Читать книгу The Brother Clerks - Mary Ashley Townsend - Страница 3

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There, stranger lips shall give the greeting, There, stranger eyes shall mark the meeting; While the bosom, sad and lone, Turns its heavy heart-beats home.

A September sun was casting its parting rays far over the dull waters of the Mississippi, as a steamer, with steady course, ploughed her way through the thick waves and "rounded to" at the thronged and busy wharf of New Orleans.

Upon her deck, apart from all other passengers, stood two youths gazing with anxious eyes on the vast city spread out before them. The taller and elder of the two, bore upon his brow the flush of his twentieth summer. His figure seemed already to have gained its full proportions, and in his carriage and tone of voice there was all the pliant grace of youth, combined with manhood's strength and ease. His hair was of that purplish black so rarely seen save in the raven's wing, or the exquisite portraits of the old masters. The full broad forehead, shadowed by its dark locks, the clear black eye, the hue of health upon the check, and the smile upon the red lips as they parted over the snowy teeth, formed a picture of fresh and manly beauty over which the wing of this wicked world had as yet never hung darkly.

The younger was a mere boy; and stood beside his brother in that autumn hour, like a pure memory of other days; so marked was his whole bearing with that pureness of grace and refinement which circles some young brows like a halo. His figure was slender and delicate as a girl's; while his hair, almost golden in its hue, hung in curls about the blue-veined temples, and a brow of solid and exquisite formation, such as the lover of the intellectual delights to behold. His eyes were like the blue which lies revealed when the storm ceases and the clouds part in the sunshine; and the long lashes curled upon a cheek of almost invariable whiteness. His nose was of a pure Grecian cast, his mouth one of great expression and most beautifully cut. No one ever looked upon that young face without turning to look again, and felt holier for the gaze, in their hearts. Dear reader, do not imagine this an over-drawn sketch from a romantic fancy. I have only too weakly delineated the reality, as the portrait which hangs before me, looking down with its golden-fringed blue eyes upon my task, can fully testify.

During the whole passage the brothers had attracted universal attention, and won the good will of all; and now, as they stood arm in arm, amid all the hurry and bustle of the "first hour in port," not a sailor passed them but raised his dusty tarpaulin with a hearty "good e'en to the lads," and the passengers, as they reached the shore, would look up through the crowd once more at their young faces, to gain one more smile or one more parting wave of the hand, thinking, perhaps, it might be the last time forever.

"Guly," said the elder of the two, suddenly throwing his right arm around the slight figure of his brother, and drawing him closer to him, "tell me what makes you silent and thoughtful at this moment, when the scene of our future action lies before us, and our destination is gained. Of what are you thinking?

"I was thinking," replied the boy, as he laid his cheek caressingly upon his brother's shoulder, while his thoughtful eyes became suffused with emotion, "I was thinking of home. The sun is setting, and you know, at this hour our mother prays for her absent boys—were you thinking of the same thing, brother?"

There came no reply for a moment; Arthur only pressed his brother closer to him, but he answered at last, while a faint blush stole over his cheek: "No, Guly, I must confess my thoughts were far from that. I wish I could always think as rightly as you do, but it isn't my nature so to do. I was thinking of the untried path before us, the probable events of the next few years, the fair home so recently torn from us, the possibility of regaining possession of it through our efforts, and re-establishing ourselves in that station where we have ever moved. We must do this, Guly, for our mother's sake."

"With God's help we will."

Again Arthur's clasp tightened round his brother's figure, and again for a few moments he was silent; then suddenly resuming he said: "You must strive to make a good impression on Mr. Delancey, Guly; don't be timid or shrinking—such things have a bad effect. Be every inch a man, as you so well know how to be; bear always in mind how much depends on us two, and we shall get on bravely." It was evident Arthur dreaded more for his brother than he thought of for himself.

"I dread the meeting," returned Guly; "from the tone of his letter I learned to dread the man, and a boy-novice, as I am, in mercantile business, I shrink from the examination I may have to undergo, while you, with your experience, of course, scarce give it a thought. I have pictured Mr. Delancey as a very stern man."

They put themselves and their baggage into a cab, and at length brought up before a large and brilliantly lighted store, with the name "Delancey," in gilt block letters over the door. The cabman set the trunks which comprised the brothers' baggage, within, and pocketing his fare, drove off, leaving the youthful strangers standing upon the stage of their young future, waiting for fate to ring the curtain up.

In a short time a tall, heavily built young man, with a fine eye and pleasant smile, stepped between them, with an interrogative expression on his countenance, which asked, without the aid of any words, what might be their business; and Arthur replied that they desired to see Mr. Delancey as soon as possible.

The young man glanced at the trunk, and then at Guly's face, and ejaculating an "Ah, yes!" as if he had suddenly jumped at a conclusion, asked—this time putting his question into words—if they were the young chaps Mr. Delancey was looking for from the North; "because," said he, "if you are, I can settle you."

Guly replied that they were the same; and informed him they were not a little fatigued with their recent journey, and would be pleased to be "settled" as soon as convenient.

The clerk, whose name was Wilkins, regarded Guly attentively a moment, then smiled pleasantly, and said: "You are to sleep in the store—up stairs. If I'm a judge, you've been used to pleasanter places; however, I presume it will soon be home to you. Here, Jeff," beckoning to a tall negro near by, "tote this trunk up for your young masters."

"Jeff" appeared, and with a scrape and a bow signified his readiness to show the brothers to their room, and nodding to Wilkins, they followed the negro to the back part of the store, where a long winding staircase led to the floor above.

They had reached the stair foot, when Wilkins, who had been observing them, hurried after them, and holding out his hand to Gulian, said: "Don't get a bad impression of all of us here by the dingy room you'll find up there; notwithstanding you meet such a rough welcome, I hope you'll learn to like us and be happy."

"Thank you," said Guly, shaking his hand warmly, and feeling pleased at his frank, honest manner, "I've no doubt we shall be very good friends. Good-night."

"Good-night," returned Wilkins, and he stood watching the boy as he mounted the steep staircase, until the golden curls and young face were lost to sight. He turned away then with a short deep sigh, which sounded almost like a gasp, and thoughtfully resumed his station near the door.

"Dis is a gloomsome sort of place, young massa," said Jeff, the negro, as he placed the trunk at the foot of the bed and turned towards Guly, who was trying to look through the dingy window; "howsomever, 'taint quite so bad in the day time."

"What makes it more pleasant then?" asked the boy.

"Oh," said Jeff, "when 'tis light you can look straight down from here into de neighbors' kitchens; you can see all dey hab for dinner, how dey 'conomize, how different de misses are drest in de backdoor to what dey are when dey come out de front, and all dat."

"A pleasant occupation, truly," laughed Guly. "Does any one sleep in the store beside ourselves?"

"Massa Wilkins, sah, and me. Massa Wilkins' room is down below, just under the stairs; I sleeps behind the big door on the floor, and play watch-dog for master."

"What's your name besides Jeff?" asked Arthur, amused at the loquacity of the black.

"Same as my father's, sah."

"And what is your father's?"

"Well," said the negro, twisting a lock of wool in his fingers, "dat's a puzzler! His fust name's Voltaire, and I guess his last one's Delancey, 'cause he belongs to master, and his belongings generally take his name—sich as Delancey's hosses and Delancey's niggers; but bress de Lord! I 'spec you's sleepy; good-night, young massars—why didn't I tink of dis afore?"

"Good-night," said Guly, at the same time lifting a book from his trunk.

Jeff reached the door and laid his hand on the knob to go out, but as he cast his eye back at the brothers, he stopped short, then walked towards them on tip-toe.

"'Scuse me, massa," said he to Guly, "but I jist happened to tink mebbe dat big book was de Bible."

"And you are right."

"Was you gwine to read it, sah!"

"Yes."

"May dis chile stay an' listen? I like to hear de talk ob dat book; It fecks me inordly and makes me feel better in my heart."

Guly signified his assent, and opening the book, read in a sweet, mellow voice a selection of Psalms. Arthur listened attentively, but not more so than Jeff, who stood with parted lips drinking eagerly in every word. When Guly closed the Bible no one spoke; and after a moment's hesitation he knelt, as did his brother and Jeff, and from the depths of his pure young heart poured forth a prayer of sweet and touching eloquence, such as might have graced the lips of older and wiser persons.