 | CHAPTER XXIV. My brother's keeper |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
I understand you, sir.
Wel.
No question, you do, or you do not, sir.
Every Man in his Humour.
If anything could have reconciled Rosalie to the thought of
leaving town, it was that as the spring went on little Hulda
was evidently pining for what the town could not give.
The hotel life to which she was now shut up by no means
replaced her old life at home; and the April days were not
more languid than Hulda.
`Give her a strawberry for her breakfast, and then set
her on a chicken's back and let her hunt grasshoppers,' was
Doctor Buffem's advice. `And hark ye, Miss Rosalie, I
would recommend another winged horse for yourself—only
don't get thrown by endeavouring to fly away from earth altogether,
as did Bellerophon.'
The one prescription was hardly more needed than the
other. Rosalie knew not how the workings of the mind
were refining away the body,—how the anxious watch over
one and another was softening down her colour, and chiselling
a little too close the fair outlines of her face; nor how
very, very delicate the hand was become on which Hulda
laid her weary little face for rest and refreshment. No one
knew it in fact, but the person whose eye she rarely met,
often as it rested on her.
`Thornton,' said Mr. Raynor one night, as they walked
home together from the evening drill, `I wish you would
take your sister into the country.'
`Hulda do you mean?' said Thornton, when the first
little start of surprise had passed off. `Yes—I believe she
does look rather so-soish.'
`There is no question of that. But I meant Rosalie.'
If the progress of Thornton's mind might be measured
by the ground his feet went over, it was tremendous.
`Rosalie!' he said. `And pray Mr. Raynor, what do
you wish me to do with Rosalie?'
`Take her into the country, as I said before.'
`But what—what upon earth have you to do with the
matter?' said Thornton, whose words and ideas were
knocking their heads together after the most approved
fashion.
Mr. Raynor smiled a little, but waving the question he
only said,
`She is not well, Thornton,—she needs the change even
more than Hulda.'
Mr Clyde strode on as before, swinging his sword, and
looking very much like a wasp in a cobweb.
`And has she requested your intercession to that effect?'
he said.
`No—' replied his companion coldly.
`Then I cannot see, I really cannot imagine what you
have to do with it, Mr. Raynor.'
`Neither is that the point. My words are true. She
is not the same person for strength that she was a year ago.'
`You have been observant, Mr. Raynor,' said Thornton,
though the words half choked him. `Rosalie will be glad to
hear that there are such watchful eyes abroad.'
`You will hardly be repaid for the trouble of telling her;
but about that as you please.'
`And it will be as I please about taking her into the
country I presume,' said Thornton stiffly.
`There would be no question of your pleasure on the
subject if you knew how ill she is looking,' said Mr. Raynor
with the same grave, undeclarative manner. `But one who
sees her every day becomes accustomed to the change as it
goes on.'
`And how far out of town would you recommend?' said
Thornton with a glance at his companion's face.
`So far, that the town and that place should never be
named together.'
`To those woods where the belle and the wild flower
met, in short,' said Thornton drily. `Well—I will think of
it. But how will my sister do there without the considerate
friends she has in town?'
In absolute silence Mr. Raynor walked on, the calm
lines of his face not changing in the least; while Thornton
at his side was inwardly working himself up to the boiling
point recommended by Dr. Buffem. At last the words
came—as come the first drops from the heated spout of a
tea-kettle; sputtering forth in great commotion, and almost
dried up on their way,
`What the deuce have you to do with this matter, sir?
What concern can it possibly be of yours?'
`I do not wish to bring a third party into our conversation
unnecessarily,' was the quiet reply; `therefore if you
please we will leave that out. As to what concern it is of
mine—look at Rosalie yourself, Thornton, and then remember
that your eyes see but half in her what mine do.'
It was no longer boiling water,—it was one of those
substances which when perfectly hot become perfectly
quiet. Thornton even slackened his pace; and while his
eyes were outwardly measuring blue flag-stones, in reality
the last degree disagreeable.—They walked in silence for
some time.
`The man who counsels a friend to take care of his bird,
is not of necessity intending to steal it himself, Thornton,'
said Mr. Raynor as they neared the hotel.
`That is a most unnecessary idea on the part of anybody,'
was Mr. Clyde's gracious reply. `Do you mean to insinuate
that my sister is in a cage, Mr. Raynor?'
`A sort of one—in this hotel.'
`The wonder is,' said Thornton breaking forth, `the most
astonishing thing of all is, that you don't relieve me of all
responsibility in the matter.'
`Is that the most astonishing thing? Well—be it so.
And yet I will not waive all right to entreat for the bird
purer air—a bower of leaves to sing in instead of this one of
bricks. And rest, and quiet, and sunshine.'
`The bird is much obliged to you,' said Thornton
haughtily, `but I may waive the right if you do not. Assume
the charge if you will,—only let it alone while it rests
with me.'
`The dove has fed from your hand too long,' said Mr.
Raynor quietly.
`Nonsense!' was on Thornton's lips, but it came no
further. A something rose up and stayed it there; and
though he strode on more vigorously than before, his eyes
saw but that one sweet vision, and saw it not clearly.
Those few words, the name, the image, had reached the very
inner springs of his nature.
And what did the words mean? Was that shadow the
truth or his own imagination? He could not decide and he
could not ask. No—if the dove would fly he would not
hinder her,—he could not bid her go. And even with the
own bitterness wept over her in secret.
Not another word was spoken until they paused at the
steps of the hotel.
`I shall follow your advice Mr. Raynor,' Thornton said
then;—`the more because you have told me the cause of it.'
His friend smiled, and gave him a parting look and clasp of
the hand that were never forgotten. Thornton went up stairs
more completely conquered than he had ever been in his
life.
The scene there was not such as to do away the impression.
Rosalie and Marion sat near the window talking
earnestly, and Hulda with a hand on the lap of each was
jumping lightly from side to side; now laying her head
upon Rosalie to see how Marion looked, and then leaning
upon Marion to try the effect of Rosalie; while the two gave
her an occasional glance and smile, but without seeming
to come back from their conversation. How completely
their different characters were worn on the outside, Thornton
thought, as he stopped and looked at them, the twilight
and their own preoccupation keeping him unseen; for while
Marion's warm quick nature excited itself for every trifle,
kept head and face in earnest motion, and gave the little
hands many an excursion into the air when Rosalie's lay
perfectly quiet,—there were times and subjects that called
forth a light and energy in this one's face, before which
the other sobered down, and took the listener's part with an
air subdued and almost tearful A manner to which Thornton
gave both understanding and sympathy.
The window was open, and the spring wind stirred the
curtains with a fitful touch; sometimes sweeping their folds
back into the room with its soft gale, and then just playing
with their fringe, and softly tossing and waving the hair on
the brows of the two ladies.
The twilight was falling softly, mistily, and lights began
to glimmer in heaven and on earth; and the city din was
murmuring itself to sleep. Footfalls now were individual,
and wheels rolled on with monotonous distinctness; and still
the air came in with freshening breath, and still the ladies
sat and looked and talked. Looked with grave eyes, and
talked with quiet voices. Now and then the air wafted up
a strong whiff of Havana smoke; or the slamming of the
hotel doors, or loud footsteps in its hall broke the silence.
But they hardly interrupted the murmur, which seemed to
the listeners like the distant beat of the ocean of life about
the cave of their own thought.
`And you think, Alie,' said Marion with a tone as if she
had been pondering some former words; `you do truly think
that one can learn not to fear death? Death never seems
to me a reality but in these mimic ebbings away of life. One's
spirits do so ebb away with it, that one naturally asks, will
they ever return? I don't love to sit and think at this time
of day—it makes me gloomy. And you look as bright as
that evening star.'
Rosalie smiled.
`It is so resting to me—so soothing, to think and remember!'
`Yes, at floodtide.'
`If the tide carry not all my treasure it matters little
whether it ebb or flow. I shall not lose footing till the
commissioned wave come, and then—“The other side of the
sea is my Father's ground as well as this side.'”
`You speak so assuredly,' Marion said.
“`I know in whom I have believed,'” Rosalie answered
with a little bit of that same smile. “`It will be hard if
a believing passenger be casten overboard.'”
Marion leaned her head against the window frame with
more such words, Thornton came forward and laid a hand
upon each.
His sister looked up with a bright welcome, while
Marion after one glance and word looked away out of the
window, her shoulder half withdrawn from his touch.
`Did you see my carriage at the door, Captain Thornton?'
she enquired.
`I did not even look, not knowing you were here.'
`Do you never see a thing without looking?' said Marion
a little impatiently.
`If you can see me at present, then doubtless I might
have seen your carriage if it was there.'
`O but it isn't there,' said Hulda, trying to get her chin
over the window sill; `so you'll have to stay to tea, Marion.'
`I can wait for my tea, pet.'
`But won't you stay?' said the child coming back disappointed.
`Because we want you to very much.'
`And because Rosalie is going out of town in a few days,'
observed Thornton.
`Out of town!' said his sister. `You have had but one
word to that bargain yet.'
`I have had as many words as I want.'
`With whom?' said Marion with a keen look. But as
Thornton chose to answer the look first the question was
not repeated.
`Will you go along and take care of her?' he said.
`That duty would appear, to unsophisticated minds, to
devolve upon somebody else.'
`Very likely. But sophisticated minds can see that
men have something else to do.'
`It is time they hadn't then,' said Marion.
`I should be very happy to leave you in command of my
company, if you prefer that sphere of action.'
`Well I did forget certainly, that just now you have
something else to do,' was Marion's rather pointed reply.
`But I thought,' said Rosalie, `that if I went at all you
were to go too. I thought you meant to get leave of absence
for your own good.'
`For just so much good as it will do me to put you in
clover, my dear—no more.'
She shook her head.
`Then I will not be put in clover, and we will stay here
quietly together.'
`We will do nothing of the sort,' said Thornton. `You
are to stay all summer at a farmhouse; and I am only waiting
to find one that is far enough off.'
`O will you really take us away into the country?' cried
Hulda, who had stood listening with intense interest. `O
how glad I shall be! Won't it be delightful, dear Alie?'
she said, leaning on her sister's lap and looking up.
Rosalie was silent. There had been words just waiting
their chance, but at the flush that came over the pale little
face raised so eagerly to hers, all power to speak them failed.
It was hard to choose between such alternatives. And
Thornton saved her the trouble. Never had she seen him
so set on anything as upon this plan; and his strong will
and Hulda's silent pleadings carried the day. Rosalie quietly
made her preparations.
`I s'pose you'll forget all about this here town o' York
when you get away once, Martha,' said Tom Skiddy, the
night before the journey.
`Like enough I shall,' replied Miss Jumps. `I'm a first
rate hand at forgetting. Lost sight o' more things in my
life than you could shake a stick at,—people too.'
`Well remember and come back, will you?' said Tom.
`Can't say—' replied Martha. `If it should seem to be
may do.'
`Sartain!' replied Tom. `There's no telling what I
may do neither. `Taint a sort of a world for a man to keep
track of his own mind easy.'
`The surest way to keep track of a thing is to run on
afore it,' said Martha.
`And then it don't always foller,' said Tom thoughtfully.
`It's a pity things is so easy forgot—it's kind o' pleasant to
remember.'
`Well you can always recreate yourself in that way when
you've a mind to,' said Miss Jumps, with a somewhat relenting
air.
`That's true enough,' said Tom with a similar demonstration.
`So can you.'
| CHAPTER XXIV. My brother's keeper | |