University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.

It is a melancholy fact that the end of a voyage cannot
be as picturesque as the beginning thereof,—whether it be a
voyage in earnest, or merely the `wearie course' above referred
to. There is no momentary expectation of either
storms or sea-sickness, and both are an old story. The
waves do not gradually run higher and higher, but `con-trarywise,'—there
is very little sea on—if one may borrow
a steam phrase, and the water becomes ingloriously tranquil.
Unless indeed the fictional craft is to blow up with a
grand explosion—and that in Sam Weller's words, `is too
excitin' to be pleasant.' In fact the voyage is over before
the last chapter; and the only thing that can do, is to pilot
sundry important people over the bar and through the
straits, and land them all too safe, on the shores of this
working-day world.

Not that, as somebody says, `people begin to be stupid

the moment they cease to be miserable';—but still, when
the course of true love, or of any other small stream, doth
run smooth,—its little falls, and whirls, and foam, and voluntary
beating against the rocks—its murmurs as a hard-used
and thwarted individual—must of course be dispensed
with. There is nothing for it, on either hand, but smooth
water.

Mrs. Raynor sat alone in her library. Absolutely alone;
for though the cat was enjoying himself on the rug, Mr.
Penn was enjoying himself elsewhere; or it might be was
attending to his duties on Long Island. Even the invariable
knitting work was laid aside, and yet Mrs. Raynor
busied herself with nothing else,—unless her own thoughts,
or the general appearance of the room—for so might be
construed the looks that from time to time went forth on an
exploring expedition. With never failing recollection she
replenished the fire, even before such attention was needed;
and once or twice even left her seat, and with arranging
hands visited the curtains and the books upon the table.
Then returning, she took a letter from her pocket and read
the beloved words once more. It was all needless. The
words—she knew them by heart already, and the room was
ordered after the most scrupulous quaker exactness.

The sharp edge of this was taken off by exquisite
flowers, an eccentric little wood-fire, and a bountifully
spread tea table; where present dainties set off each other,
and cinnamon and sugar looked suspicious of waffles. The
silver glimmered with mimic fires, the plates and cups shone
darkly in their deep paint and gilding; and tall sperm candles
were borne aloft, but as yet unlighted. Even the sad-colored
curtains hung in softened folds in the soft fireshine,
their twilight tints in pretty contrast with the warm glow
upon the ceiling. As for the flowers, they hung their heads,

and looked up, and laid their soft cheeks together, after a
most coquettish fashion—as if they were whispering; and
the breath of their whispers filled the room. A fair, half-revealing
light found its way through the bookcase doors,
and rested upon the old books in their covers of a substantial
antiquity, and touched up the lighter adornments of
such novelties as the quakeress or her son approved. The
clock in its dark frame of carved wood went tick, tick, with
the most absolute regularity, and told whoever was curious
on that point that it was six o'clock.

Then Rachel appeared.

`Will thee have the candles lighted?'

`I thank thee, Rachel, not yet.'

`Does thee intend to wait tea even till they come?'

`Surely,' said Mrs. Raynor. `But ye had better take
tea down stairs, if so be ye are in haste.'

`Nay,' replied Rachel. `Nevertheless, it may well
chance that thy waffles shall be for breakfast.' And Rachel
closed the door noiselessly and retired.

But while Mrs. Raynor turned her head the door was
opened again as noiselessly; and when she once more looked
round from a contemplation of the clock face, the very persons
whom she had expected stood in the doorway. Rosalie
in her flush of restored health and one or two other things,
her furred and deep-coloured travelling dress, looking as
little as possible like a quakeress; and Mr. Raynor, though
bearing out his mother's words that he would have made a
beautiful Friend, yet with an air and manner that said if he
were one now it was after a different pattern.

`I wellnigh thought the south meant to keep thee!'
the quakeress said as she embraced him.

`Nay mother,' he answered smiling, `it was somewhat
from the north that kept me. And you see how my rose has
bloomed the while.'

`Fairer than ever! and better loved.'

`Than I deserve to be —' Rosalie said.

`Thee need not speak truth after thine own fashion
here,' said the quakeress with a smile, and laying first her
hand and then her lips upon the fair brow that was a little
bent down before her. `Does not thee know that the right
of possession is enhancing?'

And Rosalie had nothing to do but sit where they
placed her, and let her hands be ungloved and taken care
of; while questions and words of joy and welcome could
not cease their flow, nor eyes be satisfied with seeing.

Then came tea; but Rosalie drew back from being put
at the head of the table.

`That is Mrs. Raynor's place,' she said.

`So I think.'

`What does thee call thyself?' said the quakeress with
a quiet smile. `That is thy name now, dear child, and that
is thy place.'

And Rosalie was seated there without more ado; where
even Rachel surveyed her with unwonted admiration of
colours and uncovered hair.

`Mother,' said Mr. Raynor, as it drew on towards eight
o'clock, `you must let me take Rosalie away for an hour. I
know she will not rest till she has seen Thornton and Hulda.'

`This night?' said the quakeress. `Thee will weary
her.”

`That is just what I am trying to prevent.'

`Thee must judge for thyself, Henry,—nathless thee
knows that we Friends think much of patience.'

`She is patient enough,' said Mr. Raynor laughing, and
laying both hands on his wife's head as he stood by her
chair. `So patient that she requires very particular looking
after.' And when the carriage came he took her away as
he had said.

What a happy surprise there was! what a joyful hour of
talk! How pleasant it was to see the old house again, restored
from its fiery damage and with such owners. So
much joy, that one is tempted to wonder why nobody ever
wrote upon the Pleasures of fulfilment. And if her old sorrowful
life came up to Rosalie, it was but to stir the very
depths of her heart with wonder and gratitude; till she was
ready to say with the Psalmist, “What is man, that thou
art mindful of him? or the son of man, that thou visitest
him?”

An hour had passed, and half of the next one, and still
they lingered; until a slight stir arose in the street, and
cries and shouts—first distant and then drawing near—
broke the stillness. Cries not of fear, as it seemed, neither
of disturbance, but of joy—of excitement—of wild congratulation.
In a moment the little party were at the
door.

All was still, breathless. Then again the murmur came
swelling towards them, and foremost among the cries broke
forth `Peace! Peace!' Nearer and nearer the people
took it up and cried, `Peace! the Peace!' From one
and another—from deep strong voices and from throats
that could hardly raise the cry, it was heard—`The Peace!
the Peace!'

`Peace! Peace!' cried out one little boy whose pattering
footsteps bore him swiftly past the house. `Peace!
Peace!—I wish my voice was bigger!'

`I wish my heart was,' Mr. Raynor said. And as
they rode home lights sprang forth in every window, the
city shone as if with daylight; and ever went up that cry,
`Peace! Peace!'