 | CHAPTER XXVIII. My brother's keeper |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
—Quarles.
Alas he did come, but not as his mother hoped. When the
vessel arrived with the remnant of the Essex crew—released
upon parole—and published her list; it bore this item—
“Abijah Hopper—wounded—died on the passage, one
day from port.”
`My mind misgave me so,' his mother said,—`I had a
feeling in my heart I'd had my last look.' And silence more
deep and profound settled down upon the household; Rosalie
proving herself, as Mrs. Hopper declared between her bursts
of sorrow, `a right down comfort.'
Sorrow had its way but partially, however; Mrs. Hopper
no more chose to be overcome by that than by anything else;
but the composed face and manner with which she presently
went about her ordinary duties, was all the more touching
that its deep gravity was now and then tinctured with impatience
or even pride. Strong feeling would escape in
some direction.
`Get right up off the floor and churn, Jerushy,' she
would say to her weeping daughter. `What's the use of
acting so? the world aint going to stand still for you and
me.'
`Make the bread, Martha?—what upon earth for should
you spoil a batch of flour? I've got my hands yet—feet too,
—if I haven't got every else.'
And with the pent-up torrent whirling her in its grasp,
she would go round the house and do two women's work at
once. But if perchance Rosalie came to seek her—or without
seeking came in her way; and she met the sweet look
that had known its own sorrow, and felt hers,—Mrs. Hopper
gave way at once; and dropping whatever she had in her
hand would sit down, and as she expressed it `have her cry
out'—then and there.
`I aint a bit better than a fool when I come across you,'
she said on one of these occasions, when the tears were spent
for the time, and she had looked up and saw Rosalie still
standing by her.
`It isn't best to keep up always,' said Rosalie gently,
and sitting down by her on the stairs.
`Oh my!' said Mrs. Hopper, leaning her head back
against the wall—and there was a world of expression in the
words. `I have to keep up out there, or that child would
drive the life out of me. She feels pretty much as Noah
did when the flood come and took all away. She aint used
to trouble yet, poor thing—and 'twon't do her no good to
get used to this sort. There's no more brothers to lose for
her.'
Rosalie almost shivered at the words, and for a moment
she did not speak. Then her hand was laid softly upon
Mrs. Hopper's.
`When the flood came and took all away, those that were
in the ark were safe,' she said.
The hands, toil-worn and toil-hardened, closed upon that
little white messenger of sympathy; and Mrs. Hopper
leaned her face down upon them, the tears again streaming
down her cheeks.
`Don't you fret yourself,' she said, looking up after a
while. `I'll feel better when he's come and I've done all I
can for him. And I've got to go see to things afore this
day goes over my head. Would you mind going too? It
sha'n't be anywhere to hurt you.'
Rosalie readily promised her company.
`Then I'll come for you when I'm ready,' said Mrs.
Hopper, `and we'll slip out o' the front door and down the
brook,—I don't want Jerushy to go.' And hearing a step
she started up and went off.
After dinner as Rosalie sat alone in her room, Mrs.
Hopper came softly in, with her sunbonnet held down by
her side; and the two went out of the front door and were
soon hid in the trees that hung over the dell.
`I sent 'em all off into the garden to look for a hen's
nest,' said Mrs. Hopper, as they descended towards the
brook, `so we've got ten minutes clear, and that's enough.
Miss Clyde, you aint one of the folks that's easily frighted,
be you?'
`I never was much tried,' said Rosalie, `but I think I
may say no.'
`Some is so 'feerd o' death and all that sort o' thing,'
said Mrs. Hopper, `that they'd only ha' plagued me.' And
without further explanation she began to follow the brook in
its course, with an air of business determination that seemed
a relief to her mind,—bestowing no more words upon
Rosalie, but never failing to give her a hand in the difficult
places.
It was rough going but beautiful. The large moss-covered
stones, dripping with the spray of the brook, stood
in and athwart its bed; now turning the course of the bright
water, and now shining beneath its rush as through a transparent
veil. And at every turn almost, the stream broke
foam and mock wrecks—twigs and dry leaves and acorns;
and in one or two places a fallen tree had thought to stop
the brook,—but the brook leaped it and went its way laughing.
Rich ferns grew in the moist earth at the brook edge;
and lichens crept over the rocks, and maiden-hair spread
forth its delicate leaf. Fall flowers were there too,—gentian
and the pretty lady's tress, and the purple gerardia. But
Mrs. Hopper went past them or over them without a look,
and did not `draw bridle' until she reached the foot of the
dell and met the yellow light that came streaming in from
the open meadow. Then she turned and looked at her companion.
`I do believe I've run you well nigh off your feet,' she
said.
`O no—I am not tired.'
`Hold on a bit further,' said Mrs. Hopper, `'taint far.'
And crossing the brook she took the diagonal of the broad
meadow through which it wandered; its banks gay with
autumn's embroidery. The summer crop of grass had long
been cut, and over the short after-growth tall cardinal flowers
reared their scarlet heads, and rich golden rods bowed and
bent over the rippling water; and lady's tresses and gentian
had followed it from the dell. A flock of sheep were nibbling
about the meadow, and as the two intruders came up
went bounding off, taking now one bend of the brook and
now another in their way. And straight to the further
corner of the meadow Mrs. Hopper pursued her course, and
over the rail fence which there went angling about as if to
stop her. There was an immediate rise in the ground beyond,
into a stony and scantily clad hill; along the base of
which ran a little footpath. Slowly taking the first steps on
this path, Mrs. Hopper turned again and spoke to Rosalie.
`We're all but there—see, yonder's the place,' and she
pointed to a little stone-built habitation, which crouched
humbly at the foot of the hill as if asking shelter. A few
slow paces, and then resuming her former rapid gait Mrs.
Hopper soon placed herself in front of the little dwelling.
It was a stone-cutter's, and samples and materials of his
work lay all about. Door stones—slightly smoothed from
their original roughness,—a pile of unappropriated flags,—
and most conspicuous of all, several tall grave stones standing
on end in a finished or half finished state, and sundry
slabs of different coloured marble set apart for the same use.
Mrs. Hopper gave one quick glance about, and then passed
the house and went to the little work-shed in the rear, guided
by regular blows of a mallet and the sharp clink of the
chisel.
`Good evening, neighbour Stryker.'
The old greyheaded man looked up, and with a little
nod of recognition laid down his mallet and pushed back his
hat.
`It's done,' he said with another nod. `Come to see
it?'
Mrs. Hopper gave silent assent, while her hands nervously
untied and tied again her sunbonnet strings.
Mr. Stryker threw down his chisel, and moving leisurely
about among the hard companions that surrounded him,
leisurely whistling too, the while; he lifted one and another
in examination.
`Here,' he said at length,—`this is it.'
Rosalie saw the mother's hands clasp each other tightly
for a moment—then the clasp was loosed and she went forward,
and her friend followed.
It was a plain, dark, grey stone—square and severely
simple, with the name and age in plain black letters at the
of its petrified ocean; no bad emblem of the young life-current
so suddenly stayed; and below were these words:—
“Thy servant did descend into the midst of the battle.”
As if it had been an indifferent thing to her, so did Mrs.
Hopper scrutinize every word and letter; pointing out an
undotted i, and a t uncrossed, with a cool decision that they
must be rectified.
`Wal, wal,' said Mr. Stryker—`that's all easy enough,
though nobody'd ever find it out, after all. The rest suits
ye, don't it? pretty clever notion of a ship, aint it? haven't
made a better lookin' stone this some time. He was a
likely boy though, so it's just as well.'
`Fetch your bill!' said Mrs. Hopper, turning almost
fiercely upon him.
`Save us and bless us!' said the old man. `Why I
don't know as it's made out, and'—
`Make it out then,' said Mrs. Hopper. `How long
d'you s'pose me and this lady's agoin' to stand here waitin'
on your slow motions? Your goods and chattels is too
heavy to be run off with afore you get back.'
Mr. Stryker turned towards the house, muttering a little
to himself, and Mrs. Hopper's hands came together again
with that quick clasp. She stood looking at the stone.
“`Thy servant,'” Rosalie said, in a voice so low
that it claimed none but willing attention. `Those sweet
words!'
`Belonged to him if they ever did to anybody,' said his
mother shortly, as if to get her words out while she could.
`He didn't serve two masters—but he served one.'
“`If any man serve me, him shall my Father honour,'”
said Rosalie, in the same tone.
Mrs. Hopper moved her head as if she would have
pressed together, but this time with a joyful difference; and
like a flash her look sought Rosalie's face, and again went
back.
`Here's your bill, missis,' said the old stone-cutter returning.
`Made out pretty consider'ble quick, too.'
`Let's have it,' said Mrs. Hopper, with her former abrupt
tone. `Now neighbour Stryker, you set this all right the
way I told you, and then you take it into the house and
kiver it up close. Don't you let a living soul set eyes on to
it, and then when I send I'll send the money. But if ary
person sees the one, there's no tellin' when you'll see the
t'other. Goodnight t'ye.'
And with rapid steps she followed the little path till they
had turned the hill and the hut was out of sight, and then
went forward to the high road at a more reasonable rate;
but with her face set in stern composure, and in perfect
silence.
`How thankful I am you could put those words there!'
Rosalie said at length, the long breath seeming to bear witness
to sorrowful thoughts in her mind as well. `How
thankful! how glad!'
`Yes—I'm thankful too—I s'pose,' said Mrs. Hopper, in
a kind of choking voice. `I'd like to have 'em go on my
own!'
And again she quickened her pace, nor changed it till
through the gathering twilight they saw the gleam from their
own kitchen windows.
`Bless you, Miss Clyde!' she said then, laying her hand
on Rosalie's arm, and speaking so low that but for their
earnest strength her words would scarce have been heard.
`Bless you a thousand times for going with me!—and more'n
all for not talkin' to me, nor plaguin' me with questions.
'em.'
And with a firm and steady step she opened the kitchen
door, and inquired `why upon earth they hadn't got supper
ready?'
| CHAPTER XXVIII. My brother's keeper | |