CHAPTER XII.

"Nothing could be more obliging and respectful than the lion's

letter was, in appearance; but there was death in the true

intent."

L'ESTRANGE.

The landscape had grown more dark since Fleda came up the

hill, or else the eyes that looked at it. Both, probably. It

was just after sundown, and that is a very sober time of day

in winter, especially in some states of the weather. The sun

had left no largesses behind him; the scenery was deserted to

all the coming poverty of night, and looked grim and

threadbare already. Not one of the colours of prosperity left.

The land was in mourning dress; all the ground, and even the

ice on the little mill-ponds, a uniform spread of white, while

the hills were draperied with black stems, here just veiling

the snow, and there on a side view making a thick fold of

black. Every little unpainted workshop or mill showed

uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and

outline darkening against the twilight. In better days,

perhaps, some friendly tree had hung over it, shielding part

of its faults, and redeeming the rest. Now nothing but the

gaunt skeleton of a friend stood there — doubtless to bud

forth again as fairly as ever, should the season smile. Still

and quiet, all was, as Fleda's spirit, and in too good harmony

with it; she resolved to choose the morning to go out in

future. There was as little of the light of spring or summer

in her own mind as on the hills, and it was desirable to catch

at least a cheering reflection. She could rouse herself to no

bright thoughts, try as she would; the happy voices of nature

that used to speak to her were all hushed, or her ear was

deaf; and her eye met nothing that did not immediately fall in

with the train of sad images that were passing through her

mind, and swell the procession. She was fain to fall back and

stay herself upon these words, the only stand-by she could lay

hold of: —

"TO THEM WHO, BY PATIENT CONTINUANCE IN WELL-DOING SEEK FOR

GLORY, AND HONOUR, AND IMMORTALITY, ETERNAL LIFE!"

They toned with the scene and with her spirit exactly; they

suited the darkening sky and the coming night; for "glory,

honour, and immortality" are not now. They filled Fleda's mind

after they had once entered, and then nature's sympathy was

again as readily given; each barren, stern-looking hill in its

guise of present desolation and calm expectancy seemed to echo

softly, "patient continuance in well-doing." And the tears

trembled then in Fleda's eyes; she had set her face, as the

old Scotchman says, "in the right airth."* [* Quarter,

direction.] "How sweet is the wind that bloweth out of the

airth where Christ is!"

"Well," said Hugh, who entered the kitchen with her, "you have

been late enough. Did you have a pleasant walk? You are pale,

Fleda."

"Yes, it was pleasant," said Fleda, with one of her winning

smiles — "a kind of pleasant. But have you looked at the

hills? They are exactly as if they had put on mourning —

nothing but white and black — a crape-like dressing of black

tree-stems upon the snowy face of the ground, and on every

slope and edge of the hills the crape lies in folds. Do look

at it when you go out! It has a most curious effect."

"Not pleasant, I should think?" said Hugh.

"You'll see it is just as I have described it. No; not

pleasant, exactly; the landscape wants the sun to light it up

just now — it is cold and wilderness-looking. I think I'll

take the morning in future. Whither are you bound?"

"I must go over to Queechy Run for a minute, on business —

I'll be home before supper — I should have been back by this

time, but Philetus has gone to bed with a headache, and I had

to take care of the cows."

"Three times and out," said Barby. "I wont try again. [ didn't

know as anything would be too powerful for his head; but I

find, as sure as he has apple dumplin' for dinner, he goes to

bed for his supper, and leaves the cows without none. And then

Hugh has to take it. It has saved so many Elephants — that's

one thing."

Hugh went out by one door, and Fleda by another entered the

breakfast-room, the one generally used in winter for all

purposes. Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone in an easy-chair; and

Fleda no sooner caught the outline of her figure than her

heart sank at once to an unknown depth — unknown before and

unfathomable now. She was cowering over the fire — her head

sunk in her hands, so crouching, that the line of neck and

shoulders instantly conveyed to Fleda the idea of fancied or

felt degradation — there was no escaping it — how, whence,

what, was all wild confusion. But the language of mere

attitude was so unmistakable — the expression of crushing pain

was so strong, that, after Fleda had fearfully made her way up

beside her, she could do no more. She stood there tongue-tied,

spell-bound, present to nothing but a nameless chill of fear

and heart-sinking. She was afraid to speak — afraid to touch

her aunt, and abode motionless in the grasp of that dread for

minutes. But Mrs. Rossitur did not stir a hair, and the terror

of that stillness grew to be less endurable than any other.

Fleda spoke to her — it did not win the shadow of a reply —

again and again. She laid her hand then upon Mrs. Rossitur's

shoulder, but the very significant answer to that, was a

shrinking gesture of the shoulder and neck away from the hand.

Fleda, growing desperate, then implored an answer in words —

prayed for an explanation — with an intensity of distress in

voice and manner, that no one whose ears were not stopped with

a stronger feeling could have been deaf to; but Mrs. Rossitur

would not raise her head, nor slacken in the least the clasp

of the fingers that supported it; that of themselves in their

relentless tension spoke what no words could. Fleda's

trembling prayers were in vain — in vain. Poor nature at last

sought a woman's relief in tears — but they were heart-

breaking, not heart-relieving tears — racking both mind and

body more than they ought to bear, but bringing no cure. Mrs.

Rossitur seemed as unconscious of her niece's mute agony as

she had been of her agony of words; and it was from Fleda's

own self-recollection alone that she fought off pain, and

roused herself above weakness to do what the time called for.

"Aunt Lucy," she said, laying her hand upon her shoulder, and

this time the voice was steady, and the hand would not be

shaken off — "Aunt Lucy, Hugh will be in presently — hadn't

you better rouse yourself and go up stairs — for awhile? —

till you are better? — and not let him see you so?" —

How the voice was broken and quivering before it got through?

The answer this time was a low long-drawn moan, so exceeding

plaintive and full of pain that it made Fleda shake like an

aspen. But after a moment she spoke again, bearing more

heavily with her hand to mark her words.

"I am afraid he will be in presently — he ought not to see you

now. Aunt Lucy, I am afraid it might do him an injury he might

not get over" —

She spoke with the strength of desperation; her nerves were

unstrung by fear, and every joint weakened, so that she could

hardly support herself. She had not, however, spoken in vain;

one or two convulsive shudders passed over her aunt, and then

Mrs. Rossitur suddenly rose, turning her face from Fleda;

neither would she permit her to follow her. But Fleda thought

she had seen that one or two unfolded letters or papers of

some kind — they looked like letters — were in her lap when

she raised her head.

Left alone, Fleda sat down on the floor by the easy chair, and

rested her head there, waiting — she could do nothing else —

till her extreme excitement of body and mind should have

quieted itself. She had a kind of vague hope that time would

do something for her before Hugh came in. Perhaps it did; for

though she lay in a kind of stupor, and was conscious of no

change whatever she was able, when she heard him coming, to

get up and sit in the chair in an ordinary attitude. But she

looked like the wraith of herself an hour ago.

"Fleda!" Hugh exclaimed, as soon as he looked from the fire to

her face; "what is the matter? — what is the matter with you?"

"I am not very well — I don't feel very well," said Fleda,

speaking almost mechanically; "I shall have a headache to-

morrow." —

"Headache! But you look shockingly: what has happened to you?

what is the matter, Fleda?"

"I am not ill — I shall be better by and by. There is nothing

the matter with me that need trouble you, dear Hugh."

"Nothing the matter with you," said he, and Fleda might see

how she looked in the reflection of his face; "where's

mother?"

"She is up stairs — you mustn't go to her, Hugh!" said Fleda,

laying a detaining hand upon him with more strength than she

thought she had; "I don't want anything."

"Why mustn't I go to her?"

"I don't think she wants to be disturbed" —

"I must disturb her" —

"You mustn't! — I know she don't — she isn't well — something

has happened to trouble her" —

"What?"

"I don't know."

"And is that what has troubled you, too?" said Hugh, his

countenance changing as he gained more light on the subject;

"what is it, dear Fleda?"

"I don't know," repeated Fleda, bursting into tears. Hugh was

quiet enough now, and sat down beside her, subdued and still,

without even desiring to ask a question. Fleda's tears flowed

violently for a minute, then she checked them for his sake,

and they sat motionless, without speaking to one another,

looking into the fire, and letting it die out before them into

embers and ashes, neither stirring to put a hand to it. As the

fire died, the moonlight streamed in : how very dismal the

room looked!

"What do you think about having tea?" said Barby, opening the

door of the kitchen.

Neither felt it possible to answer her.

"Mr. Rossitur aint come home, is he?"

"No," said Fleda, shuddering.

"So I thought, and so I told Seth Plumfield, just now — he was

asking for him. My stars! ha'n't you no fire here? what did

you let it go out for?"

Barby came in and began to build it up.

"It's growing cold, I can tell you, so you may as well have

something in the chimney to look at. You'll want it shortly,

if you don't now."

"Was Mr. Plumfield here, did you say, Barby?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come in!"

"I s'pose he hadn't a mind to," said Barby. " 'Twa'n't for

want of being asked. I did the civil thing by him if he didn't

by me; but he said he didn't want to see anybody but Mr.

Rossitur."

Did not want to see anybody but Mr. Rossitur, when he had

distinctly said he did not wish to see him! Fleda felt sick,

merely from the mysterious dread which could fasten upon

nothing, and therefore took in everything.

"Well, what about tea?" concluded Barby, when the fire was

going according to her wishes. "Will you have it, or will you

wait longer?"

"No, we wont wait; we will have it now, Barby," said Fleda,

forcing herself to make the exertion; and she went to the

window to put down the hangings.

The moonlight was very bright, and Fleda's eye was caught in

the very act of letting down the curtain, by a figure in the

road slowly passing before the courtyard fence. It paused a

moment by the horse-gate, and turning, paced slowly back till

it was hid behind the rose-acacias. There was a clump of

shrubbery in that corner thick enough even in winter to serve

for a screen. Fleda stood with the curtain in her hand, half

let down, unable to move, and feeling almost as if the very

currents of life within her were standing still, too. She

thought, she was almost sure, she knew the figure; it was on

her tongue to ask Hugh to come and look, but she checked that.

The form appeared again from behind the acacias, moving with

the same leisurely pace the other way towards the horse-gate.

Fleda let down the curtain, then the other two, quietly, and

then left the room, and stole, noiselessly, out at the front

door, leaving it open, that the sound of it might not warn

Hugh what she was about; and stepping like a cat down the

steps, ran, breathlessly, over the snow to the courtyard gate;

there waited, shivering in the cold, but not feeling it for

the cold within, while the person she was watching stood still

a few moments by the horse-gate, and came again, with

leisurely steps towards her.

"Seth Plumfield!" said Fleda, almost as much frightened at the

sound of her own voice as he was. He stopped immediately, with

a start, and came up to the little gate behind which she was

standing, but said nothing.

"What are you doing here?"

"You oughtn't to be out without anything on," said he —

"you're fixing to take your death."

He had good reason to say so. But she gave him no more heed

than the wind.

"What are you waiting here for? What do you want?"

"I have nothing better to do with my time," said he; "I

thought I'd walk up and down here a little. You go in!"

"Are you waiting to see uncle Rolf?" she said, with teeth

chattering.

"You mustn't stay out here," said he, earnestly; "you're like

nothing but a spook this minute — I'd rather see one, or a

hull army of 'em. Go in, go in!"

"Tell me if you want to see him, Seth."

"No, I don't — I told you I didn't."

"Then why are you waiting for him?"

"I thought I'd see if he was coming home to-night — I had a

word to say if I could catch him before he got into the

house."

"_Is_ he coming home to-night?" said Fleda.

"I don't know!" said he, looking at her. "Do you!"

Fleda burst open the gate between them, and putting her hands

on his, implored him to tell her what was the matter. He

looked singularly disturbed; his fine eye twinkled with

compassion; but his face, never a weak one, showed no signs of

yielding now.

"The matter is," said he, pressing hard both her hands, "that

you are fixing to be down sick in your bed by to-morrow. You

mustn't stay another second."

"Come in, then."

"No — not to-night."

"You wont tell me?"

"There is nothing I can tell you — maybe there'll be nothing

to tell — run in, run in, and keep quiet."

Fleda hurried back to the house, feeling that she had gone to

the limit of risk already. Not daring to show herself to Hugh

in her chilled state of body and mind, she went into the

kitchen.

"Why, what on earth's come over you!" was Barby's terrified

ejaculation, when she saw her.

"I have been out and got myself cold —"

"Cold!" said Barby — "you're looking dreadful! What on earth

ails you, Fleda?"

"Don't ask me, Barby," said Fleda, hiding her face in her

hands, and shivering; "I made myself very cold just now — Aunt

Lucy doesn't feel very well, and I got frightened," she added,

presently.

"What's the matter with her?"

"I don't know — if you'll make me a cup of tea, I'll take it

up to her, Barby."

"You put yourself down there," said Barby, placing her with

gentle force in a chair; "you'll do no such a thing till I see

you look as if there was some blood in you. I'll take it up

myself."

But Fleda held her, though with a hand much too feeble indeed

for any but moral suasion. It was enough. Barby stood

silently, and very anxiously watching her, till the fire had

removed the outward chill at least. But even that took long to

do, and before it was well done, Fleda again asked for the cup

of tea. Barby made it without a word, and Fleda went to her

aunt with it, taking her strength from the sheer emergency.

Her knees trembled under her as she mounted the stairs, and

once a glimpse of those words flitted across her mind —

"patient continuance in well-doing." It was like a lightning

flash in a dark night showing the way one must go. She could

lay hold of no other stay. Her mind was full of one intense

purpose — to end the suspense.

She gently tried the door of her aunt's room; it was

unfastened, and she went in. Mrs. Rossitur was lying on the

bed; but her first mood had changed, for at Fleda's soft word

and touch she half rose up, and, putting both arms round her

waist, laid her face against her. There were no tears still,

only a succession of low moans, so inexpressibly weak and

plaintive, that Fleda's nature could hardly bear them without

giving way. A more fragile support was never clung to. Yet her

trembling fingers, in their agony, moved caressingly among her

aunt's hair and over her brow, as she begged her — when she

could, she was not able at first — to let her know the cause

that was grieving her. The straitened clasp of Mrs. Rossitur's

arms, and her increased moaning, gave only an answer of pain.

But Fleda repeated the question. Mrs. Rossitur still

neglecting it, then made her sit down upon the bed, so that

she could lay her head higher on Fleda's bosom; where she hid

it, with a mingling of fondness given and asked — a poor

seeking for comfort and rest, that wrung her niece's heart.

They sat so for a little time; Fleda hoping that her aunt

would by degrees come to the point herself. The tea stood

cooling on the table, not even offered; not wanted there.

"Wouldn't you feel better if you told me, dear aunt Lucy?"

said Fleda, when they had been for a little while perfectly

still. Even the moaning had ceased.

"Is your uncle come home?" whispered Mrs. Rossitur, but so low

that Fleda could but half catch the words.

"Not yet."

"What o'clock is it?"

"I don't know — not early — it must be near eight. — Why?"

"You have not heard anything of him?"

"No — nothing."

There was silence again for a little, and then Mrs. Rossitur

said in a low, fearful whisper —

"Have you seen anybody round the house?"

Fleda's thoughts flew to Seth, with that nameless fear to

which she could give neither shape nor direction, and after a

moment's hesitation she said —

"What do you mean?"

"Have you?" said Mrs. Rossitur, with more energy.

"Seth Plumfield was here a little while ago."

Her aunt had the clue that she had not, for with a half

scream, half exclamation, she quitted Fleda's arms, and fell

back upon the pillows, turning from her and hiding her face

there. Fleda prayed again for her confidence, as well as the

weakness and the strength of fear could do; and Mrs. Rossitur

presently grasping a paper that lay on the bed, held it out to

her, saying only, as Fleda was about quitting the room, "Bring

me a light."

Fleda left the letter there and went down to fetch one. She

commanded herself under the excitement and necessity of the

moment — all but her face; that terrified Barby exceedingly.

But she spoke with a strange degree of calmness; told her Mrs.

Rossitur was not alarmingly ill; that she did not need Barby's

services, and wished to see nobody but herself, and didn't

want a fire. As she was passing through the hall again, Hugh

came out of the sitting-room to ask after his mother. Fleda

kept the light from her face.

"She does not want to be disturbed — I hope she will be better

to-morrow."

"What is the matter, Fleda?"

"I don't know yet."

"And you are ill yourself, Fleda? — you are ill?" —

"No — I shall do very well — never mind me. Hugh, take some

tea — I will be down by and by."

He went back, and Fleda went up stairs. Mrs. Rossitur had not

moved. Fleda set down the light, and herself beside it, with

the paper her aunt had given her. It was a letter.

"Queechy, Thursday.

"It gives me great concern, my dear Madam, to be the means of

bringing to you a piece of painful information — but it cannot

be long kept from your knowledge, and you may perhaps learn it

better from me than by any other channel. May I entreat you

not to be too much alarmed, since I am confident the cause

will be of short duration?

"Pardon me for what I am about to say.

"There are proceedings entered into against Mr. Rossitur —

there are writs out against him — on the charge of having,

some years ago, endorsed my father's name upon a note of his

own giving. Why it has lain so long I cannot explain. There

is, unhappily, no doubt of the fact.

"I was in Queechy some days ago, on business of my own, when I

became aware that this was going on — my father had made no

mention of it to me. I immediately took strict measures, I am

happy to say, I believe with complete success — to have the

matter kept a profound secret. I then made my way as fast

possible to New York to confer on the subject with the

original mover of it — unfortunately I was disappointed. My

father had left for a neighbouring city, to be absent several

days. Finding myself too late to prevent, as I had hoped to

do, any open steps from being taken at Queechy, I returned

hither immediately to enforce secrecy of proceedings and to

assure you, Madam, that my utmost exertions shall not be

wanting to bring the whole matter to a speedy and satisfactory

termination. I entertain no doubt of being able to succeed

entirely — even to the point of having the whole transaction

remain unknown and unsuspected by the world. It is so entirely

as yet, with the exception of one or two law officers, whose

silence I have means of procuring.

"May I confess that I am not entirely disinterested? May the

selfishness of human nature ask its reward, and own its moving

spring! May I own that my zeal in this cause is quickened by

the unspeakable excellencies of Mr. Rossitur's lovely niece —

which I have learned to appreciate with my whole heart — and

be forgiven? And may I hope for the kind offices and

intercession of the lady I have the honour of addressing, with

her niece, Miss Ringgan, that my reward — the single word of

encouragement I ask for — may be given me? Having that, I will

promise anything — I will guarantee the success of any

enterprise, however difficult, to which she may impel me — and

I will undertake that the matter which furnishes the painful

theme of this letter shall never more be spoken or thought of

by the world, or my father, or by Mrs. Rossitur's obliged,

grateful, and faithful servant,

LEWIS THORN."

Fleda felt, as she read, as if icicles were gathering about

her heart. The whirlwind of fear and distress of a little

while ago, which could take no definite direction, seemed to

have died away and given place to a dead frost — the steady

bearing down of disgrace and misery, inevitable, unmitigable,

unchangeable; no lessening, no softening of that blasting

power, no, nor ever any rising up from under it; the landscape

could never be made to smile again. It was the fall of a

bright star from their home constellation, but alas! the star

was fallen long ago, and the failure of light which they had

deplored was all too easily accounted for; yet now they knew

that no restoration was to be hoped. And the mother and son —

what would become of them? And the father — what would become

of him? what further distress was in store? — Public disgrace?

— and Fleda bowed her head forward on her clasped hands with

the mechanical, vain endeavour to seek rest or shelter from

thought. She made nothing of Mr. Thorn's professions, she took

only the facts of his letter; the rest her eye had glanced

over as if she had no concern with it, and it hardly occurred

to her that she had any. But the sense of his words she had

taken in, and knew, better perhaps than her aunt, that there

was nothing to look for from his kind offices. The weight on

her heart was too great just then for her to suspect, as she

did afterwards, that he was the sole mover of the whole

affair.

As the first confusion of thought cleared away, two images of

distress loomed up and filled the view — her aunt, broken

under the news, and Hugh still unknowing to them; her own

separate existence Fleda was hardly conscious of. Hugh

especially — how was he to be told, and how could he bear to

hear, with his most sensitive conformation of both physical

and moral nature? And if an arrest should take place there

that night! — Fleda shuddered, and, unable to go on thinking,

rose up and went to her aunt's bedside. It had not entered her

mind till the moment she read Mr. Thorn's letter that Seth

Plumfield was sheriff for the county. She was shaking again

from head to foot with fear. She could not say anything — the

touch of her lips to the throbbing temples, soft and tender as

sympathy itself, was all she ventured.

"Have you heard anything of him?" Mrs. Rossitur whispered.

"No — I doubt if we do at all to-night."

There was a half breathed "Oh!" — of indescribable pain and

longing; and with a restless change of position Mrs. Rossitur

gathered herself up on the bed and sat with her head leaning

on her knees. Fleda brought a large cloak and put it round

her.

"I am in no danger," she said — "I wish I were!"

Again Fleda's lips softly, tremblingly touched her cheek.

Mrs. Rossitur put her arm round her and drew her down to her

side, upon the bed, and wrapped half of the big cloak about

her; and they sat there still in each other's arms, without

speaking or weeping, while quarter after quarter of an hour

passed away — nobody knew how many. And the cold bright

moonlight streamed in on the floor, mocking them.

"Go!" whispered Mrs. Rossitur, at last — "go down stairs, and

take care of yourself — and Hugh."

"Wont you come?"

Mrs. Rossitur shook her head.

"Mayn't I bring you something? — do let me."

But Mrs. Rossitur's shake of the head was decisive. Fleda

crawled off the bed, feeling as if a month's illness had been

making its ravages upon her frame and strength. She stood a

moment to collect her thoughts; but alas, thinking was

impossible; there was a palsy upon her mind. She went into her

own room, and for a minute kneeled down — not to form a

petition in words — she was as much beyond that; it was only

the mute attitude of appeal, the pitiful outward token of the

mind's bearing, that could not be forborne — a silent uttering

of the plea she had made her own in happy days. There was

something of comfort in the mere feeling of doing it; and

there was more in one or two words that even in that blank

came to her mind — "_Like as a father pitieth his children, so

the Lord pitieth them that fear him;_" and she again

recollected that "Providence runneth not upon broken wheels."

Nothing could be darker than the prospect before her, and

these things did not bring light; but they gave her a sure

stay to hold on by and keep her feet — a bit of strength to

preserve from utterly fainting. Ah! the store-house must be

filled, and the mind well familiarized with what is stored in

it while yet the days are bright, or it will never be able to

find what it wants in the dark.

Fleda first went into the kitchen to tell Barby to fasten the

doors, and not sit up.

"I don't believe uncle Rolf will be home to-night; but if he

comes, I will let him in."

Barby looked at her with absolutely a face of distress; but

not daring to ask, and not knowing how to propose anything,

she looked in silence.

"It must be nine o'clock now," Fleda went on.

"And how long be you going to sit up?" said Barby.

"I don't know — a while yet."

"You look proper for it!" said Barby, half sorrowfully and

half indignantly; "you look as if a straw would knock you down

this minute. There's sense into everything. You catch me a-

going to bed, and leaving you up! It wont do me no hurt to sit

here the hull night; and I'm the only one in the house that's

fit for it, with the exception of Philetus, and the little wit

he has by day seems to forsake him at night. All the light

that ever gets into his head, _I_ believe, comes from the

outside; as soon as ever that's gone, he shuts up his

shutters. He's been snoozing a'ready now this hour and a half.

Go yourself off to bed, Fleda," she added, with a mixture of

reproach and kindness, "and leave me alone to take care of

myself and the house too."

Fleda did not remonstrate, for Barby was as determined in her

way as it was possible for anything to be. She went into the

other room without a particle of notion what she should say or

do.

Hugh was walking up and down the floor — a most unusual sign

of perturbation with him. He met and stopped her as she came

in.

"Fleda, I cannot bear it. What is the matter? Do you know?" he

said, as her eyes fell.

"Yes —"

"What is it?"

She was silent, and tried to pass on to the fire. But he

stayed her.

"What is it?" he repeated.

"Oh, I wish I could keep it from you!" said Fleda, bursting

into tears.

He was still a moment; and then, bringing her to the arm-

chair, made her sit down, and stood himself before her,

silently waiting, perhaps because he could not speak, perhaps

from the accustomed gentle endurance of his nature. But Fleda

was speechless too.

"You are keeping me in distress," he said, at length.

"I cannot end the distress, dear Hugh," said Fleda.

She saw him change colour, and he stood motionless still.

"Do you remember," said Fleda, trembling even to her voice,

"what Rutherford says about Providence 'not running on broken

wheels?' "

He gave her no answer but the intent look of expectation. Its

intentness paralysed Fleda. She did not know how to go on. She

rose from her chair and hung upon his shoulder.

"Believe it now, if you can; for oh, dear Hugh! we have

something to try it."

"It is strange my father don't come home," said he, supporting

her with tenderness, which had very little strength to help

it; "we want him very much."

Whether or not any unacknowledged feeling prompted this

remark, some slight involuntary movement of Fleda's made him

ask, suddenly —

"Is it about him?"

He had grown deadly pale, and Fleda answered, eagerly —

"Nothing that has happened to-day — it is not anything that

has happened to-day: he is perfectly well, I trust and

believe."

"But it is about him?"

Fleda's head sank, and she burst into such an agony of tears

that Hugh's distress was for a time divided.

"When did it happen, Fleda?"

"Years ago."

"And what?"

Fleda hesitated still, and then said —

"It was something he did, Hugh."

"What?"

"He put another person's name on the back of a note he gave."

She did not look up, and Hugh was silent for a moment.

"How do you know?"

"Mr. Thorn wrote it to aunt Lucy; it was Mr. Thorn's father."

Hugh sat down and leaned his head on the table. A long, long,

time passed — unmeasured by the wild coursing of thought to

and fro. Then Fleda came and knelt down at the table beside

him, and put her arm round his neck.

"Dear Hugh," she said — and if ever love, and tenderness, and

sympathy could be distilled in tones, such drops were those

that fell upon the mind's ear — "can't you look up at me?"

He did then, but he did not give her a chance to look at him.

He locked his arms about her, bringing her close to his

breast; and for a few minutes, in utter silence, they knew

what strange sweetness pure affection can mingle, even in the

communion of sorrow. There were tears shed in those minutes

that, bitter as they seemed at the time, memory knew had been

largely qualified with another admixture.

"Dear Hugh," said Fleda, "let us keep what we can. Wont you go

to bed and rest?"

He looked dreadfully as if he needed it; but the usual

calmness and sweetness of his face was not altered; it was

only deepened to very great sadness. Mentally, Fleda thought,

he had borne the shock better than his mother; for the bodily

frame she trembled. He had not answered, and she spoke again.

"You need it worse than I, poor Fleda."

"I will go, too, presently: I do not think anybody will be

here to-night."

"Is — are there — is this what has taken him away?" said Hugh.

Her silence and her look told him; and then, laying her cheek

again alongside of his, she whispered (how unsteadily!) —

"We have only one help, dear Hugh."

They were still and quiet again for minutes, counting the

pulses of pain, till Fleda came back to her poor wish "to keep

what they could." She mixed a restorative of wine and water,

which, however little desired, she felt was necessary for both

of them, and Hugh went up stairs. She staid a few minutes to

prepare another glass, with particular care, for her aunt. It

was just finished, and, taking her candle, she had bid Barby

good night, when there came a loud rap at the front door.

Fleda set down candle and glass, from the quick inability to

hold them, as well as for other reasons, and she and Barby

stood and looked at each other, in such a confusion of doubt

and dread, that some little time had passed before either

stirred even her eyes. Barby then threw down the tongs, with

which she had begun to make preparations for covering up the

fire, and set off to the front.

"You mustn't open the door, Barby," cried Fleda, following

her. "Come in here, and let us look out of one of the

windows."

Before this could be reached, however, there was another

prolonged repetition of the first thundering burst. It went

through Fleda's heart, because of the two up stairs who must

hear it.

Barby threw up the sash.

"Who's there?"

"Is this Mr. Rossitur's place?" inquired a gruff voice.

"Yes, it is."

"Well will you come round and open the door?"

"Who wants it open?"

"A lady wants it open."

"A lady! — what lady?"

"Down yonder, in the carriage."

"What lady? — who is she?"

"I don't know who she is: she wanted to come to Mr. Rossitur's

place. Will you open the door for her?"

Barby and Fleda both now saw a carriage standing in the road.

"We must see who it is first," whispered Fleda.

"When the lady comes, I'll open the door," was Barby's

ultimatum.

The man withdrew to the carriage, and, after a few moments of

intense watching, Fleda and Barby certainly saw something in

female apparel enter the little gate of the court-yard, and

come up over the bright, moonlit snow towards the house,

accompanied by a child; while the man with whom they had had

the interview came behind, transformed into an unmistakable

baggage-carrier.