Volume Ii Part 24 (1/2)
”'Oh, thank G.o.d, I have got you safe, my brother!'
”But what a brother! with wasted body and sunken eyes; with the old curly hair turned to matted locks, that clung faster to his face than the rags did to his trembling limbs; what a sight for the opera-gla.s.ses of the crowd! Yet poor Hop-o'-my-thumb was on the front seat at last, with Melchior kneeling at his feet, and fondly stroking the head that rested against him.
”'Has powder come into fas.h.i.+on, brother?' he said. 'Your hair is streaked with white.'
”'If it has,' said the other, laughing, 'your barber is better than mine, Melchior, for your head is as white as snow.'
”'Is it possible? are we so old? has Time gone so very fast? But what are you staring at through the window? I shall be jealous of that crowd, brother.'
”'I am not looking at the crowd,' said the prodigal in a low voice; 'but I see----'
”'You see what?' said Melchior.
”'A figure in a cloak, gliding in and out----'
”Melchior sprang up in horror. 'No! no!' he cried, hoa.r.s.ely. 'No! surely no!'
”Surely yes! Too surely the well-known figure came on; and the prodigal's sunken eyes looked more sunken still as he gazed. As for Melchior, he neither spoke nor moved, but stood in a silent agony, terrible to see. All at once a thought seemed to strike him; he seized his brother, and pushed him to the farthest corner of the seat, and then planted himself firmly at the door, just as Death came up and put his hand into the coach. Then he spoke in a low, steady voice, more piteous than cries or tears.
”'I humbly beseech you, good Death, if you must take one of us, to take me. I have had a long drive, and many comforts and blessings, and am willing, if unworthy, to go. He has suffered much, and had no pleasure; leave him for a little to enjoy the drive in peace, just for a very little; he has suffered so much, and I have been so much to blame; let me go instead of him.'
”Poor Melchior! In vain he laid both his hands in Death's outstretched palm; they fell to him again as if they had pa.s.sed through air; he was pushed aside--Death pa.s.sed into the coach--'one was taken and the other left.'
”As the cloaked figure glided in and out among the crowd, many turned to look at his sad burden, though few heeded him. Much was said; but the general voice of the crowd was this: 'Ah! he is gone, is he? Well! a born rascal! It must be a great relief to his brother!' A conclusion which was about as wise, and about as near the truth, as the world's conclusions generally are. As for Melchior, he neither saw the figure nor heard the crowd, for he had fallen senseless among the cus.h.i.+ons.
”When he came to his senses, he found himself lying still upon his face; and so bitter was his loneliness and grief, that he lay still and did not move. He was astonished, however, by the (as it seemed to him) unusual silence. The noise of the carriage had been deafening, and now there was not a sound. Was he deaf? or had the crowd gone? He opened his eyes. Was he blind? or had the night come? He sat right up, and shook himself, and looked again. The crowd was gone; so, for matter of that, was the coach; and so was G.o.dfather Time. He had not been lying among cus.h.i.+ons, but among pillows; he was not in any vehicle of any kind, but in bed. The room was dark, and very still; but through the 'barracks'
window, which had no blind, he saw the winter sun pus.h.i.+ng through the mist, like a red-hot cannon-ball hanging in the frosty trees; and in the yard outside, the c.o.c.ks were crowing.
”There was no longer any doubt that he was safe in his old home; but where were his brothers and sisters? With a beating heart he crept to the other end of the bed; and there lay the prodigal, with no haggard cheeks or sunken eyes, no gray locks or miserable rags, but a rosy, yellow-haired urchin fast asleep, with his head upon his arm. 'I took his pillow,' muttered Melchior, self-reproachfully.
”A few minutes later, young Hop-o'-my-thumb, (whom Melchior dared not lose sight of for fear he should melt away,) seated comfortably on his brother's back, and wrapped up in a blanket, was making a tour of the 'barracks.'
”'It's an awful lark,' said he, s.h.i.+vering with a mixture of cold and delight.
”If not exactly a _lark_, it was a very happy tour to Melchior, as, hope gradually changing into certainty, he recognized his brothers in one shapeless lump after the other in the little beds. There they all were, sleeping peacefully in a happy home, from the embryo hero to the embryo philosopher, who lay with the invariable book upon his pillow, and his hair looking (as it always did) as if he lived in a high wind.
”'I say,' whispered Melchior, pointing to him, 'what did he say the other day about being a parson?'
”'He said he should like to be one,' returned Hop-o'-my-thumb; 'but you said he would frighten away the congregation with his looks.'
”'He will make a capital parson,' said Melchior, hastily, 'and I shall tell him so to-morrow. And when I'm the squire here, he shall be vicar, and I'll subscribe to all his dodges without a grumble. I'm the eldest son. And I say, don't you think we could brush his hair for him in a morning, till he learns to do it himself?'
”'Oh, I will!' was the lively answer; 'I'm an awful dab at brus.h.i.+ng.
Look how I brush your best hat!'
”'True,' said Melchior. 'Where are the girls to-night?'
”'In the little room at the end of the long pa.s.sage,' said Hop o'-my-thumb, trembling with increased chilliness and enjoyment. 'But you're never going there! we shall wake the company, and they will all come out to see what's the matter.'