University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

The morning rose fair and still, with that ever fresh look
from a night's repose, full of hope, promise, and expectation.
As yet that day and the world had not come in contact;
and with a child's eye the morning looked at the dark city
beneath—wondering and fearless. At present all lay peacefully
quiet, and the early light found no cause of complaint
except that it could not see everything. Would ever drops
lie heavier than the morning dew? could there ever be
darkness which the risen sun should not dispel?

As yet the morning glanced only at the chimneys with
their upward curls of household smoke,—at the tall steeples
that stood like finger-posts to the Celestial City, lest any
man should think the way lay near earth's level. At these
—but most of all at the sunrise clouds, with their bewitching
shapes and colours,—those castles in the air at which
so many days have looked; to see some swept away by the
strong wind of circumstance, and some dried up at mid-day,
and some to pour down their artillery upon all beneath.

So comes the morning with its first look, and the noon
with its clear-sightedness that burns as fire, and dries up all
springs not fed by the fountain of living waters and shadowed

by the Great Rock; and so man goeth forth unto
his work until the evening—with its weariness, its repose,
its hope of a better day.

“These all died in faith.”

“I desire grace and patience,” says Samuel Rutherford,
“to wait on, and to lie upon the brink, till the water fill and
flow. I know he is fast coming.”

No such thoughts accompanied Thornton Clyde in his
morning walk to Mrs. Raynor's. He had promised to come
there to breakfast for certain good reasons not very well
known to himself; and now in fulfilment of the promise he
walked leisurely along—for it was yet early. He had visited
the scene of last night's bonfire, looked at the smoking ruins
of the destroyed houses, and at the blackened and defaced
appearance of his own; and had stood musingly about the
spot until the city tide-gates were opened, and its population
poured forth. Thornton stayed until a half dozen boys
had come to the ruin, to pick up nails and charred wood;
and then turning away with a feeling of disgust he walked
swiftly on.

I say no such thoughts possessed him,—and yet the
blackened home with its destroyed surroundings looked too
out of keeping with the fresh beauty of the day, not to stir
up some bitter fountain within him. A fountain that murmured
of lost precious things; while the water in its basin
gave back pictures that he had no wish to see nor remember.
Thornton walked faster and faster.

`Will you tell Miss Clyde that her brother is here?' he
said, when James Hoxton and he had brought their very
different qualities to bear upon each other.

`Truly friend, I think not,' replied the quaker with a
cool survey. `It may well chance that thou shalt see her
first. She hath not yet arisen.'

And leading the way into the library James Hoxton
gave a grave and sagacious kick to the fire, and left the
room.

Thornton thought to himself that one of last night's
events would have been quite enough for him without the
other. That to have either sister or house spirited away
was as much as a man could reasonably expect upon one
occasion; yet here they were both. Rosalie established
among the quakers, and the house made uninhabitable.
Moreover he was at Mr. Raynor's himself—gloomily standing
before the library fire,—a thing the sunbeams did not
know what to do with. They played about a shawl which
lay on the sofa, in a kind of loving way as if they rejoiced to
see it there—which Thornton did not. It was Rosalie's
shawl, lying just where she had thrown it off the night before,
and looking as her brother fancied, just like her. Why was
it there? and why did he dislike to see it? Thornton felt
as if his canary bird's cage was broke, and she away in her
natural element. From a rather vexed mood he went off
into one more softened and befitting the subject, which held
him till Penn Raynor came to take its place.

`Curious coincidence, wasn't it?' said Penn, with a
happy choice of subject.

`What?' said Thornton.

`Why—' said Penn,—`that is, I was thinking how
Harry happened to come by your house just when it took
fire.'

`He did not—unfortunately for your coincidence.'

`O then I misunderstood,' said Penn. `But he came by
when he did—I suppose you won't deny that; and I say it
was lucky, wasn't it?'

`I must be excused for having a keener perception of the
night's evils than of its benefits,' said Thornton.

`I declare,' said Penn laughing, `the fire has done its
work upon you!—mere ashes and piecrust—a remainder
biscuit—or anything of that sort. Not a drop of the milk
of human kindness left.—The Clyde runs dry this morning.'

What sort of a reply Thornton might have made is uncertain,
for the master of the house came in; and claiming
Mr. Clyde's attention by a hand laid on his shoulder and by
his pleasant greeting and welcome, forced the young man
into at least outside politeness. Not the true polish of the
wood, but varnish; and very susceptible of scratches.

`You are standing here,' Mr. Raynor said, `as if you
were tired of rest—or despised it—which?'

`I am not apt to take rest at this time in the morning,'
replied Thornton.

`Not such as a chair can give?'

`I can tell you,' put in Penn, `that you will gain nothing
by your attempts in that quarter. For all the world like
the Dead Sea apples,—looks well enough but don't taste
good.'

`How long is it since you turned cannibal, Penn?' said
his cousin. `Has the want of breakfast enraged your
appetite to that degree?'

`Sure enough,' said Penn, `what has become of breakfast?'

`I have just learned,' said Mr. Raynor looking towards
his guest, `that we must wait yet a little longer.'

`You have delayed it to favour my sleepy sisters?' said
Thornton.

`Not I—' said Mr. Raynor. `My oversight of the
household is in a somewhat different line.'

`But lines cross occasionally.'

`His does,' said Penn,—`isn't a line in the house it don't
touch somewhere.'

`Lines may touch without entanglement,' said Mr.
Raynor. `The many tinted members of the light make but
one white ray of beauty and usefulness.'

`At that rate,' said Thornton, `each member of a family
is incomplete without the rest.'

`No, but the family is incomplete without each member.'

`How full of brilliancy you would make the world to be,'
said Thornton somewhat scornfully.

`The world does not make itself so, if I do,' was the
quiet reply. `Those people who shine with a clear and unmixed
light are rare.'

`Rare!—I should like to see one!'

Mr. Raynor smiled, and Thornton's memory quickly corrected
itself.

`Did you ever take notice,' said Mr. Raynor as gravely
as before, `how beautifully the ideal halo of the old painters is
sometimes borne out? They put a visible glory about their
saints; and I think you may see a glory around the heads
of some saints that do walk this earth. Or as in Bunyan's
portrait of a gospel minister, where a “crown of gold did
hang over his head.”—“And they that sat in the council,
looking steadfastly on Stephen, saw his face as it had been the
face of an angel!'”

Thornton had seen enough to verify the remark, though
he did not say so, and silence followed, until the door of the
library opened softly to admit little Hulda.'

`Here comes one little ray,' said her friend turning
round.

`What is a little ray?' said Hulda, whose greeting of
the two gentlemen was meant to be strictly impartial.

`A little ray is a very, very little piece of a sunbeam.'

Hulda laughed, and keeping hold of his hand she stood
leaning her little face against it, and making grave remarks
upon various subjects.

`Isn't it pleasant here, Thornton? O Mr. Raynor! I
didn't wake up once after you put us in the carriage last
night, and this morning I didn't know where I was at first.
O there's the cat! Pussy! pussy!—see Thornton, what
a nice cat.'

`Where is your sister?' was Thornton's response.

`O she's coming right down, and so is Mrs. Raynor.
But you see Rosalie was awake last night, and so—pussy!
pussy!'

`And so she slept this morning?'

`What an unconscionable creature you are, Thornton!'
said Mr. Penn emerging from the newspaper. `Routing
Miss Clyde out of bed at any time of day, when she's been
burnt out over night. I should think she'd run away from
you, if that's your prevailing temper and disposition.'

`Should you?' said Thornton drily.

`Yes I should,' said Penn. `I should do it too, if anybody
asked me to get up in the morning—if I was a woman.
Because they haven't the resource of knocking people down
as men have.'

`But she is up,' said Hulda, `and coming down.'

And there she came—not looking as if the morning had
paid off the night; though the colour came back a little
when she first met her brother, and then from his side shook
hands with Mr. Raynor and answered his grave enquiries.
Thornton felt very proud of her. So did Hulda; and
looked from Rosalie up to Mr. Raynor's face without in the
least knowing what an appeal she brought, nor how readily
it was answered.

`Well,' Thornton said, when they had exchanged a few
words about the last night's work; `and what are you going
to do with yourself now?'

`Stay here until I know your plans.'

`And then?'

`Do as a shadow does—' she said, raising her bright
eyes to his.

`You are a little like a shadow,' Thornton said with a
sobering face, as his arm went round her and felt what a
slight creature was within its clasp. `We were comparing
you just now to something about as unsubstantial, though
rather more bright.'

`Were you?' said Penn—`it passes my wits to find out
what. I do assure you Miss Clyde, they talked of nothing
but breakfast and rays of light—O yes, I believe Harry
did speak of an angel.'

`And I never spoke the name of any friend of mine in
such a commonplace connection,' said Mr. Raynor quickly.

`Connection?' said Mr. Penn turning over the newspaper,—`it
is rather a far off connection, and commonplace,
as you say. That's the difficulty of running to the top of
the language at once—then you've nothing to do but come
down—which is the reverse of climactick.'

`Thornton Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor as she came in,
`thee is almost as welcome as thy sister. But does thee
hold her so tight always?'

“`We be all honest men here—we be no thieves,'”
soliloquised Mr. Penn from the recesses of his armchair and
paper.

`Penn,' said his aunt, `I pray thee to use fitting language.'

`Certainly ma'am,' said Penn,—`if I could attain that
desirable point I should be most happy. But I've tried two
or three kinds and they don't any of 'em fit. And as that
respectable author whom I just quoted is supposed to have
universal powers of adaptation—'

`Can thee be quiet now for a time?' said the quakeress.

`Just let me tell Miss Clyde about the old woman that
spoke in meeting, first,' said Penn jumping up. `Miss Clyde,
this old woman was unfortunate enough to lose command of
her tongue in church—as I do occasionally out of it'—

`Thee cannot well lose what thee never had,' said the
quakeress.

`The fruit of her efforts was that she became dumb,
however,' said Penn—`which illustrious example I shall
immediately follow. “Mum, mum, without a plum.'”

Mr. Raynor prevented all strictures upon this speech by
ringing the bell; and such of the servants as scruples would
permit, came in and took their seats. But Thornton stood
motionless; and though when his sister had placed her chair
near him, and Hulda climbing into her lap had assumed the
most comfortable position possible, he felt half inclined to
join the group,—something withheld; and he remained
standing while the chapter was read, and the prayer uttered
from a full heart, that they all might be “kept by the power
of God, through faith unto salvation.” Was it for him?—
had he any part in it?

From one hasty glance at the speaker, a glance in which
his old prejudice melted away very fast, Thornton's eyes
came back to Rosalie's bowed head; on which the sunbeams
rested with no fear of defilement. Not words could speak
the mind's enwrapped earnestness as did every line of her
figure. It was his guardian angel, there at his side, and
praying for him. And not Hulda's little arms were twined
closer about her than was Thornton's heart, as the witness-bearing
drops rose up into his eyes, and he brushed them
away that he might see the clearer. But when they arose
from their knees he stood there as before, grave and unmoved.

They gathered thoughtfully about the fire in silence for

a few minutes; the mind yet borne up on those spirit wings
with which it had been soaring, the heart yet swelling with
its last petition. Even Thornton and Penn Raynor were
quiet, against their will; and when Hulda slipped away from
Rosalie's side, and stooping down on the rug began to stroke
the cat,—her little hand went softly from head to tail, and
the knight's loud responsive purr was rather startling. At
last Hulda looked up.

`Mr. Raynor, I think the cat's very hungry.'

`I doubt it exceedingly,' said her friend sitting down by
her. `What makes you think so?'

`Because just now she looked up at me and mewed.'

`By that rule you must be hungry too,' said Mr. Raynor.

`Why I didn't mew,' said Hulda laughing.

He smiled, and clearing a place for his lips on her forehead,
told her she might be as hungry as she pleased, for
that breakfast was now ready. And as if he meant to claim
his full prerogative as host, Mr. Raynor gave no one else a
chance to take Rosalie to the breakfast-room. An arrangement
to which Thornton submitted with small inward graciousness;
only consoling himself with its banishment of
what traces of fatigue the night had left on her cheeks, and the
quick return there of the exiles of the House of Lancaster.
But if he could have had his will as he walked along behind
her, Rosalie's hand would have been quickly dislodged from
its resting place, and she and her companion put anywhere
in the world but side by side. Thornton was even jealous
of the very light hold her hand seemed to have,—why could
she not take his arm as she would that of any one else?

As for Hulda, she was beholden to Mr. Penn's good
offices; but though she laughed very much as he danced
with her along the hall, in her private mind she preferred a
quieter rate of progress; and quite agreed with Mrs. Raynor's
remark,

`Penn, thee does make an astonishing noise.'

`Very glad if it astonishes any one, ma'am,' said Penn.

`But see! if thee upsets the coffee pot the cat may be
scalded,' said the quakeress with a mild reprehension of
flourishes.

`Wouldn't accompany Sir Brian into hot water for much
greater fun than the overthrow of the coffee pot, ma'am,'
said Penn.

`Thornton Clyde,' said Mrs. Raynor, `thee had better all
stay here until thy plans are formed.'

Thornton expressed his thanks, and a polite assurance
that his plans were in the last state of forwardness.

`Then stay until you are quite ready to carry them out,'
said the master of the house.

`My staying here would effectually prevent their being
carried out, Mr. Raynor.'

`And cannot thee leave thy sister, then?' said the quakeress
with a wistful look at Rosalie.

`My sisters ma'am,' said Thornton with some emphasis,
`must decide for themselves.'

`My dear Miss Clyde!' said Penn Raynor, `if you will
only take up your abode in this house you will lay me under
everlasting obligations.'

`I will not run such a risk,' said Rosalie,—`I shall certainly
go at once.'

`No but—dear me!' said Penn, `I'm sure I didn't
mean—that is I wouldn't for the world insinuate—At least
I haven't the least idea what I did insinuate, but I didn't
mean to discompose anybody.'

`Thee talks a little too fast, either to know what thee
means or to say it, Penn,' said his aunt.

`But everybody must know what I mean,' said Penn,—
`at least Harry ought, for I've talked to him about it dozens
of times.'

`Mother,' said Mr. Henry Raynor, `here is little Hulda
waiting with all patience for some kind hand to give her a
glass of milk, and Miss Rosalie's cup is in like need of attention.
If you know what you mean, Penn, you had better
inform us; for Mr. Clyde at least, is perfectly in the dark.'

`Is it possible?' said Penn,—why it's as clear as daylight.'

`As it was to the little boy who his father might be, in
your favourite story,' said Mr. Raynor.

`Yes, that is my favourite story, certainly,' said Penn.
`It's so hard to explain things that people ought to understand
without explanation.'

`You must try for once, Penn,' said his cousin smiling.
`I am afraid you are one of the things.'

`Never shall believe it without better evidence,' replied
Mr. Penn.

Rosalie laughed and Thornton confessed he was in the
condition of the storekeeper.

`Why—' said Penn, `if you'll stay here Miss Clyde, I,
as being a noisy member of society should at once depart;
and if I were sent off to seek my fortune maybe it would
come. Not that I shouldn't enjoy your presence immensely,
of course, but then I'm sure you would enjoy my absence a
great deal more. If you could only content yourself.'

`O she would be very contented, Mr. Penn,' said Hulda,
who thought the silence gave her leave to speak; `but then
you see Thornton couldn't do without her.' And the grave
little face and childish voice that spoke as if the subject
were quite disposed of, made even Thornton laugh, and
relieved the one most concerned from all further reply.

But though Rosalie steadily refused to go to Mrs. Arnet's,
or indeed to stay anywhere but with her brother, she must
stay where she was until he should find rooms.

And resting quietly in a great chair before the library fire
Thornton left her.

`I shall be back in an hour, Alie,' he said, `and until
then—'

`Until then what?' she said looking up at him.

`O nothing much,—take care of yourself, that's all.'

She smiled and told him she was safe enough there, with
a look so clear and sweet, that he would almost have given
her carte-blanche to do what she liked.