’Lisbeth stepped to the door and called through it: “Come in: she’s
ready to see ye now.”
Florence waited, with a bright smile dawning on her face for the
kindly little spirit who handled pussy-willows and armchairs so
deftly. The next minute she heard a light, firm step upon the kitchen
floor. It hesitated at the door, and a gentle knock followed.
“Come right in, Elsie,” cried Florence, pleased again by her delicacy.
“I shall be so glad--”
She paused abruptly. The door had swung open, and there stood a tall,
well-built young man, an amused twinkle in his clear gray eyes, and
the corners of his mouth just failing of that demureness they aimed to
achieve. Without, however, appearing to notice any element of
embarrassment in the situation, he stepped forward quietly and laid in
her lap a glorious bunch of roses, saying, as he did so, “I happened
to be at the Corner this morning, and was fortunate in securing the
first cutting at the greenhouse. It is like the cream on Aunt
’Lisbeth’s pans,” he went on, evidently to give her time. “I always
was troublesome just before churning days: wasn’t I, aunt?”
“Indeed, you were,” returned ’Lisbeth, with a beaming face that flatly
contradicted her words. “What with you and the two blue kittens, it’s
a wonder we ever got anything but skim-milk for our butter. Them roses
do look something like cream too.”
By this time Florence had recovered her self-possession: “Is it
possible that this is the kind fairy who has done so much for me?” She
held out her hand with a frank smile as she spoke.
He stooped, not ungracefully, and took the offered hand, then laid it,
almost reverently, upon the heap of roses. “Hardly a fairy,” he
remarked gravely; “a gnome or a goblin, perhaps. It was very pleasant
service. Are you really better, Miss Amory?”
“Thank you; I feel almost too well to be treated as an invalid. Will
you not be seated? And then please tell me how--how--I could
have--thought”--
“Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” broke in ’Lisbeth, with a
mischievous look at her tall nephew, who had obediently seated himself
on one corner of the bed, that being the only unoccupied portion of
the room. “You see, when Wesley”--
Florence flushed slightly; she had thought she recognized the voice,
though she had heard it but for a moment that wintry night. The name
she remembered.
“--Wesley, he used to call himself ‘Elsie’ when he was a little trudge
an’ couldn’t speak plain. So we got into the way of callin’ him that
ourselves an’ it’s stuck to him ever since. I’d no notion ye didn’t
know who I meant, till you said ‘she’ yesterday. Then, thinks I, I’ll
have a little surprise for her, and a good laugh won’t do the child no
harm, bless her!”
Harm! Why, the most cynical, crabbed, disappointed old soul in the
world must have brightened up at the merry little ripple of laughter
that followed. The responsibilities and struggles of the last two or
three years had left their trace in the gravity of Florence’s young
face when in repose. It had begun to have the American tired look, and
it needed excitement or a quick emotion to show to best advantage the
intelligent deep-brown eyes, the wavy hair across the strong forehead,
and a complexion, naturally fine and clear, rendered even more
delicate by her long illness. As she looked up now, with the quick
pleasure of a child, and the light of careless merriment in her eyes,
her face was very sweet and winning.
Wesley was regarding her intently, his features relaxing pleasantly at
her happy laugh. “No doubt you consider us all as arch-conspirators,
Miss Amory,” he said; “but I assure you I knew nothing of this until
half an hour ago. Aunt ’Lisbeth is the Guy Fawkes.”
“And I had no idea she could be so deceitful,” replied Florence
solemnly. “Have you any gunpowder in your apron pockets, ma’am?”
“Land sakes! no,” said ’Lisbeth, with a puzzled look. “What d’ you
s’pose I want with powder? I guess likely Elsie’s got some up ’n his
closet; though what on airth”--
Then they all laughed again: they were so simply happy that it did not
take much to amuse them.
But Florence soon began to feel her strength failing in the unusual
excitement, and was glad to be left alone with her patchwork quilt and
her pussy-willows.
She did not see Wesley again until several days later. He was busy
mending fences, ’Lisbeth said, “and in the evenin’ he had to do his
writin’.”
Florence secretly wondered what his writing could be; but, as ’Lisbeth
did not seem disposed to explain, she said nothing. She had noticed
the carefulness of the sturdy young farmer’s speech, the final g’s on
his present participles, and the even, firm pronunciation of
his vowels and consonants, so different from the drawling,
carelessly-clipped words of the country-people about. He must have
studied hard at some village “academy,” she thought.
People now began to drop in, after the neighborly St. John fashion so
out of use in cities. They would settle themselves comfortably in the
kitchen rocker, which was usually brought into the front room for
company, and, taking a roll of knitting from bag or apron pocket,
would keep the needles flying while they talked, though but for five
minutes.
Florence learned that her mother, who was herself in feeble health,
had been from time to time informed of her condition, and, as the
sickness had never been considered dangerous, had contented herself
with writing, at first to ’Lisbeth, afterward to Florence, who was now
well enough to answer. In the pure country air she gained rapidly, and
before long was enabled to take her seat with the rest at table, on
which occasion, be it said, her only anxiety was lest the family
should go to bed supperless, with such eagerness did they devote
themselves to superintending her own plate. By this time, too, she had
learned to say “’Lisbeth” and “grandfather” without hesitation. As to
the third member of the family, she compromised with her sense of
propriety by addressing him as “Mr. Wesley.” His last name she had not
heard.
She was sitting by her window one bright, warm afternoon in April,
watching the portly robins, now hopping about after their
extraordinary food, now pausing to glance up wisely at the sky or at
her window with an air half suspicious, half friendly. Their neat
orange-colored waistcoats showed prettily against the fresh-tinted
grass, just beginning to spring in velvety patches through the brown,
unmown aftermath of the preceding fall.
On the shady side of the old stone wall that ran along the road toward
the railway-station, a narrow, irregular snowbank, its surface
fantastically carved and honeycombed by the sun, still reminded her
of her winter night’s ride. How dreary it had all seemed! How she had
dreaded even the Christmas festivities, with the inevitable being
“left out”--the awkward movements when she felt that the company about
her were not quite sure whether to treat her as an equal or a
servant,--worst of all, the well-meant efforts of Mrs. Walton to
smooth matters over in private! Ah! how it was all changed now! She
would never, never go back to her old position; indeed,--and a shadow
crossed her forehead as she thought of it,--Mrs. Walton had never
signified her wish to have her return. She would soon be able to help
her kind friends in the housework, in sewing, and in other little
ways, until she could obtain something to do for herself. She would
pay them sometime. How good they had all been to her! She thought once
more of that bitter, hopeless ride through the snow. How cold she had
been!--her right arm benumbed with holding the robe over the children,
whom, with all her troubles, she had learned to love very dearly. She
recalled the sudden halt, the moaning of the wind through the trees
overhead, the sifting of the sleety snow against the sides of the
sleigh. Then she thought of the firm voice, assuming control so
quietly, with no needless words, but, what was better, two stout arms.
How they had seemed to lift her out of all her troubles, even while
she was borne straight into the whirl and might of the storm! She had
felt that the arms were stronger than the wind, and so had trusted
them. The girl was resting her cheek upon her hand as she lived that
long night over again, and she hardly knew what a glow was in her
face, or how dewy bright her eyes were, as with a start she turned to
answer a knock she had learned to recognize.
Wesley looked straight into the brown eyes a moment in his grave,
silent way, then reached out his hand, filled to overflowing with long
trailing vines and fragrant pink-and-white blossoms.
“They told me they missed you in the woods,” he said, “and begged me
to carry them to you.”
Florence took them in her hands and bent her face over them. She could
not speak for a moment, the flowers were such a part of what she had
been thinking. “I thank you,” she said at length, tremulously. “They
are far too beautiful to claim companionship with me. It is I who
should go to them and kneel while I picked them.”
“I always think of them as in ‘Miles Standish’:
Children lost in the woods and covered with leaves in their slumber.
It is as if they were the pure in heart, who had ascended into His
holy hill.”
“Where did you find them, Mr. Wesley?”
“Under the pines, by the brook. It is hardly time for them, but that
is a sheltered spot, where the sun shines all day. I will take you
there as soon as you can go with safety.”
“Do you know,” mused Florence, “it seems odd that the first English
ship anchoring in Plymouth harbor should have been called the
Mayflower? Do they have these flowers in England?”
“No, Miss Amory. It would perhaps sound strange to you to hear people
speak of a ‘branch of mayflowers,’ but by that name the English
usually mean the hawthorn, which flowers in May. And it is a
wonderfully beautiful sight, for England seems at that time to be
fairly covered with blossoms, the hawthorns are so plentiful.”
“This is ‘trailing arbutus,’ is it not?”
“Yes; except--pardon me--with the accent on the first syllable. But I
am becoming pedantic,” he added, with a smile. “Miss Amory, you once
told Aunt ’Lisbeth you would like to be read to, did you not?”
Florence felt the color in her cheeks, but said simply, “Yes, I should
enjoy it very much.”
“Here is a bit that I came across a day or two ago.” He took a printed
slip from his pocket and began to read:
“Little pure-hearts, nestling shyly
On the cool, pine-shadowed slope,
Filling all the gloomy forest
With the very breath of hope,
“Whence hath come your wondrous patience,
In the dark to wait so long,--
Faith, to venture forth so bravely
At the first wee sparrow-song?
“All your alabaster boxes,
With their store of ointment sweet,
You have offered to the Master,
Humbly kneeling at his feet,
“And his gentle hands in blessing
Rest upon you day by day,
While the precious fragrance rises
Like a prayer to him alway.”
Florence sat in absolute stillness while he read, just catching her
breath slightly at one of the lines. She looked very much like a
mayflower herself as she sat there, her hands crossed in her lap, and
her face upturned to the reader. When he had finished, she was silent
for a moment. Then she asked, “Who wrote that, Mr. Wesley?”
“Oh, the author’s name wasn’t mentioned,” he replied carelessly. “It
was some anonymous magazine-writer who was fond of flowers and the
Gospel of St. John, and chose to tell in this way what he thought
about it all.”
“Mr. Wesley”--
“Miss Amory?”
“Is there an institute--academy--of any sort at the Corner? I have
thought of teaching, you know.” Florence flushed as she spoke, and
looked intently out of the window.
“There is something of that sort there now, I believe. It was started
only a year or two ago.”
“Why, then you”--The words came before she could check them.
“No,” he answered, smiling, “I was only able to attend the district
school that you passed between here and Haybrook Station.”
“But--you have learned somewhere?”
She was in for it now, though her face burned as she asked the
question.
“I studied at home,” he replied quietly. “Then I worked for a man at
Haybrook Center, and he helped me with my Greek and Latin until I was
able to enter Bowdoin. I graduated five years ago.”
“Thank you,” she said heartily. “I’m afraid I have been unpardonably
inquisitive; but you must accord a certain indulgence to invalids,
which, I believe, they are usually not slow to claim. If you had not
criticised my pronunciation of this little flower’s name, I should not
have taken such a liberty. Am I forgiven?” she concluded, looking up
brightly into his face again.
“I have passed harder examinations in history,” he said
good-humoredly; “and some day I may retaliate by examining you to even
better purpose. Will you answer all my questions then?”
Florence laughed outright: “How solemnly you speak! To be sure I will.
My story will be even shorter than yours. I think one answer will be
enough for the whole.”
“Yes, I think it will,” he said slowly, then checked himself, and,
remarking soberly that “her little forest children would be none the
worse for wetting their feet,” turned, without further words, and left
the room.