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?"
"O 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 knew 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 your 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. "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 wagon 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 ain't 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 mantelpiece, 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 fireplace and the
little household fairy whose childish ministrations had given 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 the 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 I 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
sympathy on 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 shewed her increasingly
weary. Nothing shewed 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 tonight--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 shew 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 tonight? 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 unmistakable
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 know 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 of 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 well
nigh 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 recognize with
unspeakable gratitude and admiration the kindness and grace that were
always exerted for her pleasure. If her good-will 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.