University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The sky was covered with clouds when Rosalie took possession
of her rooms at the hotel, but there were no clouds
on her face; and Thornton admired to see how she could bear
to lose and to leave what she enjoyed very much, and take up
with any sort of a home. If he had spoken out his whole
thought he would have added, `and any sort of a brother;'
—he had never felt more inclined to be good company, and
never less satisfied with his performance. But Rosalie was
satisfied with everything, or seemed so; and had even the
skill to hinder all expression of Hulda's regrets for the cat,
the greenhouse, and Mr. Raynor.

The rooms were large and handsome, but like other
hotel rooms with no individuality of furniture; the windows
were too clearly after a public pattern, the doors numbered
to distinguish them from those of other people. It was a
part of a home, set apart for their use and labelled. Worse
still was Thornton's resolve to eat at the public table,—a
resolve so fixed, that after some remonstrance Rosalie gave
way. But it wearied her exceedingly. Some of her pleasantest
times of seeing her brother were lost now; and instead
there was the sight and hearing of a crowd of people

who came together but to eat and to discuss eatables.
Meals over, Thornton was off; and it was just as it happened
whether she saw him again for five minutes until the next
physical `reunion.' The first morning and the second he
did sit with her for a while, and stayed at home one whole
evening after tea; but the good habit fell off and she was as
much alone as ever. More alone—for the range of their
once pleasant house had been something, where every picture
and piece of furniture gave her a word as she went by, and
where the whole atmosphere was that of home. Now, whatever
made its way to her senses from without her own room,
was strange and depressing. How rarely any foot went
along the passage with the free tread of one who walks
earnestly in a good pursuit! how few voices spoke except
from under a burden or a cloud! The children indeed
danced up and down, with the gay spring of a nature that
must rebound—touch what it will; but Rosalie looked at
Hulda at play in the midst of those hotel chairs, and longed
to see her in a setting of green grass and dandelions. But
that could not be; though messenger winds were beginning
to blow, and the skies looked soft and unbending as from a
distant glimpse of the coming spring.

`If people was o' my way o' thinkin,' said Miss Jumps
one day, `these here hotels wouldn't make much of a livin;'
and Rosalie entirely agreed with her.

`There used to be somethin' going on, home,' Martha continued;
`and Tom Skiddy was good enough for to talk to by
spells; but here with forty men round you, more or less, you
don't know which way to turn. And you're just getting as
thin as a rail, Miss Rosalie—and Hulda's as peaked as she
can stand. What ails us to go back to the old house and
look out of the broken windows? there'd be some air there,
anyway.'

`The broken windows are boarded up, Martha: and as
soon as the spring opens we must have painters and masons
and I know not what all, at work.'

`They won't have you,' said Miss Jumps—`not if you
don't pick up astonishin' afore fall. And as for pickin' up
here, you might as well smother a chicken in a bag o' corn
and then tell him to get fat.'

`Patience, Martha,' Rosalie said with a smile. `We
shall love our own home all the better when we get back
to it.'

`Don't it spoil your patience to see other folks have too
much?' said Miss Jumps,—`'cause it does mine. That's
what I said to Tom Skiddy last night; and he was up to
telling me that the chance was considerable of my keeping
what I had as long as I lived, if that was all. He's stropping
his wits a little too much, lately, for want of time.'

`What does Tom have to do now, Martha?' said Hulda.
`He don't do anything at the house but sleep there,
does he?'

`I guess that's all he ever did, o' nights,' said Miss
Jumps. `And if he got through too much of anything other
times it was more'n I could find out. I s'pose he runs round
after his muskit now and then. A woman would feel smart
at that sort o' work. But men 'll foller a drum most any
place,—just as easy as I used to fetch down a swarm of
bees with an old tin pan. Only beat hard enough.'

The entrance of Thornton, fresh from his part of the
cried-down occupation, restricted all further expression of
Martha's mind to the peculiar set of her shoulders as she
went off.

`Well, how do you get on here?' said Mr. Clyde as he
unbuckled his sword-belt.

`Peacefully,' his sister answered with a smile.

`Which would make an end of me, in short order,' said
Thornton.

`How long is it since peace and war joined hands?'

`Only do each other's work upon some people,' said
Thornton. `But can you find nothing else in this way of
life? I think it is very good for you.'

She smiled a little to think how much he knew what
`this way of life' was.

`It cannot be like home, you know,—there is more confinement—I
see less of you.'

`See enough of me, don't you?'

`Not half!'

`I do not like to quote the proverb, “Un sot trouve
toujours un plus sot qui l'admire,'” said Thornton, `but it
really comes up before me.'

`Never mind,' said his sister,—`you know what Rochefoucauld
says,—“Si nous ne nous flattions point nous-mêmes,
la flatterie des autres ne nous pourrait nuire.'”

`Your tongue is not often dipped in flattery, to do it
justice,' said Thornton. `A little of the Sweetbrier about
that, I think. But I'm afraid if I stayed more at home I
should break up the peacefulness.'

Her look told him that his staying away often did, even
through the smile with which she answered,

`My dear brother, what do you suppose peace lives on?'

`Can't tell, upon my word, Alie—oyster shells I should
think, from their known quietness of disposition.'

`Haven't you got beyond the common idea of peace yet?'
said Rosalie.

`What is the common idea?'

She thought a moment, and answered.

`Pretty fair,' said Thornton. `But before I submit to
call that mine, let us have the uncommon version.'

He was sorry he had asked, for he saw in a moment from
her changing face where the next answer might come from.
But her eyes left his and she was silent.

`Well?' Thornton said a little impatiently, for he
deigned not to take the advantage she gave him.

The voice was lower, the tones how different, as she said,

“`Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is
stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.'”

`If ever there could be such a thing as an unconscious
Jesuit,' said Thornton, `I should say you were one. It
don't signify what point I set out from—you always bring
me up in the same place.'

`Well you lead and I will follow now.'

`Wouldn't make the least difference—I've tried it scores
of times.'

She laughed a little, with a half pleased half inquiring
look that her brother thought altogether charming.

`I will see what I can do, Alie, about staying more in
your cave—I am not sure that it will be much to your advantage.'

The promise was something,—a fair shell and not much
more; and so the end of the winter wore away.

Once, soon after the removal to their new quarters, Mr.
Raynor had come there; bringing flowers and his refreshing
presence where both were needed; and often after that
the flowers came without him. They were such regular
visiters indeed, that when Rosalie opened the door in the
twilight of an early spring evening, she held out her hand

for the flowers without perceiving what hand held them, nor
guessing who had knocked

`May I come in?' he said.

`Certainly!—I did not see you Mr. Raynor, or at least
did not recognise you.'

`I must take another shape next time,' said he smiling.
`Were you ever in doubt about a bunch of flowers?'

`Not often—lately,' she answered.

`What are you doing here this fine evening? if it is a
fair question.'

`That most unprofitable of all work—thinking.'

`Unprofitable?'

`I believe I should have said musing; and that seldom
gives me much for my pains.'

`It is not the best possible work for you,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Where is Hulda?'

`She has been out all day with Miss Arnet, and came
back too tired to sit up an hour longer.'

`Have you been out?'

`No, I have indulged myself with a quiet day at home.'

`Then come and indulge me with a quiet walk. I have
been mixing with the crowd to-day till I am tired of earth
and its inhabitants, and want some one of them to give me
a little refreshment. Come Miss Rosalie, it will do you
good.'

But Rosalie hesitated—might not Thornton come home
to spend the evening with her? And then she remembered
that he had gone to some public dinner and would not get
away until very late. So she went.

The hotel was in the very lower part of the city, and a
few minutes' walk brought Mr. Raynor and his silent companion
upon the Battery and within the sweep of its sea
breeze. There was a young moon just travelling down the

western slope of the sky, bright and sharp-horned, but with
too faint a light to throw more than a narrow rippling
streak upon the water; and

The walks were clear of people: many being drawn off
to Tammany Hall, either as witnesses or partakers of Commodore
Rodgers and the great dinner, and others by other
attractions turned elswhere. And it was still enough for
the dash of the water to make itself sweetly heard, with little
interruption but an oar now and then, or the creaking
of the cordage of some vessel as her sails swung round to
meet the wind, and her dark shadow crossed the little strip
of moonlight. Presently the moon went down, and the
evening star `rode brightest.'

`Do you mean that all the good I am to get must come
from the sky and stars?' said Mr. Raynor, when they had
sat for some time in almost unbroken silence. `I thought
you were to talk me into a better state of feeling.'

`Did you think that?'

`Not exactly, to speak truth,' said he smiling,—`at least
not if you could help it. Did you see how the water closed
behind each vessel that crossed the moonlight, and how the
bright line was soon as straight and as clear as ever?'

`I watched it constantly.'

`And what did it make you think of?'

“`The vision is yet for an appointed time, and though
it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will
not tarry,'” she said.

`And this—“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy
cometh in the morning.'”

`Yet men see not the bright light which is in the clouds,'
said Rosalie.

`They are not called upon to see it—only to believe
that it is there. The Lord is the light of them that sit in
darkness.'

`I did not know you ever felt tired of the world, Mr.
Raynor,' said Rosalie after another little pause.

`I do not often—should never, if my place in it were
better filled. A little weariness of oneself is a great help
towards weariness of other people. There is the strong and
sad contrast of the great work to be done, with the poorness
and weakness of the machinery; and dissatisfaction says,
“Lord, they have slain thy prophets and digged down thy
altars,”—and hears not the answer of God, “Yet have I reserved
unto myself seven thousand men that have not
bowed the knee to the image of Baal.” But I did not mean
to do myself good at your expense. Do you expect to stay
here all the summer?'

`I suppose so,' Rosalie said. `If Thornton should go
away for a few days I might go with him. Not else.'

`You cannot bear it.'

`O yes—perfectly. I was here last summer.'

`Yes, you were,' he answered gravely. `There is but a
shadow of you here now.'

`Shadows should not throw shadows,' said Rosalie
smiling.

`They keep people in the dark sometimes,' said Mr.
Raynor.

`If the people will stay there.'

`I wish the law covered all one's rights,' said Mr.
Raynor with a voice that was both earnest and playful. `I
have a defrauded feeling which is a little rampant sometimes.
Give me leave to say where you shall be this summer,
and see if all your wishes will not be as well furthered.
Sometimes I think they would, better.'

`I cannot think so.'

`And you will not put yourself in my hands?'

`I could not be happy to do it, Mr. Raynor—not now.'

`It would go hard with me but I would make you happy,
if I once had a chance to try.'

`It would do much towards it if you would make yourself
so,' said Rosalie in a low voice.

`That is reserved for somebody else to do.'

There was no answer to this—unless the lower bend of
the head were answer; and suddenly rising up, Mr. Raynor
drew her arm within his and walked slowly two or three
times up and down without speaking a word. Then he
stopped at the outer edge of the Battery where the water
came swashing up at their feet, one wave following another
with its little burden of noise and foam, like the days of
human life. If Mr. Raynor thought as he watched them
how many such days had rolled on and broken at his feet,
without bringing the one thing he most desired, he let not the
thought appear. And when he spoke it was in the magnificent
words of the prophet.

“Fear ye not me? saith the Lord: will ye not tremble at
my presence, which have placed the sand for the bound of
the sea by a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass it: and
though the waves thereof toss themselves, yet can they not
prevail; though they roar, yet can they not pass over it.”

There was strong spiritual as well as literal comfort in
the words,—there was rest in the mere thought of overruling
strength. Rosalie felt it; and stood more easily and
breathed freer.

The clocks of St. Paul's and Trinity were striking the
hour, the hum of the city every moment receded and softened
and died away; and when the last iron clang had
sounded forth, the ebbing tides of that day and of the world
went each its course in silence.

`That blessed thought of infinite power!' Rosalie said.

`Joined with infinite goodness and wisdom—where
should we be without it! Are you tired dear Rosalie? have
I kept you here too long?'

The voice was grave, but she knew it would say nothing
more to trouble her.

`O no, I am rested.'

He walked with her a while longer, talking brightly and
amusingly of different things of interest; and before he left
her once more in her own room, she was rested, and felt
better than she had done in a long time.