Daughter, they seem to say,
Peace to thy heart!
We too, yes, daughter,
Have been as thou art.
Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed,
Seeing in part,--
Tried, troubled, tempted,--
Sustained,--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 Eolian 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 he 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
wood-cock--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 forever." 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 visiter, 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 visiter 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 recognize 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."
"Oh 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 downs 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. Oh 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 awhile 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.
Awhile 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 no 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 angel's 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 clapping 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."
[Illustration: Slowly and lingeringly they moved away.]
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
graveyard 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.