 | CHAPTER XXXIV. My brother's keeper |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
I now, wo is me, do try what love can do.
—Sidney.
`How long are we going to be here, Alie?' said Hulda as
they sat at tea.
`I do not know—you must ask Thornton.'
`How long?' Hulda repeated, looking at him.
`I do not know.'
`But that's very funny!' said Hulda.
`I am not sure but I shall go to New York for a week
or so before you do, Rosalie,' said her brother.
`What for?'
`O sundry things. I must see Marion—give the required
promise and make her redeem her own.'
`Not till I come?'
`No, not that. But there are other matters to arrange.
At what time in the future is the Quakerage to be blessed
with a new queen?'
`I am sure I know not,' said his sister as composedly as
she could.
`I believe,' said Thornton, `that in a voluntary change
of dynasty it is usual for the reigning power to withdraw to
another court,—else might the new comer be branded as a
usurper. And I am not sure that it is best for you to give
rather needs guardianship herself.'
`She will have it now.' Rosalie said; the warm flush of
joy and thankfulness coming over her face.
`Better than she once could, I trust,' said Thornton
gravely. `O Alie! my dear child! what a guardian you
have been!'
`Not I—' was all she could answer; and Hulda looked
wonderingly from face to face, and saw the one not less
stirred than the other.
`I was not so selfish as I seemed,' Thornton said, when
they left the table and stood musingly before the fire. `I
knew you gave up a great deal for me, but I did not know
how much. I could not, without knowing Henry better;
and by keeping him at a distance I partly kept off the belief
of some things that concerned him.'
`Who is Henry?' said Hulda, who had been watching
for some word which she could understand.
`Your friend Mr. Raynor. Of whom his mother justly
remarks, there is but one in the world.'
`I wish he would come here,' said Hulda. `I want to
see him very much.'
`So do I,' said Thornton. And bringing a chair to the
fire he sat down and took Hulda on his lap.
`How would you like to live with him, Hulda?'
`Live with him!' cried Hulda. `What all the time?'
`Thornton'—Rosalie said.
`Be quiet Alie, and trust me for once. Well Hulda?'
`I don't know what you mean!' said the child with a
very puzzled face. `I couldn't leave Rosalie.'
`Put Rosalie out of the question.'
`But I shouldn't want to leave you, now,' said Hulda,
her eyes looking up to his with all the enjoyment of trust.
She little knew how straight both look and words went
to her brother's heart, nor guessed the meaning of the quick
breath he drew in that moment of silence.
`I think we must arrange a compromise, Alie, don't
you? How would you like then Hulda, to live half the
time with Mr. Raynor and half the time with me? Or
would you rather live half the time with Rosalie and half
with Marion?'
`But then there'd be nobody to take care of Rosalie,' said
Hulda. `And if I lived with you and Mr. Raynor there'd
be nobody to take care of me.'
`You know your lesson sufficiently well,' said Thornton
laughing. `What do you say, Alie?'
She did not say anything; but sat there on a low seat
by the fire, reading histories in its bright play, until Hulda
was ready to go to bed; and then went with her, and returning
softly sat down as before.
`Why don't you answer my question about the Quakerage?'
Thornton said, moving his seat close to hers. `Am
I bound to learn it first from another quarter?'
`I cannot tell you what I do not know myself, dear
Thornton.'
`Yes, but upon whose decision does your knowledge
wait?'
`I cannot decide upon anything to-night—and I would
rather talk on some other subject. Rather think of the end
of life than of its way.'
`You are not well,' Thornton said, putting his arm
round her and drawing her head down upon his breast.
`Not perfectly—or else I am a little tired.'
He stroked her forehead and stooped down and kissed
it, and then sat looking at her in silence. But after a few
moments she looked up and smiled.
`I believe I am tired—that need not hinder our talking.'
`What shall we talk about, precious one?' he said.
`What were you thinking of, with your eye upon the fire?
What did you see there? an ideal presence?'
`No,' she said with a faint colour—`at least not when
you spoke to me. I was thinking of the journey through
the wilderness. “Thou shalt remember all the way which
the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the wilderness,
to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know what was
in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments
or no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to
hunger, and fed thee with manna, which thou knewest not;
that he might make thee know that man doth not live by
bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the
mouth of the Lord doth man live.'”
`And then?' Thornton said.
`Not much else,' she answered with that same little
flush. `I was thinking how even Moses desired to see the
promised land in this world.'
`What has come over you to-night, Alie?' said her
brother. `When did this world's land of promise ever
make you forget the better country?'
`It is easier given up in the wilderness than on the borders
of Canaan. But if the Lord hath said, “Let it suffice
thee concerning this”—good is his word which he hath
spoken. “The Lord is thy life, and the length of thy
days”—how true that is!'
`Rosalie,' said her brother with a look that was both
fearful and wondering—for she had raised her head again,
and was eyeing the fire in the same intent and abstracted
way; `you are tired, you are not well. Let me carry you
up-stairs now, and to-morrow you may talk more of these
things.'
`I believe I am tired,' she said again, but without moving,—`my
mind feels tired. Tell me something to rest it.
Words of comfort are so sweet from you.'
`And my knowledge of them is so small compared with
your own, Alie. You must not let even part of this be true
of you, dear—it was all true once of me.'
“`My people hath been lost sheep—they have turned
them away on the mountains: they have gone from mountain
to hill, they have forgotten their resting-place.'”
As if a cloud had rolled away from before her eyes, so
did Rosalie look up at him,—a child's very look, of quietness
and peace.
`I will not forget it,' she said. “For thus saith the
Lord, the Holy One of Israel: In returning and rest shall
ye be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your
strength. And the work of righteousness shall be peace;
and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance for
ever. And my people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation,
and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting-places.'”
The words were spoken clearly and strongly, though
rather as if thinking than speaking; but as she rose then
to go up-stairs the colour faded swiftly from her cheeks, and
laying her hand on Thornton with a confused look, sense
and strength failed together.
Thornton carried her up-stairs and laid her on the bed,
and toil-hardened hands tried their gentlest powers about
her; but when at length paleness and unconsciousness
yielded to their efforts, it was to give place in turn to a brilliant
colour and a fevered sleep.
In silence Thornton sat by her through the night,—remembering
with intense bitterness the years of her society
that he had shunned, and feeling that whatever might be
the effect of this sickness he could not say a word. The
bathing the poor sleeper's forehead and hands; but whatever
words they spoke were scarce whispered out, and Rosalie's
quick breathings fell on her brother's ear without interruption.
How he wished her away from there,—with her own
physician, in her own home—with other friends within reach.
Such skill as could be found in the neighbourhood was called
in, and pronounced her disease to be a slow fever; more tedious
than dangerous unless it should take some special
type, but requiring constant care and watchfulness. And
until the day came streaming in through the windows,
Thornton hardly removed his eyes from her face.
How cold the daylight looked! how cheerless: and yet
the sun shone brilliantly clear, and the tufts of autumn
leaves with which the trees were spotted shewed their gayest
tints; and the birds sang and twittered their merriest.
But the contrast was lost upon Thornton, for his eye and
ear took little note of anything but Rosalie; and the morning
came on, and the women went softly in and out, and he
scarce noticed them nor heard their low consultation.
At length Mrs. Hopper came up to him.
`Mr. Clyde,' she said, `the very best thing you can do
is to go where you can be o' some use. You can't do her
the least bit o' good stayin' here, and that poor little soul
down stairs 'll cry her eyes out afore long, if there don't
some one speak to her.'
Thornton sprang up instantly and left the room, remembering
that Rosalie would never have forgotten anybody as
he had forgotten Hulda: even in her deepest sorrow.
`How far, how very far she is on the way which I am
but beginning to tread,' he thought as he went down stairs.
Hulda was in the sitting-room, crouched down on the
floor in one corner, pouring out a flood of sorrow that was
And when Thornton raised her up in his arms and tried all
his powers of soothing and caressing, the child shook all
over in the violence of her grief.
`They won't let me see her!' she cried. `They won't
let me even go into the room! And I wouldn't make the
least noise—and oh I know she would let me!'
`Do you think you could keep perfectly quiet?' Thornton
said, putting his face down by hers.
`O yes! O yes!'
`Then I will take you up there; but first you must wait
a little, for Rosalie would be troubled to see all these tears.
I am going to write to Marion to ask her to come here, and
you shall sit quiet on my lap till that is done.'
`Do you think she will come?' Hulda said, as she
watched the rapid tracing of his pen, and tried the while
to seal up her tears.
`I am sure that she will.'
And almost tired out, Hulda lay drooping on his neck
until more than one letter was written and folded, and he
was ready to take her up-stairs.
She kept her promise of quietness,—shed no tears unless
silent ones, and sat on Thornton's lap or stood by his side
in perfect stillness, as long as he would let her. And when
he knew that she ought to be out in the fresh air, and told
her so, and begged her to go with Martha,—Hulda's mute
distress was so great that, there was no help for it, he must
take her himself.
It was a lesson for him, all this,—he began to try his
hand at self-denial, and to learn the lesson which Rosalie
had so long practised. True his watching eyes could do
her no good—both days and nights were passed in the restlessness
or the sleep of fever, and often she seemed hardly
earth could give he found at her side. And now he must
devote himself to another's comfort—must walk with Hulda
and talk to her and bear with her, and keep her as much as
possible out of the sick room. He could not in conscience
let her be in it, and to send her out with Martha plunged
Hulda into the very depths of grief. Sitting on her
brother's lap with her arm round his neck, and probing his
distress with her earnest questions,—walking with him—
hearing him read, and never failing to bring up Rosalie's
name at every turn, she was comparatively cheerful. It was
something new for him—something against his whole nature
and experience. And nature rebelled. But as if they had
been stamped on his mind, checking every impatient thought
and word, bidding even sorrow and weariness give place and
bide their time, these words were ever before him—
“For even Christ pleased not himself,”—and “If ye love
me, keep my commandments.”
If Hulda mourned her sister's illness, it was not because
her brother ceased trying to fill her place
| CHAPTER XXXIV. My brother's keeper | |