When Florence Amory opened her eyes the next morning, she was at a
loss for some minutes to determine her own position in the great white
world that lay around her. Then the events of the preceding night
marshaled themselves into line one by one, and at the same time came
the consciousness that she possessed a head,--a most unmanageable one,
too. It danced and whirled in such an uncomfortable way that she was
glad to shut her eyes once more.
Presently the sound of an old-fashioned coffee-mill, with its
unwilling halts and sudden compliances, fell upon her ear in such
close proximity that there was no mistaking the character of the
adjoining room. A moment or two later the crushed berries sent through
the keyhole a delicious whiff of aroma that spread itself through the
room. Encouraged by this appeal to two of her senses, the girl once
more took a survey of her quarters. A narrow bedroom, with just space
enough beside the high-posted bed on which she lay to permit one
person to pass; a chest of drawers, with shining brass handles that
tinkled faintly in response to footsteps in another part of the
house; one or two straight-backed chairs: these completed the
furniture of the room, with the exception of a small looking-glass
(one corner gone), a frame washstand, and a tiny yellow table. The
windows were hung with green paper curtains. Just as she finished this
journey around her room, her head took another flight, and was hardly
down again when the door opened softly and the cheery face of ’Lisbeth
peeped in. Seeing that the stranger was awake, she advanced to the
bedside and bent over the flushed face upon the pillow.
“How’d ye sleep?” she inquired, softly brushing aside a stray lock or
two of brown hair, as a mother might have done, from the tired young
forehead.
“Not very much, I’m afraid. I’m not much rested: my head doesn’t feel
quite right;” and she tried to smile.
“Well,”--this woman had a strong, comfortable way of beginning her
sentences with that monosyllable, which seemed to put quite out of
sight all doubts and difficulties in the way, and carried with it a
conviction that everything was coming out just right,--“well, there’s
nothing in the world to do but to stay just where you be. Your folks
ain’t up yet, and won’t be this two hours. I’m goin’ to brown ye a
piece of bread, and the tea’ll be ready by the time that’s done: it’s
drawin’ now, front of the fire.”
“Oh, indeed I must get up. The children”--
“Land, the children can dress themselves, or their mother’ll help ’em
if they need anything. Do’n’t you say another word, dear, but just
shut your eyes and think about something easy,--dandelions in a
cloverfield, say, or birds singin’ ’long towards night.”
The firm steps turned away and again began their journeyings up and
down the floor of the adjoining room. Florence closed her eyes
willingly enough, and lay perfectly quiet, with a sense of being cared
for, such as she had not felt since she left her own home.
The morning light showed dimly through the frosty little panes behind
the green curtain. Upon the old-fashioned bureau she could just see,
as she glanced up wearily now and then, the shape of her tall brass
candlestick, with its long stalactites of tallow hanging from the
upper rim. The footsteps plodded to and fro. Pots and pans
occasionally interjected a staccato note above the soft purring of the
fire and the hum of the teakettle. Then another pair of boots joined
the first,--evidently a man’s, but managed with wonderful care so as
not to disturb the visitors.
Pretty soon the door opened once more, and ’Lisbeth entered, bearing a
small japanned tray, upon which were set a plate of toast in tiny
slices, a steaming cup of tea, and a sugar-bowl with its pair of
silver tongs, slim but solid.
“Now, dear, a bit of this will do you good.”
“But I’m not hungry.”
“No, poor child, I didn’t suppose you would be. Well” (comfortably
again), “suppose I butter a piece of toast,--the littlest piece,--just
for you to taste. Maybe ’t will make ye sleepy.” There was no
resisting that, and the feverish girl did manage to take a very wee
lunch from the motherly fingers. Then she fell back among the pillows,
exhausted.
“If ye can jest ketch a nap now,” said ’Lisbeth in a whisper, as if
her charge were already in danger of being waked, “it’ll do ye lots of
good.”
The toast and the hot tea and Lisbeth’s whispers must have had a
soothing effect, for Florence soon dropped into an uneasy slumber,
throughout which, however, she had a continual sense of heat and
discomfort. When she awoke, it was broad day. The world was as silent
as a dream. To ears accustomed to the roar of a city and the cries and
laughter of children at play, the stillness was not a mere negative
quality of the air,--an absence of sound,--it was an almost tangible
thing, and Florence felt smothered beneath its folds. She pressed her
hand to her head, and found it burning hot. Her pulse was throbbing
fiercely through her slender wrists.
“Mrs. Eldridge!” she called faintly. She had heard ’Lisbeth so
addressed by the driver the night before.
The soft rustle of a woolen dress, and the firm, now familiar
footfall, were heard at once. In a moment more the elder woman was
holding the hand of the younger.
“I believe--I am afraid--I am going to be ill.”
“Well, Miss Amory, ’f you be, you shall be well taken care of. I’ll
tend ye myself, nights; and if there’s anything you want that can be
got, why, Elsie’ll get it for ye.”
“And is there a physician?”
“Oh, yes’m; Elsie’s gone for one now. They’ll be here in an hour or
two.”
“In all this snow?”
“Oh, we don’t mind that, ma’am. Get used to it, you know. The road’s
been broke out clean up t’ the village, they say, so ’s ’t the pung’ll
go well enough.”
“Where are Mrs. Walton and the children? And--please don’t call me
ma’am.”
’Lisbeth smiled good-humoredly: “I won’t, if you won’t call me ‘Mis’
Eldridge.’ ’T always makes me feel ’s if I must talk just so straight
when anybody calls me that. My name’s ’Lisbeth; and if you’ll call me
so, why, I’ll call you Florence,--the boy told me your name,--and so
we’ll feel better acquainted. Oh, the others? Why, they went along up
t’ the Hill, to spend Christmas with their folks, about noon to-day.
She said you was to stay here till you felt better, if we could keep
you. And we can.”
That night Florence was worse, and the succeeding days and weeks were
but so many chapters of feverish fancies and hot, throbbing pain. The
sun climbed higher and the snowbanks sank lower day by day, but she
knew nothing of them. Her world was square, her sky a dingy white, her
surroundings the changing forms of a disordered dream. The
gray-haired country doctor had peered at her through his spectacles
and made the motions of “Typhoid” with his lips to ’Lisbeth. Florence
had seen it under her half-closed eyelids, but was too weary to care
much. So January came and went, and after it February, before she
found herself inclined to take the slightest interest in anything
outside of those four walls, with their faded, large-figured paper.
It was a warm, delicious day in early March,--one of those foretastes
of spring which in New England match the Indian summer of late autumn.
The green curtain swayed slightly back and forth as the sweet south
wind crept in through the crannies of the old, warped window-frame. A
song-sparrow, perching on the fence just outside, sang his contented
little Easter hymn over and over, until the sick girl felt herself
being drawn back to life once more, and life seemed beautiful.
’Lisbeth was sitting in the kitchen, with the door half open between,
and Florence could hear the soothing creak of her chair as she rocked
gently to and fro at her knitting. Presently she called, “Mrs.
Eldridge!”
The creaking stopped instantly, and health and life, embodied in
’Lisbeth, entered the room.
“Well, dearie, feelin’ a little better, ain’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,”--gratefully. “I want to know, if you please, about
things that have happened since I have been ill.”
“Oh, that’s a short story. Mrs. Walton ’n’ the children went back t’
the city six weeks ago, and left you in my charge. An’ it’s precious
little trouble you’ve been. For my part I’d rather take care o’ ten
women, all sick with the typhus, than one man with a headache.”
Florence smiled faintly. Then she said, “I haven’t heard so many
footsteps in the kitchen lately. Have any of your family gone?”
“Bless you, no. That’s only because Elsie’s made a pair o’ slippers to
wear about the house, so ’s not to wake you when you’d caught a
sleep.”
“How very kind! Can I see Elsie soon? I should so like to be read to a
little bit.”
“Why, yes, I s’pose so,” said ’Lisbeth rather doubtfully. “I d’ know
’s there’d be any objection. Oh, that reminds me. Elsie was over t’
the Corner early this morning, and brought these flowers. There’s a
greenhouse there, where they keep ’em growing right through the
winter. Seems ’s if they might have been a little brighter, now, don’t
it?”
While she was talking, she stepped into the next room, raising her
voice as she went, and returned with a china vase painted gaudily on
one side and containing a loose cluster of cut flowers. Florence
noticed at the first glance that they were so arranged as to bring the
unpainted side of the vase in front; at the second, that they had been
chosen thoughtfully. One or two dark heliotropes, white pinks, and a
creamy, half-opened rose, with slender ferns for a background: that
was all.
“I was going to tie the stems up with a piece of string, but Elsie
would have it they’d wilt quicker, and would look kind o’ sot
besides. You was to take out one of the pinks to hold in your hand, if
you liked. They last longer ’n the rest.”
So the dainty blossom, with its folds within folds of whiteness, was
held between the slight girl-fingers, in no way less dainty and
delicate than itself. By a sudden impulse Florence pressed it to her
lips like a child. “You are all so good to me!” she said, with
quivering lips. “I’m not used to being taken care of. Please thank
Elsie for me, and ask her to come in when she can spare the time.”
Mrs. Eldridge had been stooping to pick up a shred from the neat
carpet, and but half caught the words. “Who d’ you say? O, Elsie!
Well, I’ll give your message just ’s you put it.”
But Elsie did not come the next day, nor the next. She began to seem
to Florence like some beneficent brownie, doing all her good deeds
before the household was awake, and then disappearing until her
services were again needed.
At last came the eventful day when the invalid was to be allowed to
sit up for half an hour. She had looked forward to the time with
eagerness. The old doctor, who had a vein of grim humor under his
white beard, gruffly called her his little im-patient. But, to tell
the truth, the stiff-backed chairs which she had thus far seen were
hardly suggestive of luxurious rest; they were built for well people.
Men and women in that part of the country make but little reckoning
upon sickness. When it comes, it is met with a stern and
uncompromising resistance; but the thought of humoring it by such
compliances as reclining-chairs never for a moment enters their heads.
It was, therefore, a genuine surprise when, after an extraordinary
amount of whispering and hurrying in the kitchen, the door opened,
and, assisted by ’Lisbeth, in walked a chair of such inviting
proportions and soft, padded curves that they plainly expressed
themselves to the effect that they would be extremely miserable unless
reclined upon, and that speedily.
“Why, where did you find that lovely chair?” cried Florence
delightedly. “I thought I should have to sit up just as straight!”
“Oh, we jest made it up out of one of the old armchairs in the best
room,” said the other, surveying the luxurious piece of upholstery
with pardonable pride. “You see, Elsie thought it all out, and put us
to work, when you said you wanted to set up: so we jest stuffed the
back an’ arms, and Elsie sawed off the hind legs an’ fixed that place
for your feet in front, and there you be!”
Five minutes later, Florence sat, weak and trembling after her long
inactivity, in the comfortable chintz-covered chair, with a great
sense of achievement and a new hold on the realities of life.
“Now, if I could only see Elsie, and thank her.”
“And--_what_?”
“Why, tell her how much I thank her for all the trouble she has taken
for me.”
A queer look came into ’Lisbeth’s face, and her eyes twinkled. “Guess
ye’d better wait till to-morrow,” she said. “You’ll feel stronger
then, and--she--can come in while you’re settin’ up.”
“But why not to-day?” persisted the other, with a convalescent’s
freedom.
“Well, to tell the truth, Elsie’s busy to-day outdoors, and won’t be
in till you’re abed again; and then you ought to rest.”
“Out of doors?”
“Oh, she’ll tell you all about it to-morrow,” said ’Lisbeth, pursing
up her mouth in the same funny way as before.
Florence was too weak to pursue the subject further, and presently was
glad enough to lay her tired head upon the pillow once more.
The next morning the first object that caught her eye was a bunch of
slender willow-wands, with their soft, clinging “pussies,” such as she
had not seen since she was a child running about under the elms in the
old, quiet town by the sea. The fresh, sweet sunlight peeped through
the window and rested on their gray fur, creeping down from one to
another and dancing in and out in the merriest manner possible. As
Florence lay there beneath the old patchwork quilt, watching this
pretty play of sunshine and kittens, and listening to the soft bustle
of the morning’s work in the next room, a sense of great comfort and
rest stole over her, and in her weakness her eyes filled with happy
tears. Whatever was troublesome in the past she forgot: the future
seemed as bright and yet as intangible as the sunbeams. She only
realized the watchful care and devotion that were hovering about her
day and night, and, in the clear, wholesome atmosphere, her mother’s
religion seemed nearer to her than ever before. Her favorite verse,
“Return unto thy rest, O my soul,” was written in sunny characters
upon the faded wall before her.
Then she began to wonder how it would seem to meet the other members
of the family. The shrill voice of the old man she had often heard,
but she had listened in vain for some snatch of song or girlish
footfall which might belong to the gentle “Elsie” whose unseen
ministrations were always attending to her comfort. As for the sturdy
young fellow who had borne her so lightly through the snow, she had
heard him once or twice only, speaking to ’Lisbeth in low tones, or
calling cheerily somewhere outside to a passing neighbor.
“He must at least live near here,” she thought, “but has probably
forgotten all about me. Breakdowns are common enough in the country,
and the ‘women-folks’ always have to be carried through the drifts.”
Still, she could not help wondering a little who he was, and where he
learned that slow, quiet speech, with its correctly-placed adverbs and
adjectives, She at last concluded that he must be a neighbor in rather
better circumstances than her hostess,--perhaps one of the proud
“Hill-folks” whom Mrs. Walton was to visit. How they must have laughed
over the adventure as they sat about their loaded tables on Christmas
day! Could he not have just called at the door and inquired for her
during all these long weeks of suffering? Then the color came faintly
to her cheeks. She was a dependant, a servant: how could she expect
such attentions? The old rebellious uprising of her whole nature was
beginning to assert itself once more, when ’Lisbeth’s soft knock was
heard at the door, and ’Lisbeth herself immediately appeared, while
the sunbeams, which had somehow hidden behind a cloud just before,
danced in through the window again to meet her.
“Now, dear, for breakfast. The pullets have just begun to lay, an’
Elsie’s been out and found a nest in the haymow where that little
Plymouth-Rock was a-cacklin’ yesterday. Look!” She held up the warm,
coffee-colored egg as she spoke. “How’ll you have it cooked? Boiled?
Well, I’ll do it just right, and show ye how to take off the lid with
a knife and eat it out of the shell. Father always has his that way.”
Florence smiled in spite of herself at being treated so like a child.
“That’s right,” continued Lisbeth briskly: “don’t ye go to feelin’
solemn, for it’s goin’ to be a grand day. And as for time to come,
why, all I say is, don’t worry. You’re as welcome as the flowers of
May, and I love to have ye round. You remind me of a little sister I
had once, and--and--Yes, I’m comin’!” And ’Lisbeth, guilty, for the
only time in her life, of a downright deception, hurried out of the
room, pausing, however, to shut the door gently behind her.
Breakfast over, and the ceremony of enthronement in the easy chair
performed, Florence, with spirits quite recovered, again recurred to
Elsie. “Now, ’Lisbeth,” she said gayly, “please hand me the longest
pussy-willow stem for a scepter, and I will give audience to my
subjects. Where is Elsie?”