University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

It was one of those warm foretokens of summer which are
sometimes sent by the hand of April. With sympathetic
laziness people strolled along through the sunshine; the
street sprinklers passed on with their carts, and birds and
radish boys were clamorous. The leaves came out apace
but stealthily, and the very air was breathless. And yet
there floated in from the storehouses of fresh things, fresh
influences. The silence spoke of sweet sounds in the wilderness
of nature, to the wilderness of men; and flowers came
not on `the wings of the wind,' but their own breath; and
over all there was a sky so purely blue—so free from turmoil
and pollution,—that it seemed as if the last revolution
of the earth had rolled New York away from its own proper
atmosphere, and bestowed it beneath a new canopy. How
far removed from the sights and sounds—the steps, the
rattling wheels, the drums, the cries, that spread themselves
through the city.

So thought Miss Clyde, as with little Hulda in her hand
she went slowly home from a walk. How few, she thought,
how very few there were that appreciated or even noticed

that `clear expanse,'—how few that would not mourn if the
word were sent to them, `Come up hither.' The very birds
were longing to try their wings in such an element; and
man chose the dust, and looked down and not up. A little
pressure of her hand brought her eyes down. Hulda was
studying her face as intently as she had watched the sky.

`Are you tired, love?'

`O no,' said Hulda, `but I didn't know what you were
thinking of. There's a carriage at our door.'

Somewhat wondering with herself what could have made
Mrs. Raynor go in and wait for her, Rosalie mounted the
steps, and her wonder was not lessened to find Thornton in
the parlour.

The good quakeress spoke not a word till she had kissed
her first upon one cheek and then on the other, even more
tenderly than usual.

`I have made acquaintance with thy brother,' she said
then—`I would know everybody that loves thee and whom
thou dost love.'

`That is not a very safe rule to go by neither,' said
Thornton. `In this case, Mrs. Raynor, Rosalie loves somebody
very different from herself.'

Mrs. Raynor looked as if she knew it full well—or at
least as if she thought the people who resembled Rosalie
were few.

`And thou, dear little Hulda,' she said, sitting down and
taking the child on her lap—`wilt thou come home with me
and see my flowers?'

Hulda looked doubtfully towards her sister and then up
at the soft, quiet eyes that looked down upon her. She had
to resort to the childish formula of hesitation,

`I don't know, ma'am.'

`Yes, thou wilt come,' said the quakeress decisively—

`thy sister will not say nay to thy going. Thou and I will
have the carriage all to ourselves, and we will get home before
dinner.'

`But how shall I get back again?' said Hulda smiling.

`We will see—mayhap thy friend Henry Raynor will
bring thee.'

`Is that the same Mr. Raynor that came here once—no,
two times?' said Hulda.

`Truly love I think there is but one Henry Raynor,'
said his mother.

`O then I should like to go, very much.'

And jumping down to ask her sister's leave, Hulda ran
away up stairs.

`He hath taken a strange fancy to thy little pet,' said
the quakeress, looking however rather towards Thornton.

`To Rosalie's pet, Mrs. Raynor—I am fonder of grown-up
humanity.'

`Thou hast never known what it was to lose such a
little pure spirit from thy house,' said the quakeress with a
sigh, `or thee would better appreciate it. But thou hast a
large share, friend Thornton, and when `the cup runneth
over,' the drops are less precious.'

`I have not a drop too many,' said Thornton, with an
expression he was hardly conscious of. `You know it
takes more to make some people happy than others, Mrs.
Raynor.'

`I know there is but one thing which of itself bringeth
happiness,' she said—`perhaps without that thy remark may
be just. But here cometh one whose happiness is of easy
growth. And yet, Rosalie, she demurreth about leaving
thee even for one day.'

There was certainly considerable doubt on Hulda's mind
except when she looked at Mrs. Raynor; but there she

found something so attractive that she was allured on, and
soon found herself doing anything else but fill a place in the
carriage. Stowed away like a small parcel on the spacious
seat, her little shoes in plain sight, with one hand stretched
over Mrs. Raynor's soft dress and there held fast, Hulda
watched through the front window the substantial back of
Caleb Williams, and thought how very funny it was for a
coachman to wear a grey coat. The carriage rolled smoothly
on in the most regular and matter-of-fact way possible,—as
if Caleb and his horses had made an arrangement that they
were not to get home before a certain time, and therefore it
was as well to take it easy.

Hulda remembered how Thornton's horses went now very
fast and now slow, and then started off again at a most
eccentric pace; but at this rate she could have slept all the
way to Mrs. Raynor's with no disturbance. Arrived at the
house another wonder awaited Hulda, for there was a footman
all in grey too; and when she had followed Mrs. Raynor
up stairs, and Rachel came at her mistress's call habited
after the same sober fashion, Hulda began to feel as if all
the world were turning mouse colour, and looked down at her
crimson merino with feelings of amazement.

`Thee sees I have brought home little Hulda Clyde,
Rachel,' said Mrs. Raynor. `Will thee take off the child's
bonnet and cloak, and see if perchance her feet be cold?'

`Yea verily,' said Rachel, when she had brought her
mistress another dress. `Art thou cold, Hulda?'

`O no,' said Hulda, whose mind had got beyond the cold
region and was in a great puzzle, for Rachel had not only
Mrs. Raynor's stuff gown but also her cap! `I'm not cold
at all.'

`Doth thy dress keep thee warm?' said Rachel, with a
grave irony which Hulda did not understand.

`Yes ma'am,' she said, in a new difficulty from the similarity
of neckerchiefs—`I suppose so—my frock and my
coat.'

Rachel almost smiled at the grave little face—so sincere
and so wide awake.

`Did thee ever see a fire-fly, child?' she inquired.

`No,' said Hulda, `but Rosalie told me about them.
They're such bright and beautiful things that go flying all
about in the evening.'

`Now thou art all ready,' said Mrs. Raynor approaching
them, `and likewise I, and we will go down stairs.'

`There waiteth a woman this long time,' said Rachel,
`and she will not tell her want save to thee. James Hoxton
hath brought her to the kitchen.'

`I will straightway go and see her,' said Mrs. Raynor.
And for thee, little Hulda, wilt thou sit by thyself in the
library until I come? and Rachel shall bring thee the cat.'

It never would have occurred to Hulda that a tortoise-shell
cat could come to keep her bright dress company; and
therefore when a grave knight of Malta walked in, she felt
that he was one of the family.

`Art thou afraid to stay here alone?' said Rachel, when
she had watched the knight's reception.

`Why what should I be afraid of?' said Hulda.

`Truly little one, thee has reason,' said the handmaid as
she departed.

Hulda had sat some time upon the rug in front of the
fire, and Maltese was quite expanding beneath her caresses;
when somebody came in and took a chair behind her, and
she was lifted up, cat and all, upon Mr. Raynor's lap. He
was not in grey—Hulda saw that at a glance—but in a blue
uniform with red facings, very much like her dress. She
felt quite comforted. But when she got a fair view of his

face—for at first it was too close to her own—she saw that
he had his share of the sober colour, only worn differently.
But what made him look so at her? There was something
in his face that troubled her, and almost tearfully her eyes
sought his. He smiled then, and drawing her head down
till it rested against him, he asked how she was, and then
after her sister.

`O she's very well,' said Hulda stroking the cat. `I
suppose she's always well for she never says she's sick. Do
you think she'll miss me to-day, Mr. Raynor?'

`I do not believe she is sorry you came, dear Hulda, and
I am very glad.'

Hulda thought that was very strange.

`Henry Raynor,' said his mother as she came into the
room, `go I pray thee and take off those trappings at once,
my child; I like them not—they become no man—much less
thee.'

`Then you must get down, little Hulda, for a while, if I
am to go and change my dress.'

It was a great pity, Hulda thought, with an uncomfortable
vision of her friend arrayed in the prevailing colour.

But when he came down again the dress was black and
not grey; and Hulda went to her former seat with great
satisfaction.

`The dinner waiteth,' said James Hoxton opening the
door.

`You don't think yourself too old to be carried, Hulda?'
said her friend.

`O no,' said Hulda, `Alie very often carries me up stairs
when I'm tired or sick.'

`I should think thy weight better suited to thy brother's
arms than to thy sister's,' said Mrs. Raynor, `as having
more strength.'

`O her arms are very strong!' said Hulda from her
place of elevation. `They never get tired. And Thornton's
not at home you know generally when I want to be carried
—but Rosalie always is. She says gentlemen can't always
be at home so much as ladies. But she don't hold me quite
as well as you do, Mr. Raynor.'

And with one arm passed most confidingly round his
neck, they went forth together and proceeded to the dinner
table; where Hulda was as well taken care of as possible.
Taken care of in more ways than one, though she was too
young and unskilled to notice the delicate tact with which
whenever her childish talk ran too close upon home affairs
she was led off to another subject; nor how carefully she
was kept, as far as might be, from making disclosures which
indeed she knew not were such. And if she had been older
she would have wondered at herself for her perfect at home
feeling among such grave people;—for the freedom with
which she talked,—her little voice making music such as it
never yields when the chords have been once overstrained
or the wires unstrung—most like a mountain rill in its
sweet erratic course. And the older ones looked and
listened—Mrs. Raynor with often a smile and sometimes
with glistening eyes; while to his face the smile came less
often, and there was only the look of interest and affection
which won Hulda's heart yet more. And whenever the rill
went too far in any one direction, it was only necessary to
hold out a painted leaf—some bright word or question or
anecdote—and the rill was tempted, and went that way.
On the whole Hulda thought as she was carried back into
the library, it had been one of the most satisfactory dinners
she ever remembered.

`Hulda Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor, `I go up-stairs to
sleep, as is my wont. What wilt thou do, my child?'

`O I will stay here,' said Hulda.

`You can content yourself for a while with the cat and
me, I am sure,' said Mr. Raynor.

`O yes—and without the cat,' said Hulda contentedly.

He smiled, and his mother came up behind him, and
passing her arm round his neck as if he had been a child,
raised up his face and kissed it, and went away.

`What do you think of my being made a baby of yet,
Hulda?'

`Thornton says that's what mamma used to do with
Rosalie,' said Hulda, whose little avenues of thought all ran
down to the same stronghold of love and confidence. `Did
you ever see my mamma, Mr. Raynor?'

`Yes, dear, often; and loved her very much.'

`I don't remember her a great deal,' said Hulda—`I
believe I get her confused with Rosalie.'

She sat quiet a few minutes and then started up.

`Don't you want to go to sleep, Mr. Raynor?'

`Don't you?'

`O no—not a bit.'

`Neither do I.'

`Well that'll be very fair, then,' said Hulda laughing.
`But I should think you'd get tired of holding me, Mr.
Raynor—most people don't like to.'

`I once had such a little sister as you are, Hulda—whom
I loved better than almost anything else in the world. You
remind me of her very much, and that is one reason why I
like to hold you and kiss you and carry you, and do anything
else with you and for you.'

`I'm very glad!' said Hulda, her smile half checked by
something in his look and tone. `So that's one reason.
What's the other?'

He smiled and told her she must be content with hearing

one; and then asked her what she had been doing and
learning lately.

`I don't learn a great deal,' said Hulda—`only arithmetic
and geography and little, little bits of French lessons.
And then I write—and I have one hymn to learn a week,
and a little verse every day.'

`Tell me one of your hymns.'

`Then I will tell you the last one,' said Hulda.

`Don't you think it's pretty?' said Hulda, when she
had waited what she thought a reasonable time for Mr.
Raynor to speak, and he had only drawn his arm closer
about her.

`I think it is much more than pretty. Do you understand
it all?'

`I believe so—' said Hulda—`Rosalie told me a great
deal about it.'

`What?'

`Why she said that even children needed to be forgiven
before they went to heaven—that was one thing in the
first verse,—and that people ought to try to make this
world as much like heaven as they could, and that if all was
peace and joy and love there it ought to be here. And then
in the third verse, that we didn't only need to be forgiven,
but made good and to love all good things, and that if God
didn't make us love him and like to serve him, we never
could be happy in heaven even if we could get there. And
she said the blood of Christ was called a flood because it was
enough to save everybody in the whole world—and to make
them clean, if they would only trust in it. And she said
the last verse taught us that we must love and serve him
now, while we are here, and then when we die he would
receive us to himself.'

`And what does that word `white' mean in the third
verse—`Behold them white and clean'?'

`Don't it mean something like clean?' said Hulda.

`Something like, yes. It shews how very pure, how
very holy, will all God's children be when he has taken them
to heaven. As the Bible says—“they are without spot before
the throne of God”—“without fault before him”
—think how very holy one must be in whom the pure eye
of God sees neither spot nor fault. Such are all the children
about his throne—and because thus holy they are happy.'

`Do you think there is nobody that is quite good?' said
Hulda with a face of very grave reflection.

`The Bible says, “there is not a just man upon earth
that doeth good and sinneth not.'”

`I know it does,' said Hulda, who was apparently a
little troubled with some reservation in her mind. `But
that only says men. I don't suppose there are a great
many.'

Mrs. Raynor came down from her nap in due time, and
then proposed that they should go into the greenhouse.
Hulda was enchanted; and ran about and admired and
asked questions to the delight of both her friends.

`Would thee like some flowers to take home with thee?'
said the good quakeress, drawing Hulda's head close to
her. And Mr. Raynor's knife hardly waited the reply
before it began its work. Hulda's little hands had as many
as they could hold.

`And now thee must have one flower for thy sister—
yea, Henry, thou art always right,' she said, as her son began
to examine the respective merits of the white camellias.
`They are not the fairer.'

`O Mr. Raynor! you are cutting the very prettiest
one!' cried Hulda. `O it was too bad to take that.'

`Is it too pretty for your sister?'

`O I don't think so, of course,' said Hulda,—`but then
it was your little bush.'

Hulda wondered at the smile that passed over his face,
and looked if she might see it come again, but it came not.

He tied up her flowers and put them in water for her,
and walked with her about the greenhouse till the last sunbeams
had left it, and the flowers grew indistinct.

`Friend Henry,' said James Hoxton appearing at this
juncture, `thy mother waiteth for thee at tea.'

`James Hoxton is a quaker,' said Mr. Raynor with a
smile at Hulda's look.

`Does that make him speak to you so?' said Hulda.
`You are not a quaker, Mr. Raynor?'

`No. If I were a quaker, Hulda, I should call my
mother `friend Joan.”

`Should you! But that would be very disrespectful,'
said Hulda.

`No—not if I were a quaker.'

`O—' said Hulda, a little and only a little enlightened.
`I'm very glad you're not a quaker—I don't like grey at
all;' though when she got to the tea table, Hulda could not
help liking everything about Mrs. Raynor—even her grey
dress.

Mr. Raynor took her home in the carriage after tea. Not
sitting by his side but on his lap, and wrapped up in his
arms as if she were a precious little thing that he was afraid
to lose sight of. But he would not come in, though Hulda
begged and entreated him. He carried her and her flowers
up the steps and into the hall where Tom stood holding the
door, and then ran down again and in a moment was in the
carriage and off.