my dear. But there are
one or two things I want to alter.”
Bertha, rubbing her eyes: “I don't see how you can better it.
What you read to me last night seemed as good as it could be.”
“If I remember rightly, it sent you to sleep, my dear.”
“It was n't the sermon, — 't was the rain. What a storm we
have had! — I am afraid you won't see so large a congregation
to-day as you expected.”
Mr. Rukely, with his fifth match: “The people are looking
for my sermon on the New Year; and I think there will be a
pretty general turn-out to hear it, unless the roads should be too
bad. There is a lively interest in the church to know what view
I take of the subject. It is generally supposed that —”
“You 'll burn your fingers!” cried Bertha.
“I hope not,” replied Mr. Rukely, with a placid smile, dropping
the match. “Where is the lamp?”
“You must have left it in the other room, where you were
writing.”
In ten minutes Bertha was once more sleeping soundly, while
the young minister corrected and interlined passages in his sermon,
by the sitting-room fire. He read aloud to himself. “The great
danger consists in taking narrow and sectional views of a subject
which should only be regarded in a broad, national light. Let
us remember that the interests and safety of the country are at
stake. If we would preserve intact the noble heritage bequeathed
us by the fathers of American independence, we must
listen to the dictates of an expanded and lofty patriotism, and
suffer no northern or southern prejudices to sully the bright —”
Mr. Rukely thought he heard a voice. — “Did you speak,
my dear?”
“I thought you called me,” said Bertha, half awake.
“I was reading,” replied Mr. Rukely; “I had forgotten that I
was not in the pulpit. If you would like to hear me, I will leave
the door open.”
“Certainly,” said poor Bertha.
“Tell me,” added her husband, “if you observe any expression
that will be liable to misconstruction. It is an extremely delicate
subject, and every statement should be worded with care. Watch
closely.”
Bertha promised, and Mr. Rukely resumed his reading. Having
finished a passage, he called for her criticisms. “To tell the
truth,” said Bertha, arousing herself, “my mind was wandering
again. Do I understand that we are not to protect a fugitive?”
“Is it not just?” cried the minister. “Have we a right to peril
the welfare and happiness of a nation, by espousing the cause of
one man, against the laws made to protect and regulate all?”
“It is clear,” answered Bertha, “we have no such right.” And
she fell again into a light slumber, while her husband went on
with his reading. Having completed another strong passage. “Is
not that argument conclusive?” he asked, triumphantly.
Bertha, starting: “Entirely so! — But — I am not sure that
I have fully grasped the idea. Will you read the last few sentences
again?”
Mr. Rukely complied readily. But, in the midst of a lofty and
eloquent strain, he was disagreeably interrupted by a noise from
the kitchen. “What 's that?” cried Bertha.
“Some person at the back door. I wonder who can be stirring
at this hour?”
“Sunday morning, too!” said Bertha.
The minister wrapped his morning-gown about him, and, stepping
into the kitchen, pushed back the bolt, and turned the key in
the lock. The day had scarcely dawned. It was snowing fast.
A man stood out in the storm, supporting a human figure upon a
horse.
“Make way, Mr. Rukely!” said the man. “'T an't no time
for words, an' I 'll ax pardon for intrudin' some other time.” As
he spoke, he suffered the figure to sink upon his shoulder; then,
clasping it in his arms, he bore it past the astonished minister, into
the house.
“What is the trouble?” cried Mr. Rukely.
“The fust thing, help me git this 'ere poor gal to a fire!” said
the man.
“This way!” exclaimed the minister, throwing open the sitting-room
door. “Here, sir! — Wait a minute!” He wheeled the sofa
to the fire, and assisted him to place his burden upon it. “What
has happened to her?” putting back the girl's wet hair, and
arranging the cushion beneath her head. “Good heavens! Charlotte
Woods!”
“She 's ben drownded, an' then 'most froze to death!” uttered
the man, in a choked voice. “Where 's your wife?”
“Bertha!” cried Mr. Rukely.
“What is it? Did you say Charlotte?” articulated Bertha,
rushing out from the bed-chamber. “Drowned?”
She flew to Charlotte's side, and bent over her, pressing her
temples with a frightened, eager gaze. “Charlotte! where have
you been? What is the matter, Mr. Jackwood?” she demanded,
wildly.
“'T would be a long story; we 'd better be gittin' her dry an'
warm fust,” said the farmer, rubbing Charlotte's cold hand.
“Be calm, my dear!” remarked Mr. Rukely. “I will call
Matilda —”
“Who is Matilda?” interrupted Mr. Jackwood.
“Matilda Fosdick, who is living with us,” said Bertha.
“Livin' with you?” echoed the farmer. “That 's bad! But
she can keep a secret, can't she, when a human critter's life
depends on 't?”
“What do you mean?” cried Bertha.
“You han't heard nothin', then, o' what happened up to Mr.
Dunbury's, last night?”
“We have heard nothing!”
“Never mind; you 'll hear quick enough! — If Matilda is a
gal to be trusted, call her up. She 'd haf to know Cha'lotte was
in the house, some time or 'nother, I s'pose. The fust thing to be
thought on is to git dry clo's on to her.”
“Help me roll the sofa into the bed-room,” cried Bertha. “I
can undress her, and put her into my bed.”
“We 'd better call the doctor,” said Mr. Rukely. “He is a
trustworthy man, and if there 's any necessity for concealment —”
“We 'll talk about that,” said Mr. Jackwood, “arterwards.”
He assisted in wheeling the sofa into the bed-room, and, leaving
Charlotte in Bertha's charge, took Mr. Rukely aside. — “You 're
a man,” said he, earnestly, “'t I respect above all others; for
you got talents an' larnin', an', more 'n all that, your heart 's in
the right place. What I should 'a done for Cha'lotte, if 't had n't
ben for you, I do'no'. Her an' your wife 's old friends —”
“For mercy's sake,” interrupted Mr. Rukely, “tell me what
the trouble is!”
“I do'no' over-'n'-above well, myself,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“It 's suthin 't I can't realize nor believe; but, as I understand
it, Cha'lotte 's a fugitive, an' the kidnabbers are arter her.”
“A fugitive!” echoed the astonished minister.
Mr. Jackwood: “I han't heard her say nothin' 'bout it,” —
with a glance towards the bed-room, — “but one thing 's sartin, —
the officers are arter her, — they 've ben to my house, and to
away from 'em.”
“A fugitive! Charlotte Woods!” repeated Mr. Rukely,
aghast.
“She was hid in a stack,” added the farmer; “but the crick
broke up, and drownded her out. She got up on the shed; but
that was put there arter the winter set in, and the ground was
froze: the posts wan't set at all, and the thaw left 'em loose, so 's
't when the water come they washed right away. As good luck
would have it, the ruf was made o' rails; they was held together
with cleats; then there was a jag o' straw on top, that had settled,
and kep' 'em solid. So, when the ruf tumbled down, Cha'lotte, it
'pears, stuck to it. I tell ye what! it gi' me a start 't I shan't
git over in a hurry, when we went to the stack in a boat, an' found
her missin'; but her shawl was on the stack, and suthin kinder
said to me, `That never could got there, in this world, 'ithout she
was on the shed!' Then says I, `I made that 'ere ruf myself,
an' I believe it 's held together; an' if 't has, what 's the reason
she can't be swimmin' on 't, like a raft?' I thought it over while
I was gittin' the lambs into the boat; then the idee come to me,
't if I was to take a hoss, an' ride down to Osborne's Flats, I
might hear suthin of her. There 's a place down there, — p'raps
you don' know, — 't makes a big, shaller basin, when the crick rises
up to it; there 's al'ays a kind o' whirlpool there, time o' freshets,
where flood-wood, an' everything o' that kind, settles in, an' swims
round, sometimes, for half a day, 'fore 't goes off down the crick.
I knowed the road, an' could find the flats the darkest night, with
a hoss; but I felt ticklish about vent'rin' in the boat. So I
jumped on ol' Dan, an' started off. I found the goin' dre'ful bad;
but I got along perty well, till I come to the Turnpike Crossin'.
The water was higher 'n I 'd ca'c'lated on, an', to git to the flats,
I 'd haf to cross the crick somehow. The water was clean over
the road, an' Dan did n't like to wade; but I put the whip on to
him, an' we got to the bridge. The deestrict 's built a famous good
high bridge over the crossin'; an' there I stopped to let Dan
breathe, an' to look round. It was jest beginnin' to be daylight,
an' I could see off to'rds the flats; but I could n't make out nothin';
thought 't was no use, arter all, huntin' in sich a place for Cha'lotte.
But suthin said, `Don't give up so,' an' I splashed for'ard,
on t' other side o' the bridge; when, as I was cheerin' ol'
Dan, I thought I heerd a noise, an' stopped. `Hello!' says I.
`Ma-a-a-a!' says suthin, over a knoll, jest above me. `Nothin'
but a sheep,' says I; `but I 'm blamed,' says I, `if it did n't sound,
for all the world, like one o' my lambs!' Then I looked sharp,
an' see suthin lodged agin the knoll. Wal, sir, 't was that shed-ruf,
an' Cha'lotte was on to it, holdin' tight to some bushes to keep from
floatin' away! I never had anything come over me like that
'ere! But the danger wan't over with yit; for, if Cha'lotte was
to le' go her hold o' the bushes, there was nothin' to hender her
gittin' into the main current that run 'neath the bridge. 'T was
one o' the maddest currents I ever see; an' 't would ben a mere
chance if the ruf wan't tore to pieces, passin' the 'butments.
`Stick to it, Cha'lotte!' says I; `it 's me!' says I. `Don't be
afraid!' says I. Dan did n't like to leave the turnpike, but he 'd
ben in the water up to his breast a dozen times a'ready. I thought
he need n't mind goin' a little deeper; so I put on the whip, an'
swum him to the knoll. I got hold o' the raft jes as Cha'lotte
gin out; she was nigh-about dead when I lifted her ashore. But,
sir, don't ye think, all this time she had kep' two o' them 'ere
lambs from drowndin'! She 'd helped 'em out o' the water,
on to the ruf, when the shed fell, — for they could n't got on to it
alone, with all their swimmin', — and then she 'd took as much
care on 'em, arterwards, as if there wan't no danger to her, an'
all she had to do was to look out for them! I got 'em on to
the knoll, an' then lifted her on to ol' Dan. Then the thing
on 't was to git back with her to the turnpike. But I was perty
sartin the hoss could touch bottom, an' keep his nose out o'
water, if we both rode; 't want fur, any way; so I mounted behind
Cha'lotte, an' drove in. He is a dre'ful kind hoss, ol' Dan is, an'
he seemed to know jes 's well what he was about as I did; for
he made a bee-line to the turnpike, and went as stiddy as a
steamboat!
“Wal, we got to the bridge; then I did n't know no more
to my house, nor to Mr. Dunbury's, for the kidnabbers are as
thick over there as nine cats in a corn-basket. When I was considerin'
on 't, I happened to say, `We an't sich a terrible ways
from where Mrs. Rukely lives; she that was Bertha Wing. It 's
in the north village,' says I, `right down opposite the flats.' All
this time I hardly knowed whuther she was alive or dead; she 'd
only said, two or three times, `O, Mr. Jackwood!' an' laid on
this 'ere arm, jes' like a child; but when I said `Bertha Wing,' it
seemed to put new life into her —”
“Mr. Rukely,” whispered Bertha, at the bed-room door, “will
you hand me that blanket?” The minister took a garment that
was heating by the stove, and passed it to his wife.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood, “that 's the long and short on 't;
and now that she 's safe in your house, I feel like a new man.
She 's ben through a dre'ful tough night, an' she may have a
fit o' sickness arter it. If we can keep the kidnabbers away till
she 's well enough to be got off to Canada, that 's all I ask for.
What do ye think?”
“I think — I am in a dream!” exclaimed Mr. Rukely. “Charlotte
Woods! What a history you tell me! Do you think
she 'll be safe in my house?”
“I 've an idee!” said Mr. Jackwood, drying his trousers
by the fire. “It popped into my head as I was comin' over
here from the turnpike. The kidnabbers 'll think she 's
drownded! Don't ye see?” And the farmer proceeded to
relate his experience with Dickson, whom he had left holding
the lantern at the stack. The inference was, that if Charlotte
was supposed to be drowned, the kidnappers would abandon the
search.
“But if the story should get out,” suggested Mr. Rukely, in
his bewilderment.
“Jest make sure o' 'Tildy Fosdick, and I don't see how it
anyways can!” said Mr. Jackwood. “For my part, I shan't
let on to my own family 't Cha'lotte 's found. Then where 's
the danger? You han't no scruples agin keepin' her, of
course!”
“No scruples, — that is, the laws of the country —”
Mr. Jackwood smote the palm of his hand with his fist with
an energy that made the other start. “I — I tell ye what!”
cried he, in a determined tone. “I respect the laws, an' I don't
think I 'm a bad citizen, gen'ly speakin'! I don't go in for mobs
an' linchin', nuther! But, come case in hand, a human critter 's
o' more account to me than all the laws in Christendom! `As ye
do it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye do it unto
me;' that 's my doctrine. Christ never stopped to ask whuther
't was lawful to do a good deed, but went and done it! But,
excuse me, — you 're a minister, an' you know better about them
things 'n I do.”
Mr. Rukely grasped the farmer's hand. His eyes glistened,
and there was a noble emotion in his face. “You can depend
upon me,” said he, fervently.
“God bless you sir! I knowed it!” cried Mr. Jackwood, the
tears coursing down his weather-stained cheek. “When there 's a
duty to be done to a feller-mortal, you an't the man to stop an'
look arter the consequences.”
“Not in such a case,” said Mr. Rukely. “I find” — wringing
the farmer's hand again — “that there 's a difference between
reasoning from the intellect and acting from the heart.”
“You must have found out that long ago, sence you 've begun
arly to preach from the heart. I heerd one o' yer sarmons once;
't was on the uses o' the Sabbath; an' one thing you said in it has
stuck by me to this day. You said, `Christ is a law unto himself,
and he who has his spirit within him,' you said, `can do no
wrong.' That spirit is love, an't it?” cried Mr. Jackwood;
“'t an't policy; and it han't nothin' to do with compromises.”
“True!” said Mr. Rukely. “It is love, and with it goes
faith; and with faith, earnestness and courage, such as yours!”
Mr. Jackwood brushed away his tears, and held the minister's
hand in both of his. “I han't no more to say; but, if I don't
come down an' hear you preach to-day, 't 'll be because I can't git
over! I must be goin' now; my folks 'll be consarned about me,
an' I ought to git away f'm here 'fore people are stirrin'. I on'y
want to say a cheerin' word to her, then I 'm off!”
Bertha had packed her friend away in the warmest kind of
a nest; and there the farmer found her, unable to move
hand or foot, for the comforters that enveloped her, but not
unable to smile a faint smile of affection and thanks upon her
preserver. “Mr. Rukely 's all right!” he whispered, bending
over her. “So don't worry; you 're safe!”
Charlotte murmured something; the farmer did not hear the
words, but he felt the thought, for it shone gratefully in his countenance;
and, turning away quickly, to prevent a tear from falling
upon her face, he called Bertha and her husband.
“The best good-by I can say is to leave her in your charge.
I 'll hear from ye all, some time!” The farmer's voice was
stifled. “Wal,” — with an effort, — “remember I 'm comin' over
to hear you preach to-day!” He mounted his horse at the door,
and rode away in the storm. Then Mr. Rukely thought of his
great sermon lying upon the table, and of Charlotte lying there
in the bed-chamber: the one, a creature of his brain, a tissue of
ingenious theories and precepts; the other, a living reality, a child
of the One loving Father; a being of vital breath, affections, aspirations,
and an immortal soul.
“Will you see if that brandy is hot?” asked Bertha, from the
bed-chamber. The brandy was not hot; and Mr. Rukely, glancing
furtively towards the chamber, took his great sermon quietly from
the table, and thrust it into the stove. “What are you doing?”
cried his wife.
“I am heating the brandy,” my dear.
“That was your sermon!” exclaimed the astonished Bertha.
“My sermon?” repeated the minister. “Well, I hope it will
do good! I shall preach an old one, to-day; that one on the
uses of the Sabbath, which you must remember, since Mr. Jackwood
recalls it to my mind, and quotes from it. I shall preach
my sermon for the new year next Sunday.”
Mr. Rukely was ordinarily a man of such cool temper and
calm judgment, that Bertha, who had never known him do so
impulsive a thing in all his life, thought him insane.
“As soon as you have leisure,” said he, “I will give you
reasons for what I have done. They will surprise you more than
the action itself.”
Bertha administered the hot brandy, and rubbed Charlotte's
limbs until she got them warm; when the patient appearing to
sink into a slumber, she left her, to hear her husband's story.
Ah! if there was a difference between writing a sermon from the
head and living one from the heart, so was there between hearing
one with the ear only, and feeling one in the soul! Bertha was
awake now; Bertha no longer gave a cold and drowsy approval
of what she heard; Bertha, whose thoughtless tongue, like many
another thoughtless tongue, had said yea and amen to plausible
theories a half-hour since, astonished her husband now by the
energy and passion with which she espoused Charlotte's cause.
“I did well, then,” said he, “to burn the sermon!”
“I only know,” replied the excited Bertha, “that a thousand
sermons could not change me with regard to Charlotte! What
shall we do with Matilda?”
Matilda could not be kept in ignorance, if she remained in the
house; neither could her services be well dispensed with at that
time. It was accordingly agreed that the safest way would be to
confide the secret to her, and rely upon her fidelity. She was
called from the chamber; and Mr. Rukely sat by Charlotte while
Bertha, in the other room, awaited the girl's appearance.
Miss Fosdick came down with her hair uncombed, and her
dress unhooked, looking ill-humored and sleepy. “'T an't late,
after all,” she said, looking at the clock. “It 's Sunday morning,
I thought I could lay abed.”
“I had some news to tell you,” replied Bertha.
“O, have you? What is it about?”
“You know Miss Woods, at Mr. Dunbury's?”
“O, I know of her; though I 'm not personally acquainted,”
replied Matilda, simpering. “People say Hector is paying
attention to her. I don't care, I 'm sure; though I might have
been in her place, I suppose. You did n't know, perhaps, that
Hector came for me, the very day he found Miss Woods at your
house? I 'd been two terms to Kiltney; and Mrs. Dunbury
wanted me for a companion. I should have gone, only you
know I an't obleeged to go out for a living; and while we was
talking it over, Livia and Patra made such a fuss, all through
went in my place; but I don't care — she is welcome; though,
if I had taken up with the invitation, who knows what might
have happened? 'T an't as though I was in such a great hurry
to get a husband! But what about her? Are they going to be
married?”
“Matilda, it is very sad news I have to tell you!”
Matilda, brightening: “Is it? I am dying to hear!”
Here Bertha, deeply affected, told the story of Charlotte, yet
concealing the fact that she was at that moment sleeping in the
adjoining chamber. Matilda could not sufficiently express her
wonder and astonishment.
“And what would you do,” asked Bertha, “if she should come
to you, and you could help her escape?”
It is not to be denied that Matilda felt a secret delight in
Charlotte's misfortune. But, aside from the natural envy and
selfishness of her disposition, she was not a bad-hearted girl;
and she gave the answer Bertha desired she would. It was as
much pride, perhaps, as genuine benevolence, that would have
been gratified in rendering assistance to one in Charlotte's position;
but Bertha did not stop to analyze her motives. She
believed her sincere; it was all she asked; and then proceeded to
unfold the remainder of the story.
Charlotte, meanwhile, passed from the sleep or stupor that
had taken possession of her senses into the pain and delirium
of fever. Alarmed by her restlessness and moaning, Mr.
Rukely rapped on the door for Bertha. She entered; Charlotte
appeared to awake, and she spoke to her; but the poor girl,
not recognizing her, called for Hector to give her a glass of
water.
“Here, dear Charlotte!” said Bertha, raising her head, that
she might drink.
“No!” The sufferer put her feebly away. “Hector! where
is he?” She looked wildly about the room. Bertha endeavored
to pacify her; but she no longer knew her friends.
“I dreamed,” said she, “that somebody was drowned in that
horrid place! Tell me, was it Hector?”
| XXXVIII.
MR. RUKELY'S GREAT SERMON. Neighbor Jackwood | |