 | CHAPTER X. My brother's keeper |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Let's meet as little as we can.
Orlando.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
—As You Like It.
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.
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.
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?'
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.'
`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.
`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
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!'
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.'
`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.
| CHAPTER X. My brother's keeper | |