Susan Warner (1819-1885), Queechy (1852), Tauchnitz edition
1854
Produced by Daniel FROMONT
tome 2
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 312
QUEECHY. BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL .
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION
by the same author,
THE WIDE WIDE WORLD 1 vol.
THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC 2 vols.
SAY AND SEAL 2 vols.
THE OLD HELMET 2 vols.
QUEECHY.
BY
ELIZABETH WETHERELL
AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."
IN TWO VOLUMES.
_AUTHOR'S EDITION_.
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1854
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.
Chapter I. The Brook's old Song, and the new
II. Flighty and unsatisfactory
III. Disclosures by Mr. Skillcorn
IV. Mr. Olmney's cause argued
V. Sometimes inconvenient, "from the loop-hole of retreat, to
peep at such a world"
VI. Fleda's white Muslin
VII. How the Fairy engaged two Englishmen
VIII. Fleda forgets herself
IX. The Roses and the Gentlemen
X. "An unseen enemy round the corner"
XI. The Fairy at her work again
XII. A Night of uncertain length
XIII. A Thorn enters
XIV. Dealings with the Press
XV. Ends with soft music
XVI. How Fleda was watched by blue eyes
XVII. What pleasant people one meets in Society
XVIII. How much trouble one may have about a note
XIX. Aromatic vinegar
XX. The fur-cloak on a journey
XXI. Quarrenton to Queechy
XXII. Montepoole becomes a point of interest
XXIII. The house on "the hill" once more
XXIV. The first one that left Queechy
XXV. The last Sunset there
XXVI. Fleda alone on an Isthmus
XXVII. The Gothic chapel before breakfast
QUEECHY.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
"He that has light within his own clear breast,
May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day."
MILTON.
The farming plan succeeded beyond Fleda's hopes thanks not
more to her wisdom than to the nice tact with which the wisdom
was brought into play. The one was eked out with Seth
Plumfield's; the other was all her own. Seth was indefatigably
kind and faithful. After his own day's work was done, he used
to walk down to see Fleda, go with her often to view the
particular field or work just then in question, and give her
the best counsel dictated by great sagacity and great
experience. It was given, too, with equal frankness and
intelligence, so that Fleda knew the steps she took, and could
maintain them against the. prejudice or the ignorance of her
subordinates. But Fleda's delicate handling stood her yet more
in stead than her strength. Earl Douglass was sometimes
unmanageable, and held out in favour of an old custom or a
prevailing opinion in spite of all the weight of testimony and
light of discovery that could be brought to bear upon him.
Fleda would let the thing go. But seizing her opportunity
another time, she would ask him to try the experiment on a
piece of the ground, so pleasantly and skilfully, that Earl
could do nothing but shut his mouth and obey, like an animal
fairly stroked into good humour. And as Fleda always forgot to
remind him that she had been right and he wrong, he forgot it
too, and presently took to the new way kindly. In other
matters he could be depended on, and the seed-time and harvest
prospered well. There was hope of making a good payment to Dr.
Gregory in the course of a few months.
As the spring came forward, Fleda took care that her garden
should both gardens, indeed. There she and Philetus had the
game in their own hands, and beautifully it was managed. Hugh
had full occupation at the mill. Many a dollar this summer was
earned by the loads of fine fruits and vegetables which
Philetus carried to Montepoole; and accident opened a new
source of revenue. When the courtyard was in the full blaze of
its beauty, one day an admiring passer-by modestly inquired if
a few of those exquisite flowers might be had for money. They
were given him most cheerfully that time; but the demand
returned, accompanied by the offer, and Fleda obliged herself
not to decline it. A trial it was, to cut her roses and
jessamines for anything but her own or her friends' pleasure,
but, according to custom, she bore it without hesitation. The
place became a resort for all the flower-lovers who happened
to be staying at the Pool; and rose-leaves were changed into
silver pennies as fast as in a fairy-tale.
But the delicate mainspring that kept all this machinery in
order suffered from too severe a strain. There was too much
running, too much considering, too much watchfulness. In the
garden, pulling peas, and seeing that Philetus weeded the
carrots right in the field or the wood-yard, consulting and
arranging, or maybe debating, with Earl Douglass, who acquired
by degrees an unwonted and concentrated respect for womankind
in her proper person; breakfast waiting for her often before
she came in; in the house, her old housewifery concerns, her
share in Barby's cares or difficulties, her sweet
countenancing and cheering of her aunt, her dinner, her work;
then when evening came, budding her roses, or tying her
carnations, or weeding, or raking the ground between them
(where Philetus could do nothing), or training her multiflora
and sweet-brier branches; and then often, after all, walking
up to the mill to give Hugh a little earlier a home smile, and
make his way down pleasant. No wonder if the energies which
owed much of their strength to love's nerving, should at last
give out, and Fleda's evening be passed in wearied slumbers.
No wonder if many a day was given up to the forced quietude of
a headache, the more grievous to Fleda, because she knew that
her aunt and Hugh always found the day dark that was not
lightened by her sun-beam. How brightly it shone out the
moment the cloud of pain was removed, winning the shadow from
their faces and a smile to their lips, though solitude always
saw her own settle into a gravity as fixed as it was soft.
"You have been doing too much, Fleda," said Mrs. Rossitur, one
morning when she came in from the garden.
"I didn't know it would take me so long," said Fleda, drawing
a long breath: "but I couldn't help it. I had those celery
plants to prick out and then I was helping Philetus to plant
another patch of corn."
"He might have done that without help, I should think."
"But it must be put in to-day, and he had other things to do."
"And then you were at your flowers?"
"Oh, well! budding a few roses that's only play. It was
time they were done. But I am tired; and I am going up to see
Hugh it will rest me and him too."
The gardening frock and gloves were exchanged for those of
ordinary wear, and Fleda set off slowly to go up to the saw-
mill.
She stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge, to look
off to the right where the waters of the little run came
hurrying along through a narrow wooded chasm in the hill,
murmuring to her of the time when a little child's feet had
paused there, and a child's heart danced to its music. The
freshness of its song was unchanged, the glad rush of its
waters was as joyous as ever, but the spirits were quieted
that used to answer it with sweeter freshness and lighter
joyousness. Its faint echo of the old-time laugh was blended
now in Fleda's ear with a gentle wail for the rushing days and
swifter-fleeing delights of human life; gentle, faint, but
clear she could hear it very well. Taking up her walk again,
with a step yet slower, and a brow yet more quiet, she went on
till she came in sight of the little mill; and presently,
above the noise of the brook, could hear the saw going. To her
childish ears what a signal of pleasure that had always been!
and now she sighed, and stopping at a little distance,
looked for Hugh. He was there; she saw him in a moment going
forward to stop the machinery, the piece of timber in hand
having walked its utmost length up to the saw; she saw him
throwing aside the new-cut board, and adjusting what was left
till it was ready for another march up to head-quarters. When
it stopped the second time, Fleda went forward. Hugh must have
been busy in his own thoughts, for he did not see her until he
had again adjusted the log, and set the noisy works in motion.
She stood still. Several huge timbers lay close by, ready for
the saw; and on one of them where he had been sitting, Fleda
saw his Bible lying open. As her eye went from it to him, it
struck her heart with a pang that he looked tired, and that
there was a something of delicacy, even of fragility, in the
air of face and figure both.
He came to meet her, and welcomed her with a smile, that
coming upon this feeling set Fleda's heart a-quivering. Hugh's
smile was always one of very great sweetness, though never
unshadowed; there was often something ethereal in its pure
gentleness. This time it seemed even sweeter than usual; but
though not sadder, perhaps less sad, Fleda could hardly
command herself to reply to it. She could not at the moment
speak; her eye glanced at his open book.
"Yes, it rests me," he said, answering her.
"Rests you, dear Hugh!"
He smiled again. "Here is somebody else that wants resting, I
am afraid," said he, placing her gently on the log; and before
she had found anything to say, he went off again to his
machinery. Fleda sat looking at him, and trying to clear her
bosom of its thick breathing.
"What has brought you up here through the hot sun?" said he,
coming back after he had stopped the saw, and sitting down
beside her.
Fleda's lip moved nervously, and her eye shunned meeting his.
Softly pushing back the wet hair from his temples, she said
"I had one of my fits of doing nothing at home I didn't feel
very bright, and thought perhaps you didn't so, on the
principle that two negatives make an affirmative "
"I feel bright," said Hugh, gently.
Fleda's eye came down to his, which was steady and clear as
the reflection of the sky in Deepwater lake and then hers
fell lower.
"Why don't you, dear Fleda?"
"I believe I am a little tired," Fleda said, trying, but in
vain, to command herself and look up "and there are states
of body when anything almost is enough to depress one."
"And what depresses you now?" said he, very steadily and
quietly.
"Oh I was feeling a little down about things in general,"
said Fleda, in a choked voice, trying to throw off her load
with a long breath; "it's because I am tired, I suppose "
"I felt so too, a little while ago," said Hugh. "But I have
concluded to give all that up, Fleda."
Fleda looked at him. Her eyes were swimming full, but his were
clear and gentle as ever, only glistening a little in sympathy
with hers.
"I thought all was going wrong with us," he went on. "But I
found it was only I that was wrong; and since that, I have
been quite happy, Fleda."
Fleda could not speak to him; his words made her pain worse.
"I told you this rested me," said he, reaching across her for
his book; "and now I am never weary long. Shall I rest you
with it? What have you been troubling yourself about to-day?"
She did not answer while he was turning over the leaves, and
he then said,
"Do you remember this, Fleda '_Truly God is good to Israel,
even to them that are of a clean heart_.' "
Fleda bent her head down upon her hands.
"I was moody and restless the other day," said Hugh;
"desponding of everything; and I came upon this psalm; and it
made me ashamed of myself. I had been disbelieving it; and
because I could not see how things were going to work good, I
thought they were going to work evil. I thought we were
wearing out our lives alone here in a wearisome way, and I
forgot that it must be the very straightest way that we could
get home. I am sure we shall not want anything that will do us
good; and the rest I am willing to want and so are you,
Fleda?"
Fleda squeezed his hand that was all. For a minute he was
silent, and then went on, without any change of tone.
"I had a notion, awhile ago, that I should like if it were
possible for me to go to college; but I am quite satisfied
now. I have good time and opportunity to furnish myself with a
better kind of knowledge, that I shall want where college
learning wouldn't be of much use to me; and I can do it, I
dare say, better here in this mill, than if we had stayed in
New York, and I had lived in our favourite library."
"But, dear Hugh," said Fleda, who did not like this speech in
any sense of it; "the two things do not clash! The better man,
the better Christian always, other things being equal. The
more precious kind of knowledge should not make one undervalue
the less?"
"No," he said; but the extreme quietness and simplicity of his
reply smote Fleda's fears; it answered her words and waved her
thought. She dared not press him further. She sat looking over
the road with an aching heart.
"You haven't taken enough of my medicine," said Hugh, smiling.
"Listen, Fleda '_All the paths of the Lord are mercy and
truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies_.' "
But that made Fleda cry again.
" 'All his paths,' Fleda; then, whatever may happen to you,
and whatever may happen to me, or to any of us, I can trust
him. I am willing any one should have the world, if I may have
what Abraham had '_fear not; I am thy shield and thy
exceeding great reward;_' and I believe I shall, Fleda; for
it is not the hungry that he has threatened to send empty
away."
Fleda could say nothing, and Hugh just then said no more. For
a little while, near and busy as thoughts might be, tongues
were silent. Fleda was crying quietly, the utmost she could do
being to keep it quiet; Hugh, more quietly, was considering
again the strong pillars on which he had laid his hope, and
trying their strength and beauty, till all other things were
to him as the mist rolling off from he valley is to the man
planted on a watch-tower.
His meditations were interrupted by the tramp of horse; and a
party of riders, male and female, came past them up the hill.
Hugh looked on as they went by; Fleda's head was not raised.
"There are some people enjoying themselves," said Hugh. "After
all, dear Fleda, we should be very sorry to change places with
those gay riders. I would not, for a thousand worlds, give my
hope and treasure for all other they can possibly have in
possession or prospect."
"No, indeed!" said Fleda, energetically, and trying to rouse
herself, "and, besides that, Hugh, we have, as it is, a
great deal more to enjoy than most other people. We are so
happy "
In each other, she was going to say, but the words choked her.
"Those people looked very hard at us, or at one of us," said
Hugh. "It must have been you, I think, Fleda."
"They are welcome," said Fleda; "they couldn't have made much
out of the back of my sun-bonnet."
"Well, dear Fleda, I must content myself with little more than
looking at you now, for Mr. Winegar is in a hurry for his
timber to be sawn, and I must set this noisy concern a-going
again."
Fleda sat and watched him, with rising and falling hopes and
fears, forcing her lips to a smile when he came near her, and
hiding her tears at other times; till the shadows stretching
well to the east of the meridian, admonished her she had been
there long enough; and she left him still going backward and
forward tending the saw.
As she went down the hill, she pressed involuntarily her hands
upon her heart, for the dull heavy pain there. But that was no
plaster for it; and when she got to the bridge the soft
singing of the little brook was just enough to shake her
spirits from the doubtful poise they had kept. Giving one
hasty glance along the road and up the hill, to make sure that
no one was near, she sat down on a stone in the edge of the
woods, and indulged in such weeping as her gentle eyes rarely
knew; for the habit of patience so cultivated for others' sake
constantly rewarded her own life with its sweet fruits. But
deep and bitter in proportion was the flow of the fountain
once broken up. She struggled to remind herself that
"Providence runneth not on broken wheels;" she struggled to
repeat to herself what she did not doubt, that, "_all_ the ways
of the Lord are mercy and truth" to his people; in vain. The
slight check for a moment to the torrent of grief but gave it
greater head to sweep over the barrier; and the self-reproach
that blamed its violence and needlessness only made the flood
more bitter. Nature fought against patience for awhile; but
when the loaded heart had partly relieved itself, patience
came in again, and she rose up to go home. It startled her
exceedingly to find Mr. Olmney standing before her, and
looking so sorrowful that Fleda's eyes could not bear it.
"My dear Miss Ringgan! forgive me I hope you will forgive
me but I could not leave you in such distress. I knew that
in you it could only be from some very serious cause of
grief."
"I cannot say it is from anything new, Mr. Olmney except to
my apprehensions."
"You are all _well?_" he said, inquiringly, after they had
walked a few steps in silence.
"Well? yes, Sir," said Fleda, hesitatingly; "but I do not
think that Hugh looks very well."
The trembling of her voice told him her thought. But he
remained silent.
"You have noticed it?" she said, hastily looking up.
"I think you have told me he always was delicate?"
"And you have noticed him looking so, lately, Mr. Olmney!"
"I have thought so but you say he always was that. If you
will permit me to say so, I have thought the same of you, Miss
Fleda."
Fleda was silent: her heart ached again.
"We would gladly save each other from every threatening
trouble," said Mr. Olmney again, after a pause; "but it
ought to content us that we do not know how. Hugh is in good
hands, my dear Miss Ringgan."
"I know it, Sir," said Fleda, unable quite to keep back her
tears; "and I know very well this thread of our life will not
bear the strain always and I know that the strands must, in
all probability, part unevenly and I know it is in the power
of no blind fate but that "
"Does not lessen our clinging to each other. O no! it grows
but the tenderer and the stronger for the knowledge."
Fleda could but cry.
"And yet," said he, very kindly, "we who are Christians may
and ought to learn to take troubles hopefully, for
'tribulation worketh patience, and patience,' that is, quiet
waiting on God, 'works experience' of his goodness and
faithfulness; and 'experience worketh hope,' and that 'hope,'
we know, 'maketh not ashamed.' "
"I know it," said Fleda; "but, Mr. Olmney, how easily the
brunt of a new affliction breaks down all that chain of
reasoning!"
"Yes!" he said, sadly and thoughtfully; "but, my dear Miss
Fleda, you know the way to build it up again. I would be very
glad to bear all need for it away from you."
They had reached the gate. Fleda could not look up to thank
him; the hand she held out was grasped, more than kindly, and
he turned away.
Fleda's tears came hot again as she went up the walk; she held
her head down to hide them, and went round the back way.