 | CHAPTER XXXVII. My brother's keeper |  |
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly?
Sil.
I would have you.
—As You Like It.
Before morning, or rather before morning light, the weather
changed. In place of the falling rain there was now only a
gentle drip from the eaves, and the wind had risen, and blew
in soft and freshening gusts around the house. Cocks were
trying their voices, and a dim perception that was neither
light nor yet darkness, stole in through the kitchen windows.
Within doors there was no change, no stir. Thornton slept
heavily upon his hard couch, and not the footfall of a mouse
broke the silence overhead.
Mr. Raynor felt weary with the close, still air of the
house—nothing doing, nothing to be done; but he did not
move, unwilling to lose the first word of tidings that might
come. It seemed to him as if till it came he must stand
where he was. And yet in one moment after this feeling
had crossed his mind he walked to the door, softly drew back
the great bolt and passed out. And Trouncer roused up to
follow him.
It was beautiful out of doors, even in that darkling light.
The wind waved the leafless branches in a shadowy, fitful
fashion, and blew away the clouds as fast as the northwest
could gather them up. Overhead they came flying, a perfect
stars shewed their bright eyes and winked at the fact that it
was near sunrise. Wet, wet, everything was: the very air
seemed washed and sweetened; and the advancing light
glimmered in long strips of water in the road, with now and
then a broad pool.
`Ough!' said Trouncer—but it was only at the impatient
kick of a horse in the distant stable; and by turns the cock-crows
were contrasted with a cheery, helpless little twitter,
low and sweet, from some sleepy bird. Fearless if it was
helpless—joyous too, and trustful. `They neither have storehouse
nor barn, yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.'
Mr. Raynor stood listening, taking the full effect of every
sight and sound, yet knew not clearly that effect until the
Bible words began to come into his mind—those words
which dumb Nature could but point out.
“As the mountains are round about Jerusalem”—so
came the first—“As the mountains are round about Jerusalem,
so the Lord is round about his people, from henceforth
even for ever.”
Was not that enough? Could not all be left to that
most excellent loving-kindness and tender mercy which could
not err? “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber
nor sleep!”
O human blindness, and weakness, and want of trust!
Mr. Raynor thought, as still he stood looking, and heard
`the feathered people' begin their morning song, and remembered:
“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one
of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”
“Fear not therefore”—that was what everything said.
“Shall not the Judge of the whole earth do right?”
So constantly had he watched the progress of things, so
gradually had it come on, that it was with almost a start
darted into the world, and lit on the vane of the little village
church in the distance. Mr. Raynor turned at once and
went back into the house. No change there yet; but hardly
had he resumed his stand at the fireplace, before the stifled
creaking of shoes was heard and the hall door opened.
If any traces of sleepiness remained about the eyes of
Martha Jumps as she entered the kitchen, they all vanished
when she saw Mr. Raynor there and Thornton asleep on the
settee. But Thornton awoke instantly, and starting up,
exclaimed,
`How is your mistress, Martha?'
`She's better, praise be blessed,' said Martha, as she
walked up to the mantelpiece and set down her candlestick.
`Who says so?' said Thornton.
`I ought to know, if anybody did, for I've just come from
seeing her sleeping like any kitten,' replied Martha. `Miss
Arnet says so, too. There's nothin' whatever to hinder our
having breakfast at the usual time.'
Thornton went up to see for himself, and was too well
satisfied with seeing to come down again until breakfast was
ready. Then he and Doctor Buffem appeared together.
`All right and sweet and comfortable,' said the doctor.
`I may go back to New York as fast as I came; or now I
think of it, more leisurely—being at my own risk. You do
not go with me, friend Henry?'
`No, sir.'
`I think you will be equal to any emergency which may
arise,' said the doctor. `And now, my dear sir, breakfast!
It's ill travelling without the staff of life.'
`And if Rosalie goes on steadily improving, when would
it be safe for her to return to New York?' said Thornton,
as they took their seats at the table.
`New York? fal de rol!' said the doctor. `Don't bring
her back to brick walls till she's able to climb 'em. She's
seen enough of New York for one while. The minute she
can stand alone take her off for change of air and scene—
jaunt about a little—go South, if you like; but don't let her
see New York these three months.'
The doctor mounted his horse and rode away, and the
other two gentlemen stood somewhat thoughtfully looking
after him. Mr. Raynor spoke first.
`What are you thinking of, Thornton?'
`Doctor Buffem's orders.'
`I will see them carried out,' was the next grave remark.
`You shall, if I have any voice in the matter.'
`Say nothing about it now.' And nothing was said, even
before Mr. Raynor went back to New York himself for a week.
But one afternoon at the end of that week, when Rosalie
was well enough to sit up in a great chair by her wood fire,
and all the rest had gone out for a walk; that peculiarly
quiet step might have been heard on the stairs—if indeed it
had made noise enough.
Quietly he went up, and quick, for that was his custom;
but his foot slackened its pace now on the upper stairs, and
as it reached the landing-place stood still, and his breath
almost bore it company. Martha had gone down a few minutes
before, leaving Rosalie's door half open; and thinking
all human ears far away—with the perfect stillness of the
house—she was singing to herself in the fading sunlight.
Singing softly, and in a voice not yet strong, but with such
clear distinctness that the listener caught every word.
He waited till the hymn was finished—waited for another,
but it came not; and still he lingered, as if there were
a halo about her he liked not to break. Then a quiet knock
at the open door, a quiet word of admission, and whatever
bright to her.
`Does thy song betoken strength?' he said.
`Only weakness—of that kind which craves a strong support—and
rests in it, and delights in it.'
`Wilt thou make use of my strength, such as it is?' said
he smiling. `I would fain bestow it upon thee.'
`Having more than you want?'
`A little surplus, which I should like to see invested.'
`I should think business might call for it all,' said Rosalie.
`How are affairs on Long Island?'
`In the old state of quiescence. I have left Penn in
charge of my department.'
`For the present, I suppose.'
`For the present and future, both. I am going South.'
`South!' said Rosalie. `You?'
`Yes,' said he, smiling. `Not without you.'
She looked quickly up at him, then down again, but she
heard the same smile in his next words.
`Will that direction suit you?'
`Are you so intent upon journeying, Mr. Raynor, that
you can talk of nothing else?'
`Question!' he said with the same tone.
`The first letter of a new alphabet is not to be lightly
spoken.'
`That was the second letter; this is the first—When do
you expect to come down stairs?'
`I shall have to consider of that,' she answered.
`Let not the consideration be too long, or I may take
you away before it comes to an end.'
`I think you are merry to-night, Mr. Raynor.'
`With reason.'
`But if you take up my words so,' Rosalie said, `I shall
not be able to say what I wish.'
`I do not wish you to say anything,' said he laughing.
`I merely came to say something to you. For the rest of
the evening you may think and not speak. It is always well
to know beforehand what one has to do; and this dear
Rosalie is not to be reasoned against nor reasoned away,—
therefore think not so much as may trouble thee. Goodnight.'
Tom Skiddy stood out in the chip yard next morning, and
Miss Jumps in her old position with her hands behind her,
stood leaning against a tree and watching him. The frost
lay upon every chip and blade of grass to which the sun
had not yet paid his morning visit; and lurked in corners
and by fences, secure for some time from his approach. The
trees were in the poverty-stricken livery of November—
some thinly clad, the most not clad at all; and with every
rustle of the wind there fluttered down some of the remaining
leaves, crisped with last night's frost.
Tom was elaborately dressing out a knitting-needle from
a strip of red cedar, while the companion strip lay on a log
hard by.
`How would you like to go South, Tom Skiddy?' said
Martha.
`Fur south as Connecticut I shouldn't object to,' replied
Tom.
`That aint South,' said Martha,—`Connecticut's north
when you're in York. I mean South that aint north nowheres.'
`Guess likely I shouldn't care about it,' said Tom.
`Well what'll you do supposen the Capting goes?'
`He won't,' said Tom.
`Now how do you know, Tom Skiddy?' said Martha.
`I tell you he won't,' repeated Tom.
`And I heard the doctor say, “Take her South,” with
make any bones about it after that?'
`Can't he send no one else?' said Tom.
`He might, I do suppose,' said Martha,—`that's smart
o' you, Tom Skiddy. O' course every body knows what he's
stayin' here for. But then if Miss Rosalie's goin' in for
the Quakers, I aint agoin' with her—that's one thing.
Couldn't—not for nuts.'
`You can find somethin' else to do, I s'pose?' said Tom,
taking up the square stick of cedar.
`Most like I can—' said Martha,—`spry folks like me
don't want for work generally.'
`I should think you might,' remarked Tom, measuring
the two pieces. `Nice fit, aint it?'
`Sort o'—' said Martha,—`one of 'em's rough enough
for two, and big enough.'
`That's all along o' what's been done to t'other,' said
Tom, beginning to work at the square stick.
`Some odds in the stuff, aint there?' said Martha.
`Not much,' said Tom. `Both out o' one stick. One
was further out and t'other further in—that's all.' And
Tom whittled away assiduously, while Martha looked on in
silence.
`Goin' to make 'em both alike?' she inquired.
`Just alike,' said Tom,—`being knittin'-needles. They're
different shades o' red though. I don't care about seein'
two things too much alike, if they have got to go together.'
`Such as what?' said Martha.
`Horses,'—said Tom,—`and folks. You and I always
worked better, Martha, for having such a variety between us.'
`Well, I do' know but we did,' said Martha musingly.
`Just about what you call a fine match, we are, I think,'
said Tom.
`Are!' repeated Martha, with a little toss of her head.
`Well, might be, then,' said Tom.
`I don't know about that,' said Martha. `It mought,
and it mought not, as folks used to say where I was raised.'
`So they did in my town,' said Tom, `but then they
always fetched up with “and then again it mought.” I
shouldn't mind making the experiment, for one.'
`I wouldn't be venturesome, Tom Skiddy,' said Martha,
with her head a little on one side and leaning against the
tree.
`I'll risk it,' said Tom.
`Well now!' said Martha.
`What's come over you to be so skeery?' said Tom.
`You're as bad as our white colt, that used to always
shy afore he went through the bar-place.'
`I might be worse'n that,' said Martha. `I might shy
and not go through the bar-place after all, Tom Skiddy.'
`That aint the fashion o' colts,' said Tom. `They
wouldn't get paid for their trouble.'
`Well suppos'n I shouldn't get paid for goin' through?'
said Martha.
`You would,' said Tom, shaving off thin slices of the
red cedar.
`Sure?' said Martha.
`Sartain,' said Tom.
`Time I was in the house, I know,' said Martha; and
in a very deliberate way Miss Jumps picked up her sunbonnet
and walked off towards the back door.
`Goin' through the bar-place?' said Tom.
`Maybe'—returned Martha. `You're so good at making
up things—s'pose'n you try your hand at some more.'
| CHAPTER XXXVII. My brother's keeper | |