University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

If Thornton had never before seen the perversity of human
nature he had abundant cause now. Much as he had wished
to be with his sister, often as he had resolved that for the
future she should have no reason to complain of him—that he
would be at least part of her happiness,—it seemed as if when
the trial came every current set the wrong way. He had
wished to prove to her that he was as good as other people,
and he was worse than himself.

Rosalie spent her strength upon him most unweariedly;
though less in doing than in watching,—in trying to amuse
him, in hoping that he would be amused. But her efforts
met with little success. A cloud of moodiness had settled
down upon Mr. Clyde, and he seemed in no mind to come
out of it. Indeed his attempts at coming out were rather
unfortunate, and were as apt to land him in a fit of impatience
as anything. His mind was not fitted to bear up
against weakness of body—or was itself out of order; and
either craved old associates or the other extreme of something
new. Nothing satisfied him, not even Rosalie's
watchful love; though he was more ready than of old to appreciate

its working; but if he shook off his moodiness at
all, it was generally with such a fling as sent a reminder of
the mood into the face of every one present—after which he
relapsed tenfold. And though quite able to ride or to walk,
in moderation, he was with difficulty persuaded to do either;
and nature's sweet influences had small chance to try their
hand upon him.

`Are you sure it would not do you good to go out?'
Rosalie said one day as he sat by the fire. `I am so sure
that it would.'

`What use?' said Thornton. `I can imagine pigs without
the help of eyesight.'

`You cannot imagine sunshine,' said his sister, with
a playful attempt to make him raise his head and look out.

`No—nor feel it if I go. There is nothing to see here.'

`But there you are mistaken. There is a great deal
that is worth seeing.'

`Probably—to canary birds,' said Thornton.

`O there are a great many birds here,' said Hulda.
`Sparrows, and robins, and'—

`Take yourself off to their neighbourhood then—or keep
quiet,' said her brother. `You must not talk if you stay here.
Why don't you go and pick up apples with Martha as you
did yesterday?'

`Because Martha's talking to Tom Skiddy,' said Hulda,
`and I don't like to.'

`When they have talked each other into a wedding they
will be easy,' said Thornton.

`Ask Jerusha to go with you Hulda,' said her sister.
`Take my little basket and fill it for me, and by and by I
will walk with you.' And as Hulda left the room Rosalie
came and knelt down by her brother.

`What is the matter with you dear Thornton? You

will never get strong in this way, and it troubles me very
much.'

Thornton put his arm round her and drew her head
down upon his breast.

`You are not more tired of me Alie, than I am of
myself.'

`I am not tired of you,' said his sister weeping,—`you
know that.'

`I should think you might be. Why don't you go and
take care of Mr. Raynor, and leave me alone?'

She was silent a moment.

`Why do you ask me such a question?'

`For the pleasure of hearing you answer it.'

`That would not make me happy.'

`Then what would?'

There was answer even in the slight movement of her
head before she spoke.

`What would?' Thornton repeated.

`To see you what I call happy, I believe,' said his sister.

Thornton drew a long breath—or rather breathed one
out—as if that were a thing he might whistle for sooner than
get; and for some time there was not a word spoken. Then
Thornton began again.

`I used to wonder sometimes, in those long hot nights
when I lay sick in my tent, that he did not administer poison
instead of medicine. And sometimes I almost wished that
he would—then you would be taken care of, and I should be
in nobody's way.'

`I am sure he never suggested that last idea,' said
Rosalie.

`No, to do him justice,' said Thornton, `he never mentioned
your name unless I did. And he took as tender care
of me as if I were his own brother—or perhaps I should

say yours. There was no make believe in it though. Yes
Alie, I was forced to give up my dislike, and to agree to all
the praises you would have spoken had you dared. He is a
man to trust.'

There was pleasure in hearing these words,—but for the
cold, unenjoying tone, Rosalie would have felt it strongly.
As it was the pleasure was qualified; and her quiet

`I am glad you think so,'
told of both feelings. She waited long for Thornton to speak
again, but his lips did not move; and slowly she arose and
went to give Hulda the promised walk: her voice and eye
following the child's merry pranks, and all her thoughts left
at home. She could hardly have told whether the walk was
long or short, and most like her brother could not; for when
Rosalie again entered the sitting-room he had not stirred
from his former position—had not even changed the hand
which supported his head. Rosalie came up and laid her
hand on it, but the soft touch called forth no words, and in
silence she sat down to await the coming in of tea. The
meal passed with equal taciturnity; Hulda went to bed, and
Rosalie sat down as before—her eyes apparently seeking
counsel of the little wood fire, which flashed into their bright
depths with great vivacity. How grave they were, how
thoughtful! catching none of the fire's dance.

`It strikes me,' said Thornton suddenly, `that you and
I have done thinking enough for one night, Alie. What say
you?'

`I don't know.'

`Why don't you know?'

`I suppose,' she said, with one of her fair looks up at
him, `I suppose if we have been thinking unprofitable
thoughts, it might be well to give the mind some better refreshment
before the body takes its own.'

`What do you call unprofitable thoughts?' said Thornton.

`Fruitless ones—or such as bearing fruit, are yet shaken
off too soon, before it be ripe.'

`You have covered the whole ground for me,' said Thornton.
`I had better begin again. I wonder if yours have
been worth a silver penny?'

`Not to you—and some of them more than that to me.'

`Suppose you were to indulge me with the hearing thereof,'
said Thornton,—`just by way of a lesson in fruitful
thinking.'

`Truly,' said his sister, `my best thoughts were not my
own, but drawn from a little hymn of Wesley's.'

`Give us the hymn then,' said Thornton. `Are you the
only alchymist who can fetch gold from thence?'

`The gold is of an ancient stamp,' said his sister sadly,
`and little thought of in the alloyed currency of this world;
for it bears the impress of the first commandment—not
“Cæsar's image and superscription.”

Thornton looked at his sister while she repeated these
words,—felt that she had found the gold, that it was in her
hand—and knew that his own was empty. And why? He
was ready to say it was so because so it was to be; but those
words came back to him again—

and to none had Rosalie's face given more strong assent and
effect.

`Do you like it, Thornton?' she said, drawing up closer
to him.

`Seems like pure metal, my dear,' he answered carelessly.
`I presume my ready money would scarce exchange for it
without a pretty heavy discount.'

Rosalie looked at him, as if she thought and truly that
just then he was counterfeiting; but his face gave her no
invitation to speak, and her eyes went back to the fire.
When she turned to him again, however, and somewhat suddenly,
he was regarding her with a grave abstracted sort of
look, as if from her his thoughts had taken a wide range:
not into the pleasant regions.

`What can you possibly be musing about, Thornton?'
she said.

`There are a great many things about which I could
possibly be musing, Alie.'

`Only that you were not apt to muse at all.'

`I doubt I am getting into bad habits then—you are such
a muse-inviting little object.'

`Am I?' said Rosalie smiling. `What ideas do I
suggest?'

`Various ones of human perfection.'

“`The spirits of just men made perfect,'” Rosalie said.
`That will be a fair thing to see!'

`For those that see it,' said Thornton with some bitterness.
But he wished the words unsaid—her quick look up
at him was so humble, and at the same time so full of pain.

`What makes you speak so, Thornton?'

`What makes you look so, Alie?' he said with his old
light tone. `It is not possible that you think all men need
perfecting? The gentleman who took care of me so lately,

for instance—how could he be any better than he is? I am
afraid you undervalue him.'

`O Thornton! I cannot jest with you after such words.'

`Jest! no,' he said, but something in her eye checked
him,—he turned away and rested his head on his hand as
before. Rosalie came and laid her hand on it again—laid
her cheek there too, but he did not move.

`What troubles you, brother?'

`Why do you suppose that anything does?'

She did not answer—as being needless, and he added,

`You had better go to bed, Alie—take care of yourself,
my dear, if you cannot of me. I feel as if I had you in
trust.'

`Only me?' she said sorrowfully.

`Only you!' said Thornton rousing himself, for the implication
was not pleasant. `You are a reasonably precious
trust, some people think. And I shall have to account
pretty strictly for all the pale cheeks that you carry back to
town.'

“`And every one of us shall give account of himself to
God,'” she answered in a low voice, her lips touching his
forehead. But she waited for no reply, and left the room.

For the first time since he had been there, Thornton
went softly in to look at her when he went up-stairs and she
lay asleep; as much perhaps because he was tired of himself,
and tired of remembering his own existence, as anything.
And certainly if contrast could make him forget, the end
was gained.

Existence had been no burden to her, and life no failure
—what though it was crossed with anxieties and disappointments,—they
were all according to that higher will to which
hers was submitted. Life could be no failure,—the purpose
of God must stand, and she wished none other.

It was a strange point to reach, Thornton thought, as he
stood watching her calm face, and felt that whatever shadows
lay there came not from discontent. Could he ever reach
it? was it not rather of nature than of grace? It was
easier for a woman—with her gentler spirit and its few out-lets.
There came up before him the image of one whose
nature was at least as strong as his own, in whom manhood
was not better grown than Christianity; but he put it away
and looked at Rosalie. And then with a bitter wish that he
were like her—or like anybody in the world but himself, he
stooped down and softly kissed the lips whose repose he so
much envied.

They stirred a little, though he caught no words, and
with a long sigh Rosalie folded her hands upon her breast
as if she were making a last appeal. Then they relaxed
and lay quiet as before, and the lips were still; and Thornton
went away with a quick step, feeling that from her his
questions could get no answer such as they wished. Any
excuse—any belief which would throw the responsibility off
himself, he could bear,—he could bear to be unhappy and
discontented, so it touched not his own omissions. If he
could have persuaded himself that he was necessarily restless
and ill at ease, it would have gone far towards curing
the evil.

`What nonsense!' he repeated to himself again and again
—`I never could quiet myself down to her temper, if I tried
all my life'—and then he remembered that he had never
tried for one day.

This was not the way to get to sleep, however, as he
sagely remarked; and having banished all grave thoughts
with such vigorous efforts as he would not have bestowed
upon acting them out, sleep followed—unbroken till Sunday
morning had dawned, and its atmosphere of rest lay over the
wide landscape.

There were sounds astir—but all sweet, all soothing.
The twittering of the birds, the tinkle of the cow bells as
their four-footed wearers wound slowly along the meadow-course
of the brook,—a hum of voices from the chip-yard,
where Martha and Tom were comparing notes with Jabin,—
and nearer still a voluntary from Hulda—who standing out in
the sunshine sang her morning hymn with birdlike freedom
and enjoyment. When another voice joined hers, and gave
strength and clearness to the tune and distinctness to the
words, Thornton closed his window and betook himself with
great earnestness to the business of dressing.

But though that business was finished with much elaboration,
Thornton would not go to church; and Rosalie staid
with him. Everybody else went, and the house was left in
utter solitude; with windows closed and doors bolted, and
Trouncer the old bull-dog lying in the porch with his nose
between his paws.

Rosalie persuaded her brother to come out to the edge
of the dell and spend the morning there; where the brook's
soft rush at their feet and the bird notes up in the air, were
all the interruptions. She had her Bible in her hand and
sat down to read; but Thornton sat leaning against an old
hickory tree, with his eyes sometimes shaded by his hand
and sometimes by an unseen cloud. And so they remained;
with the sweet Sabbath bell sounding forth in the distance
and answered by another still further off, until the last ring
floated away on the pure air and all was still.

Rosalie had closed her book for listening, and now sat
with closed eyes, as if too many senses were disturbing.
Her brother watched her, unconscious of his gaze or that he
had even raised his head.

Her face was at rest, as of one asleep after a weary
world; for the bells with their suggestions and associations

had half done sleep's work. But strong effect was given to
the very delicate tinting of her face and its too delicately
drawn lines, by those very grave ones in which the mouth
was set,—that had not relaxed. Yet as Thornton looked it
did relax—and with a slight trembling of the lips there came
one of those tearful smiles that just shewed itself and passed
away.

`Rosalie!'

How the face changed, how the weary look came back,
he saw as she turned towards him; her eyelashes yet wet
with the drops of that sun-shower.

`Do you see that brook?' Thornton said.

`Certainly.'

`Wouldn't you like to follow its course out into the open
sunlight?'

`I have done so many a time.'

`Is it a pretty walk?'

`Pretty and thoughtful both, to me.'

`Take me up the stream of your thoughts from the sunshine
that was upon your face just now.'

She looked at him and then down at the brook.

`It would be a more thoughtful walk than the other.'

`No matter—take me. Whence came the sunshine?'

Again she looked at him, and away from him, but the
eyes filled as she answered,

“`Hitherto ye have asked nothing in my name: ask,
and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.'”

Thornton was silenced. If he had expected Bible words
it would not have been these; and he spoke not again for
some time. His sister sat looking down at the brook as before;
and it rippled and ran along, and flung its foam hither
and thither with a wild hand.

`Do you believe that, Rosalie?' he said at length.

`Surely!'

The look was brilliant.

`Have you never asked for what you were wishing yesterday?'

Her eyes fell, and her lips could form no answer.

`Then why is it not done?' said Thornton, with an effort
to keep his own firm.

She paused a moment, as if to steady her half-choked
voice, ere she answered. `Because I have not waited
patiently, I believe. Because, “to them gave Jesus power
to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his
name.'”

Thornton was silenced again, and his sister sat still for a
few moments with such a wavering play of thought and feeling
upon her face, as was like the shadowy leaf-tossed light
upon the brook. And then after one glance at him, coming
quickly to him and almost before he was aware, her arm drew
him down to a place by her side, and her voice spoke words
for him that bowed down his heart like a bulrush. And with
the belief the power came. He was a changed man.