 | CHAPTER XXXV. My brother's keeper |  |
35. CHAPTER XXXV.
“It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.”
—As You Like It.
`Henry Raynor,' said the quakeress to her son, one day
when he had come over from Long Island to dine with her;
`isn't thee wellnigh tired of thy present way of life?”
`It is not the pleasantest way that I could imagine, mother.'
`Then why does thee pursue it?'
`It seemeth right unto me,' said Mr. Raynor, assuming
as he often did the quaker diction.
`And thee is resolved to follow, even to the end, these
unhallowed proceedings?'
`Nay mother, call them not so. The English have not
shown themselves so tender of other places which they have
taken, that we need wish our own city to fall into their
hands.'
“`The Lord will fight for you, and ye shall hold your
peace,'” said the quakeress.
Mr. Raynor smiled a little.
`What do you think of this, mother?—the very first
words of Deborah's song.
“`Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when
the people willingly offered themselves.'”
His mother shook her head at him, but answered the
smile, nevertheless.
`Thee must hold thine own notions, but thee need never
talk of Friends being stiff in theirs. Thee will be fonder
of peace when thee is married.'
`When—' Mr. Raynor thought, as he stood musingly
before the fire,—and yet there did seem some possibility of
it now. But he only said,
`That could hardly be, mother.'
`Has thee seen Penn to-day?' inquired the quakeress.
`Not for two or three days.'
`He talketh so fast that one knoweth not well what he
saith,' Mrs. Raynor went on, `but if I mistook not, he hath
a letter for thee, and from the north.'
`Where is he?'
`Nay, that I cannot tell. Perchance he may be in his
room.'
Mr. Raynor sought him there, but there he was not;
neither did he make his appearance at dinner.
`Well, trouble not thyself,' said the quakeress; `when
he doth return I will send him over to thee.'
And with that promise Mr. Raynor was fain to content
himself, and to turn his face once more toward Long Island.
But it was an unsatisfactory thing to leave the letter behind
him; and in a most unsatisfied mood he paced down Broadway,
more leisurely than was his wont, and scanned the
passers by on either side. The one particularly jaunty and
carelessly worn cap that he wished to see, however, was not
to be seen; and his search came to an end at the ferry, when
his horse had with prettily feigned shyness, carried him on
board the boat. He did not dismount, but sat looking off
into the distance.
There had been a storm—one of those stragglers from
it was over now, and the growling clouds lay
swept together in the east; their angry flashes scarce seen
for the sunshine that had followed. Over head was a broad
band of the deepest blue with just a few little dripping
clouds scudding across it; and the sunshine had come out
with a burst, as if all its unseen light of the last hour had
been treasured up for this.
But even as Mr. Raynor sat there in the beautiful light,
wondering at its ever new beauty, a low murmur from the
west drew his eyes thither. The blue had not changed its
depth nor its clearness, but slowly impinging upon it came
other cloud heads up from the western horizon, and a light
shadow fell over the face of things. Most fine the sight
was, and Mr. Raynor was apt to recognize its full beauty; yet
now as he looked, his looks grew darker. Half consciously,
half unconsciously, he had made the change in the weather
a type of other changes—his fancy had been revelling in the
sunshine; and these new cloud heads that came on apace seemed
to shadow the mind's glow as well. Instinctively his thought
took up the beautiful words of the preacher, and he remembered
that there is but one time in life “when the sun, nor the
light, nor the moon, nor the stars are not darkened, nor the
clouds return after the rain.”
It was an unwonted thought for him, whose trust was
in general so bright, so unmurmuring; and chiding himself
almost for the very remembrance, he turned to see again
how fairly, how perfectly one storm had rolled away—why
should not the rest do likewise?
`Let it, or let it not!' was his next thought; for from
one storm and in the face of another, the sunshine had drawn
out the token of the everlasting covenant between heaven
and earth, and the bow of promise bound both together.
“My covenant will I not break, nor alter the thing that
is gone out of my lips.” And what was that covenant?—
“Even the sure mercies of David.” “I will be to them a
God, and they shall be to me a people.”
“He causeth the cloud to come,” Mr. Raynor remembered,
“whether for correction, or for his land, or in mercy.”
The short October afternoon was already ended when
Mr. Raynor reached the little volunteer camp on Long
Island, lying quietly there in a mingling of light and
darkness; for the moon was shining down between clouds,
and the sprinkling of private lights contrasted well with the
clear, cold patches of moonshine. Mr. Raynor gave the
word, and passing the lines to his own tent, he found there
the object of his search. At least one of them. Mr. Penn
was making himself as comfortable as circumstances would
allow, with three or four camp stools; his back supported
by the locker, on which stood a light; his hands supporting
the evening paper.
`You don't mean to say you've come back, Major Harry?'
was the young gentleman's salutation, as he extended himself
a little more at length upon the camp stools.
`You don't mean to say that you are found?' was his
cousin's reply.
`Why yes, I suppose I am,' said Penn. `Absolutely
detected in the act of burning your candle and reading your
paper. I've brought you something else to read, though.'
`So I understand. Are you sure you have brought it?'
`Why of course,' said Penn. `At least it would be
very odd if I hadn't, when I came over on purpose. I don't
know but I should have sent it, only that I saw it was from
Captain Clyde; and I should like to hear news of him well
enough.'
`How long do you mean that I shall wait for the news
myself?'
`Only till I can find it,' said Mr. Penn, despatching
several messengers into his pockets. `It's somewhere, I
do presume. Don't be impatient, Harry—you never are
that I know of, only you don't just remind one of Patience
on a monument, in your present position of uprightness.
“Wm. Penn Raynor, Esqr.”—that's not it. What's this—
“To making one'”—
`If you will give me your coat,' said Mr. Raynor, `I
will save you some trouble and myself some time.'
`Take something else,' said Penn—`a book, can't you,
till I find it. No trouble at all, thank you Harry. I don't
believe it's in this coat, any way. But do take something
else in the meanwhile. Now there's a letter would amuse
you like anything—from Rutgers—one of my privateering
friends, you know, Harry. Capital letters he writes, too.'
`I think I would rather have my own first,' said Mr.
Raynor.
`Yes, if you could get it first, but there's the very thing.
Do you know,' said Penn, taking his hands from his pockets
and lolling back on the camp-stools, `Rutgers says the
queerest thing in that letter!—Absolutely heard in Charleston
that I was engaged to Miss Clyde!—as if I ever thought
of such a thing!'
`You are quite sure you never did?' said Mr. Raynor,
his eyes sending forth a little flash into the dusky gloom
of the tent. Then subsiding again, he said, `My letter,
Penn!'
`Why can't you sit down and be easy?' said Penn.
`I tell you I can't find it. Maybe I left it at home in another
pocket—you know I might have changed my coat.
You shall have it in the morning.'
`I must have it to-night.'
`Then I must find it in this coat,' said Penn;—`can't
this minute—slipped into that letter of Rutgers'—if you'd
only taken that as I wanted you to—'
`If you will give me one of these camp-stools, Penn,'
said Mr. Raynor, `and a small share of the light, I will let
you take anything else that you can lay your hands or your
feet on.' And so far accommodated he sat down to read his
letter.
Penn watched him for a while, but the pages were long
turning over and the face unreadable.
`What news?' he said, when at length the letter was
folded up.
`Nothing that would interest you particularly.'
`All well, I hope?' said Penn.
`Not all,' said Mr. Raynor.
`Not?' said Penn. `Well, it's good they're not all
sick. Best to take the bright view of things, you know.
But I shall be really glad to see Miss Clyde back again—
she's always so agreeable and'—
`Hush, Penn!' said his cousin almost sternly; and in
wondering curiosity Mr. Penn held his peace.
Only for a time; then he began again.
`How do you suppose that letter got delayed, Harry?'
`Delayed?' said Mr. Raynor raising his head.
`Ever so many days,' said Penn carelessly,—`didn't
you look at the postmark?'
He looked now, and at the date—both told the same
story. Mr. Raynor started up and began to put on the
overcoat which he had just thrown off.
`You're not going out in this weather?' said Penn.
`Just hear the rain, once!'
`I shall do that to better advantage out of doors—' and
he was gone.
Penn looked and wondered, and then slept. When he
awoke, Mr. Raynor sat in his former place with his head
resting on his hand.
`I had the queerest dream!' said Penn rousing himself,—`that
you rushed out into a pouring shower in spite
of all I could say. And now here you are, and there is the
moon. What a nice place you have here, Harry—quite enviable.'
`To look at,' said his cousin. `I doubt whether you
would like it upon further acquaintance?'
`Yes I should,' said Penn. `I should like to live here
amazingly. I wouldn't have staid in New York another day
if I could have got officer's quarters here.'
`How should you like to take my place here for a while,
Penn?' said his cousin looking up.
`Like it? of all things! But where are you going?'
`Out of town for a few days.'
`To-morrow?' said Penn.
`No; I find I cannot get away to-morrow. But whenever
I do.'
`Of all things, as I said before,' repeated Penn. `I
wish you had a dozen such places, that I might fill them
all.'
`I think you will find one answer your turn,' said his
cousin.
`But where are you going?' said Penn, his pleasure half-swallowed
up in curiosity.
`Out of town, as I said.'
`I shall be very happy to do any thing I can, then,' said
Penn, `but I can't conceive what should take you away.'
Which however Mr. Raynor did not tell him.
`Everybody is going away I think,' said Penn. `I stopped
at Miss Arnet's to-night, and she was out of town.
didn't know where. Harry, you look sober—what's the
matter? Certainly you don't care about Miss Arnet?'
`Not much,' said his cousin.
`Then I say what's the matter?'
“`There came a great wind from the wilderness and
smote the four corners of the house, and it fell,'” Mr.
Raynor answered as he turned away.
Penn looked after him, but seeing the Bible which Mr.
Raynor had now taken up, he thought that possibly it had
been in his hand before, and that he had but read aloud.
| CHAPTER XXXV. My brother's keeper | |