CHAPTER II.
`I feel it not.'—`Then take it every hour.'
`It makes me worse.'—`Why then it shows its power.'
—Crabbe.
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`The doctor's come, Miss Rosalie,' said a woman, opening
the door of that very third story room. `Been spry, aint
he? I shouldn't wonder if his horse was somethin' more
than common. But he's come, anyway. What's to be done
with him?'
`Show him up here, Martha.'
And as the door closed the young lady's eyes came
back to the bed by which she sat.
A child lay there, in that drowsiness which is of fever,
not of sleep; to which the hot cheek and uneasy posture
alike bore witness. She was not undressed, for the arm
that lay above her head displayed a short merino sleeve at
the shoulder; and at a very small distance down the bed
one little shoe of childish cut moved restlessly from under
the shawl fringe that half covered it. With what quick and
fluttering action the fringe about her throat was stirred, the
watcher noticed painfully; and softly drew it away, and was
rewarded by the half unclosed eyes, and the lips that met to
thank her.
`You have been asleep,' Rosalie said, resting her own
upon them.
`I don't know,' said the child dreamily. `Who's that
coming up-stairs?'
-- 009 --
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`Doctor Buffem.' And even as she spoke, a long-continued
and portentous creaking of boots came to a sudden
stop at the door,—Doctor Buffem having paused for breath
and admittance. The last was the easiest obtained.
`What the mischief! Miss Rosalie,' he said with some
impatience. `Why don't you emigrate to the stars at
once? Venus would suit you well enough, or you might
get a situation in Mars, you're of such a warlike disposition.
You haven't got sense enough for Pallas, or you'd never be
caught in the third story of a house while there were two
below it.'
`I thought it would be quieter up here,' Rosalie said,
with a face that was grave only because she had no heart to
smile.
`Nonsense!' said the doctor, `I should like to hear
anybody make a noise in this house for once. Quieter! At
this scale of elevation `the music of the spheres' is overpowering.
' And putting his hands behind him the doctor
marched off to the window, and with a very panting enunciation
gave,—
`Yon tall anchoring bark
Diminish'd to a cock,—her cock a buoy.
The fishermen that walk the beach
Appear as mice.'
Very particularly comfortable he looked, with his gold
spectacles and gold-headed cane; and a head of his own
which if not all of the same precious metal, had at least
`golden opinions.'—A singular contrast to the figure standing
by the bedside, and wishing very intently that his gesticulations
might have an end.
`Well, what's the matter with the child?' he said, wheeling
suddenly round as if her existence had but just occurred
to him. `Out of breath with running up stairs, eh?'
-- 010 --
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And throwing down the shawl Dr. Buffem took the little
hand in his, and scientifically applied his three fingers to the
wrist.
`All dressed,—ready to go to Albany,' he remarked.
`Let's see your tongue. S, c, a, r,' said the doctor, looking
round at Rosalie.
She gave no answer—that he could see, and none for him
to hear. One quick bound of the heart—a bright spot that
came and as quickly left her cheek, and she stood there as
before, the hands perhaps holding each other in a somewhat
firmer clasp.
The doctor replaced the shawl, straightened himself up,
and began to talk.
`Here's a fine case,' he said; `but I guess you and I can
manage it. What sort of a nurse will you be, hey?'
`The best that I can, sir.'
`Hum—ah'—said the doctor, with a recollective glance
at Rosalie's black dress which sent a thrill to her fingerends,—
the wound would not bear even that slight touch.
`Yes, I guess you'll do. Got a thermometer about the
house?'
She bowed assentingly.
`Have it up here, then,—hang it anywhere except over
the fire and outside the window, and keep it just at 70°,—
no hotter, no colder. And don't let in more than half the
sunlight at once,—keep the rest till afternoon,' said Doctor
Buffem, walking off to the windows and closing the shutters.
`You're so close to the sun up here, Miss Rosalie, that
he'll put out the eyes of well people if you give him a chance.
There—I'll leave you one crack to put your face straight
by,—important duty that in a sick-room. I'll come in
again by-and-by, and bring you some powders,—came off
without 'em this morning. And get her undressed and put
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to bed,' he added, with a nod at the sick child. `She won't
want to take much exercise to-day nor to-morrow. Ever
had it yourself?'
`No sir.'
`Well—no, it's not well; but it can't be helped. Take
care of you famously if you do get it.'
`What is the matter with me?' said the little patient,
now speaking for the first time.
`Only scarlet fever,' said the doctor,—`that's not much.
Worst thing is, it makes one look like a lobster.'
`Shall I be sick a great while?' said the child again.
`Hum—' said the doctor,—`depends entirely. Not if
you make haste and get well. I'll cure you up in no time.'
The words seemed satisfactory enough, but they failed to
give satisfaction. Hulda looked away from him to her
sister, finding comfort in her look and smile, grave as they
both were.
The doctor fidgetted about the room, kicked the fire,
came back to ask questions, then stamped off to the door.
`Hark you, Miss Rosalie,' he said, `don't forget why I
left that crack in the window-shutter. Good-bye—I'll see
you again this evening. And keep your spirits up,—there's
nothing in life to put 'em down.'
But Rosalie thought that there was many a thing in life
to do that office for her spirits had they needed it. In life!—
With that thought came one of life's great antagonist, and
sitting down once more by the bed she took her little sister
on her lap, and began very tenderly that work of undressing
which the doctor had recommended. Was there anything
in death to depress her?
There had been,—the tokens of his power were not less
plain upon her face than in her dress; and now—human
nature lived still! Before those two sisters could be
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separated many a band must give way that passed about them,
unseen in this world, but forming to the eyes of angels a
golden tissue of love and confidence. Rosalie felt as if some
hand were trying its strength even now. There was something
in these quiet preparations for suffering that tried her
extremely; and to brace her mind for possibilities, without
that sudden strength which an emergency gives, was very
hard. And more than once was her hand passed across her
face with that feeling of which Rutherford wrote,—`O how
sweet it is for a sinner to put his weakness in Christ's
strengthening hand!—Weakness can speak and cry, when
we have not a tongue.'
`Do you think I shall get well, Alie?' said little Hulda,
looking up at her.
`I trust so, my darling.'
Steady and sweet the voice was as ever.
`Then what makes you look sorrowful?'
`Because you look sick. Is not that enough to make
me sorrowful?'
`No,—not if I'm going to get well soon.' And as if
but half satisfied with her sister's face, Hulda repeated,—
`Isn't he a good doctor? Won't he cure me?'
`I believe he is a very good docter; but dear Hulda I
trust you in better hands than his.'
The child smiled with a perfect understanding of her
words,—a look so quick and bright, that Rosalie was silent
until her little charge was laid in the bed. Then Hulda
spoke.
`Say that to me again.'
`I have done as the people did when Jesus was in the
world,' Rosalie answered,—`when they brought their sick
and laid them down at Jesus' feet, and besought him that
he would heal them.'
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`I wish you would ask him again,' said the child wearily
closing her eyes, `for my head aches very much.'
And kneeling down with the little hand fast in hers,
Rosalie spoke once more the words of submission and entreaty,—
that strange mingling of feeling which none but a
Christian can either know or rest in. When she arose
Hulda was asleep.
Carefully drawing the drapery around the bed corner, so
as to shield the child's eyes yet more from the light, Rosalie
began to busy herself in arranging the room for its new use.
Unnecessary articles were put out, and the needful brought
in; and the closet was so filled and arranged that the rest of
the house should be but little called upon. At first Rosalie
had half determined that none of the servants should be
allowed to enter the sick-room; but Martha Jumps, light of
heart as of foot, having declared that nothing short of a dismissal
from the house should keep her from going where she
pleased in it, she was made an exception,—and forthwith
moved about with a great access of dignity.
`There aint the least bit of squeak leather in my shoes,
I can tell you,' said Martha in a whisper, which low as it
was penetrated to the remotest corner of the room. `I could
walk over hatching eggs and not scare the chickens. Tom
Skiddy says—What next, Miss Rosalie?'
`That little thermometer that hangs in the front room
down-stairs, Martha—and my desk, and the trivet.'
`Theometers, hey,' said Martha,—`that aint just the
sort of doctor's stuff I took when I was a child, and yet I
growed up as fast as most folks, too. What's the good of
theometers?'
But she brought it.
`Has Mr. Thornton come home?' was Rosalie's last
question.
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`Not he!' said Martha emphatically. `The idea! And
what use, after all?'
`Ask him to come up here as soon as he does, Martha.'
And then she sat down quietly to wait—that hardest of all
things to do.
The sun was not long in finding his way to the horizon,
and the darkness which had lain hid until his departure
came forth,—at first slowly and tarrying in corners, then
marching with swift steps over the whole city. The crowd
gave way before her; foosteps were few and distinct; the
hum and the roar were past; and every carriage now had
credit for just its own noise and no other. The doctor had
come on his promised visit, and had left medicine `to be
taken when she wakes up;' and still Rosalie sat there alone
in the dim light from the fire, and the far off and shielded
candle. The winds were whispering at the corners of the
house, and anon sighing around it,—now raising and now
depressing their voices, but never entirely silent. Footsteps
now had a character and meaning, coming out as they did
from the deep stillness and passing into other stillness as
deep; and as an oyster-man went slowly through the street
with his cart, his deep monotonous cry of `Oys—ters!'
chimed wildly and yet soothingly with the universal tone of
all things else.
And so passed the evening until a loud ring sounded
through the house, and the new comer had sprung up stairs
and entered the sick-room, almost before the startled bell
clapper had regained its equanimity.
`Hush!' was Rosalie's first greeting.
`I thought you wanted to see me,' said the young man,
with a but half-checked step.
`Yes, but softly—you will wake Hulda.'
`No disparagement to your eyes, my dear—which are
-- 015 --
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as fine as can be no doubt—but I also must lay claim to
some powers of vision. Hulda has been watching me ever
since I came into the room. Now what is your pleasure?
Martha having screamed `scarlet fever!' after me as I came
up-stairs, I am prepared for any disclosures. Is that really
the state of the case?'
`So Dr. Buffem says.'
`Well I suppose he is at least on a par with his brethren
in sagacity,' said Thornton, sitting down on the edge of the
bed. `How do you feel, young one? Hey-day!—don't
you want to be kissed?'
`No,' said Hulda, who had turned her face very decidedly
away. `You've been smoking.'
`What a little goose you are!' said her brother, laughing
and standing up again. `And I suppose I may not
even shake hands with you, my Lady Squeamish?'
But the lips that were hastily offered him showed no fear
of his, and the hand that rested on his shoulder had no
touch but of sisterly affection—unless a little want of comfort
mingled therewith. Thornton returned the embrace
very heartily.
`You are a dear girl,' he said, `with all your prejudices.
Now don't trouble yourself about this child—I daresay she
will do well enough. Would it be any comfort to you if I
sat up with her to-night?'
`No,' said Rosalie, with a smile which she could not repress
at the very idea; `for then I should have two people
to take care of instead of one.'
`What are you going to give her?'
`Something I have here—I don't know what;—at twelve
o'clock, Dr. Buffem said.'
`Well I will come in then and see how you get on, and
give her the medicine.'
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A very needless offer, but it was not refused; and when
little Hulda awoke at midnight from uneasy dreams to the
dazzling candle, it was to see the medicine spoon in the
hands of Thornton, and that plan of arrangements sanctioned
by her sister's quiet presence and smile. But it was
Rosalie's arm that raised her up, and it was on Rosalie's
bosom that her head lay; and if Hulda dreamed of angels
that night, they all wore Rosalie's face.
-- 017 -- p737-022
CHAPTER III.
Out of the day and night,
A joy has taken flight.
—Shelley.
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For several days the doctor's visits were short and frequent;
and his conversation was made up of little abrupt questions
and ejaculations, assurances to Hulda that if he killed her he
would have her buried, and earnest requests to Rosalie that
she would furnish him with another patient. His first step
was always towards the window; and having admitted a few
of the proscribed sunbeams, he came back to the bed and
made his observations, and once more closed the shutter.
Counsel and warning about antimony and apple-water took
up what further time the doctor saw fit to bestow in this
quarter of his round; and then the room was left to the unquiet
motions of the sick child, and the gentle and tender
ministering of her nurse. Sometimes when Hulda was more
than usually at ease, her eyes followed Rosalie about the
room—watching with a dreamy pleasure the perfect doing of
the one person whom she thought perfect,—noticing the
noiseless placing of a stick of wood on the fire, and the
laughing answer which the flames gave thereto; and sometimes
her thoughts were held fast for a while, as the white
ashes came over the red coals, and then dropped off, or the
sap went singing out at the end of the stick, or the stick itself
broke and fell down over the andirons. But her eyes
-- 018 --
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got tired with the light and went after Rosalie, who was
perhaps arranging the cups and napkin on the little stand;
and if she went into the closet Hulda knew she had gone for
an apple, and watched with some interest while the apple
was made fast to a string, and that again to the mantelpiece.
Then she noticed the desperate twists of the apple
when it found itself at liberty to twist; and turning her
head a little she listened to hear the first spurt of the apple-juice,
and watched the bright drops as they came back from
their tangent and fell into the little silver plate that awaited
them; while the apple having waltzed to its heart's content,
presented a steady front to the fire and rebelled against
being roasted all round. Often Hulda fell asleep here, and
then awoke in time to see the refractory apple, all brown
and shrivelled, cut loose from the string and shut up in a
silver pitcher with plenty of boiling water. At this point
she always felt thirsty, and was quite ready for the tumbler
by the time it came to her bedside; but though Rosalie
held her up, and managed glass and spoon to admiration—
tasted the apple-water too, lest it might be not sweet or not
cool enough—Hulda could take but a few spoonfuls, and
was glad to lie down again.
Thornton's visits were a little variety, but of no other
use; though he always wore a look as if he knew he ought
to do something, and hadn't the remotest idea what,—a look
which his sister understood perfectly, and read with sometimes
a smile and sometimes a sigh. The visits were always
short. Hulda could bear very little talking or reading,
and her greatest comfort was to have Rosalie's face on
the pillow with her own, and to hear from her lips a verse of
a hymn or from the Bible, or some little story or incident,
or a few of her own sweet and quiet words. No one else
entered the room, except to bring wood and water and
-- 019 --
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Rosalie's meals; and on these occasions Martha Jumps restrained
as much as possible her own love of talk, and said
not many words more than were needful. The sounds from
the street became to little Hulda's ear almost what they
were to her sister's; and in the still, late evening she lay and
listened to the oyster-man, with a strange feeling of dreariness
and pleasure. And as in health, so in sickness, the
morning never rose and the evening never fell, that Rosalie
did not kneel by her little sister, and pray with her and for
her in just such words as she could understand. Martha
Jumps stayed her foot if perchance she entered the room at
those times; and Thornton more than once found himself
there, and wished himself away, and did not go.
`I wonder what Dr. Buffem would say to such proceedings!
' he remarked one evening, when he had come softly
in during the prayer and had stood watching and listening—
too proud even to bend his head. `In my opinion he
would call them feverish. What would you say, Rosalie, if
I should report— and if the doctor should issue contrary
orders?'
`I should hear them,' she answered with a smile that
told very plainly what more she would do.
`And by what token, my sage sister, do you prove yourself
wiser than your physician?'
`O—by not `thinking of men above what is written.”
“A most complete lady in the opinion of some three beside
herself!” said Thornton. `Nevertheless I stand to
the feverishness.'
`But it couldn't make me feverish,' said Hulda, putting
in her word with a voice as pale and thin as her face. `I
like it—always.'
`Like it, you pickaninny! You don't know what you
like.'
-- 020 --
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`It would be strange,' said Rosalie with a very gentle
look at Hulda, and then turning one no less gentle but of
somewhat different expression upon Thornton. `It would
be strange if a child brought up as she has been, to look
upon God as her best friend, should be disturbed or wearied
by all mention of his name.'
`You are looking marvellously pretty to-night,' was
Thornton's cool reply, while he surveyed his sister as if he
had not the remotest idea what she was talking about. `I
only hope you will keep on these wrappers when you come
down stairs again. I am as tired of seeing you in that
black dress as a man can be of seeing you at all, I suppose.
Here—don't turn off with that face;—look up and kiss me
before I go. What are you so grave about?'
She gave the required kiss but not the required answer;
and moving away to the fire-place began to pile together the
fallen brands—arranging and altering, as if in no haste to
have the task finished.
`Well—what?' said Thornton following her. `What
have I said that was so dreadful? Did you never hear that
`A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn?”
`You speak as if you did not know why I wear that
black dress,' she said without looking at him.
`I don't know why the wearing is in the present tense,
I'm sure. Give me the tongs—you know as much about
fires as about some other things. I say it is a fashion I cannot
abide; and if one must follow popular superstition for
a time, the less time the better. Such a fire!—put together
as if the world went by suggestion!'
`The world does not go by pounding,' said Rosalie,—
`and your fire is going up chimney in the shape of sparks.
Hadn't you better suggest to it to blaze?'
-- 021 --
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`I never made suggestions,' said he throwing down the
tongs. `What I've got to say comes out head first. Now
here you persist in shutting yourself up, and trying to be as
nun-like as possible. I wonder you submit to be called
Rosalie! Why not `Sister Ursula,' or some such sweet
appellation?'
`I should not like to undertake any more Sisterhoods
than I belong to at present,' said Rosalie with a slight
smile.
`Well, leave off that dress, will you?' said Thornton.
`I abominate hoods of all kinds! And let us have pleasant
recollections instead of disagreeable.'
`Disagreeable!' She stood silent and still, while the
flickering light of the fire played over her face, and mingled
curiously with the feelings that flitted to and fro there.
`Oh Thornton!' she said; `would you forget our
mother?'
Her hands were laid upon his shoulders now, and her
eyes looked clear and full into his. He would willingly
have freed himself from that light touch of reproof and
sorrow, yet he did not try; but his own eyes fell, and it
was with a very changed and softened expression that he
answered,
`I would sometimes forget if I could that she is not
here.'
She might have filled that mother's place for the way in
which she looked at him. And then laying her head on
his shoulder, while her hands were clasped about his neck,
Rosalie said,—
`If you could. But oh my dear brother! never forget
where she is! I would I could keep that before you every
minute of your life.'
If the wings of the recording angel had touched him,
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and the book been laid open before his eyes, Thornton could
not have felt more sure that a new prayer for him was registered
in heaven. And yet he did not answer according
to that assurance—and there was no more spoken; for when
Rosalie raised her head it was to bid him once more `Goodnight,
' and he left her without a word.
Hardly had little Hulda eaten that small allowance of
tea and biscuit which she called her breakfast, next morning,
before the doctor made his appearance. But everything
was ready for him, and the room not only wore a comfortable
but a comforted aspect; for Rosalie's face was a
shade less anxious, and Hulda's face several shades more
bright. So in answer to the doctor's inquiries she told him
that she was a great deal better; though indeed she had
been `better' every time he had come.
`I shouldn't wonder if you were to be quite a respectable
looking child, after all,' said Dr. Buffem, bending down
to impress his approbation upon Hulda's forehead. `One
of these days—if you keep on. Feel most like an oyster or
a clam this morning?'
`I don't know how they feel, sir,' said Hulda laughing.
`Don't laugh,' said the doctor—`that will never do.
Not sick yet, Miss Rosalie? I had strong hopes you would
be by this time. She looks like an oyster, don't she, Miss
Tom Thumb?'
`No indeed!' said Hulda, quite forgetting her own
name in the one bestowed on her sister; `not a bit!'
`You think not?' said the doctor. `Well I could swear
there had been pearls in the vicinity—`A sea of melting
pearl, which some call tears.' Who's been eating honey?'
`O Rosalie had it for her breakfast,' said Hulda.
`Hum—' said the doctor—`what have you had for yours?
Eaten a whole beefsteak, eh?'
-- 023 --
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`May I have some beefsteak?' said Hulda.
`Why no,' said Doctor Buffem, `I should think not.
Wait a day or two, Miss Rosalie, and then give her beefsteak,
and a little antimony, a soda biscuit, a cup of chickenbroth,
a buckwheat cake, a little salts or magnesia or castor
oil—whichever she likes best—an oyster, a clam, a cup of
tea; keep the room at 70°, and the sunlight out of doors,
and then read Cowper.'
As the doctor stamped out of the room, Rosalie sat
down by Hulda, and putting her arms round her laid her
own head on the pillow, with a feeling of thankfulness that
was too weary to do aught but rest. And rest fell like the
dew upon sun-touched flowers. But before six quiet minutes
had ticked away, the door opened again to admit Martha
Jumps.
`Here's a to-do!' she said. `Here's been Mrs. Arnet
secluding herself down-stairs, to spring upon the doctor as
he come down, for to find out whether she could see you
with safety, as she says. And the doctor gave it to her well.
He said there wasn't no danger for nobody but you; and he
didn't think as it was quite safe, lookn' at it in that light,
but he guessed you could stand it, he said. So now the
sooner the quicker, Miss Rosalie. She smells dreadful strong
of pickles.'
With this forewarning Rosalie felt no surprise that her
visiter's salutation kept at the safe distance of a somewhat
warding-off bow of the head; and as she herself did not feel
impelled to advance nearer, they took chairs at opposite sides
of the fire.
`Do you consider Hulda to be out of danger?' began
Mrs. Arnet—who looked very much like a butterfly deprived
of its moral expression.
`The doctor so considers her,' said a sweet voice from
the other side of the fire-place.
-- 024 --
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`Well, my dear, he is quite right in endeavouring to
keep up your spirits, but at the same time I must tell you
that amendments are precarious things. Mrs. Forsyth lost
a child with scarlet fever only last week, and she had been
supposed to be out of danger for several days. It is a
shocking disease.' And Mrs. Arnet made free use of her
aromatic vinegar, while Rosalie's heart sought better help.
`When is Marion coming home?' she inquired presently.
`Soon,' said Mrs. Arnet. `I have considered it quite a
providential thing that she should be away just now, for I
am sure nothing on earth would have kept her from coming
to see you.'
Rosalie felt sure of it, too.
`She is so very imprudent,' pursued Mrs. Arnet. `I
believe she would just as soon as not sit up nights with anybody
that had any disease. And if I remonstrated, she
would probably tell me that she was safer there than doing
nothing at home. For my part, I think one owes something
to one's family.'
`And nothing to the family of one's adopted brother,'
thought Rosalie. But she checked the thought, and answered
quietly that family duties could hardly be overrated.
`Which reminds me that I am keeping you from yours,'
said the lady. `How is Thornton? He never comes to see
us now, but I cannot blame him. Give him my best love,
my dear.' And Mrs. Arnet's eyes sought her handkerchief,
and her handkerchief sought her eyes,—but that was probably
the fault of the aromatic vinegar. And too affected for
more words, the lady bent her head graciously and left the
room, giving Rosalie a wide berth as she went. In another
minute Rosalie was up-stairs. There sat Thornton, reading
the newspaper by the side of the sleeping Hulda.
`It is an extraordinary thing to see me, isn't it?' said
he in answer to Rosalie's first look of pleasant surprise.
-- 025 --
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`But I thought you had gone out.
`One must go out in order to come in,' said Thornton.
`If you will promise to come down to dinner to-day, and let
me order it when I like, I will come home.'
There needed no answer but what the eyes gave him.
`You look sorrowful, Alie,' said her brother. `What
has that woman been saying to you?'
`She left her best love for you,' said Rosalie.
Thornton's lip curled with no attempt at disguisement.
`I hope she did not come on purpose to bring it,' he
said. `If her love were in the market, the report would be,
`Supply light, and the market dull.”
`She says,' continned Rosalie, `that if Marion had been
at home nothing could have kept her from coming here.'
Thornton's eye flashed, but he only said, `Of course.'
His sister looked at him, and then at the fire, and then
at him again.
`Oh Thornton! will you never give that one little
promise? for her sake—for mine?'
He answered, `Never!' and went.
-- 026 -- p737-031
CHAPTER IV.
I cannot like the Quakers (as Desdemona would say) “to live with them.” I am
all over sophisticated—with humours, fancies, craving hourly sympathy. I must
have books, pictures, theatres, chit-chat, scandal, jokes, ambiguities, and a thousand
whim-whams which their simpler taste can do without.
—Charles Lamb.
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
The doctor entered his gig and drove swiftly up Broadway,
until the sound of its paving stones gave place to the
regular beat of his horse's feet upon the frozen ground.
Swiftly on—past houses and stores, the main body of the
city, and then the miserable advanced posts of its outskirt
buildings. For the most part the doctor took a vista-like
view between the two brown ears of his horse; but now
and then his wig made a half revolution towards the one
adventurous row of houses that marked the south side of
Walker Street, or when the shouts of the skaters on the
great pond at the corner of Canal, suggested various ideas
that were pleasant only in a professional point of view.
But every boy there skimmed over the smooth ice in utter
defiance of the doctor, his skill, and his wig; and his good
horse Hippocrates, unconscious that the weight he carried behind
him was in any part made up of learning, left pond and
skaters in the far distance, and trotted nimbly on through
the region of market gardens, orchards, and country seats.
As near as might be to one of these the doctor checked
his horse,—or I should rather say, as near as he chose; for
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
though the iron gate was too far from the dwelling to let
even its closing clang be heard, the many tracks on the
road beyond shewed that few vehicles stopped where the gig
had done. But the doctor preferred walking. The long
ride had made him well acquainted with the state of the
atmosphere, and Hippocrates was merrier than he when
they reached the gate. So leaving the boy in the red comforter
to do the best he could under the circumstances, Dr.
Buffem swung to the gate, and strode away through an
avenue of tall trees to the house. In summer they would
have screened him from both sun and wind, but now the
leafless branches only mocked him with the slight shadows
they cast; and the pitiless breath of winter swept whistling
through, until every twig shook and shivered in its power.
The fallen leaves stuck crisp and frozen to the ground;
and if there were any at large they had retreated into corners,
and there lay huddled together.
Dr. Buffem pursued his walk and the wind pursued him,—
the doctor in extreme dissatisfaction at the pinched face
of nature. His own was not suffering in the same way, for
not even the wind could get hold of such cheeks; but still
it was great presumption for the wind to try: and the curiosity
which would fain have made itself acquainted with the
lining of his coat was no less unwarrantable. And though
the sunshine was by no means so inquisitive, the doctor
made up his mind that too much reserve was just as bad as
too little. So he tramped along, pounding the frozen ridges
with his heavy boots, and shaking himself from time to
time to make sure that the enemy had carried nothing but
the outworks. Even the nicely swept porch, and the roses
that were trimmed and trained beyond the wind's power, had
not one approving look. Dr. Buffem made for the knocker;
and after a succession of raps that might have answered for
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
half the Peerage, he gave an echo to the same upon the
porch floor, while his eyes sought Hippocrates in the distance.
The knocks were immediately successful, but the doctor's
back took no note thereof.
`The door stands open, friend Buffem,' said a quiet
voice. `Does thee require aught? The wind is cold.'
`Require?' said the doctor wheeling round—
“`Rest and a guide, and food and fire.”—
`The wind's as keen as nineteen honed razors,—no sort
of a wind to kiss pretty faces. Where are the men?'
`James Hoxton as thou knowest is yet ill,' replied the
damsel, `and Caleb Williams hath gone in search of letters,—
and moreover tendeth not the door at any time.'
`The wiser man he,' replied the doctor. `But James
Hoxton's as well as a fish out of water—wriggling his way
back at full speed. What's the news up in these Northern
regions?—how long since the mercury shook hands with
zero?'
`Here is fire,' said the damsel, opening a side door into
a small specimen of wax work, `and here thou mayest leave
thy clogs. When thou art warm I will conduct thee up-stairs.
'
`Clogs?'—said the doctor. `Well—“every Quakeress
is a lily,”—but even lilies come out of what may be called
mud's raw material. How thee must love John Frost,
friend Rachel. Now then—“Lead on!—I'll follow thee!'”
Along the wide hall and up the broad easy steps of the
old staircase, went Rachel in her sad-coloured gown and
white cap,—fit genius to preside over so spotless a domain;
and after her the doctor, who with some difficulty made her
tripping steps the measure of his own. Trip, trip—a soft
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
stuff-rustle and a slight key-jingle their proper accompaniment;
while the doctor's heavy tread came like some
strange instrument, played out of time.
Rachel crossed the upper hall, and opening the door
into a room that stretched along that end of the house, she
stepped back and left the doctor to enter. The room looked
like the head-quarters of the Fairy Order. Like snowwreaths
hung the curtains—like patches of snow lay napkin
and toilet cover and bed-quilt. The furniture was made of
self-adjusting materials,—the table-cloth probably shook
itself. More polished than `our best society' were the andirons,
and at the same time more reflecting; while the ashes,
too well instructed to fly about the room or fall on the
hearth, followed the soot up chimney. Too dry to sing, the
wood burned noiselessly; only the dancing flames shewed
some vagaries, and declared themselves beyond the sphere
of Quakerdom.
In a quiet tête-à-tête with the fire Dr. Buffem found his
patient; or rather he found her first in one of the reflecting
andirons, which shewed the face and figure that her highbacked
chair concealed.
Her cap, her grey dress, the smooth kerchief that lay
folded across a breast as unruffled, proclaimed her to be of
Rachel's order; but the pure sweetness of her face, the
gravity without a touch of moroseness, spoke a yet more
honourable distinction;—a heart unspotted from the world;
a faith that having laid hold on eternal life, took all in the
life that now is with meek tranquillity. If there was one
ruling expression in her face, it was of charity—“which
suffereth long, and is kind; thinketh no evil; is not easily
provoked; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things.” And as at the advancing step
she half arose, and turned to greet her visitor, Dr. Buffem
thought he had rarely seen a finer face.
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
`Friend Raynor, how art thou?' he said, flourishing out
both hands. “`Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a
bullet? Have I, in my poor and cold motion, the expedition
of thought? I speeded hither with the very extremest
inch of possibility”—unless indeed I had run over Rachel.'
`Friend Buffem, thou art welcome,' said the quakeress
with a smile. `I trust thy haste hath not put thee to inconvenience.
I scarce expected thee to-day,—perhaps, said I,
he will be better pleased to come to-morrow.'
`No indeed,' said the doctor,—`though to-morrow had
been June, while this is without doubt December.'
`The cold hath not then abated?'
`Not the first fraction of a degree,' said the doctor. `It
is the most confoundedly sharp day we've had this winter.'
`Thee must indeed feel it severely if thee indulges in
such expressions,' said the quakeress gravely. `I have
always found, friend Buffem, that inward chafing doeth far
less good than that which is without.'
`Ay, so you say,' replied the doctor, as he toasted his
hands impartially over the fire, `but I like a little of both.
Men's hair won't stay brushed, do what you will, and it
won't be the real thing if you try to make it. No, no—get
your temper up to boiling point and then fizz round a little,—
my word for it you'll get warm.'
`Warm after the manner which savoureth of cold heartedness.
'
`Not a bit of it!' said the doctor, who was putting
himself through all his paces; `cold is flat, and never
savoured of anything. You let the water run in upon the
fire and it'll put it out—therefore heat up your fire and blow
up the water. Nothing like letting off steam once in a
while. Whizz!—Puff!—there you are, reduced to cold
water again; and nobody killed, either.'
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
`Nor hurt?' said the quakeress smiling. `And thee
would get up steam for the very purpose of letting it off, to
no end?'
`Well,' said the doctor, `I should hope it would have an
end, certainly. As to the rest, most people keep it on hand—
blow it off too,—saves an immense number of boilers.'
`It maketh a most uncomfortable noise the while,' said
the quakeress,—`and hath not much sympathy with the
command, “Study to be quiet.'”
`But reflect upon the terrors of an explosion!' said the
doctor. `You don't suppose the same lesson is set for everybody.
It's not in all human nature to be as patient as you
are, my dear lady.'
`Nay, it lieth not in nature at all,' she answered
earnestly, `and yet it may be attained. “Great peace have
they that love thy law, and nothing shall offend them.” But
who requireth thy care at Thornton Clyde's? I hear thou
hast been much there of late.'
`Ah!' said the doctor—`who told you so? “Now
when I ope my lips let no dog bark.'”
`Rachel must needs go into town yesterday,' answered
the quakeress, `and not only did the purse find work, but the
tongue. Thee knows young girls will be gossipping. But
what aileth them there? and who? not Rosalie?'
`No,' said the doctor,—`Hulda. Only scarlet fever.'
`Poor child! poor dear child!' said the quakeress anxiously.
`And is she very ill? does thee think, speaking
after the manner of men, that there is much danger?'
`Not much'—said the doctor,—`speaking, as you say,
after the manner of men. Speaking after the manner of
women, she has been wonderfully sick. But she's better
now.'
`It rejoiceth my heart to hear thee say that. Poor
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
child!—and her dear sister! Sorely tried she hath already
been, and hath borne the trial like a true child of God.'
`Sterling stuff,' said the doctor. `But the child is better,
so you may put all thoughts of a visit out of your head.
I see what you're meditating. You can't be let out of the
house yet. I want to set you up before our travellers get
home.'
A moment's smile was followed by a look of deep grief
and anxiety.
`Alas this war!—when will they get home?' she said
clasping her hands.
`See here,' said the doctor,—don't you get up any
steam; it wouldn't suit your constitution. What's the war
to do?—I never heard in my life that a declaration of war
kept old Boreas in order. Let them set their sails,—he'll
give chase. What 's the date of their last letter?'
`Far, far back; and doubtless Henry hath written since,
but the letter hath failed to come. He pineth to be at home
now.'
`I'll warrant him!' said the doctor,—`and for a brush
with the English, too.'
`Nay, he saith only that all should be in their own country
at such a time,' answered the quakeress deprecatingly.
`Ay—that's it. Why didn't he come last summer, when
the war broke out?—travelling is deucedly inconvenient
now-a-days.'
`Thou speakest unadvisedly, friend. However he would
have come then, doubtless, only Penn—that silly boy—being
ill, it was but brotherly kindness not to leave him.'
`Got himself stabbed in some brawl with those German
students, didn't he?' said the doctor. `I recollect. But
he ought to be cured by this time, if there's a respectable
surgeon on the Continent.'
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
`Henry wrote that he was better,' said the quakeress;
`and if nought hindered they were to take passage in the
War Hawk on the first day of this month.'
`Well she's not in yet,' said Dr. Buffem, `but the United
States is. I suppose you've read the papers this morning?'
`Nay,' she answered.
`Glorious victory!' said the doctor rubbing his hands.
`Decatur has taken the Macedonian, forty-nine guns, and
but twelve men killed and wounded.'
`And in the other vessel?' said Mrs. Raynor.
`A hundred or so—and two hundred prisoners. Glorious,
isn't it?'
The satisfaction on his face was so far from being reflected,
that Doctor Buffem held up both hands, exclaiming,
`A traitor, as I am alive!'
`Truly friend,' replied the quakeress calmly, `I trust
thy life is much surer than thy assertion. But who can
glory or who can joy in such bloody doings!—They seem
not much in the spirit of “Love your enemies.'”
`Mustn't love your enemies so well as to let 'em eat you
up, Mrs. Raynor,' said the doctor—`no kindness in that,—
and for the rest Decatur's as kind hearted a man as ever
lived. Now here for instance—when Capt. Carden came on
board the United States to give up his sword, Decatur told
him he could not take the sword of a man who had defended
his ship so well, but he would receive his hand. Isn't that
a christian spirit?'
`It seemeth like it—though truly forgiveness should be
easy to the conqueror. But the War Hawk claimeth not
to be one of these fighting vessels?'
I guess she carries Letters of Marque,' said the doctor
with a satisfied air.
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
`And may she then even capture other ships on her passage?
'
`Capture them? of course she may—if they don't capture
her,—that's the trade our captains are driving just
now. Better come into port with a prize or two than be
carried off by an H. M. cruiser.'
`Danger either way! I would I had forborne the joy
of his presence and bade him stay there!'
She rested her head on her hands, but the heaving of
her breast alone told of the struggle within.
`Come, come,' said Dr. Buffem, in some doubt how to
treat a case so far beyond the range of his professional skill,—
`he wouldn't have staid there if you had bade him. And
what then?—many a pretty man has smelt powder without
getting singed. The chances are twenty to one of his getting
home in most inglorious safety.'
The quakeress looked up, and her face was very calm—
not even her lip trembled.
`Nay, friend Buffem,' she said, `not so! There is
neither chance for nor chance against; but the will of God.
And truly I know that he ruleth the winds and the waves;
and holdeth the hearts of kings and doubtless the hearts of
seamen too—howbeit the flesh is weak, and faith sometimes
faileth. My all is in his hands,—I will not fear to leave it
there.'
`That's right, that's right,' said the doctor, assenting to
her means of comfort as probably the best that could be
had for her under the circumstances; `keep your spirits up
always, and I'll look out for the War Hawk and bring you
the first news of her. But I want you to get stronger before
she comes—there'll be one pair of good keen eyes on
board.'
The mother's own filled at his words, but she made no
answer.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
`I guess they'll be the best cure, after all,' the doctor
added. `Nevertheless I think I shall send you away for a
month, not for your sake at all, you know—for his. What
do you say?'
`I will go whither thou wilt send me for that cause.
But he is so well, they say, and so joyful with the thought
of returning.'
`Hasn't heard enough from home to content him, I
doubt,' said the doctor.
`I have written even more than seemed needful,' she
answered smiling, `but he hath strangely missed of some of
my letters.'
`Well then it's all settled,' said the doctor. `You're to
go South, and I'm to look out for the War Hawk, and she's
to come just when she likes. Friend Raynor I wish thee
good morning.'
-- 036 -- p737-041
CHAPTER V.
The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost,
No wing of wind the region swept,
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.
—Tennyson.
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
The setting sun shone fairly upon the last day of December;
and as his disk sank lower and lower behind the city,
chimneys and dormant windows and now and then a towering
story, glowed in the clear red light with singular brightness.
The sadder for that. So very fair, and yet the
end!—the end of the day, the end of the year. The last
time the sun might shine upon 1812!—Cold and still the
night set in; and the quiet stars in whose watch the new
year should begin its reign, looked down with bright eyes
upon the subsiding city and its kindling lights.
Rosalie stood watching it all,—watching the people as
they hurried home, the parlour windows lit up, the bright
doorways that appeared and vanished, the happy groups
gathering at tea. She could see them across the way,—
those fair shadows, young and old, moving about in the
bright glow. And in the next house—and the next,—up
and down, as far as she could see;—it was one line of telegraphing.
Nor did the few windows where only firelight
shone, flickering like the joy of human life, look less cheerful.
She remembered the long talks, the sweet counsel
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
given in that dusky light,—the eyes that had looked down
upon her like heaven's own stars; but now the room was
not darker than her heart.
It was not the first time she had stood there watching
for her brother,—she had looked till each frequenter of that
street was perfectly well known. It was not the first time
she had watched in sadness. But she remembered that
there had been a time when she was never suffered to
watch there long — when a gentle hand would be passed
round her waist, and she be drawn away from the window,
with,
`We may not overrule these things, daughter—we must
not be children in whom is no faith. Come and let us talk
of the time when God shall wipe away all tears from our
eyes.'
Pressing her hand upon her heart, Rosalie turned hastily
from the window.
The fire gleamed faintly upon Hulda's little face and
figure, stretched upon the sofa in the perfect rest of childhood;
and above that one bright spot in the room, hung a
picture that gave depth to all the shadows. Rosalie ventured
but one glance at it, and kneeling down at her mother's
chair, she laid her face on the cushion with a bitter
weariness of heart that found poor relief in tears. Yet they
were a relief; and after a while her mind lay quiet upon
those words, “God is our refuge and strength: a very
present help in trouble.”
A soft touch on her neck aroused her, and with an almost
bewildered start Rosalie looked up; but it was `neither
angel nor spirit'—it was only little Hulda.
`Are you sick, Alie?' asked the child.
`No love. Are you awake?'
`O yes,' said Hulda, laughing and wrapping her arms
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
round Rosalie's neck,—`don't that feel awake? Aren't we
going to have tea, Alie?'
`I shall wait for Thornton, but you shall have yours,
dear;' and getting up with the child in her arms, Rosalie
carried her into the tea-room, and fell back into her own
quiet performance of duties.
Hulda was in quite high spirits for her, and eat her supper
on Rosalie's lap with great relish,—a relish partly derived
from returning health, and partly from this first coming
down-stairs.
`I wonder if Thornton hasn't gone to buy me a present!'
she said. `You know it's Newyear's eve, Rosalie, and you
must hang up my stocking.'
`There is no fear of my forgetting that,' said her sister.
`No, for you never forget anything. But I wonder
what'll be in it! Well, we'll see.'
`Yes, we shall see. So put your arms round my neck,
Hulda, and I will carry you up-stairs. It is pleasanter
there than here to-night.'
But the musing fit was strong upon her; and later in
the evening, when her little charge was asleep, Rosalie's
mind could do nothing but wander in a wilderness of recollections.
Not a wilderness in one sense,—how fresh, how
dear, they were!—and yet too much like a sweet land
breeze from the coast that one has left.
Rosalie took out the stocking as Hulda had desired, and
put together on a chair at the head of the bed all the various
trifles that were to fill it; but when she had placed
herself on a low seat before them, the stocking hung unregarded
from her hand, and her thoughts flew away. There
seemed a long vista opened before her; and furthest of all
its objects—yet clear, distinct, even more so than those
near by—she saw herself as a little child; before her eye
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
had learned to know the evil that is in the world, or her
heart had grown up to feel it. What a stream of sunshine
lay there!—
“The sunshine and the merriment,
“The unsought, evergreen content,
“Of that never cold time,
“The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
“Through and through the old time!”
And even in later times, where the shadow of life had
begun to fall, the picture seemed hardly less fair. For about
both, the child and the half-grown girl, had been wrapped
the same atmosphere of love and guidance,—through which
sweet medium all the breaths of sorrow and pain came softened.
Even when they came from bitter causes—her
father's death, her brother's gradual estrangement from
home—his voluntary withdrawing from the hand in hand
intercourse in which they had grown up,—even then there
was sunshine at her mother's side—sunshine for her,—she
had never failed to find it. But it reached not to the dark
foreground; where scorched flowers and blackened stumps
showed that Time had claimed the land, and had cleared it.
But little more than one year ago, Rosalie was nerving
herself for the bitter future. It had come, and she had met
it,—had lived through those first few months of grief not to
be told nor thought of. But though her heart was quieter
now, there were times which seemed to surpass all she had
ever known for intensity of sorrow,—when her very life
seemed to die within her, and desire to live and power to
do could not be found,—when her mind dwelt with intense
longing on the words, “I shall go to her, but she shall not
return to me.” Yet even then God had not forgotten his
child, and in the breaking light her mind rested submissively
upon this other text—“All the days of my appointed
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
time will I wait, till my change come.” And as the last
storm-clouds roll away, and are gilt with the western light,
so upon all her sorrow fell this assurance,—“Blessed are the
dead that die in the Lord—they rest from their labours and
their works do follow them.”
“I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a
token of the covenant between me and the earth!”
Rosalie had dwelt long upon the words, till all thought
for herself was lost in joy for her mother's safety and assured
blessedness, far from the weariness that pressed upon her
own heart; and though the remembrance brought back one
or two tears, they were quickly wiped away, and her whole
soul was poured out in the prayer that she might one day
`go to her,'—and not only she, but the two dear ones yet
left to her on earth. The desire could not be spoken—it
was the very uplifting of the heart,—for them, for herself:
and that she might faithfully perform the work that was put
into her hands.
With a look where sorrow and submission and earnest
purpose and endeavour, were like the pencilling upon a flower
of most delicate growth and substance, Rosalie raised her
head, and saw Thornton before her: leaning against the
bedpost with his arms folded, and eyeing her gravely and
considerately.
`What are you thinking of me for, Rosalie?' he said.
`Cannot you do enough of that work in the daytime, that
you must spend half the night upon it?'
`Are you sure that I have?'
`If I had not been sure of it I should have claimed your
attention when I first came in.'
`And it would have been gladly given.'
`Yes, I dare say,' said Thornton, `but one may as well
take the benefit of all that good angels are amind to do for
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
one. I am almost sorry I did not, though. What have you
got there? stockings to darn?'
`Only Hulda's stocking to fill with presents—you know
it is New-year's eve.'
`Give me credit for remembering something once in the
course of my life. I did recollect that there was a stocking
to fill, and have brought home my quota.'
`I am so very glad!' said his sister with a look of great
pleasure. `Hulda would have been disappointed if you
had forgotten her.'
`She don't owe me many thanks,' said Thornton, as he
watched the fingers that were busy disposing of the presents
and the face that bent over them. `I believe she might
have escaped my memory if her sweet guardian could have
gone with her. But Hulda's presents were to pass through
your hands—No—don't kiss me,—I tell you I don't deserve
it. When you looked up a little while ago, I felt as if you
were up in the sky, and I—I don't quite know where,—so
I'll wait till we both get back to terra-firma again.'
`Do you call me her guardian?' said Rosalie with one
look at him.
`Yes, and mine too. Why didn't you have tea to-night?
Well—you look,—Want to know how I found it out?—
because the table was untouched. Why didn't you?'
`O—I thought I would wait for you,' said she brightly.
`But why did you, after all? Don't you know I'm not
worth the trouble?'
`O Thornton!' she said.
`What?'
`I was not going to say anything.'
`Your saying nothing usually tells all one wants to know,
and a little more. Come, finish your work,—I shall play
guardian to-night, and make you go down and eat as many
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
oysters as an angel can reasonably be supposed to want. So
make haste, for it is time such particular little bodies as you
were in bed.'
He had named her right—she was indeed his guardian
angel.
In the midst of all his reckless absence and waste of
time, in the gayest hours of pleasure among his so-called
best friends, there was still in his inmost heart the pure
image of one Christian, whose profession he knew was not a
name,—whose walk he knew was consistent; whose life
he knew was gladly submitted to a higher will than her own.
And often did that image come up before him, rebuking the
light irreverent talk of his companions, making false their
assertions, and reproving him for even listening and looking
on. His mother had indeed won his respect no less; but
she was older—it seemed more natural, to his notion, that
Christianity and years should come together. But his sister—
young like himself—younger than he,—beautiful, admired,
complimented; and yet maintaining that pure elevation of
heart and mind—that uncorrupted, untainted simplicity of
aim, which not all his most unbelieving desires could find in
those who are living without God in the world:—it vexed
him sometimes, and sometimes it roused his pride and sometimes
his discontent,—yet on the whole it pleased him.
There was a strange kind of fascination in seeing one who
ought naturally to look up to him for counsel and strength,
assume, almost unconsciously, so high a stand above him;
and array herself not more gently than firmly against so
much that he liked and followed. And though he often
laughed at her, sometimes stopped her mouth with a kiss,
and sometimes got excessively provoked,—if he could have
thought her one whit more tolerant of the things which
he tolerated, one jot more indulgent towards the company
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
and the pursuits in which he wasted his life—Thornton
would have felt that the best thing he had in the world was
gone from him. He watched her—she little thought with
what jealous eyes; and at every instance of her unwavering
truth—not only in word, but in that uprightness of heart
which pierces through error and fallacy like a sunbeam—he
smiled to himself; or rather to the best part of his nature
against the worst. And yet upon those very points he
would argue and dispute with her till he was tired. But
this consciousness of her secret influence made him the more
shy of submitting to it openly. He was content to go on
after the old fashion; thinking Rosalie a piece of perfection,
and not much concerning himself whether she were a happy
piece of perfection or no.
-- 044 -- p737-049
CHAPTER VI.
Here she was wont to go! and here! and here!
—Ben Jonson.
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Little Hulda had slept away all the early part of the Newyear's
morning, and it was not till after the rest of the family
had long ago breakfasted that she sat up in bed and
looked about for her stocking. For the doctor gave leave
that she should go down stairs in the afternoon, only upon
the easy condition of her keeping perfectly quiet all the
morning; and now, bundled up in dressing-gown and
shawls, she sat leaning on Rosalie and supported by her
arms, to examine into the mysteries that had hung all night
at the head of her bed. She was weak and pale still, and
the touch of helplessness which illness had given her voice
and manner went to her sister's heart. When Hulda was
well and playing about, recollections came less readily; but
now the season of itself brought enough—the filling of that
stocking had been bitter work,—and when from time to
time Hulda's gentle and still weary-looking eyes were raised
to her sister's face with a smile of pleasure, or her lips put
up to receive a kiss; or her little thin hands were clasped
round Rosalie's neck, while the childish voice spoke its
thanks with such an earnest yet subdued tone,—Rosalie
heard again that truth which she never could forget—they
were both motherless. Not Hulda in effect—her whole love
and dependence had been transferred; and she clung to her
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sister with a trust that perhaps was the strongest she had ever
felt, for it was undivided. But Rosalie—she could love no
one now as Hulda loved her,—she had no one to look up to—
no one to fall back upon in those times of weakness and
weariness that stir the strongest resolution. No one on
earth; and though smile and word and kiss came at Hulda's
bidding, her heart yearned for a more far-seeing sympathy,—
her head longed to lay itself down and rest, even as Hulda's
was resting then. Bitterly she remembered that she was
alone, and for a few minutes her mind bent down as before
a tempest. And then, drawn like Æolian music from the
very breath that made the whirlwind, came the words,
“My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee
rest.”
“The rest that remaineth”—she thought with swimming
eyes; “for surely our heaven lieth not here-away.”
`Hulda dear,' she said presently, bending down to look
at the languid eyelids that could hardly be kept open, `you
are very tired. You must lie down and sleep again, and then
by and by you shall be dressed and go down stairs.'
`But you ought to be dressed.' said the child rousing
herself a little,—`you won't be ready to see people.'
`I am not going to see any body, love.'
`You needn't mind about me,' said Hulda, `I'm so well
now. And Martha could stay here.'
`Martha could not,' said her sister as she laid her on the
bed, `for I mean to have that pleasure myself.'
`O that's very good,' said Hulda, closing her eyes with a
satisfied air; `only it's a pity the people should be disappointed.
'
And so Hulda fell asleep and Rosalie stood watching
her; and the Newyear's sun mounted higher and higher in
the clear sky; but `under the sun' there was nothing new.
-- 046 --
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Unless perhaps the hopes and resolutions,—and they were
but the tying of an old cord many times broken. It was
Newyear's day in name, but it was Old year in reality. The
same bright points—the same dark corners,—the same
strife of human passions and weariness of human hearts,—
the same trembling of the scales of that never-poised balance
of society. There was more leisure taken, and more pleasure
undertaken, than on ordinary days; but among all the
host of pleasure-seekers that now began to spot the streets,
the beggar's hand was still held out; the doctor's gig went
its rounds; and friends looked their last, that Newyear's
morning, at the faces of those to whom the new year had
not come.
“Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is
new?”
“Behold I create new heavens and a new earth; and
the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.”
`Even sorrow shall be forgotten then,' Rosalie thought,
as she stood watching little Hulda.
`Happy Newyear and good morning!' cried a bright
voice, while the door was pushed gently open. `How dost
thou, fair Rosalie?—fairest of all cousins whether real or
adopted. Here am I just arrived in time to dress for visiters,
and that being done, I forthwith turn visiter myself. My
dear your cheeks are as soft as ever, and your eyes as grave;
and your mouth—well I won't detail that combination.'
`How pleasant it is to see you!' said Rosalie; as the
young lady after a variety of salutations held her back within
gazing distance.
`How pleasant it is to see you,—which proves me of a
disposition neither envious nor jealous. What have you
done to yourself, child?—or have I been looking at the
dark side of human nature till my eyes are contracted and
cannot bear the light?'
-- 047 --
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`Nothing has contracted your eyes since I saw them
last,' said Rosalie smiling. `I am in some doubt as to
your judgment. Did you come here bareheaded in this
weather?'
`Had to, my dear, because of my hair—there wouldn't
be time to dress it again when I get home, you know. O I
rode of course,—rumbled through the streets to the envy—
or admiration—of all the gentlemen on foot.'
`No doubt! But would their admiration keep you from
taking cold?'
`O yes—perfectly,—giddy heads never take cold,—you
might as well talk of champagne's freezing. Some one of
my elderly friends is at this moment detailing to mamma—
`My dear madam, I saw Miss Arnet this morning in a most
dangerous situation.'—Nevertheless here I am safe. This
child is better I hear. And how are you, Alie?'
`Well.'
`Well? you don't look it. I saw Thornton in Broadway
with his troop—where was he going?'
`To have a salute fired for the Macedonian, I believe,'
said Rosalie. `A message came for him in all haste to say
that she was just coming in.'
`O that Macedonian!' cried the young lady,—`there
never was anything like it! You know they had a great
naval ball at Washington for Captain Stewart and the rest;
and I was there of course, and everybody else. And the
room was dressed out with all manner of sea things—I
should rather say sea-faring things—and with the colours of
the Alert and the Guerriere on the walls. The city was
illuminated too, that evening, because of the victory: and
everybody was in the best possible spirits. Well about
nine o'clock their was a stir in the room—we could not tell
what about at first,—only the gentlemen began to rush down
-- 048 --
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in the most extraordinary manner, and the ladies stood still
and looked. Then suddenly came the most tremendous
cheering outside the house!—one stream of cheers, that
seemed to have no end; and word came up that Lieutenant
Hamilton had just arrived with the Macedonian's colours!—
it excites me even now to think of it.' She drew a long
breath and went on.
`They all came back in a body presently, bringing Mr.
Hamilton with them; for all his family were there at the
ball. And then Captain Stewart and Captain Hull and
some others, brought in the flag,—with such shouts and
hurrahs and waving of handkerchiefs—and `Hail Columbia'
from the band. And then at supper they toasted Commodore
Decatur and his officers and crew, with ten times
ten, it seemed to me—instead of three times three. My
dear, you never heard people shout as we did.'
`You among the rest?' said Rosalie smiling.
`I don't know—I'm sure I cried. And vos beaux yeux
are sparkling even at my poor account. There go the
guns!'
They both started up and stood listening; and while
all the bells of the city rang out their gladness, the guns at
the Battery gave a response for the old Thirteen—a pledge
that not one of them should be wanting in the contest.
`The bells will ring for an hour yet,' said Marion as the
last report died away, `so you may as well sit down and listen
at your leisure. Poor Mary Laton! how can she bear
all this. Her oldest son was killed in the engagement.
Well, I must go. How lovely you look, child!—these guns
have put colour in your cheeks,—try and keep it for your
visiters—O no, you will not see them. Poor child! and
dear child, and every kind of a child that ever was well beloved,
goodbye.' And giving Rosalie a half dozen kisses
Miss Arnet quitted the room.
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When little Hulda next awoke she found Martha keeping
watch at her bedside.
Not indeed keeping watch of her,—for Martha's eyes
were intent upon four long shining knitting-needles that were
kicking about at a great rate; while below them depended a
short worsted cylinder of clouded blue yarn.
`What are you doing, Martha?' said Hulda.
`Massy! child, how you scar't me! and made me drop a
stitch into the bargain. Why I'm a knittin'—didn't you
never see nobody knit afore?'
`O yes, but not such a looking thing as that,' said Hulda
disapprovingly. `What is it?'
`It's a firstrate lookin' thing, I can tell you,' said Martha—
`firstrate feelin' too. It's a mitten.'
`What's a mitten?' said Hulda, who being a young lady
convalescent and at leisure was well disposed to ask questions.
`Don't you know?—them things people wears on their
hands. It aint a glove, but it kivers a person's hand just as
well—some folks thinks better.'
`O I know now,' said Hulda—`it's like a little bag with
a thumb to it.'
`Well I s'pose it does look considerable like that,' said
Martha knitting away with renewed energy.
`Only a bag is shut up at one end—'said Hulda doubtfully.
`A thing can't be finished till it's done,' said Martha
sententiously.
Hulda looked on for a while in silence.
`Is that little hole for the thumb to come out of?'
`For nothing else,' said Martha.
`But who are they for?' said Hulda,—`that is too big
for you.'
-- 050 --
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`La sakes, Hulda, you aint waked up, be you? I guess
it 'll be some time afore I want mittens to sew in. These is
for the militie.'
`The militia?' said Hulda. `Why they don't want
mittens.'
`Don't they though?—then you know more about it
than Tom Skiddy, for he says his hands gets awful cold
sometimes, mornings. And you see, Hulda, the paper says
the ladies up to Newburgh and Hudson and all along shore
there, has been knittin' their fingers off; and sent I do' know
how many pairs of socks and mittens—six hundred I guess,
more or less—up to the Governor for the militie; and there
was printed thanks to 'em in the paper,—so I don't see why
folks here mustn't do nothing.'
`O yes, Rosalie told me about that,' said Hulda. `But
she said those were for the soldiers away off—somewhere
where it's very cold.'
`'Taint cold here, I s'pose,' said Martha,—`we don't
have to make fires in these parts.'
`But it isn't so cold as some other places.'
`La child, so long's fingers gets froze, it don't make much
odds about the theometer. And fingers can get froze in this
town o' York—Tom Skiddy says so.'
`You like Tom Skiddy very much, don't you?' said
Hulda.
`He aint so bad he couldn't be worse,' replied Martha,
when her head had taken two or three turns as if her mind
were balancing as well.
`But isn't he very good to you?' pursued Hulda.
`Good to me!' said Martha with a gyration of more
dignity,—`he aint got quite so far as that yet. Once in a
while I'm good to him,—and he's pretty good to himself.
That's about the state of the case. Only I may as well give
-- 051 --
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the mittens to the first militie-man that comes handy; instead
of sending 'em off to nobody knows who, nor whether
they'd fit.'
Hulda looked on again thoughtfully.
`Thornton don't wear mittens,' she said.
`I can't see why poor folks should lose their fingers
because the Capting buys yaller gloves,' said Martha. And
inspired by the freezing fingers hers flew the faster.
`How very quick you knit!' said Hulda.
`Don't I, though!' said Martha—`as quick as most folks.
I always was spry. And you see, Hulda, I'll put blue and
white fringe to the top; and the way they'll keep Tom
Skiddy's fingers warm, 'll be a caution.'
-- 052 -- p737-057
CHAPTER VII.
The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray,
And pallid evening twines its beamy hair
In duskier braids around the eyes of day;
Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men,
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen.
—Shelley.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
It was Sunday afternoon; and unlike most perfect things,
the daylight lingered; and a fair specimen of winter drew
slowly to its close. The last sunbeams played persuasively
about the hard-featured city, as if to draw and lead its attention
towards the great light of the world; even as had
the light of truth that day touched some hearts that slowly
moved off beyond its reach.
Little Hulda sat in her sister's lap by the parlour fire;
sometimes putting forth simple questions and remarks in a
very unostentatious way, and sometimes silently following
her sister's eyes, as they gazed upon the fire or looked out
into the darkening light. At the window, half withdrawn
within the curtains, sat Thornton. He had but just come
in, and seemed not to have brought his mind in with him,
for his attention was given undividedly to the street. At
least it seemed to be; but from a certain moody aspect,
from the gloomy air with which he now and then nodded to
a passer-by, his sister judged that his thoughts were busy
not only within doors but within himself. Neither
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
pleasantly nor profitably she thought,—it was more like the
clouds which cover up the day than the darkness which precedes
it.
Afraid that he should think she was watching him, her
eye came back to the fire and then down to the little face
on her breast. Hulda was observing her very anxiously,
but the anxiety broke away and a smile came.
`Are you tired, Alie?' said the child stroking her face.
`A little.'
`Were you out this afternoon?' said Thornton abruptly
turning his head.
`No—I staid with Hulda.'
`You were not with Hulda when I came in?'
`No.'
`Where then?'
`O with some scholars who are older and know less,'
said Rosalie.
`In other words, with your kitchen Bible-class,' said
Thornton in a way which gave the adjective its full effect.
She bowed her head slightly but without looking at him,
and answered, `Even so.'
Her brother eyed her for a minute and then said more
softly,
`What do you do so for, Alie?—it's too absurd, and
wrong. Tiring youself out as if you were not possessed of
common sense.'
`Why you declared yourself `tired out' yesterday,' said
his sister smiling.
`But I had been amusing myself—taking my pleasure.'
`And I have been taking mine.'
`Nonsense! Do you expect me to believe that you like
to hear bad English and worse Theology if it is only kept
in countenance by the kitchen dresser?'
-- 054 --
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`Not Theology at all,' said his sister, `only the Bible;
and that is sweet English to my ear, always. And if it
were not— Thornton, you would have liked to bear a hand
in the destruction of the Bastile?'
`There you are—' said Thornton,—`off on some unpursuable
tangent. The most impossible person to argue with
I ever saw!' and his head turned to the window again.
`I haven't said any hymn to-night, Alie,' said little
Hulda.
`Well dear, it is not too late.'
`O no,' said Hulda, `but I haven't learned any new one.'
`Then tell me one of the old.'
Hulda considered a while, and began very slowly and
distinctly.
“Little travellers Zionward,
Each one entering into rest,
In the kingdom of your Lord,
In the mansions of the blest;
There, to welcome, Jesus waits—
Gives the crowns his followers win—
Lift your heads, ye golden gates!
Let the little travellers in!
Who are they whose little feet,
Pacing life's dark journey through,
Now have reached that heavenly seat
They had ever kept in view?
`I from Greenland's frozen land;'
`I from India's sultry plain;'
`I from Afric's barren land;'
`I from islands of the main.'
`All our earthly journey past,
`Every tear and pain gone by,
`Here together met at last,
`At the portal of the sky!
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
`Each the welcome `Come' awaits,
`Conquerors over death and sin!'
Lift your heads, ye golden gates!
Let the little travellers in!”
Rosalie had listened with her face bent down and resting
upon the child's head; drinking in the words with double
pleasure from those little lips, and blessing God in her
heart for the life and immortality so clearly brought to
light, so simply put forth within the reach of a child's faith.
She glanced towards her brother, but the moodiness was
greater than ever.
`What makes you sigh, Alie?' said Hulda looking up.
`Don't you think that's a pretty hymn?'
`I do indeed. But Hulda, who are these little travellers?
'
`You told me—the children that follow Christ.'
`And what does that mean?'
`You told me,' said Hulda again, with her usual smile
at ascribing anything to her sister. `I remember you said
it was going after him with our hearts more than any other
way. You said that merely to keep some of God's commands
without trying to love him, was like walking backwards.
'
`Yes, the people who are seeking first the kingdom of
God are not yet free from sin—they do slip and fall sometimes—
but that is their grief. Their faces are toward
heaven,—their desire is to do the will of God, because he
has loved them and given himself for them.'
`I wish I could—' said Hulda who was looking gravely
into the fire,—`I do try. I like that hymn so much, Alie.
It's so pleasant to think that there will be all sorts of poor
little children in heaven,—and there they'll be just as happy
as anyone else.'
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
`Yes—' said her sister with a long breath,—`all will be
happy in heaven—and there will be no difference there.
Those gates are open to all who follow Christ, and the
little black children are as free to go in as the white. It is
not any particular nation, nor any particular church, but
“the redeemed of the Lord,” that shall “return and come
to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads.
They shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing
shall flee away.'”
`Aren't you ready to have candles?' said Thornton
suddenly quitting his seat at the window. `It's excessively
stupid sitting here in the dark.'
Rosalie reached out her hand to the bell-cord, while
Hulda exclaimed,
`Stupid! O that was because you were too far off to
hear what Alie was talking about.'
`It was not because I was too far off.'
`But how could you feel stupid, then?' said Hulda.
`I'm sure it was beautiful.'
`It,—what?
`Why, what she was repeating to me.'
`So let it remain then,' said Thornton. `Bring some
more wood, Tom—and last night's paper.'
`You must not expect to find everybody as fond of my
talk as you are, Hulda,' said Rosalie, with an attempt to
bring down the child's look of astonishment. `I am not a
very brilliant expositor.'
`What is an expositor?' said Hulda.
`A person who explains particular passages or books.'
`I think you are brilliant,' said Hulda, with a smile that
certainly was.
`Why don't you ask me who I heard this afternoon?'
said Thornton abruptly.
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
`Gentlemen sometimes prefer to give an unsolicited account
of their movements,' said his sister, with a look and
smile that might have stroked any fur into order.
`You shall have it then,' he answered. `I heard Will
Ackerman and Lieutenant Knolles.'
A flush of deep feeling came to her face and left it as
quickly, but she said nothing; only her eyes which had been
raised to his with interested expectation fell again, and her
cheek once more rested upon Hulda.
`We had a very fine walk,' Thornton went on, `and then
a game of billiards, and so home with the church-goers.'
Still she said nothing, nor raised her head, although its
support was suddenly withdrawn; for Hulda having with
some trouble taken the meaning of such strange words, started
up and exclaimed,
`But it's very wrong to play billiards on Sunday and not
go to church! Don't you know that, Thornton?'
`I know that you concern yourself with what is not
your business,' said the young man hastily, his hand giving
more evident token of his displeasure. But it did not
reach Hulda's cheek, only the shielding hand of her sister.
An indignant outburst was upon the child's lips, but the
same hand was there too; and before Hulda had made up
her mind whether she was too frightened or too angry to
cry, Rosalie had taken her quietly out of the room. Her
doubts were easily resolved then, and long before they had
reached the top of the stairs she was sobbing her little
heart out upon Rosalie's neck. And more for her sister's
wrong than her own,—the shielding hand was kissed and
cried over a great many times before Hulda's grief would
let her speak, or Rosalie's silent agitation submit to control.
She bent herself then to the task of calming Hulda,—checking
her displeased and exited speeches about Thornton,
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
drying her tears, and endeavouring to make her understand
that it was not always best for little girls to reprove their
grown-up brothers. A difficult task! without compromising
either Thornton or the truth.
`I don't care!' was Hulda's satisfactory conclusion,—
`I shouldn't love him if he was fifty times my brother! And
I don't want to.'
`I love him very much, Hulda.'
`I shouldn't think you would!' and a fresh shower of
tears was bestowed upon Rosalie's hand.
`Why my hand was not hurt,' said her sister.
`I don't care!' said Hulda,—`it makes no difference.'
`O you are wrong, dear child,' said Rosalie,—`you must
love him and try to please him. Come, look up—a little
impatience is not worth so many tears.'
The child looked up—inquiringly,—as if she had detected
tears in her sister's voice; but Rosalie's face was calm,
though very, very grave.
`If you will jump down from my lap and ring the bell,'
she said, `Martha shall bring your tea up here, and then we
will talk and you shall go to bed.'
So the bell was rung and Martha came and went according
to directions; but when she came the second time with
the tray, Miss Jumps stood still.
`You aint afraid of getting fat, Miss Rosalie, be you?'
she said,—`cause you'll be in no danger this some time—
that a brave man couldn't face, as Tom says. Now there's
bread and butter down stairs no thicker than a thought, and
beef, and preserves—and I'll fetch you up a cup of tea that
shall smoke so you can't see it. What'll you have? Air's
good enough in its way, but folks can't live on nothing else.'
`Thank you Martha,' said her mistress, `but I am not
ready for tea yet. Ask Mr. Thornton when you go down
how soon he wishes to have it.'
-- 059 --
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`I smell salt water,' said Martha Jumps as she went
down to the kitchen,—`I say I do, sartain sure. One of
my forbears must have been a sailor, and no mistake.
`Tom!—Tom Skiddy!—go up to the parlour straight,
and ask Mr. Thornton if he wants his tea to-night or to-morrow
morning. I guess he'd just as soon wait till morning,—
and I'd as soon he would and a little sooner.'
`It's like enough you'll be gratified then,' said Tom, `for
I was up to the parlour a matter of five minutes ago to ask
when he wanted tea; and all I got was, that when he did
he'd let me know.'
The evening had worn away, and Thornton and the
newspaper still sat vis-à-vis at the table, when the door was
quietly opened and Rosalie came in. He heard her well
enough, but the debating mood he had been in resolved itself
for the moment into a committee of pride and false shame—
therefore he did not speak nor look up. Neither when
her hand was laid on his forehead—and its touch said a
great deal to him, as the fingers stroked back and played for
a moment with his hair—did he see fit to notice it.
`Thornton,' said she softly, `I wish you would put up
the paper and talk to me.'
`Because you do not wish me to read the paper, or because
you do wish to talk—which?'
`A little of both.'
`Well—' and he sent the paper skimming across the
table— `there.—Now I am ready to hear what you've got
to say. Let me have the lecture at once and be done with
it.'
`I have no lecture to give,' she said gently. `I am
neither wise nor strong-hearted enough to-night.'
`I should think you were troubled with small doubts of
your own wisdom,' said Thornton,—`why did you interfere
between me and Hulda?'
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
`To save her from unmerited punishment.'
`Unmerited! she was excessively impertinent.'
`She did not mean to be—you forget what a child she is,—
and that you are her brother.'
`And therefore she may say what she likes, I suppose,'
said Thornton. `It's a privilege to have sisters at that
rate!'
He had not looked at her since she came in, but the
pure image in his heart was never brighter than at that
moment—he felt what a privilege it was.
`Yes,' Rosalie answered, as she knelt at his side with
her hand on his shoulder. `Yes—it is a privilege to have
sisters—and brothers,—to have any near and dear friends
in this wide world;—an unspeakable blessing.'
`Is that the blessing you have been crying over to-night?
' said Thornton, glancing at her in spite of himself.
`It seems not to afford you much satisfaction. I wish you
would speak out at once!' he added impetuously. `Why
don't you tell me that I have done all manner of bad things—
shocked you, disgraced myself, and so forth? Say—why
don't you?'
`Because you had said it all to yourself before you came
home,' she answered steadily and without looking at him.
The words were spoken very gently but in a way not to
be contradicted—if indeed he had been so inclined; but
among all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, that
went to make up Thornton's character, a few had never
been tampered with. Foremost among these stood truth.
The very feeling which had moved him to tell how he had
spent the afternoon, was partly good and partly bad. The
strong contrast of the quiet rest of Rosalie's hope with his
own restless cravings, had wrought upon a mind dissatisfied
with itself till for a moment he was willing to make her
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
dissatisfied; but another feeling had wrought too in prompting
the disclosure—the consciousness that she thought he
had been more faithful to her wishes than was the truth.
Therefore when she told him that he was displeased with
himself, no word of equivocation passed his lips; though he
coloured deeply.
`You speak with sufficient boldness!' he said. `And
you do not call this lecturing one?'
`No,' she said in the same quiet way, and resting her
cheek on his shoulder. `Neither do you. But you try so
hard not to understand your own thoughts sometimes, that I
thought I would give you a little help.'
`I hope you will explain your own words next.'
`You remind me,' she said with a little smile which
came and went instantly, `of some one who said he would
give to a certain charity if no one asked him to give. If any
one did, he should probably knock the man down and give
nothing.'
`And the key to this fable?'—said Thornton.
`It is hardly needed. You know the truth—you appreciate
it—there is not one part of your character but sides, in
its own secret persuasions, with right against wrong. And
yet when I, or public opinion, or especially your own conscience,
says, “this is the way—walk ye in it,”—that moment
you say “Nay, but after the desires of my own heart
will I walk.'”
She paused a few moments and then went on.
`Thornton, I came down to ask one thing of you.'
`You had better not,' he said, but more gently than before,—
`according to your statement of the case I shall not
grant it. But let me hear—perhaps I am not in a perverse
mood at present.'
`You must not be displeased with me—I wanted to ask,
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
to entreat, that you will never again in such circumstances
let Hulda know where you have been or what you have been
doing. Let her keep all her love and respect for you —all
that childish faith and veneration for the Lord's day and his
commands, which you sometimes please to call superstition.
O Thornton! do not try to ruin more than one of our
mother's children!'
Her arms were about his neck and her face laid against
his for a moment, and then she was gone; and Thornton sat
alone with his own reflections until the bright wood fire had
become but a heap of white ashes, and Trinity church had
told off more than one of the small hours.
He roused himself then, and stood up,—that same sweet
presence about him yet, his mother's picture before him, and
still sounding in his ears the words he had heard repeated
to Hulda in the afternoon. He felt their power, even as
some persons can appreciate a fine melody while yet they
know not one note of music. He took his light and went
thoughtfully up stairs, but Rosalie's door arrested him,—he
opened it softly and went in.
The moon shown in brilliantly but failed to awaken the
quiet sleepers. Both in most quiet rest,—yet Thornton saw
and felt a difference. Hulda, with her arm across her sister's
neck, was in the very luxuriance of sleep,—there were
none of night's own visions, there was no lingering one of
the day, to disturb her with its influence,—her little train
of thought was noiseless as a train could be, and apparently
glided through fairy-land. Her sister's slumber was not so
deep; and though undisturbed, though the lines of the face
were more absolutely quiet than Hulda's,—the mouth had
not relaxed its gravity, nor were the eyelashes dry.
Thornton went to bed strangely dissatisfied with himself.
-- 063 -- p737-068
CHAPTER VIII.
Wouldst thou go forth to bless, be sure of thine own ground,
Fix well thy centre first, then draw thy circles round.
—Trench.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
Despite the night's fair promise the morning rose upon bad
weather; but in the moral atmosphere the change had been
the other way, and everything looked brighter. Though
indeed according to one fancy the changes were much alike,
and
“—the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lay deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.”
`I am so glad it snows!' exclaimed Hulda dancing into
the breakfast room. `You know you said you would give
me a sleigh-ride, Thornton, as soon as I was well enough,
and we had some more—'
She stopped short, the evening before suddenly in her
thoughts.
`As soon as we had some more what?' said her brother
looking off the paper. `Rain?'
`I was going to say snow,' said Hulda in a low voice.
`That is a tremendous word, certainly,—it is not surprising
that you were afraid to speak it. See here, Hulda—
I don't want two guardians, and I think on the whole I
prefer Rosalie to your little ladyship,—so do you never take
-- 064 --
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it upon you to give me advice. I am not gifted with the
Moon's patience, unfortunately.'
`The Moon's patience!' said Hulda. `I never heard of
that before.'
`Why you know,' said Thornton, `when a little dog once
undertook to bark at the Moon, the Moon kept on shining.'
`I don't think you are like the Moon,' said Hulda laughing,
but eyeing him a little askance,—`not a bit.'
`Never mind—in future you must deliver your opinions
of me and my conduct to Rosalie, and she may repeat what
of them she likes. Where is she this morning?'
She was at his side, even as he spoke; with a face so
fair, so shadowless except for a little anxious feeling when
she first looked at him—a half glance of inquiry as it were—
that Thornton was too touched to speak; and taking both
her hands, he kissed her first on one cheek and then on the
other, wishing from his heart that he had ever done more to
fill the vacant place of which that black dress spoke. Such
a purpose had often been formed, but when it came to the
point there was always some hindrance. He had not learned
yet how hard it is to obey the second great command while
disregarding the first.
`Then do you think you will give me a sleigh-ride,
Thorton?' said Hulda, emboldened by something in his
face to press her request.
`Half a dozen, if there is snow enough.'
`O that is very good of you!' said Hulda, `because Alie
don't like to go alone. I guess there'll be snow enough—I
mean I think there will,—I saw one baker's sleigh go
by.'
`Which proves nothing concerning my runners,' said
Thornton, as he seated himself at the breakfast table.
`Bakers have a facility of enjoyment which belongs to few
other people.'
-- 065 --
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`Have they?' said Hulda. `But here comes another
sleigh—I hear the bells.'
`And a remarkably slow tinkle they make,' said Thornton,—
`I'll wager something that's a coal man. It's a singular
fact that everybody is out of fuel as soon as a storm
comes.'
`Yes it is a charcoal man,' said Hulda—`all white and
black. And here comes somebody else.'
`Somebody else had better come here,' said her sister,
`or more than breakfast will get cold.'
`I'll come—' said the child, getting down with some reluctance
from the chair where she had been kneeling, and
taking a last peep out of the window,—`but it looks so nice
out,—and the people look so funny,—just let me see what
this one sleigh is—O such a queer one! like a little old
coach without any wheels. And it's stopping at our door!—
O Alie, I do believe it's Miss Bettie Morsel!'
And the next act being like to come off within doors,
Hulda came to her breakfast.
The queer sleigh, which was in truth but a coach-body
on runners, drew up at the door as she had said. A most
literal drawing-up!—the driver tugging at his horse till both
were slanted back at no inconsiderable angle. Then the
driver got down and clapped his hands once or twice, and
the horse shook his head to make sure he was all right
again,—a fact attested by a miserable little bell that hung
about him—somewhere. And the coach-body door being at
length opened, a little dark figure darted out through the
white medium and up the steps. But her ring was by no
means in accordance with so fierce a beginning. It was a
kind of gentle intimation that if it was all the same to everybody,
she would like to come in—a mere suggestion that
perhaps there might be somebody outside in the snow,—a
-- 066 --
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ring which a thorough-bred waiter of the present day would
go to sleep over, and dream of visiters.
But Martha Jumps, who was on duty while Tom carried
buckwheats into the breakfast room, and whose eyes, ears,
and understanding were always wide awake,—dropped her
duster, settled her cap, and went to the door. And having
presently detailed her message to Tom, Tom entered the
breakfast-room and said,
`Miss Morsel, sir.'
`What the deuce have I to do with Miss Morsel?' said
Thornton. `Why don't you tell your mistress?'
Tom coloured up to his eyes but replied,
`That's what Martha said sir—she said she wanted to see
you.'
`Martha humbugs you Tom, about ten times a day. But
shew Miss Morsel in here, and then she can suit herself.'
`And give me another cup and saucer,' said his mistress.
`Is the parlour fire burning?'
`Well—pretty smart,' said Tom doubtfully,—`not over
and above.'
`Never mind, ask Miss Morsel to walk in here.' And
meeting her visiter at the door, Rosalie explained to her
how she thought the warmest room was the best that
morning.
`So good of you!' said Miss Morsel, who was a benign,
anxious-looking, somewhat care-worn little personage. `Yes
it is rather cold this morning—the wind blows quite keen.'
And she shivered in her winter habiliments, which were
none of the thickest.'
`It is particularly cold at this time in the morning,'
said Rosalie, as she brought Miss Morsel round to the side
of the table next the fire. `You must sit down and take
some breakfast with us.'
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
`O no my dear—thank you, I can't indeed.'
`Not a cup of coffee?'
`Well, a single cup—' said Miss Morsel, her face brightening
up under bright influences—for it was a wonderfully
pleasant thing to be so gently put into that comfortable
chair by the fire. `I believe I must take a single cup—and
only one lump of sugar if you please. It don't matter much
about the size of it, but not more than one lump. I came
out this morning—queer, isn't it?—but I came out to see
your brother. Captain Thornton, is it a true statement of
facts that the city's bombarded?'
`Not unless the reports have deafened my ears,' said
Thornton, fortifying himself with half a cup of coffee before
he spoke. `I have heard nothing of it.'
`Well I thought it couldn't be,' said Miss Morsel, looking
very much relieved, `for I've heard nothing of it either;
only last night a boy was screaming about the streets. It's
astonishing to me that boys are suffered to go at large as
they are.'
`Instead of shutting them up like any other wild animals,
' said Thornton.
`That's just what I said to ma,' said Miss Morsel, `that
it ought to be,—and she said it never used to be in her
time, that boys never were wild then nor girls neither. It
was ma that was so scared last night, for she always thinks
something is going to happen to her, though I tell her she's
just as liable to live as I am. No my dear—no more. It's
really a shame to eat two breakfasts, though to be sure
something depends upon how much a person took at the
first.'
`O have another cup!' said Thornton, `and you'll stand
the bombardment better.'
`I don't know about that,' said Miss Morsel, but
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
handing her cup at the same time,—`it seems too bad to enjoy
oneself now-a-days. It's a good thing we're none of us married
people, for separations in families are dreadful; and
gentlemen are the property of the government now, I suppose,
to have and to hold, as the saying is.'
It was hard to tell which was most discomposed by this
speech—Tom or his master.
`Are married people essential to your idea of a family?'
said Rosalie smiling.
`Certainly,' said the little woman gravely. `Now for
instance—I can't call myself a family you know,—it would
be absurd.'
`Most true,' said Thornton. `But here Rosalie and I
have a family Miss Morsel, and if either of us should get
married it would break it up at once.'
`O dear!' said Miss Morsel. `How could that be?'
`Why, not to go any further,' said Thornton, `Rosalie
is so fond of having the upper hand, that she never would
endure to see my wife manage me.'
`But your wife would be a very nice person, of course,
said Miss Morsel, `and—dear me! that is a great pity. I
always thought you would all live together so delightfully.
I declare it has quite spoiled my breakfast—though to be
sure I had eaten all I could.'
`It must have been the bombardment,' said Thornton
laughing.
`Well maybe,' said Miss Morsel. `But now Captain
Thornton, what is the news, really?'
`Really Miss Morsel, there isn't much. Bonaparte has
blown up the Kremlin and left Moscow, and Lord Wellington
has left Madrid—that's the last news from Europe. Out
west here the Indians have been defeated and Tecumseh
taken prisoner; and nearer home still, one of our harbours
is blockaded by a gun brig, a 74, and two frigates.'
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
`What is a gun brig?' said Miss Morsel,—`a brig loaded
with guns?'
`Sounds enough like it,' said Thornton.
`What a dreadful thing it must be to be blockaded!'
said Miss Morsel. `Which harbour is it?'
`Our own here—of New York.'
`New York harbour blockaded!' exclaimed Miss Morsel.
`And has the bay and Staten Island and Fort Hamilton, and
all those beautiful places come into possession of the British?'
`I wish they had,' said Thornton. `Never mind Miss
Morsel,—there are a good many guns between you and them
yet. Tom bring some more cakes.'
`What will they do there?' said Miss Morsel curiously.
`Find out how little of our bread and butter comes that
way, maybe,' said Thornton. `Miss Morsel— you have not
half fortified yourself for a siege.'
`O dear!' said poor Miss Morsel. `If I thought I was
ever to be besieged and taken, I shouldn't eat another ounce
from now till then. You don't really think there's any
danger?'
`Not a bit!' said Thornton laughing. `I should like to
see anybody attempt it! I'll let you know a week beforehand,
Miss Morsel, and you can put up your defences.'
`Thank you—I'm sure you're very kind,' said Miss
Morsel, `but then you know we haven't got any. We never
did have anything that could be called arms in our house.
But I must go—it's so warm here and pleasant that I believe
I forgot there was anybody out in the cold. Poor man!'
said Miss Morsel looking out at her driver, `I daresay he's
been clapping his hands this whole time, and not for joy,
either. It was very extravagant in me to ride, but I wanted
to know so much about things,—and I can't always keep
warm in the snow—and I'm afraid to take cold, you know,
for ma's sake.'
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
`You have not learned much, after all,' said Thornton.
`O a great deal! You say Cumsetah's certainly taken?'
`Tecumseh?' said Rosalie with a kind smile. `Yes, I
saw the account myself.'
`Thank you my dear—and for telling me the man's real
name again,—I'm so apt to forget. But youe'r so good—
and I do like to get things straight, though you wouldn't
think it. Tecumseh—I sha'n't forget—you spoke it so distinctly
for me. Do you know I always do understand what
you say? Some people confuse me so,—and then I get hold
of the wrong ball of yarn and begin at the toe of my stocking.
Tecumseh—but who took him?'
`One of Harrison's officers,' said Thornton. `But mind
you tell the story to-day, Miss Morsel, for he'll probably
escape before to-morrow.'
`Dreadful creature!' said Miss Morsel,—`I hope not.
I hope they'll take good care of him though. Thank you
my dear very much—your coffee was excellent.'
`I will try to have it just as good whenever you will
come and breakfast with us,' said Rosalie as she shook
hands with her poor little guest. `I wish you would come
oftener.'
`I'm sure you do!' said Miss Morsel earnestly; `and
there isn't much else in the world I am sure of. But you're
like nobody else,—such Christmas presents and all,—and I
haven't said a word about them—because I couldn't. I
don't know now—were they yours or your brother's?'
`Not mine,' said Thornton,—`Rosalie does everything
good that is done in this house. But mine shall come, Miss
Morsel,—I shall remember it now, as surely as you will
Tecumseh.'
`Tecumseh—yes, I'll remember. But you are all so
good—to let me come and talk, talk,—not a bit like rich
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
people,—and it's such a comfort sometimes,—and smile at
me just as sweetly when I come as when I go. O there'll
be one blessing upon your heads if words can call it down!'
And she slid out of the room; while Thornton having
found out that he did not want to go and put her in the old
coach-body, went—and made her perfectly happy thereby.
`Not quite all the good that is done in this house,' said
his sister, meeting him when he came back with a look that
was worth the purchase.
`The Sun has as much to do with the Moon's light as
with his own,' said Thornton rather sadly. `I am dark
enough when I am turned away from you, Alie. You never
turn from me—like a blessed child as you are.'
-- 072 -- p737-077
CHAPTER IX.
But, brother, let your reprehension
Run in an easy current, not o'er high,
Carried with rashness, or devouring choler;
But rather use the soft persuading way.
—Ben Jonson.
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
A fine body of snow lay on the ground. White, white,—
cheerful and cold,—the trees rearing through the still air
their part of the earth's burden; the sky in dazzling contrast
to the bright roofs on which the sun poured down his full
complement of rays,—in vain;—the snow laughed at them.
A very merry laugh if it was a cold one.
The side-walks were cleared and dry; for in those unsophisticated
days laws were not only made but enforced; and
foot-passengers went comfortably along in their sphere of
action, while a host of sleighs swept by in theirs. Neither
division of the public crowded into an undistinguishable
throng as now,—both people and sleighs had a pretty setting
of air and snow,—then was it easy to see and to be
seen.
In this reign of fur and velvet, cloth boots and wadded
cloaks, the merging is a less matter; but when the weaker
sex protected themselves with white dresses and stockings to
match, and shoes that matched anything but the season,—
when high-coloured and fly-away little capes were the best
defence that the Commander-in-chief of the feminine forces
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
allowed during a winter campaign,—then elbow-room was a
thing of some moment. It would have been intolerable to
have one's own scarlet wings confounded with a neighbouring
pair of blue, and so to present the general appearance
of a two-headed butterfly somewhat diversified as to his
pinions; or worse still, to have no room for them to fly at
all. But no such misfortune befell the ladies of 1813,—
the field was clear, and spotted with butterflies as a field
should be—each in its turn `the observed of all observers.'
Thornton's horses were shaking their heads and jingling
their bells at his door; snorting, and pawing the snow, and
putting their heads together with every symptom of readiness
and impatience,—the white foam frozen in a thick crust
upon mouth and bit, the sun glancing from every metallic
spot on the bright harness. On the steps stood Mr Clyde
himself, in much the same mood as his horses,—the minutehand
of his watch seeming to mark the hours. One butterfly
after another sailed down the street—or fluttered, as the
case might be; now beating about in the cool wind, and
then bearing down wing-and-wing upon the enemy; and
soon espying Mr. Clyde's position, gracefully inclined its
pretty head that way, and glanced at the gay horses. And
Mr. Clyde's arms being for the tenth time forced from
their position to return such courtesies, enwrapped themselves
thereafter more closely than ever; and when the
closing of the hall door drew his attention, he turned
sharply round.
No butterfly stood there—and yet it might have been a
creature with wings; but not such as are ever spread on
earth except to fly away withal.
`What wonder will come next?' she said smiling.
`Thornton and his horses both here five minutes before
the time!'
-- 074 --
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`You are not going to wear that veil?' was the abrupt
reply.
`With your favour, yes.'
`I do detest veils!' said Thornton impatiently. `The
man who invented them should have had his head muffled in
one for the rest of his life.'
`It was probably a woman,' said Rosalie smiling.
`Then my wish was doubtless accomplished.'
`But the wind is so keen when one is riding,' urged his
sister.
`I can stand it.'
Rosalie laid her hand on his cheek, with a laughing look
that said his face was ever so little case-hardened. But
he moved away, and putting his sisters into the sleigh
bestowed himself there with a very decided air of dissatisfaction.
`It's so excessively stupid!' he said. `What if people
do stare at you? they can't carry off anything but the remembrance,
and I am willing anybody should have that.
One might as well go up Broadway with a nun for
company!'
The veil was quietly put aside—neither wind nor starers
mattered much now, she had other things to think of. But
with her usual quick desire that her brother should not
think her sad and wrapped up in her own thoughts, Rosalie
came resolutely out of them, and exerted herself to talk and
be pleased.
It was a pretty sight. The gayly dressed ladies, the
broadcloth gentlemen, the bright coloured sleighs and their
Buffalo-skin comforts, were a pretty mingling of shade and
tint; and the exhilarated horses caught the very spirit of
the fun, and dashed along as if nothing had been at their
heels but a little cloud of snow. Light weight indeed many
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
of the sleighs were, and small resistance gave the smooth
snow to the smooth runners,—there was nothing to check the
speed. Little cutters, and large double sleighs with sweeping
skins, appeared in the distance on some Broadway hill;
and came flying down at a rate which just left the riders
their breath, their amusement and their politeness. Nods,
bows, smiles, the eye's admiration and the hand's salute,
glanced about like deputy sunbeams; and the bells rang out
after the fashion of the gypsy song,
“Es summ't, es schwirt, und singt, und ringt, tra la, la, la, tra la, la, la,”
A faint jingle would be heard in the distance of a cross
street, then in a moment nearer and nearer, till the little
punt dashed out into the thoroughfare,—the good horse
ploughing his way through the snow with head up and breast
thrown forward, as if he felt proud of his work. Then came
another equipage that was but a compound of plain boards,
plain men, and clear fun. Neither skins nor seats—but the
little wooden platform absolutely full of humanity in the
last state of enjoyment, and the one bell upon the horse's
neck exerting itself to the utmost. And here, there and
everywhere—upon the frozen gutters, upon the crossings—
in every attainable place of inconvenience and danger, countless
little boys were busy exercising the only team they had,—
to wit themselves.
`There is Marion!' exclaimed Hulda, as Miss Arnet
flew by in her sleigh and gayly kissed her hand in answer
to their salute. `How pretty she looks! But I wonder
why she always rides alone.'
`Because she chooses it, I suspect,' said Thornton dryly.
`Rosalie, there comes your friend Mrs. Raynor.'
Caleb Williams looked sobriety itself behind his black
horses, who lifted their feet and set them down again in the
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
white snow with a sort of dainty regularity and precision;
while the large grave-coloured and most comfortable looking
sleigh, followed on at a pleasant but not breathless rate.
The smile of the good quakeress to Rosalie was refreshing
to see—so very bright and heartfelt.
Thornton however thought differently, for after conveying
to his horses a very imperative request that they
would go faster, he saw fit to express his distaste in
words.
`I wish I could ever go through Broadway without
meeting that turn-out!' he said.
`What is a turn-out?' said Hulda whose eyes were
already half shut.
`I don't care much about it when I am alone,' Thornton
went on without noticing her, `but when you are with me I
always get provoked.'
`That is unfortunate,' said Rosalie smiling. `If I am
such a magnet for disagreeableness I had better stay at
home. I hope you don't get provoked at me?'
`You always will look so pleased to see her,' he said
gloomily.
`So I am—I like her very much.'
`But I don't—there's the thing. And she looks at you
just as I saw you once when you were a little child look at
a canary bird in the hands of a school boy. And I say it
provokes me.'
`What an imagination you have!' said his sister laughing.
`I noticed the particular pleasantness of her look towards
you.'
`She had no business to look at me,' said Thornton. `I
don't know her and I don't want to.'
`The next time you come out,' said Rosalie raising her
bright eyes to his face, `I'll write a placard for the front of
your cap—`Ladies will please keep their eyes off.”
-- 077 --
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`You are a saucy girl,' said her brother, whose displeasure
was however evaporating. `Do you mean to say
that Mrs. Raynor did not think to herself what a poor forlorn
child you were, and how much better off you would be
in her sleigh than in mine?'
`She has called me a poor child very often, but not
from any such reason,' said Rosalie, as the thought of the
true one fell like a shadow upon her face. `And she knows
very little of me, Thornton, if she thinks that I wish myself
out of your sleigh, or that I have one thought in my heart
about you I am unwilling you should know.'
`There are several I don't wish to know,' said Thornton,—
`I doubt some of them might make me feel uncomfortable.
But I wish you would pull that veil back again Alie, for I
have somehow got an uneasy notion that I am the wind
blowing in your face.'
`You are full of notions to-day; but the wind does not
trouble me at all now that we have turned. How pleasant
it has been! I have enjoyed it so much.'
`Really?'
`Really.'
Thornton looked pleased.
`I have enjoyed it too, very much—with one or two
drawbacks.'
`How did you ever get such a dislike to so excellent a
person as Mrs. Raynor?' said his sister, as she arranged
the little sleeping Hulda in a more comfortable position.
`You do not know her—and surely you never heard anything
but good of her.'
`Never—I wish I had. If any one else would speak of
her with a qualification perhaps I should not. I hate these
dreadfully precise people.'
`O she is not a bit precise!' cried his sister—`not a
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
bit! Of course a quaker must talk after the quaker fashion,
but her heart is as free as a child's.'
`Well that is a good thing about a heart, certainly,'
said Thornton with a meditative air. `But however it may
be, the sight of her always gives me an uncomfortable
sensation. I believe she reminds me of her son, and him I
do know.'
`And do not like?'
`No —'
`Why not?'
`I could give a very straight answer on the subject,' said
the young man with a glance at his sister's face, `but perhaps
it's as well not. In general, he don't like me and I
don't like him—nor his pursuits.'
`Did you ever hear that they were anything but creditable?
' said Rosalie turning a startled look upon him.
`What is it to you whether they are or not?'
`Making the profession he does, I should be exceedingly
sorry to think that he had disgraced it. Did you ever see
or hear anything to make you think so?'
`Never—' said Thornton briefly.
And no more words were spoken till they were at home
again.
The sleigh with black horses was at the door in five
minutes after their own arrival, and Rosalie was called
down to see her friend `for a single moment only,' before
she had time to do more than throw off her wrappers. And
when she came into the parlour, her hair a little brushed
back by the wind, and the glow of exercise and fresh air
yet in her cheeks, the good quakeress took her in her arms,
and kissed her more than once before she spoke.
`I was so glad to see thee out,' she said,—`it is so good
for thee. And how dost thou now, dear child? better?
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
Art thou learning to cast all thy care upon the strong hand
that will not let it press thy little weak heart too heavily?'
The trembling lips could hardly answer,
`Sometimes.'
“`I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction'”—said
her friend tenderly. `Chosen thee, love—not cast thee out
thither. Thee must remember that. And also that other
verse which saith, “Rejoice in the Lord alway.” Now tell
me—how doth thy sister?'
`O quite well again.'
`And thy brother—I saw him with thee even now. He
hath thine eyes, Rosalie, but more self-willed. I love him
for thy sake—ye are so much alike.'
But Rosalie's smile was like nobody but herself.
`And you are well again, too?' she said, as she sat on
a low seat by her friend, looking up at her with the intense
pleasure of having even for a moment comfort and counsel
from one older than herself.
`Yes my child—or at the least so well that I am going
away,—that is wherefore thou seest me now, and but an instant
have I to stay. A week or two I shall be with my
sister, which shall pleasure and I trust profit us both; and
then shall I return again to wait.'
What for, the quakeress did not say, but she rose and
took Rosalie in her arms as she had done before.
`Fare thee well, dear child! and the best of all blessings
be upon thee. “There be many that say, `Who will
shew us any good?' Lord lift thou up the light of thy
countenance upon us!'”
`O that it might be upon us!' Rosalie thought, as she
came back from the front door and went slowly up stairs to
dress. `Will that day ever come?' And then she remembered,
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
“I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness
of the Lord in the land of the living.”
`And what had your dear friend to say to you?' inquired
Thornton when he came to dinner.
`Not much—just to bid me goodbye. She is going
away for a few days.'
`Charming! We will go sleigh-riding every day. I
shall take this opportunity to give my canary bird plenty of
fresh air and exercise.'
`Your canary bird is much obliged to you for being
glad when she is sorry,' said his sister smiling.
`Truly you are sorry sometimes when I am glad,' said
Thornton.
`When the question is of things that do you mischief.'
`I wonder how you are to judge of that?' said he
laughing and patting her cheek. `Methinks your censorship
is getting a little rampant. Don't you suppose now,
my fair monitor, that if you went out a little more I should
go out a little less?—that if you sometimes gave me your
company abroad I should oftener give you mine at home?'
`You know I have had enough to hinder my going out.'
`Have had—but now?'
There was enough, now; but after a moment's struggle
with herself Rosalie looked up and answered cheerfully,
`I will go with you wherever you wish me to go.'
`Is that said with a little Catholic reservation to your
own better judgment?'
`No, to yours. I would trust you pretty implicitly if
you once took the responsibility upon yourself.'
`I should like to know where it rests now?' said
Thornton, looking half amused and half vexed. `If you
were not the steadiest little mouse that ever went about
from corner to cupboard, the responsibility would be pretty
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
well thrown upon my shoulders, I fancy. I'll take it, at all
events. Will you go with me to the theatre to-night?'
`O I am not obliged to answer any but serious propositions,
' said she smiling. `You do not wish me to go with
you there—let this be one of the evenings bestowed upon
me at home.'
`Why shouldn't I wish you to go? What harm will it
do you any more than other people?'
`I never mean to try and find out. But I would not go
if I knew it would do me none.'
`Because you think actors must necessarily be bad
people?'
`Not necessarily perhaps. But Thornton, if there was
a gulf over which but one in a hundred could leap, while all
the rest were dashed to pieces, what would you think of the
rich people who hired them to try?'
`I will let you know my opinion of that amusement
when it is advertised,' said her brother. `But I tell you
Alie, it's of no use to compare our opinions—we never were
meant to live together.'
She laid her hands upon his shoulders, and looked up at
him with a face so loving, so beseeching, so full of all that
she could not say, that its light was half reflected. Her
whole heart was in that look; and Thornton felt as he had
never felt before, how true, how pure a heart it was—how
unspeakably reasonable in all its requests. But his own
unhumbled nature, the blind pride which will serve sin
rather than God, because he is the rightful ruler of the
universe, rose up within him; and silently laying his hand
upon his sister's lips, Thornton disengaged himself and
walked away to the dinner table.
-- 082 -- p737-087
CHAPTER X.
Jaques.
Let's meet as little as we can.
Orlando.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
—As You Like It.
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
Evening found Rosalie alone in the parlour. She had
listened to her brother's departing step until even her
fancy could hear it no longer, and the approaching ones
were dull now and void of interest. The sleigh-bells jingled
yet, almost as merrily as ever, but with a somewhat different
effect; for the sun had taken leave of the cold earth, and
Jack Frost had sent out his myrmidons. The little beggar
children began to retreat slowly and shivering to their dens
of sin and sorrow; hopeless of anything from the goers-by,
whose rapid pace they could hardly check; and home, of
one sort or another, seemed to be in everybody's heart.
Why was it not in Thornton's?
His sister would have been comforted to know that it
was in his heart,—that even then, as he met a party of gay
friends and joined their walk, he remembered the one being
whom he had never wished to see less unspotted from the
world;—more pure, to his fancy, she could not be. He
thought of her, and of the bright pleasure he might give
and take where she was. And yet he came not,—and the
soft twilight fell gently upon her, and gay lights blazed
down upon him. Fit emblems of the spirit of each heart.
-- 083 --
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The one a bright artificial glare,—in the other a mingling
of darkness indeed, but what light there was, from heaven!
So deep was Rosalie in her own reflections—devising
ways and means to make herself more agreeable and home
more attractive—that a ring at the door was unnoticed; and
it was not till Tom announced,
`A gentleman, ma'am,'
that she recollected how much rather she would be alone.
But he was there, and there was no help for it.
A young man, whose character lay not all on the surface.
His aspect was singularly grave and quiet—by some people
called morose; but the eye from its calm depth sent back no
shadow of misanthropy, and if the mouth spoke self control
it spoke with sweetness. And when a smile came—which
indeed was not very often—the person in the world who
liked him least would have done something to prolong or to
bring it back. There was also about him a singular air of
power, without the least assumption of it. It was the sort
of fortress-like strength, the sure position taken and held
unshrinkingly within the walls of truth and moral courage;
and withal, the perfect freedom and fearlessness of one who
has himself well in hand. Able too he seemed, to wage
offensive warfare—yet he rarely did. The eye might fire
and the cheek glow, and that sense of power strike disagreeably
upon the beholder; but when the word came, it came
with the very spirit of love and gentleness—and was the
more powerful. The effect was neither hurt feeling nor
wounded pride,—the effort was not to destroy but to build
up. Yet for this very thing, so unlike themselves, many
of his own age disliked and shunned him. They could not
endure to trust a man thoroughly because his face commanded
that trust; nor to feel themselves rebuked by his
presence when he had not uttered a word.
-- 084 --
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For a moment, in the darkness, Rosalie looked with
some doubt at the stranger; but she had quickly met him
half way, with a look of great pleasure and the exclamation,
`Mr. Raynor!'
His look was as bright and more demonstrative, till he
saw hers change and every particle of light pass from it; and
not guessing the associations which a friend so long unseen
had called up, not knowing what had taken place during his
absence; Mr. Raynor said with more anxious haste than
caution,
`You are all well? your brother is not ordered away?'
`No, he is here and quite well,' she said, but turning a
little from him.
`And your mother?'
It was too much. The heart's cry of sorrow was suppressed,
but it was with almost passionate bitterness that
Rosalie threw herself down on a seat, exclaiming,
`Well? O yes!—it is well with her! But for that my
heart would have broken long ago!'
He understood it all then,—his eye took note of her
dress—he knew what some lost letters would have told him;
but shocked, grieved, as he was, a few minutes passed before
he knew what to say or how to speak it. The words were
spoken then with that quiet steadiness which insensibly gives
strength.
`Yes, it is well!—Well with you too, my dear Miss
Clyde—For “it cannot be ill with him whose God is”!'
O what a long breath answered him!—of weakness and
weariness and faith, and again weakness! She did not move
nor raise her head.
`Alie,' said little Hulda opening the door, `may Tom
get some New-year cookies for tea, or would you rather have
only dough-nuts?'
-- 085 --
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Mr. Raynor turned quickly, and taking a chair at some
distance from Rosalie he intercepted the little intruder, very
much to her dissatisfaction.
`Let me go, sir, if you please,' she said; struggling,
though very politely, to get away from the arm that was
round her. `Please sir let me go!'
`Not quite yet,' he said, gently placing her upon his lap
and kissing her. `Have you quite forgotten me, Hulda?'
`No sir, because I never saw you before.'
`That is being forgotten, with a witness. Did you never
hear of a little girl who once took her doll out to ride, and
then dropped that unfortunate young lady from the carriage
window into the mud?'
`O yes!' said Hulda, `indeed I have! And are you
the nice gentleman that picked her up for me, sir?'
`I had the pleasure of picking her up for you. Whether
I am nice or not you seem to be a little doubtful.'
`O I remember all about it!' said the child, sitting up
now with a pleased and interested look. `I haven't thought
of it in a great while. I was so glad dolly's face was n't
clear down in the mud—and oh the mud was so thick! And
her dress was all black in front—do you remember?'
`No, I remember nothing about her dress.'
`Don't you?' said Hulda, `well I remember perfectly
well. And don't you remember sir how the other gentleman
laughed because I loved my doll so much?'
`Nay I think that was not the reason he laughed.'
`O yes it must have been,' said Hulda, `because you
know there was nothing else to laugh at. But mayn't I go
now, sir? I want to speak to Alie.'
`I don't think she wants you half so much as I do. How
many new dolls have you had since then, Hulda?'
`O I haven't had any,' said she smiling. `I've got the
same one yet.'
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
`You must be a careful little body,' said her friend.
`Yes I suppose I am,' said Hulda folding her hands with
a grave air, as if she had been about fifty; `but then I don't
play with dolls now much—I haven't much time.'
`Does Miss Rosalie keep you so busy? I should hardly
have thought that.'
`O no, sir, that isn't the reason—she'd let me play a
great deal. But then,' said Hulda, looking off with a contemplative
face, `I'd rather talk to her. Thornton always
goes out, you know, and so she'd be all alone if it wasn't
for me.'
A shade of very deep displeasure crossed the gentleman's
face while she spoke; but happily absorbed in swinging
her little feet and watching the shadows that flickered
up and down the wall, Hulda saw it not. Neither did
Rosalie, whose eyes were yet shielded by her hand. But
old knowledge of the face and character supplied the want
of sight,—her hand was taken down and she turned and
spoke.
`What did you want of me, Hulda?'
`O—only about the cake for tea,' said Hulda twisting
herself round. `Tom didn't know whether you wanted him
to get some New-year cookies.'
`Send for what you like, dear, and let us have tea at
once.'
And Hulda went,—wondering very much at the kiss
with which Mr. Raynor had released her; it was such a
strange kiss—she could not tell what to make of it. Only
it seemed to Hulda as if for some reason or other the
strange gentleman liked her; and she began to like him in
return very much.
He came and stood before the fire as she left the room,
with a look that said his uppermost thoughts were not such
as could be spoken nor yet easily put aside.
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
`You were expected earlier in the winter, Mr. Raynor,'
said Rosalie, as if she had a mind they should at least not
be dwelt upon.
`Yes, much earlier,' he said sitting down by her. `But
I am not accustomed to hear `Mr. Raynor' from your lips,
Miss Rosalie,—before I went away it was `Mr. Henry.”
`O that was to distinguish you from Mr. Penn,' she said
with a little flush that came somewhat unwittingly.
`And you do not mean to distinguish me any more?'
She did not look to see what he meant—the colour that
came over her face seemed to say she would rather not
know; it was more of distress than embarrassment; and she
went on somewhat hastily, as if her object were but to talk—
not to say any particular thing.
`My help is hardly needed to distinguish people that
have lived so long abroad,—that is enough in this age of
the world. But how grieved Mrs. Raynor will be that she
has lost the first minutes of your arrival! She is quite well—
I can tell you that. I saw her only this morning, and she
left town at four o'clock.'
`So I found out when I reached the house; and my next
move was to seek some way of following her to-night, but it
was too late.'
`She has wished for you so earnestly! I think it was
as much as even she could do to be patient.'
`I am sure it was more than I could do,' said the young
man, who was apparently carrying on some under current
of scrutiny or cogitation, and waiting for another look,
which he could not get. `My passage home was made in
four different ships, and I left all my patience in the first.'
`Four different ships! Then you really did see some of
the fighting that she feared so much?'
`I really did see and hear a good deal of it—felt a little
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
too. When we were two days out from Bordeaux,' he continued
with no reply to her inquiring look, `a British letter-of-marque
fell in with us and took possession after we had
run as hard as we could for eleven hours. Part of the men
were left on board and the ship ordered for England; while
I had the honor of being cared for—or I should say not
cared for—in the brig. Then came up the Paul Jones, one
of our privateers, took the brig and burnt her, and brought
me home.'
`Unhurt through it all?'
`Except a very trifling wound from a splinter.'
She looked up then—one quick, earnest look,—and
Mr. Raynor's smile said that he had got just what he wanted.
`I must go now,' he said quietly. `Some business
matters need attention, and there will be scant time to do
anything in the morning. May I tell my mother that you
are well? I hardly dare venture upon that unauthorized
assertion.'
`O yes—I am quite well,—and give her my love, Mr.
Raynor.'
`If I can make up my mind to part with it.'
`Good evening,' said a third party who had entered the
room. `Have I the pleasure of seeing Mr. Raynor?'
`I am not sure sir,' was the somewhat grave reply,
though accompanied with a not uncordial shake of the hand.
`But good evening Mr. Clyde—or I should rather say, how
do you do, after so long a break in our intercourse.'
How well Thornton felt that whatever cordiality there
might be in the salutation was for Rosalie's brother—not
for him. Certainly his own greeting had been cold enough.
`Tea's ready,' said Hulda, suddenly adding her little
person to the group,—' won't you come? O Thornton!—
have you come home to tea?—how pleasant that will be!—
there'll be four of us!'
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
Poor little Hulda! she might have said anything else,
her brother thought, with better effect. His cheek flushed
with displeasure and mortification, and there was a minute
of awkward silence. Then Rosalie came to his side, and
linking her arm in his—caressingly, as he felt—she said,
`Thornton, cannot you persuade Mr. Raynor to drink
tea with us instead of going home to take it alone?'
Thornton felt that she stood by him, whoever else did
not; and with a blessing in his heart that his lips did not
speak, he gave the invitation—as he would have done anything
else that she had asked at that moment.
Mr. Raynor looked at the brother and sister as they stood
there, and though something of the shade which Hulda had
before called forth came back, yet his face unbent, and in
his answer there was no disturbing element unless a touch
of quiet amusement.
`I cannot refuse to stay at your request Mr. Clyde, for
I know you came because you thought I was here.'
And Thornton wondered whether his guest had lately
studied witchcraft. It was odd too, but he would have
given anything if Mr. Raynor had made himself less absolutely
pleasant and agreeable for the next hour. In a half
vexed half soothed state Thornton remained during tea; but
when Mr. Raynor had gone and both his sisters were up-stairs,
vexation soon got the upper hand.
`Where is Hulda?' he said when Rosalie came down.
`In bed.'
`Well that is a comfort. I do wish you would teach her
to hold her tongue. Her way of saying things is perfectly
spiteful.'
`If it is spiteful to be glad to have you at home,' said
his sister as she took a low seat by him, `you must bestow
that epithet on me too.'
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
`Nonsense—glad indeed! What do you suppose she
cares? As if it was not enough to find disagreeable company
at home, without having all one's actions submitted to their
approval.'
`But,' said Rosalie with a little hesitation, `it does not
matter what is done with the actions that oneself approves,—
and the others can rarely be kept secret.'
`I presume not—so long as one has two sharp-eyed
sisters,' said Thornton as he rose up and quitted the room.
And the house-door's clang immediately followed.
Had she done wrong to say that? had she gone too far?
She did not know—she could not resolve. Between the fear
of displeasing him, of weakening her influence, and the earnest
desire to speak a word for the truth whenever it might be
spoken, Rosalie was often at a loss; and the eyes whose
keenness he condemned had wept many tears before Thornton
had gone far in his anger. On the whole the evening
had been a sorrowful one. She had in a measure got accustomed
to the old grievous things, but she felt now as if more
were coming upon her,—a sort of undefined perception that
her own trials were getting entwined with those of other
people. But one thing seemed clear, and that was her duty.
She thought long and earnestly of those words of Rutherford,
“It is possible your success answer not your desire in this
worthy cause: what then? Duties are ours, events are the
Lord's.” And striving to let her will as her hope, rest there,
sleep had passed its quieting hand over her face long before her
brother returned and came softly in to look at her. He had
taken a great habit of doing this, of late.
-- 091 -- p737-096
CHAPTER XI.
She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise;
For nought that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed in her eyes.
—Lowell.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
Fully determined that if her brother had any cause of
complaint against her it should not go unatoned for, Rosalie's
first desire the next morning was to see him.
If he only knew!—she thought.
But he did not know—he could not guess that of all the
cares upon her heart his welfare was the chiefest,—that for
his sake she would have gone through any possible difficulty
or danger. Sometimes she half thought he did know it,—
that her love was appreciated if not quite returned; and
sometimes she did not know what to think.
In this mood she got up as early as the tardy daylight
would permit, and dressing herself softly that she might not
wake Hulda, stood leaning against the door-post with clasped
hands and a very grave, quiet face, waiting to hear him go
down. She was not sure but this was one of his mornings
for an early drill. The step came at last, and no sooner had
it fairly past her door than her light foot followed. Down
the stairs and into the breakfast-room—but he was not there.
Had she mistaken another step for his? He came behind
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
her at the moment, and with his lips upon her forehead inquired,
`What in the world she was after, at that time in the
morning?'
`O, I was after you—' she said, looking up at him and
then as quick down again; for something in his eyes had
brought her very heart welling up to her own.
`To ask me to beg your pardon for last night's offences?'
said Thornton, as he drew her to a seat by him on the
sofa.
`No indeed!'
`It is done unasked then, Alie. I should hate myself
for a month if I thought my words had grieved you half as
much as they did me. I suppose I need not ask whether I
am forgiven?'
He had no answer at all events.
`Hush—you are a foolish child,' Thornton said. `Why
Alie, what was it you took so much to heart?'
`Nothing—not that. But oh, Thornton,—I wish you
knew me a little better!'
`So do not I—I know you quite well enough now for
my own comfort. If I knew you any better I should probably
absent myself permanently, and leave the field clear
to some one who would take better care of you. As it is,
Alie, I choose to persuade myself that we can live on together.
'
What a look she turned on him.
`Well now let us hear what you have to say, pretty one,'
said her brother admiringly. `What has your little head
been at work upon?'
`I was thinking—I was afraid that perhaps I had said
too much last night,—more than I ought—to you. If you
knew my feeling you would not blame me, but the words
might seem unkind; and I was very sorry. I will try not
to fail in that way again.'
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
`My dear little sister,' said Thornton laughing, `you
really are too absurd! To hear you make promises of
amendment is very like hearing you say that for the future
you intend to look pretty, or any such work of supererogation.
You—who never thought said or did anything but
goodness in your whole life.'
`Which proves how little you know me.'
`We will agree to have different opinions on that point.
At present you are my standard of perfection.'
`Ah but you have no right to take any such standard,
dear Thornton. Think what perfection is, and what the
Bible standard, before you apply either word to me.'
`I must be allowed to have my own ideas on the subject,
nevertheless,' said Thornton. `But Alie, you fairly
frightened me by getting up so early this morning. I didn't
know but you were going to pay your friend Mrs. Raynor a
visit.'
The implication raised so very slight a colour, that
Thornton's spirits improved at once.
`Alie!' called out Hulda's little voice from over the
balusters, `won't you please come? because Martha isn't
here, and I want to get up so much.'
`Run!' said Thornton laughing. `It is hard to take
care of two people, isn't it? Here you have been bestowing
your attentions upon me, leaving that child to get out of bed
alone at the risk of breaking her neck. I wonder, by the
way, what `getting up' is supposed to mean, in infant parlance.
'
`And I wonder who gave you leave to come out and
stand on the cold oil-cloth, little one?' said Rosalie as she
ran up stairs and stooped down by the little night-gowned
and night-capped figure. Hulda's arms were quickly about
her sister's neck, and her little bare feet curled up in her
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
lap; and then she was lifted up and carried back into the
room.
`Who was that you were talking to?' said Hulda.
`Thornton.'
`Does he feel good natured this morning?'
`I did not ask him,' said Rosalie smiling. `Do you?'
`O yes,' said Hulda, `but then I didn't feel cross last
night. I think it's very disagreeable to have people cross.'
`Then you and I will try to be always pleasant. If
Thornton does not want the horses this morning, we will go
and see Miss Morsel.'
The horses were not wanted, and after breakfast they
set forth;—all but Hiram well pleased with the prospect.
He thought it was hardly worth while to risk an overturn in
a narrow street, for anything that street could contain. Not
that he had the least intention of being overturned, by the
by.
The street was narrow and the sleighing therein most
disagreeable. Irregular heaps of snow that had been thrown
from the side-walks stood up and shook hands across the
narrow track which the sleighs of the milkman, the woodman,
and the baker, had marked out for themselves. Nothing
wider than those humble vehicles had been that way,
and it was hard for anything wider to go,—the sleigh was
obliged to content itself with having one runner at a time on
smooth ground and the other on a snow-bank. Which
state of things did not at all content Hiram. Ugly the snowbanks
were, as well as inconvenient; for when gutters were
choked up the unfortunate snow did duty instead, and no
rigid enforcement of law prevailed in this district. Also the
pigs had been dilatory in seeking their breakfast; and that
which had been very white as it fell, was now agreeably
diversified with cinders, cabbage leaves, lemon peels, potato
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
parings, buckwheat cakes, oyster shells, and the like; according
as dinner, breakfast, or supper, had been the last
prominent meal in the different houses.
The house where Hiram at length paused, was distinguished
by less of a snow bank and what there was, cleaner.
No decorations lay there but dry Christmas greens—a wreath
and a festoon, all falling to pieces and sinking into the snow:
the hemlock leaves scattering about, and the cedar shrinking
and shrivelling up within itself.
`O Miss Morsel has thrown away her wreath!' said
Hulda.
`I don't know as you can get out, ma'am,' said Hiram,
while he lent careful aid to the undertaking. `The snow's
right deep. It's an astonishing promotion to a street when
the families keeps their carriage!'
But she got out nicely—as she did everything—and went
lightly up the steps and opened the unlocked door; its want
of fastening a sure sign that there was no family bond
within. The house was but what a botanist would call
`an involucre.' That might be guessed from the sickly
smell spread through the hall and passages,—one of those
compounds which will not bear resolving.
Two flights of stairs and a short entry brought the
visiters to Miss Morsel's door; where they had no sooner
knocked than it was opened. Miss Morsel indeed, having
watched the whole preliminaries from the first jingle of the
sleigh bells, and having got very warm with anxiety lest the
snow bank should prove insurmountable, was now equally
cold with standing at her own door; and she would certainly
have saved Rosalie the trouble of knocking had not elegant
propriety, to her mind, forbidden it. So she stood as close
to the door as she could get, and waited for her visiters to
demand entrance. It was given them with every demonstration
of joy.
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
The room looked comfortable, though with that strict,
severe sort of comfort where everything is fastened up and
fastened down, and must remain just so or it will not look
comfortable. A doll's dress, sewed to the doll and not
meant to be taken off.
Of the chintz curtains, Lydia Sharpe might have said
that they had “no folds in nature—nor drapery,”—and yet
they were curtains; and when they hung as they were bid,
you did not at first see how old they were. The rug did
not match the carpet but was a rug nevertheless; and of
the fire appendages it could not be said in the words of the
song,
“The shovel and tongs
To each other belongs”—
they belonged only to Miss Morsel.
The bed was not visible. Whether Miss Morsel kept it
in the closet, and underwent severe bodily exercise to get it
out every night—or whether she gave it her company in the
closet, doth not appear. The chairs were rush-bottomed,
and begun to be cushioned; and a little pine box by the fire
held a supply of fuel—Rosalie was glad that she did not
know for how long.
A few things in the room however, bore token of more
outlay,—towards Miss Morsel's old mother her purse strings
were evidently lenient. Her chair was most carefully
cushioned—back, arms, and all; and the cover was of some
red stuff, and her footstool clad with the same. By the
window stood two or three geraniums in dark ruffled earthen
pots; while a little work table, placed with evident care and
tenderness, looked as if it and the books upon it were of no
Miss Morsel's choice.
`I don't suppose there's anybody else in the world could
have come here this morning!' said poor little Miss Morsel,
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
taking hold of both Rosalie's hands and looking up into her
face. `Because I have felt rather down-hearted you see; and
most people don't happen in when you feel so.'
`Then I have just come at the right time. How is your
mother to-day?'
`O pretty well,' said Miss Morsel,—`though it does seem
queer to call a person pretty that's got so little pretence to
it. I'll tell her you're here.' And the fact was announced
in no very measured voice.
`What's she come for?' was the old lady's first and most
distinct question.
`Why to see you, ma—to see you and me.'
`O no,' said Mrs. Morsel, `that's not it,—that couldn't
be it. No person comes to see you and me now.'
`What do you suppose she did come for, then?' said
Miss Morsel, who from policy or respect never argued with
her mother.
`Well—perhaps she did—' said the old woman doubtfully.
`Miss Clyde, hey. Ask her to sit down, Bettie.'
But Miss Clyde was in no haste to sit down. She went
to the window and looked at the plants; examined the state
of the chair cushions, and recommended that two or three
of them should be covered with some particularly bright
chintz which she had at home.
`I will send Tom down with it,' she said. `I think it
will please your mother.'
`There's a scarcity of the people that ever think of that,
now-a-days,' said Miss Morsel with a little sorrowful shake
of her head. `It's queer too, for if ever anybody wanted
pleasing she does. But haven't you got everything in the
world, at home! And after all, as I tell ma, there's no
store closet like one's own heart.'
`What's she going to send down?' said old Mrs. Morsel.
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`Bettie, tell her she needn't send no more o' them fine shirts—
we don't take in sewing now.'
`She knew that before you did, ma,' replied her daughter.
`My eyes aint strong to do fine work now,' continued
Mrs. Morsel, drawing herself up, `and I like other work
better. So does Bettie. We don't do it no longer. Tell
her so.'
`It does really seem sometimes,' said the daughter in a
kind of aside, `as if ma'd forgot all the little English she
ever did know! You would really suppose that she'd never
been to school or studied grammar; and yet I daresay she
used to know the noun of multitude and all those rules quite
respectably for her age of society.'
`So that's what she come for?' said old Mrs. Morsel.
`I told you she wanted something. She must go to some
poor person,—we don't take in sewing.'
`How much patience do you suppose Job had?' said
Miss Morsel in the same undertone to Rosalie. `Because
sometimes I think he must have had so much more than me,
that it's hardly worth while to try. Never mind her, dear,—
just you sit down and tell me about the battles.'
`There's very little use in battles,' said the old woman.
`Folks said the Revolutionary War did the country a power
of good, but we didn't get none of it. I've heerd tell of a
great deal more than I ever was knowing to. We've been
good for nothing since.'
`It's a singular fact,' said Miss Morsel softly, `that if
pa hadn't been killed in the Revolutionary War, we shouldn't
have anything to live on now. Queer, isn't it?'
It was so queer, altogether, that Rosalie was somewhat
divided between the desire to laugh and the desire to cry.
`But now do tell me,' continued Miss Morsel, `you never
did tell me—how did you get the pension money? who did
the business?'
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`O I spoke to a friend of mine about it,' said Rosalie.
`No wonder it got done, then,' said Miss Morsel, with a
loving look up at her guest. `I should think everybody
would do any thing, and glad. Ah it's a great help in the
world to be young, my dear,—and pretty—and rich! However,
we all have what is best for us.'
`I don't think bread and cheese is a healthy dinner,' said
Mrs. Morsel sourly. `Bettie will have it sometimes. And
she says it's best, and I say it aint.'
`Just think of her saying that!' said the daughter; evidently
distressed that her guest should hear it, but only from
the most generous and disinterested feeling. `To be sure
we do have it sometimes, but it's very good. I daresay
those poor men that are out fighting Tecumseh don't get a
bit better. But you said he was taken prisoner.'
`I thought,' said Rosalie softly, `I thought you were
taking better care of yourself,—you promised that you
would.'
`Take good enough care, my dear—oh yes, so I do; but
you see the thing is, ma's liable to be sick, of course—
any body is; and if she is to be sick I should like her to
have just what she's a mind to call for,—and the things
wouldn't be few nor far between, neither. And it's so easy
to take money out of the trunk when you've got it there
ready.'
`But let her have it now—she shall never miss it, nor you
either.'
`Yes, but I sha'n't let you do that,' said Miss Morsel,
dashing off the tears which those glistening eyes had called
up; `so don't talk about it or you'll upset me at once.
Everybody ought to live on his income,—and my income
comes in regularly, and when it don't I'll let you know.
There's Hulda gone to sleep this minute.'
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`No I haven't,' said Hulda, looking up with a weary
little face. `What made you throw away your greens, Miss
Morsel?'
`Why they got dry and fell over the world, and made
such a muss as I couldn't stand—so I thought they might
come down. I reasoned in this way—if Christmas greens
put me out of patience they won't do me much good,—and
down they came. But I kept the laurel, because that isn't
crumbly; and it helps one to think that there are woods in
existence somewhere.'
`Why didn't you come before?' said the old woman
suddenly turning towards her visiter. `It's better than six
months since you were here.'
`O no, it is not so many weeks,' said Rosalie smiling.
`It isn't more than half so many,' said Miss Morsel.
`You forget, ma.'
`Old folks always does forget,' said Mrs. Morsel with a
somewhat piqued air. `Only if they do, it's a wonder to my
mind how young folks comes to know anything. They don't
know much. I say it's six months.'
`You won't mind her, dear,' said Miss Morsel in a low
voice,—`because she's had a good many sticks in her way,
and somehow she likes to take 'em all. It's only a little
cup of crossness she's got to pour out, and then she'll be
done for a while. She used to have just what she wanted
once, you know, and somehow it makes one good natured to
be comfortable. But we are comfortable now, very,—if you
have everything, you can't wish. I've nothing to complain
of. I never wanted to complain since what you told me once—
do you remember? how “when the children of Israel
murmured, it displeased the Lord.” I've thought of it a
great many times.'
`It would be easy not to murmur if we thought more of
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the promised land and less of the wilderness,' said Rosalie
with a half-checked sigh.
`Yes dear. And I'm glad for my part to recollect that
this isn't the promised land;—so in that point of view, you
see, bread and cheese is quite wholesome.'
`Can you leave your mother for a while?' said Rosalie,
`I want you to go and take a sleigh ride. I came on purpose.
'
`Did you really?' said Miss Morsel,—`then I'll go;
though I don't think I could if you hadn't come on purpose.
Just like you! I wonder who else would want to parade me
up and down Broadway! and not in a close carriage, either.
O yes—I can leave her,—Seraphina Wells 'll come in and
sit here—ma likes Seraphina,—don't you ma? don't you like
Seraphina Wells?'
`Not much—' said the old lady. `She aint much but a
giddy-go-round. No, I don't like her.'
`Just hear that, now!' said Miss Morsel. `But she does
like her, for all. Well I'll get ready dear, as soon as I can.
But I don't know whether I ought to go—I felt so down this
morning.'
`That's the very reason why you should go,' said Rosalie
smiling. `It will cheer you up.'
`O the snow is beautiful!' said Hulda.
`Snows aint much now-a-days,' said old Mrs. Morsel rubbing
her hand back and forth over her knee. `They aint
like the snows in my time. They wouldn't hardly ha' been
called a flurry of snow in my time.'
`Did you ever!' said Miss Morsel, pausing on her way
to the closet. `I shouldn't wonder if she'd say the people
were worse then too.'
`How do you feel to-day, Mrs. Morsel?' said Rosalie,
coming close to her chair.
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`How should I feel?' said the old woman pettishly, but
with more energy than she had before spoken. `How would
you feel if you was shut up in this chair with nobody to
speak to, and no home nor nothing? The folks that has the
world thinks it's easy to do without it. I tell you it isn't,—
it's hard. It's a bad world, but I want it.'
`There is a better world,' said Rosalie gently,—`do you
want that?'
`Suppose I want both?' said Mrs. Morsel in the same
tone. `What then?'
`Then make sure of the best first. “They that seek the
Lord shall not want any good thing.'”
`Ay—that's what you say,' replied Mrs. Morsel, rubbing
her hand back and forth. `That's what you say. I should
like to see you try it once! Easy work to learn Bible verses
and say 'em!'
`Yes, it is much easier than to follow them,' said Rosalie,—
`I know that. But then you believe the Bible words,
whether I obey them or not; and isn't it pleasant to think
of heaven when we have a poor home on earth? and to remember
that if not one friend ever comes to see us, yet that
the angels of God are ever about his children, and that the
Lord Jesus has promised to be always with those that serve
him?'
The old woman's hand moved yet, but it was with a
nervous, unsteady action, and her face in vain tried to maintain
its cold dissatisfied look. Rosalie had stooped down
and laid her hand upon the arm of the chair while she was
speaking; and now one of the old shrivelled hands was laid
tremblingly upon hers.
`That's true—that about the angels,' she said in a shaking
voice, `but I'm not one of them they should come to.
What did you come here for?'
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`Yes I'll go—' said Miss Morsel, coming back with her
bonnet on. `It is queer, isn't it? but I never can hear
sleigh bells without wanting to run after 'em. I often think
there must be a little perverseness tucked away in some corner
of my existence.'
`Things always is tucked away in corners,' said old Mrs.
Morsel, sinking back into her chair and her old manner at
once. `Corners aint no other use in a house.'
`That aint much use, to my mind,' said Miss Morsel.
`However, I'm going ma, so goodbye.'
She went—and to use her own expression “was cheered
up higher than ever.”
Leaving poor friends and poor circumstances behind, the
sleigh now glided on to the other extreme of the city, as of
life; and before a large house in State Street Hiram once
more drew up. The door was quickly opened, and merely
inquiring if Miss Arnet was at home, Rosalie sought the
young lady up-stairs. There she sat in her dressing-room,
ensconced in wrapper and cushions,—a book in her hand,
her hair in the hands of her maid. Book and maid were at
once dismissed; and seating Rosalie among the cushions,
Miss Arnet stood before her to talk and arrange her hair at
the same time.
`Where have you been? and what has made you do so
unwonted a thing as to come here?'
`Truly, the simple desire to see you,' said Rosalie.
`The pleasantest reason in the world—and the rarest.
What did that woman do with my comb! Poor little Hulda,
you look tired to death. Where have you been whisked to
this morning?'
`O we've been sleigh riding with Miss Morsel,' said
Hulda with a look that bore out Miss Arnet's words.
Marion lifted up eyes and hands, which were by this
time disengaged.
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`You poor child! there wouldn't be the least atom of me
left after such an experience. Here,' she continued, picking
up Hulda and depositing her upon the sofa, `won't that make
you forget Miss Morsel? Don't pull down my hair, pet, in
the intensity of your gratitude. Are my sofa cushions
nice?'
`Very nice!' said Hulda smiling.
`Then lie still there and go to sleep—I sha'n't let Rosalie
go for one good hour.'
`But why don't you come to see us as you used to?' said
Hulda, when she had at last taken her arms from Miss
Arnet's neck. `I asked Thornton the other day, and he
said—'
`What did he say?' inquired Marion.
`I don't believe I know,' said Hulda, `it was so many
queer words. He said he couldn't undertake—to account
for young ladies' freaks.—Yes, that was it, because I said it
over and over for fear I should forget it.'
Marion sprang up, and crossing the room to where
Rosalie sat she said in a kind of indignant undertone,
`Is that the way I am understood? Is that what he
thinks of me?'
`No—' was the quiet and sad reply.
Miss Arnet knelt down by her side, and leaning her
elbows on the chair arm went on in the same vehement
way,
`Then what does he mean by saying so? It is cruel to
say what he does not think!—it is unjust!'
`He is neither to you, Marion. He is only cruel and
unjust to himself.'
`Then what does this mean?' she repeated, but more
quietly.
`It means only that he is not happy,' said his sister sorrowfully.
`You do not wonder at that?'
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Marion's head drooped lower and rested upon her hands.
`What can I do?' she said at length. `I will never
subject myself to the miseries I have seen in my own uncle's
family. Rosalie! he has ruined himself—he has ruined
them,—in mind, character, and estate; and when he came
here one night and said he had been playing with Thornton—
'
For a minute the room was absolutely still, and the
figures there might have been statues.
`I told Thornton at once,' said Miss Arnet raising her
head, `that unless he would promise me never to play for
money again, I would have no more to do with him than
with the rest of the world. And he would not give the
promise—said he would not be dictated to by any woman—
as if it was not more for his sake than my own, after all!
`Do you blame me?' she said, after another pause.
`No.'
But the word was spoken with such evident pain, that
Miss Arnet put her arms about Rosalie and tried every
word of soothing she could think of.
`I am very, very wrong to go this all over to you again!—
you have enough of your own to bear. Only it is such a
relief to speak out. Alie! what is the matter? you art not
well—you are perfectly white.'
`Yes, quite well,' Rosalie said. But the bitterness of
the thoughts and feelings that had been at work could no
longer be kept in. Speak out Rosalie never did, now;
but the sorrow that for a few moments held her in its
strong grasp, told of heart sickness such as Marion could
hardly comprehend. She was almost as much frightened as
grieved.
`I don't know where my common sense went to this
morning,' she said, when Rosalie had once looked up and
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given the assurance that there was nothing new the matter.
`It is a perfect shame for me to lean upon you—little frail
thing that you are,—and younger than I am to begin with.
I should think you would hate me Rosalie, for bringing this
upon you.'
`My dear child, you have not brought it.'
`Well, but don't call me child,' said Miss Arnet, trying
to take down her cousin's hands, `because it's really absurd
for me to look up to you,—I shall not do it any more, if I
can help it. For the future, Alie, you may lean upon me.
But indeed I have hard work sometimes. Mamma you
know takes different ground—says I have behaved shockingly,
and she has no patience with me. And it is not a
light thing to see such a change in a friend one has always
had.'
His sister knew that! But she sat up now, and pushing
the hair back off her face with an expression of quiet
patience, she said gently,
`I do not blame you, dear—I could not have advised
you to do otherwise than you have done.'
`Perhaps it will all turn out well yet,' said Marion
looking at her anxiously. `Perhaps he will change his
mind.'
`It may be that God will change it—' said his sister,
though the calm words trembled a little,—and Miss Arnet
knew then why she looked up to her. `The grace of God
which bringeth salvation hath done harder things than that.'
And as her face once more rested on her hands, Rosalie
added,
“`Let thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us, according as we
hope in thee!'”
No more was said; and after a few moments Hulda was
aroused and they went home.
-- 107 -- p737-112
CHAPTER XII.
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none.
—Macbeth.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
`What a confoundedly stupid thing it is that people can't
do as they choose!' said Thornton, throwing down the
paper one morning.
`Do you think so?' said his sister. `Now I think that
much of the confusion of the world is because people will
do as they choose.'
`What else should they do?'
`That depends— Choice is a poor reason if there be
no reason in the choice.'
`Now here,' continued Thornton without heeding her,
`here has this precious court martial dismissed Capt. Lewis
from the army, just because he chose to play cards.'
`Chose to gamble—' said Rosalie.
`Call it what you like—' said Thornton,—`I can't for
the life of me see whose concern it was but his own. Why
shouldn't he gamble—if it amuses him?'
`Why shouldn't he cut throats if it amuses him?'
`He may for what I care.'
`What are the reasons given for his dismissal?' said
Rosalie,—`what is the verdict?'
`Here it is, in full.'
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Head Quarters, &c.
“At a general court martial, whereof Colonel Thomas
Parker was president, was tried Captain Charles Lewis, of
the 29th regiment, on the following charge and specifications:
“Charge—Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.
“Specification 1. Holding a faro-bank at his quarters
near Buffalo, about the 6th Nov. 1812.
“Specif. 2. Gambling with his own waiter, and other
soldiers, at faro, same time and place.
“Specif. 3. Winning and receiving money of soldiers,
same time and place.
“Specif. 4. Boasting to his waiter, that he had won $60
with a pack of cards, about the same time and place.
“To which charge and specifications the prisoner pleaded
not guilty of the charge—guilty of the first and third
specifications, and not guilty of the fourth.
“The court, after mature deliberation, find the prisoner,
Capt. Charles Lewis, guilty of the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th
specifications; and guilty of the charge preferred against
him; and sentence him to be dismissed the service of the
United States.
“The General approves the sentence; and Capt. Charles
Lewis is accordingly dismissed the service of the United
States.
“(By order)
“James Bankhead, brigade major.”
`Pretty specimen of impertinent and unjust interference,
isn't it?' said Thornton when he had finished.
`I know too little of military law to say whether it be
unjust or no; but I should sooner call it humanity than impertinence—
if it makes Capt. Lewis ashamed of what does
not become the gentleman and ruins the man.'
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`What nonsense you do talk!' said Thornton angrily,—
`just because you know nothing about the matter—or
think nothing.'
`Just because I know and think. O Thornton, you
should not defend gambling!—it has lost us too much.'
`Lost! how do you know that I ever lost anything?'
`I know of one most precious thing,—I need not seek
further.'
`It will be time enough to remind me of that when I
have forgotten it,' said the young man with an uneasy change
of posture.
She left her seat, and kneeling down by him leant her
head on his shoulder.
`Is it possible that you can remember and disregard it?
What would I not do—what would I not bear, to save you
from these false friends—these degrading and ruining pursuits!
To see you take the part of a man and a christian
in the world. To see you live for something more than the
day's laugh and the night's amusement. O Thornton, is it
worthy of you? while this command stands unerased, “I
am the Almighty God. Walk before me and be thou
perfect.'”
He was looking down, somewhat sullenly; and neither
by word nor look did he answer her words, nor the hand that
drew back the hair from his forehead as caressingly as if he
had been a child, nor the earnest eyes that he knew were
studying his face. In his secret mind, Thornton felt very
much as if he were Captain Lewis just hearing Major
Bankhead dismiss him the service,—but if Rosalie's power
was strong so also was his resistance.
`And you think,' he said, `that people's hearts are
always open to the view of their fellow creatures,—that
secret good and evil do not exist.'
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`I think anything else,' said his sister. `But I must
believe the words of Christ, and he says, “Whosoever shall
deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father
which is in heaven.'”
How tenderly it was spoken! and yet how gravely too.
Thornton thought he had got about enough. His next effort
was in a different way.
`There is no doubt of your filling your place as a
woman,' he said lightly. `I will give my testimony to that
effect whenever it is called for. But for the present, as you
do not belong to my regiment suppose you let me repair to
those that do. As to taking you for my commanding officer,
I'll think about it,—it's not always safe to invest guardians
with extraordinary powers. So let me go—here am I
bound not neck and heels exactly, but neck and hand. You
can rule enough of the lords of creation if you will only
take the right way for it.'
She had not tried to interrupt his words, the drift of
which she knew full well; and at last to get rid of the
uneasy consciousness that her eye was upon him, Thornton
turned suddenly and met it. The spark flew,—and the
shock awoke all the old memories of his mother whose look
he seemed to see again in those sweet eyes,—memories
which were or tried to be ofttimes asleep. Putting his arm
round Rosalie he drew her head down to his shoulder
again.
`What has got into you to-day, pretty one?' he said.
`Cannot you be content to rule men in woman's own way,
and leave them free in other respects?'
`You are not free—that is the very thing.'
`I won't fight you for that, seeing you are my sister,'
said Thornton, `but I must really demand an explanation.'
“`Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin,'” —
said his sister sadly.
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`You are cool in your remarks, at least,' said Thornton
reddening. `At the next one of that sort I shall take my
departure. And I really had something to say to you.'
`What?' she said, looking up at him with a most disarming
face as he now stood before her.
`Are you willing, Lady Paramount, that I should bring
some of my friends here some evening?'
`I do not understand you Thornton—you have them
whenever you please.'
`Of course! But I mean can I have you as well? will
my canary bird please to be visible? Well?—what are you
meditating? what sword thrust am I to have now?'
`Dear Thornton—I wish you would not talk so. I will
see anybody you wish me to, of course—if—'
`Ay—there's a world-wide difference between your `of
course' and your `if,' said her brother dryly.
`You know there is nothing in the world I would not do
for you unless I thought it wrong. I will see anybody you
choose to bring here, and entertain them to the best of my
power,—if the entertainment may be without cards or
wine.'
Displeased as he was Thornton held his words in check.
Hers had been spoken in so low a tone, at once so timid and
so resolute, that it shamed him into gentleness. At last he
spoke, but in a constrained voice.
`Why not say `no' at once? it would be rather more
frank, and save both time and trouble.'
`It would not have been what I meant. Is it quite impossible
for gentlemen to spend a pleasant evening without
those two things?'
`Quite impossible for me to offer it.'
`But why? One has surely a right to one's own opinions,
and to the free expression of them.'
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[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
The word `free' struck him disagreeably, and he was
silent. Rosalie went on.
`I will do anything that I can to give you or your guests
pleasure, Thornton,—I will lay myself out for their entertainment;
but I will not countenance that which I disapprove.
'
`You are not responsible for what I choose to give my
guests—' said her brother.
She quietly repeated, `I will not countenance it.'
`Why not?' said Thornton looking at her curiously
`What voice has a canary bird in the matter? Can it make
itself heard all alone?'
`It shall not go to swell the cry for evil.'
`My poor little canary bird!' said Thornton, but there
was a touch of tenderness in the words that thrilled through
her. `My poor little canary bird,—I am afraid the cry will
never join your sweet voice. And after all why should you
care? You don't suppose I would permit anybody to drink
too much in your presence?'
She smiled slightly and shook her head, but the eyes
went down as gravely as before.
`Why not?' said Thornton, going back to the point.
`What concern is it of yours?'
The little smile came again, but the eyes were full that
she raised to his face as she said,
`I know how I should feel if I were the sister of one of
them at home.'
`You are a strange girl!' said Thornton. `What are
other people's brothers to you? I should think you might
find your own enough to manage.'
`No, I would rather he should manage himself,' said his
sister smiling.
`Which is a polite way of saying that he don't.'
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[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
`If you will go with me this afternoon, Thornton, I will
shew you one good reason for what you call my whim.'
`My dear it might not be satisfactory to me,—or it
might be too satisfactory—worse still. I will attend you
where you like in the open air; but I don't wish to see any
examples but yours, nor any cases of charity but myself—
who am in desperate want of amusement just now. You
may have my purse and welcome, though I suspect your
own is the better filled; but as to the rest I should only
discomfort myself without comforting anybody else. So
goodbye, little guardian,—since you give me leave to go out
by myself I will go.'
He went forth on his pleasure seeking, and Rosalie
muffled herself up and set out on her expedition alone. It
was a keen, wintry day,—the sky cold grey, the snow cold
white; the wind sharpened upon snow crystals. The city
vanes, like the Moorish astrologer's little horseman, pointed
steadily to Baffin's Bay as the quarter whence the enemy
might be expected; and a dismal appreciation of the fact
seemed to have settled down upon the whole outer world.
People looked blue and white and red and spotted,—men
pocketed their hands and went along at an easy run; the
unkempt portion of society hugged themselves in their rags
and sought sheltered corners; and the few ladies who were
abroad flitted along, the very sport of the wind. Rosalie
would have been glad of her brother's arm, but it was not
there and she passed on alone.
In one of the poor streets of the city lay the object of her
walk,—a house as poor as the street, with tenants yet
poorer. The house had two stories, the upper one reached
by an out-of-doors staircase; at the head of which a door in
two parts opened into the front room of that floor. Old
furniture of various families and complexions, but neatly
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
dusted and arranged, graced its walls; the bit of rag carpet
was free from lint and wrinkles, and the cover of the little
table without a spot on its white. A door stood half open
into an adjoining room, where the darkened light and the
low moans that now and then were heard, told their own
story. An Irish woman opened the divided door in answer
to Miss Clyde's knock, and softly closed it behind her.
`It's very kind of you to come, ma'am,' she said, `and
indeed it was too bold of us to ask—only they said Miss
Clyde never refused any one. And indeed we didn't well
know what to do.'
Another woman now entered from the back room, and
courtesied to Rosalie but seemed as if she could not speak.
`Is he any better?' said the young lady softly.
`No Miss! not a bit! just the same! Out of his head
always, and crying and moaning as you hear. Never a better
son than himself!' she said, covering her face with her
apron, `till he took to drink.'
`But how did this happen?' said Rosalie as she sat down
in the chair placed for her. `I did not quite understand
what was the matter.'
`Ye see Miss, he drives—that is, not now, poor soul,
but he used,—he has a coach, and never a steadier nor a
better man when himself. And a week ago come Thursday
there was a party, they say, and he went—not to the party,
at all at all, but with some that was going. And it's bitter
could it was—and ye know yerself, ma'am, the could is a
hard thing to bear, to them not dressed for it. Not but his
coat was good, but it wouldn't stand that. And when he
went for the gentleman it's like he took something warm
just to help the coat as it were, and because of the waiting;
but he never got to the place at all. The horses went on
and throwed him off, and next morning they found him lying
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in the snow half dead and buried, and he the only hope of
his mother! And he hasn't lift his head since they brought
him home.'
The mother walked back into the other room to conceal
or give way to her grief, for her sobs came mingled with the
groans of the sick man.
`Has he been in the habit of drinking?' Rosalie inquired
of the other woman.
`No Miss—he usen't—but he's took to it more in the
could weather. And it's no good talking: for `See mother,'
he says, `sure the gentlemen I drive don't know so much as
meself on the box sometimes, and sure they can tell what's
right,—why shouldn't Mike take a drop of comfort as well
as the quality?' he says. `Is drink worse out o'doors in the
could nor it is in by the fire?' But he'll niver say that
again, maybe!'
There was nothing to be done except in the way of money
or sympathy. What words of comfort she could Rosalie
spoke, and after promising to send a good physician she
asked further concerning their wants. But these seemed at
present to be few.
`The neighbors is very kind,' said the mother, who had
returned to the front room. `The tinman's wife below sent
a fresh egg from her own hens, and the little china woman
at the corner she just stewed oysters for him twice. But
bless ye! it's himself couldn't touch neither of 'em! And
what good 'll anything do him more! Yes Miss—I know
the Lord is good—`a strong hold in the day o' trouble'—I
learnt that long ago. But it's hard to trust—sometimes.—
If it wasn't all I had in the world! And to die so too—
without a thought on his mind at the last!'
Rosalie left the poor little abode, and remembered neither
wind nor cold till a long walk through both had brought
her to a very different establishment.
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`Is Dr. Buffem at home?' she said to the servant who
opened the door.
He was, by chance; and came bustling into the parlour
in a great fit of amazement.
`Who gave you leave to come here in business hours?'
he said. `What's the matter? That chicken of yours can't
be sick, or you'd never be here.'
Rosalie briefly preferred her request.
`You see sir,' she added, `my trust among physicians
is even less extensive than my acquaintance,—so I was
forced to come to you.'
The doctor took snuff and shook his head.
`I'll tell you what I think,' he said—`I think you want
a strait jacket. What business is it of yours if coachmen
get run over every night?'
`It is every one's business to see that they do not die
therefrom without help,' said Rosalie smiling.
`No it isn't—' said the doctor. `Not yours.—Nonsense!'
`I am putting the business into your hands now, sir.'
`But if I go,' said the doctor, `you know I should despatch
him, the first thing. Immense saving of trouble!'
`I will trust you sir, with many thanks.'
`I haven't promised to go yet,' said Dr. Buffem. `I've
got two ladies and three gentlemen to attend to. Real
ladies—who don't know that hackney coachmen have souls,—
and gentlemen who don't know much about their own.
Think of that!'
`I don't like to think of it sir—nor of them. And now
I will not break up business hours any further. Dr. Buffem—'
`Yours to command!' said the doctor bowing.
But the cheek flushed a little and she stood hesitating.
`Out with it!' said the doctor. `I know you are going
to say something very impertinent.'
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`These people are very poor,' she said, colouring more
and more, `and—'
`Hackney coachmen that drink always are,' said the
doctor sententiously.
`And—if—Will you please send your bill to me, sir?'
`That you may break the amount to them by degrees?'
said the doctor, looking at her across the finger and thumb
which held a prepared pinch of snuff.
`Yes, if you choose to think so,' she said laughing.
`Only send it to me.'
`I'll be—no matter what—if I do!' said Dr. Buffem.
`Take yourself off, Miss Rosalie, and don't come here fooling
old doctors. Here have you and your hackney coachman
cost me more snuff than you'll ever bring me in. I've a
great mind to make you pay interest in advance.'
But Rosalie negatived that and moved towards the door.
`It always puts me out of patience to be cheated!' said
the doctor following her. `See here—what's become of
that boy who used to be always tied to your apron string?
Have you seen him since he came home?'
`Only once sir.'
`So ho!—`only once.' How did you know what boy I
meant?—recognise the description, don't you? I'll send you
some fever powders when you get home. Ah I thought
I'd have my revenge. Talk to me of hackney coachmen,
indeed! It'll be a large bill!—tremendous!'
The hour was late and dinner waiting when Rosalie
reached home. Hulda was waiting too.
`O Alie why didn't you come before? Here has been
that nice gentleman again. And there are two notes in the
parlour.'
`Well let me take off my bonnet and then I will see to
the notes.'
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They were two, as Hulda had said. One to herself, the
other to Thornton. The style and address of the one were
peculiar, and Rosalie thought she remembered having seen
it before,—thought she recollected that a similar invitation
(as this looked to be) had kept her brother out much later
than usual one night, and had been followed by days of peculiar
distaste for home and her society. She would have
given anything to put the note in that bright blaze before
her, ere Thornton came in. For a moment the temptation
was so strong that she thought she would do it,—thought
she would risk anything to keep him even for once out of
bad company. But she remembered that underhand dealings
became not her, and could not benefit him in the long
run,—she must let things have their way, and patiently
wait and hope. With a half sigh she heard her brother
come in and felt the note taken from her hand.
`What are you doing with my despatches?' he said.
`Holding them safe—and wanting very much to put
them in the fire.'
`I should like to see you do that,' said Thornton as he
refolded the note and put it in his pocket. `What is the
other?'
`Not much—a request from Mrs. Raynor that I will
spend to-morrow with her.'
`And you will?'
`No.'
`Why not?'
`I do not wish to go.'
`I wonder if your foot ever trembles on the narrow bridge
of truth?' said her brother, raising her face and surveying
it intently.
`Not in this case. But don't you wish to go to dinner?'
`Well I certainly might be hungry,' said Thornton as
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
he followed her, `for I have been parading and walking in
the most exemplary and orthodox manner—quite à-la-bon
fils. Where have you been?'
`Where I wish you had.'
`O—I remember, and cannot echo the wish. And you
have been working yourself up to some untenable point of
perfection, I suppose—à-la-vraie femme.'
`Only untenable to the people who never occupy it.'
`By the way,' said Thornton, `just for the fun of the
thing, I think I will have a party upon the proposed plan.
Only I shall not fail to proclaim to the company whose `hospitable
thought `contrived it all.'
`I had company this morning,' said Hulda, who thought
she had been long enough unnoticed.
`Indeed!' said her brother. `Was it a wasp or a yellow-jacket?
'
`He didn't wear a yellow jacket at all,' said Hulda,—
`it was a black one.'
Thornton burst out laughing.
`If I am to have two sisters to look after,' he said, `I
may as well build a castle at once. I really did not know
you were grown up, Hulda.'
Not understanding Greek, Hulda was not in the least
discomposed.
`You see Alie, I ran on before Martha to open the door,
for I thought maybe it was you; and it was Mr. Raynor.'
`Mr. Raynor!' said Thornton, every particle of the
laugh vanishing. `What the deuce brought him here?'
`I don't think the deuce brought him here at all,' said
Hulda, in a very dignified manner. `I'm sure he was very
pleasant, and a great deal more good natured than'—
`Hush, Hulda!' said her sister.
A silent play of knives and forks followed.
-- 120 --
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`And what had Mr. Raynor to say for himself?' inquired
Thornton, when he had swallowed the first effervescence
produced by this information.
`O not much,' said Hulda. `Nothing at all for himself.
He only kissed me and asked for Rosalie.'
Thornton carried his fork to his mouth with more expression
than is usually bestowed upon salad, but verbal
remark he made none.
-- 121 -- p737-126
CHAPTER XIII.
Not for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.
—Ben Jonson.
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
`Miss Arnet, ma'am,' said Tom, opening the sitting-room
door next morning.
`O Marion!' cried little Hulda springing towards her,
`is that you? I thought you never were coming here
again.'
`I began to think so myself, pet. Good morning, Alie.
Good morning, Captain Thornton! I saw your troop out
and supposed you were with them.'
`Good morning, Miss Arnet. I am sorry you should be
disappointed, but I can soon go, if that be all.'
`You are excessively stiff and disagreeable this morning!
' said Marion colouring. `Can't one give one's cousin
his title without being immediately hailed as Miss Arnet?'
`It is in the nature of ice to freeze, nevertheless,' said
Thornton.
`Alie,' said Marion turning to her, `I came to borrow
this child—will you let her go?'
`Ah please do!' said Hulda who was bestowing on Miss
Arnet a small hundred of kisses. `I always like to go with
you, Marion. But why don't you come here as you used to?—
when we all love you so much.'
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[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
`Are you sure you do?' said Marion. `Alie, you haven't
spoken to me yet, except with those violet eyes of yours.
Will you let Hulda go?'
`Yes, and glad. She is too quiet here with me sometimes.
'
`O no I'm not,' said Hulda. `But I like to go, too.'
`Then run and get ready, pet—get your bonnet, I mean.
Don't put on another frock—I'll lace-ruffle you if it is
necessary.'
`Why do you plague yourself with that child?' said
Thornton.
`I do not plague myself with that child. Of all the
children I ever saw, she is the least of a plague.'
`Your experience differs widely from mine.'
`You have not studied the subject of counterpoise,
Captain Thornton. Things to love one in this world are not
so plenty that one can afford to put out the fire of a child's
affection, for fear it should now and then fill the room with
smoke.'
`Very rhetorically expressed,' said Thornton; `and
quite in Rosalie's style. I should think she had been giving
you lessons.'
`She gives me a great many that I do not take,' said
Marion with a sudden change of expression—`I wish I had
ever been more ready to learn! I wish all the world were
like her! Alie, my dear, what do you do to me? When
you are silent I feel reproved for speaking, and when you
speak I feel reproved for the way I have spoken. Your
power is like nothing but the old fashion of a lock of hair
round a love-letter—very strong, because nobody would
break it. One would have small compunction about filing a
chain in two, but who could struggle against such a lock as
this?—'
-- 123 --
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`You are riding off too fast on your simile,' said her
cousin. `The hair bound up only the lady's own thoughts—
and was destined to be untied, after all.'
`By the proper person,' said Marion. `O yes—and I
expect to see your power in other hands than your own, by
and by. Which is the thing of all things that Thornton
least likes to hear. I would not for something be the man
to encounter him in such circumstances.'
`Are there any circumstances under which you would
like to encounter me, Miss Arnet?'
`Did either of you ever hear,' said Rosalie, `of the man
who was so anxious to bring down a bird that when other
shot failed he fired all his treasures into the tree-top? And
he never perceived the while that he was standing upon a
cricket, whose overthrow could yield him neither glory nor
satisfaction.'
Marion's eyes filled to overflowing.
`I have felt it in my heart sometimes,' she said. `But
I would rather the cricket should bite my foot than send
out such a soft little chirp as that. Here comes Hulda at
last.'
`At last?' said Hulda. `Why Martha said I had been
no time at all. Good bye, dear Alie—you won't be
lonely?'
`I shall be as happy as possible, to think you are, love.'
`Well do,' said Hulda, with a somewhat doubtful breath.
`Good bye, Thornton.'
`Good bye,' said her brother. `Though I cannot conceive
what is the use of having a ruffle to one's shirt if it is
to be mussed up in that style.'
`Come away, my dear,' said Miss Arnet. `Thornton
doesn't like smoke'
`Doesn't he!' said Hulda. `Why I thought he liked it
so much!'
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The morning passed rather moodily. Thornton seemed
disposed for home comforts—or home meditations, and
yielded very little return for his sister's kind and delicate attempts
to please him. When at last he roused himself to go
out, however, he did condescend to signify his appreciation
of them.
`You are like nobody else, Alie—nobody else in the
world,—Marion is right there. But whether her growing
like you would benefit me much, may be questioned. You
are a stiff enough little child yourself, and I don't believe
would shake her resolution if you could.'
`I am sure I have tried hard to shake yours.'
`My resolution won't shake—or if it does will do no
more. It is fast at both ends. And that child thinks she
can twirl me round her thumb—and so she can I suppose,
in heart, but not in purpose. Well—I thought I had got
used to it.—'
`But why cannot you talk to each other peaceably, at
least?' said his sister.
`Because having said the most provoking things we
could to each other, the less provoking come natural, I presume,
' said Thornton. `I don't think Marion could speak
to me as she speaks to other people. There is a kind of
lemon-squeezer effect about all she says.'
`I am sure she never speaks of other people as she speaks
of you.'
`Well—it may be,' said Thornton. `Snows, doesn't it?—
But I tell you, Alie, it's of no use for you to look sober
about this—if you wear such a face people will think my
canary bird has a hard jailer.'
It was no prisoner's look that she turned to him, and for
that he kissed her more than once before he went.
An hour passed by, and Rosalie had gone up to her
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
room, and was beginning the business of the toilette in a
very leisurely and reflective sort of way, when Martha
Jumps came in.
`My stars alive!' she said—`Well if you ain't all undressed
at this very identical minute!'
`Well?—' said her mistress.
`Well's easy to spell,' said Martha sententiously, `but
whether the gentleman down stairs is agoing over the letters
to himself, is a question.'
`What gentleman? I told Tom to let nobody in.'
`Very good,' said Martha, `but you didn't tell me; and
when Tom Skiddy's to the baker's he ain't at the front
door, commonly. But do make haste, Miss Rosalie, because—
'
`Because what?'
`O I don't know,' said Martha—“because' never stays
put in my head,—it's a kind of floating population. I don't
know who he asked for first, neither, but I told him Captain
Thornton wa'n't home. I guess it don't much matter—'
said Martha in a satisfied tone, as if it did matter a great
deal but all the right way.
`Are you sure I am wanted at all, Martha?
`Sure as he is—and there's no going beyond that, ma'am.
Now you'll soon be ready. My! what white arms! It's a
mystery to me what ever does come over some folks's skins.
Miss Rosalie! you forgetfullest of all ladies (in this house),'
said Martha parenthetically, `here's one of your rings on the
washhand stand. There—do go.'
`Lovely she is, and he too,' said Martha Jumps to
herself as she looked over the balustrade after her mistress,—
`and he was here yesterday—that's more. Now if I wasn't
honourable, which I am, wouldn't I go down and second all
the motions through the keyhole! There—shut fast. Such
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[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
doors! I should think cur'osity 'd die an unnatural death in
this house, for want of air. Well—I'll go look after Tom
Skiddy!'
It was indeed a lovely vision that Mr. Raynor saw when
the opening door drew his eye in that direction. She was
dressed according to the fashion of the day; but her look
was like no fashion that the world ever saw.
`I could not come sooner, Mr. Raynor,' she said,—`if
that is any apology for keeping you waiting so long.'
`I have been conversing with an ideal presence,' he said
with a slight smile, `and too pleasantly to find the time long.
I wish I could hope to go over the same interview with the
reality.'
`You have brought your mother back with you,' said
Rosalie.
`Certainly—or rather she has brought me. But she
was a little fatigued with the journey, and has not been able
to go out since; or you would have seen her.'
`So I understood—so she said in the note she was so
kind as to write me.'
`The note whose request you were not so kind as to
comply with,' said he smiling. `Why was it, Miss Rosalie?
Has the old friendship died out on your side?'
`O no—' she said earnestly.
`It died out on mine, long ago,' said Mr. Raynor,—`at
least if transformation be death; and I should like to have
your consent to the new order of things.'
`No, the old one was too good to be changed. But Mr.
Raynor'—
`But Miss Rosalie, if you please, I am not ready to quit
the subject. I went to Europe with one thing in my mind
that I had been forbidden to speak out—though I begged
hard for permission. But because we were both so young,
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
I was required to go without telling you in words who was
the best loved of all the friends I left in America—which
indeed I thought you must know without words.'
She sat silently listening to him, with a face grave and
quiet, as if her mind was but half upon what he said,—as
if she knew it already—as if some emergency which she had
expected and tried to ward off had come, and she knew what
her answer must be, and was trying to strengthen her
woman's heart and woman's voice to give it. A look very
different from the almost sensitive timidity which reigned
there when no deep feeling was in exercise. An expression
which Mr. Raynor had seen but once before—and that was
on the night of his arrival, when he had watched so long to
see it change to one he remembered and liked much better.
He did not like it now at all—he would rather have seen
herself more present to her mind—her colour deeper, and
her self-control less.
`Well,' he said at last—and though the voice was gentle
it was very grave—`what are you plotting against me? I
see you knew all this long ago, and that it has been not
quite forgotten in the mean time. I have told you my
thoughts, dear Rosalie—tell me yours.'
`I wish they had never been told me—that they had
been left to my own imaginings. I wish, oh how much,
that if you had any such thoughts before you went abroad,
Mr. Raynor, you had left them all there.'
`You might as well wish that I was not Mr. Raynor, at
once. And as to not telling them—I'm afraid I should not
soon have you really at the head of my house if I waited
for your `imaginings' to place you there. It is high time
that my persuasions came in aid.'
She passed her hands over her face for a moment, and
then clasping them together and looking up at him that he
might see it was no unsettled purpose, she said,
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[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
`I cannot leave my brother, Mr. Raynor.'
He looked at her steadily for a moment,—and then as
her eyes fell again he sprang up and stood before her.
`But Rosalie! what sort of a reason is that?'
`A good one, if you will take the right point of view,'
she said with the same steadiness, except that his look or
his words had somewhat moved her lips from their composure.
`Then I take the wrong. It does not follow, dear
Rosalie, that of two people who love you with all their
hearts you should choose the one who has always had you—
unless he has all your heart as well.'
`But it does follow that I should give myself to the one
who wants me most.'
`I will throw down my gauntlet upon that!'
`Ah you do not take the right point of view. He needs
me more than you can understand.'
`I know he would miss you—he could not help that.
But—would you have said this to me two years ago?'
`He would not have been left alone then.'
`And you are left alone now. Forgive me, dear Rosalie—
I do not say it in unkindness—but ought you not to take
some care of yourself? Is it quite right to think only of
another's whims and fancies?'
`He has nothing to do with it,' she said quickly—`at
least not in the way you suppose. But Mr. Raynor—'
She paused a moment and then went on.
`I must tell you all—it is but just. Mr. Raynor, I am
the only friend he has in the world! Of all the people with
whom he most associates there is not one, there is not one!
whose influence for good is at best more than neutral. He
does not go the lengths that some of them go—he has a
little remembrance yet of what he was—a sense of honour
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
and truth as strong as he ever had. But if he has any
regard for my words, any love for me—and you know not
how much!—could I be justified in leaving him to the unmitigated
influence of worthless companions and unworthy
pursuits?'
She had spoken very low at first, with evident grief and
mortification; looking up then with her whole heart in her
eyes, and yet with those same meekly folded hands, as if
beseeching him neither to urge nor distrust her.
He met the look, and then turning abruptly away he
began to walk up and down the room; but more in excitement
than in thoughtfulness. Walking as if the disturbed
spirit could not subside, and without once looking towards
Rosalie.
`You are displeased, Mr. Raynor,' she said at length.
`You think I am trifling with you.'
He came to the end of the sofa where she sat, and took
her hand in both of his.
`Nothing upon earth could make me think that! But
I cannot bring my mind to look at things as you do,—
neither is the feeling wholly selfish. If you could see yourself
with the eyes of a third person, Rosalie, you would
understand one of the reasons why I want you to be my
wife, much better than you can now. Is it right, I must ask
you again, to forget yourself entirely? to take no care for
yourself?'
`No—perhaps not—' she said, but the voice was less
clear and steady—`in one respect you may be right. But
one needs to take a very wide view of things. I do not
speak without consideration. I know too, that it is not in
my hands—that I have no power that is not given me,—and
I cannot tell how things will turn out. But God seldom
makes the whole path clear before us—it is only the first
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
few steps. Should I therefore refuse to take them? O Mr.
Raynor! you have known what it was to live without God
and without hope in the world—is anything too much to
bring one out of that condition?'
She gathered breath and went on.
`I have thought—very much of late—of the day when
“them that sleep in Jesus God shall bring with him”—
when the book of life shall be opened. It is not enough to
know that her name is written there—to hope that mine
stands by it—'
`I know it is not in my hands—' she went on presently,—
`and yet I cannot leave him!'
She said no more, and sat silent, except for those silently
flowing tears.
`I dare not urge you—' Mr. Raynor said then. `I
dare not put my own earthly happiness, nor even yours,
dear Rosalie, in competition with another's eternal welfare.
The sick of the palsy was healed for the faith of them that
brought him. Surely if ever endeavours were blessed,
yours might be! But tell me one thing—was this the only
reason?'
`If there had been another you should never have heard
this,' she said.
`I might have answered that myself.'
He stood silent and grave, as if the struggle were in his
mind yet, till she rose up and said,
`Good bye, Mr. Raynor—you must not stay here any
longer—and for the future we must be only common
friends.'
`I must not stay here any longer at present,' he said
with some emphasis, `but I do not give up my claim—it is
only postponed. Nay, do not contradict me. And we must
not be common friends—for I have a more than brother's
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[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
right to be called upon, and shall perhaps assume that right
to watch over you, whether I have it or not. And as for
you, dear child,—“The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: the
Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto
thee: the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give
thee peace!'”
He went—and as the door closed behind him Rosalie
felt as if she had taken leave of the sunshine of life, and
turned her face unto the shadows. Hulda thought her
sister very tired that evening;—and when late at night
Thornton came home and went to take a look at the sweet
face whose pleadings he so often disregarded, he found its
expression more hard to read than usual. He was sure
there had been sorrowful thoughts at work—that the fountain
of tears was hardly at rest now; but for whom had
they come? Not for herself. He could not trace one
murmur on the placid brow, and the mouth seemed to speak
what had been her last waking thoughts—“And now, Lord,
what wait I for? my hope is in thee.”
But had they been for him? Thornton puzzled over it
till he was tired, and went to bed to dream that he had
forbidden Mr. Raynor the house.
-- 132 -- p737-137
CHAPTER XIV.
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee.
—Shelly.
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
It was one of those warm foretokens of summer which are
sometimes sent by the hand of April. With sympathetic
laziness people strolled along through the sunshine; the
street sprinklers passed on with their carts, and birds and
radish boys were clamorous. The leaves came out apace
but stealthily, and the very air was breathless. And yet
there floated in from the storehouses of fresh things, fresh
influences. The silence spoke of sweet sounds in the wilderness
of nature, to the wilderness of men; and flowers came
not on `the wings of the wind,' but their own breath; and
over all there was a sky so purely blue—so free from turmoil
and pollution,—that it seemed as if the last revolution
of the earth had rolled New York away from its own proper
atmosphere, and bestowed it beneath a new canopy. How
far removed from the sights and sounds—the steps, the
rattling wheels, the drums, the cries, that spread themselves
through the city.
So thought Miss Clyde, as with little Hulda in her hand
she went slowly home from a walk. How few, she thought,
how very few there were that appreciated or even noticed
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that `clear expanse,'—how few that would not mourn if the
word were sent to them, `Come up hither.' The very birds
were longing to try their wings in such an element; and
man chose the dust, and looked down and not up. A little
pressure of her hand brought her eyes down. Hulda was
studying her face as intently as she had watched the sky.
`Are you tired, love?'
`O no,' said Hulda, `but I didn't know what you were
thinking of. There's a carriage at our door.'
Somewhat wondering with herself what could have made
Mrs. Raynor go in and wait for her, Rosalie mounted the
steps, and her wonder was not lessened to find Thornton in
the parlour.
The good quakeress spoke not a word till she had kissed
her first upon one cheek and then on the other, even more
tenderly than usual.
`I have made acquaintance with thy brother,' she said
then—`I would know everybody that loves thee and whom
thou dost love.'
`That is not a very safe rule to go by neither,' said
Thornton. `In this case, Mrs. Raynor, Rosalie loves somebody
very different from herself.'
Mrs. Raynor looked as if she knew it full well—or at
least as if she thought the people who resembled Rosalie
were few.
`And thou, dear little Hulda,' she said, sitting down and
taking the child on her lap—`wilt thou come home with me
and see my flowers?'
Hulda looked doubtfully towards her sister and then up
at the soft, quiet eyes that looked down upon her. She had
to resort to the childish formula of hesitation,
`I don't know, ma'am.'
`Yes, thou wilt come,' said the quakeress decisively—
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`thy sister will not say nay to thy going. Thou and I will
have the carriage all to ourselves, and we will get home before
dinner.'
`But how shall I get back again?' said Hulda smiling.
`We will see—mayhap thy friend Henry Raynor will
bring thee.'
`Is that the same Mr. Raynor that came here once—no,
two times?' said Hulda.
`Truly love I think there is but one Henry Raynor,'
said his mother.
`O then I should like to go, very much.'
And jumping down to ask her sister's leave, Hulda ran
away up stairs.
`He hath taken a strange fancy to thy little pet,' said
the quakeress, looking however rather towards Thornton.
`To Rosalie's pet, Mrs. Raynor—I am fonder of grown-up
humanity.'
`Thou hast never known what it was to lose such a
little pure spirit from thy house,' said the quakeress with a
sigh, `or thee would better appreciate it. But thou hast a
large share, friend Thornton, and when `the cup runneth
over,' the drops are less precious.'
`I have not a drop too many,' said Thornton, with an
expression he was hardly conscious of. `You know it
takes more to make some people happy than others, Mrs.
Raynor.'
`I know there is but one thing which of itself bringeth
happiness,' she said—`perhaps without that thy remark may
be just. But here cometh one whose happiness is of easy
growth. And yet, Rosalie, she demurreth about leaving
thee even for one day.'
There was certainly considerable doubt on Hulda's mind
except when she looked at Mrs. Raynor; but there she
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found something so attractive that she was allured on, and
soon found herself doing anything else but fill a place in the
carriage. Stowed away like a small parcel on the spacious
seat, her little shoes in plain sight, with one hand stretched
over Mrs. Raynor's soft dress and there held fast, Hulda
watched through the front window the substantial back of
Caleb Williams, and thought how very funny it was for a
coachman to wear a grey coat. The carriage rolled smoothly
on in the most regular and matter-of-fact way possible,—as
if Caleb and his horses had made an arrangement that they
were not to get home before a certain time, and therefore it
was as well to take it easy.
Hulda remembered how Thornton's horses went now very
fast and now slow, and then started off again at a most
eccentric pace; but at this rate she could have slept all the
way to Mrs. Raynor's with no disturbance. Arrived at the
house another wonder awaited Hulda, for there was a footman
all in grey too; and when she had followed Mrs. Raynor
up stairs, and Rachel came at her mistress's call habited
after the same sober fashion, Hulda began to feel as if all
the world were turning mouse colour, and looked down at her
crimson merino with feelings of amazement.
`Thee sees I have brought home little Hulda Clyde,
Rachel,' said Mrs. Raynor. `Will thee take off the child's
bonnet and cloak, and see if perchance her feet be cold?'
`Yea verily,' said Rachel, when she had brought her
mistress another dress. `Art thou cold, Hulda?'
`O no,' said Hulda, whose mind had got beyond the cold
region and was in a great puzzle, for Rachel had not only
Mrs. Raynor's stuff gown but also her cap! `I'm not cold
at all.'
`Doth thy dress keep thee warm?' said Rachel, with a
grave irony which Hulda did not understand.
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`Yes ma'am,' she said, in a new difficulty from the similarity
of neckerchiefs—`I suppose so—my frock and my
coat.'
Rachel almost smiled at the grave little face—so sincere
and so wide awake.
`Did thee ever see a fire-fly, child?' she inquired.
`No,' said Hulda, `but Rosalie told me about them.
They're such bright and beautiful things that go flying all
about in the evening.'
`Now thou art all ready,' said Mrs. Raynor approaching
them, `and likewise I, and we will go down stairs.'
`There waiteth a woman this long time,' said Rachel,
`and she will not tell her want save to thee. James Hoxton
hath brought her to the kitchen.'
`I will straightway go and see her,' said Mrs. Raynor.
And for thee, little Hulda, wilt thou sit by thyself in the
library until I come? and Rachel shall bring thee the cat.'
It never would have occurred to Hulda that a tortoise-shell
cat could come to keep her bright dress company; and
therefore when a grave knight of Malta walked in, she felt
that he was one of the family.
`Art thou afraid to stay here alone?' said Rachel, when
she had watched the knight's reception.
`Why what should I be afraid of?' said Hulda.
`Truly little one, thee has reason,' said the handmaid as
she departed.
Hulda had sat some time upon the rug in front of the
fire, and Maltese was quite expanding beneath her caresses;
when somebody came in and took a chair behind her, and
she was lifted up, cat and all, upon Mr. Raynor's lap. He
was not in grey—Hulda saw that at a glance—but in a blue
uniform with red facings, very much like her dress. She
felt quite comforted. But when she got a fair view of his
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face—for at first it was too close to her own—she saw that
he had his share of the sober colour, only worn differently.
But what made him look so at her? There was something
in his face that troubled her, and almost tearfully her eyes
sought his. He smiled then, and drawing her head down
till it rested against him, he asked how she was, and then
after her sister.
`O she's very well,' said Hulda stroking the cat. `I
suppose she's always well for she never says she's sick. Do
you think she'll miss me to-day, Mr. Raynor?'
`I do not believe she is sorry you came, dear Hulda, and
I am very glad.'
Hulda thought that was very strange.
`Henry Raynor,' said his mother as she came into the
room, `go I pray thee and take off those trappings at once,
my child; I like them not—they become no man—much less
thee.'
`Then you must get down, little Hulda, for a while, if I
am to go and change my dress.'
It was a great pity, Hulda thought, with an uncomfortable
vision of her friend arrayed in the prevailing colour.
But when he came down again the dress was black and
not grey; and Hulda went to her former seat with great
satisfaction.
`The dinner waiteth,' said James Hoxton opening the
door.
`You don't think yourself too old to be carried, Hulda?'
said her friend.
`O no,' said Hulda, `Alie very often carries me up stairs
when I'm tired or sick.'
`I should think thy weight better suited to thy brother's
arms than to thy sister's,' said Mrs. Raynor, `as having
more strength.'
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`O her arms are very strong!' said Hulda from her
place of elevation. `They never get tired. And Thornton's
not at home you know generally when I want to be carried—
but Rosalie always is. She says gentlemen can't always
be at home so much as ladies. But she don't hold me quite
as well as you do, Mr. Raynor.'
And with one arm passed most confidingly round his
neck, they went forth together and proceeded to the dinner
table; where Hulda was as well taken care of as possible.
Taken care of in more ways than one, though she was too
young and unskilled to notice the delicate tact with which
whenever her childish talk ran too close upon home affairs
she was led off to another subject; nor how carefully she
was kept, as far as might be, from making disclosures which
indeed she knew not were such. And if she had been older
she would have wondered at herself for her perfect at home
feeling among such grave people;—for the freedom with
which she talked,—her little voice making music such as it
never yields when the chords have been once overstrained
or the wires unstrung—most like a mountain rill in its
sweet erratic course. And the older ones looked and
listened—Mrs. Raynor with often a smile and sometimes
with glistening eyes; while to his face the smile came less
often, and there was only the look of interest and affection
which won Hulda's heart yet more. And whenever the rill
went too far in any one direction, it was only necessary to
hold out a painted leaf—some bright word or question or
anecdote—and the rill was tempted, and went that way.
On the whole Hulda thought as she was carried back into
the library, it had been one of the most satisfactory dinners
she ever remembered.
`Hulda Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor, `I go up-stairs to
sleep, as is my wont. What wilt thou do, my child?'
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`O I will stay here,' said Hulda.
`You can content yourself for a while with the cat and
me, I am sure,' said Mr. Raynor.
`O yes—and without the cat,' said Hulda contentedly.
He smiled, and his mother came up behind him, and
passing her arm round his neck as if he had been a child,
raised up his face and kissed it, and went away.
`What do you think of my being made a baby of yet,
Hulda?'
`Thornton says that's what mamma used to do with
Rosalie,' said Hulda, whose little avenues of thought all ran
down to the same stronghold of love and confidence. `Did
you ever see my mamma, Mr. Raynor?'
`Yes, dear, often; and loved her very much.'
`I don't remember her a great deal,' said Hulda—`I
believe I get her confused with Rosalie.'
She sat quiet a few minutes and then started up.
`Don't you want to go to sleep, Mr. Raynor?'
`Don't you?'
`O no—not a bit.'
`Neither do I.'
`Well that'll be very fair, then,' said Hulda laughing.
`But I should think you'd get tired of holding me, Mr.
Raynor—most people don't like to.'
`I once had such a little sister as you are, Hulda—whom
I loved better than almost anything else in the world. You
remind me of her very much, and that is one reason why I
like to hold you and kiss you and carry you, and do anything
else with you and for you.'
`I'm very glad!' said Hulda, her smile half checked by
something in his look and tone. `So that's one reason.
What's the other?'
He smiled and told her she must be content with hearing
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one; and then asked her what she had been doing and
learning lately.
`I don't learn a great deal,' said Hulda—`only arithmetic
and geography and little, little bits of French lessons.
And then I write—and I have one hymn to learn a week,
and a little verse every day.'
`Tell me one of your hymns.'
`Then I will tell you the last one,' said Hulda.
“`Around the throne of God in heaven,
Thousands of children stand;
Children whose sins are all forgiven,
A holy, happy band—
Singing glory, glory, glory.
“`What brought them to that world above—
That heaven so bright and fair—
Where all is peace and joy and love?—
How came those children there,
Singing glory, glory, glory?
“`Because the Saviour shed his blood
To wash away their sin;
Bathed in that pure and precious flood,
Behold them white and clean—
Singing glory, glory, glory.
“`On earth they sought their Saviour's grace,
On earth they loved his name;
So now they see his blessed face,
And stand before the Lamb—
Singing glory, glory, glory.'”
`Don't you think it's pretty?' said Hulda, when she
had waited what she thought a reasonable time for Mr.
Raynor to speak, and he had only drawn his arm closer
about her.
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`I think it is much more than pretty. Do you understand
it all?'
`I believe so—' said Hulda—`Rosalie told me a great
deal about it.'
`What?'
`Why she said that even children needed to be forgiven
before they went to heaven—that was one thing in the
first verse,—and that people ought to try to make this
world as much like heaven as they could, and that if all was
peace and joy and love there it ought to be here. And then
in the third verse, that we didn't only need to be forgiven,
but made good and to love all good things, and that if God
didn't make us love him and like to serve him, we never
could be happy in heaven even if we could get there. And
she said the blood of Christ was called a flood because it was
enough to save everybody in the whole world—and to make
them clean, if they would only trust in it. And she said
the last verse taught us that we must love and serve him
now, while we are here, and then when we die he would
receive us to himself.'
`And what does that word `white' mean in the third
verse—`Behold them white and clean'?'
`Don't it mean something like clean?' said Hulda.
`Something like, yes. It shews how very pure, how
very holy, will all God's children be when he has taken them
to heaven. As the Bible says—“they are without spot before
the throne of God”—“without fault before him”—
think how very holy one must be in whom the pure eye
of God sees neither spot nor fault. Such are all the children
about his throne—and because thus holy they are happy.'
`Do you think there is nobody that is quite good?' said
Hulda with a face of very grave reflection.
`The Bible says, “there is not a just man upon earth
that doeth good and sinneth not.'”
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`I know it does,' said Hulda, who was apparently a
little troubled with some reservation in her mind. `But
that only says men. I don't suppose there are a great
many.'
Mrs. Raynor came down from her nap in due time, and
then proposed that they should go into the greenhouse.
Hulda was enchanted; and ran about and admired and
asked questions to the delight of both her friends.
`Would thee like some flowers to take home with thee?'
said the good quakeress, drawing Hulda's head close to
her. And Mr. Raynor's knife hardly waited the reply
before it began its work. Hulda's little hands had as many
as they could hold.
`And now thee must have one flower for thy sister—
yea, Henry, thou art always right,' she said, as her son began
to examine the respective merits of the white camellias.
`They are not the fairer.'
`O Mr. Raynor! you are cutting the very prettiest
one!' cried Hulda. `O it was too bad to take that.'
`Is it too pretty for your sister?'
`O I don't think so, of course,' said Hulda,—`but then
it was your little bush.'
Hulda wondered at the smile that passed over his face,
and looked if she might see it come again, but it came not.
He tied up her flowers and put them in water for her,
and walked with her about the greenhouse till the last sunbeams
had left it, and the flowers grew indistinct.
`Friend Henry,' said James Hoxton appearing at this
juncture, `thy mother waiteth for thee at tea.'
`James Hoxton is a quaker,' said Mr. Raynor with a
smile at Hulda's look.
`Does that make him speak to you so?' said Hulda.
`You are not a quaker, Mr. Raynor?'
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`No. If I were a quaker, Hulda, I should call my
mother `friend Joan.”
`Should you! But that would be very disrespectful,'
said Hulda.
`No—not if I were a quaker.'
`O—' said Hulda, a little and only a little enlightened.
`I'm very glad you're not a quaker—I don't like grey at
all;' though when she got to the tea table, Hulda could not
help liking everything about Mrs. Raynor—even her grey
dress.
Mr. Raynor took her home in the carriage after tea. Not
sitting by his side but on his lap, and wrapped up in his
arms as if she were a precious little thing that he was afraid
to lose sight of. But he would not come in, though Hulda
begged and entreated him. He carried her and her flowers
up the steps and into the hall where Tom stood holding the
door, and then ran down again and in a moment was in the
carriage and off.
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CHAPTER XV.
So th' one for wrong, the other strives for right.
—Faëry Queen.
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`Well, what sort of a time did you have among the quakers
yesterday?' said Thornton when he saw Hulda at breakfast
next morning.
`O it was beautiful!' said Hulda with a pause of delight
in the midst of buttering her roll.
`What was beautiful?'
`O everything! And they were so kind to me—and I
like Mr. Raynor so much! And the flowers—O Thornton,
did you see mine that I brought home? and the camellia?
That is Rosalie's; and it was the very prettiest one they
had; and I told Mr. Raynor so, and yet he would cut it.'
`Perhaps he did not agree with you.'
`O yes he did. I thought he was going to cut a white
one at first and then he chose this.'
`Then he did not choose the prettiest, to my fancy,' said
Thornton.
`Why you don't know anything about it!' cried Hulda.
`I never saw such a beauty, and I don't believe you ever
did.' And away she ran to bring ocular proof of the camellia's
perfectness. No further argument was necessary;
for admirable kind and culture had produced one of those
exquisite results that the eye is never satisfied with seeing.
Thornton silently took it in his hand to examine.
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The flower was hardly at its full opening, two or three
of the inner petals being yet inclined towards each other
with a budlike effect; but the rest lay folded back in clear
glossy beauty, leaf beyond leaf—each one as spotless and
perfect as the last. They were of a delicious rose colour—
not very deep, but pure, perfect, as a tint could be; and
the stem, which had been cut some inches below the flower,
spread out for it an admirable foil in two or three deep
green leaves.
`Isn't that beautiful?' said Hulda, who stood at her
brother's side with her little hands folded and her little face
in a rival glow.
`Exquisite!—I never saw such a one! Alie, I must
get you a plant. I wonder what is its name, if it has any.'
`There was a little stick stuck in the flower pot,' said
Hulda, `but I don't know what was on it.'
`Do you know?' said Thornton looking towards his
sister.
`I think, I believe it is called Lady Hume's blush.'
Thornton laughed.
`This is probably a variety called Miss Clyde's blush.
It might be at all events. Methinks the quakers performed
some conjuration over you, Hulda,—it seems that you have
suddenly become a little conductor—a sort of electric machine,
charged by one party with a shock for another.'
`Shock!' said Hulda. `But I don't think I have
shocked anybody.'
`That is the very thing.'
`But what do you mean by Miss Clyde's blush?' said
Hulda, who was getting excessively mystified.
`Ask her what she means by it,' said Thornton. `Alie
just ring your bell, will you? Tom—did you get my sword-belt?
'
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`No sir—Jansen said he thought all the Captains was a
conspirating against him; and if they were Generals instead
he couldn't do no more than he could,' he said.
`And what did you say to that?'
`I told him he was a considerable piece off from doing
more than he could, yet, and I guessed he'd better send the
belt home to-night and no more about it.'
`I guess so too, or there will be more. I shall dine out
of town to-day, Rosalie, so you need not wait for me.'
`You will come home to tea?' she said as she rose and
followed him out of the room.
Her look half inclined him to come to dinner as well, but
he only laughed and said,
`You had better not ask me, because if I come I may
bring you your hands full.'
`Bring anything in the world that will make home
pleasant to you,' she said.
`O it's pleasant enough now—and you are charming;
but `variety's the spice of life,' you know Alie.'
`A most unhappy quotation in this case,' she said with
a slight smile. `That life must miserably dwindle and deteriorate
which is fed upon spice alone. Suppose you try
brown bread for one night?'
`You shall try red pepper for one night, to pay you for
that,' said Thornton. `Why shouldn't you and I be like two
birds of Paradise,—sitting up in a tree and eating pimento
berries?'
`What a naturalist you would make!' said his sister
smiling. `You would condemn the birds of Paradise to as
unwholesome diet as you give yourself.'
`Unwholesome according to you.—'
He stood by her, he hardly knew why; but perhaps half
in curiosity to see what she would say; for the changing
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light on her face told of varied thoughts and feelings. But
when she spoke her voice trembled a little.
“`The kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a
far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto
them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to
another two, and to another one; to every man according to
his several ability; and straightway took his journey.—
“`After a long time the Lord of those servants cometh
and reckoneth with them. And so he that had received five
talents, came and brought other five talents, saying, Lord,
thou deliveredst to me five talents; behold, I have gained
besides them five talents more. His Lord said unto him,
Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful
over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many
things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”
`Thornton—shall we live that life together?—the life of
heirs of heaven?'
`I wish you would let go of my hand,' said her brother,
with a motion as if he would shake it off. `What upon
earth is there in that immense quotation to call forth such a
sorrowful face?'
`Because,' said his sister with a gush of tears, as she
took away the offending hand; `because “there was one
servant who went and digged in the earth, and hid his
lord's money;” and to him it was said, “Depart.'”
The tears were quickly wiped away, and again she looked
up at him.
`Do you think it is very kind to take the edge off my
day's pleasure by such a prelude?' said he.
`Yes—very kind—to say what should do it.'
`By what rule of sisterly affection?'
`The rule in my own heart,' she said with a sigh. `What
is a day's pleasure that my love should balance it against
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eternal life? There is time now to obey—an inch of time,—
and then “the angel shall lift up his hand to heaven, and
swear by Him that liveth forever and ever, that there shall
be time no longer!'”
`And how do you know that I need time for anything of
the sort?' said Thornton, when his silence had taken to
itself displeasure. `What right have you to suppose, that
because “after the most straitest sect of our religion I do
not live a Pharisee,” I am therefore excluded from all its
benefits? You see I can quote Scripture too.'
She did not raise her eyes, though the sudden flush on
her brow told that his words had struck deep. It passed
away, and she said—betaking herself to Bible words as if
she would not trust her own,
“`I speak as unto wise men—judge ye what I say.”—
“Every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself
even as He is pure.'”
And Thornton turned and left her.
How he despised himself for what he had said! for the
implication his words had carried! And against her—upon
whose sincerity he would have staked his life.
Christian in the Slough of Despond struggled to get
out, but always on the side next the wicket gate; while
Pliable, having no desire but to be at ease—even in the City
of Destruction—was well pleased to set his face thitherward
to be clear of the Slough.
Thornton soon got rid of his discomfort,—only the remembered
touch of his sister's hand was harder to shake off
than the hand itself. Perhaps on the whole he was not
sorry for this. In pursuit of bird's nests he was swinging
himself over a precipice, with but one visible stay—and that
stay the hand of a frail girl. He knew he had hold of her,
or rather that her love and prayers had hold of him; and
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[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
with little thought of her life of watching and anxiety, he
swung himself off—and rejoiced in his freedom.
He resolved, as he walked up Broadway, that he would
go home to tea that night, but not alone,—anything was
better than a tête-à-tête with his sister; and besides, as he
remarked to himself, `it will never do to let her suppose
there are no men in the world but Henry Raynor.'
Rosalie sat alone in her room, half reading, half dreaming
in the warm spring air of the afternoon,—now applying
herself to her book and now parleying with some old remembrance
or association; sometimes raising her eyes to take in
most unworldly pleasure from nature's own messengers, and
then trying to bring her mind back to more fixedness of
thought. But a sunbeam that at length fell on her book
wound about her its silken bands of spirit influence; and
laying her folded hands in the warm light, Rosalie leaned her
head back and let the sunbeam take her whither it would.
It went first athwart the room to little Hulda; who
tired with the day's play had curled herself up on the bed
in childish attitude and sleep. Her doll lay there too, not
far off; and a little silk scarf with which she had been playing
was still about her, and answered the purposes of adornment
more perfectly than ever. On all the sunbeam laid
its light hand tenderly; and then it darted to the table beyond,
where stood the little sleeper's dish of flowers. The
camellia was there too, and one look Rosalie gave it; and
then turning her head towards the window and leaning it
back as before, her eye again followed the sunbeam—but
this time upward,—her face a little graver perhaps—a little
more removed from earth's affairs, but no less quiet than it
had been before. And proving the truth of George Herbert's
words,
“Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee”
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[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
it was not long ere her mind had laid fast hold of the promise,
“Unto you that believe, shall the Sun of Righteousness
arise, with healing in his beams.”
The ray had done its work and gone, and `the lesser
light' had held forth her sceptre, when Martha Jumps, whose
head and shoulders had been enjoying the afternoon out of
an upper window, suddenly rushed into the room.
`Here's a whole army of men coming!'
`Americans, I hope,' said her mistress.
`La sakes, ma'am! to be sure they aint British! and
when I said army I only meant the short for multitude.
But it's such an unaccountable start for the Captain to come
home to tea and bring people with him!'
`He so seldom brings a multitude, Martha, that I wish
you would go and tell Tom to make sure that we have bread
and cake enough for tea.'
`Let Tom Skiddy alone for that,' said Martha,—`he has
a pretty good notion of his own how much bread it takes for
one man's supper, and if he hasn't I have; and I'll go tell
him as you say; but you see if there aint a multitude. To
be sure one hat does look like a dozen—viewed out of a
three-story, but I wouldn't wonder a bit if there was five.
And Miss Rosalie, you mayn't be conscious that your hair
is walking down the back of your neck. There—they're
knocking at the door this blessed minute!'
But in spite of this announcement, Rosalie's eyes and
mind went out of the window again so soon as she was alone.
For sorrow had put her out of society, and joy had not as
yet offered his hand to lead her back; and the gentle spirit
which had once amused itself with and among people, now
found their gay words but as the music of `him that singeth
songs to a heavy heart.' Her mind found rest and comfort
in but one thing; and these visiters—`they knew it not,
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neither did they regard it.' And she must not only go
among them, but must go as a Christian—to take and maintain
that stand alone. To do nothing unbecoming her profession,—
to be neither ashamed of it nor too forward in
making it known,—to be ready always to speak the truth
with boldness and yet with judgment.
For a moment it tried her,—for a moment she shrank
from the trial; and then throwing off care and weakness
upon the strong hand that could provide for both, she got up
and lit a candle and began to arrange her hair.
Thornton came up stairs and through the open door so
quietly while she was thus employed, that the first notice of
his presence was its reflection in the glass before her.
`Well little Sweetbrier,' he said,—`beautifying yourself
as usual. Are your pricklers in good order?'
`As blunt as possible.'
`Defend me from wounds with a blunt instrument!'
said Thornton.
`As dull as possible then, if you like that better.'
`I do not like it at all my dear, only that you never were
and never will be dull. There is nothing dull about you,'
said he passing his hand over her hair.
`Whom have you got down-stairs?'
`Nobody.'
`Nobody! O I am so glad. Then Martha was mistaken.
'
`Martha is as often mistaken as most people; but when
I said nobody, Alie, I did not speak very literally and not
at all prospectively. I should have said nobody to signify,
at present. A few entities to come and a few nonentities to
pave the way. So the re-arrangement of your hair will not
be thrown away.'
`O it would not have been thrown away upon you,' she
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said. `But where did you pick up such a peculiar name for
me?'
`What, Sweetbrier?—out of the abundance and exuberance
of my fancy, my dear. I never attempt to argue with
you, that I do not scratch my own fingers and find out how
particularly sweet you are—and the sweeter the more provoked.
So you see—Come!'
-- 153 -- p737-158
CHAPTER XVI.
My name is Mr. Stephen, sir, I am this gentleman's own cousin, sir, his father is
mine uncle, sir: I am somewhat melancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in
whatever is incident to a gentleman.
—Ben Jonson.
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
`It is one of the singular properties of Sweetbrier, gentlemen,
' said Mr. Clyde, as he presented his sister to the three
or four young men who were variously disposed about the
drawingroom; `that while seeming to be one of the meekest
and sweetest of the rose tribe, it is yet armed at all points,
and capable of making war with considerable fierceness.'
“`'Tis excellent to have a giant's strength!'” said one of
the guests, who was given to quoting Shakspeare.
`And it is safe enough, lodged in such delicate hands,'
said another who came forward with the air of an old acquaintance.
`We all know that Miss Clyde is never
tyrannical, except in the way which is every lady's prerogative.
“The tyranness doth joy to see
The huge massacres which her eyes do make.'”
`What a pleasant image!' said Rosalie smiling. `It
reminds one, Mr. Clinton, of the Bill of Mortality in the
Spectator; where you find “Will Simple, smitten at the
Opera by the glance of an eye that was aimed at one who
stood by him.'”
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`I think I need no further explanation of Sweetbrier,
after that,' said the gentleman.
`Mr. Raynor—' said Tom, suddenly throwing open the
door; and more than one of the party looked round with a
little start, which subsided as quickly when they found themselves
mistaken.
The new comer was a most flourishing combination of
youth, good looks, imperturbable good nature, a gay dress,
and a most jaunty manner. As if the air were buoyant under
his feet, so did he come forward, and his face was radiant as
if Miss Clyde had been the sunshine of his existence.
`My dear Miss Clyde!—it is ages!—two whole ages—
and a half—since I had the pleasure of seeing you. And
how in the world I didn't get here as soon as I came home,
I can't imagine; but the first thing I knew I found myself
at Washington.'
`The power of attraction, Mr. Penn,' said Rosalie. `Did
you suppose that you of all people could resist its power?'
`I never did think so before,' said Penn, `but it really
seems to me that I must have resisted it pretty strongly
when I went to Washington. I feel remarkably drawn, to-night.
'
`Drawn and quartered—in a pleasant sense,' said one of
the gentlemen, as Mr. Penn threw himself down on the sofa
by Rosalie.
`Mr. Talbot is apparently one of the people who think
sense is everything,' said Mr. Clinton.
`Ah that's a mistake,' said Penn. `But my dear Miss
Clyde, is there anything remarkable about your appearance
to-night?'
`I hope not,' said Rosalie, while the others laughed and
Mr. Clinton remarked,
`You ought to be able to answer that yourself, Penn.'
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`Couldn't trust myself, that's all,' replied Mr. Penn, `for
in the present state of my eyesight it really strikes me with
astonishment how anybody could go to Europe. And do
you know Miss Clyde, that do all I would I couldn't make
Harry come with me to-night? Positively couldn't—and
he went somewhere else.'
`Probably for the same reason that you went to Washington,
' said Thornton.
`No, it couldn't have been that,' said Penn, `because he
has seen Miss Clyde since he came home, which I had not.
But I never knew him resist the power of attraction before.'
`You seem to be fairly entangled, Penn,' said Mr.
Clinton.
`Certainly,' said Penn,—`revolving. Miss Clyde, it
confuses my ideas in an extraordinary manner to see you
again. And it's only by the merest chance in the world
that I am here to-night, myself.'
`What unhappy corner of the world has just missed the
pleasure of your company?' said Mr. Clinton.
`You may well call it an unhappy corner,' said Penn,
`for if a man is bound to be wretched anywhere, I suppose
it is in a prison ship in a hot climate. I escaped pretty well
though.'
`From the wretchedness or the ship?' said Rosalie.
`Both, Miss Clyde, I assure you. I'll tell you about it.'
`What nonsense you do talk, Penn,' said Thornton.
You came home only three months ago from Europe.'
`Certainly,' said Penn, `but that's quite long enough to
stay in some places. Have you any idea where I have been
since then?'
`Not much,' said Thornton,—`at Washington and here
I suppose.'
`Tout au contraire,' replied Mr. Penn. `I have been at
the West Indies and a prisoner.'
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`Were you one of the men who ran away with the
Bermuda?' said Rosalie.
`My dear Miss Clyde, with your usual acuteness you
have stated the case precisely. In fact I may say I was
the man, the rest being highly gifted with timidity. But I
thought a little interlude of running away would be refreshing,
even if we were taken again, and was by no means of
the opinion that H.B.M.'s cruisers had a natural right to
everything they laid hands on. Holla—who comes here?'
“Enter a fairy at one door,” said the Shakspearian.
And the door softly opened and Hulda came in. Just
enough awake to get off the bed and brush her hair, she had
found her way down stairs, and now stood by the door with
her ideas in a most puzzled state.
`What do you want, Hulda?' said her brother.
`I want—Rosalie,' said the child abstractedly, and taking
another survey of the room.
`The Queen, my dear,' said Penn Raynor walking up to
her, `is at present sitting in state upon the sofa. Shall I
have the honour of conducting you to her? And by what
title will you be made known? Is this the little prime
minister?'
`What sir?' said Hulda raising her childish eyes to his
face, while everybody laughed.
`You are the Flying Squirrel, my dear, and I am his
majesty's sloop of war Wild Cat,' said Penn, as he gave her
one jump to his shoulder; and then carrying her to the sofa
permitted her to kneel in his lap. `Now who have I got for
a prisoner?'
`You have got me,' said Hulda.
`And it strikes me that I have heard of you before,' said
Penn. `Isn't my cousin a great friend of yours?'
`I don't know, sir,' said Hulda.
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`Why yes you do,' said Penn giving her a little shake.
`You spent the day with him yesterday, and he was off with
you somewhere when I got home.'
`But I was at Mr. Raynor's yesterday,' said Hulda, `and
he isn't your cousin.'
`He is my cousin.'
`Is he?' said Hulda, leaning back and taking a complete
survey of the questioner. `He don't look a bit like you. I
love Mr. Raynor very much.'
`Well so do I,' said Penn, who was highly delighted
with the unconscious emphasis Hulda had bestowed upon her
friend's name.
`But I thought you were going to tell us of your great
adventures,' said Thornton impatiently,—`and you sit there
talking to that child!'
`I perceive that you are still subject to your old periodical
fits of insanity, Mr. Clyde,' said Penn. `When you
have sojourned for a short lifetime among the Quakers, you
will learn that impatience is one of the useless luxuries of
life. Though indeed if you had been in our prison-ship—
But I was going to tell you about it. You see my dear
Miss Clyde, when I got to Washington I fell in with some
friends—not of the Society, you may be sure—that were
bound to try their hand at privateering. Of course they
invited me to go, and of course I went.'
`To benefit the country or yourself?' said Thornton.
`Whichever might be,' said Penn, `and I think in the
long run we came out about equal. However, when we
first started from Baltimore the thing paid pretty well. We
cruised about, took a variety of vessels smaller than ourselves,
and had more prisoners than we knew what to do
with: which was all very pleasant, except that the prisoners
had as good appetites as our own.'
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`Remarkably inconsiderate of them,' said Mr. Clinton.
`Yes, it was,' said Penn, `when you take into the account
that the Flying Squirrel's capacity for provisions was
by no means unlimited. It came to this point at last—
whether we should all starve together as human beings, or
the upperhand live and the rest go overboard.'
`Difficult point to round, that,' said Thornton.
`It did look so in the distance,' said Mr. Penn; `but
after all it's astonishing how many points the tide of circumstance
carries one round—as our Captain poetically expressed
it. When we did reach the point there was a ship
in the offing—an Englishman she looked to be and was.'
`And she carried you round the point?' said Rosalie.
`Precisely, Miss Clyde—round more than one. She was
a sloop of war—or a frigate—I don't know which,—only I
know that she carried four times as many guns as we did.
The game was up, of course, but we chose to let the enemy
cry checkmate, and so ran—but what could the Squirrel do
so far from land? for the storms had driven us out so far
that we were near coming up on the other side. I don't
know to this day whether our guns were heard in England
or America. But we ran as I said—skimmed over the
water like the cannon ball the Wild Cat sent after us.'
`Did it strike?' said Rosalie.
`Yes, Miss Clyde—it struck us—that if she was going
to spit fire at that rate we had better stop,—just to save her
from spontaneous combustion. So we did stop, and gave
her as good as she sent.'
`But not quite so suggestive.'
`Not quite,' said Penn,—`our arguments were not quite
so weighty. And you see the Wild Cat had set her mouth
for our poor Squirrel,—and what could four guns do against
eighteen, after all?'
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`So the long and short of it was, that you had to strike
your colours,' said Thornton.
`Even so,' said Penn,—`I had that pleasure myself.
Struck 'em so they fell overboard too—gave the Eagle
my own choice,—death instead of dishonour. But we were
all sent to Kingston and cooped up on board the Goree.
Such a place!—such bread and such rats!'
`You wished for the Wild Cat again, didn't you Penn?'
said Thornton laughing.
`I nearly turned one myself,' said Penn. `For if the
bread was uneatable, that didn't make it pleasant to have
rats and cockroaches running over you all night to get at it.
I tell you what, I came near hating my ancestors for having
come from England.'
`If they had not come you would have been an Englishman
yourself,' said Rosalie smiling.
`I don't know about that,' said Mr. Penn; `but if I were
a Turk I'd have respectable prison ships. Why even the
Hindoos put nobody but beggars in the animal asylums—
and pay them!'
`I think you were paid for privateering,' said Thornton.
`We did not view it in that light,' said Penn. `In fact
all the light we had was reflected into a focus upon our
plan of escape. The States or the bottom of the sea,—we
soon made up our minds to have one or t'other. It's a
pretty enough place there, too,' said Mr. Penn, who was
warming to his subject; `and bread fruits and cocoanuts
look very nice, waving about in the wind; but they don't
make your sour brown bread any sweeter. I think to people
broiling on the Goree's deck, or smothering under her
hatches, it was rather tantalizing to think of green trees
anywhere. But it strengthened our plans.'
`What did you have to do there?' said Thornton.
`Anything?'
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`Not much,' said Penn,—`what we had was done, I do
assure you. Wishing and grumbling was pretty much the
whole of it—and then planning. Those of us that were
given to swearing kept themselves in good practice; but as
I had been brought up by the Quakers I hadn't even that
resource. I remember one night I was too melancholy to
sleep—or too hot—I forget which; and just as early as the
prisoners were allowed to go on deck, up I went.'
`Didn't throw yourself overboard, did you?' said
Thornton. `That would have answered for either heat or
melancholy.'
`Yes, but it wouldn't have answered for me, though,'
said Penn, `so I only leaned over the side of the ship and
wished myself a fish; for the water was still enough to give
one the fidgets. Presently the rest began to gather about
me, and we exchanged a few looks and words as we got a
chance, in a kind of desperate way that said we wouldn't
wait much longer. Which sentiment we all endorsed by
flinging our breakfast overboard. `What's that for?' said
the boatswain. But we gave him no reply; and after a few
not very sweet words he ordered eleven of the prisoners into
the launch to go for water.'
`And you refused to go?' said Thornton.
`No we didn't—we went, with only a look at each other;
and the boatswain and two soldiers went along for company.
The bay was quite spotted with vessels that morning, but
all sleepy, apparently, with the warm day; there was nobody
astir. The frigates shewed their teeth and that was
all; and the smaller vessels had both crew and cargo
stowed away out of sight. Only one, the Bermuda, had her
deck lumbered with buoys which she was to take out and
lay in the channel. But we rowed on past them all to the
shore, and filled our six water casks in less time than they
ever were filled before.'
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`And upset them coming back,' said Mr. Clinton.
`You would have been a help if you had been there,'
said Penn. `No—we upset nothing but the calculations of
the boatswain; for the minute we were far enough from
shore I gave the signal that we had always agreed upon.
`Squirrel!' I said—and we pounced upon both soldiers and
boatswain and disarmed them in a trice. Then we rowed
quietly along to the Bermuda.
`Now you see, Miss Clyde, we had two forts on our
right hand and the Bermuda on our left; and beyond the
Bermuda lay the sloop of war Nimrod, and the frigates
Chaser and Charlemagne, but all as I said asleep. So
when we reached the Bermuda we boarded her at once, and
put her five men under hatches; and in less time than you
can think the cables were cut and we pushing out.'
`And after that the time seemed long.'
`Indeed yes,' said Penn. `I never saw a thing creep so
in my life as she did for a few minutes. When we had
made a little headway we set the launch adrift, with the
boatswain and soldiers and two of our party that didn't
bring their courage along, and then overhauled the schooner
to see what we had to work with. We knew nothing about
the channel, and there was no chart on board; but we found a
compass, forty gallons of water, and provisions enough to
keep us alive for ten days.'
`How about the rats?' said Thornton.
`Never saw one, all the time we were in the Bermuda—
they were sent to the prison ships. Well, it was eleven
o'clock by the time we were fairly off—sails set and arrangements
made; and we threw over all the buoys but one,
keeping that till we knew the trim of the vessel. I can't
tell you how pleasant it was. The wind was a true American,
and favoured us all it could; and we sat on deck and
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eat some bread that had not been once eaten already, with
great satisfaction. I know I looked at my watch, and it
was just one o'clock; but as I was replacing it in a leisurely
kind of way, that smacked of enjoyment, the wind came
sweeping along the deck and brought us the booming of two
or three alarm guns.'
`And how did you feel then?' said Rosalie as Mr. Penn
paused.
`Every man was on his feet, this way,' said Penn, putting
down Hulda and springing up; `but nobody spoke.
And so we stood for one hour till the Nimrod came in sight.
We had nothing but a foresail, mainsail, and jib, but we
made them work as hard as they could: still at sundown
the vessel was nearer and seemed to be looming up every
minute. As soon as it was dark we took a short tack and
sailed off in a different direction, but by eight o'clock there
were her lights again shining out as if to look after us; and
when the moon was up in the early morning, the Nimrod or
something else was after us as hard as ever. We stood and
watched for a while as the day came on—and the Nimrod
too, for that matter; and then a bright thought came into
my head. `Rutgers,' said I—(you know him Thornton,
he's one of your cronies); `we may just as well capsize ourselves
here as to be carried back to Kingston. I vote we
throw over this other buoy.' Which we did at once; and
only think, Miss Clyde,' said Penn planting himself before
her, `it trimmed the schooner precisely; and by eight
o'clock we had sunk the Nimrod, and she had her hunting
ground all to herself!'
`That was brave,' said Rosalie. `And what a pleasant
breakfast you must have had.'
`Indeed we did,' said Penn. `But that was not all. We
were chased several times more coming home, and got away
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well enough till we neared Cape May; and there was a 74
in the channel, two other craft trying to cut us off from the
shore, and a pilot boat full of armed Englishmen in chase.'
`Then you felt like giving up the ship again,' said Mr.
Clinton.
`We did give it up—it was all we could do,' said Penn.
`We just steered for land, and by the time the boat was
within pistol shot, we beached our vessel on the Cape and
jumped ashore. Saved ourselves and lost the Bermuda,—
which was a pity, after such a week's voyage in her.'
`Lost your prisoners too,' said Thornton.
`Yes, but that didn't matter. They were not worth
much. We came pretty near being heroes, though,—I tell
you what, they made fuss enough for us in Philadelphia.
We should have been fêted and feasted till this time, if we
could have stayed and nobody else had come along.'
`Will you come so far as the next room and take a cup
of coffee, Mr. Penn?' said Rosalie when the little buzz of
comment and remark had died away.
`You had better,' said Thornton, `for you will get
nothing stronger in this house to-night, I warn you.'
`What new freak have you taken up, Thornton?' said
one of the guests with a laugh.
`No freak of mine,' he answered emphatically. `What
do you think was the last thing on which my Lady Sweetbrier
laid her ban?'
`Freaks?' suggested Penn.
`No truly,' said Thornton, `this being one. She has
lately found out by great study and research, that wine was
not meant to make glad the heart of man'—
`Nor oil to make his face to shine,' said Penn.
—`And therefore that men should not drink it,' said
Thornton with a slight frown; `and shall not, in her
presence.'
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`It is no new freak, at least,' said his sister in a rather
low tone, while everybody else stood silent.
`No, that it is not,' said Penn Raynor; `for I do assure
you that when I went to Europe she would honour my
departure with no better libation than the pump could
furnish.'
`Threw cold water on the whole proceeding,' said Mr.
Clinton.
`Yes she did,' replied Penn,—`just as if I shouldn't see
enough on the way over.'
`Miss Clyde has probably studied those fine lines in
Milton about singularity,' said one of the young men who
had spoken but seldom. `Familiar with them, are you not,
Miss Clyde?'
`I hardly dare say I am familiar with all the fine lines
in Milton,' she answered quietly, though something in the
speaker's tone gave her cheeks a deep tinge. And Thornton's
caught it.
`I remember them,' he said, `if she does not—and she
might have sat for the picture.
“Against allurement, custom, and a world
Offended; fearless of reproach and scorn,
Or violence.”
`That is my sister precisely, Mr. Talbot! Now Alie
we are ready for your coffee—or for anything else you
choose to give us.'
It was spoken with flashing eyes; and was heard by
Rosalie with fluttering lip and heart, and in deep silence by
the rest.
`Whatever Hebe pours out is bound to be nectar,' said
Penn Raynor with a gay laugh. `My dear Miss Clyde,
if you will take my arm with half the pleasure with which I
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shall take your coffee, my share in the felicity of the evening
will be filled up.'
Rosalie's coffee came as near being nectar that night as
human coffee could; and so far as she was better worth
looking at than the Queen of Spades—so far as her voice
and words were truer and purer than any toast that would
have been honoured with three times three—so far Thornton
could not help being satisfied. And what with coffee
and music, Mr. Penn's sallies and Rosalie's skill, the evening
was lively enough to satisfy anybody.
-- 166 -- p737-171
CHAPTER XVII.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
With his pipe in his mouth,
And watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke, now west, now south.
—Longfellow.
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
The Fourth of July fell on Sunday, and of course all celebration
thereof was deferred until the next day.
But when Monday morning had but faintly broken
through the gloom of Sunday night, the still air was enlivened
with a roar of guns from the Battery; and again
from the Hook, and then from Staten Island, and then from
every other point and place that was happy enough to have
a gun. And the hills sent back a roar as their part of the
celebration,—and if the younger members of society were
not heard above all, it certainly was not their fault. And
from every hotel and public building, from every fort, and
from every mast that rose into the clear air about the harbour,
there floated a host of flags, streamers, pendants and
pennons, that for variety of colour outshone the very tints of
the morning.
While the citizens were thus variously engaged with
gunpowder and bunting—fire crackers or cannon, hoisting
flags or pocket-handkerchiefs, according to their age and
ability,—while independence was noisily declaring itself on
shore, a British flotilla lay off the Hook, and New York
harbour was blockaded.
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As the morning came on, a little fishing smack lying in
Mosquito Cove began to cast off her ropes and unfurl her
sail, and then quietly stood out from the Cove into the open
water. For figurehead, the little vessel carried an image
which the skill of the carver had quite failed to render as
clear as he meant it to be. A pipe was the most self-evident
thing about it; but except that the figure was tall and gaunt
instead of short and thick, it might as well have graced the
Flying Dutchman as any other craft that sailed. The stern
of the vessel, however, made all plain; for there was inscribed
in jaunty black characters,
“The Yankee.”
And if the craft was Yankee, so seemingly were her
crew. Three men in buff caps and fishing dress were on
her deck,—one attending strictly to the helm, though looking
as if he attended to nothing; another lounging off on the
bowsprit, by way of keeping a sharp look-out; and the third
taking many an elaborate measurement of the deck, to the
tune and time of first Washington's March and then a jig.
Midway on the deck of the little vessel were three remarkable
passengers—a calf, a sheep, and a goose. The two
quadrupeds were tied vis-à-vis, with however no check upon
their feet or their vocal powers; while the goose, detained
within a large and very open coop, thrust her head and neck
through the bars and screamed and hissed incessantly,—most
of all when the unoccupied one of the crew paused in his
walk to enjoin silence.
`I say Mr. Percival!' said this man approaching the
helmsman with an air of great disgust, `what an unendurable
noise those creatures make! If you could have got
some sort of live stock now that don't feel obliged to say all
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they have on their minds at once—that had grown up in a
Quaker barnyard, suppose—wouldn't it have served your
turn just as well?'
`Quaker fetching up don't change all natures,' said the
helmsman, with one of those quick looks which shewed him
wide awake in the midst of his apparent sluggishness.
`No, that's a fact,' said the other man with a laugh.
`Though if you mean that all the unchanged ones are akin
to these respectable animals, my opinion is about as far from
yours as the Eagle down yonder is from the 74.'
The helmsman sent another quick glance down the bay,
and then slowly moving the tiller so as to turn the vessel a
little further off shore, he answered,
`We don't fly so far apart as that, Mr. Penn, not by two
or three points. But you spoke of silence.'
`There's a delicate hint,' said the other, laughing again
and pushing back his buff cap—to the disclosure of more
ambrosially curled locks than fishermen are wont to wear.
`Never mind, Mr. Percival—the cackle of your live stock
will either drown my voice or blend. When shall we be at
the banks?'
`Late enough for a hot dinner first,' said Mr. Percival.
`Hot?' said Penn.
`Aye,' said the skipper.
`Curious what an amount of cold materials appear at
such dinners,' said Mr. Penn. `However—
“How sleep the brave who sink to rest”—
and I can swim like a cat too,—I have none of Falstaff's
alacrity in sinking.' And he began his whistle and his
walk again.
The sun was rising higher and higher, nor did the flood
tide itself make swifter progress than the flood of sunlight.
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Over the city with its tall spires and smoking chimneys,—
over the green shores of Staten Island and New Jersey,—
most of all upon the waters of the bay, did the sunlight
come down and call forth beauty. The sails of the different
vessels shone white and glistering, and the blue water sparkled
and rippled and curled as if it were disporting itself. By
means of a fresh north wind the little fishing smack went
steadily on against the tide—courtesying along, and now
and then dipping her bow that some fair wave might break
over it. If the lookout had been a pilot he would but have
said to the helmsman `Thus!'—so unerring a course did the
Yankee's wooden pipe point out.
Sailing quietly along `thus,' the little smack had come
within full sight of a British sloop, the Eagle, then cruising
about the hook in the capacity of tender to the Poictiers—
a 74 gun ship and one of the blockading vessels. And as
the Eagle's lookout did not belie her name, she was not long
in discovering the little Yankee, and that her head was towards
the fishing banks.
Swift sail made the Eagle; but as her white canvass
came flying towards the Yankee, that imperturbable craft
neither fled nor fainted—neither ran in shore nor towards
home, but went courtesying on as before, towards the
banks.
`The fish bite well to-day,' remarked the skipper, when
one of his keen looks had taken the latest news from the
Eagle.
`Sizeable fish, too,' remarked Mr. Penn, who was now
rocking lazily against the mast. `Easy to catch and easy
to land—hey, Mr. Percival?'
`Thereafter as may be,' replied the skipper. `But the
race is not always to the swift.'
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`On the wing, I declare she is,' said Mr. Penn after
another pause. `Swoops—don't she!'
Even as he spoke the Eagle rounded to and hailed, her
brass howitzer glimmering in the sun.
`Smack Yankee, of New York,' returned the skipper.
`Live stock aboard?'
`Aye—' said the skipper, his words strongly borne out
by Mr. Penn, who by a timely insinuation had greatly increased
the wrath of the goose.
`What else?'
`Nothing.'
`All geese aboard?' was the next question, followed by
a peal of laughter.
`Birds of a feather,' replied Mr. Percival with an unmoved
face.
`Sail away then,' returned the man in the Eagle—`make
a straight line for the Commodore, five miles down.'
`Aye, aye, sir,' said the skipper, putting up the helm as
if to obey. This brought the smack alongside the Eagle, and
not more than three yards off; but the next word came
like a cannon-shot from the little vessel.
`Lawrence!'—shouted Mr. Percival; in a moment the
Yankee's deck was covered with armed men. Pouring forth
from the cabin and fore peak where they had been concealed,
the little band, some thirty in number, saluted the Eagle
with a fierce volley from their muskets, before which her
startled crew sank back into the hold without even attempting
to discharge their howitzer. The deck was clear.
`Cease firing!' called out Mr. Percival. And with that
a man cautiously emerging from the hold came forth and
struck the Eagle's colours. In another minute the stars and
stripes stretched off upon the breeze, and Mr. Percival and
Penn Raynor were on the deck.
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It was no joyous thing to take possession of. The
master's mate of the Poictiers lay there dead, and near him
a midshipman mortally wounded; and of two marines that
had fallen one was also dead. Nine other seamen and
marines were in the hold. Briefly and gravely Mr. Percival
made known his orders.
The Eagle changed her course again and stood for
Sandy Hook. There the body of the mate was sent ashore
and buried with military honours. The wounded men were
carefully attended to; the prisoners secured: and the Eagle
set sail for New York.
`I call this a decided improvement on the Yankee,' said
Penn Raynor, as he stood by sailing-master Percival who
had taken his old place at the helm. `We shall make
quicker time to New York too, by something.'
`At the Battery before sundown,' was the reply.
`But why the mischief, Mr. Percival, don't you use that
howitzer for a speaking trumpet, and talk a little? The
quiet of your vessel has been unheard of, all day. Talk of
`darkness visible!'—Why don't you?'
The skipper's look for a moment betokened a stern reply,
but he only said,
`Your cousin would not have asked that question,
Mr. Penn.'
`Very likely,' said Penn; `and the same might be said of
all the questions I ever did ask, probably, but I like to have
'em answered nevertheless.'
`Go down in the cabin then,' said the sailing master
briefly.
`What's in the cabin?' said Penn. “`Silence more profound?”
I suppose if I went to the bottom of the sea it
might be deeper yet.'
Again Mr. Percival looked at him, and then forward to
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where the sloop's prow was cleaving the blue water; and
half musingly half in answer, he said,
`I cannot fire rejoicings over my prisoners' heads, Mr.
Penn, nor one gun to reach a vessel that is bound on her
last voyage.'
`The prisoners' heads are intelligible,' said Penn,
`though I should think they might come on deck; but as
for your poetical effusion, it might go on the shelf with all
the Greek books I used at College. I say why not fire half
a dozen shots?'
`And I tell you,' said the master, speaking with an emphasis
that brought his voice down below its usual pitch,
`that there is one below who is nigh done with the world
for ever,—do you want to roar into his ears that the world
is all alive and kicking?'
`Is he so much hurt as that?' said Penn with a sobered
face. `You might have known that I didn't know what I
was talking about, Mr. Percival.'
`I knew it,' said the skipper. Then in a quieter voice
he added, `I wish we had your cousin here, Mr. Penn.'
`Here!' said Penn—`Henry Raynor on a privateering
expedition! Then will you see me chief confidant of the
Great Mogul and adviser extraordinary to the Kham of
Tartary.'
`He can fight,' said the skipper coolly. `There was not
a better man of all that the Paul Jones took from that
brig.'
`Fight—yes, with anybody,' said Penn, `but what do
you want of him now? There's no work for him now on
board the Eagle, that I see.'
`You don't see far, Mr. Penn,' said the master. `There
is work for him—and not one of us is fit to do it—work
below, to give that craft a chart and compass and set her
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off on the right tack. Think of that man dying there, and
not a soul that can speak a word to him.'
`We shall be at the Battery by sundown, said' Penn,
who preferred to choose his own thoughts.
`Aye,' said Mr. Percival, and the conversation ceased.
It blew lightly from the south now, and the Eagle
skimmed along with a full sail and a motionless rudder. In
the west the sun was rapidly nearing the Jersey hills, and
light streaks and flakes of cloud bedecked the sky, and
embroidered its blue with their own gold and rose colour.
The bay caught the bright tints, and glowed and shone in
competition; and on shore everything glittered that could,
and those better things that could not, shone with a more
refreshing light.
In a perfect bath of sunbeams the Eagle came up the
bay; the American flag fluttering lightly out, and the
English colours which hung too low for the breeze, drooping
down and scarce stirring their folds. On and on—till she
neared the Battery—and from the crowds assembled there
went up a shout as from one voice.
Then every gun roared out its welcome, and the vessel
was made fast and her captors sprang ashore; and quiet
found but one resting-place—it was where the two wounded
men were gently carried through the crowd, and their nine
comrades came after as prisoners.
-- 174 -- p737-179
CHAPTER XVIII.
Just so romances are, for what else
Is in them all but love and battles?
O' th' first of these we have no great matter
To treat of, but a world o' th' latter.
—Hudibras.
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`You don't mean to say, Tom Skiddy,' said Martha, as she
stood leaning against the breakfast room door one morning
with her hands behind her; `you don't mean to tell me that
he never comes in?'
`Never comes in—' replied Tom, who was assiduously
dressing the line of knives and forks.
`Why I let him once myself—' said Martha with a very
triumphant twist of her mouth. `Now what do you say to
that, Tom Skiddy?'
`I say he never comes in, Martha Jumps. I don't say
he never did come in, in the course of his existence—I've
let him in myself, maybe two or three times; but he never
does come in,—not this whole summer.'
`And so many times as Hulda's been there, too,' said
Martha parenthetically.
`Just brings her up the steps and sets her down in the
hall,' said Tom, `and then off he goes before you can say
Jack Robinson.'
`'Taint likely he'd stop if you did get it out, seeing it
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aint his name,' observed Martha; `so that's not much to the
point.'
`Everything needn't be pointed in this world,' said Tom
dryly.
`That's lucky,' said Martha,—`'cause some things don't
take one so well as some others.'
And Martha swayed herself and the door pleasantly back
and forth, while Tom's motions grew dignified.
`Well that is queer, aint it?' said Miss Jumps at length.
`Now Tom, you're cute enough sometimes—what's the sense
of it?'
`This is one of the other times,' said Tom, as he gave
the salt-cellars a composing little shake and set them right
and left in their places.
`O—that's it,' said Martha. `But after all it aint worth
while to keep one's sense for too uncommon occurrences; and
I tell you I can't stay but a minute and a quarter, so say on,—
what's the use of a man's keeping out when he's dying
to come in?'
`He's mighty tenacitous of life then,' said Tom.
`Don't tell me!' said Martha impatiently. `I know! so
do you.'
`I know one thing,' said Tom,—`I wish Miss Rosalie 'd
get sick.' And Tom shook his head and went into the
pantry for mats.
`What are you up to, Tom Skiddy?' said Martha admiringly.
`I should be up to something—seeing where I come
from,' said Tom.
`Where was that?' said Martha, `Egypt?'
Tom signified that he was a chip of the true Charter
Oak.
`Well, that's saying something for you, if it aint for
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Connecticut,' observed Martha. `Then it was some one else
came out of the Phœnix's ash-pan. After all, Connecticut
aint the biggest state in the United,—not by several.'
`And a pint of pippins aint so large as a bushel of lady
apples,' said Tom shortly.
`Lady apples don't grow in Connecticut, then?' said
Martha with a face of grave inquiry.
`Aint much need—' said Tom. `The market's run
down with 'em from other places.'
`The market 'll bear up under 'em this some time yet,'
said Martha—`the good ones. But I say, Tom Skiddy—
what would you do suppos'n Miss Rosalie should take sick?'
`Just tell him—I'd fetch him in quick enough.'
`Do you s'pose he'd come?' said Martha.
`I guess likely,' said Tom. `He'd be took all of a sudden,
you see, and wouldn't stop to think.'
`It's a nice thing to amuse yourself,' said Martha as she
moved meditatively away, `but it aint best to be too mischievous,
Tom Skiddy.'
Tom was right.
Often as little Hulda spent the day at the `Quakerage,'
as Thornton called it; often as her friend brought her home;
he never came further than the hall door. And though her
little hand and voice made many an effort to bring him in,
they won nothing beyond a smile and a kiss, or a kind-spoken
`Not to-day.'
Meanwhile the year went on, and the war with its varying
fortune traversed sea and land. The English papers set
forth that “the American navy must be annihilated,” “the
turbulent inhabitants must be tamed,” and “the Americans
beaten into submission;” and nevertheless the papers on
this side the sea continued to chronicle such items as these:
“The privateer Paul Jones, of this port, was spoken on
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the 16th April, having in her company the British ship
Lord Sidmouth, her prize, with a valuable cargo, and
$80,000 in specie.”
“The privateer Comet, of Baltimore, fell in with an
English ship, brig, and schooner, under convoy of a Portuguese
brig of 16 guns, which she engaged, and captured all
three in less than an hour.”
And then came the less pleasant intelligence, “The Lord
Sidmouth, prize to the privateer Paul Jones, was recaptured
on Sunday afternoon within Gull light, near New London,
by the British frigate Orpheus. On the same day the
Orpheus captured two other American ships.”
But as the papers said again,—
“The spirit of our transatlantic brethren, in conformity
with the spirit of true republicanism, rises with every succeeding
miscarriage and defeat.”
Then came the battles of Lake Erie, and of the Thames;
and the American papers found full employment for all their
exclamation points.
One Saturday evening, late in October, the city was in
an unusual state of murmur and commotion,—tea-time
seemed to have no power to send people home; and night
fell on even busier streets than the day had seen. Busy
tongues and busy feet kept pace with each other, and the
city seemed to have poured itself out into the chief thoroughfares.
And as the great wave of people rolled steadily on
and down, the upper part of the city became more and more
deserted; and once off the pavements, the watchman and
his sonorous cry of `All's well!' were the most notable subjects
of attention.
No city stir had reached the `Quakerage,'—indeed a
bustling crowd could hardly abide there, but would, like a
swarm of bees, seek some rougher place whereon to cling.
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And if silence reigned without, and swayed her sceptre over
tree and bush, her rule was no less complete within. There
was talk enough in the kitchen, but the quiet `thee' and
`thou,' `nay' and `yea, verily,' of Rachel and her companions,
sent forth no more than a gentle murmur which had
rather a lullaby effect. And up-stairs the wood snapped
and crackled audibly enough to attest the stillness. Whatever
Mr. Penn had done with himself, he was not there; and
Mr. Henry sat writing, and his mother with her usual busy
play of knitting-needles. The cat dozed before the fire,
sending forth occasional long and sleepy purrs as if they
scarce paid for the trouble; now and then getting up to take
a dreamy survey of his master or mistress, and then curling
down again, as by the sheer force of necessity.
Nor were those green eyes the only ones that took note
of Mr. Henry. His mother looked at him often in the
slight pauses of her work: when a needle was knit off, or
the heel finished, or when the turn came in knitting the gore.
He looked tired she thought, and so he did, and was; being
one of those spirits so absolutely at rest within themselves
that their energies work hard for other people,—and then
need from still others, rest and refreshment.
`Henry,' said the quakeress at length, `move thy head
further to the right, that I may see thee.'
He smiled as he complied, and said,
`Well, mother?'
`I thought to see if the shadow on thine eyes came only
from the lamp,' she answered.
`There is no undue shade upon them now, is there
mother?'
`Nay,' said the quakeress, though her look was a little
wistful,—`truly I think there is nothing undue about thee.'
But she eyed him still; and he threw down his pen and
came and took part of her ample footstool.
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`If I interfere with your feet, mother, you can put them
on my lap. Are you troubling yourself about me?'
`I would I could remove all trouble from thee, dear,' she
said.
`That would not be well for me—since it is not done,' he
answered gently. `Why mother, have you forgot your
favourite saying, `patience reacheth all'?'
The quakeress bent down, and stroking both hands across
his forehead she kissed it two or three times.
`Go back to thy work, dear child,' she said, `and surely
the Lord is with thee in all that thou doest. Go back,
Henry—I will not have thee sit here—thou art a strong reproof
to me.'
He went as she bade him, but wrote less steadily than
before; breaking off now and then to talk or ask some question,
until his letters were done and ready for sealing. The
taper was lit and the melted wax was just in a right state
for the first letter, when there came a rush through the
house—it might have been the wind, but it was only
Mr. Penn.
Slam went the door, whirl went the table an inch or two
from its place, and down went Mrs. Raynor's ball of yarn
upon the cat, ere Mr. Penn had the floor to his satisfaction
and could give utterance to his sentiments.
“`United States Brig Niagara,'” he began—“`off the
Western Sister, head of Lake Erie, Sept. 10, 1813, 4 P. M.
“`Dear General—We have met the enemy—and they are
ours. Two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.
Yours, with great respect and esteem, O. H. Perry.'”
His breath quite spent with the various exclamation
points which were introduced to suit his fancy, Mr. Penn
stood still to take the effect of his intrusion.
Mr. Henry looked up at him for a moment with some
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gravity; and then looking down again with a smile which if
not sympathetic was at least kindly, he threw aside the
wrapper on which the melted wax had dropped in the wrong
place, took another and went on sealing his letters. The
quakeress felt herself more aggrieved.
`Whom dost thou respect and esteem?' she inquired
with some severity.
`What ma'am?' said Penn. `Harry!—just look at
that!'
For the knight of Malta, being aroused by the summary
descent of the ball upon his nose, immediately rolled over
upon his back, and seizing the intruder in both paws inflicted
a perfect battery of kicks with his hind feet; biting it from
time to time and then kicking the harder. Nor did the
rapid unwinding of the yarn and the partial entanglement
to which the knight found himself subjected, at all mitigate
his wrath.
`Thou art as unmannerly as the cat,' said Mrs. Raynor,
while Penn testified his delight at the feline antics by several
of his own. But Mr. Henry stooped down, and bringing his
fingers into ticklish contact with the back of the cat's head,
so distracted his attention that the ball was allowed to roll
away.
`How much mischief thee does contrive to do in the
course of the year, Penn,' said the quakeress.
`In a small way, ma'am,' said her nephew as he picked
up the ball and presented it.
`But how would thee like to knit with thy yarn all wet?'
said Mrs. Raynor, beginning to wind and finding her own in
that condition.
`I think I should like it decidedly, if I'd been knitting
dry yarn all my life,' replied Mr. Penn. `But how can you
be sitting here! Harry, have you seen the illuminations?'
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[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
`I have not been out of the house since sundown.'
`Then come now—ah do!' said his cousin. `Let's go
and take Miss Clyde to see them—will you?'
`No,' said Mr. Raynor.
`But why not? you are just hindering my pleasure.'
`I do not hinder your taking anybody you like, except
myself, Penn.'
`I'm not sure that she'd go with me, though,' said Penn.
`However, I can try. And you had much better come too—
I tell you they're worth seeing. So reconsider the matter
and come.'
Penn went, and Mr. Raynor somewhat thoughtfully laid
his letters together, then took them again and retouched the
directions.
`Does thee think Rosalie will go with that boy?' said
the quakeress.
`I do not know indeed, mother.'
`Art thou going out thyself?'
`So far as the post-office—perhaps nowhere else.'
`Thee does not care for these silly shows, Henry?' said
the quakeress with a half doubtful look at her son.
He smiled as he answered,
`I care a good deal for the occasion, mother—not so
much for the show.'
`Thee would have made a beautiful Friend!' said his
mother, with another look that was a little regretful at the
calm, dignified face before her. `It is the only thing about
thee that I cannot understand.'
He did not attempt to explain it, though for a moment
the bright play of eye and mouth half saved him the
trouble; but he said,
`I will be as good a friend as I can in this dress, mother—
and for the rest, thee does not wish I should give thee any
other name than that?'
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[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
She answered his smile—as anybody must—and he left
the room.
Meanwhile Mr. Penn presented himself to the assembled
gaze of Rosalie, Thornton, and Dr. Buffem; for if the
old Doctor felt himself in want of tea when in Rosalie's
neighbourhood, he often went to get it from her hand,—or
as Thornton declared, for the express purpose of snubbing
him if he was at home and finding it out if he was not.
Therefore in the expectation of being snubbed, Mr. Clyde
was rarely very gracious, and was really glad on the present
occasion to have Penn come in and go shares with him.
`I hope you have not been out yet, Miss Clyde?' said
Penn—`I mean to see the illuminations?'
No, Miss Clyde had not.
`Because in that case,' said Penn, `I have come to offer
my poor services. I tried to bring better ones and couldn't
get them.'
`Where is your cousin to-night, Mr. Penn?' said the
Doctor.
`Writing love-letters, I should think by the quantity,'
said Penn. `He didn't give me a chance to try the quality.'
`The wiser man he,' said the Doctor. `And so you have
not been out, Miss Rosalie? Must go, my dear—
“Unmuffle, ye fair stars, and thou fair moon,
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison”—
What would the illumination be without you?'
`The moon is not favourable to illuminations, sir,' said
Rosalie.
`Depends upon what sort of a moon it is,' said the Doctor.
`I'd risk such a planet anywhere. And there are
some transparencies about you, too. How many enemies do
you suppose now you'll meet in the streets to-night?'
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`Enemies to me as a moon?' said Rosalie smiling—`all
the illuminators I suspect, and perhaps some other people.'
`Have a care!' said the Doctor with a threatening gesture
of his finger. `Don't you exasperate me. I mean enemies
on Commodore Perry's principle—“We have met
the enemy—and they are ours!” What do you think of that?'
The gentlemen laughed, but Rosalie did not put her
thoughts into words.
`By the way!' said the Doctor—`I should think you'd
have enemies in earnest! What's this I heard about you
the other day?'
`I have not the least idea,' said Rosalie.
The Doctor finished his cup of tea, and then rising from
the table and planting himself upon the hearth rug, he repeated
with many a flourish:
“Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries,—
Feasting on which we will philosophize.”
`Goodnight Miss Rosalie—you've been the death of
two of my patients already, keeping me here so long. Mr.
Penn—if anything happens to the moon to-night I'll be the
death of you—or as I don't fight duels I'll turn you over to
your cousin. Captain Thornton—your most obedient!'
`What a—' said Thornton, and put the rest in his
teacup.
`Yes, how much we are losing,' said Penn.
`Get ready, do!' said Thornton impatiently, `and we
will all go together.' And upon that promise Rosalie went.
It was a pretty thing to walk through the rows of
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[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
gleaming houses, and to observe the variety wrought by the taste,
the economy, or the patriotism of their owners. Some fronts
were lighted from garret to cellar—the house looking out
with all its eyes, and those bright ones, upon the thronged
streets. And now and then might be seen a dwelling that
was seemingly the abode of little beside a regard for the
world's opinion; and a few groans once in a while, shewed
that opinion to be unappeased. The public buildings displayed
transparencies as well as lights.
`Look, Miss Clyde!' Penn Raynor exclaimed, as they
came near the City Hall; `do you see that window with
Lake Erie and the fleets?—isn't it capital! And here in
this other are Lawrence's last words, poor fellow!—“Don't
give up the ship!”—Perry had that written on his flag before
the battle. And Tammany Hall has got Perry himself,
changing his ship in the very thick of it.'
The transparencies shone forth, and the spectators
cheered, and the different national airs floated sweetly down
from the City Hall on the night wind, as drummers and all
the sons of Œolus did their best; as Rosalie with her two
supporters moved slowly down to get a better view of the
Park Theatre. It was brilliant with lights and transparencies,—
the fight between the Hornet and Peacock, among
others; and Commodore Perry's concise announcement,
“We have met the enemy—and they are ours.”
`Miss Clyde,' said Penn Raynor, `you must let go of
me if you please—I can't stand that,—and I really shouldn't
like to hurrah with a lady on my arm. But if they shout
again I must.'
Rosalie laughed and released him, then and afterwards,
whenever his feelings required; and would gladly have let
him go altogether that she might be the more sure of Thornton.
He spoke from time to time with some of his friends,
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[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
but gave no signs of joining them until Penn had come back
from a final cheer for Commodore Perry.
`Will that last you till you get home, Penn?' he inquired.
`Probably,' said Mr. Penn—`unless I meet Perry himself—
or Harrison.'
`Then I shall leave my sister in your charge,' said
Thornton. But as he felt her hand involuntarily take closer
hold of his arm, Thornton added with a half apologetic tone,
`I shall be home soon, Alie—before you are asleep, I
dare say.'
She could only let him go—but so sorrowful were the
thoughts sent after him, that not for some minutes did she
remember the poor protection in which she was left. It was
first brought to mind, when as Mr. Penn's eyes were engaged
with the transparencies, the crowd and she came in rather
rough contact. She spoke at once,
`You see what you have brought upon yourself, Mr.
Penn,—I must take you away from Commodore Perry, and
you must take me home.'
`With the greatest pleasure!' said Penn, who never
forgot his good nature,—`that is if I can—the crowd is so
thick. Hadn't you better go down as far as the City
Hotel?'
`No I think not.'
`What made me speak of it,' said Penn, as they turned
and began to walk up Broadway, `the people are all going
down just now, and you'd find it easier. I'm afraid it
will be hard work for you to get along this way.'
It was rather hard work, and once Rosalie was nearly
borne back by the down tide of population; when her other
hand was taken and put on somebody's arm, and a quiet
`good evening, Miss Rosalie,' announced Mr. Raynor. If
Miss Rosalie felt relief, so did Mr. Penn.
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`It is the most remarkable thing in the world, Harry,
that you always come just when I want you.'
`It was not because you wanted me, in this case,' said
his cousin.
`No, very likely not,' said Penn, `but a bright idea has
just come into my head; and I believe there'll be time for it
yet, if Miss Clyde will only let me leave her with you—she
has so little way to go now.'
`She will let you with pleasure,' said Mr. Raynor.
`I dare say she will—she was always so good,' said Penn;
and darting off without more ado, he left Rosalie to wonder
that one man's way through the world should be so different
from another's,—the crowd touched her no more that night.
`Do you know, Miss Rosalie,' said Mr. Raynor, as he
stood with his hand on the bell, `that in this good city you
need better protection on some nights than on others?'
`Yes,' she said quickly, `but—' and then checking herself,
she simply added, `I know it.'
Mr. Raynor looked at her for a moment—for every
pane of glass in the whole house gave forth light; but as if
he guessed what she did not tell him he asked no further
questions. The bell was rung and they parted.
When Mr. Raynor reached his own home, he found that
Mr. Penn had employed his spare time in getting candles
and putting them in every window that he dared appropriate.
His own rooms and Mr. Henry's and all that belonged
to nobody in particular—the garret—even the dining room
had Mr. Penn enlivened to the extent of his power; and
the house looked like a hotel of patriotism and treason.
But the candles burned as if there had been never a quaker
nor a traitor in the whole world.
-- 187 -- p737-192
CHAPTER XIX.
The neighbourhood were at their wits end, to consider what would be the
issue.
—L'Estrange.
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
`Are the Clydes coming to-night, mamma?' said Miss
Clinton, as she took a last elaborate back and front view of
herself.
`Yes, my dear—I suppose so—I invited them of course.'
`But I mean are they coming—what does ail the neck
of this dress?'
`Nothing at all.'
`Nothing at all! when it twists round and puckers—'
`When you twist round.'
`When I don't. And just see mamma—the waist is a
great deal too long.'
`I don't perceive it, indeed.'
`Because you don't look, ma'am. Let me shew you—
where's a card—now what do you think of that?—two
inches below the sleeve, mamma!'
`I think my dear, that your grandmother would have
thought two inches below the sleeve was no waist at all.'
`Very likely ma'am, but the old lady didn't know everything.
What makes you think the Clydes will come? They
might have forgotten to send regrets.'
`I saw Mr. Clyde in the street to-day, and he said he
should certainly come and bring his sister.'
-- 188 --
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`I should think he might, it will be such a small party.
But it's a dreadful thing to be so long out of society! one
grows so shockingly old. Why mamma, she must be
more than twenty.'
`Well my dear, so must you, if you live long enough.'
`My dear ma'am what things you do always say to bring
down one's spirits!—Just like Marion Arnet,—she told
me the other day—By the by she's just as much off as ever
with Thornton Clyde.'
`Is that what she told you?'
`La no, mamma—what an idea! But I mean there's not
the least prospect of their ever making it up.' And Miss
Clinton surveyed herself in the glass with much complacency.
`I can't conceive what concern it is of yours, my
dear.'
`No ma'am—perhaps not,—but one likes to talk.'
`I think however that one should talk goodnaturedly,
when one can,' said Mrs. Clinton, as she got up and peeped
over her daughter's shoulder. `Dear me—I look pale to-night!
How should you like to have such remarks made
about you, my dear?'
`Dear mamma!—as if I ever, ever could be such a fool!
But Rosalie never does make disagreeable speeches, so I'm
quite willing she should come; especially as she's so grave
now and quiet. I suppose her engrossing power can hardly
have survived these two years of seclusion.'
Miss Clinton wondered how it had survived, when she
saw Rosalie enter the room and perceived that the engrossing
power was in full force. It was only natural she tried
to persuade herself, that people should crowd about one
whom they had seen but seldom for a year or two; but a
mere greeting did not seem to content them, and there were
-- 189 --
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as many new as old friends in the circle that soon formed
about Miss Clyde. Only over one person she seemed to
have lost her power. Mr. Raynor went up and paid his
respects, and came away again,—therefore, as Miss Clinton
remarked to herself, `there could have been nothing in that.'
The power had not descended to her, however, for he
attached himself perseveringly to two old ladies; and was
deep in a discussion upon the state of the roads, the streets,
and the atmosphere, and just having his juvenile inexperience
enlightened on the subject of hailstorms, when his fair hostess
claimed his attention.
`Mr. Raynor, doesn't it seem very dull to you here, after
Paris?'
`As the daylight after gas.'
`Well, that is pretty bad. Things look beautiful by
gaslight, don't you think so?'
`Beautiful?—some things,' said the gentleman, whose
eye had made a momentary excursion after his thoughts.
`But candlelight is in general thought more becoming Miss
Clinton.'
`Do you think so? The other room is lighted with
candles—let us go in there and see if the people look
different.'
`By what rule of comparison will you judge of different
people by different lights?' said Mr. Raynor, as he obediently
gave the lady his arm.
`O we can compare each other,' said Miss Clinton laughing.
`But candles must be the most becoming, as you say,
for all the oldest people have got in here to have the benefit
of it.'
He looked grave and she changed the subject.
`How well Miss Clyde looks to-night—only rather pale.'
`What shade of colour puts a lady beyond the charge of
paleness?'
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
`O I don't know—but she keeps herself so shut up.'
`I have reason to believe that you are mistaken there,
Miss Clinton. I have certainly received the impression that
Miss Clyde walks a great deal.'
`What is mamma whispering about?' said Miss Clinton
as they slowly paced back again. `Wanting Miss Clyde to
sing—and she won't, or don't—which is it? Miss Arnet
will—no she don't choose, I know from her look.'
`Will you sing?' inquired Mr. Raynor, who really liked
his companion better at the piano than anywhere else.
`O not for anything—there, some one else is going.
And now Miss Clyde has got away to talk to Mrs. Delt. I
would give the world for her coolness and self-possession—I
never could cross a room alone.'
`Will you cross it with me, then?' said Penn Raynor
presenting himself. `Here am I Miss Clinton—at your
service,—totally disengaged because nobody will take the
trouble to engage me.'
`But I am not disengaged—' said Miss Clinton.
`Mrs. Clinton says,' pursued Penn, `that she shall call
upon Harry next,—so there's a decided opening.'
`Then we will walk over to the piano together,' said the
lady, `and secure a good place.'
`Aye, take my arm too,' said Penn. `Just as well, you
know Miss Clinton—only the old line about two strings to
your bow, renversé—as we used to say in Paris.'
`As we used to say,' said his cousin smiling.
`O deuce take it Harry—you're so precise,—one word
that you don't understand is as good as another. But I say
how charming Miss Clyde looks—and everybody.'
`Mr. Penn is quite impartial in his admiration,' said
Miss Clinton.
`Always was,' said Penn. `I'm a sort of a bee—or a
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
butterfly—I declare I don't know which, but I guess it's the
butterfly. I wonder why people call bees so industrious?
Butterflies go round just as much, only they dress up
for the occasion and go by the force of sunshine. Now
the bees seem moved by the mere power of business—or
buzziness.'
`You've been studying natural history, Mr. Penn,' said
Miss Clinton laughing.
`O yes—in the Champs Elysées,—good place that to
study butterflies. Especially with a bee along to keep you
in order. Harry is a nice bee though—he never cries hum.'
`And never stings, I hope?' said Miss Clinton insinuatingly.
`Ah there's a question. But he don't plunge his sting
so far in that you can't get it out,—and I suppose he'd tell
you it was for your especial benefit, then.'
`You would think Penn spoke from experience,' said Mr.
Raynor, `but I assure you he is cased in armour of proof.
Too nimble moreover, and too skilled in intricate passages.
Like the bee-moth—only not so mischievous.'
`Too bad that, I declare,' said Penn. `I shall not rest
now till I have executed some desperate piece of mischief.
Do you remember Harry how I carried off Miss Clyde's
bouquet once?'
`Yes,' said his cousin rather gloomily.
`Carried it off? how?' said Miss Clinton. `I shall hold
mine very fast.'
Penn went into some laughing threats concerning the
bouquet, and his cousin as if old recollections had taken off
present restraint, looked over the heads about him with very
little care whether he were watched or not.
It was a wearisome thing, he thought, to see her sitting
there and not to be allowed to go and talk to her,—to have
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
been so long in the same room and yet to have had only the
greeting of a common acquaintance;—nor quite that, for it
had been graver and more quickly ended; yet he would not
have changed it for one of a class. In a very abstracted
state of mind he obeyed Mrs. Clinton's call to the piano, and
sang.
`I have seen what the world calls rich and rare,
Beyond the broad ocean's foam;
But the brightest of all that met me there,
Was the vision of one at home.
A flower! a flower!—how fair it bloomed!
I had never seen such before,—
And my fancy the full belief assumed,
That the world could show no more.
`I dreamed a dream as I passed along—
A dream, sweet vision! of thee.
Might so perfect a thing to me belong,
Then perfect my life would be.
The flower, the flower—I saw it droop!—
For a bitter wind swept by.
But it twined itself with a weaker group,
And no power to take had I.
`The dream is broken—the hope is flown,—
Or held by a faint `perchance;'
And the joy of that home is fainter grown
Which I thought she would enhance.
The flower, the flower!—it bloometh yet,—
Grows sweeter—I know not how!
But the beauty on which my love was set,
Hath my heart's deep reverence now.
`That wish of my life, it doth not fade—
My life and it are one.
Yet well could I rest amid the shade,
Were my flower but in the sun.
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
My flower! my flower! thy bended head
Is dearer than worlds to me.
I would give up life and take death instead,
My flower's strong shield to be!'
The song was not much in itself, certainly; but there
was a power in the fine voice and the deep feeling and expression
with which every word was given, that held the
listeners motionless; and from end to end of the still room
was the song heard. It was not till the voice ceased, and
the singer had played a few soft notes that might almost
have been involuntary—so exactly did they carry out the
spirit of the song; that the ladies recollected their pocket-handkerchiefs,
and Penn Raynor exclaimed,
`Who upon earth's that, Harry?'
`Who upon earth is what?' said his cousin striking
another chord.
`Yes, did you ever know her, Mr. Raynor?' said the
lady of the house.
`Did I ever know whom, ma'am?' he said half turning
about.
`Why this lady of the song. There's no description
given of her, either—I don't know how it is—but it is all
so life-like that I feel as if I must have seen her. Is there
really such a flower in the world?'
It was with a singular smile that he heard her—a smile
that to any keen eye would have said enough. But lightly
touching the keys again, his answer was given with perfect
gravity.
`If there be, Mrs. Clinton, you will find it in the genus
woman, and in that species where Nature and Christianity
have both done their best.'
`O I have no doubt Mr. Raynor knows the original,'
said Miss Arnet. `He always had a preoccupied air,—as if
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
he were saying to himself, “I have seen better faces in my
time, than stand on any shoulders that I see before me at
this instant.'”
`True—at this instant,' said Mr. Raynor looking down
at the keys. `But what a character to give of me!'
`Deserved—' said Miss Arnet.
`By your favour, no,' said he rousing himself. `In the
first place, I am not always thinking of ladies' faces, hetero-dox
as that may seem. And in the second—'
`No second to that, I beg.'
`But it's very provoking to be made to cry over a rival
beauty,' said Miss Clinton.
`Rival beauties?' said Mr. Raynor. `Did you ever hear
of a belle that was rivalled by a wild flower?'
`No—did you?'
`A belle thought to try the matter once, so she made a
great effort and went to take a walk in the country.'
`What slander!' said two or three indignant voices.
`But do let him go on,' said Miss Arnet.
`Well—as story-tellers say—the lady went into the
woods, with her hoop and her lace ruffles and her diamonds
and her white gloves'—
`Don't you think diamonds and white gloves pretty?'
interrupted Miss Clinton.
`Certainly—so did this lady. She went on, expecting to
make a great impression upon her rivals; but the difficulty
was to find them. First she perceived the Columbines.
But she didn't feel as if they were rivals, though they were
all red and yellow like herself'—
`You are atrocious!'
`As to her dress, of course—but they hung down their
heads and she thought the world was wide enough for her
and the Columbines too. Their hoops were so small, and
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
they were such good little things that nodded to everybody.
'
`I am not a good little thing, that's one comfort,' said
Miss Arnet.
`The lady was puzzled to find a rival. The Dandelions
were pretty, but common, and low bred; and the Anemones
had `no complexion,'—any man would be out of his senses
to look at such a piece of wax-work.'
The ladies exchanged glances.
`But at length she came to the violet, and there she
stood a long time. Was the violet a rival? She tried her
by all the tests. She walked before her and threw her into
the shade—the violet looked fairer than ever, and just as
good-natured. That was not like a rival. But then some
people who came by looked first at the violet—and that
was. At last she inquired anxiously if the violet was
invited to Mrs. Peony's ball of next week. But the violet
said she had never been to a ball and did not even know
Mrs. Peony by sight. That settled the matter, she could
never be a belle. So our friend called her a sweet little
creature, and reached home with but one source of dissatisfaction.
'
`What was that?' eagerly exclaimed the circle, closing
about Mr. Raynor as he sat on the music stool.
`She had forgotten to ask where the violet bought her
perfume.'
`O you horrid man!' said Miss Clinton; and `you are
too bad!'—`you are perfectly scandalous!' echoed about.
`The ladies have been so much interested in the story,'
said Thornton Clyde, `that they have forgotten to find out
why Mr. Raynor took them into the woods.'
`You are in no doubt on the subject, Mr. Clyde?' said
the person spoken of, as he rose and passed through their
circle.
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
`I am in no doubt on several subjects,' said Thornton
dryly. `Yet now I think of it, Mr. Raynor, why was not
the rose your chosen subject of comparison?'
`Should a princess by the popular vote dare compare
herself with a queen in her own right?' said Mr. Raynor.
`And does the queen never have the popular vote?'
said Thornton.
`Sometimes—' Mr. Raynor said, with a glance at the
court just then holden by Rosalie. But he himself turned
and went into the next room, merely pausing to shake hands
with Dr. Buffem, who now made his appearance.
`A pretty pass things have come to!' said the Doctor,
walking straight up to the court. `Mrs. Clinton—good
evening! Miss Clinton—your humble servant! A pretty
pass things have come to! A hedge-row of boys round a
lady and never a gateway for a man to get through. I'll
make a clearance!—Miss Rosalie—enchanting princess—
“Queen of my soul! Light of my eyes!”—shall I rescue
you from your enchanted ring?—shall I send them about
their business?—though indeed my mind misgives me they
have none. “To men addicted to delights, business is an
interruption.'”
`The doctor is personifying business to-night then,' said
one of the gentlemen who had been set aside.
`What then?' said the doctor. `I tell you I sha'n't quit
the ring these twenty years.'
`You'll have a chance to carry everybody off in that
time, doctor,' said Penn.
`Everybody?' said the doctor.
“`Fair Bessie Bell I lo'ed yestreen,
And thought I ne'er could alter;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,
They gar my fancy falter.”
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[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
Now my dear, take my arm, and let us have a comfortable
little walk. Now how do you get on at home—and what
rambles has the Sister of Charity been taking lately?
Did you hear of the cat that fell out of a two story window
yesterday?'
`No indeed,' said Rosalie smiling.
`Ah that was a great case!' said the doctor gravely—
`a great case! Fell on her feet you know of course, and
all that, but must have deranged the circulation. I said it
must have interfered with the ordinary course of things very
much, but some people thought not. But the cat has not
spoken since.'
`Nor mewed?' said Rosalie.
`You hush!' said the doctor, `and don't put yourself
into a consultation. But what have you been about? and
how are the pets at home? One of 'em I see looks flourishing.
'
`Yes, they are both very well.'
`And their sister aint.—Don't tell me—I know—I read
you like a book. Let me feel your pulse.—That's it—strong
enough, but a little fluttering. I read you just like a dictionary,
my dear—words and definitions. Now Miss Rosalie,
I'm going to prescribe for you; and do you mind and follow
orders. A large dose of care for yourself, taken night and
morning in a little less care for other people.'
`That last is a hard medicine to get, sir.'
`Not a bit of it—ask anybody, and they'll give you as
much as you want. And see here—look up at me—don't
you wash it down with anything. Shake it down, if you
like, to the tune of a hop or two—and season with “Quips,
and pranks and wreathed smiles.”
`Not such a one as that!—I declare you are flying in
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[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
the face of my prescription and me together. I'll fix you!
wait till I find one of my assistants!—'
`Do you condescend to keep any, sir?' said Rosalie, as
the doctor began to walk her about the room in a somewhat
rummaging style.
`The secret society of medicine, my dear, has its officers.
You wait—not long neither. Now,' said Dr. Buffem, pushing
quietly through a narrow opening, and indicating with
his thumb one particular velvet collar; `now there is one
that I always employ for Miss Clinton, but that won't do
for you. I must find an engraving, or a book—or a bookworm!
' he said, bringing Rosalie with a short turn into the
library. `Friend Henry, what art thou about?'
Mr. Raynor started and turned round from the table
where he stood.
`Not studying that print?' said the doctor.
`Not at all.'
`No I thought not. Well here is one of my patients
whom I want to leave in your hands—otherwise on your
arm,—“for I must quit the busy haunts of men.”—Fact,
and no fib, Miss Rosalie—I declare your eye is as good as a
policeman! Well Mr. Henry—are you going to do as I bid
you? or must I find somebody else?'
`And how came Miss Clyde to be under your care, sir?'
said Mr. Raynor, when the proposed transfer had been
made.
`How came she to be under my care?—why because I
took charge of her. Anything to say against it? What
the deuce do you mean by asking such a question, sir?'
`Patients usually seek the doctor,' said Mr. Raynor with
a slight smile.
`She never does,' said Dr. Buffem. `Great peculiarity
in her case! I've been prescribing for her to-night.'
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
`And the prescription?'
`A trifle, a trifle—' said the doctor. `A little good
sense and insensibility.
“`Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence which most doth please
With meditation.'”
And with a profound flourish the doctor moved off.
Mr. Raynor began quietly to turn over the engravings
and to comment upon them, until his companion looked up
and answered; and then he said,
`That is a most admirable prescription—if it be made up
like Bunyan's, with `a promise or two.”
`They are all that I need to take.'
`No—not quite,' he said, establishing her hand upon his
arm, and taking her away from the eyes and tongues of
several people who seemed inclined to `fall in' and make a
circle.
`What then?' said Rosalie, trying to rouse herself and
shake off the influence of two or three of the evening's
events. `Sound sleep I do take, enough of it, and study too;
though sometimes to be sure of a rather juvenile sort—teaching
Hulda and not myself. But I often make longer and
deeper excursions and incursions alone. What more do I
need?'
`I could easier shew you than tell you,' he said with a
smile. `My ideas on the subject can never be put in words—
and you could never follow them. Such care as fresh air
and sunshine take of the flowers,—as you of Hulda,—such
care as I would take of the most precious thing in the world,
if I had it. And after all that tells you nothing.'
She thought it told her a good deal too much, and
though words fluttered to her lips they came not forth.
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
`Are you tired of walking about?' Mr. Raynor said in
the same quiet way. `I will find you a seat in the neighbourhood
of what Dr.Buffem might call `sweet recreation,'—
here in the midst of geraniums and myrtles and your
namesakes, the roses. What do you think of these pretty
painted faces, and how would you characterise them?'
`The geraniums? As beautiful and showy, but I think
not very loveable. Yet all the power they have is in
exercise—there are no wasted advantages,—they have made
the most of themselves.'
`Yes, and have advanced steadily to perfection. Then
here is the myrtle,—of most rare beauty and purity and
exquisiteness—if one may use the word. Exceeding sweet
too, and elegant in a high degree. But its sweetness you
must seek out for yourself,—the common course of things
does not call it forth. For all but the eye's perception, the
greenhouse were as sweet without its myrtle. And among
flowers as among characters, the strongest power of attraction
is that involuntary sweetness which some few breathe
forth.
`I will not trust myself to speak of the roses,' he said
presently, `but you must remember that I watch with
jealous eyes the care you bestow upon mine.'
`Deep in the flowers!' said Penn Raynor coming up to
them. `Miss Clyde, Harry's love for roses has lately become
what I call a passion.'
`Eye deep or thought deep?' said Thornton who had
followed.
`My thought and eye have kept sufficiently close company,
' said Mr. Raynor.
Thornton looked at him and then at his sister.
`Rosalie, I thought you wanted to go home so early.'
`Is it late?' she said, rising quick and taking his arm.
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
`Late for you, little precision.'
`But she cannot go yet!' exclaimed Penn. `You must
take her into the supper room, first.'
`I will have that pleasure myself,' said Mr. Raynor.
And Thornton had no resource but to let him have it,
and Rosalie too, for the time.
-- 202 -- p737-207
CHAPTER XX.
Nay, an' I take the humour of a thing once,
I am like your tallor's needle, I go through.
—Ben Jonson.
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
Winter and night reigned together; but while the night
looked down with steady gaze upon the pranks of her colleague,
winter ran on in his career, and caught nothing of her
still influence. The wind as it whirled about the house drew
whatever it could lay hands on into the same giddy dance;
and tried every casement, and planted an ambuscade of puffs
at every door. Then it roared in the chimney, and then
sighed itself away as in penitence for its misdeeds; but in
reality it was but waiting for breath and a fresh partner.
The moon was making her way westward, bearing steadily
on through the clouds which came up from some exhaustless
storehouse in the northwest: looking dark at the horizon,
but lighter and more flaky beneath the moon's inspection,
and sometimes speeding away in such haste that she rode
clear and unincumbered for a few minutes, till the next
battalion came up.
In Mrs. Raynor's library the curtains were let fall and
the fire blazing; and the table waited but the arrival of the
teapot and Mr. Henry.
Mr. Penn was already there, reading the newspaper all
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
over,
and in every dull paragraph indulging himself with
very audible asides and interjections.
`What in the world has Harry done with himself?' he
said at length, carefully bestowing the paper, blanket-wise,
upon the knight of Malta; who crawled out, shook himself,
and curled down again immediately by Mrs. Raynor who
was counting stitches on a grey stocking.
`Very interesting news, Sir Brian,' said Penn, pursuing
him with the paper.
`What did thee observe, Penn?' said Mrs. Raynor,
when she had finished the stitches.
`Throwing words to the cat, ma'am.'
`Did thee say there was any news?'
`Not much,' said Penn,—`what there is smells mouldy.
Dull as the editor's brains. Commodore Rogers is in,—not
much in that quarter, neither—only thirty prisoners. It
must have been a dreadfully moping cruise. But I say,
where's Harry? aren't you frightened to death about him?
Does he ever stay out so late without leaving word where
he's gone?'
`How thee does run on!' said Mrs. Raynor, who had
been hurried along the stream of Penn's wild and unquakerlike
sentiments without chance to say a word.
`Where does thee think thy tongue will lead thee some
day, Penn?'
`Into the house of some rich lady I hope, ma'am—I
can't afford to marry a poor one,—and
“`Whoso stands still,
Go back he will.'”
`Thy backward steps of speech will be few,' said the
quakeress.
`But now just see the state of things,' said her nephew.
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[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
`Down-stairs Rachel is endeavouring to stay the ebullition
of wrath'—
`Penn! bethink thee!' said his aunt.
—`From the kettle ma'am—at being kept so long on
the fire,—there never was a quaker teakettle yet, that I can
find out. And Master Harry, presuming upon his importance'—
`Upon what dost thou presume?' said his cousin's voice
behind him.
`Upon your absence,' said Penn jumping up. `Now
then—“Blow winds and crack your cheeks”—and Boil
teakettle and put the fire out.'
`And sit down Penn, and be quiet—a more impossible
thing than either.'
`But how long since you entered the genus felis, felicitous,
and wore cushioned feet?' said Penn. `Sir Brian
might envy the softness of your steps.'
`One can do a good deal under cover,' said Mr. Henry.
`Well I suppose you don't mean to do anything more
to-night,' said Penn. `Your day's work's done, isn't it?'
`Yes—the day's work.'
`Thou art not going out again?' said the quakeress.
`Yes mother, for a while. I have promised to spend a
part of the night with one who is sick.'
`Then the carriage must go for thee' said his mother;
`therefore give thine orders.'
`What do you plague yourself with these sick folks for,
Harry?' said Penn.
`Somebody must—or rather somebody ought.'
`But there's no comfort in life if you have to spend your
days in hunting up distressed people, and your nights in
watching them,' said Penn, as he helped himself to a pleasant
piece of toast.
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
The comfort of his life, or rather the joy of it, was a
doubtful thing, Mr. Raynor thought; but he simply said,
`This occasion is not of my own seeking, Penn.'
`O then of course. But what a good thing it is that nobody
ever wants me. Harry, what a fine night we had last
night, didn't we?'
`How thee talks, silly child!' said Mrs. Raynor. `It
rained steadily.'
`Not at Mrs. Clinton's ma'am.—It didn't rain anything
there but champagne and sweet words and things of that sort.
And I wish you had heard Harry sing!—he surpassed himself,
and made me open my eyes. Such a song! Do you
know, aunt, I believe he's going to be married.'
`Not till I have been your groomsman,' said Mr. Raynor,
while his mother turned one quick anxious look at the imperturbably
grave face before her.
`Ah me! don't speak of that,' said Penn.
“`A silver ladle to my dish
Is all I want—is all I wish”—
but unless a man has the dish, how can he ever hope for the
ladle?'
`Make the dish,' said his cousin.
`Don't know how, Harry—and take too long. Besides,
one wants mettle to begin with—and I'd rather chase the
lady than the dish.'
`Penn, Penn—thee is incorrigible!' said his aunt.
`Does thee never remember thy name?'
`O dear! what a name!' said Penn. `Do I ever forget
it? I am constantly expecting that somebody will give me
the nom de plume of Goosequill—only I'm not a writer; and
certainly the misfortunes and disappointments of life have
not cut me up in the least. I do wish the war would break
-- 206 --
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out here in New York, or else that they'd order me off to the
frontiers. A real good fight with the British once a week,
and an occasional interlude with the Indians, would keep up
a man's spirits amazingly.'
`Hush Penn, you are wrong to talk so here,' said his
cousin, while Mrs. Raynor laid down her knitting and
sought for words. `Thought may be free, but speech should
be a little restrained sometimes.'
`Why does thee say here?' inquired the quakeress, but
half pleased at the mildness of the reproof.
`My dear mother, Penn is not signing his name—he is
only making flourishes.'
`Can't help it Harry—' said the young gentleman in
question,—`you may write my epitaph beforehand—
“With one sole Penn I wrote this book,
Made of a grey goose quill.
A Penn it was when I it took,
And a Penn I leave it still.'”
`Pens may be mended,' said his cousin.
`If you know how. And I can't help it, Harry—it's
a—a—what the deuce is the quaker for confounded!—
I mean,' said Penn, hurrying on, `to have nothing to do
is a—'
`A thing which no man should complain of,' said his
cousin. `I will give you something to do this very night.'
`No, pray don't,' said Penn most unaffectedly; `because
if you make me go with you I must go, and I would much
rather be somewhere else. I think I will go and see how
Miss Clyde is after the party—or Miss Clinton.'
`I hope thee will expend all thy adjectives in the street
before thee goes to see ladies, Penn,' said the quakeress.
`They've got brothers—both of 'em,' said Penn in a half
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undertone. `But never fear me, ma'am,' he added aloud.
“`I'll aggravate my voice so, that I'll roar you gently as a
sucking dove—I'll roar you an 't'were any nightingale.'”
`If thee will read play-books,' said the quakeress with
some displeasure, `thee must not repeat them here.'
`That's a study book,' said Penn—`the boy's first lessons
in English and elocution.'
`Are you going out as soon as we have done tea, Penn?'
said his cousin. `Because in that case we will go together
so far as our roads do.'
`Just as soon as I have satisfied the cravings of a youthful
appetite,' replied Mr. Penn, who was regaling himself
with plum sweetmeats.
`Do plums never make thee sick, Penn?' enquired his
aunt.
`Never did, ma'am—except once when I cried for 'em,'
replied Mr. Penn.
`And must thee really go out again, Henry?' said Mrs.
Raynor as they left the table.
`O yes—' he answered cheerfully. `It does not trouble
you to have me go mother, if I can do anybody any good?'
`Dear child!' she said. `I wish some one would try to
do thee good. Methinketh thou art more grave, Henry,
more silent than was thy wont.'
`Talked himself out to Miss Clyde last night,' suggested
Penn, with a fresh attack upon the plums.
`Which did not befall thee,' said his cousin; and turning
to his mother Mr. Raynor spoke a quieting word or two
and left the room.
The night had worn away to its decline, and the spread
of stars was wheeling westward, where the moon had long
since gone down, when Mr. Henry, gave up his place to
another watcher and left the sick room, followed by the
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heart's blessing of its poor tenant. Body and mind had
profited by his ministrations; and that night had shed
heaven's own dew upon one soul, long shrivelled beneath
the burden and heat of the day, contracted and deadened
with the drought of all comfort, and covered with the world's
dust.
With the strong feeling of the scene upon him, Mr.
Raynor got into his carriage and passed rapidly along the
silent streets; thinking of their busy inhabitants—hurrying
even in sleep across the bridge of life, and one by one dropping
through its many pitfalls, to be seen no more till the
sea shall give up its dead. How dim and visionary earth
seems from the banks of the Jordan; as the mists of that
river of death which once hung like a thick curtain before
the gate of the Celestial City, now roll off behind the pilgrim,
and rest upon the kingdoms of this world and the
glory of them! And what was any other work, to the one
purpose and endeavour `that by any means he might save
some.'
His thoughts flew to another person who he knew
thought and felt with him—yet to her practice it was hard
to reconcile himself in all respects. Mr. Raynor threw
himself into the other corner of the carriage, and watched
for so much sight of her as the outside of her house could
give.
A bright light met his gaze. Not the halo with which
his fancy always invested her, but a red flickering glare that
it was hard to locate precisely, in the uncertain black of
the night, though it was in the direction of the Clyde house;
and now he noticed that bells were ringing, and that the
men hurrying along the streets stopped from time to time to
pick up the fire-buckets which the startled sleepers left their
beds to throw out.
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Mr. Raynor left his carriage, and choosing some point
beyond the scene of action where Caleb Williams might
await his coming, he mingled with the crowd and went on afoot.
Among the crowd but faster than they,—the mind giving
winged spurs which carried him on beyond all that ran for
profit or duty or fun; making his way spirit-like, without
jostling or being jostled, and with unconscious care eschewing
every possible hindrance or delay. One point he soon
made sure—the fire was not in Thornton's house but opposite;
and changing his course for the freer space of a cross street,
Mr. Raynor made a slight circuit and admitted himself by
a side door. It was open of course, for the firemen had free
passage to every house in the neighbourhood, and after a
word to the policeman on duty he entered the hall.
`Bless you, Mr. Raynor!' said Martha Jumps, who was
taking care of any article she could find, not very careful
what that might be; `did you ever hear whether pillows go
safe, packed in teacups?—I mean!—I'm at the end of my
wits!—And there's the hearthrugs. How did you ever
come to get here at this identical minute and everything in
a blaze?—O she's in the back parlour and we're packing up.'
In that fiercely lighted room, the red glare dancing upon
wall and ceiling like a thing possessed, the cries of the
throng outside inspired by the firemen's trumpets, the dash
of water upon window and door, the loud tramp of men
through the hall, and with no better guard than a knot of
firemen, he found her—like a quiet spirit beneath the Œgis
of trust.
At the moment when Mr. Raynor entered the room,
water and smoke were for a time triumphant, and the sudden
darkening almost prevented his finding her; but a word
or two which she spoke to some one else had brought him to
her side before the red blaze again sprang forth. Her
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attention was fixed upon Hulda, who now hid her eyes in her
sister's neck, and then as by some strange fascination opened
them long enough to give one fearful look towards the front
windows and about the room; but never moving her arms
from the one to whom she looked for safety on all occasions.
At the first sound of her friend's voice however, Hulda
started up, and stretching out her arms to him she sobbed
out,
`Won't you please take us home, Mr. Raynor? because
Thornton isn't here, and I'm so frightened.' And she was
instantly in a new resting-place.
`Will you persuade your sister to come, Hulda?'
`O yes, she'll come,' said the child, whose little heart
was beating quieter already for the strong hand laid upon it.
`Won't you, Rosalie?'
But Rosalie did not answer; for something in Hulda's
salutation, or in the way it was met, or in the sudden relief
she felt, let not word and thought work together.
`Won't you, Alie?' she repeated, stretching her little
face down towards her sister, but by no means loosing her
hold of Mr. Raynor.
`I will let you go, love, very thankfully. Hulda has
kept me prisoner here,' she said, `so that I could do nothing.
'
`And I am come to put you in closer ward. I shall not
think you safe until my mother has charge of you.'
`Take Hulda if you please, Mr. Raynor, but I am not
in the least afraid. Perhaps we shall have no more disturbance,
and if—at all events I am better here.'
`I shall not go until you do,' said he quietly.
Rosalie hesitated and again repeated her request.
`There are some things here that would need my attention
if the fire should cross the street—I had better not go
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If you will only take Hulda away where she will be safe
and unfrightened, I will thank you very much.'
`You will not thank me, for I shall not go,' he said with
a slight smile which by no means helped her irresolution.
`Your being frightened is I suppose of no matter, but who
shall assure me that you will be safe?—I do not want to be
frightened myself.' And wrapping Hulda more closely in
her shawl, he added, `I shall wait for you,—therefore please
Miss Rosalie give your orders as soon as may be, and let us
be off before we have any more light on the subject. Then
will I come back and see your brother and do anything you
want done.'
The roof of the burning house fell in as he spoke; and
though the brilliant light soon darkened again, they saw that
the fire was walking along the block with no tardy step, and
the engines redoubled their play upon the front windows.
`Make haste, dear Alie!' said little Hulda, again hiding
her eyes from the sight.
`Hulda,' said her friend, `will you let me put you in the
carriage first, and will you stay there while I come back for
your sister?'
`Who is in the carriage?' said Hulda, raising her head
to look at him.
`Caleb Williams is there with the horses.'
`The man in the grey coat?' said Hulda.
`Yes. You would not be afraid to stay with him for
five minutes?'
`No,' said Hulda laying her head down again. `Not if
you want me to.'
And her friend carried her out. It was well he had but
one to take care of. The way to the carriage was not long,
but it was all he could do to pass through the crowd. At
least with his hands so full—the way back was much quicker,
but confusion had thickened inside the house.
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`Gracious me! Tom Skiddy,' said Martha as she knelt
in the hall; `do you suppose folks has no feelings because
the house is afire?'
`Ha'n't got time to suppose,' said Tom, as he went up
three stairs at a time on some errand for his mistress.
`And I'm sure I don't know how a person can pack with
men flying over their heads at that rate,' said Martha.
`And the Captain away too—it's a miracle houses can't catch
when people are home.'
`Where is Miss Rosalie, Martha?'
`My!—She aint in this basket, Mr. Raynor—if that's
what you mean. Like enough she's up in the skylight—it's
a firstrate place to look at fires, if you can get the first
chance. Pretty good powers of come and go!' said Martha
to herself, as the young gentleman went up stairs much after
the example of Tom Skiddy. `If he's one third more of a
witch, he can take a flying leap with her out of the window.
Rosalie was up-stairs, quietly giving directions to Tom
and the firemen,—they, swarthy, smoky, black-capped and
red-shirted figures,—she in one of the wrappers which
Thornton admired so much,—delicate, white-handed; and
white-cheeked too, for that matter, with the fatigue of excitement.
`If you have any doubts left,' Mr. Raynor said as he approached
her, `I will resolve them. You are not responsible
for being carried off against your will. And I cannot let
you have any more time here. These things shall be cared
for, but you first.'
And before Rosalie could attempt any organized plan of
resistance it was too late,—she was out of the house and
passing through the crowd, and then in the carriage by
Hulda. Or rather by her conductor, for Hulda had taken
her old place on Mr. Raynor's lap, and they were driving
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rapidly away. In two minutes Hulda was asleep; nor did
she give other note of the change than a sigh, when Mr.
Raynor laid her—a softly breathing and sleeping little
figure, upon the sofa in the library at the `Quakerage.' He
stayed only to place Rosalie in an easychair at her side, before
he sprang up stairs.
Rosalie felt in a kind of maze,—so swiftly had the last
hour sunk down, and the little heap of sand seemed of such
strange particles. She looked about her. The room shewed
no trace of modern things—unless the flowers deserved that
name—and the fire which had evidently been lately replenished,
shone upon oak and black walnut embrowned with
exposure to the light of a century. It rose and fell once
or twice, flickering fantastically about, and then a quick step
was on the stairs and her dream vanished. And immediately
she heard a door open and the words,
`Henry Raynor! thee is not going out again? Thee
must not!'
He stopped and spoke a word or two, but Rosalie did
not hear his answer; and in a moment the front door opened
and closed. In another moment Mrs. Raynor was in the
library.
`Thou dear child!' she said. `How glad I am to see
thee! how glad to have anything bring thee here. Sit thee
still, child.'
`And how sorry I am to do anything to give you any
trouble,' said Rosalie as she returned her friend's greeting.
`Trouble? bless thee,' said the good quakeress, `I would
I could keep thee here always! Wilt thou be persuaded to
stay?' she added anxiously, bending down to look at the
sweet face that was looking up at her.
But Rosalie's eyes fell again, and she shook her head.
The quakeress stood gently smoothing down her hair.
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`Well love, thee knows best,' she said. `But now come
away to bed, and trouble not thyself about thy house—
Henry has gone back to see that all be done.'
`O I am very sorry! He should not have gone!'
`None could hinder him—not even thou,' said the quakeress
smiling. `He thought thy brother might return—
and Henry knows thou art a thing to be asked for. But
come, love, and trouble not thy mind about anything.'
Rosalie carried her little charge to Mrs. Raynor's dressing
room, and covered her up on the sofa there; and when
Mrs. Raynor had left her she sat down on a low seat by
Hulda, and laying her head on the same sofa cushion she
fell asleep, with the first streaks of daylight falling across
her face.
-- 215 -- p737-220
CHAPTER XXI.
Come, says Puss, without any more ado, 'tis time to go to breakfast; cats don't
live upon dialogues.
—L'Estrange.
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
The morning rose fair and still, with that ever fresh look
from a night's repose, full of hope, promise, and expectation.
As yet that day and the world had not come in contact;
and with a child's eye the morning looked at the dark city
beneath—wondering and fearless. At present all lay peacefully
quiet, and the early light found no cause of complaint
except that it could not see everything. Would ever drops
lie heavier than the morning dew? could there ever be
darkness which the risen sun should not dispel?
As yet the morning glanced only at the chimneys with
their upward curls of household smoke,—at the tall steeples
that stood like finger-posts to the Celestial City, lest any
man should think the way lay near earth's level. At these—
but most of all at the sunrise clouds, with their bewitching
shapes and colours,—those castles in the air at which
so many days have looked; to see some swept away by the
strong wind of circumstance, and some dried up at mid-day,
and some to pour down their artillery upon all beneath.
So comes the morning with its first look, and the noon
with its clear-sightedness that burns as fire, and dries up all
springs not fed by the fountain of living waters and
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[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
shadowed by the Great Rock; and so man goeth forth unto
his work until the evening—with its weariness, its repose,
its hope of a better day.
“These all died in faith.”
“I desire grace and patience,” says Samuel Rutherford,
“to wait on, and to lie upon the brink, till the water fill and
flow. I know he is fast coming.”
No such thoughts accompanied Thornton Clyde in his
morning walk to Mrs. Raynor's. He had promised to come
there to breakfast for certain good reasons not very well
known to himself; and now in fulfilment of the promise he
walked leisurely along—for it was yet early. He had visited
the scene of last night's bonfire, looked at the smoking ruins
of the destroyed houses, and at the blackened and defaced
appearance of his own; and had stood musingly about the
spot until the city tide-gates were opened, and its population
poured forth. Thornton stayed until a half dozen boys
had come to the ruin, to pick up nails and charred wood;
and then turning away with a feeling of disgust he walked
swiftly on.
I say no such thoughts possessed him,—and yet the
blackened home with its destroyed surroundings looked too
out of keeping with the fresh beauty of the day, not to stir
up some bitter fountain within him. A fountain that murmured
of lost precious things; while the water in its basin
gave back pictures that he had no wish to see nor remember.
Thornton walked faster and faster.
`Will you tell Miss Clyde that her brother is here?' he
said, when James Hoxton and he had brought their very
different qualities to bear upon each other.
`Truly friend, I think not,' replied the quaker with a
cool survey. `It may well chance that thou shalt see her
first. She hath not yet arisen.'
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[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
And leading the way into the library James Hoxton
gave a grave and sagacious kick to the fire, and left the
room.
Thornton thought to himself that one of last night's
events would have been quite enough for him without the
other. That to have either sister or house spirited away
was as much as a man could reasonably expect upon one
occasion; yet here they were both. Rosalie established
among the quakers, and the house made uninhabitable.
Moreover he was at Mr. Raynor's himself—gloomily standing
before the library fire,—a thing the sunbeams did not
know what to do with. They played about a shawl which
lay on the sofa, in a kind of loving way as if they rejoiced to
see it there—which Thornton did not. It was Rosalie's
shawl, lying just where she had thrown it off the night before,
and looking as her brother fancied, just like her. Why was
it there? and why did he dislike to see it? Thornton felt
as if his canary bird's cage was broke, and she away in her
natural element. From a rather vexed mood he went off
into one more softened and befitting the subject, which held
him till Penn Raynor came to take its place.
`Curious coincidence, wasn't it?' said Penn, with a
happy choice of subject.
`What?' said Thornton.
`Why—' said Penn,—`that is, I was thinking how
Harry happened to come by your house just when it took
fire.'
`He did not—unfortunately for your coincidence.'
`O then I misunderstood,' said Penn. `But he came by
when he did—I suppose you won't deny that; and I say it
was lucky, wasn't it?'
`I must be excused for having a keener perception of the
night's evils than of its benefits,' said Thornton.
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[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
`I declare,' said Penn laughing, `the fire has done its
work upon you!—mere ashes and piecrust—a remainder
biscuit—or anything of that sort. Not a drop of the milk
of human kindness left.—The Clyde runs dry this morning.'
What sort of a reply Thornton might have made is uncertain,
for the master of the house came in; and claiming
Mr. Clyde's attention by a hand laid on his shoulder and by
his pleasant greeting and welcome, forced the young man
into at least outside politeness. Not the true polish of the
wood, but varnish; and very susceptible of scratches.
`You are standing here,' Mr. Raynor said, `as if you
were tired of rest—or despised it—which?'
`I am not apt to take rest at this time in the morning,'
replied Thornton.
`Not such as a chair can give?'
`I can tell you,' put in Penn, `that you will gain nothing
by your attempts in that quarter. For all the world like
the Dead Sea apples,—looks well enough but don't taste
good.'
`How long is it since you turned cannibal, Penn?' said
his cousin. `Has the want of breakfast enraged your
appetite to that degree?'
`Sure enough,' said Penn, `what has become of breakfast?
'
`I have just learned,' said Mr. Raynor looking towards
his guest, `that we must wait yet a little longer.'
`You have delayed it to favour my sleepy sisters?' said
Thornton.
`Not I—' said Mr. Raynor. `My oversight of the
household is in a somewhat different line.'
`But lines cross occasionally.'
`His does,' said Penn,—`isn't a line in the house it don't
touch somewhere.'
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[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
`Lines may touch without entanglement,' said Mr.
Raynor. `The many tinted members of the light make but
one white ray of beauty and usefulness.'
`At that rate,' said Thornton, `each member of a family
is incomplete without the rest.'
`No, but the family is incomplete without each member.'
`How full of brilliancy you would make the world to be,'
said Thornton somewhat scornfully.
`The world does not make itself so, if I do,' was the
quiet reply. `Those people who shine with a clear and unmixed
light are rare.'
`Rare!—I should like to see one!'
Mr. Raynor smiled, and Thornton's memory quickly corrected
itself.
`Did you ever take notice,' said Mr. Raynor as gravely
as before, `how beautifully the ideal halo of the old painters is
sometimes borne out? They put a visible glory about their
saints; and I think you may see a glory around the heads
of some saints that do walk this earth. Or as in Bunyan's
portrait of a gospel minister, where a “crown of gold did
hang over his head.”—“And they that sat in the council,
looking steadfastly on Stephen, saw his face as it had been the
face of an angel!'”
Thornton had seen enough to verify the remark, though
he did not say so, and silence followed, until the door of the
library opened softly to admit little Hulda.'
`Here comes one little ray,' said her friend turning
round.
`What is a little ray?' said Hulda, whose greeting of
the two gentlemen was meant to be strictly impartial.
`A little ray is a very, very little piece of a sunbeam.'
Hulda laughed, and keeping hold of his hand she stood
leaning her little face against it, and making grave remarks
upon various subjects.
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[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
`Isn't it pleasant here, Thornton? O Mr. Raynor! I
didn't wake up once after you put us in the carriage last
night, and this morning I didn't know where I was at first.
O there's the cat! Pussy! pussy!—see Thornton, what
a nice cat.'
`Where is your sister?' was Thornton's response.
`O she's coming right down, and so is Mrs. Raynor.
But you see Rosalie was awake last night, and so—pussy!
pussy!'
`And so she slept this morning?'
`What an unconscionable creature you are, Thornton!'
said Mr. Penn emerging from the newspaper. `Routing
Miss Clyde out of bed at any time of day, when she's been
burnt out over night. I should think she'd run away from
you, if that's your prevailing temper and disposition.'
`Should you?' said Thornton drily.
`Yes I should,' said Penn. `I should do it too, if anybody
asked me to get up in the morning—if I was a woman.
Because they haven't the resource of knocking people down
as men have.'
`But she is up,' said Hulda, `and coming down.'
And there she came—not looking as if the morning had
paid off the night; though the colour came back a little
when she first met her brother, and then from his side shook
hands with Mr. Raynor and answered his grave enquiries.
Thornton felt very proud of her. So did Hulda; and
looked from Rosalie up to Mr. Raynor's face without in the
least knowing what an appeal she brought, nor how readily
it was answered.
`Well,' Thornton said, when they had exchanged a few
words about the last night's work; `and what are you going
to do with yourself now?'
`Stay here until I know your plans.'
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[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
`And then?'
`Do as a shadow does—' she said, raising her bright
eyes to his.
`You are a little like a shadow,' Thornton said with a
sobering face, as his arm went round her and felt what a
slight creature was within its clasp. `We were comparing
you just now to something about as unsubstantial, though
rather more bright.'
`Were you?' said Penn—`it passes my wits to find out
what. I do assure you Miss Clyde, they talked of nothing
but breakfast and rays of light—O yes, I believe Harry
did speak of an angel.'
`And I never spoke the name of any friend of mine in
such a commonplace connection,' said Mr. Raynor quickly.
`Connection?' said Mr. Penn turning over the newspaper,—
`it is rather a far off connection, and commonplace,
as you say. That's the difficulty of running to the top of
the language at once—then you've nothing to do but come
down—which is the reverse of climactick.'
`Thornton Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor as she came in,
`thee is almost as welcome as thy sister. But does thee
hold her so tight always?'
“`We be all honest men here—we be no thieves,'”
soliloquised Mr. Penn from the recesses of his armchair and
paper.
`Penn,' said his aunt, `I pray thee to use fitting language.
'
`Certainly ma'am,' said Penn,—`if I could attain that
desirable point I should be most happy. But I've tried two
or three kinds and they don't any of 'em fit. And as that
respectable author whom I just quoted is supposed to have
universal powers of adaptation—'
`Can thee be quiet now for a time?' said the quakeress.
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[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
`Just let me tell Miss Clyde about the old woman that
spoke in meeting, first,' said Penn jumping up. `Miss Clyde,
this old woman was unfortunate enough to lose command of
her tongue in church—as I do occasionally out of it'—
`Thee cannot well lose what thee never had,' said the
quakeress.
`The fruit of her efforts was that she became dumb,
however,' said Penn—`which illustrious example I shall
immediately follow. “Mum, mum, without a plum.'”
Mr. Raynor prevented all strictures upon this speech by
ringing the bell; and such of the servants as scruples would
permit, came in and took their seats. But Thornton stood
motionless; and though when his sister had placed her chair
near him, and Hulda climbing into her lap had assumed the
most comfortable position possible, he felt half inclined to
join the group,—something withheld; and he remained
standing while the chapter was read, and the prayer uttered
from a full heart, that they all might be “kept by the power
of God, through faith unto salvation.” Was it for him?—
had he any part in it?
From one hasty glance at the speaker, a glance in which
his old prejudice melted away very fast, Thornton's eyes
came back to Rosalie's bowed head; on which the sunbeams
rested with no fear of defilement. Not words could speak
the mind's enwrapped earnestness as did every line of her
figure. It was his guardian angel, there at his side, and
praying for him. And not Hulda's little arms were twined
closer about her than was Thornton's heart, as the witness-bearing
drops rose up into his eyes, and he brushed them
away that he might see the clearer. But when they arose
from their knees he stood there as before, grave and unmoved.
They gathered thoughtfully about the fire in silence for
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[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
a few minutes; the mind yet borne up on those spirit wings
with which it had been soaring, the heart yet swelling with
its last petition. Even Thornton and Penn Raynor were
quiet, against their will; and when Hulda slipped away from
Rosalie's side, and stooping down on the rug began to stroke
the cat,—her little hand went softly from head to tail, and
the knight's loud responsive purr was rather startling. At
last Hulda looked up.
`Mr. Raynor, I think the cat's very hungry.'
`I doubt it exceedingly,' said her friend sitting down by
her. `What makes you think so?'
`Because just now she looked up at me and mewed.'
`By that rule you must be hungry too,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Why I didn't mew,' said Hulda laughing.
He smiled, and clearing a place for his lips on her forehead,
told her she might be as hungry as she pleased, for
that breakfast was now ready. And as if he meant to claim
his full prerogative as host, Mr. Raynor gave no one else a
chance to take Rosalie to the breakfast-room. An arrangement
to which Thornton submitted with small inward graciousness;
only consoling himself with its banishment of
what traces of fatigue the night had left on her cheeks, and the
quick return there of the exiles of the House of Lancaster.
But if he could have had his will as he walked along behind
her, Rosalie's hand would have been quickly dislodged from
its resting place, and she and her companion put anywhere
in the world but side by side. Thornton was even jealous
of the very light hold her hand seemed to have,—why could
she not take his arm as she would that of any one else?
As for Hulda, she was beholden to Mr. Penn's good
offices; but though she laughed very much as he danced
with her along the hall, in her private mind she preferred a
quieter rate of progress; and quite agreed with Mrs. Raynor's
remark,
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`Penn, thee does make an astonishing noise.'
`Very glad if it astonishes any one, ma'am,' said Penn.
`But see! if thee upsets the coffee pot the cat may be
scalded,' said the quakeress with a mild reprehension of
flourishes.
`Wouldn't accompany Sir Brian into hot water for much
greater fun than the overthrow of the coffee pot, ma'am,'
said Penn.
`Thornton Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor, `thee had better all
stay here until thy plans are formed.'
Thornton expressed his thanks, and a polite assurance
that his plans were in the last state of forwardness.
`Then stay until you are quite ready to carry them out,'
said the master of the house.
`My staying here would effectually prevent their being
carried out, Mr. Raynor.'
`And cannot thee leave thy sister, then?' said the quakeress
with a wistful look at Rosalie.
`My sisters ma'am,' said Thornton with some emphasis,
`must decide for themselves.'
`My dear Miss Clyde!' said Penn Raynor, `if you will
only take up your abode in this house you will lay me under
everlasting obligations.'
`I will not run such a risk,' said Rosalie,—`I shall certainly
go at once.'
`No but—dear me!' said Penn, `I'm sure I didn't
mean—that is I wouldn't for the world insinuate—At least
I haven't the least idea what I did insinuate, but I didn't
mean to discompose anybody.'
`Thee talks a little too fast, either to know what thee
means or to say it, Penn,' said his aunt.
`But everybody must know what I mean,' said Penn,—
`at least Harry ought, for I've talked to him about it dozens
of times.'
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`Mother,' said Mr. Henry Raynor, `here is little Hulda
waiting with all patience for some kind hand to give her a
glass of milk, and Miss Rosalie's cup is in like need of attention.
If you know what you mean, Penn, you had better
inform us; for Mr. Clyde at least, is perfectly in the dark.'
`Is it possible?' said Penn,—why it's as clear as daylight.
'
`As it was to the little boy who his father might be, in
your favourite story,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Yes, that is my favourite story, certainly,' said Penn.
`It's so hard to explain things that people ought to understand
without explanation.'
`You must try for once, Penn,' said his cousin smiling.
`I am afraid you are one of the things.'
`Never shall believe it without better evidence,' replied
Mr. Penn.
Rosalie laughed and Thornton confessed he was in the
condition of the storekeeper.
`Why—' said Penn, `if you'll stay here Miss Clyde, I,
as being a noisy member of society should at once depart;
and if I were sent off to seek my fortune maybe it would
come. Not that I shouldn't enjoy your presence immensely,
of course, but then I'm sure you would enjoy my absence a
great deal more. If you could only content yourself.'
`O she would be very contented, Mr. Penn,' said Hulda,
who thought the silence gave her leave to speak; `but then
you see Thornton couldn't do without her.' And the grave
little face and childish voice that spoke as if the subject
were quite disposed of, made even Thornton laugh, and
relieved the one most concerned from all further reply.
But though Rosalie steadily refused to go to Mrs. Arnet's,
or indeed to stay anywhere but with her brother, she must
stay where she was until he should find rooms.
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And resting quietly in a great chair before the library fire
Thornton left her.
`I shall be back in an hour, Alie,' he said, `and until
then—'
`Until then what?' she said looking up at him.
`O nothing much,—take care of yourself, that's all.'
She smiled and told him she was safe enough there, with
a look so clear and sweet, that he would almost have given
her carte-blanche to do what she liked.
-- 227 -- p737-232
CHAPTER XXII.
The ladies were greatly concerned; but being told the family received no hurt,
they were extremely glad; but being informed that we were almost killed by the
fright, they were vastly sorry; but hearing that we had a very good night, they were
extremely glad again.
—Vicar of Wakefield.
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
If Rosalie had left a clue by which her friends could find
her, she would have had little time to rest that morning.
As it was Thornton had been gone but half an hour before
James Hoxton presented himself and Miss Arnet's
card.
`Will thee see her in here, or will thee not see her at
all?' said the quaker.
`See her? certainly.'
James Hoxton walked off as if he had expected or would
have approved a different answer; and hardly had it reached
the carriage before the lady herself swept past him and into
the library.
`Why child you look charmingly!' was her first salutation.
`I think being burnt out agrees with you. But how
do you stand it here among the quakers!—that man be-
friended me till I was nearly out of my wits. To which you
would probably reply that your wits are less volatile. But
to come to the point—may I fly away with you now? or at
least will you fly away with me?'
`Can't, my dear.'
-- 228 --
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`Won't—I told mamma so before I came. I should
have been here an age ago, but mamma got one of her
nervous fits when she heard of the fire, and of course I had
to stay. I'm sure I was as nervous as she was.'
`And you are also convalescent?' said Rosalie.
`Also convalescent. Only Thornton nearly gave me
another fit in the street. Do you know he would not tell
me where you were? only said that when you were settled
anywhere he would let me know—many thanks to him!
And I told him he need give himself no trouble, for that I
would find you before I was an hour older,—which I have.'
`Many thanks to you,' said Rosalie smiling.
`Not many,' said Marion,—`there is now and then a
search that rewards itself; of which I think some less
volatile wits than mine may be aware. Where are mine
host and hostess?'
`I know not,' said Rosalie. `I have been here alone
since Thornton went.'
`Pretty house, isn't it,' said Marion smiling—`and
pleasant people. Satisfactory—don't you think so?'
`Very.'
`Where is Hulda?'
`She went with Mr. Raynor into the greenhouse after
breakfast.'
`How comes it you are not there too? I thought you
had as strong a penchant for roses as Beauty in the fairy
tale.'
`I tell you I was here with Thornton for some time.'
`Well he couldn't play the part of Beauty this morning,'
said Miss Arnet. `Such a mood as he was in!—savage. I
think I could have exchanged shots with him with pleasure.'
`I presume you did,' said Rosalie.
`No, he wouldn't even stop to fight; which is a degree
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of savageness unprecedented for him. I wish Mr. Raynor
would come!—I want to see him.'
`He cannot save you the trouble of looking, Miss Arnet.'
`And he needn't save me the trouble of hearing,' said
the lady turning round. `What a police officer you would
make! Now I like to have my attention arrested first.'
`You know I was brought up in a quiet persuasion,' said
Mr. Raynor.
`My visit here this morning reminds me strongly of a
story I once heard you tell,' said Miss Arnet. `Is that your
flower, par excellence?'
`This?' said Mr. Raynor, looking down into the depths
of a rose which he held in his hand. `A queen is rather
public than private property, methinks.'
`That depends a little upon the bounds of her jurisdiction,
' said Miss Arnet. `You remember what the song
says—
“And my heart should be the throne
For my queen.'”
`The peculiar throne of this queen is a somewhat prickly
rosebush,' said Mr. Raynor with a smile.
“`Like jewels to advantage set,
Her beauty by the shade does get.”
You could not imagine a rose in clover.'
`What an idea!' said Miss Arnet. `But are roses then
always bound to be miserable?'
`Nothing can be that whose chief end is the happiness
of others,' said Mr. Raynor. `And a true rose looks up at
the sunshine that comes from heaven—not down at the
thorns which spring from earth.'
`And so she bears her discomforts—'
`Like her blushing honours.'
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`I give up,' said Miss Arnet. `I see you have studied
the case. If you would only explain the philosophy of
thorns, by way of conclusion, I should go away satisfied.'
`The literal and figurative thorns came in together,—
“thorns also, and thistles shall it bring forth to thee,” was
a curse for the mind as well as for the body.'
`That is the fact—not the philosophy,' said Miss Arnet.
`And I suppose you will tell me there is no philosophy
about it—which will leave me as unsatisfied as ever. I
wonder what you look so satisfied about, child—and you
smile, Mr. Raynor,—do you think that is a pleasant doctrine?
'
`I think this is.
“`And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear
as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the
Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side
of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner
of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the
leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.
“`And there shall be no more curse.'”
Marion pulled up her gloves and fitted them carefully
for a few moments, in silence which no one else broke.
`Why didn't you come to our house last night, Rosalie?'
she began at length.
`I could go to only one place at a time,' said Miss
Clyde.
`Clear and conclusive,' said Marion. `I should have
come for you in the night, if I could have been a man for
the nonce,—failing that I stayed at home and fretted. Well,
I shall not offer you the comforts of my house a second time,
having just learned that roses befit not a clover field. I
know what a `thorny path o' care' you will tread in this house.
If ever anybody was born to smooth away the sorrows of
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[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
life, I think it is Mrs. Raynor. I always feel an immediate
lull in her presence.'
`We have varieties of weather,' said Mr. Raynor, as his
mother walked in by one door and Mr. Penn by another.
`Isn't that remarkable?' said Penn. `I was wondering
this morning what Miss Clyde would do, moping here in this
castle of silence; and now here is Miss Arnet come to wake
us all up.'
`I thank you,' said Miss Arnet,—`I shall not undertake
that office for you, Mr. Penn. And the reveillé is quite
as like to arouse me as anybody.'
`But cannot thee stay here to-day?' said Mrs. Raynor.
`We will bear thee company if awake, and sleeping Rosalie
will give thee hers.'
`I will go away and give her a chance,' said Miss Arnet.
`No I thank you Mrs. Raynor—mamma will expect me.'
`If you are walking Miss Arnet, and will permit me to
attend you, I shall think myself too happy,' said Penn.
`You may go as far as my carriage—I suppose that will
make you just happy enough,' said the lady, taking a graceful
leave of the others.
So audible was the rustling of Miss Arnet's dress, so
brisk Mr. Penn's attendant steps, so gay and laughing the
voices of both, that a quiet little foot along the hall was not
heard, even when it reached the library door; for as James
Hoxton had at that moment both rottenstone and the front
door knocker in his hands, he permitted this visiter to announce
herself. Which however she hesitated to do; and
there is no telling how long she might have waited had not
Hulda accidentally come to her relief.
`O yes Miss Morsel, Rosalie's here, in the library,—
why don't you go in?' said the child opening the door and
marching in herself; while Miss Morsel followed with a
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[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
helpless air of intrusion, and returned Mr. Raynor's bow and
smile as if they had been in the highest degree reproving,
and she had deserved it.
`How does thee do, Bettie Morsel?' said the quakeress
coming forward to meet her. `I am glad to see thee. If
thee thinks this is the first time thee has had a friend in this
house, thee is mistaken.'
`I am sure I never thought such a thing,' said poor
Miss Morsel, who having by this time got hold of Rosalie's
hand felt encouraged to speak,—`never! I always told ma
that if we lost one friend I should know where to look for
another.'
`How do you do?' said Rosalie.
`I'm as well as I ought to be, I s'pose,' said Miss Morsel,—
`I generally am. And so's ma. Complanin' don't necessarily
mean much in our house.'
`Complaints do but chafe thee ill,' said the quakeress.
`I always thought so,' said Miss Morsel,—`ma don't
She looks upon it more in the shape of a plaster. But O
dear! to think of your house, Miss Rosalie! I declare it
makes me feel worse than if we'd been burnt out ourselves—
though to be sure the house aint ours—nor worth a pin,
either. But just to think of yours!'
`Why our house is not burnt,' said Rosalie,—`it is only
scorched and smoked a little.'
`O yes, I know,' said Miss Morsel, `but then it don't
matter—when you've got to a cinder you may just as well go
to ashes. Better too I think; and then you know what you
have to start with. But I thought ma 'd go off the hooks;
for nothing would coax her primarily that it wasn't our own
bed-room. Though as I told her, it didn't signify if it was;
but she couldn't view it in that light.'
`The light of the fire was stronger,' said Rosalie.
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
`It was strong enough, I'm sure,' said the little guest,
`and I told ma we ought to be crying our eyes out, and not
sit there looking at it. And she said it never did her any
good to take physic for other folks' ail—and I suppose it
don't.'
`I should be very sorry to have you cry your eyes out
for me,' said Rosalie; her lips just moving with the kindly
smile that went round the circle. `And it is very needless
in this case, Miss Morsel. I hope we shall have the house
in nice order again in a few months.'
`Months! yes,' said Miss Morsel, `but where are you
going to be while the months run over your head? I never
wished I had a place of my own as I did this morning—
never!'
Rosalie made no reply but by holding out her hand,
which Miss Morsel fastened upon with great energy.
`You don't feel like going through fire and water, neither,'
she said, giving it a good squeeze. `And to have it happen
so too! now if the blockading gun-brigs had set fire to it
there 'd have been some sense.'
`Not much, I think,' said Rosalie.
`But I mean,' said Miss Morsel, `in time of war when
you're liable to be bombarded every minute of your life, you
naturally don't expect to have anything else done to you.
If anybody was to come and cut my throat you know, I
should think it quite remarkable to be blown up in a steam-boat
at the same time. Ma says it wouldn't surprise her in
the least to have forty things done to her at once, but it
would me.'
`I fear me thy mother studieth not to be quiet,' said the
quakeress, when Miss Morsel paused for breath.
`No, that she don't,' said the little woman with renewed
spirit, `she never did study much of anything. And I
-- 234 --
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
suppose it can't be expected she should take it up now. I must
go home this minute, or she'll be in a great to-do about me
and the dinner and everything else.'
`Well you see that I am safe,' said Rosalie smiling.
`Yes my dear. O I thought you were, but still it's a
pleasure to see it,' said Miss Morsel getting up and surveying
Miss Clyde intently. `And comfortable? I may tell
ma you're looking comfortable?'
`By all means!'
`Then I'll go right straight home, and be content for the
rest of my natural life,' said Miss Morsel. `And so will ma—
as content as she ever was, which is saying less than you'd
imagine. However, we all have to do as we can in this
world. Sit still dear and I'll carry you away in my eyes
just as you are. And please let me go out as I came in and
nobody take any notice.'
`Thee has one friend, Rosalie,' said the quakeress, as the
door closed upon Miss Morsel.
`But lest she should have more than one,' said Mr. Raynor,
`or to prove that she has more than one—whichever
you like, mother,—I wish you would give orders that she is
not to see another until night.'
`Where does thee intend to banish thyself to?' said the
quakeress.
`I shall be friend enough to go away and leave her to go
to sleep,' he answered,—`that is only one of the lighter
kinds of banishment.'
And left alone in that pleasant light, one feeling after
another folded down like the petals of a veritable rose,
Rosalie slept.
And there was no disturbance. Hulda was kept at her
play in the greenhouse or elsewhere, and happily neither
Thornton nor Mr. Penn made his appearance. Whatever
-- 235 --
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
steps came in the library were of the softest, and with the
lightest of hands was the fire from time to time replenished.
Even dinner was made to wait; and still “Nature's soft
nurse” kept Rosalie in dreamless sleep.
She awoke to find Mrs. Raynor bending over her.
`Poor child!' the quakeress said tenderly, `I knew not
thy weariness till I saw thee asleep, and thy cheeks so white.
Art thou rested?'
`Yes, I believe so,' Rosalie said, as she sat up, and
pushing back her hair discovered that there was another
person in the room. The colour came back very fast.
`Why doesn't thee put thy hair back altogether, and
shew thy pretty ears?' said the quakeress with a quiet
smile.
`And then give you leave to cover them up with a cap,
mother?' said Mr. Raynor.
`Nay, I said not so,' she replied; `but however thee
knows white muslin is not very thick. Sit thee still dear
Rosalie, while I call thy sister. She is at play yet but
hath asked for thee many times.' And as she opened the
door and passed out, Mr. Raynor came close to Rosalie's
chair.
`How do you do to-day?' he said.
`Quite well—at least I suppose I shall be quite well
after another night. Though one would think I had taken
extra sleep enough already.'
`No one would think so who watched you sleeping. And
I fear you are not putting yourself in the way of rest. If
you will stay here Rosalie, I will be as completely out of the
way as Penn offered to be; and no one but you shall know
the reason.'
`And no one could it trouble as it would me,' she said
gently, and looking up but to thank him.
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[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
While Hulda came bounding into the room, and establishing
herself in her sister's arms whispered confidentially,
`I could be very contented here, Alie,—couldn't you?'
Pleasant was the dinner, with its varied talk among
characters so different and yet in points so much alike,—
with its staid quaker servants and brilliant dishes of flowers,—
with its general atmosphere of refinement and good taste;
and around all, the freshening influence of a politeness that
was not cut and dried and made to order, but which came
from the depths of kind and true feeling. It rested Rosalie
more than her sleep had done; and half making her forget
all painful thoughts of the past or the present, left her free
to contribute no small share to the pleasure of the company.
They had left the table, and the twilight fell, and still
the pleasant talk went on about the bright wood fire in the
library, and no one was in haste for other light. And no
one was glad when the door opened to admit Mr. Clyde.
He was not more light—he was another shadow; and sorrowfully
Rosalie's friends marked where it fell.
But Thornton had hardly taken a seat, and had not at
all begun what he had to say, before a little running fire of
raps announced Dr. Buffem.
`Confound the light in this room—or the darkness,
whichever it is,' said the doctor,—`here am I laying myself
up for life on this chair—none too easy a one for the purpose,
neither. Ah friend Raynor, how does thee do? and why
does thee not have thy rooms prepared for those people who
do not carry pocket lanterns?'
`Thee did not hurt thyself?' said the quakeress.
`Hurt myself? of course I did. How many chairs do
you suppose I can kick down and not hurt myself? How
now, fair Rosalie! methinks the moon suffers an eclipse
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[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
to-night. Friend Henry give me thy hand. Friend Thornton
I will perhaps take thine, when I know what thou art here
for.'
`Simply to take my sisters away sir,' said Thornton.
`Hum—' said the doctor, and put both his hands behind
him. `Friend Raynor, is light one of the things you think
people should be deprived of because they occasionally abuse
it?'
`I think thee is the only person who has abused it to-night,
friend Buffem,' said the quakeress quietly.
`Now that's what I call point-blank range—' said the
doctor turning to Rosalie. `Certainly have killed me only
that my weak spot is that of Achilles. Came pretty near
being killed, that way. But Miss Rosalie how is it that you
can sit up to smile?
“`Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin'!
An' naething now, to big a new ane
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell and keen.'”
`There are more houses than one in the world, fortunately,
' said Thornton; `but if you mean to reach one to-night,
Rosalie, we had better be moving.'
`There is some sense in that remark—a little,' said the
doctor preventing her reply. `There is this qualification,—
you should have been moving some three hours ago.'
`I was on drill and could not,' said Thornton a little
stiffly.
`I don't see what your being on drill has to do with
your sister's going out at an unseasonable time of night,' said
the doctor, taking a pinch of snuff. `Can't—for the life of
me.'
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[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
`Unseasonable!' said Thornton. `Why it's only'—
`I've got a watch,' said the doctor—`and there's a clock
on the mantelpiece. Look here—' and taking up a candle
he held it before Rosalie's face. `There's a watch for you,
Mr. Clyde—what time o'night does that say?'
A different hour from the other, Thornton felt; for with
the anxious hearing of their talk the weary look had come
back again. She was just fit to sit there and be quiet.
`Now listen to me,' said the doctor, `and be reasonable
for once in your life. Take leave of these good people—
friends, one or both of 'em—kiss your sister for goodnight
and be glad of the chance; and then go home with me. I'll
answer for it she'll be forthcoming in the morning, and I'll
take as good care of you as you deserve. Come!—I can't
stay here fooling any longer.'
`Nor I,' said Thornton getting up.
`Then thee will leave thy sister?' said the quakeress
with a gratified face.
`Since she chooses to stay,' said Thornton. But when
he turned towards her and saw that she had risen, the
generous feeling prevailed. And replacing her in the armchair,
he kissed away the words which were on her lips,
and told her he was glad to leave her—she was better
there.
`My prescription is short,' said Dr. Buffem, as he stood
with the door in his hand,—`a mere word, Miss Rosalie.'
“Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed,—
“A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,—
“A rosy garland and a weary head,”
—you know what follows.'
-- 239 -- p737-244
CHAPTER XXIII.
Let me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares.
—Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
The sky was covered with clouds when Rosalie took possession
of her rooms at the hotel, but there were no clouds
on her face; and Thornton admired to see how she could bear
to lose and to leave what she enjoyed very much, and take up
with any sort of a home. If he had spoken out his whole
thought he would have added, `and any sort of a brother;'—
he had never felt more inclined to be good company, and
never less satisfied with his performance. But Rosalie was
satisfied with everything, or seemed so; and had even the
skill to hinder all expression of Hulda's regrets for the cat,
the greenhouse, and Mr. Raynor.
The rooms were large and handsome, but like other
hotel rooms with no individuality of furniture; the windows
were too clearly after a public pattern, the doors numbered
to distinguish them from those of other people. It was a
part of a home, set apart for their use and labelled. Worse
still was Thornton's resolve to eat at the public table,—a
resolve so fixed, that after some remonstrance Rosalie gave
way. But it wearied her exceedingly. Some of her pleasantest
times of seeing her brother were lost now; and instead
there was the sight and hearing of a crowd of people
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
who came together but to eat and to discuss eatables.
Meals over, Thornton was off; and it was just as it happened
whether she saw him again for five minutes until the next
physical `reunion.' The first morning and the second he
did sit with her for a while, and stayed at home one whole
evening after tea; but the good habit fell off and she was as
much alone as ever. More alone—for the range of their
once pleasant house had been something, where every picture
and piece of furniture gave her a word as she went by, and
where the whole atmosphere was that of home. Now, whatever
made its way to her senses from without her own room,
was strange and depressing. How rarely any foot went
along the passage with the free tread of one who walks
earnestly in a good pursuit! how few voices spoke except
from under a burden or a cloud! The children indeed
danced up and down, with the gay spring of a nature that
must rebound—touch what it will; but Rosalie looked at
Hulda at play in the midst of those hotel chairs, and longed
to see her in a setting of green grass and dandelions. But
that could not be; though messenger winds were beginning
to blow, and the skies looked soft and unbending as from a
distant glimpse of the coming spring.
`If people was o' my way o' thinkin,' said Miss Jumps
one day, `these here hotels wouldn't make much of a livin;'
and Rosalie entirely agreed with her.
`There used to be somethin' going on, home,' Martha continued;
`and Tom Skiddy was good enough for to talk to by
spells; but here with forty men round you, more or less, you
don't know which way to turn. And you're just getting as
thin as a rail, Miss Rosalie—and Hulda's as peaked as she
can stand. What ails us to go back to the old house and
look out of the broken windows? there'd be some air there,
anyway.'
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[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
`The broken windows are boarded up, Martha: and as
soon as the spring opens we must have painters and masons
and I know not what all, at work.'
`They won't have you,' said Miss Jumps—`not if you
don't pick up astonishin' afore fall. And as for pickin' up
here, you might as well smother a chicken in a bag o' corn
and then tell him to get fat.'
`Patience, Martha,' Rosalie said with a smile. `We
shall love our own home all the better when we get back
to it.'
`Don't it spoil your patience to see other folks have too
much?' said Miss Jumps,—`'cause it does mine. That's
what I said to Tom Skiddy last night; and he was up to
telling me that the chance was considerable of my keeping
what I had as long as I lived, if that was all. He's stropping
his wits a little too much, lately, for want of time.'
`What does Tom have to do now, Martha?' said Hulda.
`He don't do anything at the house but sleep there,
does he?'
`I guess that's all he ever did, o' nights,' said Miss
Jumps. `And if he got through too much of anything other
times it was more'n I could find out. I s'pose he runs round
after his muskit now and then. A woman would feel smart
at that sort o' work. But men 'll foller a drum most any
place,—just as easy as I used to fetch down a swarm of
bees with an old tin pan. Only beat hard enough.'
The entrance of Thornton, fresh from his part of the
cried-down occupation, restricted all further expression of
Martha's mind to the peculiar set of her shoulders as she
went off.
`Well, how do you get on here?' said Mr. Clyde as he
unbuckled his sword-belt.
`Peacefully,' his sister answered with a smile.
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`Which would make an end of me, in short order,' said
Thornton.
`How long is it since peace and war joined hands?'
`Only do each other's work upon some people,' said
Thornton. `But can you find nothing else in this way of
life? I think it is very good for you.'
She smiled a little to think how much he knew what
`this way of life' was.
`It cannot be like home, you know,—there is more confinement—
I see less of you.'
`See enough of me, don't you?'
`Not half!'
`I do not like to quote the proverb, “Un sot trouve
toujours un plus sot qui l'admire,'” said Thornton, `but it
really comes up before me.'
`Never mind,' said his sister,—`you know what Rochefoucauld
says,—“Si nous ne nous flattions point nous-mêmes,
la flatterie des autres ne nous pourrait nuire.'”
`Your tongue is not often dipped in flattery, to do it
justice,' said Thornton. `A little of the Sweetbrier about
that, I think. But I'm afraid if I stayed more at home I
should break up the peacefulness.'
Her look told him that his staying away often did, even
through the smile with which she answered,
`My dear brother, what do you suppose peace lives on?'
`Can't tell, upon my word, Alie—oyster shells I should
think, from their known quietness of disposition.'
`Haven't you got beyond the common idea of peace yet?'
said Rosalie.
`What is the common idea?'
She thought a moment, and answered.
“`Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave.
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a hollow cave,
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And asked if Peace were there.
A hollow winde did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.'”
`Pretty fair,' said Thornton. `But before I submit to
call that mine, let us have the uncommon version.'
He was sorry he had asked, for he saw in a moment from
her changing face where the next answer might come from.
But her eyes left his and she was silent.
`Well?' Thornton said a little impatiently, for he
deigned not to take the advantage she gave him.
The voice was lower, the tones how different, as she said,
“`Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is
stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.'”
`If ever there could be such a thing as an unconscious
Jesuit,' said Thornton, `I should say you were one. It
don't signify what point I set out from—you always bring
me up in the same place.'
`Well you lead and I will follow now.'
`Wouldn't make the least difference—I've tried it scores
of times.'
She laughed a little, with a half pleased half inquiring
look that her brother thought altogether charming.
`I will see what I can do, Alie, about staying more in
your cave—I am not sure that it will be much to your advantage.
'
The promise was something,—a fair shell and not much
more; and so the end of the winter wore away.
Once, soon after the removal to their new quarters, Mr.
Raynor had come there; bringing flowers and his refreshing
presence where both were needed; and often after that
the flowers came without him. They were such regular
visiters indeed, that when Rosalie opened the door in the
twilight of an early spring evening, she held out her hand
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for the flowers without perceiving what hand held them, nor
guessing who had knocked
`May I come in?' he said.
`Certainly!—I did not see you Mr. Raynor, or at least
did not recognise you.'
`I must take another shape next time,' said he smiling.
`Were you ever in doubt about a bunch of flowers?'
`Not often—lately,' she answered.
`What are you doing here this fine evening? if it is a
fair question.'
`That most unprofitable of all work—thinking.'
`Unprofitable?'
`I believe I should have said musing; and that seldom
gives me much for my pains.'
`It is not the best possible work for you,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Where is Hulda?'
`She has been out all day with Miss Arnet, and came
back too tired to sit up an hour longer.'
`Have you been out?'
`No, I have indulged myself with a quiet day at home.'
`Then come and indulge me with a quiet walk. I have
been mixing with the crowd to-day till I am tired of earth
and its inhabitants, and want some one of them to give me
a little refreshment. Come Miss Rosalie, it will do you
good.'
But Rosalie hesitated—might not Thornton come home
to spend the evening with her? And then she remembered
that he had gone to some public dinner and would not get
away until very late. So she went.
The hotel was in the very lower part of the city, and a
few minutes' walk brought Mr. Raynor and his silent companion
upon the Battery and within the sweep of its sea
breeze. There was a young moon just travelling down the
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western slope of the sky, bright and sharp-horned, but with
too faint a light to throw more than a narrow rippling
streak upon the water; and
“Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
“Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”
The walks were clear of people: many being drawn off
to Tammany Hall, either as witnesses or partakers of Commodore
Rodgers and the great dinner, and others by other
attractions turned elswhere. And it was still enough for
the dash of the water to make itself sweetly heard, with little
interruption but an oar now and then, or the creaking
of the cordage of some vessel as her sails swung round to
meet the wind, and her dark shadow crossed the little strip
of moonlight. Presently the moon went down, and the
evening star `rode brightest.'
`Do you mean that all the good I am to get must come
from the sky and stars?' said Mr. Raynor, when they had
sat for some time in almost unbroken silence. `I thought
you were to talk me into a better state of feeling.'
`Did you think that?'
`Not exactly, to speak truth,' said he smiling,—`at least
not if you could help it. Did you see how the water closed
behind each vessel that crossed the moonlight, and how the
bright line was soon as straight and as clear as ever?'
`I watched it constantly.'
`And what did it make you think of?'
“`The vision is yet for an appointed time, and though
it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will
not tarry,'” she said.
`And this—“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy
cometh in the morning.'”
`Yet men see not the bright light which is in the clouds,'
said Rosalie.
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`They are not called upon to see it—only to believe
that it is there. The Lord is the light of them that sit in
darkness.'
`I did not know you ever felt tired of the world, Mr.
Raynor,' said Rosalie after another little pause.
`I do not often—should never, if my place in it were
better filled. A little weariness of oneself is a great help
towards weariness of other people. There is the strong and
sad contrast of the great work to be done, with the poorness
and weakness of the machinery; and dissatisfaction says,
“Lord, they have slain thy prophets and digged down thy
altars,”—and hears not the answer of God, “Yet have I reserved
unto myself seven thousand men that have not
bowed the knee to the image of Baal.” But I did not mean
to do myself good at your expense. Do you expect to stay
here all the summer?'
`I suppose so,' Rosalie said. `If Thornton should go
away for a few days I might go with him. Not else.'
`You cannot bear it.'
`O yes—perfectly. I was here last summer.'
`Yes, you were,' he answered gravely. `There is but a
shadow of you here now.'
`Shadows should not throw shadows,' said Rosalie
smiling.
`They keep people in the dark sometimes,' said Mr.
Raynor.
`If the people will stay there.'
`I wish the law covered all one's rights,' said Mr.
Raynor with a voice that was both earnest and playful. `I
have a defrauded feeling which is a little rampant sometimes.
Give me leave to say where you shall be this summer,
and see if all your wishes will not be as well furthered.
Sometimes I think they would, better.'
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`I cannot think so.'
`And you will not put yourself in my hands?'
`I could not be happy to do it, Mr. Raynor—not now.'
`It would go hard with me but I would make you happy,
if I once had a chance to try.'
`It would do much towards it if you would make yourself
so,' said Rosalie in a low voice.
`That is reserved for somebody else to do.'
There was no answer to this—unless the lower bend of
the head were answer; and suddenly rising up, Mr. Raynor
drew her arm within his and walked slowly two or three
times up and down without speaking a word. Then he
stopped at the outer edge of the Battery where the water
came swashing up at their feet, one wave following another
with its little burden of noise and foam, like the days of
human life. If Mr. Raynor thought as he watched them
how many such days had rolled on and broken at his feet,
without bringing the one thing he most desired, he let not the
thought appear. And when he spoke it was in the magnificent
words of the prophet.
“Fear ye not me? saith the Lord: will ye not tremble at
my presence, which have placed the sand for the bound of
the sea by a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass it: and
though the waves thereof toss themselves, yet can they not
prevail; though they roar, yet can they not pass over it.”
There was strong spiritual as well as literal comfort in
the words,—there was rest in the mere thought of overruling
strength. Rosalie felt it; and stood more easily and
breathed freer.
The clocks of St. Paul's and Trinity were striking the
hour, the hum of the city every moment receded and softened
and died away; and when the last iron clang had
sounded forth, the ebbing tides of that day and of the world
went each its course in silence.
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`That blessed thought of infinite power!' Rosalie said.
`Joined with infinite goodness and wisdom—where
should we be without it! Are you tired dear Rosalie? have
I kept you here too long?'
The voice was grave, but she knew it would say nothing
more to trouble her.
`O no, I am rested.'
He walked with her a while longer, talking brightly and
amusingly of different things of interest; and before he left
her once more in her own room, she was rested, and felt
better than she had done in a long time.
-- 249 -- p737-254
CHAPTER XXIV.
Mat.
I understand you, sir.
Wel.
No question, you do, or you do not, sir.
Every Man in his Humour.
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
If anything could have reconciled Rosalie to the thought of
leaving town, it was that as the spring went on little Hulda
was evidently pining for what the town could not give.
The hotel life to which she was now shut up by no means
replaced her old life at home; and the April days were not
more languid than Hulda.
`Give her a strawberry for her breakfast, and then set
her on a chicken's back and let her hunt grasshoppers,' was
Doctor Buffem's advice. `And hark ye, Miss Rosalie, I
would recommend another winged horse for yourself—only
don't get thrown by endeavouring to fly away from earth altogether,
as did Bellerophon.'
The one prescription was hardly more needed than the
other. Rosalie knew not how the workings of the mind
were refining away the body,—how the anxious watch over
one and another was softening down her colour, and chiselling
a little too close the fair outlines of her face; nor how
very, very delicate the hand was become on which Hulda
laid her weary little face for rest and refreshment. No one
knew it in fact, but the person whose eye she rarely met,
often as it rested on her.
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`Thornton,' said Mr. Raynor one night, as they walked
home together from the evening drill, `I wish you would
take your sister into the country.'
`Hulda do you mean?' said Thornton, when the first
little start of surprise had passed off. `Yes—I believe she
does look rather so-soish.'
`There is no question of that. But I meant Rosalie.'
If the progress of Thornton's mind might be measured
by the ground his feet went over, it was tremendous.
`Rosalie!' he said. `And pray Mr. Raynor, what do
you wish me to do with Rosalie?'
`Take her into the country, as I said before.'
`But what—what upon earth have you to do with the
matter?' said Thornton, whose words and ideas were
knocking their heads together after the most approved
fashion.
Mr. Raynor smiled a little, but waving the question he
only said,
`She is not well, Thornton,—she needs the change even
more than Hulda.'
Mr Clyde strode on as before, swinging his sword, and
looking very much like a wasp in a cobweb.
`And has she requested your intercession to that effect?'
he said.
`No—' replied his companion coldly.
`Then I cannot see, I really cannot imagine what you
have to do with it, Mr. Raynor.'
`Neither is that the point. My words are true. She
is not the same person for strength that she was a year ago.'
`You have been observant, Mr. Raynor,' said Thornton,
though the words half choked him. `Rosalie will be glad to
hear that there are such watchful eyes abroad.'
`You will hardly be repaid for the trouble of telling her;
but about that as you please.'
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[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
`And it will be as I please about taking her into the
country I presume,' said Thornton stiffly.
`There would be no question of your pleasure on the
subject if you knew how ill she is looking,' said Mr. Raynor
with the same grave, undeclarative manner. `But one who
sees her every day becomes accustomed to the change as it
goes on.'
`And how far out of town would you recommend?' said
Thornton with a glance at his companion's face.
`So far, that the town and that place should never be
named together.'
`To those woods where the belle and the wild flower
met, in short,' said Thornton drily. `Well—I will think of
it. But how will my sister do there without the considerate
friends she has in town?'
In absolute silence Mr. Raynor walked on, the calm
lines of his face not changing in the least; while Thornton
at his side was inwardly working himself up to the boiling
point recommended by Dr. Buffem. At last the words
came—as come the first drops from the heated spout of a
tea-kettle; sputtering forth in great commotion, and almost
dried up on their way,
`What the deuce have you to do with this matter, sir?
What concern can it possibly be of yours?'
`I do not wish to bring a third party into our conversation
unnecessarily,' was the quiet reply; `therefore if you
please we will leave that out. As to what concern it is of
mine—look at Rosalie yourself, Thornton, and then remember
that your eyes see but half in her what mine do.'
It was no longer boiling water,—it was one of those
substances which when perfectly hot become perfectly
quiet. Thornton even slackened his pace; and while his
eyes were outwardly measuring blue flag-stones, in reality
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[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
they were following Mr. Raynor's advice—and finding it to
the last degree disagreeable.—They walked in silence for
some time.
`The man who counsels a friend to take care of his bird,
is not of necessity intending to steal it himself, Thornton,'
said Mr. Raynor as they neared the hotel.
`That is a most unnecessary idea on the part of anybody,'
was Mr. Clyde's gracious reply. `Do you mean to insinuate
that my sister is in a cage, Mr. Raynor?'
`A sort of one—in this hotel.'
`The wonder is,' said Thornton breaking forth, `the most
astonishing thing of all is, that you don't relieve me of all
responsibility in the matter.'
`Is that the most astonishing thing? Well—be it so.
And yet I will not waive all right to entreat for the bird
purer air—a bower of leaves to sing in instead of this one of
bricks. And rest, and quiet, and sunshine.'
`The bird is much obliged to you,' said Thornton
haughtily, `but I may waive the right if you do not. Assume
the charge if you will,—only let it alone while it rests
with me.'
`The dove has fed from your hand too long,' said Mr.
Raynor quietly.
`Nonsense!' was on Thornton's lips, but it came no
further. A something rose up and stayed it there; and
though he strode on more vigorously than before, his eyes
saw but that one sweet vision, and saw it not clearly.
Those few words, the name, the image, had reached the very
inner springs of his nature.
And what did the words mean? Was that shadow the
truth or his own imagination? He could not decide and he
could not ask. No—if the dove would fly he would not
hinder her,—he could not bid her go. And even with the
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[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
thought she was enfolded to his very heart, and the heart's
own bitterness wept over her in secret.
Not another word was spoken until they paused at the
steps of the hotel.
`I shall follow your advice Mr. Raynor,' Thornton said
then;—`the more because you have told me the cause of it.'
His friend smiled, and gave him a parting look and clasp of
the hand that were never forgotten. Thornton went up stairs
more completely conquered than he had ever been in his
life.
The scene there was not such as to do away the impression.
Rosalie and Marion sat near the window talking
earnestly, and Hulda with a hand on the lap of each was
jumping lightly from side to side; now laying her head
upon Rosalie to see how Marion looked, and then leaning
upon Marion to try the effect of Rosalie; while the two gave
her an occasional glance and smile, but without seeming
to come back from their conversation. How completely
their different characters were worn on the outside, Thornton
thought, as he stopped and looked at them, the twilight
and their own preoccupation keeping him unseen; for while
Marion's warm quick nature excited itself for every trifle,
kept head and face in earnest motion, and gave the little
hands many an excursion into the air when Rosalie's lay
perfectly quiet,—there were times and subjects that called
forth a light and energy in this one's face, before which
the other sobered down, and took the listener's part with an
air subdued and almost tearful A manner to which Thornton
gave both understanding and sympathy.
The window was open, and the spring wind stirred the
curtains with a fitful touch; sometimes sweeping their folds
back into the room with its soft gale, and then just playing
with their fringe, and softly tossing and waving the hair on
the brows of the two ladies.
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The twilight was falling softly, mistily, and lights began
to glimmer in heaven and on earth; and the city din was
murmuring itself to sleep. Footfalls now were individual,
and wheels rolled on with monotonous distinctness; and still
the air came in with freshening breath, and still the ladies
sat and looked and talked. Looked with grave eyes, and
talked with quiet voices. Now and then the air wafted up
a strong whiff of Havana smoke; or the slamming of the
hotel doors, or loud footsteps in its hall broke the silence.
But they hardly interrupted the murmur, which seemed to
the listeners like the distant beat of the ocean of life about
the cave of their own thought.
`And you think, Alie,' said Marion with a tone as if she
had been pondering some former words; `you do truly think
that one can learn not to fear death? Death never seems
to me a reality but in these mimic ebbings away of life. One's
spirits do so ebb away with it, that one naturally asks, will
they ever return? I don't love to sit and think at this time
of day—it makes me gloomy. And you look as bright as
that evening star.'
Rosalie smiled.
`It is so resting to me—so soothing, to think and remember!
'
`Yes, at floodtide.'
`If the tide carry not all my treasure it matters little
whether it ebb or flow. I shall not lose footing till the
commissioned wave come, and then—“The other side of the
sea is my Father's ground as well as this side.'”
`You speak so assuredly,' Marion said.
“`I know in whom I have believed,'” Rosalie answered
with a little bit of that same smile. “`It will be hard if
a believing passenger be casten overboard.'”
Marion leaned her head against the window frame with
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[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
a dissatisfied air and was silent. And wishing to hear no
more such words, Thornton came forward and laid a hand
upon each.
His sister looked up with a bright welcome, while
Marion after one glance and word looked away out of the
window, her shoulder half withdrawn from his touch.
`Did you see my carriage at the door, Captain Thornton?
' she enquired.
`I did not even look, not knowing you were here.'
`Do you never see a thing without looking?' said Marion
a little impatiently.
`If you can see me at present, then doubtless I might
have seen your carriage if it was there.'
`O but it isn't there,' said Hulda, trying to get her chin
over the window sill; `so you'll have to stay to tea, Marion.'
`I can wait for my tea, pet.'
`But won't you stay?' said the child coming back disappointed.
`Because we want you to very much.'
`And because Rosalie is going out of town in a few days,'
observed Thornton.
`Out of town!' said his sister. `You have had but one
word to that bargain yet.'
`I have had as many words as I want.'
`With whom?' said Marion with a keen look. But as
Thornton chose to answer the look first the question was
not repeated.
`Will you go along and take care of her?' he said.
`That duty would appear, to unsophisticated minds, to
devolve upon somebody else.'
`Very likely. But sophisticated minds can see that
men have something else to do.'
`It is time they hadn't then,' said Marion.
`I should be very happy to leave you in command of my
company, if you prefer that sphere of action.'
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[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
`Well I did forget certainly, that just now you have
something else to do,' was Marion's rather pointed reply.
`But I thought,' said Rosalie, `that if I went at all you
were to go too. I thought you meant to get leave of absence
for your own good.'
`For just so much good as it will do me to put you in
clover, my dear—no more.'
She shook her head.
`Then I will not be put in clover, and we will stay here
quietly together.'
`We will do nothing of the sort,' said Thornton. `You
are to stay all summer at a farmhouse; and I am only waiting
to find one that is far enough off.'
`O will you really take us away into the country?' cried
Hulda, who had stood listening with intense interest. `O
how glad I shall be! Won't it be delightful, dear Alie?'
she said, leaning on her sister's lap and looking up.
Rosalie was silent. There had been words just waiting
their chance, but at the flush that came over the pale little
face raised so eagerly to hers, all power to speak them failed.
It was hard to choose between such alternatives. And
Thornton saved her the trouble. Never had she seen him
so set on anything as upon this plan; and his strong will
and Hulda's silent pleadings carried the day. Rosalie quietly
made her preparations.
`I s'pose you'll forget all about this here town o' York
when you get away once, Martha,' said Tom Skiddy, the
night before the journey.
`Like enough I shall,' replied Miss Jumps. `I'm a first
rate hand at forgetting. Lost sight o' more things in my
life than you could shake a stick at,—people too.'
`Well remember and come back, will you?' said Tom.
`Can't say—' replied Martha. `If it should seem to be
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
advantageous for me to stay there, there's no telling what I
may do.'
`Sartain!' replied Tom. `There's no telling what I
may do neither. `Taint a sort of a world for a man to keep
track of his own mind easy.'
`The surest way to keep track of a thing is to run on
afore it,' said Martha.
`And then it don't always foller,' said Tom thoughtfully.
`It's a pity things is so easy forgot—it's kind o' pleasant to
remember.'
`Well you can always recreate yourself in that way when
you've a mind to,' said Miss Jumps, with a somewhat relenting
air.
`That's true enough,' said Tom with a similar demonstration.
`So can you.'
-- 258 -- p737-263
CHAPTER XXV.
On the seas are many dangers,
Many storms do there arise,
Which will be to ladies dreadful,
And force tears from wat'ry eyes.
—Spanish Ladye's Love.
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
It was in a corner of the Bay State that Thornton decided
to place his sisters. Partly from the fine country and the
wholesome air, and partly from the peace and security which
could be found there more surely than in New York. But
he abhorred stage-coaches; and determined that at least one
part of the journey should be pleasant, he would go as far as
New Haven by water, and in a sailing vessel—which in those
days of Steam's apprenticeship was far better.
The Old Thirteen was a pretty little sloop, neat and
trim built; worthy of the sea as well as sea-worthy; and
despite her name had seen but just enough service to prove
her an excellent sailer. Her canvass was new, with only the
unfledged look of newness worn off; her mast white and
tapering; her hull painted of a deep dull red half way above
the water line, and from that to the bulwarks of a dark
olive green. Her flag was of the largest, her streamers
of the longest and brightest; her figure-head was the Liberty
of the old coins with the thirteen stars for a crown. In this
sloop Mr. Clyde saw fit to take passage for New Haven,—
not truly because of the beauty of her equipments, but
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[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
because she was reputed swift and her captain the `right sort
of man.'
He had spent his life in trading vessels upon the Sound,—
generally running out as far as Point Judith and taking
up a little of the shore trade on his way. For some time
indeed, the Sound had been too closely blockaded to permit
unarmed vessels much freedom upon its waters, and the
shipping trade was rather dull. But Captain Pliny Cruise
being of the mind that a week on shore would certainly
kill him, continued to brave the enemy's guns as offering
a much more desirable death; and by a system of dodging,
running, and out-sailing, which was always successful, he
carried on his trade with Rhode Island as though no
Squadron were in the way.
The Old Thirteen then, lay at her pier in the East
river; and the May morning acted the part of Macbeth's
witches, and said,
“I'll give thee a wind.”
But when Mr. Clyde and his companions appeared, there
sprang up a breeze of another kind and not quite so favourable.
For Thornton with characteristic carelessness had
merely engaged `the best accommodations there were, for
four people;' and the idea of a lady passenger had never
entered the Captain's head.
`Bonnets!' he said as Thornton's party emerged from
the carriage,—`one, two, three on 'em—what on airth!'
And Captain Pliny Cruise at once walked off to the other
end of his vessel, took a seat and looked into the water.
There he sat until Thornton touched his shoulder.
`Good morning, Captain Cruise.'
`How are you, Mr. Clyde?' said the Captain, looking
round and showing a very discomfited face.
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`Is this where you commonly receive your passengers?'
said Thornton.
`No,' said the Captain, returning to his gaze at the
water,—`not commonly. I do' know where the place is,
no more.'
`If you are not particularly engaged,' said Mr. Clyde,
with some emphasis, `I should like to know where to put my
sisters!'
`So should I,' said Captain Pliny. `Give a' most anything
I'm master of at this present.'
But he rose and walked aft; and being formally presented
to Miss Clyde he welcomed her with,
`Right sorry to see you here, ma'am.'
`Sorry to see me?' Rosalie said.
`Exactly,' said Captain Pliny. `Always sorry to see a
cargo come aboard I do' know how to stow.'
`Don't know how to stow!' said Thornton impatiently.
`Why you said you could take half a dozen.'
`Sort not specified,' said the Captain. `You never said
the first word about bonnets—and the Old Thirteen aint a
bandbox, though she do come near it.'
`You will not want much room in which to stow me,'
said Rosalie with a smile.
`Always give chena particular packing and soft quarters,'
said the Captain. `And if you aint labelled `Glass with
care,' never trust me with another crate. Then there's
another thing, Mr. Clyde; afore the vessel heads off into the
stream, you'd maybe as well take a look at my chart; but
that's between you and me;' and leading the way into the
little cabin he made Rosalie understand, that if by the use
of the whole or any part of the Old Thirteen she could
make herself comfortable, it was at her service.
`Now Mr. Clyde,' he said, `come and take a look at my
chart.'
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`I don't know anything about charts,' said Thornton.
`'Taint too late, yet,' said the Captain. `Know where
you're going and how to go, and you're half there. Come
sir.'
And Thornton went, though laughing both at himself
and the Captain; but when once on deck the manner of the
latter changed.
`The thing is just this, Mr. Clyde—and I wouldn't
have such a cargo aboard, not for a sloop load o' prize
money. The Sound's full o' rough customers, sir; and like
enough we'll fall in with some of 'em. And they don't speak
no softer to ladies' ears than to others.'
`They'll never get a chance to speak to us,' said Thornton,—
`they're too far down the Sound.'
`We'll hope that,' said Captain Pliny, `and yet they
might. They've found out there's Eastern people most every
place, doubtless. Never run a feminine craft into rough
weather sir, if you know it aforehand. They aint just built
for it.'
`O,' said Thornton laughing, `my sister can stand fire
like a soldier.'
The old Captain shook his head.
`Ay sir! like and not like! better and worse! And
she don't look as though she'd seen much salt water—not o'
the genuine.'
`She'll see more if we ever get away from this wharf,'
said Thornton. `You come and go, Captain Cruise,—
where's the danger to other people?'
`Ay,' said Captain Pliny,—`I come and go. What of
that? This here mainmast's my post, sir—that's why I
stand by it. It aint yours. And all the rest o' my fleet
is at anchor sir, long ago,—safe moored in the harbour.
There's none to look in the papers and see whether Pliny
Cruise is arrived, or only cleared for a better country.'
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`Well when shall we have our clearance from here?'
said Thornton, who was not fond of meeting Rosalie's opinions
where he didn't expect them.
`I've said my say,' was the Captain's reply. And in
half an hour, during which three or four messengers had
been sent in as many different directions for fruit and other
lady-like comforts, the Old Thirteen glided off into the
channel and set her sails before the wind.
By that time Rosalie and Hulda came on deck again,
and took seats there to enjoy the fresh breeze. View there
was not, at least that was very well worth looking at;
though spring colouring made even those low shores look
pretty, and the river in its blue windings shewed many a
curl and crest over its rocky bed. The sloop went smoothly
on, and her Captain busied himself with his own judgment
of her passengers. There was no disagreeable observation
of them, but now and then a few words or a look—chiefly
at Rosalie; and each time his eyes went back with increased
vigilance to the reaches of the river that lay beyond. But
the afternoon passed quietly and the night fell with no disturbance:
and if Rosalie failed to sleep with absolute forgetfulness,
it was for no such reason as made Captain Pliny
pace the deck all night over her head.
The morning broke with light airs from the north, and
the vessel made small headway. The Sound began to open
out now, and the prow of the little vessel pointed to a
horizon line of sea in the far distance; lying blue and
sweet as if no disagreeable thing had ever crossed it. Yet
thither were Captain Pliny's eyes directed, as if at every
moment he expected to see the whole British fleet come in
sight; while the same watchful glances raked the coast on
both sides.
`How fair everything is this morning,' said a voice at the
Captain's elbow.
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`Yes—all is fair—sartain!' said Captain Pliny rising
with a surprised look at his visiter. `Sartain!' he repeated
softly as his eye took another observation of that delicate
face. `Fair and softly goes so far into this twenty-fifth of
May. But Madam we don't all keep watch aboard,—and
they that watch for the morning had ought to be the strong
and not the weak.'
She smiled—partly at the rough and kindly mingling in
his speech, partly at the `sweet English' which as she truly
said the Bible always was to her ear; and she repeated—
“My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch
for the morning.”
`Ay, ay,' said Captain Pliny, `I thought that was in your
face, from the first you come aboard. But if you'd ever
been where I have—on deck in such a hurricane as you
couldn't stand for one minute, young lady; with the rain
coming down whole water, and the waves flying to meet it
like a thirsty caravan,—I say if you'd ever done that, you'd
know what the verse meant! And it seemed as if I `waited
for light and behold obscurity.”
Did she not know? had she not watched through those
long nights of stillness in a sick room which precede the
storm and the wreck? She was silent and Captain Pliny
went on.
`Waiting's a hard thing somewhiles—that's true. I've
seen times when I would do the worst day's work I ever did,
sooner than wait. And yet “blessed is he that waiteth,”
and “he that waiteth shall not be ashamed,”—that's true
too, on land and water. Even for things of this world.'
`Yes,' Rosalie answered; and half to herself she went
on.
“For since the beginning of the world men have not
heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O
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God, beside thee, what he hath prepared for him that waiteth
for him.
”
`True, true,' said Captain Pliny; `I believe that. And
this heavens and earth shall not come into mind, for the
glory that excelleth. And yet that's sort o' handsome,' he
said after a little pause, raising his weather-browned hand
and pointing forwards. The wind was blowing quite fresh,
and beneath its influence the water rose and fell in large,
deep green waves, each with its white cap lit up with a
thousand sparkles. The vessel dipped and rose on the undulations
with a graceful submission to circumstances; and
now and then one of her opposers came full tilt against her
prow, and was dashed to pieces on the little Liberty figure-head.
`The Old Thirteen takes the waves pretty much as her
namesake did the British,' remarked Captain Pliny as the
spray flew over the deck. `How do you like that, young
lady?'
`I like it well,' she answered with a smile.
`Craft running t'other way has it smoother,' said the
Captain; `but the wind's dead ahead for us, and we take
the waves which way we can get 'em. Slow work too. But
an honest voyage is always just the right length.'
Their progress was indeed slow. Long tacks from side
to side made it rough as well, and every puff of the wind
was charged with spray; but still the Captain's unwonted
cargo remained on deck, and even Hulda enjoyed without
fear the salt water and the fresh breeze. There had been
little in sight all the morning,—few white wings abroad but
sea gulls, and what there were mere specks. By dinner
time two or three of them were nearer, but the Captain
knew them for American coasters, and having pointed out
Hart Island to Rosalie, and told her that at this rate she
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would be in New Haven before she knew it, they went to
dinner.
`You have spent all your life in this way, Captain?'
said Rosalie.
`Set afloat afore I knew a painter from a buoy,' returned
Captain Pliny; not at all aware that his hearers had not yet
attained that knowledge.
`And what sort of a life do you call it?' said Thornton.
`First rate!' said Captain Pliny. `Can't be beat, if you
go the world over and try your hand at everything.'
`Tedious enough, I should think,' said Thornton.
`Why as to that, young gentleman,' said Captain Pliny,
`there's many a one I do suppose, too fresh to like salt water.
But no man who does his duty has a right to call his life
tedious—or I might say, a chance; for those very things are
just what he was put into the world to do. If he will ballast
his ship according to his own fancy, not for her build and
cargo, no wonder if she don't sail well.'
`One might have a bad cargo though,' said Thornton.
`Not without you've got sense to match,' said the Captain.
`The best cargo's what'll fetch most where you're
going.—The end of the voyage, young gentleman, and the
profits—keep your eye on them,—then load your ship and
make sail.'
`Now here were you only yesterday getting a bad cargo,
said Thornton.
`Bad? no,' said Captain Pliny with a smile—`just a
thought too good; and I won't say that feminine bills of
lading are always made out true. Put 'em in another hull's
the best way—let them have their craft and keep your own,—
keep at a safe distance and you may sail on together
'most'—
`Sloop ahoy!
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The words rang through the Old Thirteen as if she had
been a speaking trumpet herself. Before they had died
away Captain Pliny stood on the deck with his own trumpet
in hand.
`Old Thirteen—New York—Pliny Cruise, commander,'—
the words almost knocked each other down with the
rapidity of their egress.
`Put about—' came from the other vessel, which was one
of the Government coasters. `Enemy below.'
`What force?' returned the Captain.
`Frigate—38'—was the reply.
`How far?'
`Four miles.'
Captain Pliny laid down his trumpet and turned to confront
his passengers, who stood close behind him.
`I told you so, Mr. Clyde,' he said. `I shewed you a
Squadron laid down in my chart, as plain as the old Point
herself. Never launch a feminine craft on no sea but the
Pacific.
`What is to hinder our running for New Haven and out-running
the Frigate?' said Thornton.
`Might fall out that we shouldn't win the race,' said the
Captain.
`But you run past these frigates continually?'
`Just so,' said the Captain,—`I do, sartain:—hope to
again,—when there's only Pliny Cruise aboard it don't signify.
I'd rather be shot through than have the Old Thirteen
turn tail this fashion.'
`Sloop ahoy!' came from another coaster that was bearing
down upon them.
`Ay, ay!' said Captain Pliny catching up his trumpet
to reply.
`Frigate ahead—38 guns—run!' was shouted out as the
vessel swept by.
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`Now there's a few of the unpleasant'st words!' said the
Captain,—`though I've heard it all afore. Not a gun—'cept
for salutes,—I'd like to give 'em a kiss once!—Must be
done.—Put about there!' he shouted,—`haul down her
colours!—all sail for New York!' And as he walked off
the Captain tried to console himself with,
`Can't run a feminine craft into danger—can't—it
goes agin my conscience.'
And as one sail after another spread out in its place, until
near all were set that she would carry, the Old Thirteen
changed her course and went scudding up the Sound. But
as if to shew his good inclinations, the Captain seated himself
with his face in the other direction and sailed backwards.
`Pliny Cruise,' he said to himself, `never engage a cargo
again without knowing what it is.'
The wind held on its way and the vessel on hers without
interruption; but the passengers took their tea alone and
Captain Pliny would not leave the deck. There Thornton
found him when he went up at nine o'clock, but Rosalie and
Hulda remained below.
Captain Pliny was on his feet now, standing motionless
at the stern of the vessel; his eyes doing what eyes could to
pierce the darkness on all sides, but especially in the wake
of his own sloop.
`Dark night,' said Thornton as he came up.
`If we don't get more light on the subject afore another
hour, be thankful,' said the Captain. `You see them lights
astarn? they're after us, as sure as my name's what it is;
and whichever of us gets in first 'll have the best of it.'
`After us?' said Thornton. `The frigate?'
`Something less than that,' said Captain Pliny,—`nothing
more than a sloop I take it. But she follows us. I've
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veered once or twice to try her, and when she turns you can
see eight mouths on a side.'
`Lights?' said Thornton.
`Ay—at her ports,' said the Captain coolly. `I can't
tell yet which of us gains.'
`Hoa! ship ahoa!' came faintly from the pursuing
vessel.
`There you are!' said Captain Pliny. `Mind your own
business and leave Yankees to ask questions. Make sail!'
he added, turning quick about. `If we've got to shew the
white feather it shall be a good one!' And as more and
more canvass was spread and filled there came another hail
borne down on the night wind.
`She'll speak louder next time,' said Captain Pliny,—
`and we've got no more canvass. Go below Mr. Clyde, and
take care of your glassware. What man can do has been
done—what the Lord will let him do.'
But Thornton stood still.
Two or three port-hole lights appeared now, and presently
a brilliant flash shot out into the darkness, and a ball whizzed
through the mainsail of the little sloop which was spread out
before the wind.
`Plain speaking,' said Captain Pliny, almost leaning over
the stern of the vessel in his interest. `There comes
another;—and a third;—right through her sails, both
on 'em.'
But the fourth shot fell astern.
`We gain now,' said the Captain with a voice less clear
than before. `I doubt Mr. Clyde there's something stronger
than wind helping us on.'
And as if impelled by some new power the Old Thirteen
sped along, until even the lights of the pursuing vessel grew
dim in the distance. Not until then did Thornton quit the
deck.
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Rosalie sat by Hulda's bed, so motionless that her
brother at first paused lest she might be asleep. But she
looked up, and as he came and sat down by her she laid her
head on his shoulder, and neither spoke nor moved till the
day broke. Captain Pliny's advice needed no further
repetition.
-- 270 -- p737-275
CHAPTER XXVI.
O blessed nature, “O rus! O rus!”
Who cannot sigh for the country thus,
Absorbed in a worldly torpor—
Who does not yearn for its meadow-sweet breath,
Untainted by care, and crime, and death,
And to stand sometimes upon grass or heath—
That soul, spite of gold, is a pauper!
—Hood.
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
`It's an astonishing thing how much it takes to kill folks!'
said Martha Jumps the morning after their safe arrival in
Massachusetts. `Beats all my arithmetic. Now here we
are, just as 'live as can be,—nobody'd guess to look at us
that we'd been chased and run over and shot through.'
The scene was the kitchen of the farm house where
Rosalie was to spend the summer; and as Miss Jumps
looked out of the open window over a pleasant expanse of
green meadows, cows, chickens, and corn fields, agreeably
diversified with a red barn and a fair little brook; the perils
of the sea appeared in strong contrast. Peace was the atmosphere
around everything in sight. The cattle cropped
their grass in a quiet leisurely way, secure and satisfied; the
shadows crept softly down the green slopes, aware of the
sun's pursuit but with no fear of being caught; and in the
uncut fields the grass waved to and fro with the very motion
of repose. Swift of wing and light of heart, the feather-clad
tribes bestirred themselves for breakfast; and filled up that
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hour of the day with a merry song and chatter which did
honour to their good sense and to their business habits. No
such morning songster would ever build his nest ill, or talk
while it was a building, or tire on the wing when seeking
food for his family. Such joy with a day's work before it,
said the work would be done well.
Some chickens were already in the cow meadow, circling
about the cattle as they nosed the rich herbage and started
a thousand insects; and others sauntered along wherever a
chance grasshopper or a fly-away butterfly might lead them.
And the little brook murmured of freshness, of coolness, of
no work but rest. And yet its work was to run—and it ran,—
tumbled too, occasionally, but not as if it thought it hard
work. Clearly the brook took things by their smooth handle.
It ran not by the road, upon which opened the kitchen windows,
but through a dell at the back of the house—which
oddly enough was also the front. For the house with singular
good taste had set its face to the dell, and into that cool
shade looked the best windows and the best door; leaving
the kitchen and wood shed in full possession of the road, its
dust, and its passing wagons. Even the well with its boom
of a water-drawer, stood by the road-side; and visiters
arriving in that direction had their choice of a walk through
or a walk round the house.
`This is a queer place o' yours, Mrs. Hopper,' said
Martha Jumps, when she had looked out of the window for
the space of one minute. `It sounds dreadful quiet after
York.'
`Don't say!' replied Mrs. Hopper. `Why there's a
noise here sometimes to that point, with the chickens and
the dog and the children, that I can't hear myself think.'
The voice issued from a dark blue calico sunbonnet,
plentifully sprinkled with white spots, the apex to a tall and
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slim pyramid of the same. Two brown hands, hard and sunburnt,
but nervous and capable withal, rested on the window
sill; and that was the outward display of Mrs. Hopper.
`I s'pose you're used to doin' with such noise as you can
get, and makin' the most of it,' said Martha.
`I guess I ought to be used to 'most everything here,'
said Mrs Hopper. `All the fetching up I ever got come
off o' this farm, and my forbears lived here longer'n I can
count. It's a right good one, too.'
`Looks enough like it,' said Martha. `How come you
to get your house wrong side before?'
`Didn't get it,' said Mrs. Hopper, as if the words implied
some mistake on the part of the house builder. `It
was sot so a'purpose.'
`What for?' said Martha.
`He was a thoughtful sort of a man that did it,' said
Mrs. Hopper, `and he kind o' fancied the brook looked lonesome.
Kitchen winders he said ought to have the sun on to
them,—didn't make no odds about the company side, for
that warnt never used unless there was company. When a
man's alone he wants everything done to him, and round
there he said you couldn't hear a wagon go by once a week.
That's what they say he said—them that's gone now.'
And Mrs. Hopper took off her sunbonnet, and having
carefully bent it into shape, she put it on again; thereby
giving a short view of her hair, which had much the colour
and appearance of dried corn silk, and of a face strong and
weatherbeaten—useful but not ornamental.
`Sunbunnits is dreadful smothery, aint they?' said Miss
Jumps as she surveyed the operation.
`Why my, no,' said Mrs. Hopper. `I don't never feel as
though I had a stitch o' clothes on about my work without I
have a bunnit.'
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`Well I think likely you don't,' said Martha, `and I
knew what that was once myself, but I've got out of the
fashion. I haven't been in the country since I was fifteen.'
`The land sakes!' said Mrs. Hopper. `How the goodness
did you get along? That's just Jerushy's years.
Jerushy's real smart too, though you wouldn't think it to
look at her; but she's always enjoyed such ill health. She
faints away so easy,—a little scare or anything of that sort'll
keel her right over. I wouldn't wonder now if she'd drop if
you told her Abijah was coming.'
Miss Jumps naturally inquired who Abijah might be.
`Abijah?' said Mrs. Hopper—`why that's my son—
Abijah Hopper. Five foot nine in his stockings and as
handsome as a pictur.' He's off to some fur'n country now,
fighting for his'n.'
`How old is he?' said Martha.
`Just in his two and twenty,' replied Mrs. Hopper.
`He was first and then Jerushy; but Jerushy never see her
father to know him.'
`She didn't!' said Martha.
`No,' said Mrs. Hopper taking off the sunbonnet and
giving it another bend.
`Well who are the children you tell about?' said
Martha.
`Not mine,' said Mrs. Hopper—`The neighbour's saplings
come in here whiles and raise Cain with Jerushy.'
`Got pleasant neighbours here?' said Martha.
`Pleasant enough as folks run—' said Mrs. Hopper,—
`and that's pretty much like a flock o' sheep. There's some
fine families. But this won't make my child a frock,' she
added, tying her sunbonnet with great vigour and tightness,
`What time does your folks breakfast?'
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`O just when they take a notion,' said Martha imposingly.
`That's the time o' day, is it?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Then I'll tell you what, they'll have to get it without me.
I have to pour out coffee bright and early for the men folks,
and it saves time to eat as I go along. And two breakfasts
in a morning is one too many for my appetite.'
`I guess they'll all be glad o' the spare one,' said Martha.
`I'm hungry, for one.'
`You look as if you was used to that—stall fed,' said Mrs.
Hopper. `But Jerushy can fry the eggs as good as I can,
every bit—whenever they do get up,—and there's bread and
butter enough in the pantry—cheese too if they like it; and
pies, real good ones. Tell 'em to eat all they can lay their
hands on.'
`They always have their eggs boiled,' said Martha.
`Then they don't know what's good,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`But it's nothing to me if they eat 'em raw. There's eggs
enough, and water enough, and kettles enough—fire enough
too, for that matter; but if I'm not up to the store in a jiffy
Squire Hubbard 'll be off with my quarter of mutton. He
owes me two now.'
And Mrs. Hopper departed; leaving Martha in great
admiration of her smartness and liberality, to get breakfast
with Jerusha, who was a chip of the same block. Or rather
a whittling—with very faint blue eyes and a tongue that
was strong in proportion.
With this young lady's able assistance and conversation,
Martha prepared both table and breakfast admirably; and
Rosalie found but one thing wanting to her comfort. Now
that the time was come for parting with her brother, she felt
the old painful doubt of it grow stronger; and often wished
that she had refused to leave the city. Sometimes she half
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resolved to go back with him; and then a look at Hulda's
face, already brightening in the pure air, kept her silent.
And silent the whole breakfast time was. But after breakfast,
when the table was cleared and Hulda had gone out to
inspect clover heads, Thornton spoke.
`I hope you feel satisfied with your farm house, Alie?'
`I should be, if you were to be in it.'
`I thank you my dear—I am afraid I should not.'
`I have been wishing this morning that I had not come
or that I was going back with you.'
`Thank you for that too,' he said, drawing back her hair
and kissing her, `but I do not join in the wish.'
They stood silent again; and the little wagon that was
to take him to meet the stage came slowly out of the barn,
and was attached to its locomotive.
`What commands, Alie?' said Thornton then. `I
must be off, my dear, in five minutes.'
She turned and laid her hands on his shoulders after her
old fashion, and looked at him, and did not speak. Her
heart was too full, each word that came to her lips seemed
too weak; and without words the brother and sister parted.
“`He is able to keep that which I have committed to
him,'” Rosalie thought, as she saw Thornton drive off and
caught the last wave of his hand. And quitting the window
she sat down and took her Bible. Not to read, but to turn
over leaf after leaf; catching here and there a word of comfort,
a word of hope, a word of strength; until the promises
had done their work. Her lips lost their nervous trembling,
and with a few long breaths the heart beat easier; and laying
her head down upon the closed book Rosalie cried herself
to sleep.
`Well this is a pretty state of things!' said Miss Jumps
when she came in to set the table for dinner. `Here's
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everything ready—and the mutton 'll be rags, and no living
creature can tell what the potatoes 'll be. Pickles 'll keep—
that's one thing, and so 'll bread,—and she wants it bad
enough in all conscience.' And softly closing the door at
the end of her soliloquy, Martha retired.
-- 277 -- p737-282
CHAPTER XXVII.
But my good mother Baystate wants no praise of mine,
She learned from her mother a precept divine
About something that butters no parsnips, her forte
In another direction lies, work is her sport,
(Though she'll curtsey and set her cap straight, that she will,
If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's Hill.)
Fable for Critics.
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
How lovely it was! how fresh, how sweet!—with what a
fair face did Massachusetts welcome the summer. Ceres
followed close on the steps of her labourers, and the young
grain with its vivid green hue was fast shooting up into perfection.
The potato fields with their long alternate lines of
brown and green, the corn fields with their tufted crop; and
meadows in the mowing stage, and others that were one
spread of red clover blossoms; swelled upon the hills and
sloped down into the valleys, and were dovetailed into each
other as far as the eye could reach. Everything about the
farms and about the houses had that perfectly done up look,
which shewed the owners quick of eye and hand. The fence
rails were up, the bar-place stood steady, the gates swung
freely and shut tight. And vines were trained, and wood
sheds full, and barns and outhouses in good order. The cattle
too looked sleek, and the many-coloured droves of horses
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[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
gambaded about the fields with the very friskiness of freedom
and good living. Content was the very atmosphere of the
region.
But Rosalie found it hard to get used to her new way of
life. She loved its quietness with all her heart, but it gave
her more thinking time than was quite good for her. For
with a heart in itself perfectly in tune with all the sweet
sounds and influences that were around her, she wanted a
little of Hulda's untouched joyousness to take their full
benefit. As it was they often set her a musing,—as often
perhaps made her grave as gay. Constantly the image of
Thornton would present itself; and `what is he doing?' was
no resting question,—she wearied herself with asking what
there was none to answer. She tried to throw the burden
off, and yet the shadow of it remained; and like a fair plant
deprived of the sunlight, her colour grew more and more delicate.
Little Hulda was every day gaining strength and
health, and her gambols were almost her sister's only amusement;
but even from them Rosalie sometimes turned away,
with a sickness at heart that refused to be forgotten.
For a while after Thornton left her, he wrote long letters,
for him, and often; but then they dwindled, and became
angel's visits only in the length of time between. Yet his
sister craved even them most eagerly, and each time hoped
to find more words and those more comforting. The change
was the other way; and well she felt that they would have
been longer had the writer been better satisfied with himself,—
that if the stream of his daily thought and action had
flowed in a purer channel, it would have turned with a fuller
gush towards her. He was going on then just in the old
way, and she was not there to use even her weak efforts.
And sometimes unbelief was ready to ask why?—and when
faith bade her wait,—then came back the old Captain's
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quotation—“It seemed as if `I waited for light and behold obscurity.
'”
`It aint none o' my business, I do suppose,' said Mrs.
Hopper one day, when she had followed Rosalie out to the
edge of the ravine and stood within three feet of her for some
time without being observed; `and 'taint likely I'll get many
thanks for speaking; but it does appear to me, Miss Clyde,
that you want shaking up.'
`I!' said Rosalie starting.
`Why yes,' said Mrs. Hopper, `you. What's the use
o' coming out here to stand'n look at that brook—jus' as if
it hadn't been running as hard as it could ever since the
deluge.'
`But it's a pretty thing to look at,' said Rosalie.
`Maybe it is—' said Mrs. Hopper,—`I'm not in that
line o' business myself. I'd rather look at a mill tail. Do
you more good too. Don't that everlasting spattering down
there make you think of all the friends you ever had or expected?
'
`What makes you imagine such a thing?' said Rosalie.
`Looked as if you'd been talkin with half of 'em, to say
the least. Now I've always got too much to do for my
friends to sit'n think about 'em.'
`Suppose there was nothing else you could do, Mrs.
Hopper?' said Rosalie.
`Then I'd take good care of myself for 'em—besides
there always is something—one thing or 'tother. Folks that
can work, can work; and folks that can write, can write;
and folks that can pray, can pray, one would suppose,—and
believe too.'
But Rosalie turned to her a face so submissive to this
last reproof, that Mrs Hopper had no heart to give more.
`Now I'll tell you what it is,' she said, `my tongue's as
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rough as a card, I know, but it don't want to stroke things
the wrong way; 'n it makes me feel queer to have you
gettin' thin on the place—and payin' so handsome too—
which nobody ever did afore, nary one. To be sure you do
run round after that child all day, but it's a question which
way that works.'
`What would you like to have me do?' said Rosalie
smiling.
`Will you do it?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`I will try.'
`Just let Hulda run round by herself a spell then,' said
Mrs. Hopper—`I'll have an eye to her—and you get on one
of the farm horses and trot off to seek your fortune. I tell
you old Lord North 'll shake up a person's ideas so you
wouldn't know 'em again afterward!'
`Is Lord North one of the farm horses?' said Rosalie.
`Why yes,' said Mrs. Hopper, taking off her sunbonnet
and straightening the edge; `Stamp act and Lord North—
he called 'em so because he hadn't no patience with Lord
North. However the horse behaves better 'n he did, by
a long jump, and so does Stamp. Will you try him?'
`If I can get a saddle and skirt—and find a day when
the horse is not ploughing.'
`He won't plough with you on his back,' said Mrs. Hopper,
`and you might do worse if he did. The saddle 's easy
enough—what ails the frock you have on?'
`O it's too short,—I will get some stuff and make one.'
`That's long enough, for gracious,' said Mrs. Hopper—
`you might as well not have tops to your feet, now; but fix
it any way you like. I'll get some Indian willer and twist
you up a first rate rattan. See if that don't put a little
genuine red in your cheeks. All you've got now just makes
you look whiter. Don't you want to go up to the sewin'
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meetin this afternoon? they'd be tickled to death to see
you, and if you can't knit you can look on.'
`I will go anywhere you have a mind to take me,' said
Rosalie, with a hearty appreciation of the good will of her
hostess.
`Well now that's clever,' said Mrs Hopper. `I like to
see folks that have got some reason into them. And I
s'pose you won't mind your Martha's going along,—times
when all the men fight together 'twon't hurt the women to
knit, I guess. But I don't believe now you'd be a bit stuck
up in the best o' times—I'll say that for you, and you're
the first city body I ever did say it for.'
The sewing meeting—which might more properly have
been called a knitting meeting—met that afternoon in a tall
white house by the roadside, which having neither porch nor
vines nor piazza, nor even a wing, presented a singularly
bare and staring appearance. It being generally supposed however,
that juvenile seats of learning should be as unattractive
as possible, this was quite in order, and might be claimed as
a model. Straight, square, the windows drawn up like the
multiplication table, the doors at either end,—the building
was highly fitted to inspire its tenants with a love for irregularities
of any kind. Even the white paling was angled
by rule, and equally distant from the house on every side.
At twelve o'clock that day the school had been dismissed
for the usual Saturday afternoon holiday; and so
soon thereafter as dinner could be eaten and cleared away,
ones and twos and threes of the feminine population of
White Oak, began to approach the angular schoolhouse
paling. Some few in straw bonnets with knots of gay
ribbon, but the most in calico sunbonnets,—made it is true
after very different patterns—ruffled and unruffled, corded,
pasteboarded, and quilted; but each with its long
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depending cape, and its somewhat careworn and hardfeatured face
beneath.
Hardfeatured not by nature but by work,—staid, and
combed down, as their hair was combed back; and with a
certain mingling of sober, subdued, wide awake, and energetic,
in the general look and mien, which spoke a life of
work and emergency that each one must meet for herself,
and could. The mere walk of these women as they converged
towards the schoolhouse, spoke energy and independence,—
there was freedom and self assertion in the very
gait; yet more of the feeling which says `I am as good as
you are,' than of that which would say `I am better.'
Neighbours of very different standing indeed (as to wealth
and name) exchanged most affable salutations; though always
with that same air of gravity which seems chosen by
our country people as more dignified than a smile.
Some—especially the younger women—carried fanciful
and gay coloured workbags, from the top of which stuck out
bright knitting-needles; but more had their work in their
pockets or merely wrapped together in their hands, just as
it had been caught up from the window sill, with perhaps a
twisted skein or two of yarn to bear it company. One or
two were even knitting as they walked along.
`I wouldn't wonder a bit if we were late,' said Mrs. Hopper,
as they went up the little slope down which the boys used
to rush with accelerated speed the moment school was let out.
`Mis' Clipper's bunnet's gone in, and she aint apt to be the
first apple that falls.'
A steady murmur that issued from one of the end doors
seemed to confirm this suspicion, and when they entered
the room it was quite full. That is it was well lined, for
everybody sat back against the wall,—and there was a perfect
glitter of knitting-needles. Knit, knit, knit, knit,—
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here a grey sock and there a blue mitten and there a scarlet
comforter; while the knitters went carelessly on with their
talk, looked out of the window and at each other's work, got up
and crossed the floor and came back again, and never stayed
their fingers for an instant. Eyesight seemed needless—
except to examine Miss Clyde when she appeared, and to
form an exact opinion as to her dress. One or two of the
younger ones, who had worn straw bonnets to the meeting,
laid down their work for a minute till the new arrival had
taken her seat, but the others knit on as fast as ever; with
merely a `Hope you're well Miss Clyde,' from those who
felt best acquainted.
At the further end of the room a large wheel flew round
and round, under the hands of a brisk young lady who
stepped back and forth with very creaking shoes; and the
bright little spindle whirr-r-red! off the yarn with consummate
neatness and speed.
`What will you set me about?' said Rosalie, when she
had found a place—not of rest—upon one of the hard
wooden chairs. `Shall I wind some yarn?'
`A person can do that for himself about as handy,' said
one of the company, who with her right knee a rest for the
left had elevated her left toe into the air, where it did duty
as a reel.
`What then?' said Rosalie. `I am afraid I do not knit
fast enough to be of much use in that way.'
`Every roll makth one leth, Mith Clyde,' said the brisk
little spinner, stooping as she spoke to take another from
the bundle that lay across the wheel.
`Yes, if I could turn them off as fast as you do,' said
Rosalie.
`Maria Jane does spin fast,' observed Mrs. Clipper.
`But look a here,' said Mrs. Hopper, `there's just that
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one wheel—and I don't s'pose any one here's got spare
knittin' work.'
Nobody had.
`There's nothing for her to do but look on then,' said
Mrs. Hopper.
`What ails her to read the news?' said the postmaster's
wife producing a paper from her pocket. This only just
come from York; and he brought it when he came in this
noon and then went off and left it after all. So thinks I
I'll take it along—the children won't get it anyway.'
This motion was much approved; and with exemplary
patience and distinctness Miss Clyde read the paper for the
benefit of the meeting. Nor without interest to herself; for
there was much that she wanted to know.
A few paragraphs read, such as `Battle of Bridgewater'—
`Truly British account,' &c. then came,
“Phœbe and Essex—before the capture of the latter.”
`Before the capture of the latter!' said Mrs. Hopper
dropping her work. `Why when on earth or on water was
the Essex taken?'
`It does not say,—it refers to some former account.'
`We lost our last paper,' remarked the postmaster's
wife.
`Then Abijah Hopper's a prisoner and I knew no more
of it than a baby!' said his mother.
There was a pause, even of the knitting-needles, and then
Mrs. Clipper vouchsafed to say,
`He mayn't be took, Mis' Hopper—he might ha' got
away.'
`Got away!' said Mrs. Hopper contemptuously—`skimming
over the ocean like a sea-duck! And what did he go
to sea for, I should like to know?'
`Didn't go to be took, did he?' ventured Mrs. Clipper.
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`Yes he did,' said Mrs. Hopper—`when his time come
and he couldn't help it.'
`'Taint worth while to fret till you do know, Mith
Hopper,' said Maria Jane from her wheel.
`I should like to see myself at it,' said Mrs Hopper,
the little burst of indignation having been eminently useful
in keeping down her anxiety. `Read straight on Miss
Clyde—don't stop for half a piece of news.'
Rosalie read straight on.
“Fortifications at Brooklyn.”
“On Tuesday morning last, the artillery company of
Capt. Clyde (reinforced to the number of about 70 by volunteers
from the seventh ward) with the officers of the third
brigade of infantry under Gen. Mapes, repaired to Brooklyn
for the purpose of commencing the additional fortifications
for the defence of this city. They broke ground about
8 o'clock under a salute from a 6 pounder of Capt. Clyde's,
on the heights southeast of the Wallabout. Gen. Swift
superintended their construction, attended by alderman Buckmaster,
of the corporation committee of defence; and Major
Raynor, commandant of the district, with others, visited and
remained with them through the morning. The weather
was extremely fine, the situation airy and the prospect
beautiful and commanding; and the labour was begun with
a degree of cheerfulness and alacrity highly honourable to
the gentlemen concerned.
“The societies of Printers, Cabinetmakers, Tanners and
Curriers, Cordwainers, Butchers, House-carpenters, Pilots,
officers of the 10th brigade infantry, of the 3d regt. artillery,
students of medicine, sixty hands of the wire factory, and
many others not mentioned, have already volunteered one
day's labour to the construction of these works.”
“The Printers being employed yesterday at Brooklyn
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heights, the publication of this paper was necessarily delayed.”
In quiet talk upon these and other matters, the afternoon
wore away; and as shadows began to stretch across the
road, and the tinkling of cow-bells made itself heard, stockings
were rolled up and the knitters prepared to depart.
`I'll have to wait, I s'pose,' said Mrs. Hopper, as they
walked home; `with just such patience as I can pick up.'
But the anxious feeling seemed to have come up again,
and her walk was too straight and determined.
`You don't think nothing's fallen on Abijah, mother?'
said Jerusha.
`I don't know no more'n you do about it,' said her
mother. `The ship's took—that's one thing,—what the
tother is I can't say. Like enough he's took in her, and
sent off to live with the Britishers.'
`He might be away for a time, in that case,' said Rosalie;
`and then be exchanged for some English prisoner.'
`Maybe so and maybe no,' said Mrs. Hopper. `But
somehow I don't feel as though Abijah was comin' home
no more!'
-- 287 -- p737-292
CHAPTER XXVIII.
And what's a life? the flourishing array
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
—Quarles.
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
Alas he did come, but not as his mother hoped. When the
vessel arrived with the remnant of the Essex crew—released
upon parole—and published her list; it bore this item—
“Abijah Hopper—wounded—died on the passage, one
day from port.”
`My mind misgave me so,' his mother said,—`I had a
feeling in my heart I'd had my last look.' And silence more
deep and profound settled down upon the household; Rosalie
proving herself, as Mrs. Hopper declared between her bursts
of sorrow, `a right down comfort.'
Sorrow had its way but partially, however; Mrs. Hopper
no more chose to be overcome by that than by anything else;
but the composed face and manner with which she presently
went about her ordinary duties, was all the more touching
that its deep gravity was now and then tinctured with impatience
or even pride. Strong feeling would escape in
some direction.
`Get right up off the floor and churn, Jerushy,' she
would say to her weeping daughter. `What's the use of
acting so? the world aint going to stand still for you and
me.'
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`Make the bread, Martha?—what upon earth for should
you spoil a batch of flour? I've got my hands yet—feet too,—
if I haven't got every else.'
And with the pent-up torrent whirling her in its grasp,
she would go round the house and do two women's work at
once. But if perchance Rosalie came to seek her—or without
seeking came in her way; and she met the sweet look
that had known its own sorrow, and felt hers,—Mrs. Hopper
gave way at once; and dropping whatever she had in her
hand would sit down, and as she expressed it `have her cry
out'—then and there.
`I aint a bit better than a fool when I come across you,'
she said on one of these occasions, when the tears were spent
for the time, and she had looked up and saw Rosalie still
standing by her.
`It isn't best to keep up always,' said Rosalie gently,
and sitting down by her on the stairs.
`Oh my!' said Mrs. Hopper, leaning her head back
against the wall—and there was a world of expression in the
words. `I have to keep up out there, or that child would
drive the life out of me. She feels pretty much as Noah
did when the flood come and took all away. She aint used
to trouble yet, poor thing—and 'twon't do her no good to
get used to this sort. There's no more brothers to lose for
her.'
Rosalie almost shivered at the words, and for a moment
she did not speak. Then her hand was laid softly upon
Mrs. Hopper's.
`When the flood came and took all away, those that were
in the ark were safe,' she said.
The hands, toil-worn and toil-hardened, closed upon that
little white messenger of sympathy; and Mrs. Hopper
leaned her face down upon them, the tears again streaming
down her cheeks.
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`Don't you fret yourself,' she said, looking up after a
while. `I'll feel better when he's come and I've done all I
can for him. And I've got to go see to things afore this
day goes over my head. Would you mind going too? It
sha'n't be anywhere to hurt you.'
Rosalie readily promised her company.
`Then I'll come for you when I'm ready,' said Mrs.
Hopper, `and we'll slip out o' the front door and down the
brook,—I don't want Jerushy to go.' And hearing a step
she started up and went off.
After dinner as Rosalie sat alone in her room, Mrs.
Hopper came softly in, with her sunbonnet held down by
her side; and the two went out of the front door and were
soon hid in the trees that hung over the dell.
`I sent 'em all off into the garden to look for a hen's
nest,' said Mrs. Hopper, as they descended towards the
brook, `so we've got ten minutes clear, and that's enough.
Miss Clyde, you aint one of the folks that's easily frighted,
be you?'
`I never was much tried,' said Rosalie, `but I think I
may say no.'
`Some is so 'feerd o' death and all that sort o' thing,'
said Mrs. Hopper, `that they'd only ha' plagued me.' And
without further explanation she began to follow the brook in
its course, with an air of business determination that seemed
a relief to her mind,—bestowing no more words upon
Rosalie, but never failing to give her a hand in the difficult
places.
It was rough going but beautiful. The large moss-covered
stones, dripping with the spray of the brook, stood
in and athwart its bed; now turning the course of the bright
water, and now shining beneath its rush as through a transparent
veil. And at every turn almost, the stream broke
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into little waterfalls, with their mimic roar and tiny eddies of
foam and mock wrecks—twigs and dry leaves and acorns;
and in one or two places a fallen tree had thought to stop
the brook,—but the brook leaped it and went its way laughing.
Rich ferns grew in the moist earth at the brook edge;
and lichens crept over the rocks, and maiden-hair spread
forth its delicate leaf. Fall flowers were there too,—gentian
and the pretty lady's tress, and the purple gerardia. But
Mrs. Hopper went past them or over them without a look,
and did not `draw bridle' until she reached the foot of the
dell and met the yellow light that came streaming in from
the open meadow. Then she turned and looked at her companion.
`I do believe I've run you well nigh off your feet,' she
said.
`O no—I am not tired.'
`Hold on a bit further,' said Mrs. Hopper, `'taint far.'
And crossing the brook she took the diagonal of the broad
meadow through which it wandered; its banks gay with
autumn's embroidery. The summer crop of grass had long
been cut, and over the short after-growth tall cardinal flowers
reared their scarlet heads, and rich golden rods bowed and
bent over the rippling water; and lady's tresses and gentian
had followed it from the dell. A flock of sheep were nibbling
about the meadow, and as the two intruders came up
went bounding off, taking now one bend of the brook and
now another in their way. And straight to the further
corner of the meadow Mrs. Hopper pursued her course, and
over the rail fence which there went angling about as if to
stop her. There was an immediate rise in the ground beyond,
into a stony and scantily clad hill; along the base of
which ran a little footpath. Slowly taking the first steps on
this path, Mrs. Hopper turned again and spoke to Rosalie.
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`We're all but there—see, yonder's the place,' and she
pointed to a little stone-built habitation, which crouched
humbly at the foot of the hill as if asking shelter. A few
slow paces, and then resuming her former rapid gait Mrs.
Hopper soon placed herself in front of the little dwelling.
It was a stone-cutter's, and samples and materials of his
work lay all about. Door stones—slightly smoothed from
their original roughness,—a pile of unappropriated flags,—
and most conspicuous of all, several tall grave stones standing
on end in a finished or half finished state, and sundry
slabs of different coloured marble set apart for the same use.
Mrs. Hopper gave one quick glance about, and then passed
the house and went to the little work-shed in the rear, guided
by regular blows of a mallet and the sharp clink of the
chisel.
`Good evening, neighbour Stryker.'
The old greyheaded man looked up, and with a little
nod of recognition laid down his mallet and pushed back his
hat.
`It's done,' he said with another nod. `Come to see
it?'
Mrs. Hopper gave silent assent, while her hands nervously
untied and tied again her sunbonnet strings.
Mr. Stryker threw down his chisel, and moving leisurely
about among the hard companions that surrounded him,
leisurely whistling too, the while; he lifted one and another
in examination.
`Here,' he said at length,—`this is it.'
Rosalie saw the mother's hands clasp each other tightly
for a moment—then the clasp was loosed and she went forward,
and her friend followed.
It was a plain, dark, grey stone—square and severely
simple, with the name and age in plain black letters at the
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
top. Then came a rudely chiselled ship lifted up on a wave
of its petrified ocean; no bad emblem of the young life-current
so suddenly stayed; and below were these words:—
“Thy servant did descend into the midst of the battle.”
As if it had been an indifferent thing to her, so did Mrs.
Hopper scrutinize every word and letter; pointing out an
undotted i, and a t uncrossed, with a cool decision that they
must be rectified.
`Wal, wal,' said Mr. Stryker—`that's all easy enough,
though nobody'd ever find it out, after all. The rest suits
ye, don't it? pretty clever notion of a ship, aint it? haven't
made a better lookin' stone this some time. He was a
likely boy though, so it's just as well.'
`Fetch your bill!' said Mrs. Hopper, turning almost
fiercely upon him.
`Save us and bless us!' said the old man. `Why I
don't know as it's made out, and'—
`Make it out then,' said Mrs. Hopper. `How long
d'you s'pose me and this lady's agoin' to stand here waitin'
on your slow motions? Your goods and chattels is too
heavy to be run off with afore you get back.'
Mr. Stryker turned towards the house, muttering a little
to himself, and Mrs. Hopper's hands came together again
with that quick clasp. She stood looking at the stone.
“`Thy servant,'” Rosalie said, in a voice so low
that it claimed none but willing attention. `Those sweet
words!'
`Belonged to him if they ever did to anybody,' said his
mother shortly, as if to get her words out while she could.
`He didn't serve two masters—but he served one.'
“`If any man serve me, him shall my Father honour,'”
said Rosalie, in the same tone.
Mrs. Hopper moved her head as if she would have
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
spoken, but no words came—only again her hands were
pressed together, but this time with a joyful difference; and
like a flash her look sought Rosalie's face, and again went
back.
`Here's your bill, missis,' said the old stone-cutter returning.
`Made out pretty consider'ble quick, too.'
`Let's have it,' said Mrs. Hopper, with her former abrupt
tone. `Now neighbour Stryker, you set this all right the
way I told you, and then you take it into the house and
kiver it up close. Don't you let a living soul set eyes on to
it, and then when I send I'll send the money. But if ary
person sees the one, there's no tellin' when you'll see the
t'other. Goodnight t'ye.'
And with rapid steps she followed the little path till they
had turned the hill and the hut was out of sight, and then
went forward to the high road at a more reasonable rate;
but with her face set in stern composure, and in perfect
silence.
`How thankful I am you could put those words there!'
Rosalie said at length, the long breath seeming to bear witness
to sorrowful thoughts in her mind as well. `How
thankful! how glad!'
`Yes—I'm thankful too—I s'pose,' said Mrs. Hopper, in
a kind of choking voice. `I'd like to have 'em go on my
own!'
And again she quickened her pace, nor changed it till
through the gathering twilight they saw the gleam from their
own kitchen windows.
`Bless you, Miss Clyde!' she said then, laying her hand
on Rosalie's arm, and speaking so low that but for their
earnest strength her words would scarce have been heard.
`Bless you a thousand times for going with me!—and more'n
all for not talkin' to me, nor plaguin' me with questions.
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[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
And for sayin' just the right words—I'd forgot all about
'em.'
And with a firm and steady step she opened the kitchen
door, and inquired `why upon earth they hadn't got supper
ready?'
-- 295 -- p737-300
CHAPTER XXIX.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon,
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;
Twinkling vapours arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
Evangeline.
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
Meanwhile Rosalie's own causes of trouble began to press
more heavily. Thornton's letters had now ceased to come at
all,—whether because the camping-out life took more of his
time or more of his thought, his sister could only guess.
Even one of those short half sheets which were in themselves
so unsatisfying would have been most welcome, but none
came; and the papers gave her none but general tidings.
Sometimes she could almost have resolved to go and learn
for herself; but there was Hulda—how could she be either
taken or left?
It was near the close of a September afternoon when she
stood at the window turning over this question in her mind.
Not at the window which faced the dell, but one on another
side of her room, which looked askance as it were towards
the road and the open country. Everything was very still,
only for a little peal of laughter which came every now and
then from some unseen place; though the voice itself was
well known, and said that Hulda's fountain of pleasure knew
nor drought nor hindrance. Save this and a few fall crickets
the silence had no break.
-- 296 --
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
The leaves were beginning to make their bright changes,
and the beautiful gay tints infringed very perceptibly upon
the summer green. Rosalie wondered to herself if changes
were once again creeping over her life,—if what had so long
been was to be no more. And yet—for the mind loves even
surface sparkles on the water rather than its cold depths—
she could hardly take up the thought in a sorrowful way.
Sober it was, as the long shadows that stretched across the
fields; but fair streaks of sunlight lay between, and in them
the fall tints looked bright and hopeful: there was even
comfort in the thought of such beauty-working cold nights
of frost. And when the sun had set, and twilight had taken
her place, then arose the rich after-glow,—as in verification
of the promise, “At evening time it shall be light.”
“I form the light and create darkness. I make peace
and create evil. I, the Lord, do all these things.” And
the quietness of full assent fell on Rosalie's heart.
The glow was brightening now, steadily; as cloud after
cloud caught the signal and lit its own fire, or hung out its
colours of gold or purple or the ashes of sunburnt roses.
And spread over the western sky the purest rose-colour came
flushing up, a fair back-ground to the floating clouds. On
earth the glow rather pervaded than fell on anything,—it was
like looking through a golden atmosphere.
Afar off on the road, where one of its windings stretched
away into the distance, there came slowly along a large
covered wagon. The glow was about it and over it—it
moved through that yellow light—but itself loomed up brown
and dark as before. Slowly it came on,—the two brown
horses upon a quiet walk, the driver using no means to urge
them. It seemed to Rosalie as if darkness fell as they
moved on—as if the glow faded because they came. As if
the clouds could not keep their bright tinges with that wagon
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beneath; and as it came on at the same slow pace and halted
before their gate, she knew it was the answer to Mrs. Hopper's
hopes and fears for her son's return. A startled bird
flew twittering past the window, touching Rosalie with its
own undefined fear, and hastily she turned away and opened
the kitchen door.
She paused on the threshold however, for in the dancing
light of the newly made-up fire Mrs. Hopper sat alone, and
for a wonder doing nothing. The room was scrupulously put
up, the very fire laid with neatness and precision, and every
chair in its place; and the mistress sat in the chimney corner
with an air of nervous listlessness which became her
strangely. At the noise of the door latch she looked up, and
instantly rose; standing still then for one moment with her
hand pressed to her side, she merely said,
`I felt it, Miss Rosalie;'—and then throwing up one of
the kitchen windows which looked towards the barn and
outhouses, she called in a voice that went through the still
evening air without the ringing effect of an ordinary loud
call,
`Jabin! Mr. Mearns!'
then shut the window and came and stood on the hearth
again, without speaking or looking at Rosalie who had not
stirred from her first position. But when there was heard a
low knock at the door, Mrs. Hopper turned and said,
`Don't stop—you can't help me. Go round the house
and keep 'em quiet.' And went forward to open the door.
Rosalie closed hers, and passing swiftly to the front of
the house glided out in the soft cool twilight, and went
round as she had been directed. There was no one to be
seen at first; and then hearing Hulda's merry laugh in the
direction of the barn she crossed the bit of meadow that lay
between, passing the two men as she went, and found Martha
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and Jerusha and Hulda playing with bundles of straw and
each other upon the threshing floor. Here the men had
been at work apparently, for the fanning-mill stood out and
a heap of grain shewed duskily on the floor, overlaid with
the great wooden shovel; and threshed straw and unthreshed
grain were on either side. Through the great wide-open
doors came in a silver strip of moonlight and lay softly
upon the barn floor; and there Hulda frolicked—like a silver-winged
butterfly.
`Alie!' she cried out, and rushed up and threw her arms
round her.
`My stars alive!' Martha said,—`if Miss Rosalie don't
look just like a ghost in the moonshine!'
`Mother aint sick, is she, Miss Clyde?' said Jerusha
timidly.
`No my dear. What are you all about?'
`O we're playing,' said Hulda, darting away with a flying
leap to a distant bundle of straw.
Rosalie sat down on one that lay near the door, and
looked out and looked in with strange feelings. This door
of the barn was toward the house, and she could see its dark
outline, softened here and there by the moonlight, and the
twinkling of candles from the kitchen window. That was
all—the house was too distant to see more, and no sound
crossed the space between. And within the barn there fell
the same moonlight, but upon what different types of humanity.
One little sigh, and another escaped her lips—
then somebody softly touched her hand. It was Jerusha.
`Miss Clyde, it looks lonesome to see you sit there so.
Sha'n't we go back to the house?'
`I guess I'd as good be going to get tea,' said Martha.
`We shall not want tea till I go,' said Rosalie,' and I
am not going yet. The kettle was on some time ago.'
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`O yes—it 'll boil by itself,' said Hulda, with another
spring into the straw bundles.
`I am a sober kind of person at best, Jerusha,' said
Rosalie kindly. `Nothing else looks lonesome, does it?'
`No,' said the girl in a half whisper. `Only it frighted
me when mother called the men, and I've felt scared ever
since. I wanted to go right up, and Martha wouldn't let
me.'
`Martha was quite right. But why were you frightened?'
`I do' know,' said Jerusha, her voice sinking again. `I'm
always so 'fraid of—of—I didn't have but one brother, Miss
Clyde—and it's hard.'
The same shiver that she had felt before passed over
Rosalie. But she spoke quietly.
`Are you afraid to have him come home here to rest?'
`Yes—I do' know,' sobbed the girl. `It seems so
dreadful.'
`Do you remember,' said Rosalie, `what Jesus has said—
“Thy brother shall rise again.” That is as true to you
Jerusha, as it was to the sisters of Lazarus.'
`Yes,' said Jerusha in the same smothered voice, crouching
down by Rosalie and hiding her face against her.
`Poor child—' Rosalie said, and for a moment she
paused, her words suddenly cut off. Then softly she
repeated—
“I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd giveth his
life for the sheep.
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they
follow me: and I give unto them eternal life; and they
shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out
of my hand.”
The sweet words found their way down to the fear as
well as the sorrow of Jerusha's heart, and with a long sigh
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she dried her eyes and looked up. At the same moment her
mother's tall figure stood in the doorway, and the strip of
moonlight was cut off.
She did not speak, but stepped aside as if to let the
others pass; and when they were all out of the barn she
took Jerusha's hand and followed them slowly.
There was a large gathering in the house that night,—
friends, unneeded yet not officious, came and went and
stayed; though these last but few. Rosalie had given up
her sitting room as the best and largest in the house, and
retreated for the time to a smaller one up-stairs which she
used for a bedroom. And there with Hulda sleeping quietly
near her she sat through the long evening, nor even lit a
candle. With what feelings of pain she listened to the busy
steps that went to and fro, making ready the room, and then
to the heavy tread of the men as they brought in the unconscious
one for whom all the preparations were made.
Then everything was hushed, and the house sunk in profound
stillness; and she might sit and think it over. And the weary
thought of the afternoon had in part come back, and she questioned
with herself if such a trial might be awaiting her.
With the stifled feelings of one who breathes in imagined
sorrow, Rosalie went to the window and threw up the
sash. The night was perfectly still. A slight frost in the
air kept down all dampness, and hushed the many insect
voices that were wont to sing; and the stars shone with a
perfect light; but the moon had long since dipped her
crescent beneath the dark woods of the horizon. Rosalie
wrapped herself in a warm shawl and sat down by the open
window; and while she looked and listened the hours went by
with feet as noiseless and swift as her own thoughts.
Suddenly from the room below there came voices; and
in slow soft measure arose this hymn.
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“Forever with the Lord!
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
'Tis immortality.”
Untutored though the voices were, unsoftened by practice
according to any rules, there was a wild kind of sweetness
and force about their music which cultivation could but
have hindered. An earnest belief too, a deep seriousness
and feeling in the words gave them power. The voices
ceased for a while and then began again—this time as it
were for themselves; and though Rosalie's tears flowed as
she listened, the first gush took off all their bitterness.
“Come let us anew our journey pursue,
With vigor arise,
And press to our permanent place in the skies.
Of heavenly birth, though wand'ring on earth,
This is not our place,
But strangers and pilgrims ourselves we confess.
“At Jesus's call, we gave up our all;
And still we forego
For Jesus's sake, our enjoyments below.
No longing we find for the country behind;
But onward we move,
And still we are seeking a country above:—
“A country of joy without any alloy;
We thither repair;
Our hearts and our treasure already are there.
We march hand in hand to Immanuel's land;
No matter what cheer
We meet with on earth, for eternity's here!
“The rougher the way, the shorter our stay;
The tempests that rise
Shall gloriously hurry our souls to the skies:
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The fiercer the blast, the sooner 'tis past;
The troubles that come
Shall come to our rescue, and hasten us home.”
The last words died away on the night air and all was
hushed; and in that hush of feeling as well as sense, the
rest of the night past to one watcher, and the first few
streaks of the morning began to appear. Rosalie looked
to the east, and in the opal unearthly light which flickered
up from the horizon the morning-star rode supreme—
O who that saw could describe it to those who had not
seen!
“`A country of joy without any alloy”—' Rosalie
thought. `Yes—where they have “no need of the sun,
neither of the moon to shine in it; for the glory of God
doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.”—Where
the bright and morning-star shall reign forever—“and
his servants shall serve him. And they shall see his face,
and his name shall be in their foreheads.” Then it will
come—not here.'
-- 303 -- p737-308
CHAPTER XXX.
Thou com'st to use thy tongue: thy story quickly.
—Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
Time went his way as quietly as if he had been about child's
play, and his rough wind seemed to have left no trace.
Except indeed the stillness which followed that sweep through
the house, and the afternoon dress of its mistress. All the
morning she went about her usual work in her usual working
trim—sunbonnet and all; but the toil of the day once ended,
and all sign of it cleared away,—Mrs. Hopper arrayed
herself in deep black, with much more particularity and
regard to appearances than she was wont to use. The rest
of the afternoon was devoted to spinning, and to grave conversation
with Martha or Miss Clyde, or with any neighbour
that might chance to come in.
There Rosalie would find her, when she went out into the
kitchen towards tea time to see if Jabin had gone to the
post-office and had come back; the big wheel whirring round,
the spindle throwing off its long fine thread, with now and
then a break and now and then an added roll.
`Mrs. Hopper, has Jabin gone to the post-office?'
`Haint thought a word o' the post since morning, Miss
Rosalie. Jerushy, go see.'
And Rosalie would come and stand with folded hands
before the fire.
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`What's the good of expectin' letters all the time?' said
Mrs. Hopper, running down the long thread of yarn with
skilful fingers.
`Not much good,' said Rosalie. `One ought to come,
and so I expect it.'
`Things oughtn't to come till they do,' said Mrs.
Hopper.
`No—that is true, in the large sense.'
`'Taint worth while to take small sense,' said Mrs. Hopper,—
`just as well have plenty while you're about it.'
`There's no letters,' said Jerusha returning. `Jabin
saw Mr. Squill himself, and there warnt but two letters come
this morning at all—the bag hadn't nothing else into it;
and one o' them was his'n, and 'tother was for the minister.'
`Feel disappointed?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Yes—somewhat.'
`No need,' said her hostess. `No news is always good
news—firstrate. And you couldn't hope for one o' the letters,
when there come but two.'
And Mrs. Hopper spun her wheel round and round with
a degree of spirit that seemed to say she was speaking her
mind with some force to somebody.
Rosalie thought she could not hope for letters much
longer; and in that mood she sat with Hulda at breakfast
next morning; giving wistful glances now and then at the
bright fire which tempered the cool air within, and the bright
sunlight which did the same work without. The night had
been frosty, and long streaks of white lay upon the fields
instead of shadows between the sunbeams.
`Miss Rosalie,' said Martha presenting herself with hot
toast, `Jabin wants to know if he 'll go to the post-office
this noon afore he comes home, or if night 'll do?'
`How is your foot, Martha?'
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`Here,' said Miss Jumps,—`large as life, if 'taint no
larger.'
`Could you walk so far without hurting it?'
`Guess I could,' said Miss Jumps. `Wouldn't like to
say what it might do on its own account.'
Rosalie looked out of the window again, and quickly
resolved that she would be her own bearer of despatches.
`I will go myself, Martha.'
`Afoot?' said Martha. `Or will you take Stamp Act
along for company?'
`O I will ride of course, unless they want the horse on
the farm.'
`Can't have him if they do,' said Martha. `He's be-spoke,—
or will be just as soon as I can come at the back
door.'
`Stay Martha!' Rosalie called, `I will go and see about
it myself.' And taking Hulda, she went forth to where
Jabin was splitting pine knots for Mrs. Hopper's spinning
light.
He readily undertook to catch the horse, or at least to
try; for Stamp Act was disporting himself in the adjoining
meadow with colts and horses of every degree. Jabin however
took an old rusty pan of salt and a bridle, and went
off; and Rosalie and Hulda stood still to see the fun.
Now it was apparent that the bridle in some degree
nullified the salt, for though the horses stretched out their
heads and snuffed and neighed and walked about Jabin, till he
was quite surrounded; none but the younger ones who had
never been caught would approach his offered handful.
Jabin whistled and tried all manner of blandishments and
conjurations—shook the salt pan and handed out the salt;
and the horses looked, and walked round and took up a new
position and then looked.
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`'Taint no sort o' use to try 'em here,' Jabin called out.
`If Jerushy and Martha 'll come out and help I'll drive 'em
into the barnyard.'
Jerusha and Martha came accordingly, the one to run and
the other to stand; for while Martha was to watch at a particular
turn of the road and head them off, Jerusha took
stand behind her on the chip yard to guard a large expanse
of ground between the garden and the barn, in case the first
barrier should prove insufficient.
Meantime Jabin had let down the bars, and having gone
to the end of the field was now slowly driving the horses
before him. Their pace quickened however as they came out
into the road and perceived that the barnyard was their
destination; and passing that with a scornful toss of her
head, the leader, a beautiful black mare, trotted on towards
Martha. Here was a pause,—the road was narrow, the
barn on one side, the fence on the other, and Martha with
her big stick displayed in front. The horses turned and
walked back—there was Jabin with his bridle. There was
a moment's consultation, the horses putting their heads
together: but as Jabin began to draw near, the black mare
raised her head and with a loud neigh charged down upon
Martha,—plunging forward, with tail thrown out and mane
tossed upon the wind, and hoofs beating a rapid and sounding
gallop. Martha gave way, and on went the whole drove.
The black one first, flinging out her heels as she passed, then
a grey colt, then a fine roan, then Stamp Act and Lord North
in an overplus of glee, then another black, a bay colt, a sorrel,
and so on until seventeen were passed,—after which came a
rolling cloud and silence.
`That's what you call kickin' up a dust,' said Martha, as
Jabin followed in the train of the horses.
`'Taint what I call a stoppin' it,' said Jabin, who looked
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very hot and dusty with running and calling Whoa. `If
Jerushy don't stop 'em they may run!'
The horses had clustered at the top of the hill before Jerusha's
sunbonnet and were again in doubt. Then the black
leader wheeled and charged down hill, the whole troop following;
but this time into the barnyard,—for with Martha and
Jerusha uniting their forces, the array of sticks was too
imposing, and the horses submitted to superior force.
It was early yet when Rosalie set forth, and the frost
was scarce off the ground, it crisped and cracked beneath
Stamp's feet, who probably liked his exemption from farm
duty or felt exhilarated with the stampede, for he went along
at a good pace.
There was great beauty abroad that morning. The
Indian corn fast ripening for the garner, the bright yellow
pumpkins gleaming out beneath,—the stubble fields with
their grazing flocks of sheep,—the green meadows spotted
with cattle, or with a drove of horses grouped about some
great tree,—buckwheat and flax in a state of ripening perfection,
and the light of plenty and peace upon everything.
The brooks had filled up since the summer droughts, and
tumbled and murmured along—the only murmur that is
not complaining,— the mills were busy—the road filled from
time to time with the great farm wagons and their o'ertopping
loads of grain. In such a case Rosalie and Stamp
turned out, and took no more of the road than its flowery edge,
and no more of the grain than a mouthful. Stamp was
pretty sure to get that, by some adroit turn of his head.
The fall flowers were beautiful by the way side—and when
not strictly beautiful very showy. Tall elecampane and
golden rod among the yellows, and yarrow and everlasting
for the whites; with cardinal flower and blue gentian and
pink-tinted snake root. In the boggy places where the
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brooks now and then spread out and stayed their swift course,
tufts of green rushes waved gracefully in the fall wind, and
immense green bullfrogs splashed down into the water at
the first sound of Stamp's feet.
At every house might be seen marigolds and balm and
feverfew in full glory; with now and then a drooping cranberry,
loaded with scarlet fruit; and at every back door were
strings of drying apples, and sieves of `sweet corn' and
currants, and bunches of onion heads. Chickens trooped
about the barns and fattened upon the scattered grain; and
the flails beat regular and musical time on the sounding
floor. Business, comfort, and beauty walked over the land;
and its face wore the smile of a well-fed child—fair and fat.
There was more ethereal beauty overhead, in the blue sky
and fleecy white clouds; and health and exhilaration in the
cool mountain air, which sometimes swept Stamp's mane
and tail quite out of the sphere in which they were placed
by nature.
Rosalie rode on much at her leisure; partly to please
her own mood and eyesight, partly because Stamp's most
rapid pace savoured a little too much of the perpendicular;
therefore she rather held him in. She was also willing, perhaps
unconsciously, to prolong the pleasure of hope, and
was in no haste to meet disappointment if one awaited her.
And though as she neared the little hamlet that clustered
about the post-office she quickened Stamp's pace to a round
trot, and reined him up sharply before the office door; there
was only enough expectation left to give a keener edge to
the words,
`No, Miss Clyde—no letters—sorry to say, if you want
'em.'
And Rosalie turned and rode home as slowly as before,
at least for half the way; and then her admonitions were
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so frequent that Stamp at last understood that a perpetual
trot was expected of him.
`For gracious!—how you do come clattering up!' said
Martha Jumps who was sunning herself at the back door.
`Fine day, aint it Miss Rosalie?'
`Very fine.'
`Something more'n common, I thought,' said Martha.
`And Hulda's out after sweet apples with Jerushy. Miss
Rosalie, if I was you I'd take off my skirt here and let me
take it up stairs, and not go trapesing through the whole
house that fashion.'
`Why not? I always do.'
`'T won't hurt you to do something now and then by
way of a change,' said Martha. `Me and Tom Skiddy always
took turns runnin' up the back stairs and down the front. I've
fetched your other skirt here too—but have it your own way.'
`I am not so fond of this particular way,' said Rosalie as
she made the change. `I believe yours is the most convenient.'
`Look here!' said Martha, as her young mistress moved
towards the door leading to the hall, `don't you go through
there, neither. Jerushy's been washing up the front entry,
and it's just as wet as sop. Go across the kitchen and
through your sitting room—then you won't have to but just
cross the wet. Furthest way round's the surest way home
nine times out o' ten. This aint the tenth, neither.'
If Rosalie could have seen the little shake of Martha's
head which followed these words, her eyes would have been
better prepared for the sight which met them as she entered
the sitting-room; for Mr. Raynor stood by the window,
half leaning against it, with folded arms, and looking down
into the dell where ran the brook; he turned as the door
opened just to see Rosalie's painful start.
A start of pain—for why had he come? and to tell her
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what? She closed the door and stood still as if to gather
breath.
`You need not be afraid of me,' Mr. Raynor said, coming
forward and taking both her hands. `I bring you no
bad tidings.'
She drew the breath then, long and wearily, and bringing
her forward to the fire, Mr. Raynor placed a chair for her
and took one himself.
Rosalie untied her hat, as if even those light strings
choked her, but she asked no question.
`How long is it since you have learned to distrust my
word?' said her companion with a slight smile that was very
reassuring.
Rosalie's paleness gave way a little, and she looked up
less fearfully, and smiled herself.
`You must forgive me Mr. Raynor. Is Thornton well?'
`No, not quite well: he is better.'
`He has been sick then?'
`Yes, very sick—for many weeks. But he is now so
near well that you need feel nothing but gladness.'
`O Mr. Raynor! why did you not tell me before? why
did you not send for me?' Rosalie said.
She was answered by one of those rare smiles that needed
no words to help its meaning. The eyes went down
again and the question was not repeated.
`He has not wanted for care,' said Mr. Raynor quietly,—
`he has had what man could do—I will not say that is
what woman can. Does that content you?'
`But half.'
`It may as well,' he said after a minute's pause. `And
it were better that you should look a little less pale,—a
little more strong. I know not when you will be fit to see
Thornton at this rate.'
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`Where is he?'
`Not within your reach to-night. If you are well enough
you may see him to-morrow.'
`Ah do not talk about me,' she said; and the tears came
then. But she sprang up and left the room.
Not for long,—and though when she came back her face
wore the sobered and tendered look of long anxiety and
deeply stirred feeling; yet the nervous excitement had
passed off with the tears, and she could look and speak
quietly. And quietly she sat there before the fire while Mr.
Raynor gave her the long account; scarce interrupting him
unless with a look.
`You may expect to see him to-morrow, Mr. Raynor
said in conclusion, `and I came on before to bring you word.
Dr. Buffem advised that he should spend three or four weeks
in the strength-giving country air.'
`And then?' said Rosalie.
`I did not ask his further plans—not feeling sure that
they would agree with my own.'
There was a pause.
`You say he will come to-morrow?' Rosalie said at
length.
`If I find him no worse to night.'
`To-night? are you going back to him to-night?'
`Yes, he will expect me.'
`O,' said Rosalie starting up, `then I will go too and
see him at once!'
`No you will not,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Wherefore?'
`Because I shall not take you,' he answered with a little
smile, looking up at her as she stood before him.
`That is a very arbitrary reason,' said Rosalie, her cheeks
flushing as she resumed her seat.
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`Very—but not to be gainsaid. You are much better
here, and I should deserve I know not what, were I to let
you go.'
`You are coming back with him to-morrow?'
`No.'
`It seems to me you are all at cross purposes to-day,'
said Rosalie.
`No, not cross purposes—very kind ones; or at the least
needful.'
`But do you care so little for strength-giving air?' said
Rosalie with some hesitation,—`or is your time too precious?
Shall we not see you here again?'
`Perhaps,'—he said with that same relaxing of the
lips. `I do not know how it will be. And my time is not
too precious to spend here, but it must be given to less precious
things. Are you sure you are quite able to give
Thornton what care he needs at present?'
`O yes, it will do me good.'
`I hope it will,' Mr. Raynor said more gravely. `Few
things seem to have done that this summer.'
`Why I am perfectly well,' said Rosalie.
`Which puts the health of other well people a good deal
above perfection.'
`It is best to rest contented with what one has,' said
Rosalie lightly. `And I have been doing what I could to
make myself well,—so do not you put it into Thornton's
head that I am not, Mr. Raynor.'
`And I cannot rest contented with what I have, nor until
I have you. May I put that into his head?'
`Oh no!'
`Why not?'
She did not say why not, but the fluttering colour in her
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cheeks was a little distressful. His next words were spoken
in that old tone she remembered so well.
`You may rest—I shall say nothing without your leave.
I think you have the warrant of past experience that I will
do nought to trouble you.'
Her look in return was very grateful; and if the drooping
eyelids could not quite conceal why they drooped, it was
no matter of regret to at least one person.
`You are in safe hands,' Mr. Raynor said,—`stronger and
wiser and kinder than mine—that ought to give me a sort
of rest, and does. But dear Rosalie, take better care of
yourself, for my sake. You must let me say so much, and
so much you must do.'
She watched him ride off in the fair autumn light as she
had watched Thornton so many weeks before. But about
her brother fear and sorrow had thrown their shadows—now
she looked through an atmosphere of perfect trust. Probably
she did not recognize the rainbow which this sunshine
made from the lingering tear-drops in her eyes, but it was
there, nevertheless.
-- 314 -- p737-319
CHAPTER XXXI.
His sweetness won a more regard
Unto his place, than all the boist'rous moods
That ignorant greatness practiseth.
—Ben. Jonson.
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`You have seen her!' was Thornton's exclamation, when
Mr. Raynor entered his room about eight o'clock that
evening.
`Certainly—for an hour.'
`And what did she say? is she well?'
`She said she was well.'
`Does she want to see me?' was Thornton's next
question, but put in a different tone.
`You do not deserve to see her, for even asking,' said
his friend. `How are you? let me feel your hand.'
`O I am well enough,' said Thornton, throwing himself
into the other corner of his easy-chair—`or should be, if my
head would stop turning round. But after all, Henry, what
makes you say that? you know as well as I do that I don't
deserve to have her care whether I am alive or dead.'
`Then go further back, and say that you do not deserve
to have such a sister. Never ask me whether Rosalie is
herself still. What is the matter with your head?'
`Turns round, that's all,' said Thornton. `Waltzes—
seeing my feet have not the power. How cool your hand
is! a very quaker touch, and my head stops waltzing.'
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[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
`What machinery set it agoing?'
`I dont know—' said Thornton with another fling. `Or
at least it is not worth while to inquire.'
`Very worth while, for you. In the mean time sit still.
I have quaker prejudices against a general waltz.'
`Well you keep your hand still then,' said Thornton
laughing. `Now tell me every word that Rosalie said.
And in the first place, Sir Henry, I think quite as highly of
her as you do.'
`I should be glad to think so,' said Mr. Raynor quietly.
`Well think so then!' said Thornton with an impatient
gesture. `You are not obliged to admire her any more
than I do, at all events. Was her conversation so sweet
and pleasant that you have scruples about repeating it?'
`On the contrary the words spoken were mostly my own,
and Rosalie said but little.'
`Rosalie again!' said Thornton. `Why will you always
call her so?'
`Merely because it suits me.'
`But other people do not.'
`Other people have their way and I have mine.'
You have it in most things, to do you justice,' said
Thornton. `Well will it suit you to tell me what she did
say?'
`She asked how you were, and why she had not been
sent for; and wished very much to come directly to you
to-night.'
`The gypsey!' said Thornton looking pleased. `Well
why didn't she?'
`Because my wish was different.'
`What do you mean by that, Mr. Raynor? said Thornton
facing round upon him.
`The simple truth.'
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`Very peculiar truth to my ears,' said Thornton. `What
had you to say about it?'
`I did say that I should not bring her.'
`And she submitted?'
`Certainly,—she could not well come alone.'
Thornton kicked off his slipper to the furthest corner of
the room—then subsided.
`You are so excessively cool!' he said—`and slippery
to match. Do you never congeal in the course of a conversation?
'
`Not often,' said Mr. Raynor—
—“He that lets
Another chafe, may warm him at his fire.'”
`What else was said?' inquired Thornton abruptly.
`I gave your sister a very particular account of your
weeks of illness, the beginning thereof, and the state in which
they had left you: told her that probably you would be
with her to-morrow, and that she need feel neither sorrow
nor anxiety about your health.'
`Hum—' said Thornton. `What else?'
`That is the substance of what was said about you.'
`What about anything else?'
`Nothing that I think it worth while to repeat.'
`But I think it worth while that you should,' said
Thornton. `And I think I have a right to know all that
is said to my sister by anybody, or by her to anybody.'
`I think differently.'
`I don't care what you think,' said Thornton starting up
from his chair.
`And I care what you do,' said Mr. Raynor, with
strong though gentle hands bringing him back to a resting
posture. `Sit quiet Thornton, and throw not away the
little strength you have gained.'
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`Little indeed!' said Thornton bitterly, as he felt it by
no means up to the resisting point. `But you may take
your hands away—I suppose I can sit still without being
held.'
One hand still kept its guard however, but the other
laid that same cool touch on his forehead, and for a little
while there was silence. Mr. Raynor stood motionless,
and Thornton tired with the excitement into which he had
wrought himself, was nearly as still; a quick breath or two
escaping like pent up steam from time to time.
`What do you vex me for, Henry?' he said at length.
`I did not intend it.'
`But you know it always vexes me to see you so cool.'
`I may not vex myself to please you, Thornton,' said
his friend.
`And Rosalie—you know I never can bear to hear you
talk about her.'
`You insisted that I should.'
`Well but—' said Thornton,—`of course I did, but not
in that way. How did she look?'
`I fear any description I might give would be too much
in `that way,” said Mr. Raynor.
`You are certainly the most provoking man I ever had
to deal with. Did she look as well as she used to?'
`As she used to when?'
`Why always!' said Thornton.
`Her health has had several phases since I first knew
her,' said his friend gravely. `She is perhaps looking better
than she was last spring, and will I hope improve faster
now that her mind is at rest about you,—partly at rest.'
Thornton could have been vexed again, but the words
touched him on more points than one.
`Did you see Hulda?' he inquired.
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`No, she was out.'
`May she always be that when I am there!' said Thornton,
his illhumour rushing off into that channel. `When one
cannot walk away from a disturbance, one is glad to have it
save one the trouble.'
`I see you are not cured yet, Thornton,' Mr. Raynor
said.
`What do you mean by not cured?' said Thornton kicking
off his other slipper.
`I did hope that this fever might bear off some other
maladies. Meanwhile if you will put on these slippers which
stand by your chair, it may be the better for your bodily
health.'
`I am not apt to take cold in my feet,' said Thornton,
thrusting his toes into the slippers—from which however
the whole foot gradually worked in. `What particular maladies
do you suppose me afflicted with?'
`Some much akin to that which befell Christiana's son
in the Pilgrim's Progress, when he eat of the fruit of Beelzebub's
orchard,' replied Mr. Raynor. `But he was willing
to take the cure.'
The anger which had flushed into Thornton's face at the
first words, faded away when he heard the last. And even
the show of it was hard to keep up.
`You talk knowingly of the disease, and think the cure
easy to get,' he said. `That is the way with Rosalie—and
I suppose with all paragon people.'
“`Is there no balm in Gilead?'” said Mr. Raynor's
deep grave voice; “Is there no physcian there? why then
is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?'”
Thornton could almost have put his hands over his face
and wept. For if the cause of all his impatience could have
been traced out, it would have been found not so much in
-- 319 --
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his bodily weakness as in those other ailments to which his
friend referred; or rather in his consciousness of them.
Neither his long weeks of illness nor the living presence of
his friend had lost their work; but his mind was only stirred
up and roiled—not clear nor at rest. For a half hour he
sat there, striving to control himself enough to speak without
shewing any emotion; and then it was hid but with a
poor veil of carelessness.
`If you feel obliged to stand at the back of my chair all
the time, Mr. Raynor, I shall feel obliged to go to bed.
You must be tired after your day's journey.'
`It is the best thing you can do,' said Mr. Raynor
quietly.
And Thornton went to bed, trying hard to persuade
himself that he was a very ill-used person, and by the time
he went to sleep was pretty well established in that pleasant
conviction; but when he woke up in the night, and saw his
friend still watching over him,—sometimes standing at his
side, sometimes by the light with that little Bible in his
hand which had for Thornton's eyes a strange fascination,—
he was forced to change his mind. When he awoke in
the morning Mr. Raynor sat before the fire with his head
resting on his hand, but at the first movement Thornton
made he came to him.
`You are better this morning,' Mr. Raynor said, when
he had felt Thornton's head and hand and had taken his
usual grave survey of his countenance.
Thornton looked up at him and repeated his last night's
question—
`What do you vex me for, Henry?' And for almost the
first time in his life Mr. Raynor answered him with a smile.
`Well, why do you?' said Thornton.
`Why do you vex yourself?' said Mr. Raynor, his clasp
-- 320 --
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of Thornton's hand a little closer. The feeling of last
night rose up in Thornton's eyes,—he closed them and was
silent.
`I am absolutely sorry to part with you, and to give you
up into other hands,' said Mr. Raynor—`even though those
be the best possible.'
`Part with me!' said Thornton. `That is what you
shall not do. You are going with me to White Oak?'
`No.'
`You must!'
`It is so short a journey,' said Mr. Raynor, `and you
seem so well this morning—I think you can ride there with
only Tom's attendance.'
Thornton began the business of dressing with his mind
hard at work.
`But I shall want you there,' he said.
`Not when you have seen Rosalie.'
`I wish she was anywhere else!' said Thornton, with
his usual attempt at diversion. `Such a place to go to for
three weeks!'
`Such a beautiful place.'
`The beauties of nature are not in my line,' said Thornton.
`Then you are out of your own,' said his friend.
`As how, Mr Raynor?'
`Something is wrong when the most pure and beautiful
things the world can shew give no pleasure. If sweet
music seem to make discord there must be discordant notes
within.'
Thornton finished his dressing and breakfasting in comparative
silence, and even Mr. Raynor said little, and
seemed willing to let him muse if he felt inclined. Breakfast
over, the carriage came to the door and Thornton set
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forth on his short journey. For a few miles Mr. Raynor's
horse was by his side, and the rider from time to time
called his attention to some notable thing in the landscape.
But when they stopped for an hour that Thornton and the
horses might rest, Mr. Raynor ordered a fresh horse for himself
to be got ready immediately.
`Are you going no further with me?' Thornton said.
`No further. This is your road—that is mine.'
`And when am I to see you again?' said Thornton, who
looked disturbed at the prospect.
`When you come back to the city I hope,' said his
friend. `And what am I to hear from you in the mean
time?'
`O that I am as well as ever again, I presume,' said
Thornton.
`And no better?'
Thornton flushed a little, but instead of flinging away
the hand he held—as he would have done some months before—
he only swung it backwards and forwards, and was
silent.
`Are you so unwilling to take up the lightest and
sweetest service to which a man can submit himself?' said
Mr. Raynor.
`It seems so to you—' said Thornton,—`it does not to
me.'
`Nor ever will until you try it. When the doubtful
ones asked Jesus, “Master, where dwellest thou?” he
said unto them, “Come and see.” “If any man will
do his will he shall know of his doctrine,” and of his service.
Or as Rutherford says; “Come and see will teach
thee more—come nearer will say much.'”
`Well—' Thornton said in a very unsatisfied tone.
`Let it be well, dear Thornton, for more sakes than your
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own.' In silence the hands were clasped and parted, and
Mr. Raynor rode away.
Thornton looked after him as long as even a dusty
trace could be seen, and then returned to the beauties of
nature with a mind very unfit for their contemplation. The
quiet depth of the blue sky disturbed him, and made his
own spirit seem dark and cloudy,—the bright sun threw
shadows upon his mind of less fair proportions than those
upon the landscape; and the sweet voice of birds and winds
and brooks was too pure, too praise-giving,—too much like
the children crying hosanna in the ears of the offended
Jews. It was an unbroken concert, but Thornton's instrument
was not in tune. Everything jarred—he shook hands
with nothing; and by turns sad or impatient he drove
wearily along, until in the afternoon light Mrs. Hopper's
gate appeared before him, and the journey was at an end.
-- 323 -- p737-328
CHAPTER XXXII.
Omission to do what is necessary,
Seals a commission to a blank of danger.
—Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
If Thornton had never before seen the perversity of human
nature he had abundant cause now. Much as he had wished
to be with his sister, often as he had resolved that for the
future she should have no reason to complain of him—that he
would be at least part of her happiness,—it seemed as if when
the trial came every current set the wrong way. He had
wished to prove to her that he was as good as other people,
and he was worse than himself.
Rosalie spent her strength upon him most unweariedly;
though less in doing than in watching,—in trying to amuse
him, in hoping that he would be amused. But her efforts
met with little success. A cloud of moodiness had settled
down upon Mr. Clyde, and he seemed in no mind to come
out of it. Indeed his attempts at coming out were rather
unfortunate, and were as apt to land him in a fit of impatience
as anything. His mind was not fitted to bear up
against weakness of body—or was itself out of order; and
either craved old associates or the other extreme of something
new. Nothing satisfied him, not even Rosalie's
watchful love; though he was more ready than of old to
-- 324 --
[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
appreciate its working; but if he shook off his moodiness at
all, it was generally with such a fling as sent a reminder of
the mood into the face of every one present—after which he
relapsed tenfold. And though quite able to ride or to walk,
in moderation, he was with difficulty persuaded to do either;
and nature's sweet influences had small chance to try their
hand upon him.
`Are you sure it would not do you good to go out?'
Rosalie said one day as he sat by the fire. `I am so sure
that it would.'
`What use?' said Thornton. `I can imagine pigs without
the help of eyesight.'
`You cannot imagine sunshine,' said his sister, with
a playful attempt to make him raise his head and look out.
`No—nor feel it if I go. There is nothing to see here.'
`But there you are mistaken. There is a great deal
that is worth seeing.'
`Probably—to canary birds,' said Thornton.
`O there are a great many birds here,' said Hulda.
`Sparrows, and robins, and'—
`Take yourself off to their neighbourhood then—or keep
quiet,' said her brother. `You must not talk if you stay here.
Why don't you go and pick up apples with Martha as you
did yesterday?'
`Because Martha's talking to Tom Skiddy,' said Hulda,
`and I don't like to.'
`When they have talked each other into a wedding they
will be easy,' said Thornton.
`Ask Jerusha to go with you Hulda,' said her sister.
`Take my little basket and fill it for me, and by and by I
will walk with you.' And as Hulda left the room Rosalie
came and knelt down by her brother.
`What is the matter with you dear Thornton? You
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will never get strong in this way, and it troubles me very
much.'
Thornton put his arm round her and drew her head
down upon his breast.
`You are not more tired of me Alie, than I am of
myself.'
`I am not tired of you,' said his sister weeping,—`you
know that.'
`I should think you might be. Why don't you go and
take care of Mr. Raynor, and leave me alone?'
She was silent a moment.
`Why do you ask me such a question?'
`For the pleasure of hearing you answer it.'
`That would not make me happy.'
`Then what would?'
There was answer even in the slight movement of her
head before she spoke.
`What would?' Thornton repeated.
`To see you what I call happy, I believe,' said his sister.
Thornton drew a long breath—or rather breathed one
out—as if that were a thing he might whistle for sooner than
get; and for some time there was not a word spoken. Then
Thornton began again.
`I used to wonder sometimes, in those long hot nights
when I lay sick in my tent, that he did not administer poison
instead of medicine. And sometimes I almost wished that
he would—then you would be taken care of, and I should be
in nobody's way.'
`I am sure he never suggested that last idea,' said
Rosalie.
`No, to do him justice,' said Thornton, `he never mentioned
your name unless I did. And he took as tender care
of me as if I were his own brother—or perhaps I should
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[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]
say yours. There was no make believe in it though. Yes
Alie, I was forced to give up my dislike, and to agree to all
the praises you would have spoken had you dared. He is a
man to trust.'
There was pleasure in hearing these words,—but for the
cold, unenjoying tone, Rosalie would have felt it strongly.
As it was the pleasure was qualified; and her quiet
`I am glad you think so,'
told of both feelings. She waited long for Thornton to speak
again, but his lips did not move; and slowly she arose and
went to give Hulda the promised walk: her voice and eye
following the child's merry pranks, and all her thoughts left
at home. She could hardly have told whether the walk was
long or short, and most like her brother could not; for when
Rosalie again entered the sitting-room he had not stirred
from his former position—had not even changed the hand
which supported his head. Rosalie came up and laid her
hand on it, but the soft touch called forth no words, and in
silence she sat down to await the coming in of tea. The
meal passed with equal taciturnity; Hulda went to bed, and
Rosalie sat down as before—her eyes apparently seeking
counsel of the little wood fire, which flashed into their bright
depths with great vivacity. How grave they were, how
thoughtful! catching none of the fire's dance.
`It strikes me,' said Thornton suddenly, `that you and
I have done thinking enough for one night, Alie. What say
you?'
`I don't know.'
`Why don't you know?'
`I suppose,' she said, with one of her fair looks up at
him, `I suppose if we have been thinking unprofitable
thoughts, it might be well to give the mind some better refreshment
before the body takes its own.'
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`What do you call unprofitable thoughts?' said Thornton.
`Fruitless ones—or such as bearing fruit, are yet shaken
off too soon, before it be ripe.'
`You have covered the whole ground for me,' said Thornton.
`I had better begin again. I wonder if yours have
been worth a silver penny?'
`Not to you—and some of them more than that to me.'
`Suppose you were to indulge me with the hearing thereof,
' said Thornton,—`just by way of a lesson in fruitful
thinking.'
`Truly,' said his sister, `my best thoughts were not my
own, but drawn from a little hymn of Wesley's.'
`Give us the hymn then,' said Thornton. `Are you the
only alchymist who can fetch gold from thence?'
`The gold is of an ancient stamp,' said his sister sadly,
`and little thought of in the alloyed currency of this world;
for it bears the impress of the first commandment—not
“Cæsar's image and superscription.”
“Lord, in the strength of grace,
With a glad heart and free;
Myself, my residue of days,
I consecrate to thee.
“Thy ransomed servant I
Restore to thee thine own;
And from this moment live or die,
To serve my God alone.'”
Thornton looked at his sister while she repeated these
words,—felt that she had found the gold, that it was in her
hand—and knew that his own was empty. And why? He
was ready to say it was so because so it was to be; but those
words came back to him again—
“With a glad heart and free”—
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and to none had Rosalie's face given more strong assent and
effect.
`Do you like it, Thornton?' she said, drawing up closer
to him.
`Seems like pure metal, my dear,' he answered carelessly.
`I presume my ready money would scarce exchange for it
without a pretty heavy discount.'
Rosalie looked at him, as if she thought and truly that
just then he was counterfeiting; but his face gave her no
invitation to speak, and her eyes went back to the fire.
When she turned to him again, however, and somewhat suddenly,
he was regarding her with a grave abstracted sort of
look, as if from her his thoughts had taken a wide range:
not into the pleasant regions.
`What can you possibly be musing about, Thornton?'
she said.
`There are a great many things about which I could
possibly be musing, Alie.'
`Only that you were not apt to muse at all.'
`I doubt I am getting into bad habits then—you are such
a muse-inviting little object.'
`Am I?' said Rosalie smiling. `What ideas do I
suggest?'
`Various ones of human perfection.'
“`The spirits of just men made perfect,'” Rosalie said.
`That will be a fair thing to see!'
`For those that see it,' said Thornton with some bitterness.
But he wished the words unsaid—her quick look up
at him was so humble, and at the same time so full of pain.
`What makes you speak so, Thornton?'
`What makes you look so, Alie?' he said with his old
light tone. `It is not possible that you think all men need
perfecting? The gentleman who took care of me so lately,
-- 329 --
[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
for instance—how could he be any better than he is? I am
afraid you undervalue him.'
`O Thornton! I cannot jest with you after such words.'
`Jest! no,' he said, but something in her eye checked
him,—he turned away and rested his head on his hand as
before. Rosalie came and laid her hand on it again—laid
her cheek there too, but he did not move.
`What troubles you, brother?'
`Why do you suppose that anything does?'
She did not answer—as being needless, and he added,
`You had better go to bed, Alie—take care of yourself,
my dear, if you cannot of me. I feel as if I had you in
trust.'
`Only me?' she said sorrowfully.
`Only you!' said Thornton rousing himself, for the implication
was not pleasant. `You are a reasonably precious
trust, some people think. And I shall have to account
pretty strictly for all the pale cheeks that you carry back to
town.'
“`And every one of us shall give account of himself to
God,'” she answered in a low voice, her lips touching his
forehead. But she waited for no reply, and left the room.
For the first time since he had been there, Thornton
went softly in to look at her when he went up-stairs and she
lay asleep; as much perhaps because he was tired of himself,
and tired of remembering his own existence, as anything.
And certainly if contrast could make him forget, the end
was gained.
Existence had been no burden to her, and life no failure—
what though it was crossed with anxieties and disappointments,—
they were all according to that higher will to which
hers was submitted. Life could be no failure,—the purpose
of God must stand, and she wished none other.
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It was a strange point to reach, Thornton thought, as he
stood watching her calm face, and felt that whatever shadows
lay there came not from discontent. Could he ever reach
it? was it not rather of nature than of grace? It was
easier for a woman—with her gentler spirit and its few out-lets.
There came up before him the image of one whose
nature was at least as strong as his own, in whom manhood
was not better grown than Christianity; but he put it away
and looked at Rosalie. And then with a bitter wish that he
were like her—or like anybody in the world but himself, he
stooped down and softly kissed the lips whose repose he so
much envied.
They stirred a little, though he caught no words, and
with a long sigh Rosalie folded her hands upon her breast
as if she were making a last appeal. Then they relaxed
and lay quiet as before, and the lips were still; and Thornton
went away with a quick step, feeling that from her his
questions could get no answer such as they wished. Any
excuse—any belief which would throw the responsibility off
himself, he could bear,—he could bear to be unhappy and
discontented, so it touched not his own omissions. If he
could have persuaded himself that he was necessarily restless
and ill at ease, it would have gone far towards curing
the evil.
`What nonsense!' he repeated to himself again and again—
`I never could quiet myself down to her temper, if I tried
all my life'—and then he remembered that he had never
tried for one day.
This was not the way to get to sleep, however, as he
sagely remarked; and having banished all grave thoughts
with such vigorous efforts as he would not have bestowed
upon acting them out, sleep followed—unbroken till Sunday
morning had dawned, and its atmosphere of rest lay over the
wide landscape.
-- 331 --
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
There were sounds astir—but all sweet, all soothing.
The twittering of the birds, the tinkle of the cow bells as
their four-footed wearers wound slowly along the meadow-course
of the brook,—a hum of voices from the chip-yard,
where Martha and Tom were comparing notes with Jabin,—
and nearer still a voluntary from Hulda—who standing out in
the sunshine sang her morning hymn with birdlike freedom
and enjoyment. When another voice joined hers, and gave
strength and clearness to the tune and distinctness to the
words, Thornton closed his window and betook himself with
great earnestness to the business of dressing.
But though that business was finished with much elaboration,
Thornton would not go to church; and Rosalie staid
with him. Everybody else went, and the house was left in
utter solitude; with windows closed and doors bolted, and
Trouncer the old bull-dog lying in the porch with his nose
between his paws.
Rosalie persuaded her brother to come out to the edge
of the dell and spend the morning there; where the brook's
soft rush at their feet and the bird notes up in the air, were
all the interruptions. She had her Bible in her hand and
sat down to read; but Thornton sat leaning against an old
hickory tree, with his eyes sometimes shaded by his hand
and sometimes by an unseen cloud. And so they remained;
with the sweet Sabbath bell sounding forth in the distance
and answered by another still further off, until the last ring
floated away on the pure air and all was still.
Rosalie had closed her book for listening, and now sat
with closed eyes, as if too many senses were disturbing.
Her brother watched her, unconscious of his gaze or that he
had even raised his head.
Her face was at rest, as of one asleep after a weary
world; for the bells with their suggestions and associations
-- 332 --
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
had half done sleep's work. But strong effect was given to
the very delicate tinting of her face and its too delicately
drawn lines, by those very grave ones in which the mouth
was set,—that had not relaxed. Yet as Thornton looked it
did relax—and with a slight trembling of the lips there came
one of those tearful smiles that just shewed itself and passed
away.
`Rosalie!'
How the face changed, how the weary look came back,
he saw as she turned towards him; her eyelashes yet wet
with the drops of that sun-shower.
`Do you see that brook?' Thornton said.
`Certainly.'
`Wouldn't you like to follow its course out into the open
sunlight?'
`I have done so many a time.'
`Is it a pretty walk?'
`Pretty and thoughtful both, to me.'
`Take me up the stream of your thoughts from the sunshine
that was upon your face just now.'
She looked at him and then down at the brook.
`It would be a more thoughtful walk than the other.'
`No matter—take me. Whence came the sunshine?'
Again she looked at him, and away from him, but the
eyes filled as she answered,
“`Hitherto ye have asked nothing in my name: ask,
and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.'”
Thornton was silenced. If he had expected Bible words
it would not have been these; and he spoke not again for
some time. His sister sat looking down at the brook as before;
and it rippled and ran along, and flung its foam hither
and thither with a wild hand.
`Do you believe that, Rosalie?' he said at length.
-- 333 --
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
`Surely!'
The look was brilliant.
`Have you never asked for what you were wishing yesterday?
'
Her eyes fell, and her lips could form no answer.
`Then why is it not done?' said Thornton, with an effort
to keep his own firm.
She paused a moment, as if to steady her half-choked
voice, ere she answered. `Because I have not waited
patiently, I believe. Because, “to them gave Jesus power
to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his
name.'”
Thornton was silenced again, and his sister sat still for a
few moments with such a wavering play of thought and feeling
upon her face, as was like the shadowy leaf-tossed light
upon the brook. And then after one glance at him, coming
quickly to him and almost before he was aware, her arm drew
him down to a place by her side, and her voice spoke words
for him that bowed down his heart like a bulrush. And with
the belief the power came. He was a changed man.
-- 334 -- p737-339
CHAPTER XXXIII.
It was autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
—Longfellow.
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
`How come you to follow the Capting, Tom Skiddy?' said
Martha.
Miss Jumps was enjoying herself in the farm kitchen,
her feet stretched out to a huge fire, which crackled and ran
away up chimney, and sent forth such a red glow that the
room looked as if whitewashed with firelight. The tea-kettle
had done its work for that evening, and was pushed off
into one corner upon the end of the crane; while the pot of
dish-water, in like easy circumstances, kept as far away as
it could in the other. And between the two ran up the
bright points of flame from a sound foundation of logs,
which in their turn overshadowed the glowing bed of coals.
The ashes were carefully raked away right and left, and in the
cleared space lay the kitchen tongs with its toes to the fire;
its iron legs supporting a long ear of corn of the roasting age—
full-kernelled, white and delicate. To this Miss Jumps lent a
part of her attention, while another share was bestowed upon
Tom; who in the very focus of firelight, if there was one,
sat paring an apple with his pocket knife and eating slices
of it from time to time, as if he rather enjoyed the business
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than otherwise, and was in no haste to have done. Upon
his knee lay a little half-finished boat, on which Tom's knife
had been engaged when the fruits of the earth attracted his
attention. In the other corner of the hearth, Jerusha with
a basket of the same fruit before her and a tin pan at her
side, was rapidly skinning the apples by the help of a simple
little machine and its crooked knife; and casting now and
then a glance of great interest at the two foreigners. Beyond
them all, Mrs. Hopper's busy wheel kept its swift
whirling, under the skilful hand of its silent mistress. Her
black dress made a dark spot in the glowing room, and
Mrs. Hopper looked if anything more slim and gaunt and
weather-worn than ever. In strong contrast was the bunch
of soft white rolls upon the wheel, where the firelight fell
after a mere glance at the spindle. The reel stood hard by,
and against the wall hung a string of brilliant red peppers,
and several bunches of white yarn all knotted and twisted
up,—being a part of Mrs. Hopper's day's work of `two run
and a half.' An old cat lay dozing and stretched out at the
foot of the wheel—the close neighbourhood of the fire being
rather too hot; and a fine tortoise-shell kitten and one of
`gray mixed,' went in frolicksome tumbles about the room.
`How come I to foller the Captain?' said Tom. `Why
because the Captain led on and I follered. Just giv' up
the business I had in hand and started.'
`Easy business to give up, wa'n't it?' said Miss Jumps,—
`don't take common folks long to lay down a muskit.
How do you 'spose it 'll manage without you? What sort
of a time did you have down there on Long Island, Tom
Skiddy?'
`First rate,' said Tom,—`long as the Captain kept about.
Didn't do a person's feelings much good to see him laid up.
I hadn't much chance to look at him neither. How Mr.
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Raynor got all his work done, and the Captain's, and took
care of him beside, I don't know.'
`Guess likely he's a smart man,' said Martha demurely.
`Jerushy, don't none o' your corn never stand still to be
roasted? does it all go pop-cracking out that fashion?'
`It's only some o' the grains bursted out,' said Jerusha,
bending down to look at the corn till her head was in a
position almost as fiery. `It's roasting beautiful, Miss
Jumps.'
`It's flying round the world,' said Miss Jumps, stooping
down in her turn, and endeavouring to roll the corn over
upon its roasted side; to which it responded by rolling into
the ashes. Martha seized a fork and tried that persuasion;
but after uprooting several grains of the corn, the rest were
further down in the ashes than ever, fizzing and sputtering
at a great rate.
`Now what's to be done?' said Martha.
`Pick it up, why don't you!' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Tom can—' said Martha,—`he's right in front of the fire.'
`That's just where he means to stay,' said Tom. `Anybody
else may get in that's a mind to.'
`Where upon airth were you all fetched up!' said Mrs.
Hopper coming forward, and with one sure pounce restoring
the corn to its proper place. `'Taint a bit the worse—ashes
won't hurt ye—nor fire neither if you aint too keerful of it.
I'm not one of your meltin' away people,'—and Mrs. Hopper
returned to her wheel, and spun it round with great
energy.
`I thought you could do most any thing, Martha?' said
Tom.
`Well?' said Martha with some asperity, `who says
anything against it?'
But Tom wisely forebore to answer, and occupied himself
with a particularly large slice of apple.
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`It's astonishing how much people can have to do with
muskits and not learn to stand fire,' remarked Miss Jumps
rather scornfully. `If I was some folks I'd get up and look
at myself.'
Tom paused in the munching of his apple just long
enough to blow one of its black seeds off his finger, and then
fixed his attention upon the old cat; who now aroused from
her sleep by the wheel, came forward slowly and stretchingly,
and evinced a wish to shield Tom by taking up a position
directly in front of him. And Tom's foot accordingly
gave her a push which a little more would have converted
into a kick.
`Tom Skiddy, stop!' said Martha. `I won't sit still
and see you.'
`Hop up then,' replied Tom, taking aim at the cat with
a long apple paring.
`No I won't,' said Martha,—`and you sha'n't kick the
cat, neither—that's more.' And the cat found a safe resting-place
in Martha's lap.
`Real Malti' that cat is,' observed Mrs. Hopper; `and a
better couldn't be.'
`The apples aint bad,' remarked Tom. `Captain Thornton
says he'd like a barrel or so on 'em to take home.'
`He can have 'em,' said Mrs. Hopper, bringing forward
the little reel and beginning to `click' off her yarn.
`We've got as many apples as most things this season.'
`Well now—' said Martha,—`let's we go pick 'em up.
What's to hinder?'
`Take the cart along, and the bar'ls,' said Mrs. Hopper,
`and it aint bad sport, I can tell you.'
`Miss Rosalie 'll go, I'll venture,' said Martha; `and
all the rest.'
`I wouldn't venture too much, if I was you, Martha,'
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said Tom. `Catch Captain Thornton out in the field picking
up apples, and you'll catch a weasel asleep in a stone
wall.'
`Why he aint obliged to pick 'em up, bless you! if he
does go,' said Martha; `and he aint a man to be scared at
the thought of pickin' up anythin' so small as apples, any
way. I say he'll go if she does.'
`Well, I do' know but he will,' said Tom, `come to think
of it. He does stick to her like wax lately.'
`The better for him,' said Martha, `and I'll go right
off and ask 'em this blessed minute.'
`Better eat your corn,' said Tom. `'Tother thing 'll
keep cool, and that won't.'
`See what the day is afore you ask your company,' said
Mrs. Hopper; and to that Martha agreed.
The day was as fine as could be, and mellow as one of
the many apples that plunged down into the grass from time
to time, as the loaded boughs swayed lightly about. The
farm work and the fall held on their way hand in hand;
but the woods were gayer now, and the wagons carried
home pumpkins instead of wheat, and the hard yellow corn
went craunchingly to its destination in many a well filled
pen. At Mrs. Hopper's back door—that is in the road that
ran by the dwelling, and under an old apple-tree stood the
great ox-cart,—its patient team with heaving sides and
bowed heads drowsily awaiting further orders. Half a dozen
of empty barrels stood near the cart; and the driver—
a rather thin and sharp-set specimen of the natives—was
leaning against the tree, overshadowed by its canopy of fading
leaves, and with great diligence was whittling away one
stick after another to keep his hand in.
He looked up with a kind of wondering and scornful
surprise as the house door opened, and the whole family
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came filing out; and then merely stooping to pick up a new
subject for his knife's sharp edge, he remarked,
`Pity you hadn't thought to ask a few o' the neighbours,
and you ha' had quite a muster.'
`I guess you'll find there's enough now,' said Martha.
`How many on ye's going in this here cart?' said the
man.
`Forty—more or less,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Can't do it,' said the man.
`Come now, 'Zekiel Mearns,' said Mrs. Hopper, `stow
away four o' those bar'ls, and be spry,—and don't try to
make me think oat straw's buckwheat. Step round, now.'
Mr. Mearns permitted the corners of his mouth to relax
a little, shut up his knife, and stepping round—though not
precisely in the way Mrs. Hopper meant—he swung up four
of the barrels off the ground and into the cart, and bestowed
them in close order in that end which was nearest the oxen.
Then with a nod of his head he signified that the field was
clear for whoso chose to occupy it.
`Get in Miss Clyde,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Bless your heart!' said Martha, `she's not going to
ride so!' and making a dive into the house, Miss Jumps
returned with a low rush-bottomed chair which was then
planted firmly against the barrels, and Miss Clyde took possession.
`That's enough,' said Mr. Mearns taking up his long
whip. `Don't want no more on ye.'
`O I must ride,' said Hulda, `but I can sit on the floor.'
And Thornton jumped her in likewise.
`Well, you aint much heft,' said the driver. `Ge' long!
haw!'
`Now Mr. Mearns, stop,' said Mrs. Hopper. `We're
every living soul of us going.'
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`You aint going in this cart,' said Mr. Mearns, lightly
flapping his whip about the ears of the oxen.
`I go mostly after my own team when I do ride, said
Mrs. Hopper,—`and you don't 'spose we're going to foot it
all the way to that orchard?'
`You'll tilt the cart the worst kind,' said the driver,
pushing his hat back off his forehead and applying his hand
to his hair with a disturbed look. `You'll tilt it up like
Jehu.'
`It 'll be the first thing we ever did do like him, I
guess,' said Mrs. Hopper. `Get right in, Martha.'
And Martha got in, and then Jerusha, and then Mrs.
Hopper. Mr. Mearns stood irresolute.
`You'll look well, tilting the oxen into the air!' he
said.
`They'll look well,' said Mrs. Hopper, `so well they'll
come down again, pretty quick.' And amid a burst of laughter
from the representatives of the lower circle, the party
moved on.
Moved on through one meadow after another; by a
pretty road, which was indeed but wheel tracks in the green
grass—deep enough now and then to jolt the cart and its
occupants in a laugh-exciting way.
The fall had laid its hand upon every thing now: there
was not a tree nor a bush nor a flower but wore a touch of
autumn about it somewhere; and over those things which
change not but with the gradual breaking up of many seasons—
the fences, the farm buildings, the ponds and little
water-veins of the country,—over and about these lay a soft
haze, and they were seen through a fall medium. The
green grass was set thick with gay forest leaves, strewn over
it in every direction; the tufts of fern bent their yellow
heads as gracefully as when they wore June's freshness;
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the lichens and mosses did their beautifying work as well as
ever. There were changes too in the sounds,—flails and
fanning mills had taken the place of scythe whetting—
crickets instead of grasshoppers sped away from intruding
feet; and the bird over head was not a sparrow—it was only
a chickadee. Only!—
The orchard field was full before they reached it; first
of apples and then of apple-gatherers. The loaded trees
bent down with their red and green and spotted and striped
fruit, or shewed their round heads against the distant forest
sprinkled over as if with roses. The long grass beneath
was worth the turning over for the apples it hid; and a
drove of white-sided porkers were pursuing that business
with grunts which if not loud were deep,—flapping their
great ears, and whirling their little tails to make the most
of them. In moments of rest they turned to bite encroaching
companions, or gave a glance of great wickedness out of
their little eyes towards the new comers. The ground
sloped gently down to a frisky brook at the hill-foot, just
enough to help the momentum of any falling apple that
failed to lodge at once in the grass; and at the brook edge
the ox cart was now drawn up in state, emptied of all but
the barrels and left alone. Beneath it, in the shade, lay
Trouncer, as motionless as the oxen themselves; but all
other living things had mounted the hill.
There were pretty moss-covered rocks shewing their
heads above ground from place to place, and on one of these
Rosalie seated herself to watch the play on the hill-side.
Thornton sat by her, but Hulda was one of the players.
Mr. Mearns had swung himself up into one of the trees,
basket in hand, to pick off such apples as were for barrelling;
while Tom on his part had climbed another, and with vigorous
foot and hand sent down showers of the ruddy
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fruit to the ground below. Then came a chase! The
apples ran first—had the start—and after running a few
steps and getting excited began to bound; and at that pace
soon cleared the hill slope, and either plunged into the brook
or flew against the oxen or lay still ingloriously on dry land.
Then came the pigs in open phalanx,—grunting between
dismay and appetite, running over more apples than they
pursued; and stopping now and then to munch and enjoy
one, and to cast back malicious looks at Mrs. Hopper and
Martha, Jerusha and Hulda, who bore down in full tide of
conquest and at such rate of speed as bipeds can maintain
on a side hill. At this moment Tom would despatch to
earth another half bushel of apples, and both pigs and
women tried to go up and down at once. Then Martha and
a particularly large and flap-eared quadruped having set
their hearts upon the same apple, pursued it down hill,—
the pig squealing and Martha shouting, the apple bounding
along, regardless of bruises, and dousing into the brook.
At such a termination the pig gained the prize; for he followed
the apple, and stood with his feet in the brook,
munching and looking up-hill, whither Miss Jumps was retracing
her weary steps. Sometimes just as the chase was
near the end, Trouncer roused up from his slumbers, and
standing on the alert he seized the flying apple and stood
confronting Miss Jumps—his mouth kept open by it as with
a corn-cob,—then dropped it as an unprofitable speculation.
Of all the trials to Miss Jumps on those occasions, the
worst was Tom's laugh from the top of his apple tree.
`It strikes me, Tom Skiddy,' she said, approaching the
scene of his activity, `that of the two you'd be worth most
down here.'
To which Tom replied by such a fire of well-directed apples
that Martha was fain to run away.
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`Come down, will you!' she said from a distance; `and
stop that.'
`There's a firstrater going down hill,' was Tom's answer.
`I'm not going after it, if it is,' said Miss Jumps. But
perceiving her old enemy of the large ears addressing herself
leisurely to the pursuit—there was no withstanding
the temptation, and Martha was off again.
The cart went home at night well loaded with apples,
and the little train of gatherers went home well tired.
The day had changed too; and now soft grey streaks
athwart the western horizon foretold different weather.
The wind went sighing through the trees, rising now and
then into a chill gust, and rustling the fallen leaves—so
brown looking and drear, despoiled of the sunbeams: lights
twinkled out from hill and valley; and wood fires and tea
and bed became the pleasantest things in prospect.
-- 344 -- p737-349
CHAPTER XXXIV.
All is but lip-wisdom which wants experience:
I now, wo is me, do try what love can do.
—Sidney.
[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
`How long are we going to be here, Alie?' said Hulda as
they sat at tea.
`I do not know—you must ask Thornton.'
`How long?' Hulda repeated, looking at him.
`I do not know.'
`But that's very funny!' said Hulda.
`I am not sure but I shall go to New York for a week
or so before you do, Rosalie,' said her brother.
`What for?'
`O sundry things. I must see Marion—give the required
promise and make her redeem her own.'
`Not till I come?'
`No, not that. But there are other matters to arrange.
At what time in the future is the Quakerage to be blessed
with a new queen?'
`I am sure I know not,' said his sister as composedly as
she could.
`I believe,' said Thornton, `that in a voluntary change
of dynasty it is usual for the reigning power to withdraw to
another court,—else might the new comer be branded as a
usurper. And I am not sure that it is best for you to give
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Marion any lessons in the science of government. She
rather needs guardianship herself.'
`She will have it now.' Rosalie said; the warm flush of
joy and thankfulness coming over her face.
`Better than she once could, I trust,' said Thornton
gravely. `O Alie! my dear child! what a guardian you
have been!'
`Not I—' was all she could answer; and Hulda looked
wonderingly from face to face, and saw the one not less
stirred than the other.
`I was not so selfish as I seemed,' Thornton said, when
they left the table and stood musingly before the fire. `I
knew you gave up a great deal for me, but I did not know
how much. I could not, without knowing Henry better;
and by keeping him at a distance I partly kept off the belief
of some things that concerned him.'
`Who is Henry?' said Hulda, who had been watching
for some word which she could understand.
`Your friend Mr. Raynor. Of whom his mother justly
remarks, there is but one in the world.'
`I wish he would come here,' said Hulda. `I want to
see him very much.'
`So do I,' said Thornton. And bringing a chair to the
fire he sat down and took Hulda on his lap.
`How would you like to live with him, Hulda?'
`Live with him!' cried Hulda. `What all the time?'
`Thornton'—Rosalie said.
`Be quiet Alie, and trust me for once. Well Hulda?'
`I don't know what you mean!' said the child with a
very puzzled face. `I couldn't leave Rosalie.'
`Put Rosalie out of the question.'
`But I shouldn't want to leave you, now,' said Hulda,
her eyes looking up to his with all the enjoyment of trust.
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She little knew how straight both look and words went
to her brother's heart, nor guessed the meaning of the quick
breath he drew in that moment of silence.
`I think we must arrange a compromise, Alie, don't
you? How would you like then Hulda, to live half the
time with Mr. Raynor and half the time with me? Or
would you rather live half the time with Rosalie and half
with Marion?'
`But then there'd be nobody to take care of Rosalie,' said
Hulda. `And if I lived with you and Mr. Raynor there'd
be nobody to take care of me.'
`You know your lesson sufficiently well,' said Thornton
laughing. `What do you say, Alie?'
She did not say anything; but sat there on a low seat
by the fire, reading histories in its bright play, until Hulda
was ready to go to bed; and then went with her, and returning
softly sat down as before.
`Why don't you answer my question about the Quakerage?
' Thornton said, moving his seat close to hers. `Am
I bound to learn it first from another quarter?'
`I cannot tell you what I do not know myself, dear
Thornton.'
`Yes, but upon whose decision does your knowledge
wait?'
`I cannot decide upon anything to-night—and I would
rather talk on some other subject. Rather think of the end
of life than of its way.'
`You are not well,' Thornton said, putting his arm
round her and drawing her head down upon his breast.
`Not perfectly—or else I am a little tired.'
He stroked her forehead and stooped down and kissed
it, and then sat looking at her in silence. But after a few
moments she looked up and smiled.
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[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
`I believe I am tired—that need not hinder our talking.'
`What shall we talk about, precious one?' he said.
`What were you thinking of, with your eye upon the fire?
What did you see there? an ideal presence?'
`No,' she said with a faint colour—`at least not when
you spoke to me. I was thinking of the journey through
the wilderness. “Thou shalt remember all the way which
the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the wilderness,
to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know what was
in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments
or no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to
hunger, and fed thee with manna, which thou knewest not;
that he might make thee know that man doth not live by
bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the
mouth of the Lord doth man live.'”
`And then?' Thornton said.
`Not much else,' she answered with that same little
flush. `I was thinking how even Moses desired to see the
promised land in this world.'
`What has come over you to-night, Alie?' said her
brother. `When did this world's land of promise ever
make you forget the better country?'
`It is easier given up in the wilderness than on the borders
of Canaan. But if the Lord hath said, “Let it suffice
thee concerning this”—good is his word which he hath
spoken. “The Lord is thy life, and the length of thy
days”—how true that is!'
`Rosalie,' said her brother with a look that was both
fearful and wondering—for she had raised her head again,
and was eyeing the fire in the same intent and abstracted
way; `you are tired, you are not well. Let me carry you
up-stairs now, and to-morrow you may talk more of these
things.'
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[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
`I believe I am tired,' she said again, but without moving,—
`my mind feels tired. Tell me something to rest it.
Words of comfort are so sweet from you.'
`And my knowledge of them is so small compared with
your own, Alie. You must not let even part of this be true
of you, dear—it was all true once of me.'
“`My people hath been lost sheep—they have turned
them away on the mountains: they have gone from mountain
to hill, they have forgotten their resting-place.'”
As if a cloud had rolled away from before her eyes, so
did Rosalie look up at him,—a child's very look, of quietness
and peace.
`I will not forget it,' she said. “For thus saith the
Lord, the Holy One of Israel: In returning and rest shall
ye be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your
strength. And the work of righteousness shall be peace;
and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for
ever. And my people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation,
and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting-places.'”
The words were spoken clearly and strongly, though
rather as if thinking than speaking; but as she rose then
to go up-stairs the colour faded swiftly from her cheeks, and
laying her hand on Thornton with a confused look, sense
and strength failed together.
Thornton carried her up-stairs and laid her on the bed,
and toil-hardened hands tried their gentlest powers about
her; but when at length paleness and unconsciousness
yielded to their efforts, it was to give place in turn to a brilliant
colour and a fevered sleep.
In silence Thornton sat by her through the night,—remembering
with intense bitterness the years of her society
that he had shunned, and feeling that whatever might be
the effect of this sickness he could not say a word. The
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[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
women went softly about the room, attending to the fire and
bathing the poor sleeper's forehead and hands; but whatever
words they spoke were scarce whispered out, and Rosalie's
quick breathings fell on her brother's ear without interruption.
How he wished her away from there,—with her own
physician, in her own home—with other friends within reach.
Such skill as could be found in the neighbourhood was called
in, and pronounced her disease to be a slow fever; more tedious
than dangerous unless it should take some special
type, but requiring constant care and watchfulness. And
until the day came streaming in through the windows,
Thornton hardly removed his eyes from her face.
How cold the daylight looked! how cheerless: and yet
the sun shone brilliantly clear, and the tufts of autumn
leaves with which the trees were spotted shewed their gayest
tints; and the birds sang and twittered their merriest.
But the contrast was lost upon Thornton, for his eye and
ear took little note of anything but Rosalie; and the morning
came on, and the women went softly in and out, and he
scarce noticed them nor heard their low consultation.
At length Mrs. Hopper came up to him.
`Mr. Clyde,' she said, `the very best thing you can do
is to go where you can be o' some use. You can't do her
the least bit o' good stayin' here, and that poor little soul
down stairs 'll cry her eyes out afore long, if there don't
some one speak to her.'
Thornton sprang up instantly and left the room, remembering
that Rosalie would never have forgotten anybody as
he had forgotten Hulda: even in her deepest sorrow.
`How far, how very far she is on the way which I am
but beginning to tread,' he thought as he went down stairs.
Hulda was in the sitting-room, crouched down on the
floor in one corner, pouring out a flood of sorrow that was
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[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
exhausted only in its tone,—there was no stay to the tears.
And when Thornton raised her up in his arms and tried all
his powers of soothing and caressing, the child shook all
over in the violence of her grief.
`They won't let me see her!' she cried. `They won't
let me even go into the room! And I wouldn't make the
least noise—and oh I know she would let me!'
`Do you think you could keep perfectly quiet?' Thornton
said, putting his face down by hers.
`O yes! O yes!'
`Then I will take you up there; but first you must wait
a little, for Rosalie would be troubled to see all these tears.
I am going to write to Marion to ask her to come here, and
you shall sit quiet on my lap till that is done.'
`Do you think she will come?' Hulda said, as she
watched the rapid tracing of his pen, and tried the while
to seal up her tears.
`I am sure that she will.'
And almost tired out, Hulda lay drooping on his neck
until more than one letter was written and folded, and he
was ready to take her up-stairs.
She kept her promise of quietness,—shed no tears unless
silent ones, and sat on Thornton's lap or stood by his side
in perfect stillness, as long as he would let her. And when
he knew that she ought to be out in the fresh air, and told
her so, and begged her to go with Martha,—Hulda's mute
distress was so great that, there was no help for it, he must
take her himself.
It was a lesson for him, all this,—he began to try his
hand at self-denial, and to learn the lesson which Rosalie
had so long practised. True his watching eyes could do
her no good—both days and nights were passed in the restlessness
or the sleep of fever, and often she seemed hardly
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[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
to know him. But for himself, what comfort anything on
earth could give he found at her side. And now he must
devote himself to another's comfort—must walk with Hulda
and talk to her and bear with her, and keep her as much as
possible out of the sick room. He could not in conscience
let her be in it, and to send her out with Martha plunged
Hulda into the very depths of grief. Sitting on her
brother's lap with her arm round his neck, and probing his
distress with her earnest questions,—walking with him—
hearing him read, and never failing to bring up Rosalie's
name at every turn, she was comparatively cheerful. It was
something new for him—something against his whole nature
and experience. And nature rebelled. But as if they had
been stamped on his mind, checking every impatient thought
and word, bidding even sorrow and weariness give place and
bide their time, these words were ever before him—
“For even Christ pleased not himself,”—and “If ye love
me, keep my commandments.”
If Hulda mourned her sister's illness, it was not because
her brother ceased trying to fill her place
-- 352 -- p737-357
CHAPTER XXXV.
“It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.”
—As You Like It.
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`Henry Raynor,' said the quakeress to her son, one day
when he had come over from Long Island to dine with her;
`isn't thee wellnigh tired of thy present way of life?”
`It is not the pleasantest way that I could imagine, mother.
'
`Then why does thee pursue it?'
`It seemeth right unto me,' said Mr. Raynor, assuming
as he often did the quaker diction.
`And thee is resolved to follow, even to the end, these
unhallowed proceedings?'
`Nay mother, call them not so. The English have not
shown themselves so tender of other places which they have
taken, that we need wish our own city to fall into their
hands.'
“`The Lord will fight for you, and ye shall hold your
peace,'” said the quakeress.
Mr. Raynor smiled a little.
`What do you think of this, mother?—the very first
words of Deborah's song.
“`Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when
the people willingly offered themselves.'”
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His mother shook her head at him, but answered the
smile, nevertheless.
`Thee must hold thine own notions, but thee need never
talk of Friends being stiff in theirs. Thee will be fonder
of peace when thee is married.'
`When—' Mr. Raynor thought, as he stood musingly
before the fire,—and yet there did seem some possibility of
it now. But he only said,
`That could hardly be, mother.'
`Has thee seen Penn to-day?' inquired the quakeress.
`Not for two or three days.'
`He talketh so fast that one knoweth not well what he
saith,' Mrs. Raynor went on, `but if I mistook not, he hath
a letter for thee, and from the north.'
`Where is he?'
`Nay, that I cannot tell. Perchance he may be in his
room.'
Mr. Raynor sought him there, but there he was not;
neither did he make his appearance at dinner.
`Well, trouble not thyself,' said the quakeress; `when
he doth return I will send him over to thee.'
And with that promise Mr. Raynor was fain to content
himself, and to turn his face once more toward Long Island.
But it was an unsatisfactory thing to leave the letter behind
him; and in a most unsatisfied mood he paced down Broadway,
more leisurely than was his wont, and scanned the
passers by on either side. The one particularly jaunty and
carelessly worn cap that he wished to see, however, was not
to be seen; and his search came to an end at the ferry, when
his horse had with prettily feigned shyness, carried him on
board the boat. He did not dismount, but sat looking off
into the distance.
There had been a storm—one of those stragglers from
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Summer's troop that sometimes bring up the march in October;—
but it was over now, and the growling clouds lay
swept together in the east; their angry flashes scarce seen
for the sunshine that had followed. Over head was a broad
band of the deepest blue with just a few little dripping
clouds scudding across it; and the sunshine had come out
with a burst, as if all its unseen light of the last hour had
been treasured up for this.
But even as Mr. Raynor sat there in the beautiful light,
wondering at its ever new beauty, a low murmur from the
west drew his eyes thither. The blue had not changed its
depth nor its clearness, but slowly impinging upon it came
other cloud heads up from the western horizon, and a light
shadow fell over the face of things. Most fine the sight
was, and Mr. Raynor was apt to recognize its full beauty; yet
now as he looked, his looks grew darker. Half consciously,
half unconsciously, he had made the change in the weather
a type of other changes—his fancy had been revelling in the
sunshine; and these new cloud heads that came on apace seemed
to shadow the mind's glow as well. Instinctively his thought
took up the beautiful words of the preacher, and he remembered
that there is but one time in life “when the sun, nor the
light, nor the moon, nor the stars are not darkened, nor the
clouds return after the rain.”
It was an unwonted thought for him, whose trust was
in general so bright, so unmurmuring; and chiding himself
almost for the very remembrance, he turned to see again
how fairly, how perfectly one storm had rolled away—why
should not the rest do likewise?
`Let it, or let it not!' was his next thought; for from
one storm and in the face of another, the sunshine had drawn
out the token of the everlasting covenant between heaven
and earth, and the bow of promise bound both together.
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“My covenant will I not break, nor alter the thing that
is gone out of my lips.” And what was that covenant?—
“Even the sure mercies of David.” “I will be to them a
God, and they shall be to me a people.”
“He causeth the cloud to come,” Mr. Raynor remembered,
“whether for correction, or for his land, or in mercy.”
The short October afternoon was already ended when
Mr. Raynor reached the little volunteer camp on Long
Island, lying quietly there in a mingling of light and
darkness; for the moon was shining down between clouds,
and the sprinkling of private lights contrasted well with the
clear, cold patches of moonshine. Mr. Raynor gave the
word, and passing the lines to his own tent, he found there
the object of his search. At least one of them. Mr. Penn
was making himself as comfortable as circumstances would
allow, with three or four camp stools; his back supported
by the locker, on which stood a light; his hands supporting
the evening paper.
`You don't mean to say you've come back, Major Harry?'
was the young gentleman's salutation, as he extended himself
a little more at length upon the camp stools.
`You don't mean to say that you are found?' was his
cousin's reply.
`Why yes, I suppose I am,' said Penn. `Absolutely
detected in the act of burning your candle and reading your
paper. I've brought you something else to read, though.'
`So I understand. Are you sure you have brought it?'
`Why of course,' said Penn. `At least it would be
very odd if I hadn't, when I came over on purpose. I don't
know but I should have sent it, only that I saw it was from
Captain Clyde; and I should like to hear news of him well
enough.'
`How long do you mean that I shall wait for the news
myself?'
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`Only till I can find it,' said Mr. Penn, despatching
several messengers into his pockets. `It's somewhere, I
do presume. Don't be impatient, Harry—you never are
that I know of, only you don't just remind one of Patience
on a monument, in your present position of uprightness.
“Wm. Penn Raynor, Esqr.”—that's not it. What's this—
“To making one'”—
`If you will give me your coat,' said Mr. Raynor, `I
will save you some trouble and myself some time.'
`Take something else,' said Penn—`a book, can't you,
till I find it. No trouble at all, thank you Harry. I don't
believe it's in this coat, any way. But do take something
else in the meanwhile. Now there's a letter would amuse
you like anything—from Rutgers—one of my privateering
friends, you know, Harry. Capital letters he writes, too.'
`I think I would rather have my own first,' said Mr.
Raynor.
`Yes, if you could get it first, but there's the very thing.
Do you know,' said Penn, taking his hands from his pockets
and lolling back on the camp-stools, `Rutgers says the
queerest thing in that letter!—Absolutely heard in Charleston
that I was engaged to Miss Clyde!—as if I ever thought
of such a thing!'
`You are quite sure you never did?' said Mr. Raynor,
his eyes sending forth a little flash into the dusky gloom
of the tent. Then subsiding again, he said, `My letter,
Penn!'
`Why can't you sit down and be easy?' said Penn.
`I tell you I can't find it. Maybe I left it at home in another
pocket—you know I might have changed my coat.
You shall have it in the morning.'
`I must have it to-night.'
`Then I must find it in this coat,' said Penn;—`can't
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go over and back again—out of the question. Here it is
this minute—slipped into that letter of Rutgers'—if you'd
only taken that as I wanted you to—'
`If you will give me one of these camp-stools, Penn,'
said Mr. Raynor, `and a small share of the light, I will let
you take anything else that you can lay your hands or your
feet on.' And so far accommodated he sat down to read his
letter.
Penn watched him for a while, but the pages were long
turning over and the face unreadable.
`What news?' he said, when at length the letter was
folded up.
`Nothing that would interest you particularly.'
`All well, I hope?' said Penn.
`Not all,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Not?' said Penn. `Well, it's good they're not all
sick. Best to take the bright view of things, you know.
But I shall be really glad to see Miss Clyde back again—
she's always so agreeable and'—
`Hush, Penn!' said his cousin almost sternly; and in
wondering curiosity Mr. Penn held his peace.
Only for a time; then he began again.
`How do you suppose that letter got delayed, Harry?'
`Delayed?' said Mr. Raynor raising his head.
`Ever so many days,' said Penn carelessly,—`didn't
you look at the postmark?'
He looked now, and at the date—both told the same
story. Mr. Raynor started up and began to put on the
overcoat which he had just thrown off.
`You're not going out in this weather?' said Penn.
`Just hear the rain, once!'
`I shall do that to better advantage out of doors—' and
he was gone.
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Penn looked and wondered, and then slept. When he
awoke, Mr. Raynor sat in his former place with his head
resting on his hand.
`I had the queerest dream!' said Penn rousing himself,—
`that you rushed out into a pouring shower in spite
of all I could say. And now here you are, and there is the
moon. What a nice place you have here, Harry—quite enviable.
'
`To look at,' said his cousin. `I doubt whether you
would like it upon further acquaintance?'
`Yes I should,' said Penn. `I should like to live here
amazingly. I wouldn't have staid in New York another day
if I could have got officer's quarters here.'
`How should you like to take my place here for a while,
Penn?' said his cousin looking up.
`Like it? of all things! But where are you going?'
`Out of town for a few days.'
`To-morrow?' said Penn.
`No; I find I cannot get away to-morrow. But whenever
I do.'
`Of all things, as I said before,' repeated Penn. `I
wish you had a dozen such places, that I might fill them
all.'
`I think you will find one answer your turn,' said his
cousin.
`But where are you going?' said Penn, his pleasure half-swallowed
up in curiosity.
`Out of town, as I said.'
`I shall be very happy to do any thing I can, then,' said
Penn, `but I can't conceive what should take you away.'
Which however Mr. Raynor did not tell him.
`Everybody is going away I think,' said Penn. `I stopped
at Miss Arnet's to-night, and she was out of town.
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Gone off quite suddenly, the waiter said. Sent for—he
didn't know where. Harry, you look sober—what's the
matter? Certainly you don't care about Miss Arnet?'
`Not much,' said his cousin.
`Then I say what's the matter?'
“`There came a great wind from the wilderness and
smote the four corners of the house, and it fell,'” Mr.
Raynor answered as he turned away.
Penn looked after him, but seeing the Bible which Mr.
Raynor had now taken up, he thought that possibly it had
been in his hand before, and that he had but read aloud.
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CHAPTER XXXVI.
O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o' door.
In, nuncle, in.
—King Lear.
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There was no clock in Mrs. Hopper's house to strike the
hour, but stillness did the work as well and said that it was
very late; past midnight, the stars would have added, had
they been visible. But it was raining heavily though with
little wind: the rain came straight down from the clouds and
dripped straight down in double measure from the trees.
One little stream of light shot out into the damp air from
an upper window of the house, but below all was dark
and shut up and silent; and even the old house dog, who
early in the evening had howled a little for low spirits, now
indulged in a sounder sleep than usual, lulled by the badness
of the weather. But as he lay stretched at length in
the little back porch—which was indeed a small shed—there
worked into his dreams a pattering that seemed not wholly
of rain-water. And Trouncer first raised his head, and then
uttered a short gruff `Ough!'—after which he got up and
walked to the shed door to take an observation.
There was not much to be seen. Night's curtains were
all let down, with a fringe of mist and a thick lining of rain-water.
And in that steady pour one would have said there
was little else to hear; but Trouncer clearly perceived that
horses' feet were coming along the road, and soon caught
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the glimmer of sparks from their iron shoes; and again he
growled and pointed his ears and bristled up. But when
the horses stopped just before him he stood absolutely still,
with only that same smothered and gruff ejaculation. He
seemed to have made up his mind that a beggar on horse-back
did not exist in real life, and that thieves would be more
wary; therefore when two dark figures presented themselves
at the entrance, Trouncer did not fly at them, but merely
gave the closest personal attendance. And bestowing an
honest sort of pat upon the dog's head, one of the strangers
passed through the porch and knocked at the inner door,—
a single rap, not loud but given with great distinctness.
The knock aroused Mrs. Hopper; and immediately her
window went up and her nightcap went into the rain.
`Who's there in the shed?'
`Two men in the rain,' said a comfortable voice—a little
disturbed withal; though its owner was stamping softly
about the shed and whistling until disturbed by the question.
`Well, they'll have to stay there till morning,' said
Mrs. Hopper. `Night's the time for folks to sleep in.'
`This aint the place,' said the voice. `Therefore let's
in.' Then as if to some one else—“`Thou'dst shun a bear,
but if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, thou'dst meet
the bear i' the mouth.” To her again.'
`Friends for Mr. Clyde,' said another voice from the
darkness, going back to Mrs. Hopper's question and answering
it anew.
`Friends for Mr. Clyde,' she repeated; `well, I dare
say he wants 'em bad enough. Who are they?'
`Come, come!' said the first voice, `open your doors.
It's damp here, good woman. “In such a night to shut me
out!'”
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Mrs. Hopper closed the window.
`Jerushy!' she said, `start right up and clap somethin'
on to ye—here's visiters at the door; and afore I open it
do you hide in the passage, and if they get the upper hand
o' me, you kin rouse the house. Hope they won't rouse
it themselves, knocking.'
The strangers however seemed as cautious as she could
desire, and stood in patient silence while she raked open
the bed of coals on the kitchen hearth, and tried to light a
candle. But either the coals were poor, or the dampness
of the night had found its way down chimney; for though
Mrs. Hopper picked up one coal after another with the
tongs, and presenting her candlewick blew till she saw unknown
colors in the darkness; nothing came of it but a
shower of sparks, and they fired nothing but her patience.
`Of all nights in the three hundred and sixty-seven!'
she said throwing down the tongs, as a second knock made
itself heard, but softly as before. `Fetch the gun, Jerushy.'
`Mother,' said a half-stifled voice from the passage, `are
you there?'
`Where on the face of the airth should I be?' said Mrs.
Hopper. `Fetch the gun!'
`Aint you scared, mother?'
`I do believe you'd shy at your shadder, if there was
light enough!' was the reply. And marching past her
daughter with as swift and steady a step as though it were
noonday, Mrs. Hopper soon returned with the gun, and
kneeling down in the faint glimmer which the dying embers
sent forth, she as soon had out the flint and therewith struck
a light. That done she opened the door.
The strangers entered with no leave asked, without even
throwing off their dripping cloaks; though indeed it had been
difficult to bestow them in the outside darkness. Mrs.
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Hopper the while scanned them earnestly with her light, and
was not long in finding out that she had seen one of them
before; though as she afterwards told Jerusha, `she couldn't
tell when nor where, if her life was to pay.'
He repeated the inquiry for Mr. Clyde.
`Of course he's home,' said Mrs. Hopper; `most folks is,
this time o' night and weather. Who shall I say wants
him?'
`Don't say any thing to anybody till we have a fire,' said
the other stranger. “`It's a cold world in every office but
thine, good Curtis, therefore fire.'”
Mrs. Hopper gave him a look which certainly implied
that her name was not Curtis, but she set down the candle,
and applied such stimulants and remedies to the fire that in
a few minutes it blazed to the chimney-top.
`Ah! that's worth while,' said the last speaker, drawing
near the fire and spreading himself out before it, to dry as it
were. `Friend Henry—“when the mind's free the body's
delicate,—” “the tempest in thy mind doth surely from thy
senses take all feeling else, save what beats there!” Art
thou insensible to fire as well as to water?—a salamander as
well as a merman?'
His companion came forward at this remark, but as if the
fire were matter of very second-rate importance; and the
flickering light which played upon his face awoke no gleam
of recognition and enjoyment.
`You want Mr. Clyde woke up then?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Not on guard—' soliloquised the older man. `No, don't
wake him if he's asleep—which I know he isn't. Give us
two shakedowns here on the floor, and no more about it till
morning.'
`Likeliest shakedowns you'll get in this house'll be your
two selves,' said Mrs. Hopper. `There's the floor, but where
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the beds are I don't know. 'Tain't particularly hard, for a
floor, I have heard them say as have tried it.'
`Hum—don't think I'll qualify myself for an indorsement,
' said her questioner. `And so Mr. Clyde is asleep.
And how's his sister?'
`Little to boast of, except her good looks,' said Mrs.
Hopper. `They stick by her yet.'
`Is she no better?' said the other stranger, turning
round.
`Can't be much better'n she is, to my thinking,' said
Mrs. Hopper. `The fever's strong yet, and she isn't—if
that's what you mean. Come to, I believe they did have
some hopes of her to-day, though.'
`Wake Mr. Clyde at once, will you my good lady?' said
the older man in a different tone; drawing forth his snuffbox
the while, and taking an immense pinch, as he roused
himself up into an attitude of more business and less enjoyment.
`And harkye, don't let the grass grow under your
feet; it's too late in the season for that.'
And for a moment the two stood alone in the light blaze
of the fire. But Thornton was not asleep, and came down
instantly. The greeting was silently earnest. The doctor
then had recourse to his snuffbox, but the two younger men
stood with hands yet clasped.
`I must see her at once,' said the doctor, laying his hand
upon Thornton's shoulder. `Come, leave him to take care
of himself—always does.'
And as with quiet steps they left the room, Mrs. Hopper
returned, and advanced to mend the fire and improve
its light as a medium of observation. But for such an object
the medium mattered little. Mr. Raynor was impenetrable.
Standing there with one shoulder braced against the tall
wooden mantelpiece, he had watched the two gentlemen as
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they quitted the room; and when the door alone met his
gaze in that direction he still looked, as if his thought had
gone further and the eye but tarried where it must. There
was nothing to be read in that look however, or if there
were, it was writ in a language unknown to Mrs. Hopper;
and he answered all her questions, and refused all offers of
supper, with such clearness and self-possession, that she
could not suppose him to be `taking an abstraction' of any
thing. She left him to his thoughts at length, and with
them he held deep discourse; with but the rain and the
rising wind for a refrain.
Meanwhile Thornton had prepared Rosalie for the sight
of her kind physician and friend; and the doctor walked in
and took his seat at her bedside, forbidding her to speak by
a peremptory motion of his finger.
`Now why couldn't you get sick in town, like a Christian?
' said Doctor Buffem, as he took Rosalie's hand in his,
and examined her countenance with his practised eyes.
`Sending for me into the backwoods at this time of year!
it's unendurable. Yes, it was very good of me to come, and
all that sort of thing; of course it was. And you didn't send
for me; certainly not. I'll tell you what, my young lady,
there aren't many people could play the magnet with me this
fashion. This was such a desired and pet job of mine, and
one of my assistants was so very pressing—pet of his too.
Couldn't well refuse to come when he offered to show me the
way. Hum—eyes haven't lost much of their brightness.
Just put that light a little more out of sight, Mr. Clyde.
Now how do you feel yourself, Miss Rosalie?—well and
happy?'
`Happy, sir—not quite well.'
`Cart before the horse,' said the doctor,—`no right to feel
happy.'
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`Not much right,' said Rosalie, with a little smile. `That
is true.'
`Just as bad as ever, I see,' said Doctor Buffem. `Won't
own it, neither.'
He made some further inquiries, left with Miss Arnet
both directions and medicine, and taking Thornton's arm
walked across the hall into his room. There the doctor sat
down and took snuff as usual. Thornton waited in silence.
`The most thing I'm anxious about is myself,' was the
doctor's first remark. `I don't know how you are off for
sleep, Mr. Clyde, but I've had none these three nights.
Never saw such a power-press as that man is, in my life!
Can't form half an opinion upon unsatisfied organs of sleep;
therefore if you will permit me at once to retire to this bed,
I will with pleasure resign to you my half of the kitchen
fire.'
`You think Rosalie is better?' said Thornton.
`Don't know how she was,' said the doctor. `How can I
tell whether she's better? Keep yourself quiet, and don't
fret her, above all things. And just tell Mr. Raynor that
he needn't come waking me up every half hour to go and see
how she is,—I'll wake up myself and no thanks to him.'
And silently Thornton went down stairs. He met Mr.
Raynor's look, and repeated the doctor's precise words by
way of answer. And then laying one arm on his friend's
shoulder, he rested his head there, with the look and action
of a weary mind and body laying off their own fatigue upon
some one else. Neither spoke, until a half hour had passed;
and then Mr. Raynor insisted that Thornton should have in
the couch from the next room, and upon that take some more
substantial repose. But he himself went back to his old
stand at the fireplace.
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CHAPTER XXXVII.
Phe.
Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly?
Sil.
I would have you.
—As You Like It.
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Before morning, or rather before morning light, the weather
changed. In place of the falling rain there was now only a
gentle drip from the eaves, and the wind had risen, and blew
in soft and freshening gusts around the house. Cocks were
trying their voices, and a dim perception that was neither
light nor yet darkness, stole in through the kitchen windows.
Within doors there was no change, no stir. Thornton slept
heavily upon his hard couch, and not the footfall of a mouse
broke the silence overhead.
Mr. Raynor felt weary with the close, still air of the
house—nothing doing, nothing to be done; but he did not
move, unwilling to lose the first word of tidings that might
come. It seemed to him as if till it came he must stand
where he was. And yet in one moment after this feeling
had crossed his mind he walked to the door, softly drew back
the great bolt and passed out. And Trouncer roused up to
follow him.
It was beautiful out of doors, even in that darkling light.
The wind waved the leafless branches in a shadowy, fitful
fashion, and blew away the clouds as fast as the northwest
could gather them up. Overhead they came flying, a perfect
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rabble of clouds; and in every clear space between them, the
stars shewed their bright eyes and winked at the fact that it
was near sunrise. Wet, wet, everything was: the very air
seemed washed and sweetened; and the advancing light
glimmered in long strips of water in the road, with now and
then a broad pool.
`Ough!' said Trouncer—but it was only at the impatient
kick of a horse in the distant stable; and by turns the cock-crows
were contrasted with a cheery, helpless little twitter,
low and sweet, from some sleepy bird. Fearless if it was
helpless—joyous too, and trustful. `They neither have storehouse
nor barn, yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.'
Mr. Raynor stood listening, taking the full effect of every
sight and sound, yet knew not clearly that effect until the
Bible words began to come into his mind—those words
which dumb Nature could but point out.
“As the mountains are round about Jerusalem”—so
came the first—“As the mountains are round about Jerusalem,
so the Lord is round about his people, from henceforth
even for ever.”
Was not that enough? Could not all be left to that
most excellent loving-kindness and tender mercy which could
not err? “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber
nor sleep!”
O human blindness, and weakness, and want of trust!
Mr. Raynor thought, as still he stood looking, and heard
`the feathered people' begin their morning song, and remembered:
“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one
of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”
“Fear not therefore”—that was what everything said.
“Shall not the Judge of the whole earth do right?”
So constantly had he watched the progress of things, so
gradually had it come on, that it was with almost a start
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that he perceived the first gleam of sunlight which had
darted into the world, and lit on the vane of the little village
church in the distance. Mr. Raynor turned at once and
went back into the house. No change there yet; but hardly
had he resumed his stand at the fireplace, before the stifled
creaking of shoes was heard and the hall door opened.
If any traces of sleepiness remained about the eyes of
Martha Jumps as she entered the kitchen, they all vanished
when she saw Mr. Raynor there and Thornton asleep on the
settee. But Thornton awoke instantly, and starting up,
exclaimed,
`How is your mistress, Martha?'
`She's better, praise be blessed,' said Martha, as she
walked up to the mantelpiece and set down her candlestick.
`Who says so?' said Thornton.
`I ought to know, if anybody did, for I've just come from
seeing her sleeping like any kitten,' replied Martha. `Miss
Arnet says so, too. There's nothin' whatever to hinder our
having breakfast at the usual time.'
Thornton went up to see for himself, and was too well
satisfied with seeing to come down again until breakfast was
ready. Then he and Doctor Buffem appeared together.
`All right and sweet and comfortable,' said the doctor.
`I may go back to New York as fast as I came; or now I
think of it, more leisurely—being at my own risk. You do
not go with me, friend Henry?'
`No, sir.'
`I think you will be equal to any emergency which may
arise,' said the doctor. `And now, my dear sir, breakfast!
It's ill travelling without the staff of life.'
`And if Rosalie goes on steadily improving, when would
it be safe for her to return to New York?' said Thornton,
as they took their seats at the table.
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`New York? fal de rol!' said the doctor. `Don't bring
her back to brick walls till she's able to climb 'em. She's
seen enough of New York for one while. The minute she
can stand alone take her off for change of air and scene—
jaunt about a little—go South, if you like; but don't let her
see New York these three months.'
The doctor mounted his horse and rode away, and the
other two gentlemen stood somewhat thoughtfully looking
after him. Mr. Raynor spoke first.
`What are you thinking of, Thornton?'
`Doctor Buffem's orders.'
`I will see them carried out,' was the next grave remark.
`You shall, if I have any voice in the matter.'
`Say nothing about it now.' And nothing was said, even
before Mr. Raynor went back to New York himself for a week.
But one afternoon at the end of that week, when Rosalie
was well enough to sit up in a great chair by her wood fire,
and all the rest had gone out for a walk; that peculiarly
quiet step might have been heard on the stairs—if indeed it
had made noise enough.
Quietly he went up, and quick, for that was his custom;
but his foot slackened its pace now on the upper stairs, and
as it reached the landing-place stood still, and his breath
almost bore it company. Martha had gone down a few minutes
before, leaving Rosalie's door half open; and thinking
all human ears far away—with the perfect stillness of the
house—she was singing to herself in the fading sunlight.
Singing softly, and in a voice not yet strong, but with such
clear distinctness that the listener caught every word.
He waited till the hymn was finished—waited for another,
but it came not; and still he lingered, as if there were
a halo about her he liked not to break. Then a quiet knock
at the open door, a quiet word of admission, and whatever
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effect he charged upon his presence the room looked no less
bright to her.
`Does thy song betoken strength?' he said.
`Only weakness—of that kind which craves a strong support—
and rests in it, and delights in it.'
`Wilt thou make use of my strength, such as it is?' said
he smiling. `I would fain bestow it upon thee.'
`Having more than you want?'
`A little surplus, which I should like to see invested.'
`I should think business might call for it all,' said Rosalie.
`How are affairs on Long Island?'
`In the old state of quiescence. I have left Penn in
charge of my department.'
`For the present, I suppose.'
`For the present and future, both. I am going South.'
`South!' said Rosalie. `You?'
`Yes,' said he, smiling. `Not without you.'
She looked quickly up at him, then down again, but she
heard the same smile in his next words.
`Will that direction suit you?'
`Are you so intent upon journeying, Mr. Raynor, that
you can talk of nothing else?'
`Question!' he said with the same tone.
`The first letter of a new alphabet is not to be lightly
spoken.'
`That was the second letter; this is the first—When do
you expect to come down stairs?'
`I shall have to consider of that,' she answered.
`Let not the consideration be too long, or I may take
you away before it comes to an end.'
`I think you are merry to-night, Mr. Raynor.'
`With reason.'
`But if you take up my words so,' Rosalie said, `I shall
not be able to say what I wish.'
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`I do not wish you to say anything,' said he laughing.
`I merely came to say something to you. For the rest of
the evening you may think and not speak. It is always well
to know beforehand what one has to do; and this dear
Rosalie is not to be reasoned against nor reasoned away,—
therefore think not so much as may trouble thee. Goodnight.
'
Tom Skiddy stood out in the chip yard next morning, and
Miss Jumps in her old position with her hands behind her,
stood leaning against a tree and watching him. The frost
lay upon every chip and blade of grass to which the sun
had not yet paid his morning visit; and lurked in corners
and by fences, secure for some time from his approach. The
trees were in the poverty-stricken livery of November—
some thinly clad, the most not clad at all; and with every
rustle of the wind there fluttered down some of the remaining
leaves, crisped with last night's frost.
Tom was elaborately dressing out a knitting-needle from
a strip of red cedar, while the companion strip lay on a log
hard by.
`How would you like to go South, Tom Skiddy?' said
Martha.
`Fur south as Connecticut I shouldn't object to,' replied
Tom.
`That aint South,' said Martha,—`Connecticut's north
when you're in York. I mean South that aint north nowheres.
'
`Guess likely I shouldn't care about it,' said Tom.
`Well what'll you do supposen the Capting goes?'
`He won't,' said Tom.
`Now how do you know, Tom Skiddy?' said Martha.
`I tell you he won't,' repeated Tom.
`And I heard the doctor say, “Take her South,” with
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my own ears,' said Martha. `You don't s'pose the Capting'd
make any bones about it after that?'
`Can't he send no one else?' said Tom.
`He might, I do suppose,' said Martha,—`that's smart
o' you, Tom Skiddy. O' course every body knows what he's
stayin' here for. But then if Miss Rosalie's goin' in for
the Quakers, I aint agoin' with her—that's one thing.
Couldn't—not for nuts.'
`You can find somethin' else to do, I s'pose?' said Tom,
taking up the square stick of cedar.
`Most like I can—' said Martha,—`spry folks like me
don't want for work generally.'
`I should think you might,' remarked Tom, measuring
the two pieces. `Nice fit, aint it?'
`Sort o'—' said Martha,—`one of 'em's rough enough
for two, and big enough.'
`That's all along o' what's been done to t'other,' said
Tom, beginning to work at the square stick.
`Some odds in the stuff, aint there?' said Martha.
`Not much,' said Tom. `Both out o' one stick. One
was further out and t'other further in—that's all.' And
Tom whittled away assiduously, while Martha looked on in
silence.
`Goin' to make 'em both alike?' she inquired.
`Just alike,' said Tom,—`being knittin'-needles. They're
different shades o' red though. I don't care about seein'
two things too much alike, if they have got to go together.'
`Such as what?' said Martha.
`Horses,'—said Tom,—`and folks. You and I always
worked better, Martha, for having such a variety between us.'
`Well, I do' know but we did,' said Martha musingly.
`Just about what you call a fine match, we are, I think,'
said Tom.
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`Are!' repeated Martha, with a little toss of her head.
`Well, might be, then,' said Tom.
`I don't know about that,' said Martha. `It mought,
and it mought not, as folks used to say where I was raised.'
`So they did in my town,' said Tom, `but then they
always fetched up with “and then again it mought.” I
shouldn't mind making the experiment, for one.'
`I wouldn't be venturesome, Tom Skiddy,' said Martha,
with her head a little on one side and leaning against the
tree.
`I'll risk it,' said Tom.
`Well now!' said Martha.
`What's come over you to be so skeery?' said Tom.
`You're as bad as our white colt, that used to always
shy afore he went through the bar-place.'
`I might be worse'n that,' said Martha. `I might shy
and not go through the bar-place after all, Tom Skiddy.'
`That aint the fashion o' colts,' said Tom. `They
wouldn't get paid for their trouble.'
`Well suppos'n I shouldn't get paid for goin' through?'
said Martha.
`You would,' said Tom, shaving off thin slices of the
red cedar.
`Sure?' said Martha.
`Sartain,' said Tom.
`Time I was in the house, I know,' said Martha; and
in a very deliberate way Miss Jumps picked up her sunbonnet
and walked off towards the back door.
`Goin' through the bar-place?' said Tom.
`Maybe'—returned Martha. `You're so good at making
up things—s'pose'n you try your hand at some more.'
-- 375 -- p737-380
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again?
—Much Ado About Nothing.
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If anything could have made Mrs. Arnet deeply unhappy,
a letter which she received from her daughter early in
November would have done it. Fortunately nature had
placed her beyond much risk of that sort, but discomposure
she did feel in abundance.
`You must come here if you wish to see the grand ceremony
of my life, mamma,' Marion wrote; `for here it will
take place. Thornton wishes it, and so does Rosalie; and I
am but too glad to be spared the great New York fuss which
you would think indispensable were I there.'
Indispensable!—the word came back from the very bottom
of Mrs. Arnet's heart; which was however not so far
off as it might have been. But married up there! in a
country kitchen! — for what had any farmhouse but a
kitchen;—the idea was overwhelming, and yet there was no
help. There was time for her to reach them, but not to
make them change their plans; and on the whole Mrs. Arnet
concluded she had better stay at home. The mere ceremony
was not much, and if she went away there would be
no prepared fuss against their return; whereas by a
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diligent use of the time between now and then, she could do
much to repair the mischief. Therefore she would not go.
Neither could Mrs. Raynor be present. So she wrote;
the journey at that time of year and of her life seemed too
much.
`I give thee up, dear child,' she said, `as fully and
freely as if there. I always thought thee too good to be
mine alone. But go to thee I cannot: therefore come not
for me.'
And so the night before that morning in November there
was `nobody but just their four selves,' as Mrs. Hopper
said, in the sitting-room. Hulda had been there to be sure,
in such a mixture of pleasure that she was to be with Marion
for a while, and sorrow that Rosalie was going away,
and joy to think of living always part of the time with her
and Mr. Raynor too; that she was sometimes absolutely
still, and sometimes flitted about like a very spirit of unrest.
But now she had gone to bed and all was quiet. Quiet but
for the sweeping remarks of the wind; and they were so
general that nobody thought of answering them. The brother
and sister were much in each other's thought; and
could the thoughts have been read they would have told of
—“All that fills the minds of friends
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives henceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again.”
Perhaps the faces revealed so much; for of the other
two present, one was unusually grave, and the other at least
as usual. But he was the first to speak: not in a particularly
grave way, but rather playfully—as if willing with a
light hand to attach and wind off the long threads of thought
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in which his companions had enwrapped themselves. And
thus he spoke:
—“`Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own.'”
`Which would prove us all sages,' said Miss Arnet.
`Not all—' said Mr. Raynor. `My attention at least
was not turned within.'
`Nor mine,' said Thornton.
`No,' said his friend; `you have come near disproving
the other line—
“And whistled as he went for want of thought.'”
`Why?' said Thornton laughing.
`You have given the fire so much, so meditative, and so
needless attention.'
`So fruitless also,' said Rosalie.
`Very well,' said Thornton; `but I have not been so
lost in meditation as to miss the glances stolen at us all
from under cover of your eyelashes, little Sweetbrier.'
She smiled, but the playful lines quickly composed themselves
into graver fashion than before.
`I am thinking, Alie,' said Thornton, `what you will do
without some one to take charge of.'
`She may take charge of me,' said Mr. Raynor.
`You!' said Thornton.
`Well?' was the quiet reply.
`It is such a comical idea to imagine anybody's presuming
to dictate or even advise any line of conduct to you.'
`Presuming—yes,' said Mr. Raynor. `I should scarcely
call the idea comical.'
`Well doing it at all, then.'
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“`He that hath no pleasure in looking up is not fit to
look down,'” said Mr. Raynor. `You are making me out
very unfit for my trust.'
`I recant then,' said Thornton, `and am quite willing that
you should be perfect after your own fashion. I am certainly
afraid she will lose the pleasure of fault finding—but
I suppose she can live without it.'
Her lips parted in a little smile as if about to speak, but
they closed again silently.
`I am afraid my old simile of the lock of hair must stand,
Alie,' said Marion. `But child you are tired, and in my
judgment ought to go to bed.'
`My judgment does not say that.'
`And mine says must,' said Mr. Raynor.
She coloured a little, and Marion smiled, and Thornton
said laughing,
`You see, Alie—he endorses my words. I am afraid
your judgment will stand but a poor chance, after all.'
Even as he spoke, a little stir was heard in the kitchen;
and the opening door shewed them not indeed any part of
the stir, but the cause of it,—Mrs. Raynor—a very twilight
spot of grey silk against the glow of the kitchen firelight.
With as little excitement and bustle as if it had been her
own parlour, so did the quakeress come in; and was met at
the third step by her son, his motions as quiet though rather
more quick.
`Thee sees how much impatience human nature hath yet
Henry,' she said. `I could not wait to see thy wife till she
was ready to come to me, therefore am I here.'
`And she will not be here until to-morrow,' he said, leading
his mother to where Rosalie stood supporting herself by
her arm-chair. `The next best thing is visible.'
The heart of the quakeress had but imperfectly learned
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the quaker lesson; for in silence she embraced Rosalie and
softly replaced her in the great chair, and in silence held
out her hands to Thornton and Marion, and gave them most
cordial though mute greeting. Then her hand came back
to Rosalie and rested caressingly upon her head, and once
again Mrs. Raynor stooped down and kissed her.
`Mother,' said Mr. Raynor, `you forget that Rosalie is
not a quakeress.'
`Nay surely,' she said. `Wherefore?'
He answered only by a glance at the transparent hand on
which Rosalie's cheek rested, its very attitude speaking
some difficulty of self-control; but his mother understood,
and removed her own hand and took the chair he had placed
for her: answering then his questions and putting forth
some of her own. Thornton and Marion meanwhile exchanged
a few words but Rosalie said nothing.
`Why does thee not speak, love?' said the quakeress
presently. Mr. Raynor answered.
`We were talking a while ago upon your favourite theme
of silence, mother. What were those lines you used to quote
in its defence?'
`It matters not, child,' she said,—`the lines were mayhap
written by one who seldom held his peace save in a good
cause.'
`Yet they were good, and you used to say them to me?'
`It may be I had done better not,' she said; `therefore
urge me not to say them again.'
`You will let him say them himself?' said Rosalie.
`If it liketh him—' said the quakeress. `He thinketh
not with me on all points.'
His hand laid on hers seemed to say those points were
few and unimportant, as with a smile he said—
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“`Still born silence! thou that art
Flood-gate of the deeper heart!
Offspring of a heavenly kind!
Frost o' the mouth and thaw o' the mind!'”
`Spring and winter are struggling for the mastery here
to-night,' said Thornton. `I wish the thaw would extend
itself.'
`No,' Mr. Raynor said, `not to Rosalie's lips. Do not
set her talking to-night. Let her sleep—if to that she can
be persuaded.'
“`He hath a will—he hath a power to perform,'” said
Rosalie with a little smile as she rose from her seat; nor
did she look to see the smile that her words called forth,
although it were more than her own.
It was a pretty morning's work that Mrs. Hopper's best
room saw next day, and a pretty company was there assembled.
Only `their four selves' again,—with just the set-off
of the grey dress and cap of the quakeress, and the wonder
and interest in every line of Hulda's little face,—with only the
back-ground of country walls and hard country faces,—with
no lights but the wood fire and the autumn sun. And the
room had no ornament but themselves, unless the splendid
red winterberries in Marion's hair. But it was rarely pretty
and picturesque; and even the fact that Rosalie must sit
whenever she need not stand, rather heightened the effect.
Mrs. Hopper said it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and
Tom Skiddy quite agreed with her, with only one reservation,—
`he wouldn't say that he couldn't see a prettier.'
-- 381 -- p737-386
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Behold I see the haven nigh at hand,
To which I mean my wearie course to bend;
Vere the maine shete, and beare up with the land,
The which afore is fayrly to be kend,
And seemeth safe from storms that may offend:
Where this fayre Virgin wearie of her way
Must landed bee, now at her iourneye's end:
There eke my feeble barke a while may stay,
Till merry wynd and weather call her hence away.
—Faerie Queen.
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It is a melancholy fact that the end of a voyage cannot
be as picturesque as the beginning thereof,—whether it be a
voyage in earnest, or merely the `wearie course' above referred
to. There is no momentary expectation of either
storms or sea-sickness, and both are an old story. The
waves do not gradually run higher and higher, but `contrarywise,
'—there is very little sea on—if one may borrow
a steam phrase, and the water becomes ingloriously tranquil.
Unless indeed the fictional craft is to blow up with a
grand explosion—and that in Sam Weller's words, `is too
excitin' to be pleasant.' In fact the voyage is over before
the last chapter; and the only thing that can do, is to pilot
sundry important people over the bar and through the
straits, and land them all too safe, on the shores of this
working-day world.
Not that, as somebody says, `people begin to be stupid
-- 382 --
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the moment they cease to be miserable';—but still, when
the course of true love, or of any other small stream, doth
run smooth,—its little falls, and whirls, and foam, and voluntary
beating against the rocks—its murmurs as a hard-used
and thwarted individual—must of course be dispensed
with. There is nothing for it, on either hand, but smooth
water.
Mrs. Raynor sat alone in her library. Absolutely alone;
for though the cat was enjoying himself on the rug, Mr.
Penn was enjoying himself elsewhere; or it might be was
attending to his duties on Long Island. Even the invariable
knitting work was laid aside, and yet Mrs. Raynor
busied herself with nothing else,—unless her own thoughts,
or the general appearance of the room—for so might be
construed the looks that from time to time went forth on an
exploring expedition. With never failing recollection she
replenished the fire, even before such attention was needed;
and once or twice even left her seat, and with arranging
hands visited the curtains and the books upon the table.
Then returning, she took a letter from her pocket and read
the beloved words once more. It was all needless. The
words—she knew them by heart already, and the room was
ordered after the most scrupulous quaker exactness.
The sharp edge of this was taken off by exquisite
flowers, an eccentric little wood-fire, and a bountifully
spread tea table; where present dainties set off each other,
and cinnamon and sugar looked suspicious of waffles. The
silver glimmered with mimic fires, the plates and cups shone
darkly in their deep paint and gilding; and tall sperm candles
were borne aloft, but as yet unlighted. Even the sad-colored
curtains hung in softened folds in the soft fireshine,
their twilight tints in pretty contrast with the warm glow
upon the ceiling. As for the flowers, they hung their heads,
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and looked up, and laid their soft cheeks together, after a
most coquettish fashion—as if they were whispering; and
the breath of their whispers filled the room. A fair, half-revealing
light found its way through the bookcase doors,
and rested upon the old books in their covers of a substantial
antiquity, and touched up the lighter adornments of
such novelties as the quakeress or her son approved. The
clock in its dark frame of carved wood went tick, tick, with
the most absolute regularity, and told whoever was curious
on that point that it was six o'clock.
Then Rachel appeared.
`Will thee have the candles lighted?'
`I thank thee, Rachel, not yet.'
`Does thee intend to wait tea even till they come?'
`Surely,' said Mrs. Raynor. `But ye had better take
tea down stairs, if so be ye are in haste.'
`Nay,' replied Rachel. `Nevertheless, it may well
chance that thy waffles shall be for breakfast.' And Rachel
closed the door noiselessly and retired.
But while Mrs. Raynor turned her head the door was
opened again as noiselessly; and when she once more looked
round from a contemplation of the clock face, the very persons
whom she had expected stood in the doorway. Rosalie
in her flush of restored health and one or two other things,
her furred and deep-coloured travelling dress, looking as
little as possible like a quakeress; and Mr. Raynor, though
bearing out his mother's words that he would have made a
beautiful Friend, yet with an air and manner that said if he
were one now it was after a different pattern.
`I wellnigh thought the south meant to keep thee!'
the quakeress said as she embraced him.
`Nay mother,' he answered smiling, `it was somewhat
from the north that kept me. And you see how my rose has
bloomed the while.'
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`Fairer than ever! and better loved.'
`Than I deserve to be —' Rosalie said.
`Thee need not speak truth after thine own fashion
here,' said the quakeress with a smile, and laying first her
hand and then her lips upon the fair brow that was a little
bent down before her. `Does not thee know that the right
of possession is enhancing?'
And Rosalie had nothing to do but sit where they
placed her, and let her hands be ungloved and taken care
of; while questions and words of joy and welcome could
not cease their flow, nor eyes be satisfied with seeing.
Then came tea; but Rosalie drew back from being put
at the head of the table.
`That is Mrs. Raynor's place,' she said.
`So I think.'
`What does thee call thyself?' said the quakeress with
a quiet smile. `That is thy name now, dear child, and that
is thy place.'
And Rosalie was seated there without more ado; where
even Rachel surveyed her with unwonted admiration of
colours and uncovered hair.
`Mother,' said Mr. Raynor, as it drew on towards eight
o'clock, `you must let me take Rosalie away for an hour. I
know she will not rest till she has seen Thornton and Hulda.'
`This night?' said the quakeress. `Thee will weary
her.”
`That is just what I am trying to prevent.'
`Thee must judge for thyself, Henry,—nathless thee
knows that we Friends think much of patience.'
`She is patient enough,' said Mr. Raynor laughing, and
laying both hands on his wife's head as he stood by her
chair. `So patient that she requires very particular looking
after.' And when the carriage came he took her away as
he had said.
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What a happy surprise there was! what a joyful hour of
talk! How pleasant it was to see the old house again, restored
from its fiery damage and with such owners. So
much joy, that one is tempted to wonder why nobody ever
wrote upon the Pleasures of fulfilment. And if her old sorrowful
life came up to Rosalie, it was but to stir the very
depths of her heart with wonder and gratitude; till she was
ready to say with the Psalmist, “What is man, that thou
art mindful of him? or the son of man, that thou visitest
him?”
An hour had passed, and half of the next one, and still
they lingered; until a slight stir arose in the street, and
cries and shouts—first distant and then drawing near—
broke the stillness. Cries not of fear, as it seemed, neither
of disturbance, but of joy—of excitement—of wild congratulation.
In a moment the little party were at the
door.
All was still, breathless. Then again the murmur came
swelling towards them, and foremost among the cries broke
forth `Peace! Peace!' Nearer and nearer the people
took it up and cried, `Peace! the Peace!' From one
and another—from deep strong voices and from throats
that could hardly raise the cry, it was heard—`The Peace!
the Peace!'
`Peace! Peace!' cried out one little boy whose pattering
footsteps bore him swiftly past the house. `Peace!
Peace!—I wish my voice was bigger!'
`I wish my heart was,' Mr. Raynor said. And as
they rode home lights sprang forth in every window, the
city shone as if with daylight; and ever went up that cry,
`Peace! Peace!'
THE END.
