Zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment.
Fairfax.
Barby undid bolt and lock and Fleda met the traveller in the hall. She was
a lady; her air and dress shewed that, though the latter was very plain.
"Does Mr. Rossitur live here?" was her first word.
Fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the sitting room. But the
light falling upon a form and face that had seen more wear and tear than
time, gave her no clue as to the who or what of the person before her. The
stranger's hurried look round the room seemed to expect something.
"Are they all gone to bed?"
"All but me," said Fleda.
"We have been delayed--we took a wrong road--we've been riding for hours
to find the place--hadn't the right direction."--Then looking keenly at
Fleda, from whose vision an electric spark of intelligence had scattered
the clouds, she said;
"I am Marion Rossitur."
"I knew it!" said Fleda, with lips and eyes that gave her already a
sister's welcome; and they were folded in each other's arms almost as
tenderly and affectionately, on the part of one at least, as if there had
really been the relationship between them. But more than surprise and
affection struck Fleda's heart.
"And where are they all, Fleda? Can't I see them?"
"You must wait till I have prepared them--Hugh and aunt Lucy are not
very well. I don't know that it will do for you to see them at all
to-night, Marion."
"Not to-night! They are not ill?"
"No--only enough to be taken care of--not ill. But it would be
better to wait"
"And my father?"
"He is not at home."
Marion exclaimed in sorrow, and Fleda to hide the look that she felt was
on her face stooped down to kiss the child. He was a remarkably
fine-looking manly boy.
"That is your cousin Fleda," said his mother.
"No--_aunt_ Fleda," said the person thus introduced--"don't put me off
into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle Hugh's sister--and so I am your aunt
Fleda. Who are you?"
"Rolf Rossitur Schwiden."
Alas how wide are the ramifications of evil! How was what might have been
very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness. It went
through Fleda's heart with a keen pang when she heard that name and looked
on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain
that had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but the child. He
already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with
his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and
looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. Fleda
was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen.
"Who is it?" was Barby's immediate question.
"Aunt Lucy's daughter."
"She don't look much like her!" said Barby intelligently.
"They will want something to eat, Barby."
"I'll put the kettle on. It'll boil directly. I'll go in there and fix up
the fire."
A word or two more, and then Fleda ran up to speak to her aunt and Hugh.
Her aunt she found in a state of agitation that was frightful. Even
Fleda's assurances, with all the soothing arts she could bring to bear
were some minutes before they could in any measure tranquillize her.
Fleda's own nerves were in no condition to stand another shock when she
left her and went to Hugh's door. But she could get no answer from him
though she spoke repeatedly.
She did not return to her aunt's room. She went down stairs and brought up
Barby and a light from thence.
Hugh was lying senseless and white; not whiter than his adopted sister as
she stood by his side. Her eye went to her companion.
"Not a bit of it!" said Barby--"he's in nothing but a faint--just run down
stairs and get the vinegar bottle, Fleda--the pepper vinegar.--Is there
any water here?--"
Fleda obeyed; and watched, she could do little more, the efforts of Barby,
who indeed needed no help, with the cold water, the vinegar, and rubbing
of the limbs. They were for sometime unsuccessful; the fit was a severe
one; and Fleda was exceedingly terrified before any signs of returning
life came to reassure her.
"Now you go down stairs and keep quiet!" said Barby, when Hugh was fairly
restored and had smiled a faint answer to Fleda's kiss and
explanations,--"Go, Fleda! you ain't fit to stand. Go and sit down some
place, and I'll be along directly and see how the fire burns. Don't you
s'pose Mis' Rossitur could come in and sit in this easy-chair a spell
without hurting herself?"
It occurred to Fleda immediately that it might do more good than harm to
her aunt if her attention were diverted even by another cause of anxiety.
She gently summoned her, telling her no more than was necessary to fit her
for being Hugh's nurse; and in a very few minutes she and Barby were at
liberty to attend to other claims upon them. But it sank into her heart,
"Hugh will not get over this!"--and when she entered the sitting-room,
what Mr. Carleton years before had said of the wood-flower was come true
in its fullest extent--"a storm-wind had beaten it to the ground."
She was able literally to do no more than Barby had said, sit down and
keep herself quiet. Miss Elster was in her briskest mood; flew in and out;
made up the fire in the sitting-room and put on the kettle in the kitchen,
which she had been just about doing when called to see Hugh. The
much-needed supper of the travellers must be still waited for; but the
fire was burning now, the room was cosily warm and bright, and Marion drew
up her chair with a look of thoughtful contentment. Fleda felt as if some
conjuror had been at work here for the last few hours--the room looked so
like and felt so unlike itself.
"Are you going to be ill too, Fleda?" said Marion suddenly. "You are
looking--very far from well!"
"I shall have a headache to-morrow," said Fleda quietly. "I generally know
the day beforehand."
"Does it always make you look so?"
"Not always--I am somewhat tired."
"Where is my father gone?"
"I don't know.--Rolf, dear," said Fleda bending forward to the little
fellow who was giving expression to some very fidgety impatience,--"what
is the matter? what do you want?"
The child's voice fell a little from its querulousness towards the sweet
key in which the questions had been put, but he gave utterance to a very
decided wish for "bread and butter."
"Come here," said Fleda, reaching out a hand and drawing him, certainly
with no force but that of attraction, towards her easy-chair,--"come here
and rest yourself in this nice place by me--see, there is plenty of room
for you;--and you shall have bread and butter and tea, and something else
too, I guess, just as soon as Barby can get it ready."
"Who is Barby?" was the next question, in a most uncompromising
tone of voice.
"You saw the woman that came in to put wood on the fire--that was
Barby--she is very good and kind and will do anything for you if you
behave yourself."
The child muttered, but so low as to shew some unwillingness that his
words should reach the ears that were nearest him, that "he wasn't going
to behave himself."
Fleda did not choose to hear; and went on with composing observations till
the fair little face she had drawn to her side was as bright as the sun
and returned her smile with interest.
"You have an admirable talent at moral suasion, Fleda," said the mother
half smiling;--"I wish I had it."
"You don't need it so much here."
"Why not?"
"It may do very well for me, but I think not so well for you."
"Why?--what do you mean? I think it is the only way in the world to bring
up children--the only way fit for rational beings to be guided."
Fleda smiled, though the faintest indication that lips could give, and
shook her head,--ever so little.
"Why do you do that?--tell me."
"Because in my limited experience," said Fleda as she passed her fingers
through the boy's dark locks of hair,--"in every household where 'moral
suasion' has been the law, the children have been the administrators of
it. Where is your husband?"
"I have lost him--years ago--" said Marion with a quick expressive glance
towards the child. "I never lost what I at first thought I had, for I
never had it. Do you understand?"
Fleda's eyes gave a sufficient answer.
"I am a widow--these five years--in all but what the law would require,"
Marion went on. "I have been alone since then--except my child. He was two
years old then; and since then I have lived such a life, Fleda!--"
"Why didn't you come home?"
"Couldn't--the most absolute reason in the world. Think of it!--Come home!
It was as much as I could do to stay there!"
Those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on.
"I have wanted everything--except trouble. I have done everything--except
ask alms. I have learned, Fleda, that death is not the worst form in which
distress can come."
Fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to the brow of
little Rolf.
"Death would have been a trifle!" said Marion. "I mean,--not that _I_
should have wished to leave Rolf alone in the world; but if I had been
left--I mean I would rather wear outside than inside mourning."
Fleda looked up again, and at her.
"O I was so mistaken, Fleda!" she said clasping her hands,--"so
mistaken!--in everything;--so disappointed,--in all my hopes. And the loss
of my fortune was the cause of it all."
Nay verily! thought Fleda; but she said nothing; she hung her head again;
and Marion after a pause went on to question her about an endless string
of matters concerning themselves and other people, past doings and present
prospects, till little Rolf soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of
voices fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep, his
head resting upon Fleda.
"Here is one comfort for you, Marion," she said looking down at the dark
eyelashes which lay on a cheek rosy and healthy as ever seven years old
knew;--"he is a beautiful child, and I am sure, a fine one."
"It is thanks to his beauty that I have ever seen home again," said
his mother.
Fleda had no heart this evening to speak words that were not necessary;
her eyes asked Marion to explain herself.
"He was in Hyde Park one day--I had a miserable lodging not far from it,
and I used to let him go in there, because he must go somewhere, you
know,--I couldn't go with him--"
"Why not?"
"Couldn't!--Oh Fleda!--I have seen changes!--He was there one afternoon,
alone, and had got into difficulty with some bigger boys--a little fellow,
you know,--he stood his ground man-fully, but his strength wasn't equal to
his spirit, and they were tyrannizing over him after the fashion of boys,
who are I do think the ugliest creatures in creation!" said Mme. Schwiden,
not apparently reckoning her own to be of the same gender,--"and a
gentleman who was riding by stopped and interfered and took him out of
their hands, and then asked him his name,--struck I suppose with his
appearance. Very kind, wasn't it? men so seldom bother themselves about
what becomes of children, I suppose there were thousands of others riding
by at the same time."
"Very kind," Fleda said.
"When he heard what his name was he gave his horse to his servant and
walked home with Rolf; and the next day he sent me a note, speaking of
having known my father and mother and asking permission to call upon
me.--I never was so mortified, I think, in my life," said Marion after a
moment's hesitation.
"Why?" said Fleda, not a little at a loss to follow out the chain of her
cousin's reasoning.
"Why I was in such a sort of a place--you don't know, Fleda; I was working
then for a fancy store-keeper, to support myself--living in a miserable
little two rooms.--If it had been a stranger I wouldn't have cared so
much, but somebody that had known us in different times--I hadn't a thing
in the world to answer the note upon but a half sheet of letter paper."
Fleda's lips sought Rolf's forehead again, with a curious rush of tears
and smiles at once. Perhaps Marion had caught the expression of her
countenance, for she added with a little energy,
"It is nothing to be surprised at--you would have felt just the same;
for I knew by his note, the whole style of it, what sort of a person
it must be."
"My pride has been a good deal chastened," Fleda said gently.
"I never want _mine_ to be, beyond minding everything," said Marion; "and
I don't believe yours is. I don't know why in the world I did not refuse
to see him--I had fifty minds to--but he had won Rolf's heart, and I was a
little curious, and it was something strange to see the face of a friend,
any better one than my old landlady, so I let him come."
"Was _she_ a friend?" said Fleda.
"If she hadn't been I should not have lived to be here--the best soul that
ever was; but still, you know, she could do nothing for me but be as kind
as she could live;--this was something different. So I let him come, and
he came the next day."
Fleda was silent, a little wondering that Marion should be so frank with
her, beyond what she had ever been in former years; but as she guessed,
Mme. Schwiden's heart was a little opened by the joy of finding herself at
home and the absolute necessity of talking to somebody; and there was a
further reason which Fleda could not judge of, in her own face and manner.
Marion needed no questions and went on again after stopping a moment.
"I was so glad in five minutes,--I can't tell you, Fleda,--that I had let
him come. I forget entirely about how I looked and the wretched place I
was in. He was all that I had supposed, and a great deal more, but somehow
he hadn't been in the room three minutes before I didn't care at all for
all the things I had thought would trouble me. Isn't it strange what a
witchery some people have to make you forget everything but themselves!"
"The reason is, I think, because that is the only thing they forget,"
said Fleda, whose imagination however was entirely busy with the
_singular_ number.
"I shall never forget him," said Marion. "He was very kind to me--I cannot
tell how kind--though I never realized it till afterwards; at the time it
always seemed only a sort of elegant politeness which he could not help. I
never saw so elegant a person. He came two or three times to see me and he
took Rolf out with him I don't know how often, to drive; and he sent me
fruit--such fruit!--and game, and flowers; and I had not had anything of
the kind, not even seen it, for so long--I can't tell you what it was to
me. He said he had known my father and mother well when they were abroad."
"What, was his name?" said Fleda quickly.
"I don't know--he never told me--and I never could ask him. Don't you know
there are some people you can't do anything with but just what they
please? There wasn't the least thing like stiffness--you never saw anybody
less stiff,--but I never dreamed of asking him questions except when he
was out of sight. Why, do you know him?" she said suddenly.
"When you tell me who he was I'll tell you," said Fleda smiling.
"Have you ever heard this story before?"
"Certainly not!"
"He is somebody that knows us very well," said Marion, "for he asked after
every one of the family in particular."
"But what had all this to do with your getting home?"
"I don't wonder you ask. The day after his last visit came a note saying
that he owed a debt in my family which it had never been in his power to
repay; that he could not give the enclosure to my father, who would not
recognize the obligation; and that if I would permit him to place it in my
hands I should confer a singular favour upon him."
"And what was the enclosure?"
"Five hundred pounds."
Fleda's head went down again and tears dropped fast upon little
Rolf's shoulder.
"I suppose my pride has been a little broken too," Marion went on, "or I
shouldn't have kept it. But then if you saw the person, and the whole
manner of it--I don't know how I could ever have sent it back. Literally I
couldn't, though, for I hadn't the least clue. I never saw or heard from
him afterwards."
"When was this, Marion?"
"Last spring."
"Last spring!--then what kept you so long?"
"Because of the arrival of eyes that I was afraid of. I dared not make the
least move that would show I could move. I came off the very first packet
after I was free."
"How glad you must be!" said Fleda.
"Glad!--"
"Glad of what, mamma?" said Rolf, whose dreams the entrance of Barby had
probably disturbed.
"Glad of bread and butter," said his mother; "wake up--here it is."
The young gentleman declared, rubbing his eyes, that he did not want it
now; but however Fleda contrived to dispel that illusion, and bread and
butter was found to have the same dulcifying properties at Queechy that it
owns in all the rest of the world. Little Rolf was completely mollified
after a hearty meal and was put with his mother to enjoy most unbroken
slumbers in Fleda's room. Fleda herself, after a look at Hugh, crept to
her aunt's bed; whither Barby very soon despatched Mrs. Rossitur, taking
in her place the arm-chair and the watch with most invincible good-will
and determination; and sleep at last took the joys and sorrows of that
disturbed household into its kind custody.
Fleda was the first one awake, and was thinking how she should break the
last news to her aunt, when Mrs. Rossitur put her arms round her and after
a most affectionate look and kiss, spoke to what she supposed had been her
niece's purpose.
"You want taking care of more than I do, poor Fleda!"
"It was not for that I came," said Fleda;--"I had to give up my room to
the travellers."
"Travellers!--"
A very few words more brought out the whole, and Mrs. Rossitur sprang out
of bed and rushed to her daughter's room.
Fleda hid her face in the bed to cry--for a moment's passionate indulgence
in weeping while no one could see. But a moment was all. There was work to
do and she must not disable herself. She slowly got up, feeling thankful
that her headache did not announce itself with the dawn, and that she
would be able to attend to the morning affairs and the breakfast, which
was something more of a circumstance now with the new additions to the
family. More than that she knew from sure signs she would not be able to
accomplish.
It was all done and done well, though with what secret flagging of mind
and body nobody knew or suspected. The business of the day was arranged,
Barby's course made clear, Hugh visited and smiled upon; and then Fleda
set herself down in the breakfast-room to wear out the rest of the day in
patient suffering. Her little spaniel, who seemed to understand her
languid step and faint tones and know what was coming, crept into her lap
and looked up at her with a face of equal truth and affection; and after a
few gentle acknowledging touches from the loved hand, laid his head on her
knees, and silently avowed his determination of abiding her fortunes for
the remainder of the day.
They had been there for some hours. Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter were
gathered in Hugh's room; whither Rolf also after sundry expressions of
sympathy for Fleda's headache, finding it a dull companion, had departed.
Pain of body rising above pain of mind had obliged as far as possible
even thought to be still; when a loud rap at the front door brought the
blood in a sudden flush of pain to Fleda's face. She knew instinctively
what it meant.
She heard Barby's distinct accents saying that somebody was "not well."
The other voice was more smothered. But in a moment the door of the
breakfast-room opened and Mr. Thorn walked in.
The intensity of the pain she was suffering effectually precluded Fleda
from discovering emotion of any kind. She could not move. Only King
lifted up his head and looked at the intruder, who seemed shocked, and
well he might. Fleda was in her old headache position; bolt upright on the
sofa, her feet on the rung of a chair while her hands supported her by
their grasp upon the back of it. The flush had passed away leaving the
deadly paleness of pain, which the dark rings under her eyes shewed to be
well seated.
"Miss Ringgan!" said the gentleman, coming up softly as to something that
frightened him,--"my dear Miss Fleda!--I am distressed!--You are very
ill--can nothing be done to relieve you?"
Fleda's lips rather than her voice said, "Nothing."
"I would not have come in on any account to disturb you if I had known--I
did not understand you were more than a trifle ill--"
Fleda wished he would mend his mistake, as his understanding certainly by
this time was mended. But that did not seem to be his conclusion of the
best thing to do.
"Since I am here,--can you bear to hear me say three words? without too
much pain?--I do not ask you to speak"--
A faint whispered "yes" gave him leave to go on. She had never looked at
him. She sat like a statue; to answer by a motion of her head was more
than could be risked.
He drew up a chair and sat down, while King looked at him with eyes of
suspicious indignation.
"I am not surprised," he said gently, "to find you suffering. I knew how
your sensibilities must feel the shock of yesterday--I would fain have
spared it you--I will spare you all further pain on the same score if
possible--Dear Miss Ringgan, since I am here and time is precious may I
say one word before I cease troubling you--take it for granted that you
were made acquainted with the contents of my letter to Mrs.
Rossitur?--with _all_ the contents?--were you?"
Again Fleda's lips almost voicelessly gave the answer.
"Will you give me what I ventured to ask for?" said he gently,--"the
permission to work _for you?_ Do not trouble those precious lips to
speak--the answer of these fingers will be as sure a warrant to me as all
words that could be spoken that you do not deny my request."
He had taken one of her hands in his own. But the fingers lay with
unanswering coldness and lifelessness for a second in his clasp and then
were drawn away and took determinate hold of the chair-back. Again the
flush came to Fleda's cheeks, brought by a sharp pain,--oh, bodily and
mental too!--and after a moment's pause, with a distinctness of utterance
that let him know every word, she said,
"A generous man would not ask it, sir."
Thorn sprang up, and several times paced the length of the room, up and
down, before he said anything more. He looked at Fleda, but the flush was
gone again, and nothing could seem less conscious of his presence. Pain
and patience were in every line of her face, but he could read nothing
more, except a calmness as unmistakably written. Thorn gave that face
repeated glances as he walked, then stood still and read it at leisure.
Then he came to her side again and spoke in a different voice.
"You are so unlike anybody else," he said, "that you shall make me unlike
myself. I will do freely what I hoped to do with the light of your smile
before me. You shall hear no more of this affair, neither you nor the
world--I have the matter perfectly in my own hands--it shall never raise a
whisper again. I will move heaven and earth rather than fail--but there is
no danger of my failing. I will try to prove myself worthy of your esteem
even where a man is most excusable for being selfish."
[Illustration: Barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put
in use.]
He took one of her cold hands again,--Fleda could not help it without more
force than she cared to use, and indeed pain would by this time almost
have swallowed up other sensation if every word and touch had not sent it
in a stronger throb to her very finger ends. Thorn bent his lips to her
hand, twice kissed it fervently, and then left her; much to King's
satisfaction, who thereupon resigned himself to quiet slumbers.
His mistress knew no such relief. Excitement had dreadfully aggravated her
disorder, at a time when it was needful to banish even thought as far as
possible. Pain effectually banished it now, and Barby coming in a little
after Mr. Thorn had gone found her quite unable to speak and scarce able
to breathe, from agony. Barby's energies and fainting remedies were again
put in use; but pain reigned triumphant for hours, and when its hard rule
was at last abated Fleda was able to do nothing but sleep like a child for
hours more.
Towards a late tea-time she was at last awake, and carrying on a very
one-sided conversation with Rolf, her own lips being called upon for
little more than a smile now and then. King, not able to be in her lap,
had curled himself up upon a piece of his mistress's dress and as close
within the circle of her arms as possible, where Fleda's hand and his head
were on terms of mutual satisfaction.
"I thought you wouldn't permit a dog to lie in your lap," said Marion.
"Do you remember that?" said Fleda with a smile. "Ah I have grown
tender-hearted, Marion, since I have known what it was to want comfort
myself. I have come to the conclusion that it is best to let everything
have all the enjoyment it can in the circumstances. King crawled into my
lap one day when I had not spirits enough to turn him out, and he has kept
the place ever since.--Little King!"--In answer to which word of
intelligence King looked in her face and wagged his tail, and then
earnestly endeavoured to lick all her fingers. Which however was a piece
of comfort she would not give him.
"Fleda," said Barby putting her head in, "I wish you'd just step out here
and tell me which cheese you'd like to have cut."
"What a fool!" said Marion. "Let her cut them all if she likes."
"She is no fool," said Fleda. She thought Barby's punctiliousness however
a little ill-timed, as she rose from her sofa and went into the kitchen.
"Well you _do_ look as if you wa'n't good for nothing but to be taken care
of!" said Barby. "I wouldn't have riz you up if it hadn't been just
tea-time, and I knowed you couldn't stay quiet much longer;"--and with a
look which explained her tactics she put into Fleda's hand a letter
directed to her aunt.
"Philetus gave it to me," she said, without a glance at Fleda's face,--"he
said it was give to him by a spry little shaver who wa'n't a mind to tell
nothin' about himself."
"Thank you, Barby!" was Fleda's most grateful return; and summoning her
aunt up-stairs she took her into her own room and locked the door before
she gave her the letter which Barby's shrewdness and delicacy had taken
such care should not reach its owner in a wrong way. Fleda watched her as
her eye ran over the paper and caught it as it fell from her fingers.
"My Dear Wife,
"That villain Thorn has got a handle of me which he will not fail to
use--you know it all I suppose, by this time--It is true that in an evil
hour, long ago, when greatly pressed, I did what I thought I should surely
undo in a few days--The time never came--I don't know why he has let it
lie so long, but he has taken it up now, and he will push it to the
extreme--There is but one thing left for me--I shall not see you again.
The rascal would never let me rest, I know, in any spot that calls itself
American ground.
"You will do better without me than with me.
"R. R."
Fleda mused over the letter for several minutes, and then touched her aunt
who had fallen on a chair with her head sunk in her hands.
"What does he mean?" said Mrs. Rossitur, looking up with a perfectly
colourless face.
"To leave the country."
"Are you sure? is that it?" said Mrs. Rossitur, rising and looking over
the words again;--"He would do anything, Fleda--"
"That is what he means, aunt Lucy;--don't you see he says he could not be
safe anywhere in America?"
Mrs. Rossitur stood eying with intense eagerness for a minute or two the
note in her niece's hand.
"Then he is gone! now that it is all settled!--And we don't know
where--and we can't get word to him--"
Her cheek which had a little brightened became perfectly white again.
"He isn't gone yet--he can't be--he cannot have left Queechy till
to-day--he will be in New York for several days yet probably."
"New York!--it may be Boston?"
"No, he would be more likely to go to New York--I am sure he would--he is
accustomed to it."
"We might write to both places," said poor Mrs. Rossitur. "I will do it
and send them off at once."
"But he might not get the letters," said Fleda thoughtfully,--"he might not
dare to ask at the post-office."
His wife looked at that possibility, and then wrung her hands.
"Oh why didn't he give us a clew!"
Fleda put an arm round her affectionately and stood thinking; stood
trembling might as well be said, for she was too weak to be
standing at all.
"What can we do, dear Fleda?" said Mrs. Rossitur in great distress. "Once
out of New York and we can get nothing to him! If he only knew that there
is no need, and that it is all over!--"
"We must do everything, aunt Lucy," said Fleda thoughtfully, "and I hope
we shall succeed yet. We will write, but I think the most hopeful other
thing we could do would be to put advertisements in the newspapers--he
would be very likely to see them."
"Advertisements!--But you couldn't--what would you put in?"
"Something that would catch his eye and nobody's else--_that_ is easy,
aunt Lucy."
"But there is nobody to put them in, Fleda,--you said uncle Orrin was
going to Boston--"
"He wasn't going there till next week, but he was to be in Philadelphia a
few days before that--the letter might miss him."
"Mr. Plumfield!--Couldn't he?"
But Fleda shook her head.
"Wouldn't do, aunt Lucy--he would do all he could, but he don't know New
York nor the papers--he wouldn't know how to manage it--he don't know
uncle Rolf--shouldn't like to trust it to him."
"Who then?--there isn't a creature we could ask--"
Fleda laid her cheek to her poor aunt's and said,
"I'll do it."
"But you must be in New York to do it, dear Fleda,--you can't do it here."
"I will go to New York."
"When?"
"To-morrow morning."
"But dear Fleda, you can't go alone! I can't let you, and you're not fit
to go at all, my poor child!--" and between conflicting feelings Mrs.
Rossitur sat down and wept without measure.
"Listen, aunt Lucy," said Fleda, pressing a hand on her
shoulder,--"listen, and don't cry so!--I'll go and make all right, if
efforts can do it. I am not going alone--I'll get Seth to go with me; and
I can sleep in the cars and rest nicely in the steamboat--I shall feel
happy and well when I know that I am leaving you easier and doing all that
can be done to bring uncle Rolf home. Leave me to manage, and don't say
anything to Marion,--it is one blessed thing that she need not know
anything about all this. I shall feel better than if I were at home and
had trusted this business to any other hands."
"_You_ are the blessing of my life," said Mrs. Rossitur.
"Cheer up, and come down and let us have some tea," said Fleda, kissing
her; "I feel as if that would make me up a little; and then I'll write
the letters. I sha'n't want but very little baggage; there'll be nothing
to pack up."
Philetus was sent up the hill with a note to Seth Plumfield, and brought
home a favorable answer. Fleda thought as she went to rest that it was
well the mind's strength could sometimes act independently of its servant
the body, hers felt so very shattered and unsubstantial.