University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.

If anything could have made Mrs. Arnet deeply unhappy,
a letter which she received from her daughter early in
November would have done it. Fortunately nature had
placed her beyond much risk of that sort, but discomposure
she did feel in abundance.

`You must come here if you wish to see the grand ceremony
of my life, mamma,' Marion wrote; `for here it will
take place. Thornton wishes it, and so does Rosalie; and I
am but too glad to be spared the great New York fuss which
you would think indispensable were I there.'

Indispensable!—the word came back from the very bottom
of Mrs. Arnet's heart; which was however not so far
off as it might have been. But married up there! in a
country kitchen! — for what had any farmhouse but a
kitchen;—the idea was overwhelming, and yet there was no
help. There was time for her to reach them, but not to
make them change their plans; and on the whole Mrs. Arnet
concluded she had better stay at home. The mere ceremony
was not much, and if she went away there would be
no prepared fuss against their return; whereas by a diligent

use of the time between now and then, she could do
much to repair the mischief. Therefore she would not go.

Neither could Mrs. Raynor be present. So she wrote;
the journey at that time of year and of her life seemed too
much.

`I give thee up, dear child,' she said, `as fully and
freely as if there. I always thought thee too good to be
mine alone. But go to thee I cannot: therefore come not
for me.'

And so the night before that morning in November there
was `nobody but just their four selves,' as Mrs. Hopper
said, in the sitting-room. Hulda had been there to be sure,
in such a mixture of pleasure that she was to be with Marion
for a while, and sorrow that Rosalie was going away,
and joy to think of living always part of the time with her
and Mr. Raynor too; that she was sometimes absolutely
still, and sometimes flitted about like a very spirit of unrest.
But now she had gone to bed and all was quiet. Quiet but
for the sweeping remarks of the wind; and they were so
general that nobody thought of answering them. The brother
and sister were much in each other's thought; and
could the thoughts have been read they would have told of

Perhaps the faces revealed so much; for of the other
two present, one was unusually grave, and the other at least
as usual. But he was the first to speak: not in a particularly
grave way, but rather playfully—as if willing with a
light hand to attach and wind off the long threads of thought

in which his companions had enwrapped themselves. And
thus he spoke:

`Which would prove us all sages,' said Miss Arnet.

`Not all—' said Mr. Raynor. `My attention at least
was not turned within.'

`Nor mine,' said Thornton.

`No,' said his friend; `you have come near disproving
the other line—

`Why?' said Thornton laughing.

`You have given the fire so much, so meditative, and so
needless attention.'

`So fruitless also,' said Rosalie.

`Very well,' said Thornton; `but I have not been so
lost in meditation as to miss the glances stolen at us all
from under cover of your eyelashes, little Sweetbrier.'

She smiled, but the playful lines quickly composed themselves
into graver fashion than before.

`I am thinking, Alie,' said Thornton, `what you will do
without some one to take charge of.'

`She may take charge of me,' said Mr. Raynor.

`You!' said Thornton.

`Well?' was the quiet reply.

`It is such a comical idea to imagine anybody's presuming
to dictate or even advise any line of conduct to you.'

`Presuming—yes,' said Mr. Raynor. `I should scarcely
call the idea comical.'

`Well doing it at all, then.'

“`He that hath no pleasure in looking up is not fit to
look down,'” said Mr. Raynor. `You are making me out
very unfit for my trust.'

`I recant then,' said Thornton, `and am quite willing that
you should be perfect after your own fashion. I am certainly
afraid she will lose the pleasure of fault finding—but
I suppose she can live without it.'

Her lips parted in a little smile as if about to speak, but
they closed again silently.

`I am afraid my old simile of the lock of hair must stand,
Alie,' said Marion. `But child you are tired, and in my
judgment ought to go to bed.'

`My judgment does not say that.'

`And mine says must,' said Mr. Raynor.

She coloured a little, and Marion smiled, and Thornton
said laughing,

`You see, Alie—he endorses my words. I am afraid
your judgment will stand but a poor chance, after all.'

Even as he spoke, a little stir was heard in the kitchen;
and the opening door shewed them not indeed any part of
the stir, but the cause of it,—Mrs. Raynor—a very twilight
spot of grey silk against the glow of the kitchen firelight.
With as little excitement and bustle as if it had been her
own parlour, so did the quakeress come in; and was met at
the third step by her son, his motions as quiet though rather
more quick.

`Thee sees how much impatience human nature hath yet
Henry,' she said. `I could not wait to see thy wife till she
was ready to come to me, therefore am I here.'

`And she will not be here until to-morrow,' he said, leading
his mother to where Rosalie stood supporting herself by
her arm-chair. `The next best thing is visible.'

The heart of the quakeress had but imperfectly learned

the quaker lesson; for in silence she embraced Rosalie and
softly replaced her in the great chair, and in silence held
out her hands to Thornton and Marion, and gave them most
cordial though mute greeting. Then her hand came back
to Rosalie and rested caressingly upon her head, and once
again Mrs. Raynor stooped down and kissed her.

`Mother,' said Mr. Raynor, `you forget that Rosalie is
not a quakeress.'

`Nay surely,' she said. `Wherefore?'

He answered only by a glance at the transparent hand on
which Rosalie's cheek rested, its very attitude speaking
some difficulty of self-control; but his mother understood,
and removed her own hand and took the chair he had placed
for her: answering then his questions and putting forth
some of her own. Thornton and Marion meanwhile exchanged
a few words but Rosalie said nothing.

`Why does thee not speak, love?' said the quakeress
presently. Mr. Raynor answered.

`We were talking a while ago upon your favourite theme
of silence, mother. What were those lines you used to quote
in its defence?'

`It matters not, child,' she said,—`the lines were mayhap
written by one who seldom held his peace save in a good
cause.'

`Yet they were good, and you used to say them to me?'

`It may be I had done better not,' she said; `therefore
urge me not to say them again.'

`You will let him say them himself?' said Rosalie.

`If it liketh him—' said the quakeress. `He thinketh
not with me on all points.'

His hand laid on hers seemed to say those points were
few and unimportant, as with a smile he said—

`Spring and winter are struggling for the mastery here
to-night,' said Thornton. `I wish the thaw would extend
itself.'

`No,' Mr. Raynor said, `not to Rosalie's lips. Do not
set her talking to-night. Let her sleep—if to that she can
be persuaded.'

“`He hath a will—he hath a power to perform,'” said
Rosalie with a little smile as she rose from her seat; nor
did she look to see the smile that her words called forth,
although it were more than her own.

It was a pretty morning's work that Mrs. Hopper's best
room saw next day, and a pretty company was there assembled.
Only `their four selves' again,—with just the set-off
of the grey dress and cap of the quakeress, and the wonder
and interest in every line of Hulda's little face,—with only the
back-ground of country walls and hard country faces,—with
no lights but the wood fire and the autumn sun. And the
room had no ornament but themselves, unless the splendid
red winterberries in Marion's hair. But it was rarely pretty
and picturesque; and even the fact that Rosalie must sit
whenever she need not stand, rather heightened the effect.
Mrs. Hopper said it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and
Tom Skiddy quite agreed with her, with only one reservation,—`he
wouldn't say that he couldn't see a prettier.'