 | CHAPTER XV. My brother's keeper |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
So th' one for wrong, the other strives for right.
—Faëry Queen.
`Well, what sort of a time did you have among the quakers
yesterday?' said Thornton when he saw Hulda at breakfast
next morning.
`O it was beautiful!' said Hulda with a pause of delight
in the midst of buttering her roll.
`What was beautiful?'
`O everything! And they were so kind to me—and I
like Mr. Raynor so much! And the flowers—O Thornton,
did you see mine that I brought home? and the camellia?
That is Rosalie's; and it was the very prettiest one they
had; and I told Mr. Raynor so, and yet he would cut it.'
`Perhaps he did not agree with you.'
`O yes he did. I thought he was going to cut a white
one at first and then he chose this.'
`Then he did not choose the prettiest, to my fancy,' said
Thornton.
`Why you don't know anything about it!' cried Hulda.
`I never saw such a beauty, and I don't believe you ever
did.' And away she ran to bring ocular proof of the camellia's
perfectness. No further argument was necessary;
for admirable kind and culture had produced one of those
exquisite results that the eye is never satisfied with seeing.
Thornton silently took it in his hand to examine.
The flower was hardly at its full opening, two or three
of the inner petals being yet inclined towards each other
with a budlike effect; but the rest lay folded back in clear
glossy beauty, leaf beyond leaf—each one as spotless and
perfect as the last. They were of a delicious rose colour
—not very deep, but pure, perfect, as a tint could be; and
the stem, which had been cut some inches below the flower,
spread out for it an admirable foil in two or three deep
green leaves.
`Isn't that beautiful?' said Hulda, who stood at her
brother's side with her little hands folded and her little face
in a rival glow.
`Exquisite!—I never saw such a one! Alie, I must
get you a plant. I wonder what is its name, if it has any.'
`There was a little stick stuck in the flower pot,' said
Hulda, `but I don't know what was on it.'
`Do you know?' said Thornton looking towards his
sister.
`I think, I believe it is called Lady Hume's blush.'
Thornton laughed.
`This is probably a variety called Miss Clyde's blush.
It might be at all events. Methinks the quakers performed
some conjuration over you, Hulda,—it seems that you have
suddenly become a little conductor—a sort of electric machine,
charged by one party with a shock for another.'
`Shock!' said Hulda. `But I don't think I have
shocked anybody.'
`That is the very thing.'
`But what do you mean by Miss Clyde's blush?' said
Hulda, who was getting excessively mystified.
`Ask her what she means by it,' said Thornton. `Alie
just ring your bell, will you? Tom—did you get my sword-belt?'
`No sir—Jansen said he thought all the Captains was a
conspirating against him; and if they were Generals instead
he couldn't do no more than he could,' he said.
`And what did you say to that?'
`I told him he was a considerable piece off from doing
more than he could, yet, and I guessed he'd better send the
belt home to-night and no more about it.'
`I guess so too, or there will be more. I shall dine out
of town to-day, Rosalie, so you need not wait for me.'
`You will come home to tea?' she said as she rose and
followed him out of the room.
Her look half inclined him to come to dinner as well, but
he only laughed and said,
`You had better not ask me, because if I come I may
bring you your hands full.'
`Bring anything in the world that will make home
pleasant to you,' she said.
`O it's pleasant enough now—and you are charming;
but `variety's the spice of life,' you know Alie.'
`A most unhappy quotation in this case,' she said with
a slight smile. `That life must miserably dwindle and deteriorate
which is fed upon spice alone. Suppose you try
brown bread for one night?'
`You shall try red pepper for one night, to pay you for
that,' said Thornton. `Why shouldn't you and I be like two
birds of Paradise,—sitting up in a tree and eating pimento
berries?'
`What a naturalist you would make!' said his sister
smiling. `You would condemn the birds of Paradise to as
unwholesome diet as you give yourself.'
`Unwholesome according to you.—'
He stood by her, he hardly knew why; but perhaps half
in curiosity to see what she would say; for the changing
when she spoke her voice trembled a little.
“`The kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into a
far country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto
them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to
another two, and to another one; to every man according to
his several ability; and straightway took his journey.—
“`After a long time the Lord of those servants cometh
and reckoneth with them. And so he that had received five
talents, came and brought other five talents, saying, Lord,
thou deliveredst to me five talents; behold, I have gained
besides them five talents more. His Lord said unto him,
Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful
over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many
things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”
`Thornton—shall we live that life together?—the life of
heirs of heaven?'
`I wish you would let go of my hand,' said her brother,
with a motion as if he would shake it off. `What upon
earth is there in that immense quotation to call forth such a
sorrowful face?'
`Because,' said his sister with a gush of tears, as she
took away the offending hand; `because “there was one
servant who went and digged in the earth, and hid his
lord's money;” and to him it was said, “Depart.'”
The tears were quickly wiped away, and again she looked
up at him.
`Do you think it is very kind to take the edge off my
day's pleasure by such a prelude?' said he.
`Yes—very kind—to say what should do it.'
`By what rule of sisterly affection?'
`The rule in my own heart,' she said with a sigh. `What
is a day's pleasure that my love should balance it against
—and then “the angel shall lift up his hand to heaven, and
swear by Him that liveth forever and ever, that there shall
be time no longer!'”
`And how do you know that I need time for anything of
the sort?' said Thornton, when his silence had taken to
itself displeasure. `What right have you to suppose, that
because “after the most straitest sect of our religion I do
not live a Pharisee,” I am therefore excluded from all its
benefits? You see I can quote Scripture too.'
She did not raise her eyes, though the sudden flush on
her brow told that his words had struck deep. It passed
away, and she said—betaking herself to Bible words as if
she would not trust her own,
“`I speak as unto wise men—judge ye what I say.”—
“Every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself
even as He is pure.'”
And Thornton turned and left her.
How he despised himself for what he had said! for the
implication his words had carried! And against her—upon
whose sincerity he would have staked his life.
Christian in the Slough of Despond struggled to get
out, but always on the side next the wicket gate; while
Pliable, having no desire but to be at ease—even in the City
of Destruction—was well pleased to set his face thitherward
to be clear of the Slough.
Thornton soon got rid of his discomfort,—only the remembered
touch of his sister's hand was harder to shake off
than the hand itself. Perhaps on the whole he was not
sorry for this. In pursuit of bird's nests he was swinging
himself over a precipice, with but one visible stay—and that
stay the hand of a frail girl. He knew he had hold of her,
or rather that her love and prayers had hold of him; and
swung himself off—and rejoiced in his freedom.
He resolved, as he walked up Broadway, that he would
go home to tea that night, but not alone,—anything was
better than a tête-à-tête with his sister; and besides, as he
remarked to himself, `it will never do to let her suppose
there are no men in the world but Henry Raynor.'
Rosalie sat alone in her room, half reading, half dreaming
in the warm spring air of the afternoon,—now applying
herself to her book and now parleying with some old remembrance
or association; sometimes raising her eyes to take in
most unworldly pleasure from nature's own messengers, and
then trying to bring her mind back to more fixedness of
thought. But a sunbeam that at length fell on her book
wound about her its silken bands of spirit influence; and
laying her folded hands in the warm light, Rosalie leaned her
head back and let the sunbeam take her whither it would.
It went first athwart the room to little Hulda; who
tired with the day's play had curled herself up on the bed
in childish attitude and sleep. Her doll lay there too, not
far off; and a little silk scarf with which she had been playing
was still about her, and answered the purposes of adornment
more perfectly than ever. On all the sunbeam laid
its light hand tenderly; and then it darted to the table beyond,
where stood the little sleeper's dish of flowers. The
camellia was there too, and one look Rosalie gave it; and
then turning her head towards the window and leaning it
back as before, her eye again followed the sunbeam—but
this time upward,—her face a little graver perhaps—a little
more removed from earth's affairs, but no less quiet than it
had been before. And proving the truth of George Herbert's
words,
“Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee”
“Unto you that believe, shall the Sun of Righteousness
arise, with healing in his beams.”
The ray had done its work and gone, and `the lesser
light' had held forth her sceptre, when Martha Jumps, whose
head and shoulders had been enjoying the afternoon out of
an upper window, suddenly rushed into the room.
`Here's a whole army of men coming!'
`Americans, I hope,' said her mistress.
`La sakes, ma'am! to be sure they aint British! and
when I said army I only meant the short for multitude.
But it's such an unaccountable start for the Captain to come
home to tea and bring people with him!'
`He so seldom brings a multitude, Martha, that I wish
you would go and tell Tom to make sure that we have bread
and cake enough for tea.'
`Let Tom Skiddy alone for that,' said Martha,—`he has
a pretty good notion of his own how much bread it takes for
one man's supper, and if he hasn't I have; and I'll go tell
him as you say; but you see if there aint a multitude. To
be sure one hat does look like a dozen—viewed out of a
three-story, but I wouldn't wonder a bit if there was five.
And Miss Rosalie, you mayn't be conscious that your hair
is walking down the back of your neck. There—they're
knocking at the door this blessed minute!'
But in spite of this announcement, Rosalie's eyes and
mind went out of the window again so soon as she was alone.
For sorrow had put her out of society, and joy had not as
yet offered his hand to lead her back; and the gentle spirit
which had once amused itself with and among people, now
found their gay words but as the music of `him that singeth
songs to a heavy heart.' Her mind found rest and comfort
in but one thing; and these visiters—`they knew it not,
among them, but must go as a Christian—to take and maintain
that stand alone. To do nothing unbecoming her profession,—to
be neither ashamed of it nor too forward in
making it known,—to be ready always to speak the truth
with boldness and yet with judgment.
For a moment it tried her,—for a moment she shrank
from the trial; and then throwing off care and weakness
upon the strong hand that could provide for both, she got up
and lit a candle and began to arrange her hair.
Thornton came up stairs and through the open door so
quietly while she was thus employed, that the first notice of
his presence was its reflection in the glass before her.
`Well little Sweetbrier,' he said,—`beautifying yourself
as usual. Are your pricklers in good order?'
`As blunt as possible.'
`Defend me from wounds with a blunt instrument!'
said Thornton.
`As dull as possible then, if you like that better.'
`I do not like it at all my dear, only that you never were
and never will be dull. There is nothing dull about you,'
said he passing his hand over her hair.
`Whom have you got down-stairs?'
`Nobody.'
`Nobody! O I am so glad. Then Martha was mistaken.'
`Martha is as often mistaken as most people; but when
I said nobody, Alie, I did not speak very literally and not
at all prospectively. I should have said nobody to signify,
at present. A few entities to come and a few nonentities to
pave the way. So the re-arrangement of your hair will not
be thrown away.'
`O it would not have been thrown away upon you,' she
me?'
`What, Sweetbrier?—out of the abundance and exuberance
of my fancy, my dear. I never attempt to argue with
you, that I do not scratch my own fingers and find out how
particularly sweet you are—and the sweeter the more provoked.
So you see—Come!'
| CHAPTER XV. My brother's keeper | |