 | CHAPTER XX. My brother's keeper |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
I am like your tallor's needle, I go through.
—Ben Jonson.
Winter and night reigned together; but while the night
looked down with steady gaze upon the pranks of her colleague,
winter ran on in his career, and caught nothing of her
still influence. The wind as it whirled about the house drew
whatever it could lay hands on into the same giddy dance;
and tried every casement, and planted an ambuscade of puffs
at every door. Then it roared in the chimney, and then
sighed itself away as in penitence for its misdeeds; but in
reality it was but waiting for breath and a fresh partner.
The moon was making her way westward, bearing steadily
on through the clouds which came up from some exhaustless
storehouse in the northwest: looking dark at the horizon,
but lighter and more flaky beneath the moon's inspection,
and sometimes speeding away in such haste that she rode
clear and unincumbered for a few minutes, till the next
battalion came up.
In Mrs. Raynor's library the curtains were let fall and
the fire blazing; and the table waited but the arrival of the
teapot and Mr. Henry.
Mr. Penn was already there, reading the newspaper all
very audible asides and interjections.
`What in the world has Harry done with himself?' he
said at length, carefully bestowing the paper, blanket-wise,
upon the knight of Malta; who crawled out, shook himself,
and curled down again immediately by Mrs. Raynor who
was counting stitches on a grey stocking.
`Very interesting news, Sir Brian,' said Penn, pursuing
him with the paper.
`What did thee observe, Penn?' said Mrs. Raynor,
when she had finished the stitches.
`Throwing words to the cat, ma'am.'
`Did thee say there was any news?'
`Not much,' said Penn,—`what there is smells mouldy.
Dull as the editor's brains. Commodore Rogers is in,—not
much in that quarter, neither—only thirty prisoners. It
must have been a dreadfully moping cruise. But I say,
where's Harry? aren't you frightened to death about him?
Does he ever stay out so late without leaving word where
he's gone?'
`How thee does run on!' said Mrs. Raynor, who had
been hurried along the stream of Penn's wild and unquaker-like
sentiments without chance to say a word.
`Where does thee think thy tongue will lead thee some
day, Penn?'
`Into the house of some rich lady I hope, ma'am—I
can't afford to marry a poor one,—and
Go back he will.'”
`Thy backward steps of speech will be few,' said the
quakeress.
`But now just see the state of things,' said her nephew.
of wrath'—
`Penn! bethink thee!' said his aunt.
—`From the kettle ma'am—at being kept so long on
the fire,—there never was a quaker teakettle yet, that I can
find out. And Master Harry, presuming upon his importance'—
`Upon what dost thou presume?' said his cousin's voice
behind him.
`Upon your absence,' said Penn jumping up. `Now
then—“Blow winds and crack your cheeks”—and Boil
teakettle and put the fire out.'
`And sit down Penn, and be quiet—a more impossible
thing than either.'
`But how long since you entered the genus felis, felicitous,
and wore cushioned feet?' said Penn. `Sir Brian
might envy the softness of your steps.'
`One can do a good deal under cover,' said Mr. Henry.
`Well I suppose you don't mean to do anything more
to-night,' said Penn. `Your day's work's done, isn't it?'
`Yes—the day's work.'
`Thou art not going out again?' said the quakeress.
`Yes mother, for a while. I have promised to spend a
part of the night with one who is sick.'
`Then the carriage must go for thee' said his mother;
`therefore give thine orders.'
`What do you plague yourself with these sick folks for,
Harry?' said Penn.
`Somebody must—or rather somebody ought.'
`But there's no comfort in life if you have to spend your
days in hunting up distressed people, and your nights in
watching them,' said Penn, as he helped himself to a pleasant
piece of toast.
The comfort of his life, or rather the joy of it, was a
doubtful thing, Mr. Raynor thought; but he simply said,
`This occasion is not of my own seeking, Penn.'
`O then of course. But what a good thing it is that nobody
ever wants me. Harry, what a fine night we had last
night, didn't we?'
`How thee talks, silly child!' said Mrs. Raynor. `It
rained steadily.'
`Not at Mrs. Clinton's ma'am.—It didn't rain anything
there but champagne and sweet words and things of that sort.
And I wish you had heard Harry sing!—he surpassed himself,
and made me open my eyes. Such a song! Do you
know, aunt, I believe he's going to be married.'
`Not till I have been your groomsman,' said Mr. Raynor,
while his mother turned one quick anxious look at the imperturbably
grave face before her.
`Ah me! don't speak of that,' said Penn.
Is all I want—is all I wish”—
ladle?'
`Make the dish,' said his cousin.
`Don't know how, Harry—and take too long. Besides,
one wants mettle to begin with—and I'd rather chase the
lady than the dish.'
`Penn, Penn—thee is incorrigible!' said his aunt.
`Does thee never remember thy name?'
`O dear! what a name!' said Penn. `Do I ever forget
it? I am constantly expecting that somebody will give me
the nom de plume of Goosequill—only I'm not a writer; and
certainly the misfortunes and disappointments of life have
not cut me up in the least. I do wish the war would break
frontiers. A real good fight with the British once a week,
and an occasional interlude with the Indians, would keep up
a man's spirits amazingly.'
`Hush Penn, you are wrong to talk so here,' said his
cousin, while Mrs. Raynor laid down her knitting and
sought for words. `Thought may be free, but speech should
be a little restrained sometimes.'
`Why does thee say here?' inquired the quakeress, but
half pleased at the mildness of the reproof.
`My dear mother, Penn is not signing his name—he is
only making flourishes.'
`Can't help it Harry—' said the young gentleman in
question,—`you may write my epitaph beforehand—
Made of a grey goose quill.
A Penn it was when I it took,
And a Penn I leave it still.'”
`Pens may be mended,' said his cousin.
`If you know how. And I can't help it, Harry—it's
a—a—what the deuce is the quaker for confounded!—
I mean,' said Penn, hurrying on, `to have nothing to do
is a—'
`A thing which no man should complain of,' said his
cousin. `I will give you something to do this very night.'
`No, pray don't,' said Penn most unaffectedly; `because
if you make me go with you I must go, and I would much
rather be somewhere else. I think I will go and see how
Miss Clyde is after the party—or Miss Clinton.'
`I hope thee will expend all thy adjectives in the street
before thee goes to see ladies, Penn,' said the quakeress.
`They've got brothers—both of 'em,' said Penn in a half
“`I'll aggravate my voice so, that I'll roar you gently as a
sucking dove—I'll roar you an 't'were any nightingale.'”
`If thee will read play-books,' said the quakeress with
some displeasure, `thee must not repeat them here.'
`That's a study book,' said Penn—`the boy's first lessons
in English and elocution.'
`Are you going out as soon as we have done tea, Penn?'
said his cousin. `Because in that case we will go together
so far as our roads do.'
`Just as soon as I have satisfied the cravings of a youthful
appetite,' replied Mr. Penn, who was regaling himself
with plum sweetmeats.
`Do plums never make thee sick, Penn?' enquired his
aunt.
`Never did, ma'am—except once when I cried for 'em,'
replied Mr. Penn.
`And must thee really go out again, Henry?' said Mrs.
Raynor as they left the table.
`O yes—' he answered cheerfully. `It does not trouble
you to have me go mother, if I can do anybody any good?'
`Dear child!' she said. `I wish some one would try to
do thee good. Methinketh thou art more grave, Henry,
more silent than was thy wont.'
`Talked himself out to Miss Clyde last night,' suggested
Penn, with a fresh attack upon the plums.
`Which did not befall thee,' said his cousin; and turning
to his mother Mr. Raynor spoke a quieting word or two
and left the room.
The night had worn away to its decline, and the spread
of stars was wheeling westward, where the moon had long
since gone down, when Mr. Henry, gave up his place to
another watcher and left the sick room, followed by the
profited by his ministrations; and that night had shed
heaven's own dew upon one soul, long shrivelled beneath
the burden and heat of the day, contracted and deadened
with the drought of all comfort, and covered with the world's
dust.
With the strong feeling of the scene upon him, Mr.
Raynor got into his carriage and passed rapidly along the
silent streets; thinking of their busy inhabitants—hurrying
even in sleep across the bridge of life, and one by one dropping
through its many pitfalls, to be seen no more till the
sea shall give up its dead. How dim and visionary earth
seems from the banks of the Jordan; as the mists of that
river of death which once hung like a thick curtain before
the gate of the Celestial City, now roll off behind the pilgrim,
and rest upon the kingdoms of this world and the
glory of them! And what was any other work, to the one
purpose and endeavour `that by any means he might save
some.'
His thoughts flew to another person who he knew
thought and felt with him—yet to her practice it was hard
to reconcile himself in all respects. Mr. Raynor threw
himself into the other corner of the carriage, and watched
for so much sight of her as the outside of her house could
give.
A bright light met his gaze. Not the halo with which
his fancy always invested her, but a red flickering glare that
it was hard to locate precisely, in the uncertain black of
the night, though it was in the direction of the Clyde house;
and now he noticed that bells were ringing, and that the
men hurrying along the streets stopped from time to time to
pick up the fire-buckets which the startled sleepers left their
beds to throw out.
Mr. Raynor left his carriage, and choosing some point
beyond the scene of action where Caleb Williams might
await his coming, he mingled with the crowd and went on afoot.
Among the crowd but faster than they,—the mind giving
winged spurs which carried him on beyond all that ran for
profit or duty or fun; making his way spirit-like, without
jostling or being jostled, and with unconscious care eschewing
every possible hindrance or delay. One point he soon
made sure—the fire was not in Thornton's house but opposite;
and changing his course for the freer space of a cross street,
Mr. Raynor made a slight circuit and admitted himself by
a side door. It was open of course, for the firemen had free
passage to every house in the neighbourhood, and after a
word to the policeman on duty he entered the hall.
`Bless you, Mr. Raynor!' said Martha Jumps, who was
taking care of any article she could find, not very careful
what that might be; `did you ever hear whether pillows go
safe, packed in teacups?—I mean!—I'm at the end of my
wits!—And there's the hearthrugs. How did you ever
come to get here at this identical minute and everything in
a blaze?—O she's in the back parlour and we're packing up.'
In that fiercely lighted room, the red glare dancing upon
wall and ceiling like a thing possessed, the cries of the
throng outside inspired by the firemen's trumpets, the dash
of water upon window and door, the loud tramp of men
through the hall, and with no better guard than a knot of
firemen, he found her—like a quiet spirit beneath the Œgis
of trust.
At the moment when Mr. Raynor entered the room,
water and smoke were for a time triumphant, and the sudden
darkening almost prevented his finding her; but a word
or two which she spoke to some one else had brought him to
her side before the red blaze again sprang forth. Her attention
sister's neck, and then as by some strange fascination opened
them long enough to give one fearful look towards the front
windows and about the room; but never moving her arms
from the one to whom she looked for safety on all occasions.
At the first sound of her friend's voice however, Hulda
started up, and stretching out her arms to him she sobbed
out,
`Won't you please take us home, Mr. Raynor? because
Thornton isn't here, and I'm so frightened.' And she was
instantly in a new resting-place.
`Will you persuade your sister to come, Hulda?'
`O yes, she'll come,' said the child, whose little heart
was beating quieter already for the strong hand laid upon it.
`Won't you, Rosalie?'
But Rosalie did not answer; for something in Hulda's
salutation, or in the way it was met, or in the sudden relief
she felt, let not word and thought work together.
`Won't you, Alie?' she repeated, stretching her little
face down towards her sister, but by no means loosing her
hold of Mr. Raynor.
`I will let you go, love, very thankfully. Hulda has
kept me prisoner here,' she said, `so that I could do nothing.'
`And I am come to put you in closer ward. I shall not
think you safe until my mother has charge of you.'
`Take Hulda if you please, Mr. Raynor, but I am not
in the least afraid. Perhaps we shall have no more disturbance,
and if—at all events I am better here.'
`I shall not go until you do,' said he quietly.
Rosalie hesitated and again repeated her request.
`There are some things here that would need my attention
if the fire should cross the street—I had better not go
and unfrightened, I will thank you very much.'
`You will not thank me, for I shall not go,' he said with
a slight smile which by no means helped her irresolution.
`Your being frightened is I suppose of no matter, but who
shall assure me that you will be safe?—I do not want to be
frightened myself.' And wrapping Hulda more closely in
her shawl, he added, `I shall wait for you,—therefore please
Miss Rosalie give your orders as soon as may be, and let us
be off before we have any more light on the subject. Then
will I come back and see your brother and do anything you
want done.'
The roof of the burning house fell in as he spoke; and
though the brilliant light soon darkened again, they saw that
the fire was walking along the block with no tardy step, and
the engines redoubled their play upon the front windows.
`Make haste, dear Alie!' said little Hulda, again hiding
her eyes from the sight.
`Hulda,' said her friend, `will you let me put you in the
carriage first, and will you stay there while I come back for
your sister?'
`Who is in the carriage?' said Hulda, raising her head
to look at him.
`Caleb Williams is there with the horses.'
`The man in the grey coat?' said Hulda.
`Yes. You would not be afraid to stay with him for
five minutes?'
`No,' said Hulda laying her head down again. `Not if
you want me to.'
And her friend carried her out. It was well he had but
one to take care of. The way to the carriage was not long,
but it was all he could do to pass through the crowd. At
least with his hands so full—the way back was much quicker,
but confusion had thickened inside the house.
`Gracious me! Tom Skiddy,' said Martha as she knelt
in the hall; `do you suppose folks has no feelings because
the house is afire?'
`Ha'n't got time to suppose,' said Tom, as he went up
three stairs at a time on some errand for his mistress.
`And I'm sure I don't know how a person can pack with
men flying over their heads at that rate,' said Martha.
`And the Captain away too—it's a miracle houses can't catch
when people are home.'
`Where is Miss Rosalie, Martha?'
`My!—She aint in this basket, Mr. Raynor—if that's
what you mean. Like enough she's up in the skylight—it's
a firstrate place to look at fires, if you can get the first
chance. Pretty good powers of come and go!' said Martha
to herself, as the young gentleman went up stairs much after
the example of Tom Skiddy. `If he's one third more of a
witch, he can take a flying leap with her out of the window.
Rosalie was up-stairs, quietly giving directions to Tom
and the firemen,—they, swarthy, smoky, black-capped and
red-shirted figures,—she in one of the wrappers which
Thornton admired so much,—delicate, white-handed; and
white-cheeked too, for that matter, with the fatigue of excitement.
`If you have any doubts left,' Mr. Raynor said as he approached
her, `I will resolve them. You are not responsible
for being carried off against your will. And I cannot let
you have any more time here. These things shall be cared
for, but you first.'
And before Rosalie could attempt any organized plan of
resistance it was too late,—she was out of the house and
passing through the crowd, and then in the carriage by
Hulda. Or rather by her conductor, for Hulda had taken
her old place on Mr. Raynor's lap, and they were driving
she give other note of the change than a sigh, when Mr.
Raynor laid her—a softly breathing and sleeping little
figure, upon the sofa in the library at the `Quakerage.' He
stayed only to place Rosalie in an easychair at her side, before
he sprang up stairs.
Rosalie felt in a kind of maze,—so swiftly had the last
hour sunk down, and the little heap of sand seemed of such
strange particles. She looked about her. The room shewed
no trace of modern things—unless the flowers deserved that
name—and the fire which had evidently been lately replenished,
shone upon oak and black walnut embrowned with
exposure to the light of a century. It rose and fell once
or twice, flickering fantastically about, and then a quick step
was on the stairs and her dream vanished. And immediately
she heard a door open and the words,
`Henry Raynor! thee is not going out again? Thee
must not!'
He stopped and spoke a word or two, but Rosalie did
not hear his answer; and in a moment the front door opened
and closed. In another moment Mrs. Raynor was in the
library.
`Thou dear child!' she said. `How glad I am to see
thee! how glad to have anything bring thee here. Sit thee
still, child.'
`And how sorry I am to do anything to give you any
trouble,' said Rosalie as she returned her friend's greeting.
`Trouble? bless thee,' said the good quakeress, `I would
I could keep thee here always! Wilt thou be persuaded to
stay?' she added anxiously, bending down to look at the
sweet face that was looking up at her.
But Rosalie's eyes fell again, and she shook her head.
The quakeress stood gently smoothing down her hair.
`Well love, thee knows best,' she said. `But now come
away to bed, and trouble not thyself about thy house—
Henry has gone back to see that all be done.'
`O I am very sorry! He should not have gone!'
`None could hinder him—not even thou,' said the quakeress
smiling. `He thought thy brother might return
—and Henry knows thou art a thing to be asked for. But
come, love, and trouble not thy mind about anything.'
Rosalie carried her little charge to Mrs. Raynor's dressing
room, and covered her up on the sofa there; and when
Mrs. Raynor had left her she sat down on a low seat by
Hulda, and laying her head on the same sofa cushion she
fell asleep, with the first streaks of daylight falling across
her face.
| CHAPTER XX. My brother's keeper | |