"Daughter, they seem to say,
Peace to thy heart!
We too, yes, daughter,
Have been as thou art.
Hope-lifted, doubt-depress'd,
Seeing in part
Tried, troubled, tempted
Sustain'd as thou art."
UNKNOWN.
Mr. Rossitur was disposed for no further delay now in leaving
Queechy. The office at Jamaica, which Mr. Carleton and Dr.
Gregory had secured for him, was immediately accepted, and
every arrangement pressed to hasten his going. On every
account, he was impatient to be out of America, and especially
since his son's death. Marion was of his mind. Mrs. Rossitur
had more of a home feeling, even for the place where home had
not been to her as happy as it might.
They were sad weeks of bustle and weariness that followed
Hugh's death less sad, perhaps, for the weariness and the
bustle. There was little time for musing no time for
lingering regrets. If thought and feeling played their Aeolian
measures on Fleda's harpstrings, they were listened to only by
snatches, and she rarely sat down and cried to them.
A very kind note had been received from Mrs. Carleton.
April gave place to May. One afternoon, Fleda had taken an
hour or two to go and look at some of the old places on the
farm that she loved, and that were not too far to reach. A
last look she guessed it might be, for it was weeks since she
had had a spare afternoon, and another she might not be able
to find. It was a doubtful pleasure she sought too, but she
must have it.
She visited the long meadow and the height that stretched
along it, and even went so far as the extremity of the valley,
at the foot of the twenty-acre lot, and then stood still to
gather up the ends of memory. There she had gone chestnutting
with Mr. Ringgan thither she had guided Mr. Carleton and her
cousin Rossitur that day when they were going after woodcock
there she had directed and overseen Earl Douglass's huge crop
of corn. How many pieces of her life were connected with it!
She stood for a little while looking at the old chestnut
trees, looking and thinking, and turned away soberly with the
recollection, "The world passeth away, but the word of our God
shall stand for ever." And though there was one thought that
was a continual well of happiness in the depth of Fleda's
heart, her mind passed it now, and echoed with great joy the
countersign of Abraham's privilege, "Thou art my portion, O
Lord!" And in that assurance every past and every hoped-for
good was sweet with added sweetness. She walked home without
thinking much of the long meadow.
It was a chill spring afternoon, and Fleda was in her old trim
the black cloak, the white shawl over it, and the hood of
grey silk. And in that trim she walked into the sitting-room.
A lady was there, in a travelling dress, a stranger. Fleda's
eye took in her outline and feature one moment with a kind of
bewilderment, the next with perfect intelligence. If the lady
had been in any doubt, Fleda's cheeks alone would have
announced her identity. But she came forward without
hesitation after the first moment, pulling off her hood, and
stood before her visitor, blushing, in a way that perhaps Mrs.
Carleton looked at as a novelty in her world. Fleda did not
know how she looked at it, but she had, nevertheless, an
instinctive feeling, even at the moment, that the lady
wondered how her son should have fancied particularly anything
that went about under such a hood.
Whatever Mrs. Carleton thought, her son's fancies, she knew,
were unmanageable; and she had far too much good breeding to
let her thoughts be known unless to one of those curious
spirit thermometers that can tell a variation of temperature
through every sort of medium. There might have been the
slightest want of forwardness to do it, but she embraced Fleda
with great cordiality.
"This is for the old time not for the new, dear Fleda," she
said. "Do you remember me?"
"Perfectly! very well," said Fleda, giving Mrs. Carleton for
a moment a glimpse of her eyes. "I do not easily forget."
"Your look promises me an advantage from that, which I do not
deserve, but which I may as well use as another. I want all I
can have, Fleda."
There was a half look at the speaker that seemed to deny the
truth of that, but Fleda did not otherwise answer. She begged
her visitor to sit down, and throwing off the white shawl and
black cloak, took tongs in hand, and began to mend the fire.
Mrs. Carleton sat considering a moment the figure of the fire-
maker, not much regardful of the skill she was bringing to
bear upon the sticks of wood.
Fleda turned from the fire to remove her visitor's bonnet and
wrappings, but the former was all Mrs. Carleton would give
her. She threw off shawl and tippet on the nearest chair.
It was the same Mrs. Carleton of old Fleda saw while this
was doing unaltered almost entirely. The fine figure and
bearing were the same; time had made no difference; even the
face had paid little tribute to the years that had passed by
it; and the hair held its own without a change. Bodily and
mentally she was the same. Apparently she was thinking the
like of Fleda.
"I remember you very well," she said, with kindly accent, when
Fleda sat down by her. "I have never forgotten you. A dear
little creature you were. I always knew that."
Fleda hoped privately the lady would see no occasion to change
her mind; but for the present she was bankrupt in words.
"I was in the same room this morning at Montepoole where we
used to dine, and it brought back the whole thing to me the
time when you were sick there with us. I could think of
nothing else. But I don't think I was your favourite, Fleda."
Such a rush of blood again answered her as moved Mrs.
Carleton, in common kindness, to speak of common things. She
entered into a long story of her journey of her passage from
England of the steamer that brought her of her stay in New
York all which Fleda heard very indifferently well. She was
more distinctly conscious of the handsome travelling dress,
which seemed all the while to look as its wearer had done,
with some want of affinity upon the little grey hood which lay
on the chair in the corner. Still she listened and responded
as became her, though, for the most part, with eyes that did
not venture from home. The little hood itself could never have
kept its place with less presumption, nor with less flutter of
self-distrust.
Mrs. Carleton came at last to a general account of the
circumstances that had determined Guy to return home so
suddenly, where she was more interesting. She hoped he would
not be detained, but it was impossible to tell. It was just as
it might happen.
"Are you acquainted with the commission I have been charged
with?" she said, when her narrations had at last lapsed into
silence, and Fleda's eyes had returned to the ground.
"I suppose so, Ma'am, " said Fleda, with a little smile.
"It is a very pleasant charge" said Mrs. Carleton, softly
kissing her cheek. Something in the face itself must have
called forth that kiss, for this time there were no
requisitions of politeness.
"Do you recognise my commission, Fleda?"
Fleda did not answer. Mrs. Carleton sat a few minutes
thoughtfully drawing back the curls from her forehead, Mr.
Carleton's very gesture, but not by any means with his
fingers; and musing, perhaps, on the possibility of a hood's
having very little to do with what it covered.
"Do you know," she said, "I have felt as if I were nearer to
Guy since I have seen you."
The quick smile and colour that answered this, both very
bright, wrought in Mrs. Carleton an instant recollection that
her son was very apt to be right in his judgments, and that
probably the present case might prove him so. The hand which
had played with Fleda's hair was put round her waist, very
affectionately, and Mrs. Carleton drew near her.
"I am sure we shall love each other, Fleda," she said.
It was said like Fleda, not like Mrs. Carleton, and answered
as simply. Fleda had gained her place. Her head was in Mrs.
Carleton's neck, and welcomed there.
"At least I am sure I shall love you," said the lady, kissing
her; "and I don't despair on my own account for somebody
else's sake."
"No," said Fleda, but she was not fluent to-day. She sat up
and repeated, "I have not forgotten old times either, Mrs.
Carleton."
"I don't want to think of the old time I want to think of
the new," she seemed to have a great fancy for stroking back
those curls of hair; "I want to tell you how happy I am, dear
Fleda."
Fleda did not say whether she was happy or unhappy, and her
look might have been taken for dubious. She kept her eyes on
the ground, while Mrs. Carleton drew the hair off from her
flushing cheeks, and considered the face laid bare to her
view; and thought it was a fair face a very presentable face
delicate and lovely a face that she would have no reason
to be ashamed of, even by her son's side. Her speech was not
precisely to that effect.
"You know now why I have come upon you at such a time. I need
not ask pardon. I felt that I should be hardly discharging my
commission if I did not see you till you arrived in New York.
My wishes I could have made to wait, but not my trust. So I
came."
"I am very glad you did."
She could fain have persuaded the lady to disregard
circumstances, and stay with her, at least till the next day,
but Mrs. Carleton was unpersuadable. She would return
immediately to Montepoole.
"And how long shall you be here now?" she said.
"A few days it will not be more than a week."
"Do you know how soon Mr. Rossitur intends to sail for
Jamaica?"
"As soon as possible he will make his stay in New York very
short not more than a fortnight, perhaps; as short as he
can."
"And then, my dear Fleda, I am to have the charge of you for
a little while am I not?"
Fleda hesitated, and began to say, "Thank you," but it was
finished with a burst of very hearty tears.
Mrs. Carleton knew immediately the tender spot she had
touched. She put her arms about Fleda, and caressed her as
gently as her own mother might have done.
"Forgive me, dear Fleda! I forgot that so much that is sad
to you must come before what is so much pleasure to me. Look
up and tell me that you forgive me."
Fleda soon looked up, but she looked very sorrowful, and said
nothing. Mrs. Carleton watched her face for a little while,
really pained.
"Have you heard from Guy since he went away?" she whispered.
"No, Ma'am."
"I have."
And therewith she put into Fleda's hand a letter not Mrs.
Carleton's letter, as Fleda's first thought was. It had her
own name and the seal was unbroken. But it moved Mrs.
Carleton's wonder to see Fleda cry again, and longer than
before. She did not understand it. She tried soothing, but she
ventured no attempt at consoling, for she did not know what
was the matter.
"You will let me go now, I know," she said, smilingly, when
Fleda was again recovered, and standing before the fire with a
face not so sorrowful, Mrs. Carleton saw. "But I must say
something I shall not hurt you again."
"O no, you did not hurt me at all it was not what you said."
"You will come to me, dear Fleda? I feel that I want you very
much."
"Thank you but there is my uncle Orrin, Mrs. Carleton Dr.
Gregory."
"Dr. Gregory? He is just on the eve of sailing for Europe; I
thought you knew it."
"On the eve? so soon?"
"Very soon, he told me. Dear Fleda, shall I remind you of my
commission, and who gave it to me?"
Fleda hesitated still; at least, she stood looking into the
fire, and did not answer.
"You do not own his authority yet," Mrs. Carleton went on;
"but I am sure his wishes do not weigh for nothing with you,
and I can plead them."
Probably it was a source of some gratification to Mrs.
Carleton to see those deep spots on Fleda's cheeks. They were
a silent tribute to an invisible presence that flattered the
lady's affection or her pride.
"What do you say, dear Fleda to him and to me?" she said,
smiling and kissing her.
"I will come, Mrs. Carleton."
The lady was quite satisfied, and departed on the instant,
having got, she said, all she wanted; and Fleda cried till
her eyes were sore.
The days were few that remained to them in their old home; not
more than a week, as Fleda had said. It was the first week in
May.
The evening before they were to leave Queechy, Fleda and Mrs.
Rossitur went together to pay their farewell visit to Hugh's
grave. It was some distance off. They walked there arm in arm
without a word by the way.
The little country grave-yard lay alone on a hill-side, a good
way from any house, and out of sight even of any but a very
distant one. A sober and quiet place, no tokens of busy life
immediately near, the fields around it being used for
pasturing sheep, except an instance or two of winter grain now
nearing its maturity. A by-road not much travelled led to the
grave-yard, and led off from it over the broken country,
following the ups and down of the ground to a long distance
away, without a moving thing upon it in sight near or far. No
sound of stirring and active humanity. Nothing to touch the
perfect repose. But every lesson of the place could be heard
more distinctly amid that silence of all other voices. Except,
indeed, Nature's voice; that was not silent: and neither did
it jar with the other. The very light of the evening fell more
tenderly upon the old grey stones and the thick grass in that
place.
Fleda and Mrs. Rossitur went softly to one spot where the
grass was not grown, and where the bright white marble caught
the eye and spoke of grief, fresh too. O that that were grey
and moss-grown like the others! The mother placed herself
where the staring black letters of Hugh's name could not
remind her so harshly that it no more belonged to the living;
and, sitting down on the ground, hid her face, to struggle
through the parting agony once more, with added bitterness.
Fleda stood a while sharing it, for with her too it was the
last time in all likelihood. If she had been alone, her grief
might have witnessed itself bitterly and uncontrolled: but the
selfish relief was foregone, for the sake of another, that it
might be in her power by and by to minister to a heart yet
sorer and weaker than hers. The tears that fell so quietly and
so fast upon the foot of Hugh's grave were all the deeper
drawn and richer fraught.
A while she stood there; and then passed round to a group a
little way off, that had as dear and strong claims upon her
love and memory. These were not fresh, not very; oblivion had
not come there yet only Time's softening hand. Was it
softening? for Fleda's head was bent down further here, and
tears rained faster. It was hard to leave these! The cherished
names that from early years had lived in her child's heart
from this their last earthly abiding-place she was to part
company. Her mother's and her father's graves were there, side
by side; and never had Fleda's heart so clung to the old grey
stones, never had the faded lettering seemed so dear of the
dear names and of the words of faith and hope that were their
dying or living testimony. And next to them was her
grandfather's resting-place; and with that sunshiny green
mound came a throng of strangely tender and sweet
associations, more even than with the other two. His gentle,
venerable, dignified figure rose before her, and her heart
yearned towards it. In imagination Fleda pressed again to her
breast the withered hand that had led her childhood so kindly;
and overcome here for a little, she kneeled down upon the sod,
and bent her head till the long grass almost touched it, in an
agony of human sorrow. Could she leave them? and for ever in
this world? and be content to see on more these dear memorials
till others like them should be raised for herself, far away?
But then stole in consolations not human, nor of man's
devising the words that were written upon her mother's
tombstone
"_Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him_."
It was like the march of angels' feet over the turf. And her
mother had been a meek child of faith, and her father and
grandfather, though strong men, had bowed like little children
to the same rule. Fleda's head bent lower yet, and she wept,
even aloud, but it was one-half in pure thankfulness and a joy
that the world knows nothing of. Doubtless they and she were
one; doubtless, though the grass now covered their graves, the
heavenly bond in which they were held would bring them
together again in light, to a new and more beautiful life that
should know no severing. Asleep in Jesus; and even as he had
risen so should they they and others that she loved all
whom she loved best. She could leave their graves; and with an
unspeakable look of thanks to Him who had brought life and
immortality to light, she did; but not till she had there once
again remembered her mother's prayer, and her aunt Miriam's
words, and prayed that rather anything might happen to her
than that prosperity and the world's favour should draw her
from the simplicity and humility of a life above the world.
Rather than not meet them in joy at the last, oh, let her want
what she most wished for in this world!
If riches have their poisonous snares, Fleda carried away from
this place a strong antidote. With a spirit strangely simple,
pure, and calm, she went back to her aunt.
Poor Mrs. Rossitur was not quieted, but at Fleda's touch and
voice, gentle and loving as the spirit of love and gentleness
could make them, she tried to rouse herself; lifted up her
weary head, and clasped her arms about her niece. The manner
of it went to Fleda's heart, for there was in it both a
looking to her for support and a clinging to her as another
dear thing she was about to lose. Fleda could not speak for
the heart-ache.
"It is harder to leave this place than all the rest," Mrs.
Rossitur murmured, after some little time had passed on.
"He is not here," said Fleda's soothing voice. It set her aunt
to crying again.
"No I know it," she said.
"We shall see him again. Think of that."
"_You_ will," said Mrs. Rossitur, very sadly.
"And so will you, dear aunt Lucy _dear_ aunt Lucy you
promised him?"
"Yes" sobbed Mrs. Rossitur "I promised him but I am such
a poor creature."
"So poor that Jesus cannot save you? or will not? No, dear
aunt Lucy you do not think that; only trust him you do
trust him now, do you not?"
A fresh gush of tears came with the answer, but it was in the
affirmative; and, after a few minutes, Mrs. Rossitur grew more
quiet.
"I wish something were done to this," she said, looking at the
fresh earth beside her; "if we could have planted something "
"I have thought of it a thousand times," said Fleda, sighing;
"I would have done it long ago if I could have got here;
but it doesn't matter, aunt Lucy. I wish I could have done
it."
"You?" said Mrs. Rossitur; "my poor child! you have been
wearing yourself out working for me. I never was worth
anything!" she said, hiding her face again.
"When you have been the dearest and best mother to me? Now
that is not right, aunt Lucy look up and kiss me."
The pleading sweet tone of voice was not to be resisted. Mrs.
Rossitur looked up and kissed her earnestly enough, but with
unabated self-reproach.
"I don't deserve to kiss you, for I have let you try yourself
beyond your strength. How you look! Oh, how you look!"
"Never mind how I look," said Fleda, bringing her face so
close that her aunt could not see it. "You helped me all you
could, aunt Lucy don't talk so and I shall look well
enough by and by, I am not so very tired."
"You always were so!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur, clasping her in
her arms again: "and now I am going to lose you, too. My dear
Fleda! that gives me more pleasure than anything else in the
world!"
But it was a pleasure well cried over.
"We shall all meet again, I hope I will hope," said Mrs.
Rossitur, meekly, when Fleda had risen from her arms.
"Dear aunty! but before that in England you will come to
see me. Uncle Rolf will bring you."
Even then, Fleda could not say even that without the blood
mounting to her face. Mrs. Rossitur shook her head, and
sighed; but smiled a little, too, as if that delightful chink
of possibility let some light in.
"I shouldn't like to see Mr. Carleton now," she said, "for I
could not look him in the face; and I am afraid he wouldn't
want to look in mine, he would be so angry with me."
The sun was sinking low on that fair May afternoon, and they
had two miles to walk to get home. Slowly and lingeringly they
moved away.
The talk with her aunt had shaken Fleda's calmness, and she
could have cried now with all her heart; but she constrained
herself. They stopped a moment at the fence, to look the last
before turning their backs upon the place. They lingered, and
still Mrs. Rossitur did not move, and Fleda could not take
away her eyes.
It was that prettiest time of nature, which, while it shows
indeed the shade side of everything, makes it the occasion of
a fair contrast. The grave-stones cast long shadows over the
ground, foretokens of night where another night was resting
already; the longest stretched away from the head of Hugh's
grave. But the rays of the setting sun, softly touching the
grass and the face of the white tombstone, seemed to say
"Thy brother shall rise again!" Light upon the grave! The
promise kissing the record of death! It was impossible to
look in calmness. Fleda bowed her head upon the paling, and
cried with a straitened heart, for grief and gratitude
together.
Mrs. Rossitur had not moved when Fleda looked up again. The
sun was yet lower the sunbeams, more slant, touched not only
that bright white stone they passed on beyond, and carried
the promise to those other grey ones, a little further off;
that she had left yes, for the last time; and Fleda's
thoughts went forward swiftly to the time of the promise
"_Then_ shall be brought to pass the saying which is written,
Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and
the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which
giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ." And
then, as she looked, the sunbeams might have been a choir of
angels in light, singing, ever so softly, "Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men."
With a full heart Fleda clasped her aunt's arm, and they went
gently down the lane without saying one word to each other,
till they had left the grave-yard far behind them and were in
the high road again.
Fleda internally thanked Mr. Carleton for what he had said to
her on a former occasion, for the thought of his words had
given her courage, or strength, to go beyond her usual reserve
in speaking to her aunt; and she thought her words had done
good.