"I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief
have been myself alone."
AS YOU LIKE IT.
The first thing next morning, Seth Plumfield came down to say
that he had seen Dr. Quackenboss the night before, and had
chanced to find out that he was going to New York, too, this
very day; and knowing that the doctor would be just as safe an
escort as himself, Seth had made over the charge of his cousin
to him; "calculating," he said, "that it would make no
difference to Fleda, and that he had better stay at home with
his mother."
Fleda said nothing, and looked as little as possible of her
disappointment, and her cousin went away wholly unsuspecting
of it.
"Seth Plumfield ha'n't done a smarter thing than that in a
good while," Barby remarked, satirically, as he was shutting
the door. "I should think he'd ha' hurt himself."
"I dare say the doctor will take good care of me," said Fleda;
"as good as he knows how."
"Men beat all!" said Barby, impatiently. "The little sense
there is into them."
Fleda's sinking heart was almost ready to echo the sentiment;
but nobody knew it.
Coffee was swallowed, her little travelling-bag and bonnet on
the sofa all ready. Then came the doctor.
"My dear Miss Ringgan, I am most happy of this delightful
opportunity I had supposed you were located at home for the
winter. This is a sudden start."
"Is it sudden to you, Dr. Quackenboss?" said Fleda.
"Why a not disagreeably so," said the doctor, smiling;
"nothing could be that in the present circumstances but I
a I hadn't calculated upon it for much of a spell
beforehand."
Fleda was vexed, and looked only unconversable.
"I suppose," said the doctor, after a pause, "that we have not
much time to waste a in idle moments. Which route do you
intend to travel?"
"I was thinking to go by the North River, Sir."
"But the ice has collected, I am afraid."
"At Albany, I know; but when I came up, there was a boat every
other day, and we could get there in time by the stage this
is her day."
"But we have had some pretty tight weather since, if you
remember," said the doctor; "and the boats have ceased to
connect with the stage. We shall have to go to Greenfield to
take the Housatonic, which will land us at Bridgeport on the
Sound."
"Have we time to reach Greenfield this morning?"
"Oceans of time," said the doctor, delightedly; "I've got my
team here, and they're jumping out of their skins with having
nothing to do, and the weather they'll carry us there as
spry as grasshoppers now, if you're ready, my dear Miss
Ringgan."
There was nothing more but to give and receive those
speechless lip-messages that are out of the reach of words,
and Mrs. Rossitur's half-spoken last charge, to take care of
herself; and with these seals upon her mission, Fleda set
forth and joined the doctor, thankful for one foil to
curiosity in the shape of a veil, and only wishing that there
were any invented screen that she could place between her and
hearing.
"I hope your attire is of a very warm description," said the
doctor, as he helped her into the wagon; "it friz pretty hard
last night, and I don't think it has got out of the notion
yet. If I had been consulted in any other a form, than that
of a friend, I should have disapprobated, if you'll excuse me,
Miss Ringgan's travelling again before her 'Rose of Cassius'
there was in blow. I hope you have heard no evil tidings? Dr.
a Gregory, I hope, is not taken ill?"
"I hope not, Sir," said Fleda.
"He didn't look like it. A very hearty old gentleman. Not very
old either, I should judge. Was he the brother of your mother
or your father?"
"Neither, Sir."
"Ah! I misunderstood I thought, but of course I was
mistaken I thought I heard you speak to him under the title
of uncle. But that is a title we sometimes give to elderly
people as a term of familiarity; there is an old fellow that
works for me, he has been a long time in our family, and we
always call him 'uncle Jenk.' "
Fleda was ready to laugh, cry, and be angry, in a breath. She
looked straight before her, and was mum.
"That 'Rose of Cassius' is a most exquisite thing," said the
doctor, recurring to the cluster of bare bushy stems in the
corner of the garden. "Did Mr. Rossitur bring it with him when
he came to his present residence?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Where is Mr. Rossitur now?"
Fleda replied, with a jump of her heart, that business affairs
had obliged him to be away for a few days.
"And when does he expect to return?" said the doctor.
"I hope he will be home as soon as I am," said Fleda.
"Then you do not expect to remain long in the city this time?"
"I shall not have much of a winter at home if I do," said
Fleda. "We are almost at January."
"Because," said the doctor, "in that case I should have no
higher gratification than in attending upon your motions. I
a beg you to believe, my dear Miss Ringgan, that it would
afford me the a most particular it would be most
particularly grateful to me to wait upon you to a the
confines of the world."
Fleda hastened to assure her officious friend that the time of
her return was altogether uncertain, resolving rather to abide
a guest with Mrs. Pritchard than to have Dr. Quackenboss
hanging upon her motions every day of her being there. But, in
the meantime, the doctor got upon Captain Rossitur's subject,
then came to Mr. Thorn, and then wanted to know the exact
nature of Mr. Rossitur's business affairs in Michigan, through
all which matters poor Fleda had to run the gauntlet of
questions, interspersed with gracious speeches which she could
bear even less well. She was extremely glad to reach the cars,
and take refuge in seeming sleep from the mongrel attentions,
which, if for the most part prompted by admiration, owned so
large a share of curiosity. Her weary head and heart would
fain have courted the reality of sleep, as a refuge from more
painful thoughts, and a feeling of exhaustion that could
scarcely support itself; but the restless roar and jumble of
the rail-cars put it beyond her power. How long the hours were
how hard to wear out, with no possibility of a change of
position that would give rest! Fleda would not even raise her
head when they stopped, for fear of being talked to; how
trying that endless noise to her racked nerves! It came to an
end at last, though Fleda would not move for fear they might
be only taking in wood and water.
"Miss Ringgan!" said the doctor in her ear, "my dear Miss
Ringgan, we are here"
"Are we?" said Fleda, looking up; "what other name has the
place, doctor?"
"Why, Bridgeport," said the doctor; "we're at Bridgeport. Now
we have leave to exchange conveyances. A man feels constrained
after a prolonged length of time in a place. How have you
enjoyed the ride?"
"Not very well it has seemed long. I am glad we are at the
end of it."
But as she rose and threw back her veil, the doctor looked
startled.
"My dear Miss Ringgan, are you faint?"
"No, Sir."
"You are not well, indeed! I am very sorry the ride has
been Take my arm! Ma'am," said the doctor, touching a
black satin cloak which filled the passage-way, "will you have
the goodness to give this lady a passport?"
But the black satin cloak preferred a straightforward manner
of doing this, so their egress was somewhat delayed. Happily
faintness was not the matter.
"My dear Miss Ringgan," said the doctor, as they reached the
ground and the outer air, "what was it? the stove too
powerful? You are looking you are of a dreadfully delicate
appearance!"
"I had a headache yesterday," said Fleda; "it always leaves me
with a disagreeable reminder the next day. I am not ill."
But he looked frightened, and hurried her, as fast as he
dared, to the steamboat; and there proposed half a dozen
restoratives, the simplest of which Fleda took, and then
sought delicious rest from him and from herself on the
cushions of a settee. Delicious! though she was alone, in
the cabin of a steamboat, with strange forms and noisy tongues
around her, the closed eyelids shut it out all; and she had
time but for one resting thought of "patient continuance in
well-doing," and one happy heart-look up to Him who has said
that he cares for his children, a look that laid her anxieties
down there when past misery and future difficulty faded away
before a sleep that lasted till the vessel reached her
moorings and was made fast.
She was too weary and faint even to think during the long
drive up to Bleecker Street. She was fain to let it all go
the work she had to do, and the way she must set about it, and
rest in the assurance that nothing could be done that night.
She did not so much as hear Dr. Quackenboss's observations,
though she answered a few of them, till, at the door, she was
conscious of his promising to see her to-morrow, and of her
instant conclusion to take measures to see nobody.
How strange everything seemed! She walked through the familiar
hall, feeling as if her acquaintance with every old thing was
broken. There was no light in the back parlour, but a
comfortable fire.
"Is my is Dr. Gregory at home?" she asked of the girl who
had let her in.
"No, Ma'am; he hasn't got back from Philadelphia."
"Tell Mrs. Pritchard a lady wants to see her."
Good Mrs. Pritchard was much more frightened than Dr.
Quackenboss had been when she came into the back parlour to
see "a lady," and found Fleda in. the great arm-chair, taking
off her things. She poured out questions, wonderings, and
lamentings, not "in a breath," but in a great many; quite
forgot to be glad to see her, she looked so dreadfully; and
"what had been the matter?" Fleda answered her told of
yesterday's illness and to-day's journey; and met all her
shocked inquiries with so composed a face, and such a calm
smile and bearing, that Mrs. Pritchard was almost persuaded
not to believe her eyes.
"My uncle is not at home?"
"O no, Miss Fleda! I suppose he's in Philadelphy but his
motions is so little to be depended on, that I never know when
I have him; maybe he'll stop going through to Boston, and
maybe no, and I don't know when; so anyhow I had to have a
fire made, and this room all ready; and aint it lucky it was
ready for you to-night? and now he aint here, you can have
the great chair all to yourself, and make yourself comfortable
we can keep warmer here, I guess, than you can in the
country," said the good housekeeper, giving some skilful
admonishing touches to the fire; "and you must just sit
there and read and rest, and see if you can't get back your
old looks again. If I thought it was _that_ you came for, I'd be
happy. I never did see such a change in any one in five days."
She stood looking down at her guest with a face of very
serious concern, evidently thinking much more than she chose
to give utterance to.
"I am tired, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda, smiling up at her.
"I wish you had somebody to take care of you, Miss Fleda, that
wouldn't let you tire yourself. It's a sin to throw your
strength away so and you don't care for looks, nor nothing
else when it's for other people. You're looking just as
handsome, too, for all," she said, her mouth giving way a
little, as she stooped down to take off Fleda's overshoes;
"but that's only because you can't help it. Now, what is there
you'd like to have for supper? just say, and you shall have
it whatever would seem best because I mightn't hit the
right thing."
Fleda declared her indifference to everything but a cup of
tea, and her hostess bustled away to get that, and tax her own
ingenuity and kindness for the rest. And, leaning her weary
head back in the lounge, Fleda tried to think but it was not
time yet; she could only feel feel what a sad change had
come over her since she had sat there last shut her eyes and
wish she could sleep again.
But Mrs. Pritchard's hospitality must be gone through with
first.
The nicest of suppers was served in the bright little parlour,
and her hostess was a compound of care and good-will; nothing
was wanting to the feast but a merry heart. Fleda could not
bring that, so her performance was unsatisfactory, and Mrs.
Pritchard was distressed. Fleda went to her own room,
promising better doings to-morrow.
She awoke in the morning to the full burden of care and sorrow
which sheer weakness and weariness the day before had in part
laid down to a quicker sense of the state of things than she
had had yet. The blasting evil that had fallen upon them
Fleda writhed on her bed when she thought of it. The sternest,
cruellest, most inflexible grasp of distress. Poverty may be
borne, death may be sweetened, even to the survivors; but
_disgrace_ Fleda hid her head, as if she would shut the idea
out with the light. And the ruin it had wrought! Affection
killed at the root her aunt's happiness withered for this
world Hugh's life threatened the fair name of his family
gone the wear and weariness of her own spirit but that had
hardly a thought. Himself! oh! no one could tell what a
possible wreck, now that self-respect and the esteem of others
those two safeguards of character were lost to him. "So
much security has any woman in a man without religion;" she
remembered those words of her aunt Miriam now; and she
thought, if Mr. Thorn had sought an ill wind to blow, upon his
pretensions, he could not have pitched them better. What
fairer promise, without religion, could be than her uncle had
given! Reproach had never breathed against his name, and no
one less than those who knew him best could fancy that he had
ever given it occasion. And who could have more at stake?
and the stake was lost that was the summing up thought.
No, it was not for Fleda's mind presently sprang beyond to
the remedy; and after a little swift and earnest flitting
about of thought over feasibilities and contingencies, she
jumped up, and dressed herself with a prompt energy which
showed a mind made up to its course. And yet when she came
down to the parlour, though bending herself with nervous
intentness to the work she had to do, her fingers and her
heart were only stayed in their trembling by some of the happy
assurances she had been fleeing to
"COMMIT THY WORKS UNTO THE LORD, AND ALL THY THOUGHTS SHALL BE
ESTABLISHED."
"IN ALL THY WAYS ACKNOWLEDGE HIM: HE SHALL DIRECT THY PATHS."
Assurances, not, indeed, that her plans should meet with
success, but that they should have the issue best for them.
She was early, but the room was warm, and in order, and the
servant had left it. Fleda sought out paper and pencil, and
sat down to fashion the form of an advertisement the first
thing to be done. She had no notion how difficult a thing,
till she came to do it.
"_R. R. is entreated to communicate with his niece at the old
place in Bleecker Street, on business of the greatest
importance_."
"It will not do," said Fleda, to herself, as she sat and
looked at it "there is not enough to catch his eye, and
there is _too much_, if it caught anybody else's eye 'R. R.',
and 'his niece,' and 'Bleecker Street,' that would tell
plain enough."
"_Dear uncle, F. has followed you here on business of the
greatest importance. Pray let her see you; she is at the old
place_."
"It will not do," thought Fleda, again "there is still less
to catch his eye I cannot trust it. And if I were to put
'Queechy' over it, that would give the clue to the Evelyns,
and everybody. But I had better risk anything rather than his
seeing it."
The miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful
weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame,
overcame her for a little; and then, dashing away the tears
she had no time for, and locking up the strong-box of her
heart, she took her pencil again.
"_Queechy_.
"_Let me see you at the old place. I have come here on urgent
business for you. Do not deny me, for H's sake!_"
With a trifle of alteration, she thought this would do; and
went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many
papers. This was done, and all traces of it out of the way
before Mrs. Pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after
bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was
still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more
substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, Fleda
prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and
the newspaper offices, and set forth. It was a bright, keen
day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. It seemed as
if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an
atmosphere.
She went to the library first, and there requested the
librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room
the files of morning and evening papers. They were many more
than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough.
Paper and ink were at hand, however, and making carefully her
list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she
wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them.
The morning was well on by the time she could leave the
library. It was yet far from the fashionable hour, however,
and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes
that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she
made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the City
Hall, and then crossed over the Park and plunged into a region
where it was very little likely she would see a face that she
knew. She saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of
having studied the map of the city in the library, she was
forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office
after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed
her notice with each one of them. Her courage almost failed
her her heart did quite, after two or three. It was a trial
from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to
face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips that were at
home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. Making her
slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere
confusion of business was bewildering very, to any one come
from Queechy; among crowds, of what mixed and doubtful
character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony
past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole
sidewalk, or perhaps edging through them groups whose
general type of character was sufficiently plain and _un_mixed;
entering into parley with clerk after clerk, who looked at
such a visitor as an anomaly poor Fleda almost thought so
too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes
beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely as far
as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to
assure her she was where she ought not to be. Sometimes she
felt that it was _impossible_ to go on and finish her task; but
a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another
untried quarter, or make good her entrance to some new office
through a host of loungers and waiting newsboys collected
round the door. Sometimes, in utter discouragement, she went
on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a
better opportunity. It was a long business; and she often had
to wait. The end of her list was reached at last, and the
paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till
she had got to the west side of Broadway again, and turned her
back upon them all.
It was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its
gay throng. Completely worn in body as well as mind, with slow
faltering steps, Fleda moved on among those still left;
looking upon them with a curious eye, as if they and she
belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her
sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir
of business and gaiety; if they had been a train of lady-flies
or black ants, Fleda would hardly have felt that she had less
in common with them. It was a weary, long way up to Bleecker
Street, as she was forced to travel it.
The relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's
door, with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well
and thoroughly. Now her part was to be still and wait. But
with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the
morning. Before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs,
her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her
room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was
utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time
could not pass before she would be called to dinner. Dinner
had to wait.
"Miss Fleda," said the housekeeper, in a vexed tone, when the
meal was half over "I didn't know you ever did anything
wrong."
"You were sadly mistaken, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda, half
lightly, half sadly.
"You're looking not a bit better than last night, and, if
anything, rather worse," Mrs. Pritchard went on. "It isn't
right, Miss Fleda. You oughtn't to ha' set the first step out
of doors, I know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've
been on your feet these seven hours and you show it! You're
just ready to drop."
"I will rest to-morrow," said Fleda, "or try to."
"You are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper "and
you've been using yourself, Miss Fleda, as if you had the
strength of an elephant. Now, do you think you've been doing
right?"
Fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not
equal to it; she had lost all command of herself, and she
dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding
tears. Mrs. Pritchard, equally astonished and mystified,
hurried questions, apologies, and consolations, one upon
another; and made up her mind that there was something
mysterious on foot, about which she had better ask no
questions. Neither did she from that time. She sealed up her
mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her
guest that she possibly could. Needed enough, but all of
little avail.
The reaction did not cease with that day. The next Sunday was
spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. With the
necessity for exertion the power had died. Fleda could only
lie upon the cushions and sleep helplessly, while Mrs.
Pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really
swallowed up in kind feeling. Monday was little better; but
towards the after part of the day, the stimulant of anxiety
began to work again, and Fleda sat up to watch for a word from
her uncle. But none came, and Tuesday morning distressed Mrs.
Pritchard with its want of amendment. It was not to be hoped
for, Fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. Her uncle
might not have seen the advertisement he might not have got
her letter he might be even then setting sail to quit home
for ever. And she could do nothing but wait. Her nerves were
alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble;
it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still
anywhere. She had set the glass of expectancy, for one thing,
in the distance: and all things else were a blur or a blank.
They had sat down to dinner that Tuesday, when a ring at the
door, which had made her heart jump, was followed yes, it
was by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit
of paper in her hand. Fleda did not wait to ask whose it was
she seized it and saw and sprang away up stairs. It was a
sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter,
containing two lines without signature.
"I will meet you _at Dinah's_ if you come there alone about
sundown."
Enough! Dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very
attached servant in Mr. Rossitur's family, and, having married
and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the
trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement
out towards Chelsea. Fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the
locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of
kindness she and Hugh had made to it in days gone by. But she
recollected it was in Sloman Street, and she knew she could
find it; and dropping upon her knees, poured out thanks too
deep to be uttered, and too strong to be even thought, without
a convulsion of tears. Her dinner after that was but a mental
thanksgiving she was hardly conscious of anything beside
and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. Their
weariness was sweet to her now. Let her but see him the rest
was sure.