 | CHAPTER XXX. My brother's keeper |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
Thou com'st to use thy tongue: thy story quickly.
—Shakspeare.
Time went his way as quietly as if he had been about child's
play, and his rough wind seemed to have left no trace.
Except indeed the stillness which followed that sweep through
the house, and the afternoon dress of its mistress. All the
morning she went about her usual work in her usual working
trim—sunbonnet and all; but the toil of the day once ended,
and all sign of it cleared away,—Mrs. Hopper arrayed
herself in deep black, with much more particularity and
regard to appearances than she was wont to use. The rest
of the afternoon was devoted to spinning, and to grave conversation
with Martha or Miss Clyde, or with any neighbour
that might chance to come in.
There Rosalie would find her, when she went out into the
kitchen towards tea time to see if Jabin had gone to the
post-office and had come back; the big wheel whirring round,
the spindle throwing off its long fine thread, with now and
then a break and now and then an added roll.
`Mrs. Hopper, has Jabin gone to the post-office?'
`Haint thought a word o' the post since morning, Miss
Rosalie. Jerushy, go see.'
And Rosalie would come and stand with folded hands
before the fire.
`What's the good of expectin' letters all the time?' said
Mrs. Hopper, running down the long thread of yarn with
skilful fingers.
`Not much good,' said Rosalie. `One ought to come,
and so I expect it.'
`Things oughtn't to come till they do,' said Mrs.
Hopper.
`No—that is true, in the large sense.'
`'Taint worth while to take small sense,' said Mrs. Hopper,—`just
as well have plenty while you're about it.'
`There's no letters,' said Jerusha returning. `Jabin
saw Mr. Squill himself, and there warnt but two letters come
this morning at all—the bag hadn't nothing else into it;
and one o' them was his'n, and 'tother was for the minister.'
`Feel disappointed?' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Yes—somewhat.'
`No need,' said her hostess. `No news is always good
news—firstrate. And you couldn't hope for one o' the letters,
when there come but two.'
And Mrs. Hopper spun her wheel round and round with
a degree of spirit that seemed to say she was speaking her
mind with some force to somebody.
Rosalie thought she could not hope for letters much
longer; and in that mood she sat with Hulda at breakfast
next morning; giving wistful glances now and then at the
bright fire which tempered the cool air within, and the bright
sunlight which did the same work without. The night had
been frosty, and long streaks of white lay upon the fields
instead of shadows between the sunbeams.
`Miss Rosalie,' said Martha presenting herself with hot
toast, `Jabin wants to know if he 'll go to the post-office
this noon afore he comes home, or if night 'll do?'
`How is your foot, Martha?'
`Here,' said Miss Jumps,—`large as life, if 'taint no
larger.'
`Could you walk so far without hurting it?'
`Guess I could,' said Miss Jumps. `Wouldn't like to
say what it might do on its own account.'
Rosalie looked out of the window again, and quickly
resolved that she would be her own bearer of despatches.
`I will go myself, Martha.'
`Afoot?' said Martha. `Or will you take Stamp Act
along for company?'
`O I will ride of course, unless they want the horse on
the farm.'
`Can't have him if they do,' said Martha. `He's be-spoke,—or
will be just as soon as I can come at the back
door.'
`Stay Martha!' Rosalie called, `I will go and see about
it myself.' And taking Hulda, she went forth to where
Jabin was splitting pine knots for Mrs. Hopper's spinning
light.
He readily undertook to catch the horse, or at least to
try; for Stamp Act was disporting himself in the adjoining
meadow with colts and horses of every degree. Jabin however
took an old rusty pan of salt and a bridle, and went
off; and Rosalie and Hulda stood still to see the fun.
Now it was apparent that the bridle in some degree
nullified the salt, for though the horses stretched out their
heads and snuffed and neighed and walked about Jabin, till he
was quite surrounded; none but the younger ones who had
never been caught would approach his offered handful.
Jabin whistled and tried all manner of blandishments and
conjurations—shook the salt pan and handed out the salt;
and the horses looked, and walked round and took up a new
position and then looked.
`'Taint no sort o' use to try 'em here,' Jabin called out.
`If Jerushy and Martha 'll come out and help I'll drive 'em
into the barnyard.'
Jerusha and Martha came accordingly, the one to run and
the other to stand; for while Martha was to watch at a particular
turn of the road and head them off, Jerusha took
stand behind her on the chip yard to guard a large expanse
of ground between the garden and the barn, in case the first
barrier should prove insufficient.
Meantime Jabin had let down the bars, and having gone
to the end of the field was now slowly driving the horses
before him. Their pace quickened however as they came out
into the road and perceived that the barnyard was their
destination; and passing that with a scornful toss of her
head, the leader, a beautiful black mare, trotted on towards
Martha. Here was a pause,—the road was narrow, the
barn on one side, the fence on the other, and Martha with
her big stick displayed in front. The horses turned and
walked back—there was Jabin with his bridle. There was
a moment's consultation, the horses putting their heads
together: but as Jabin began to draw near, the black mare
raised her head and with a loud neigh charged down upon
Martha,—plunging forward, with tail thrown out and mane
tossed upon the wind, and hoofs beating a rapid and sounding
gallop. Martha gave way, and on went the whole drove.
The black one first, flinging out her heels as she passed, then
a grey colt, then a fine roan, then Stamp Act and Lord North
in an overplus of glee, then another black, a bay colt, a sorrel,
and so on until seventeen were passed,—after which came a
rolling cloud and silence.
`That's what you call kickin' up a dust,' said Martha, as
Jabin followed in the train of the horses.
`'Taint what I call a stoppin' it,' said Jabin, who looked
Jerushy don't stop 'em they may run!'
The horses had clustered at the top of the hill before Jerusha's
sunbonnet and were again in doubt. Then the black
leader wheeled and charged down hill, the whole troop following;
but this time into the barnyard,—for with Martha and
Jerusha uniting their forces, the array of sticks was too
imposing, and the horses submitted to superior force.
It was early yet when Rosalie set forth, and the frost
was scarce off the ground, it crisped and cracked beneath
Stamp's feet, who probably liked his exemption from farm
duty or felt exhilarated with the stampede, for he went along
at a good pace.
There was great beauty abroad that morning. The
Indian corn fast ripening for the garner, the bright yellow
pumpkins gleaming out beneath,—the stubble fields with
their grazing flocks of sheep,—the green meadows spotted
with cattle, or with a drove of horses grouped about some
great tree,—buckwheat and flax in a state of ripening perfection,
and the light of plenty and peace upon everything.
The brooks had filled up since the summer droughts, and
tumbled and murmured along—the only murmur that is
not complaining,— the mills were busy—the road filled from
time to time with the great farm wagons and their o'ertopping
loads of grain. In such a case Rosalie and Stamp
turned out, and took no more of the road than its flowery edge,
and no more of the grain than a mouthful. Stamp was
pretty sure to get that, by some adroit turn of his head.
The fall flowers were beautiful by the way side—and when
not strictly beautiful very showy. Tall elecampane and
golden rod among the yellows, and yarrow and everlasting
for the whites; with cardinal flower and blue gentian and
pink-tinted snake root. In the boggy places where the
tufts of green rushes waved gracefully in the fall wind, and
immense green bullfrogs splashed down into the water at
the first sound of Stamp's feet.
At every house might be seen marigolds and balm and
feverfew in full glory; with now and then a drooping cranberry,
loaded with scarlet fruit; and at every back door were
strings of drying apples, and sieves of `sweet corn' and
currants, and bunches of onion heads. Chickens trooped
about the barns and fattened upon the scattered grain; and
the flails beat regular and musical time on the sounding
floor. Business, comfort, and beauty walked over the land;
and its face wore the smile of a well-fed child—fair and fat.
There was more ethereal beauty overhead, in the blue sky
and fleecy white clouds; and health and exhilaration in the
cool mountain air, which sometimes swept Stamp's mane
and tail quite out of the sphere in which they were placed
by nature.
Rosalie rode on much at her leisure; partly to please
her own mood and eyesight, partly because Stamp's most
rapid pace savoured a little too much of the perpendicular;
therefore she rather held him in. She was also willing, perhaps
unconsciously, to prolong the pleasure of hope, and
was in no haste to meet disappointment if one awaited her.
And though as she neared the little hamlet that clustered
about the post-office she quickened Stamp's pace to a round
trot, and reined him up sharply before the office door; there
was only enough expectation left to give a keener edge to
the words,
`No, Miss Clyde—no letters—sorry to say, if you want
'em.'
And Rosalie turned and rode home as slowly as before,
at least for half the way; and then her admonitions were
trot was expected of him.
`For gracious!—how you do come clattering up!' said
Martha Jumps who was sunning herself at the back door.
`Fine day, aint it Miss Rosalie?'
`Very fine.'
`Something more'n common, I thought,' said Martha.
`And Hulda's out after sweet apples with Jerushy. Miss
Rosalie, if I was you I'd take off my skirt here and let me
take it up stairs, and not go trapesing through the whole
house that fashion.'
`Why not? I always do.'
`'T won't hurt you to do something now and then by
way of a change,' said Martha. `Me and Tom Skiddy always
took turns runnin' up the back stairs and down the front. I've
fetched your other skirt here too—but have it your own way.'
`I am not so fond of this particular way,' said Rosalie as
she made the change. `I believe yours is the most convenient.'
`Look here!' said Martha, as her young mistress moved
towards the door leading to the hall, `don't you go through
there, neither. Jerushy's been washing up the front entry,
and it's just as wet as sop. Go across the kitchen and
through your sitting room—then you won't have to but just
cross the wet. Furthest way round's the surest way home
nine times out o' ten. This aint the tenth, neither.'
If Rosalie could have seen the little shake of Martha's
head which followed these words, her eyes would have been
better prepared for the sight which met them as she entered
the sitting-room; for Mr. Raynor stood by the window,
half leaning against it, with folded arms, and looking down
into the dell where ran the brook; he turned as the door
opened just to see Rosalie's painful start.
A start of pain—for why had he come? and to tell her
breath.
`You need not be afraid of me,' Mr. Raynor said, coming
forward and taking both her hands. `I bring you no
bad tidings.'
She drew the breath then, long and wearily, and bringing
her forward to the fire, Mr. Raynor placed a chair for her
and took one himself.
Rosalie untied her hat, as if even those light strings
choked her, but she asked no question.
`How long is it since you have learned to distrust my
word?' said her companion with a slight smile that was very
reassuring.
Rosalie's paleness gave way a little, and she looked up
less fearfully, and smiled herself.
`You must forgive me Mr. Raynor. Is Thornton well?'
`No, not quite well: he is better.'
`He has been sick then?'
`Yes, very sick—for many weeks. But he is now so
near well that you need feel nothing but gladness.'
`O Mr. Raynor! why did you not tell me before? why
did you not send for me?' Rosalie said.
She was answered by one of those rare smiles that needed
no words to help its meaning. The eyes went down
again and the question was not repeated.
`He has not wanted for care,' said Mr. Raynor quietly,
—`he has had what man could do—I will not say that is
what woman can. Does that content you?'
`But half.'
`It may as well,' he said after a minute's pause. `And
it were better that you should look a little less pale,—a
little more strong. I know not when you will be fit to see
Thornton at this rate.'
`Where is he?'
`Not within your reach to-night. If you are well enough
you may see him to-morrow.'
`Ah do not talk about me,' she said; and the tears came
then. But she sprang up and left the room.
Not for long,—and though when she came back her face
wore the sobered and tendered look of long anxiety and
deeply stirred feeling; yet the nervous excitement had
passed off with the tears, and she could look and speak
quietly. And quietly she sat there before the fire while Mr.
Raynor gave her the long account; scarce interrupting him
unless with a look.
`You may expect to see him to-morrow, Mr. Raynor
said in conclusion, `and I came on before to bring you word.
Dr. Buffem advised that he should spend three or four weeks
in the strength-giving country air.'
`And then?' said Rosalie.
`I did not ask his further plans—not feeling sure that
they would agree with my own.'
There was a pause.
`You say he will come to-morrow?' Rosalie said at
length.
`If I find him no worse to night.'
`To-night? are you going back to him to-night?'
`Yes, he will expect me.'
`O,' said Rosalie starting up, `then I will go too and
see him at once!'
`No you will not,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Wherefore?'
`Because I shall not take you,' he answered with a little
smile, looking up at her as she stood before him.
`That is a very arbitrary reason,' said Rosalie, her cheeks
flushing as she resumed her seat.
`Very—but not to be gainsaid. You are much better
here, and I should deserve I know not what, were I to let
you go.'
`You are coming back with him to-morrow?'
`No.'
`It seems to me you are all at cross purposes to-day,'
said Rosalie.
`No, not cross purposes—very kind ones; or at the least
needful.'
`But do you care so little for strength-giving air?' said
Rosalie with some hesitation,—`or is your time too precious?
Shall we not see you here again?'
`Perhaps,'—he said with that same relaxing of the
lips. `I do not know how it will be. And my time is not
too precious to spend here, but it must be given to less precious
things. Are you sure you are quite able to give
Thornton what care he needs at present?'
`O yes, it will do me good.'
`I hope it will,' Mr. Raynor said more gravely. `Few
things seem to have done that this summer.'
`Why I am perfectly well,' said Rosalie.
`Which puts the health of other well people a good deal
above perfection.'
`It is best to rest contented with what one has,' said
Rosalie lightly. `And I have been doing what I could to
make myself well,—so do not you put it into Thornton's
head that I am not, Mr. Raynor.'
`And I cannot rest contented with what I have, nor until
I have you. May I put that into his head?'
`Oh no!'
`Why not?'
She did not say why not, but the fluttering colour in her
in that old tone she remembered so well.
`You may rest—I shall say nothing without your leave.
I think you have the warrant of past experience that I will
do nought to trouble you.'
Her look in return was very grateful; and if the drooping
eyelids could not quite conceal why they drooped, it was
no matter of regret to at least one person.
`You are in safe hands,' Mr. Raynor said,—`stronger and
wiser and kinder than mine—that ought to give me a sort
of rest, and does. But dear Rosalie, take better care of
yourself, for my sake. You must let me say so much, and
so much you must do.'
She watched him ride off in the fair autumn light as she
had watched Thornton so many weeks before. But about
her brother fear and sorrow had thrown their shadows—now
she looked through an atmosphere of perfect trust. Probably
she did not recognize the rainbow which this sunshine
made from the lingering tear-drops in her eyes, but it was
there, nevertheless.
| CHAPTER XXX. My brother's keeper | |