"O what is life but a sum of love,
And death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!"
MILNES.
"Here's something come, Fleda," said Barby, walking into the
sick-room one morning, a few days afterwards; "a great bag of
something more than you can eat up in a fortnight; it's for
Hugh."
"It's extraordinary that anybody should send me a great bag of
anything eatable," said Hugh.
"Where did it come from?" said Fleda.
"Philetus fetched it he found it down to Mr. Sampion's, when
he went with the sheep-skins."
"How do you know it's for me?" said Hugh.
" 'Cause it's written on, as plain as a pikestaff. I guess
it's a mistake, though."
"Why?" said Fleda; "and what is it?"
"Oh, I don't much think 'twas meant for him," said Barby.
"It's oysters."
"Oysters!"
"Yes come out and look at 'em you never see such fine
fellows. I've heerd say," said Barby, abstractedly, as Fleda
followed her out, and she displayed to view some magnificent
Ostraceans "I've heerd say that an English shilling was
worth two American ones; but I never understood it rightly,
till now."
To all intents and purposes those were English oysters, and
worth twice as much as any others, Fleda secretly confessed.
That evening, up in the sick room it was quite evening, and
all the others of the family were taking rest, or keeping Mr.
Rossitur company down stairs Fleda was carefully roasting
some of the same oysters for Hugh's supper. She had spread out
a glowing bed of coals on the hearth, and there lay four or
five of the big bivalves, snapping and sputtering in
approbation of their quarters, in a most comfortable manner;
and Fleda, standing before the fire, tended them with a double
kind of pleasure. From one friend, and for another, those were
most odorous oysters. Hugh sat watching them and her, the same
in happy simplicity that he had been at eleven years old.
"How pleasant those oysters smell!" said he. "Fleda, they
remind me so of the time when you and I used to roast oysters
in Mrs. Renney's room for lunch do you recollect? and
sometimes in the evening, when everybody was gone out, you
know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining-
room afterwards. How we used to enjoy them, Fleda you and I,
all alone."
"Yes," said Fleda, in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. She was
shielding her face with a paper, and making self-sacrificing
efforts to persuade a large oyster-shell to stand so on the
coals as to keep the juice.
"Don't," said Hugh; "I would rather the oysters should burn
than you. Mr. Carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do
so."
"Never mind," said Fleda, arranging the oysters to her
satisfaction; "he isn't here to see. Now, Hugh, my dear, these
are ready as soon as I am."
"I am ready," said Hugh. "How long it is since we had a roast
oyster, Fleda!"
"They look good, don't they?"
A little stand was brought up between them, with the bread-
and-butter and the cups; and Fleda opened oysters and prepared
tea for Hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands
making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing
eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. She shared
the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his, and
much less thought of. His enjoyment was what she enjoyed,
though it was with a sad twinge of alloy, which changed her
face whenever it was where he could not see it: when turned
upon him, it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a
little too tender; but Fleda was too good a nurse to let that
often appear.
"Mr. Carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters,
Fleda. How kind it was of him to send them!"
"Yes."
"How long will he be gone, Fleda?"
"I don't know he didn't say. I don't believe many days."
Hugh was silent a little, while she was putting away the stand
and the oyster-shells. Then she came and sat down by him.
"You have burnt yourself over those things," said he,
sorrowfully; "you shouldn't have done it. It is not right."
"Dear Hugh," said Fleda, lightly laying her head on his
shoulder. "I like to burn myself for you."
"That's just the way you have been doing all your life."
"Hush!" she said, softly.
"It is true for me and for everybody else. It is time you
were taken better care of, dear Fleda."
"Don't, dear Hugh!"
"I am right, though," said he. "You are pale and worn now with
waiting upon me, and thinking of me. It is time you were gone.
But I think it is well I am going too, for what should I do in
the world without you, Fleda?"
Fleda was crying now, intensely, though quietly; but Hugh went
on with feeling, as calm as it was deep.
"What should I have done all these years or any of us? How
you have tired yourself for everybody in the garden and in
the kitchen, and with Earl Douglass how we could let you, I
don't know, but I believe we could not help it."
Fleda put her hand upon his mouth. But he took it away and
went on
"How often I have seen you sleeping all the evening on the
sofa with a pale face, tired out, dear Fleda," said he,
kissing her cheek; "I am glad there's to be an end put to it.
And all the day you went about with such a bright face, that
it made mother and me happy to look at you; and I knew then,
many a time, it was for our sakes "
"Why do you cry so, Fleda? I like to think of it, and to talk
of it, now that I know you won't do so any more. I know the
whole truth, and it went to the bottom of my heart; but I
could do nothing but love you I did that! Don't cry so,
Fleda! you ought not. You have been the sunshine of the
house. My spirit never was so strong as yours; I should have
been borne to the ground, I know, in all these years, if it
had not been for you; and mother you have been her life."
"You have been tired too," Fleda whispered.
"Yes, at the saw-mill. And then you would come up there
through the sun to look at me, and your smile would make me
forget everything sorrowful for the rest of the day except
that I couldn't help you."
"Oh, you did you did you helped me always, Hugh!"
"Not much. I couldn't help you when you were sewing for me and
father till your fingers and eyes were aching, and you never
would own that you were anything but 'a little' tired it
made my heart ache. Oh, I knew it all, dear Fleda. I am very,
very glad that you will have somebody to take care of you now,
that will not let you burn four fingers for him or anybody
else. It makes me happy!"
"You make me very unhappy, dear Hugh."
"I don't mean it," said Hugh, tenderly. "But I don't believe
there is anybody else in the world that I could be so
satisfied to leave you with."
Fleda made no answer to that. She sat up and tried to recover
herself.
"I hope he will come back in time," said Hugh, settling
himself back in the easy-chair with a weary look, and closing
his eyes.
"In time for what!"
"To see me again."
"My dear Hugh! he will, to be sure, I hope."
"He must make haste," said Hugh. "But I want to see him again
very much, Fleda."
"For anything in particular?"
"No only because I love him. I want to see him once more."
Hugh slumbered; and Fleda, by his side, wept tears of mixed
feeling till she was tired.
Hugh was right. But nobody else knew it, and his brother was
not sent for.
It was about a week after this, when one night a horse and
waggon came up to the back of the house from the road, the
gentleman who had been driving leading the horse. It was late,
long past Mr. Skillcorn's usual hour of retiring, but some
errand of business had kept him abroad, and he stood there
looking on. The stars gave light enough.
"Can you fasten my horse where he may stand a little while,
Sir, without taking him out?"
"I guess I can," replied Philetus, with reasonable confidence,
"if there's a rope's end some place."
And forthwith he went back into the house to seek it; the
gentleman patiently holding his horse meanwhile till he came
out.
"How is Mr. Hugh to-night?"
"Well he aint just so smart, they say," responded Philetus,
insinuating the rope's end as awkwardly as possible among the
horse's head-gear. "I believe he's dying."
Instead of going round now to the front of the house, Mr.
Carleton knocked gently at the kitchen door, and asked the
question anew of Barby.
"He's come in, Sir, if you please," she said, opening wide
the door for him to enter. "I'll tell 'em you're here."
"Do not disturb any one for me," said he.
"I won't disturb 'em!" said Barby, in a tone a little, though
unconsciously, significant.
Mr. Carleton neglected the chair she had placed for him, and
remained standing by the mantel-piece, thinking of the scenes
of his early introduction to that kitchen. It wore the same
look it had done then; under Barby's rule it was precisely the
same thing it had been under Cynthia's. The passing years
seemed a dream, and the passing generations of men a vanity,
before the old house, more abiding than they. He stood
thinking of the people he had seen gathered by that fire-
place, and the little household fairy whose childish
ministrations had give such a beauty to the scene when a
very light step crossed the painted floor, and she was there
again before him. She did not speak a word; she stood still a
moment trying for words, and then put her hand upon Mr.
Carleton's arm, and gently drew him out of the room with her.
The family were all gathered in the room to which she brought
him. Mr. Rossitur, as soon as he saw Mr. Carleton come in,
shrunk back where he could be a little shielded by the bed-
post. Marion's face was hid on the foot of the bed. Mrs.
Rossitur did not move. Leaving Mr. Carleton on the near side
of the bed, Fleda went round to the place she seemed to have
occupied before at Hugh's right hand; and they were all still,
for he was in a little doze, lying with his eyes closed, and
the face as gently and placidly sweet as it had been in his
boyhood. Perhaps Mr. Rossitur looked at it: but no other did
just then, except Mr. Carleton. His eye rested nowhere else.
The breathing of an infant could not be more gentle; the face
of an angel not more peacefully at rest. "So He giveth His
beloved sleep," thought he gentleman, as he gazed on the brow
from which all care, if care there had ever been, seemed to
have taken flight.
Not yet not quite yet; for Hugh suddenly opened his eyes,
and without seeing anybody else, said
"Father."
Mr. Rossitur left the bed-post, and came close to where Fleda
was standing, and leaning forward, touched his son's head, but
did not speak.
"Father," said Hugh, in a voice so gentle that it seemed as if
strength must be failing, "what will you do when you come to
lie here?"
Mr. Rossitur put his hands to his face.
"Father I must speak now if I never did before once I must
speak to you what will you do when you come to lie where I
do? what will you trust to?"
The person addressed was as motionless as a statue. Hugh did
not move his eyes from him.
"Father, I will be a living warning and example to you, for
know that I shall live in your memory you shall remember
what I say to you that Jesus Christ is a dear friend to
those that trust in him, and if he is not yours it will be
because you will not let him. You shall remember my testimony,
that he can make death sweeter than life in his presence is
fulness of joy at his right hand there are pleasures for
evermore. He is better, he is more to me, even than you all,
and he will be to you a better friend than the poor child you
are losing, though you do not know it now. It is he that has
made my life in this world happy only he and I have
nothing to look to but him in the world I am going to. But
what will you do in the hour of death, as I am, if he isn't
your friend, father?"
Mr. Rossitur's frame swayed like a tree that one sees shaken
by a distant wind, but he said nothing.
"Will you remember me happily, father, if you come to die
without having done as I begged you? Will you think of me in
heaven, and not try to come there too? Father, will you be a
Christian? will you not? for my sake for _little Hugh's_
sake, as you used to call him? Father."
Mr. Rossitur knelt down and hid his face in the coverings, but
he did not utter a word.
Hugh's eye dwelt on him for a moment with unspeakable
expression, and his lip trembled. He said no more he closed
his eyes, and, for a little time, there was nothing to be
heard but the sobs, which could not be restrained, from all
but the two gentlemen. It probably oppressed Hugh, for, after
a while, he said, with a weary sigh, and without opening his
eyes
"I wish somebody would sing."
Nobody answered at first.
"Sing what, dear Hugh?" said Fleda, putting aside her tears,
and leaning her face towards him.
"Something that speaks of my want," said Hugh.
"What do you want, dear Hugh?"
"Only Jesus Christ," he said, with a half smile.
But they were silent as death. Fleda's face was in her hands,
and her utmost efforts after self-control wrought nothing but
tears. The stillness had lasted a little while, when, very
softly and sweetly, the notes of a hymn floated to their ears,
and though they floated on and filled the room, the voice was
so nicely modulated, that its waves of sweetness broke gently
upon the nearest ear.
"Jesus, the sinner's friend, to Thee,
Lost and undone, for aid I flee;
Weary of earth, myself, and sin,
Open thine arms and take me in.
"Pity and save my sin-sick soul
'Tis thou alone canst make me whole;
Dark, till in me thine image shine,
And lost I am, till thou art mine.
"At length I own it cannot be,
That I should fit myself for thee,
Here now to thee I all resign
Thine is the work, and only thine.
"What shall I say thy grace to move?
Lord, I am sin, but thou art love!
I give up every plea beside
Lord, I am lost but thou hast died!"
They were still again after the voice had ceased almost
perfectly still though tears might be pouring, as indeed
they were, from every eye, there was no break to the silence,
other than a half-caught sob, now and then, from a kneeling
figure, whose head was in Marion's lap.
"Who was that?" said Hugh, when the singer had been silent a
minute.
Nobody answered immediately, and then Mr. Carleton, bending
over him, said
"Don't you know me, dear Hugh?"
"Is it Mr. Carleton?"
Hugh looked pleased, and clasped both of his hands upon Guy's,
which he laid upon his breast. For a second he closed his eyes
and was silent.
"Was it you sang?"
"Yes."
"You never sang for me before," he remarked.
He was silent again.
"Are you going to take Fleda away?"
"By and by," said Mr. Carleton, gently.
"Will you take good care of her?"
Mr. Carleton hesitated, and then said, so low that it could
reach but one other person's ear
"What hand and life can."
"I know it," said Hugh. "I am very glad you will have her. You
will not let her tire herself any more."
Whatever became of Fleda's tears, she had driven them away,
and leaning forward, she touched her cheek to his, saying,
with a clearness and sweetness of voice that only intensity of
feeling could have given her at the moment
"I am not tired, dear Hugh."
Hugh clasped one arm round her neck and kissed her again and
again, seeming unable to say anything to her in any other way;
still keeping his hold of Mr. Carleton's hand.
"I give all my part of her to you," he said, at length. "Mr.
Carleton, I shall see both of you in heaven?"
"I hope so," was the answer, in those very calm and clear
tones that have a singular effect in quieting emotion, while
they indicate anything but the want of it.
"I am the best off of you all," Hugh said.
He lay still for awhile with shut eyes. Fleda had withdrawn
herself from his arms and stood at his side, with a bowed
head, but perfectly quiet. He still held Mr. Carleton's hand,
as something he did not want to part with.
"Fleda," said he, "who is that crying? Mother come here."
Mr. Carleton gave place to her. Hugh pulled her down to him
till her face lay upon his, and folded both his arms around
her.
"Mother," he said, softly, "will you meet me in heaven? say
yes."
"How can I, dear Hugh?"
"You can, dear mother," said he, kissing her with exceeding
tenderness of expression "my Saviour will be yours and take
you there. Say you will give yourself to Christ dear mother!
sweet mother! promise me I shall see you again!"
Mrs. Rossitur's weeping it was difficult to hear. But Hugh,
hardly shedding a tear, still kissed her, repeating, "Promise
me, dear mother promise me that you will;" till Mrs.
Rossitur, in an agony, sobbed out the word he wanted, and Hugh
hid his face then in her neck.
Mr. Carleton left the room and went down stairs. He found the
sitting-room desolate, untenanted and cold for hours; and he
went again into the kitchen. Barby was there for some time,
and then she left him alone.
He had passed a long while in thinking, and walking up and
down, and he was standing musing by the fire, when Fleda again
came in. She came in silently to his side, and putting her arm
within his, laid her face upon it with a simplicity of trust
and reliance that went to his heart; and she wept there for a
long hour They hardly changed their position in all that time;
and her tears flowed silently, though incessantly, the only
tokens of his part being such a gentle caressing, smoothing of
her hair, or putting it from her brow as he had used when she
was a child. The bearing of her hand and head upon his arm, in
time showed her increasingly weary. Nothing showed him so.
"Elfie my dear Elfie," he said at last, very tenderly, in
the same way that he would have spoken nine years before
"Hugh gave his part of you to me I must take care of it."
Fleda tried to rouse herself immediately.
"This is poor entertainment for you, Mr. Carleton," she said,
raising her head, and wiping away the tears from her face.
"You are mistaken," he said, gently. "You never gave me such
pleasure but twice before, Elfie?"
Fleda's head went down again instantly, and this time there
was something almost caressing in the motion.
"Next to the happiness of having friends on earth," he said
soothingly, "is the happiness of having friends in heaven.
Don't weep any more to-night, my dear Elfie."
"He told me to thank you," said Fleda. But stopping short and
clasping with convulsive energy the arm she held, she shed
more violent tears than she had done that night before. The
most gentle soothing, the most tender reproof, availed at last
to quiet her; and she stood clinging to his arm still, and
looking down into the fire.
"I did not think it would be so soon," she said.
"It was not soon to him, Elfie."
"He told me to thank you for singing. How little while it
seems since we were children together how little while since
before that when I was a little child here how different!"
"No, the very same," said he, touching his lips to her
forehead "you are the very same child you were then; but it
is time you were my child, for I see you would make yourself
ill. No," said he, softly, taking the hand Fleda raised to her
face "no more to-night tell me how early I may see you in
the morning for, Elfie, I must leave you after breakfast."
Fleda looked up inquiringly.
"My mother has brought news that determines me to return to
England immediately."
"To England!"
"I have been too long from home I am wanted there."
Fleda looked down again, and did her best not to show what she
felt.
"I do not know how to leave you and now but I must. There
are disturbances among the people, and my own are infected. I
_must_ be there without delay."
"Political disturbances?" said Fleda.
"Somewhat of that nature but partly local. How early may I
come to you?"
"But you are not going away to-night? It is very late."
"That is nothing my horse is here."
Fleda would have begged in vain, if Barby had not come in and
added her word, to the effect that it would be a mess of work
to look for lodgings at that time of night, and that she had
made the west room ready for Mr. Carleton. She rejected with
great sincerity any claim to the thanks with which Fleda as
well as Mr. Carleton repaid her; "there wa'n't no trouble
about it," she said. Mr. Carleton, however, found his room
prepared for him with all the care that Barby's utmost ideas
of refinement and exactness could suggest.
It was still very early the next morning when he left it and
came into the sitting-room, but he was not the first there.
The firelight glimmered on the silver and china of the
breakfast table, all set; everything was in absolute order,
from the fire to the two cups and saucers which were alone on
the board. A still silent figure was standing by one of the
windows looking out. Not crying; but that Mr. Carleton knew
from the unmistakeable lines of the face was only because
tears were waiting another time; quiet now, it would not be by
and by. He came and stood at the window with her.
"Do you know," he said, after a little, "that Mr. Rossitur
purposes to leave Queechy?"
"Does he?" said Fleda, rather starting, but she added not
another word, simply because she felt she could not safely.
"He has accepted, I believe, a consulship at Jamaica."
"Jamaica!" said Fleda. "I have heard him speak of the West
Indies I am not surprised I knew it was likely he would
not stay here."
How tightly her fingers that were free grasped the edge of the
window-frame. Mr. Carleton saw it and softly removed them into
his own keeping.
"He may go before I can be here again. But I shall leave my
mother to take care of you, Elfie."
"Thank you," said Fleda, faintly. "You are very kind "
"Kind to myself," he said, smiling. "I am only taking care of
my own. I need not say that you will see me again as early as
my duty can make it possible; but I may be detained, and
your friends may be gone Elfie give me the right to send
if I cannot come for you. Let me leave my wife in my mother's
care."
Fleda looked down, and coloured, and hesitated; but the
expression in her face was not that of doubt.
"Am I asking too much?" he said, gently.
"No, Sir," said Fleda "and but "
"What is in the way?"
But it seemed impossible for Fleda to tell him.
"May I not know?" he said, gently putting away the hair from
Fleda's face, which looked distressed. "Is it only your
feeling?"
"No, Sir," said Fleda "at least not the feeling you think
it is but I could not do it without giving great pain."
Mr. Carleton was silent.
"Not to anybody you know, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, suddenly
fearing a wrong interpretation to her words "I don't mean
that I mean somebody else the person the only person you
could apply to" she said, covering her face in utter
confusion.
"Do I understand you?" said he, smiling. "Has this gentleman
any reason to dislike the sight of me?"
"No, Sir," said Fleda "but he thinks he has."
"That only I meant," said he. "You are quite right, my dear
Elfie I, of all men, ought to understand that."
The subject was dropped; and in a few minutes his gentle skill
had wellnigh made Fleda forget what they had been talking
about. Himself and his wishes seemed to be put quite out of
his own view, and out of hers as far as possible, except that
the very fact made Fleda recognise, with unspeakable gratitude
and admiration, the kindness and grace that were always
exerted for her pleasure. If her goodwill could have been put
into the cups of coffee she poured out for him, he might have
gone, in the strength of them, all the way to England. There
was strength of another kind to be gained from her face of
quiet sorrow and quiet self-command, which were her very
childhood's own.
"You will see me at the earliest possible moment," he said,
when at last taking leave. "I hope to be free in a short time:
but it may not be. Elfie, if I should be detained longer than
I hope if I should not be able to return in a reasonable
time will you let my mother bring you out? if I cannot
come to you, will you come to me?"
Fleda coloured a good deal, and said, scarce intelligibly,
that she hoped he would be able to come. He did not press the
matter. He parted from her, and was leaving the room. Fleda
suddenly sprang after him, before he had reached the door, and
laid her hand on his arm.
"I did not answer your question, Mr. Carleton," she said, with
cheeks that were dyed now "I will do whatever you please
whatever you think best."
His thanks were most gratefully, though silently, spoken, and
he went away.