 | CHAPTER III. My brother's keeper |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A joy has taken flight.
—Shelley.
For several days the doctor's visits were short and frequent;
and his conversation was made up of little abrupt questions
and ejaculations, assurances to Hulda that if he killed her he
would have her buried, and earnest requests to Rosalie that
she would furnish him with another patient. His first step
was always towards the window; and having admitted a few
of the proscribed sunbeams, he came back to the bed and
made his observations, and once more closed the shutter.
Counsel and warning about antimony and apple-water took
up what further time the doctor saw fit to bestow in this
quarter of his round; and then the room was left to the unquiet
motions of the sick child, and the gentle and tender
ministering of her nurse. Sometimes when Hulda was more
than usually at ease, her eyes followed Rosalie about the
room—watching with a dreamy pleasure the perfect doing of
the one person whom she thought perfect,—noticing the
noiseless placing of a stick of wood on the fire, and the
laughing answer which the flames gave thereto; and sometimes
her thoughts were held fast for a while, as the white
ashes came over the red coals, and then dropped off, or the
sap went singing out at the end of the stick, or the stick itself
broke and fell down over the andirons. But her eyes
perhaps arranging the cups and napkin on the little stand;
and if she went into the closet Hulda knew she had gone for
an apple, and watched with some interest while the apple
was made fast to a string, and that again to the mantelpiece.
Then she noticed the desperate twists of the apple
when it found itself at liberty to twist; and turning her
head a little she listened to hear the first spurt of the apple-juice,
and watched the bright drops as they came back from
their tangent and fell into the little silver plate that awaited
them; while the apple having waltzed to its heart's content,
presented a steady front to the fire and rebelled against
being roasted all round. Often Hulda fell asleep here, and
then awoke in time to see the refractory apple, all brown
and shrivelled, cut loose from the string and shut up in a
silver pitcher with plenty of boiling water. At this point
she always felt thirsty, and was quite ready for the tumbler
by the time it came to her bedside; but though Rosalie
held her up, and managed glass and spoon to admiration—
tasted the apple-water too, lest it might be not sweet or not
cool enough—Hulda could take but a few spoonfuls, and
was glad to lie down again.
Thornton's visits were a little variety, but of no other
use; though he always wore a look as if he knew he ought
to do something, and hadn't the remotest idea what,—a look
which his sister understood perfectly, and read with sometimes
a smile and sometimes a sigh. The visits were always
short. Hulda could bear very little talking or reading,
and her greatest comfort was to have Rosalie's face on
the pillow with her own, and to hear from her lips a verse of
a hymn or from the Bible, or some little story or incident,
or a few of her own sweet and quiet words. No one else
entered the room, except to bring wood and water and Rosalie's
as much as possible her own love of talk, and said
not many words more than were needful. The sounds from
the street became to little Hulda's ear almost what they
were to her sister's; and in the still, late evening she lay and
listened to the oyster-man, with a strange feeling of dreariness
and pleasure. And as in health, so in sickness, the
morning never rose and the evening never fell, that Rosalie
did not kneel by her little sister, and pray with her and for
her in just such words as she could understand. Martha
Jumps stayed her foot if perchance she entered the room at
those times; and Thornton more than once found himself
there, and wished himself away, and did not go.
`I wonder what Dr. Buffem would say to such proceedings!'
he remarked one evening, when he had come softly
in during the prayer and had stood watching and listening
—too proud even to bend his head. `In my opinion he
would call them feverish. What would you say, Rosalie, if
I should report— and if the doctor should issue contrary
orders?'
`I should hear them,' she answered with a smile that
told very plainly what more she would do.
`And by what token, my sage sister, do you prove yourself
wiser than your physician?'
`O—by not `thinking of men above what is written.”
“A most complete lady in the opinion of some three beside
herself!” said Thornton. `Nevertheless I stand to
the feverishness.'
`But it couldn't make me feverish,' said Hulda, putting
in her word with a voice as pale and thin as her face. `I
like it—always.'
`Like it, you pickaninny! You don't know what you
like.'
`It would be strange,' said Rosalie with a very gentle
look at Hulda, and then turning one no less gentle but of
somewhat different expression upon Thornton. `It would
be strange if a child brought up as she has been, to look
upon God as her best friend, should be disturbed or wearied
by all mention of his name.'
`You are looking marvellously pretty to-night,' was
Thornton's cool reply, while he surveyed his sister as if he
had not the remotest idea what she was talking about. `I
only hope you will keep on these wrappers when you come
down stairs again. I am as tired of seeing you in that
black dress as a man can be of seeing you at all, I suppose.
Here—don't turn off with that face;—look up and kiss me
before I go. What are you so grave about?'
She gave the required kiss but not the required answer;
and moving away to the fire-place began to pile together the
fallen brands—arranging and altering, as if in no haste to
have the task finished.
`Well—what?' said Thornton following her. `What
have I said that was so dreadful? Did you never hear that
`A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn?”
`You speak as if you did not know why I wear that
black dress,' she said without looking at him.
`I don't know why the wearing is in the present tense,
I'm sure. Give me the tongs—you know as much about
fires as about some other things. I say it is a fashion I cannot
abide; and if one must follow popular superstition for
a time, the less time the better. Such a fire!—put together
as if the world went by suggestion!'
`The world does not go by pounding,' said Rosalie,
—`and your fire is going up chimney in the shape of sparks.
Hadn't you better suggest to it to blaze?'
`I never made suggestions,' said he throwing down the
tongs. `What I've got to say comes out head first. Now
here you persist in shutting yourself up, and trying to be as
nun-like as possible. I wonder you submit to be called
Rosalie! Why not `Sister Ursula,' or some such sweet
appellation?'
`I should not like to undertake any more Sisterhoods
than I belong to at present,' said Rosalie with a slight
smile.
`Well, leave off that dress, will you?' said Thornton.
`I abominate hoods of all kinds! And let us have pleasant
recollections instead of disagreeable.'
`Disagreeable!' She stood silent and still, while the
flickering light of the fire played over her face, and mingled
curiously with the feelings that flitted to and fro there.
`Oh Thornton!' she said; `would you forget our
mother?'
Her hands were laid upon his shoulders now, and her
eyes looked clear and full into his. He would willingly
have freed himself from that light touch of reproof and
sorrow, yet he did not try; but his own eyes fell, and it
was with a very changed and softened expression that he
answered,
`I would sometimes forget if I could that she is not
here.'
She might have filled that mother's place for the way in
which she looked at him. And then laying her head on
his shoulder, while her hands were clasped about his neck,
Rosalie said,—
`If you could. But oh my dear brother! never forget
where she is! I would I could keep that before you every
minute of your life.'
If the wings of the recording angel had touched him,
not have felt more sure that a new prayer for him was registered
in heaven. And yet he did not answer according
to that assurance—and there was no more spoken; for when
Rosalie raised her head it was to bid him once more `Goodnight,'
and he left her without a word.
Hardly had little Hulda eaten that small allowance of
tea and biscuit which she called her breakfast, next morning,
before the doctor made his appearance. But everything
was ready for him, and the room not only wore a comfortable
but a comforted aspect; for Rosalie's face was a
shade less anxious, and Hulda's face several shades more
bright. So in answer to the doctor's inquiries she told him
that she was a great deal better; though indeed she had
been `better' every time he had come.
`I shouldn't wonder if you were to be quite a respectable
looking child, after all,' said Dr. Buffem, bending down
to impress his approbation upon Hulda's forehead. `One
of these days—if you keep on. Feel most like an oyster or
a clam this morning?'
`I don't know how they feel, sir,' said Hulda laughing.
`Don't laugh,' said the doctor—`that will never do.
Not sick yet, Miss Rosalie? I had strong hopes you would
be by this time. She looks like an oyster, don't she, Miss
Tom Thumb?'
`No indeed!' said Hulda, quite forgetting her own
name in the one bestowed on her sister; `not a bit!'
`You think not?' said the doctor. `Well I could swear
there had been pearls in the vicinity—`A sea of melting
pearl, which some call tears.' Who's been eating honey?'
`O Rosalie had it for her breakfast,' said Hulda.
`Hum—' said the doctor—`what have you had for yours?
Eaten a whole beefsteak, eh?'
`May I have some beefsteak?' said Hulda.
`Why no,' said Doctor Buffem, `I should think not.
Wait a day or two, Miss Rosalie, and then give her beefsteak,
and a little antimony, a soda biscuit, a cup of chicken-broth,
a buckwheat cake, a little salts or magnesia or castor
oil—whichever she likes best—an oyster, a clam, a cup of
tea; keep the room at 70°, and the sunlight out of doors,
and then read Cowper.'
As the doctor stamped out of the room, Rosalie sat
down by Hulda, and putting her arms round her laid her
own head on the pillow, with a feeling of thankfulness that
was too weary to do aught but rest. And rest fell like the
dew upon sun-touched flowers. But before six quiet minutes
had ticked away, the door opened again to admit Martha
Jumps.
`Here's a to-do!' she said. `Here's been Mrs. Arnet
secluding herself down-stairs, to spring upon the doctor as
he come down, for to find out whether she could see you
with safety, as she says. And the doctor gave it to her well.
He said there wasn't no danger for nobody but you; and he
didn't think as it was quite safe, lookn' at it in that light,
but he guessed you could stand it, he said. So now the
sooner the quicker, Miss Rosalie. She smells dreadful strong
of pickles.'
With this forewarning Rosalie felt no surprise that her
visiter's salutation kept at the safe distance of a somewhat
warding-off bow of the head; and as she herself did not feel
impelled to advance nearer, they took chairs at opposite sides
of the fire.
`Do you consider Hulda to be out of danger?' began
Mrs. Arnet—who looked very much like a butterfly deprived
of its moral expression.
`The doctor so considers her,' said a sweet voice from
the other side of the fire-place.
`Well, my dear, he is quite right in endeavouring to
keep up your spirits, but at the same time I must tell you
that amendments are precarious things. Mrs. Forsyth lost
a child with scarlet fever only last week, and she had been
supposed to be out of danger for several days. It is a
shocking disease.' And Mrs. Arnet made free use of her
aromatic vinegar, while Rosalie's heart sought better help.
`When is Marion coming home?' she inquired presently.
`Soon,' said Mrs. Arnet. `I have considered it quite a
providential thing that she should be away just now, for I
am sure nothing on earth would have kept her from coming
to see you.'
Rosalie felt sure of it, too.
`She is so very imprudent,' pursued Mrs. Arnet. `I
believe she would just as soon as not sit up nights with anybody
that had any disease. And if I remonstrated, she
would probably tell me that she was safer there than doing
nothing at home. For my part, I think one owes something
to one's family.'
`And nothing to the family of one's adopted brother,'
thought Rosalie. But she checked the thought, and answered
quietly that family duties could hardly be overrated.
`Which reminds me that I am keeping you from yours,'
said the lady. `How is Thornton? He never comes to see
us now, but I cannot blame him. Give him my best love,
my dear.' And Mrs. Arnet's eyes sought her handkerchief,
and her handkerchief sought her eyes,—but that was probably
the fault of the aromatic vinegar. And too affected for
more words, the lady bent her head graciously and left the
room, giving Rosalie a wide berth as she went. In another
minute Rosalie was up-stairs. There sat Thornton, reading
the newspaper by the side of the sleeping Hulda.
`It is an extraordinary thing to see me, isn't it?' said
he in answer to Rosalie's first look of pleasant surprise.
`But I thought you had gone out.
`One must go out in order to come in,' said Thornton.
`If you will promise to come down to dinner to-day, and let
me order it when I like, I will come home.'
There needed no answer but what the eyes gave him.
`You look sorrowful, Alie,' said her brother. `What
has that woman been saying to you?'
`She left her best love for you,' said Rosalie.
Thornton's lip curled with no attempt at disguisement.
`I hope she did not come on purpose to bring it,' he
said. `If her love were in the market, the report would be,
`Supply light, and the market dull.”
`She says,' continned Rosalie, `that if Marion had been
at home nothing could have kept her from coming here.'
Thornton's eye flashed, but he only said, `Of course.'
His sister looked at him, and then at the fire, and then
at him again.
`Oh Thornton! will you never give that one little
promise? for her sake—for mine?'
He answered, `Never!' and went.
| CHAPTER III. My brother's keeper | |