’Lisbeth’s kind face fairly beamed as she spoke, and her eyes were moist. “If you’d known,” she went on, wiping them with the corner of her apron, “the setbacks that boy’s had, and the big pack of them old printed things he’s got saved up—he’s the most perseverin’ critter—There! here ’m I standin’ talkin’, instead of givin’ the letter to him this minute!” She ran up-stairs in her quick, nervous way, and, as they all sat round the uneven table that night, the light in the young man’s eyes showed that ’Lisbeth had not mistaken the contents of the mail.
“I’m trying to do my duty on the farm,” he told Florence afterward, “and at the same time to find whether I really have a message to the world, or a part of it, however small. I always have to remember the reply of the old Scotch minister who was asked by an anxious young pulpit aspirant whether he thought he had a call to preach. ‘Try it, mon,’ he said; ‘try it, an’ dootless ye’ll succeed, gin ye find oot ’at onybody has a ca’ to hear ye.’ I shouldn’t want to be ‘stickit,’” he added, smiling.
“But—pardon me, Mr. Wesley—what kind of writing do you mean to do? There are so manybranches, you know: poetry, fiction, history, essays”—
“That is just what I must discover. The main thing is not the form, but the substance. I want to write that which shall comfort and strengthen people, help them when they are in trouble, give them rest when they are tired, make life bright and cheery for them when the world seems gray.” He spoke with kindling eyes. “If I have ever written—if I shall ever write—a line that does not, in some poor way, however feeble, tend to this result, I pray that it may be blotted out, destroyed with the paper on which it is printed!”
This talk was followed by others of like nature. By degrees Wesley, finding a sympathetic listener always ready, and a kind but firm critic as well, fell insensibly into the habit of reading, at first passages here and there, afterward whole articles, to the gentle, dark-haired girl who was so quick to catch the deeper significance he had intended in this or that turn of thought and reflect it in her intent brown eyes.
So the spring wore on, and then came summer, with its long, fair days, its fragrant hay-fields, its never-ceasing chirp and whir of insect life. Month after month passed, and still Florence lingered with her kind friends. With the oppressive heats of August the old man had felt his strength fail rapidly, and spent much of his time within-doors, lying upon the lounge or in the stuffed rocking-chair, and needing many little offices from those around. Thisspecial duty Florence from the first assumed, and more loving care or regard to his slightest want he could not have received from a granddaughter. She would read or talk softly to him by the hour, would listen patiently to his childish, halting speech, and move lightly to and fro in his service, until he would have no one else about him, lying perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, when she was out of the house, until the familiar footfall or the pleasant voice told of her return.
As the flowers in the little garden fell before the early frosts and the maple boughs began to kindle through the mellow autumn haze, the life of the old man, weary with its long stay upon earth, was plainly preparing to lay aside its worn-out garments; and one bright September morning when the first rays of the sun found their way through the little window-panes of the low-browed east chamber, Florence knew that the moment had come.
She had been sitting up all night, and now stepped quickly across the kitchen to call the other members of the household. They came, and the final long, tired breath was drawn at last. They waited, but no more came. Wesley turned to Florence, took her hand and held it silently for a moment, and then, in the quiet country way, went out to give notice of the death, have the bell tolled, and arrange for the funeral.
In the loneliness that fell upon the old house during the next few weeks, Florence made no effort to go. It was plain that she was needed, for death, nomatter how long or fully expected, is an awful visitor at the last, and leaves behind him an oppression which cannot be soon thrown off. So it was Florence who quietly carried away the funeral flowers after the family had returned from the little churchyard, it was she who threw open the blinds of grandfather’s room and let in the sweet, fresh sunshine, and it was she who, without forcing an unwelcome cheerfulness upon the rest, was nevertheless the light of the house from the time when her bright face, full of sympathy, greeted ’Lisbeth in the gray November mornings until the three gathered about the cosy tea-table by the flickering light of the fire.
Once her mother came down for a visit of a day or two, which lengthened into a fortnight. She had offered to pay for her daughter’s accommodations, to the intense astonishment and displeasure of ’Lisbeth.
“She earns her board, every bit of it,” said that lady with energy. “I don’t know what I should do without her workin’ and singin’ round the house. You jest let her stay till she wants to go,—that is, ma’am, if you can spare her yourself. She’s gainin’ in health every day of her life, and when she’s ready she’ll take hold as she never did before, I can tell you.”
So matters were left as they were, until, with a start, Florence remembered, one bright, cold afternoon, that it was just a year since she had been carried in through the front door that bitter night.
Wesley had come in from his work a few momentsbefore, glowing with the exercise and the keen air, to ask her to take a sleigh-ride with him that evening. The roads were fine, he said, and the colt, not having been out for a week, was in the best of spirits. There was a full moon, too, and they would celebrate Christmas Eve by this drive, just by way of contrast with that of a year ago.
In gayest mood, therefore, Florence stood upon the broad door-stone in front of the house when, a few hours later, the colt came jingling up from the barn with a light step, plainly considering the sleigh and its load the most stupendous joke conceivable, really nothing at all for a strong young fellow like him; it was difficult for him, on the whole, to realize that he was in harness at all. That his driver, however, was hardly inclined to allow him to forget that fact was evident from the even, steady rein and the firm voice behind it.
For a few moments, as Florence took her place beside Wesley, she felt unaccountably shy; this soon wore off in the rush of sweet, cool air past their cheeks and the wonderful beauty of the night. How the starlight twinkled and danced from each little bright point above the white, silent world, waiting for the far-off chords of angel music! Christmas Eve. No sound in the air but the silvery voice of the bells and the murmur of the pines, “Peace, peace on earth.”
Wesley stooped to arrange the heavy fur robe more warmly about his companion. Then he turned and looked into her earnest, upturned face. “Doyou know,” he said, quietly, “what I should label my picture if I were to paint your portrait? ’A Brown Study.’”
Florence laughed a little: “I was only thinking how very contented I was, and how much more happiness this Christmas looks back upon than the last.”
“Miss Amory, are you in a mood for answering questions to-night?” He felt her start slightly under the robe. “Because, you know, you have never passed that examination.”
There was something in his voice, an earnestness underlying his light words, that made her turn her head quickly to meet his glance.
At that moment they were passing through a belt of woods where the brightness of the sky and the faint light of the rising moon made the shadows cower thick and black beside every log and snowy mound.
Whether the young horse had spied one of these stretching into the road, or she had jarred the reins by her involuntary movement, Florence never knew. It happened like a lightning-stroke,—the sudden quiver of the colt from head to foot, and at the same instant the sharp word of command from Wesley, then the plunge ahead. In one terrified glance at the half-maddened animal she saw a fragment of leather hanging from the foam-covered bit. The rein had parted under the strain, and the remnant lay loose and worse than useless in the driver’s hand.
The horse was bounding wildly along the icy road, with the light sleigh swaying from side to side, half the time upon one runner, threatening every moment to overturn.
“Florence, will you do what I say?”
“Yes.”
She did not mind the name. Were they not together in the shadow of death? Oh, that awful whirl of hoof-beats! the utter helplessness of it all; the mockery of the cushioned seats and warm wraps!
But there was no time for thought. Wesley was taking the heavy buffalo-robe and turning it with quick, skillful hands, as she had seen him turn a paper at home when he was reading aloud to them all in the quiet evenings around the old brick fireplace. His calmness gave her strength.
“Take this corner,” he said. “Hold it with the fur up. Now let the rest of the robe fall slowly over the dasher in front of the whiffletree. When I give the word, lower the whole instantly, as I do, keeping your hold of the upper corner, so that the lower part will clog the runners. Do you understand?”
She nodded. There was little time now to spare. They knew the road well enough to remember the clump of oaks just ahead of them. There was a sudden turn there, to avoid a ledge where the workmen had blasted for the bridge last summer.
Florence crouched in the bottom of the sleigh,set her teeth hard, and, with both hands buried in the long fur, waited.
The ledge came in sight, ugly and black.
“Now!”
For an instant it seemed as if the slender wrists would break, or that she must be drawn over the dasher and thrown under the horse’s hoofs. She never thought of letting go her hold. All her New England heroism came to her aid, and the robe did not gain an inch.
Gradually the tired horse felt the heavy drag, aided by a slight ascent in the road. His speed slackened; the wild run became a clumsy gallop,—slower,—slower. Then came the soothing tones of his driver, and he turned his ears back to listen. In another moment Wesley was out of the sleigh and at his head. The danger was over.
The full moon was now looking down from the eastern sky, and pouring its flood of dreamy light over the cruel ledges.
Wesley led the trembling horse, now wholly subdued, to an oak beside the road, and fastened him securely enough this time. Then he went back to the sleigh. He had not spoken before.
She was still crouching in front of the seat, with her pale face resting against the cushions. It was a very white little hand that was held out in the moonlight to meet his. He took it, and did not let it go. “Florence!” He felt the little hand flutter in his own, but still he did not let it go. Half turning, he drew the torn robe about her, his handlingering on every fold. “Florence, may I try to keep you from cold and darkness and death so long as I live?” Ah, how quick his ears were to catch that wee shadow of a whisper! No one else could have heard it. As he gathered her white face, brown hair, little hand, fur robe, and all in his own strong arms for a moment, “That one word is my Christmas song,” he said softly. “Little princess, shall we go?” And he took his post at the horse’s head.
It was a wonderful ride back, over the gleaming road, with that tall, silent figure walking before. As they turned aside into the little open space in front of the gray old house, and halted once more by the door-stone, he came quickly to her side and held out his arms as he had a year ago. Only this time he said simply, with a great gladness in his voice, “Come, Florence; we have reached home!”