 | CHAPTER VI. My brother's keeper |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Here she was wont to go! and here! and here!
—Ben Jonson.
Little Hulda had slept away all the early part of the New-year'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
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.
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?'
`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
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.
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.'
`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
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.'
| CHAPTER VI. My brother's keeper | |