A few days after this conversation, ’Lisbeth entered the kitchen
waving an envelope over her head. “It’s accepted,” she cried; “I know
by the feel of it! It’s a money-order or a check,--it don’t make no
difference which. Abner Slack was just comin’ back from the Corner, so
he called in t’ the post-office an’ brought it along.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Florence, who was the only other
person in the room. “Whom is it from, and to whom is it addressed,
please?”
“Why, to Elsie, of course. Look there!”
She pointed to the name of a well-known periodical, printed in an
upper corner of the envelope.
“He’s been trying to get something into that for these six months
past, and nothin’s ever come back but those old circulars, telling how
the editor’s feelin’ _so_ bad, because the piece is a leetle bit too
long, or not quite suited, or better for some other magazine! Poor
boy, he’d got so discouraged and put down ’bout it that I didn’t know
but he’d give up for good.”
“Then that’s why he writes so much. Oh, but are you sure he wouldn’t
mind your telling me?”
“Bless you, no; he don’t make no secret of it. He got into the way of
writin’ for the papers while he was schoolin’ at Bowdoin, and when he
came home he just made up his mind that that was his callin’, and
that he would stick to farmin’ for a while until he got money enough
to move to the city, where he could get at more books. About six weeks
ago he sent a great thick bunch o’ paper--I’m sure I don’t know what
’t was all about--to the magazine, and, as I told ye, they’ve sent
back this envelope instead of the bunch. So I know it’s taken.”
’Lisbeth’s kind face fairly beamed as she spoke, and her eyes were
moist. “If you’d known,” she went on, wiping them with the corner of
her apron, “the setbacks that boy’s had, and the big pack of them old
printed things he’s got saved up--he’s the most perseverin’
critter--There! here ’m I standin’ talkin’, instead of givin’ the
letter to him this minute!” She ran up-stairs in her quick, nervous
way, and, as they all sat round the uneven table that night, the light
in the young man’s eyes showed that ’Lisbeth had not mistaken the
contents of the mail.
“I’m trying to do my duty on the farm,” he told Florence afterward,
“and at the same time to find whether I really have a message to the
world, or a part of it, however small. I always have to remember the
reply of the old Scotch minister who was asked by an anxious young
pulpit aspirant whether he thought he had a call to preach. ‘Try it,
mon,’ he said; ‘try it, an’ dootless ye’ll succeed, gin ye find oot
’at onybody has a ca’ to hear ye.’ I shouldn’t want to be ‘stickit,’”
he added, smiling.
“But--pardon me, Mr. Wesley--what kind of writing do you mean to do?
There are so many branches, you know: poetry, fiction, history,
essays”--
“That is just what I must discover. The main thing is not the form,
but the substance. I want to write that which shall comfort and
strengthen people, help them when they are in trouble, give them rest
when they are tired, make life bright and cheery for them when the
world seems gray.” He spoke with kindling eyes. “If I have ever
written--if I shall ever write--a line that does not, in some poor
way, however feeble, tend to this result, I pray that it may be
blotted out, destroyed with the paper on which it is printed!”
This talk was followed by others of like nature. By degrees Wesley,
finding a sympathetic listener always ready, and a kind but firm
critic as well, fell insensibly into the habit of reading, at first
passages here and there, afterward whole articles, to the gentle,
dark-haired girl who was so quick to catch the deeper significance he
had intended in this or that turn of thought and reflect it in her
intent brown eyes.
So the spring wore on, and then came summer, with its long, fair days,
its fragrant hay-fields, its never-ceasing chirp and whir of insect
life. Month after month passed, and still Florence lingered with her
kind friends. With the oppressive heats of August the old man had felt
his strength fail rapidly, and spent much of his time within-doors,
lying upon the lounge or in the stuffed rocking-chair, and needing
many little offices from those around. This special duty Florence
from the first assumed, and more loving care or regard to his
slightest want he could not have received from a granddaughter. She
would read or talk softly to him by the hour, would listen patiently
to his childish, halting speech, and move lightly to and fro in his
service, until he would have no one else about him, lying perfectly
still, with half-closed eyes, when she was out of the house, until the
familiar footfall or the pleasant voice told of her return.
As the flowers in the little garden fell before the early frosts and
the maple boughs began to kindle through the mellow autumn haze, the
life of the old man, weary with its long stay upon earth, was plainly
preparing to lay aside its worn-out garments; and one bright September
morning when the first rays of the sun found their way through the
little window-panes of the low-browed east chamber, Florence knew that
the moment had come.
She had been sitting up all night, and now stepped quickly across the
kitchen to call the other members of the household. They came, and the
final long, tired breath was drawn at last. They waited, but no more
came. Wesley turned to Florence, took her hand and held it silently
for a moment, and then, in the quiet country way, went out to give
notice of the death, have the bell tolled, and arrange for the
funeral.
In the loneliness that fell upon the old house during the next few
weeks, Florence made no effort to go. It was plain that she was
needed, for death, no matter how long or fully expected, is an awful
visitor at the last, and leaves behind him an oppression which cannot
be soon thrown off. So it was Florence who quietly carried away the
funeral flowers after the family had returned from the little
churchyard, it was she who threw open the blinds of grandfather’s room
and let in the sweet, fresh sunshine, and it was she who, without
forcing an unwelcome cheerfulness upon the rest, was nevertheless the
light of the house from the time when her bright face, full of
sympathy, greeted ’Lisbeth in the gray November mornings until the
three gathered about the cosy tea-table by the flickering light of the
fire.
Once her mother came down for a visit of a day or two, which
lengthened into a fortnight. She had offered to pay for her daughter’s
accommodations, to the intense astonishment and displeasure of
’Lisbeth.
“She earns her board, every bit of it,” said that lady with energy. “I
don’t know what I should do without her workin’ and singin’ round the
house. You jest let her stay till she wants to go,--that is, ma’am, if
you can spare her yourself. She’s gainin’ in health every day of her
life, and when she’s ready she’ll take hold as she never did before, I
can tell you.”
So matters were left as they were, until, with a start, Florence
remembered, one bright, cold afternoon, that it was just a year since
she had been carried in through the front door that bitter night.
Wesley had come in from his work a few moments before, glowing with
the exercise and the keen air, to ask her to take a sleigh-ride with
him that evening. The roads were fine, he said, and the colt, not
having been out for a week, was in the best of spirits. There was a
full moon, too, and they would celebrate Christmas Eve by this drive,
just by way of contrast with that of a year ago.
In gayest mood, therefore, Florence stood upon the broad door-stone in
front of the house when, a few hours later, the colt came jingling up
from the barn with a light step, plainly considering the sleigh and
its load the most stupendous joke conceivable, really nothing at all
for a strong young fellow like him; it was difficult for him, on the
whole, to realize that he was in harness at all. That his driver,
however, was hardly inclined to allow him to forget that fact was
evident from the even, steady rein and the firm voice behind it.
For a few moments, as Florence took her place beside Wesley, she felt
unaccountably shy; this soon wore off in the rush of sweet, cool air
past their cheeks and the wonderful beauty of the night. How the
starlight twinkled and danced from each little bright point above the
white, silent world, waiting for the far-off chords of angel music!
Christmas Eve. No sound in the air but the silvery voice of the bells
and the murmur of the pines, “Peace, peace on earth.”
Wesley stooped to arrange the heavy fur robe more warmly about his
companion. Then he turned and looked into her earnest, upturned face.
“Do you know,” he said, quietly, “what I should label my picture if I
were to paint your portrait? ’A Brown Study.’”
Florence laughed a little: “I was only thinking how very contented I
was, and how much more happiness this Christmas looks back upon than
the last.”
“Miss Amory, are you in a mood for answering questions to-night?” He
felt her start slightly under the robe. “Because, you know, you have
never passed that examination.”
There was something in his voice, an earnestness underlying his light
words, that made her turn her head quickly to meet his glance.
At that moment they were passing through a belt of woods where the
brightness of the sky and the faint light of the rising moon made the
shadows cower thick and black beside every log and snowy mound.
Whether the young horse had spied one of these stretching into the
road, or she had jarred the reins by her involuntary movement,
Florence never knew. It happened like a lightning-stroke,--the sudden
quiver of the colt from head to foot, and at the same instant the
sharp word of command from Wesley, then the plunge ahead. In one
terrified glance at the half-maddened animal she saw a fragment of
leather hanging from the foam-covered bit. The rein had parted under
the strain, and the remnant lay loose and worse than useless in the
driver’s hand.
The horse was bounding wildly along the icy road, with the light
sleigh swaying from side to side, half the time upon one runner,
threatening every moment to overturn.
“Florence, will you do what I say?”
“Yes.”
She did not mind the name. Were they not together in the shadow of
death? Oh, that awful whirl of hoof-beats! the utter helplessness of
it all; the mockery of the cushioned seats and warm wraps!
But there was no time for thought. Wesley was taking the heavy
buffalo-robe and turning it with quick, skillful hands, as she had
seen him turn a paper at home when he was reading aloud to them all in
the quiet evenings around the old brick fireplace. His calmness gave
her strength.
“Take this corner,” he said. “Hold it with the fur up. Now let the
rest of the robe fall slowly over the dasher in front of the
whiffletree. When I give the word, lower the whole instantly, as I do,
keeping your hold of the upper corner, so that the lower part will
clog the runners. Do you understand?”
She nodded. There was little time now to spare. They knew the road
well enough to remember the clump of oaks just ahead of them. There
was a sudden turn there, to avoid a ledge where the workmen had
blasted for the bridge last summer.
Florence crouched in the bottom of the sleigh, set her teeth hard,
and, with both hands buried in the long fur, waited.
The ledge came in sight, ugly and black.
“Now!”
For an instant it seemed as if the slender wrists would break, or that
she must be drawn over the dasher and thrown under the horse’s hoofs.
She never thought of letting go her hold. All her New England heroism
came to her aid, and the robe did not gain an inch.
Gradually the tired horse felt the heavy drag, aided by a slight
ascent in the road. His speed slackened; the wild run became a clumsy
gallop,--slower,--slower. Then came the soothing tones of his driver,
and he turned his ears back to listen. In another moment Wesley was
out of the sleigh and at his head. The danger was over.
The full moon was now looking down from the eastern sky, and pouring
its flood of dreamy light over the cruel ledges.
Wesley led the trembling horse, now wholly subdued, to an oak beside
the road, and fastened him securely enough this time. Then he went
back to the sleigh. He had not spoken before.
She was still crouching in front of the seat, with her pale face
resting against the cushions. It was a very white little hand that was
held out in the moonlight to meet his. He took it, and did not let it
go. “Florence!” He felt the little hand flutter in his own, but still
he did not let it go. Half turning, he drew the torn robe about her,
his hand lingering on every fold. “Florence, may I try to keep you
from cold and darkness and death so long as I live?” Ah, how quick his
ears were to catch that wee shadow of a whisper! No one else could
have heard it. As he gathered her white face, brown hair, little hand,
fur robe, and all in his own strong arms for a moment, “That one word
is my Christmas song,” he said softly. “Little princess, shall we go?”
And he took his post at the horse’s head.
It was a wonderful ride back, over the gleaming road, with that tall,
silent figure walking before. As they turned aside into the little
open space in front of the gray old house, and halted once more by the
door-stone, he came quickly to her side and held out his arms as he
had a year ago. Only this time he said simply, with a great gladness
in his voice, “Come, Florence; we have reached home!”