 | CHAPTER XVIII. My brother's keeper |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Is in them all but love and battles?
O' th' first of these we have no great matter
To treat of, but a world o' th' latter.
—Hudibras.
`You don't mean to say, Tom Skiddy,' said Martha, as she
stood leaning against the breakfast room door one morning
with her hands behind her; `you don't mean to tell me that
he never comes in?'
`Never comes in—' replied Tom, who was assiduously
dressing the line of knives and forks.
`Why I let him once myself—' said Martha with a very
triumphant twist of her mouth. `Now what do you say to
that, Tom Skiddy?'
`I say he never comes in, Martha Jumps. I don't say
he never did come in, in the course of his existence—I've
let him in myself, maybe two or three times; but he never
does come in,—not this whole summer.'
`And so many times as Hulda's been there, too,' said
Martha parenthetically.
`Just brings her up the steps and sets her down in the
hall,' said Tom, `and then off he goes before you can say
Jack Robinson.'
`'Taint likely he'd stop if you did get it out, seeing it
point.'
`Everything needn't be pointed in this world,' said Tom
dryly.
`That's lucky,' said Martha,—`'cause some things don't
take one so well as some others.'
And Martha swayed herself and the door pleasantly back
and forth, while Tom's motions grew dignified.
`Well that is queer, aint it?' said Miss Jumps at length.
`Now Tom, you're cute enough sometimes—what's the sense
of it?'
`This is one of the other times,' said Tom, as he gave
the salt-cellars a composing little shake and set them right
and left in their places.
`O—that's it,' said Martha. `But after all it aint worth
while to keep one's sense for too uncommon occurrences; and
I tell you I can't stay but a minute and a quarter, so say on,
—what's the use of a man's keeping out when he's dying
to come in?'
`He's mighty tenacitous of life then,' said Tom.
`Don't tell me!' said Martha impatiently. `I know! so
do you.'
`I know one thing,' said Tom,—`I wish Miss Rosalie 'd
get sick.' And Tom shook his head and went into the
pantry for mats.
`What are you up to, Tom Skiddy?' said Martha admiringly.
`I should be up to something—seeing where I come
from,' said Tom.
`Where was that?' said Martha, `Egypt?'
Tom signified that he was a chip of the true Charter
Oak.
`Well, that's saying something for you, if it aint for
came out of the Phœnix's ash-pan. After all, Connecticut
aint the biggest state in the United,—not by several.'
`And a pint of pippins aint so large as a bushel of lady
apples,' said Tom shortly.
`Lady apples don't grow in Connecticut, then?' said
Martha with a face of grave inquiry.
`Aint much need—' said Tom. `The market's run
down with 'em from other places.'
`The market 'll bear up under 'em this some time yet,'
said Martha—`the good ones. But I say, Tom Skiddy—
what would you do suppos'n Miss Rosalie should take sick?'
`Just tell him—I'd fetch him in quick enough.'
`Do you s'pose he'd come?' said Martha.
`I guess likely,' said Tom. `He'd be took all of a sudden,
you see, and wouldn't stop to think.'
`It's a nice thing to amuse yourself,' said Martha as she
moved meditatively away, `but it aint best to be too mischievous,
Tom Skiddy.'
Tom was right.
Often as little Hulda spent the day at the `Quakerage,'
as Thornton called it; often as her friend brought her home;
he never came further than the hall door. And though her
little hand and voice made many an effort to bring him in,
they won nothing beyond a smile and a kiss, or a kind-spoken
`Not to-day.'
Meanwhile the year went on, and the war with its varying
fortune traversed sea and land. The English papers set
forth that “the American navy must be annihilated,” “the
turbulent inhabitants must be tamed,” and “the Americans
beaten into submission;” and nevertheless the papers on
this side the sea continued to chronicle such items as these:
“The privateer Paul Jones, of this port, was spoken on
Lord Sidmouth, her prize, with a valuable cargo, and
$80,000 in specie.”
“The privateer Comet, of Baltimore, fell in with an
English ship, brig, and schooner, under convoy of a Portuguese
brig of 16 guns, which she engaged, and captured all
three in less than an hour.”
And then came the less pleasant intelligence, “The Lord
Sidmouth, prize to the privateer Paul Jones, was recaptured
on Sunday afternoon within Gull light, near New London,
by the British frigate Orpheus. On the same day the
Orpheus captured two other American ships.”
But as the papers said again,—
“The spirit of our transatlantic brethren, in conformity
with the spirit of true republicanism, rises with every succeeding
miscarriage and defeat.”
Then came the battles of Lake Erie, and of the Thames;
and the American papers found full employment for all their
exclamation points.
One Saturday evening, late in October, the city was in
an unusual state of murmur and commotion,—tea-time
seemed to have no power to send people home; and night
fell on even busier streets than the day had seen. Busy
tongues and busy feet kept pace with each other, and the
city seemed to have poured itself out into the chief thoroughfares.
And as the great wave of people rolled steadily on
and down, the upper part of the city became more and more
deserted; and once off the pavements, the watchman and
his sonorous cry of `All's well!' were the most notable subjects
of attention.
No city stir had reached the `Quakerage,'—indeed a
bustling crowd could hardly abide there, but would, like a
swarm of bees, seek some rougher place whereon to cling.
tree and bush, her rule was no less complete within. There
was talk enough in the kitchen, but the quiet `thee' and
`thou,' `nay' and `yea, verily,' of Rachel and her companions,
sent forth no more than a gentle murmur which had
rather a lullaby effect. And up-stairs the wood snapped
and crackled audibly enough to attest the stillness. Whatever
Mr. Penn had done with himself, he was not there; and
Mr. Henry sat writing, and his mother with her usual busy
play of knitting-needles. The cat dozed before the fire,
sending forth occasional long and sleepy purrs as if they
scarce paid for the trouble; now and then getting up to take
a dreamy survey of his master or mistress, and then curling
down again, as by the sheer force of necessity.
Nor were those green eyes the only ones that took note
of Mr. Henry. His mother looked at him often in the
slight pauses of her work: when a needle was knit off, or
the heel finished, or when the turn came in knitting the gore.
He looked tired she thought, and so he did, and was; being
one of those spirits so absolutely at rest within themselves
that their energies work hard for other people,—and then
need from still others, rest and refreshment.
`Henry,' said the quakeress at length, `move thy head
further to the right, that I may see thee.'
He smiled as he complied, and said,
`Well, mother?'
`I thought to see if the shadow on thine eyes came only
from the lamp,' she answered.
`There is no undue shade upon them now, is there
mother?'
`Nay,' said the quakeress, though her look was a little
wistful,—`truly I think there is nothing undue about thee.'
But she eyed him still; and he threw down his pen and
came and took part of her ample footstool.
`If I interfere with your feet, mother, you can put them
on my lap. Are you troubling yourself about me?'
`I would I could remove all trouble from thee, dear,' she
said.
`That would not be well for me—since it is not done,' he
answered gently. `Why mother, have you forgot your
favourite saying, `patience reacheth all'?'
The quakeress bent down, and stroking both hands across
his forehead she kissed it two or three times.
`Go back to thy work, dear child,' she said, `and surely
the Lord is with thee in all that thou doest. Go back,
Henry—I will not have thee sit here—thou art a strong reproof
to me.'
He went as she bade him, but wrote less steadily than
before; breaking off now and then to talk or ask some question,
until his letters were done and ready for sealing. The
taper was lit and the melted wax was just in a right state
for the first letter, when there came a rush through the
house—it might have been the wind, but it was only
Mr. Penn.
Slam went the door, whirl went the table an inch or two
from its place, and down went Mrs. Raynor's ball of yarn
upon the cat, ere Mr. Penn had the floor to his satisfaction
and could give utterance to his sentiments.
“`United States Brig Niagara,'” he began—“`off the
Western Sister, head of Lake Erie, Sept. 10, 1813, 4 P. M.
“`Dear General—We have met the enemy—and they are
ours. Two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.
Yours, with great respect and esteem, O. H. Perry.'”
His breath quite spent with the various exclamation
points which were introduced to suit his fancy, Mr. Penn
stood still to take the effect of his intrusion.
Mr. Henry looked up at him for a moment with some
not sympathetic was at least kindly, he threw aside the
wrapper on which the melted wax had dropped in the wrong
place, took another and went on sealing his letters. The
quakeress felt herself more aggrieved.
`Whom dost thou respect and esteem?' she inquired
with some severity.
`What ma'am?' said Penn. `Harry!—just look at
that!'
For the knight of Malta, being aroused by the summary
descent of the ball upon his nose, immediately rolled over
upon his back, and seizing the intruder in both paws inflicted
a perfect battery of kicks with his hind feet; biting it from
time to time and then kicking the harder. Nor did the
rapid unwinding of the yarn and the partial entanglement
to which the knight found himself subjected, at all mitigate
his wrath.
`Thou art as unmannerly as the cat,' said Mrs. Raynor,
while Penn testified his delight at the feline antics by several
of his own. But Mr. Henry stooped down, and bringing his
fingers into ticklish contact with the back of the cat's head,
so distracted his attention that the ball was allowed to roll
away.
`How much mischief thee does contrive to do in the
course of the year, Penn,' said the quakeress.
`In a small way, ma'am,' said her nephew as he picked
up the ball and presented it.
`But how would thee like to knit with thy yarn all wet?'
said Mrs. Raynor, beginning to wind and finding her own in
that condition.
`I think I should like it decidedly, if I'd been knitting
dry yarn all my life,' replied Mr. Penn. `But how can you
be sitting here! Harry, have you seen the illuminations?'
`I have not been out of the house since sundown.'
`Then come now—ah do!' said his cousin. `Let's go
and take Miss Clyde to see them—will you?'
`No,' said Mr. Raynor.
`But why not? you are just hindering my pleasure.'
`I do not hinder your taking anybody you like, except
myself, Penn.'
`I'm not sure that she'd go with me, though,' said Penn.
`However, I can try. And you had much better come too
—I tell you they're worth seeing. So reconsider the matter
and come.'
Penn went, and Mr. Raynor somewhat thoughtfully laid
his letters together, then took them again and retouched the
directions.
`Does thee think Rosalie will go with that boy?' said
the quakeress.
`I do not know indeed, mother.'
`Art thou going out thyself?'
`So far as the post-office—perhaps nowhere else.'
`Thee does not care for these silly shows, Henry?' said
the quakeress with a half doubtful look at her son.
He smiled as he answered,
`I care a good deal for the occasion, mother—not so
much for the show.'
`Thee would have made a beautiful Friend!' said his
mother, with another look that was a little regretful at the
calm, dignified face before her. `It is the only thing about
thee that I cannot understand.'
He did not attempt to explain it, though for a moment
the bright play of eye and mouth half saved him the
trouble; but he said,
`I will be as good a friend as I can in this dress, mother
—and for the rest, thee does not wish I should give thee any
other name than that?'
She answered his smile—as anybody must—and he left
the room.
Meanwhile Mr. Penn presented himself to the assembled
gaze of Rosalie, Thornton, and Dr. Buffem; for if the
old Doctor felt himself in want of tea when in Rosalie's
neighbourhood, he often went to get it from her hand,—or
as Thornton declared, for the express purpose of snubbing
him if he was at home and finding it out if he was not.
Therefore in the expectation of being snubbed, Mr. Clyde
was rarely very gracious, and was really glad on the present
occasion to have Penn come in and go shares with him.
`I hope you have not been out yet, Miss Clyde?' said
Penn—`I mean to see the illuminations?'
No, Miss Clyde had not.
`Because in that case,' said Penn, `I have come to offer
my poor services. I tried to bring better ones and couldn't
get them.'
`Where is your cousin to-night, Mr. Penn?' said the
Doctor.
`Writing love-letters, I should think by the quantity,'
said Penn. `He didn't give me a chance to try the quality.'
`The wiser man he,' said the Doctor. `And so you have
not been out, Miss Rosalie? Must go, my dear—
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison”—
`The moon is not favourable to illuminations, sir,' said
Rosalie.
`Depends upon what sort of a moon it is,' said the Doctor.
`I'd risk such a planet anywhere. And there are
some transparencies about you, too. How many enemies do
you suppose now you'll meet in the streets to-night?'
`Enemies to me as a moon?' said Rosalie smiling—`all
the illuminators I suspect, and perhaps some other people.'
`Have a care!' said the Doctor with a threatening gesture
of his finger. `Don't you exasperate me. I mean enemies
on Commodore Perry's principle—“We have met
the enemy—and they are ours!” What do you think of that?'
The gentlemen laughed, but Rosalie did not put her
thoughts into words.
`By the way!' said the Doctor—`I should think you'd
have enemies in earnest! What's this I heard about you
the other day?'
`I have not the least idea,' said Rosalie.
The Doctor finished his cup of tea, and then rising from
the table and planting himself upon the hearth rug, he repeated
with many a flourish:
Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries,—
Feasting on which we will philosophize.”
`Goodnight Miss Rosalie—you've been the death of
two of my patients already, keeping me here so long. Mr.
Penn—if anything happens to the moon to-night I'll be the
death of you—or as I don't fight duels I'll turn you over to
your cousin. Captain Thornton—your most obedient!'
`What a—' said Thornton, and put the rest in his
teacup.
`Yes, how much we are losing,' said Penn.
`Get ready, do!' said Thornton impatiently, `and we
will all go together.' And upon that promise Rosalie went.
It was a pretty thing to walk through the rows of gleaming
the economy, or the patriotism of their owners. Some fronts
were lighted from garret to cellar—the house looking out
with all its eyes, and those bright ones, upon the thronged
streets. And now and then might be seen a dwelling that
was seemingly the abode of little beside a regard for the
world's opinion; and a few groans once in a while, shewed
that opinion to be unappeased. The public buildings displayed
transparencies as well as lights.
`Look, Miss Clyde!' Penn Raynor exclaimed, as they
came near the City Hall; `do you see that window with
Lake Erie and the fleets?—isn't it capital! And here in
this other are Lawrence's last words, poor fellow!—“Don't
give up the ship!”—Perry had that written on his flag before
the battle. And Tammany Hall has got Perry himself,
changing his ship in the very thick of it.'
The transparencies shone forth, and the spectators
cheered, and the different national airs floated sweetly down
from the City Hall on the night wind, as drummers and all
the sons of Œolus did their best; as Rosalie with her two
supporters moved slowly down to get a better view of the
Park Theatre. It was brilliant with lights and transparencies,—the
fight between the Hornet and Peacock, among
others; and Commodore Perry's concise announcement,
“We have met the enemy—and they are ours.”
`Miss Clyde,' said Penn Raynor, `you must let go of
me if you please—I can't stand that,—and I really shouldn't
like to hurrah with a lady on my arm. But if they shout
again I must.'
Rosalie laughed and released him, then and afterwards,
whenever his feelings required; and would gladly have let
him go altogether that she might be the more sure of Thornton.
He spoke from time to time with some of his friends,
from a final cheer for Commodore Perry.
`Will that last you till you get home, Penn?' he inquired.
`Probably,' said Mr. Penn—`unless I meet Perry himself—or
Harrison.'
`Then I shall leave my sister in your charge,' said
Thornton. But as he felt her hand involuntarily take closer
hold of his arm, Thornton added with a half apologetic tone,
`I shall be home soon, Alie—before you are asleep, I
dare say.'
She could only let him go—but so sorrowful were the
thoughts sent after him, that not for some minutes did she
remember the poor protection in which she was left. It was
first brought to mind, when as Mr. Penn's eyes were engaged
with the transparencies, the crowd and she came in rather
rough contact. She spoke at once,
`You see what you have brought upon yourself, Mr.
Penn,—I must take you away from Commodore Perry, and
you must take me home.'
`With the greatest pleasure!' said Penn, who never
forgot his good nature,—`that is if I can—the crowd is so
thick. Hadn't you better go down as far as the City
Hotel?'
`No I think not.'
`What made me speak of it,' said Penn, as they turned
and began to walk up Broadway, `the people are all going
down just now, and you'd find it easier. I'm afraid it
will be hard work for you to get along this way.'
It was rather hard work, and once Rosalie was nearly
borne back by the down tide of population; when her other
hand was taken and put on somebody's arm, and a quiet
`good evening, Miss Rosalie,' announced Mr. Raynor. If
Miss Rosalie felt relief, so did Mr. Penn.
`It is the most remarkable thing in the world, Harry,
that you always come just when I want you.'
`It was not because you wanted me, in this case,' said
his cousin.
`No, very likely not,' said Penn, `but a bright idea has
just come into my head; and I believe there'll be time for it
yet, if Miss Clyde will only let me leave her with you—she
has so little way to go now.'
`She will let you with pleasure,' said Mr. Raynor.
`I dare say she will—she was always so good,' said Penn;
and darting off without more ado, he left Rosalie to wonder
that one man's way through the world should be so different
from another's,—the crowd touched her no more that night.
`Do you know, Miss Rosalie,' said Mr. Raynor, as he
stood with his hand on the bell, `that in this good city you
need better protection on some nights than on others?'
`Yes,' she said quickly, `but—' and then checking herself,
she simply added, `I know it.'
Mr. Raynor looked at her for a moment—for every
pane of glass in the whole house gave forth light; but as if
he guessed what she did not tell him he asked no further
questions. The bell was rung and they parted.
When Mr. Raynor reached his own home, he found that
Mr. Penn had employed his spare time in getting candles
and putting them in every window that he dared appropriate.
His own rooms and Mr. Henry's and all that belonged
to nobody in particular—the garret—even the dining room
had Mr. Penn enlivened to the extent of his power; and
the house looked like a hotel of patriotism and treason.
But the candles burned as if there had been never a quaker
nor a traitor in the whole world.
| CHAPTER XVIII. My brother's keeper | |