 | CHAPTER XIII. My brother's keeper |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.
—Ben Jonson.
`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.'
`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?—'
`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!'
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
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
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,
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,
`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
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
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
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.
| CHAPTER XIII. My brother's keeper | |