University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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—

`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

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 snow-wreaths
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 high-backed
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.

`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.'

`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

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.'

`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.

`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.

`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.'