University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

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 At the window, half withdrawn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 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?'

`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.

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.'

`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.

`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,

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.'

`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?'

`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

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,

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.