University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

If Rosalie had left a clue by which her friends could find
her, she would have had little time to rest that morning.
As it was Thornton had been gone but half an hour before
James Hoxton presented himself and Miss Arnet's
card.

`Will thee see her in here, or will thee not see her at
all?' said the quaker.

`See her? certainly.'

James Hoxton walked off as if he had expected or would
have approved a different answer; and hardly had it reached
the carriage before the lady herself swept past him and into
the library.

`Why child you look charmingly!' was her first salutation.
`I think being burnt out agrees with you. But how
do you stand it here among the quakers!—that man be-
friended me till I was nearly out of my wits. To which you
would probably reply that your wits are less volatile. But
to come to the point—may I fly away with you now? or at
least will you fly away with me?'

`Can't, my dear.'

`Won't—I told mamma so before I came. I should
have been here an age ago, but mamma got one of her
nervous fits when she heard of the fire, and of course I had
to stay. I'm sure I was as nervous as she was.'

`And you are also convalescent?' said Rosalie.

`Also convalescent. Only Thornton nearly gave me
another fit in the street. Do you know he would not tell
me where you were? only said that when you were settled
anywhere he would let me know—many thanks to him!
And I told him he need give himself no trouble, for that I
would find you before I was an hour older,—which I have.'

`Many thanks to you,' said Rosalie smiling.

`Not many,' said Marion,—`there is now and then a
search that rewards itself; of which I think some less
volatile wits than mine may be aware. Where are mine
host and hostess?'

`I know not,' said Rosalie. `I have been here alone
since Thornton went.'

`Pretty house, isn't it,' said Marion smiling—`and
pleasant people. Satisfactory—don't you think so?'

`Very.'

`Where is Hulda?'

`She went with Mr. Raynor into the greenhouse after
breakfast.'

`How comes it you are not there too? I thought you
had as strong a penchant for roses as Beauty in the fairy
tale.'

`I tell you I was here with Thornton for some time.'

`Well he couldn't play the part of Beauty this morning,'
said Miss Arnet. `Such a mood as he was in!—savage. I
think I could have exchanged shots with him with pleasure.'

`I presume you did,' said Rosalie.

`No, he wouldn't even stop to fight; which is a degree

of savageness unprecedented for him. I wish Mr. Raynor
would come!—I want to see him.'

`He cannot save you the trouble of looking, Miss Arnet.'

`And he needn't save me the trouble of hearing,' said
the lady turning round. `What a police officer you would
make! Now I like to have my attention arrested first.'

`You know I was brought up in a quiet persuasion,' said
Mr. Raynor.

`My visit here this morning reminds me strongly of a
story I once heard you tell,' said Miss Arnet. `Is that your
flower, par excellence?'

`This?' said Mr. Raynor, looking down into the depths
of a rose which he held in his hand. `A queen is rather
public than private property, methinks.'

`That depends a little upon the bounds of her jurisdiction,'
said Miss Arnet. `You remember what the song
says—

`The peculiar throne of this queen is a somewhat prickly
rosebush,' said Mr. Raynor with a smile.

You could not imagine a rose in clover.'

`What an idea!' said Miss Arnet. `But are roses then
always bound to be miserable?'

`Nothing can be that whose chief end is the happiness
of others,' said Mr. Raynor. `And a true rose looks up at
the sunshine that comes from heaven—not down at the
thorns which spring from earth.'

`And so she bears her discomforts—'

`Like her blushing honours.'

`I give up,' said Miss Arnet. `I see you have studied
the case. If you would only explain the philosophy of
thorns, by way of conclusion, I should go away satisfied.'

`The literal and figurative thorns came in together,—
“thorns also, and thistles shall it bring forth to thee,” was
a curse for the mind as well as for the body.'

`That is the fact—not the philosophy,' said Miss Arnet.
`And I suppose you will tell me there is no philosophy
about it—which will leave me as unsatisfied as ever. I
wonder what you look so satisfied about, child—and you
smile, Mr. Raynor,—do you think that is a pleasant doctrine?'

`I think this is.

“`And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear
as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the
Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side
of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner
of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the
leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

“`And there shall be no more curse.'”

Marion pulled up her gloves and fitted them carefully
for a few moments, in silence which no one else broke.

`Why didn't you come to our house last night, Rosalie?'
she began at length.

`I could go to only one place at a time,' said Miss
Clyde.

`Clear and conclusive,' said Marion. `I should have
come for you in the night, if I could have been a man for
the nonce,—failing that I stayed at home and fretted. Well,
I shall not offer you the comforts of my house a second time,
having just learned that roses befit not a clover field. I
know what a `thorny path o' care' you will tread in this house.
If ever anybody was born to smooth away the sorrows of

life, I think it is Mrs. Raynor. I always feel an immediate
lull in her presence.'

`We have varieties of weather,' said Mr. Raynor, as his
mother walked in by one door and Mr. Penn by another.

`Isn't that remarkable?' said Penn. `I was wondering
this morning what Miss Clyde would do, moping here in this
castle of silence; and now here is Miss Arnet come to wake
us all up.'

`I thank you,' said Miss Arnet,—`I shall not undertake
that office for you, Mr. Penn. And the reveillé is quite
as like to arouse me as anybody.'

`But cannot thee stay here to-day?' said Mrs. Raynor.
`We will bear thee company if awake, and sleeping Rosalie
will give thee hers.'

`I will go away and give her a chance,' said Miss Arnet.
`No I thank you Mrs. Raynor—mamma will expect me.'

`If you are walking Miss Arnet, and will permit me to
attend you, I shall think myself too happy,' said Penn.

`You may go as far as my carriage—I suppose that will
make you just happy enough,' said the lady, taking a graceful
leave of the others.

So audible was the rustling of Miss Arnet's dress, so
brisk Mr. Penn's attendant steps, so gay and laughing the
voices of both, that a quiet little foot along the hall was not
heard, even when it reached the library door; for as James
Hoxton had at that moment both rottenstone and the front
door knocker in his hands, he permitted this visiter to announce
herself. Which however she hesitated to do; and
there is no telling how long she might have waited had not
Hulda accidentally come to her relief.

`O yes Miss Morsel, Rosalie's here, in the library,—
why don't you go in?' said the child opening the door and
marching in herself; while Miss Morsel followed with a helpless

air of intrusion, and returned Mr. Raynor's bow and
smile as if they had been in the highest degree reproving,
and she had deserved it.

`How does thee do, Bettie Morsel?' said the quakeress
coming forward to meet her. `I am glad to see thee. If
thee thinks this is the first time thee has had a friend in this
house, thee is mistaken.'

`I am sure I never thought such a thing,' said poor
Miss Morsel, who having by this time got hold of Rosalie's
hand felt encouraged to speak,—`never! I always told ma
that if we lost one friend I should know where to look for
another.'

`How do you do?' said Rosalie.

`I'm as well as I ought to be, I s'pose,' said Miss Morsel,
—`I generally am. And so's ma. Complanin' don't necessarily
mean much in our house.'

`Complaints do but chafe thee ill,' said the quakeress.

`I always thought so,' said Miss Morsel,—`ma don't
She looks upon it more in the shape of a plaster. But O
dear! to think of your house, Miss Rosalie! I declare it
makes me feel worse than if we'd been burnt out ourselves
—though to be sure the house aint ours—nor worth a pin,
either. But just to think of yours!'

`Why our house is not burnt,' said Rosalie,—`it is only
scorched and smoked a little.'

`O yes, I know,' said Miss Morsel, `but then it don't
matter—when you've got to a cinder you may just as well go
to ashes. Better too I think; and then you know what you
have to start with. But I thought ma 'd go off the hooks;
for nothing would coax her primarily that it wasn't our own
bed-room. Though as I told her, it didn't signify if it was;
but she couldn't view it in that light.'

`The light of the fire was stronger,' said Rosalie.

`It was strong enough, I'm sure,' said the little guest,
`and I told ma we ought to be crying our eyes out, and not
sit there looking at it. And she said it never did her any
good to take physic for other folks' ail—and I suppose it
don't.'

`I should be very sorry to have you cry your eyes out
for me,' said Rosalie; her lips just moving with the kindly
smile that went round the circle. `And it is very needless
in this case, Miss Morsel. I hope we shall have the house
in nice order again in a few months.'

`Months! yes,' said Miss Morsel, `but where are you
going to be while the months run over your head? I never
wished I had a place of my own as I did this morning—
never!'

Rosalie made no reply but by holding out her hand,
which Miss Morsel fastened upon with great energy.

`You don't feel like going through fire and water, neither,'
she said, giving it a good squeeze. `And to have it happen
so too! now if the blockading gun-brigs had set fire to it
there 'd have been some sense.'

`Not much, I think,' said Rosalie.

`But I mean,' said Miss Morsel, `in time of war when
you're liable to be bombarded every minute of your life, you
naturally don't expect to have anything else done to you.
If anybody was to come and cut my throat you know, I
should think it quite remarkable to be blown up in a steam-boat
at the same time. Ma says it wouldn't surprise her in
the least to have forty things done to her at once, but it
would me.'

`I fear me thy mother studieth not to be quiet,' said the
quakeress, when Miss Morsel paused for breath.

`No, that she don't,' said the little woman with renewed
spirit, `she never did study much of anything. And I suppose

it can't be expected she should take it up now. I must
go home this minute, or she'll be in a great to-do about me
and the dinner and everything else.'

`Well you see that I am safe,' said Rosalie smiling.

`Yes my dear. O I thought you were, but still it's a
pleasure to see it,' said Miss Morsel getting up and surveying
Miss Clyde intently. `And comfortable? I may tell
ma you're looking comfortable?'

`By all means!'

`Then I'll go right straight home, and be content for the
rest of my natural life,' said Miss Morsel. `And so will ma
—as content as she ever was, which is saying less than you'd
imagine. However, we all have to do as we can in this
world. Sit still dear and I'll carry you away in my eyes
just as you are. And please let me go out as I came in and
nobody take any notice.'

`Thee has one friend, Rosalie,' said the quakeress, as the
door closed upon Miss Morsel.

`But lest she should have more than one,' said Mr. Raynor,
`or to prove that she has more than one—whichever
you like, mother,—I wish you would give orders that she is
not to see another until night.'

`Where does thee intend to banish thyself to?' said the
quakeress.

`I shall be friend enough to go away and leave her to go
to sleep,' he answered,—`that is only one of the lighter
kinds of banishment.'

And left alone in that pleasant light, one feeling after
another folded down like the petals of a veritable rose,
Rosalie slept.

And there was no disturbance. Hulda was kept at her
play in the greenhouse or elsewhere, and happily neither
Thornton nor Mr. Penn made his appearance. Whatever

steps came in the library were of the softest, and with the
lightest of hands was the fire from time to time replenished.
Even dinner was made to wait; and still “Nature's soft
nurse” kept Rosalie in dreamless sleep.

She awoke to find Mrs. Raynor bending over her.

`Poor child!' the quakeress said tenderly, `I knew not
thy weariness till I saw thee asleep, and thy cheeks so white.
Art thou rested?'

`Yes, I believe so,' Rosalie said, as she sat up, and
pushing back her hair discovered that there was another
person in the room. The colour came back very fast.

`Why doesn't thee put thy hair back altogether, and
shew thy pretty ears?' said the quakeress with a quiet
smile.

`And then give you leave to cover them up with a cap,
mother?' said Mr. Raynor.

`Nay, I said not so,' she replied; `but however thee
knows white muslin is not very thick. Sit thee still dear
Rosalie, while I call thy sister. She is at play yet but
hath asked for thee many times.' And as she opened the
door and passed out, Mr. Raynor came close to Rosalie's
chair.

`How do you do to-day?' he said.

`Quite well—at least I suppose I shall be quite well
after another night. Though one would think I had taken
extra sleep enough already.'

`No one would think so who watched you sleeping. And
I fear you are not putting yourself in the way of rest. If
you will stay here Rosalie, I will be as completely out of the
way as Penn offered to be; and no one but you shall know
the reason.'

`And no one could it trouble as it would me,' she said
gently, and looking up but to thank him.

While Hulda came bounding into the room, and establishing
herself in her sister's arms whispered confidentially,

`I could be very contented here, Alie,—couldn't you?'

Pleasant was the dinner, with its varied talk among
characters so different and yet in points so much alike,—
with its staid quaker servants and brilliant dishes of flowers,
—with its general atmosphere of refinement and good taste;
and around all, the freshening influence of a politeness that
was not cut and dried and made to order, but which came
from the depths of kind and true feeling. It rested Rosalie
more than her sleep had done; and half making her forget
all painful thoughts of the past or the present, left her free
to contribute no small share to the pleasure of the company.

They had left the table, and the twilight fell, and still
the pleasant talk went on about the bright wood fire in the
library, and no one was in haste for other light. And no
one was glad when the door opened to admit Mr. Clyde.
He was not more light—he was another shadow; and sorrowfully
Rosalie's friends marked where it fell.

But Thornton had hardly taken a seat, and had not at
all begun what he had to say, before a little running fire of
raps announced Dr. Buffem.

`Confound the light in this room—or the darkness,
whichever it is,' said the doctor,—`here am I laying myself
up for life on this chair—none too easy a one for the purpose,
neither. Ah friend Raynor, how does thee do? and why
does thee not have thy rooms prepared for those people who
do not carry pocket lanterns?'

`Thee did not hurt thyself?' said the quakeress.

`Hurt myself? of course I did. How many chairs do
you suppose I can kick down and not hurt myself? How
now, fair Rosalie! methinks the moon suffers an eclipse to-night.

Friend Henry give me thy hand. Friend Thornton
I will perhaps take thine, when I know what thou art here
for.'

`Simply to take my sisters away sir,' said Thornton.

`Hum—' said the doctor, and put both his hands behind
him. `Friend Raynor, is light one of the things you think
people should be deprived of because they occasionally abuse
it?'

`I think thee is the only person who has abused it to-night,
friend Buffem,' said the quakeress quietly.

`Now that's what I call point-blank range—' said the
doctor turning to Rosalie. `Certainly have killed me only
that my weak spot is that of Achilles. Came pretty near
being killed, that way. But Miss Rosalie how is it that you
can sit up to smile?

`There are more houses than one in the world, fortunately,'
said Thornton; `but if you mean to reach one to-night,
Rosalie, we had better be moving.'

`There is some sense in that remark—a little,' said the
doctor preventing her reply. `There is this qualification,
—you should have been moving some three hours ago.'

`I was on drill and could not,' said Thornton a little
stiffly.

`I don't see what your being on drill has to do with
your sister's going out at an unseasonable time of night,' said
the doctor, taking a pinch of snuff. `Can't—for the life of
me.'

`Unseasonable!' said Thornton. `Why it's only'—

`I've got a watch,' said the doctor—`and there's a clock
on the mantelpiece. Look here—' and taking up a candle
he held it before Rosalie's face. `There's a watch for you,
Mr. Clyde—what time o'night does that say?'

A different hour from the other, Thornton felt; for with
the anxious hearing of their talk the weary look had come
back again. She was just fit to sit there and be quiet.

`Now listen to me,' said the doctor, `and be reasonable
for once in your life. Take leave of these good people—
friends, one or both of 'em—kiss your sister for goodnight
and be glad of the chance; and then go home with me. I'll
answer for it she'll be forthcoming in the morning, and I'll
take as good care of you as you deserve. Come!—I can't
stay here fooling any longer.'

`Nor I,' said Thornton getting up.

`Then thee will leave thy sister?' said the quakeress
with a gratified face.

`Since she chooses to stay,' said Thornton. But when
he turned towards her and saw that she had risen, the
generous feeling prevailed. And replacing her in the armchair,
he kissed away the words which were on her lips,
and told her he was glad to leave her—she was better
there.

`My prescription is short,' said Dr. Buffem, as he stood
with the door in his hand,—`a mere word, Miss Rosalie.'

—you know what follows.'