"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--thatis 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."
"Youare 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.
I thank you for your company; but good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.--As You Like It.
I thank you for your company; but good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.--As You Like It.
The first thing next morning Seth Plumfield came down to say that he had seen Dr. Quackenboss the night before and had chanced to find out that he was going to New York too, this very day; and knowing that the doctor would be just as safe an escort as himself, Seth had made over the charge of his cousin to him; "calculating," he said, "that it would make no difference to Fleda and that he had better stay at home with his mother."
Fleda said nothing and looked as little as possible of her disappointment, and her cousin went away wholly unsuspecting of it.
"Seth Plumfield ha'n't done a smarter thing than that in a good while," Barby remarked satirically as he was shutting the door. "I should think he'd ha' hurt himself."
"I dare say the doctor will take good care of me," said Fleda;--"as good as he knows how."
"Men beat all!" said Barby impatiently.--"The little sense there is into them!--"
Fleda's sinking heart was almost ready to echo the sentiment; but nobody knew it.
Coffee was swallowed, her little travelling bag and bonnet on the sofa; all ready. Then came the doctor.
"My dear Miss Ringgan!--I am most happy of this delightful opportunity--I had supposed you were located at home for the winter. This is a sudden start."
"Is it sudden to you, Dr. Quackenboss?" said Fleda.
"Why--a--not disagreeably so," said the doctor smiling;--"nothing could be that in the present circumstances,--but I--a--I hadn't calculated upon it for much of a spell beforehand."
Fleda was vexed, and looked,--only unconversable.
"I suppose," said the doctor after a pause,--"that we have not much time to waste--a--in idle moments. Which route do you intend to travel?"
"I was thinking to go by the North River, sir."
"But the ice has collected,--I am afraid,--"
"At Albany, I know; but when I came up there was a boat every other day, and we could get there in time by the stage--this is her day."
"But we have had some pretty tight weather since, if you remember," said the doctor; "and the boats have ceased to connect with the stage. We shall have to go to Greenfield to take the Housatonic which will land us at Bridgeport on the Sound"
"Have we time to reach Greenfield this morning?"
"Oceans of time?" said the doctor delightedly; "I've got my team here and they're jumping out of their skins with having nothing to do and the weather--they'll carry us there as spry as grasshoppers--now, if you're ready, my dear Miss Ringgan!"
There was nothing more but to give and receive those speechless lip-messages that are out of the reach of words, and Mrs. Rossitur's half-spoken last charge, to take care ofherself; and with these seals upon her mission Fleda set forth and joined the doctor; thankful for one foil to curiosity in the shape of a veil and only wishing that there were any invented screen that she could place between her and hearing.
"I hope your attire is of a very warm description," said the doctor as he helped her into the wagon;--"it friz pretty hard last night and I don't think it has got out of the notion yet. If I had been consulted in any other--a--form, than that of a friend, I should have disapprobated, if you'll excuse me, Miss Ringgan's travelling again before her 'Rose of Cassius' there was in blow. I hope you have heard no evil tidings? Dr.--a--Gregory, I hope, is not taken ill?"
"I hope not, sir," said Fleda.
"He didn't look like it. A very hearty old gentleman. Not very old either, I should judge. Was he the brother of your mother or your father?"
"Neither, sir."
"Ah!--I misunderstood--I thought, but of course I was mistaken,--I thought I heard you speak to him under the title of uncle. But that is a title we sometimes give to elderly people as a term of familiarity--there is an old fellow that works for me,--he has been a long time in our family, and we always call him 'uncle Jenk.'"
Fleda was ready to laugh, cry, and be angry, in a breath. She looked straight before her and was mum.
"That 'Rose of Cassius' is a most exquisite thing!" said the doctor, recurring to the cluster of bare bushy stems in the corner of the garden. "Did Mr. Rossitur bring it with him when he came to his present residence?"
"Yes sir."
"Where is Mr. Rossitur now?"
Fleda replied, with a jump of her heart, that business affairs had obliged him to be away for a few days.
"And when does he expect to return?" said the doctor.
"I hope he will be home as soon as I am," said Fleda.
"Then you do not expect to remain long in the city this time?"
"I shall not have much of a winter at home if I do," said Fleda. "We are almost at January."
"Because," said the doctor, "in that case I should have no higher gratification than in attending upon your motions. I--a--beg you to believe, my dear Miss Ringgan, that it would afford me the--a--most particular--it would be most particularly grateful to me to wait upon you to--a--the confines of the world."
Fleda hastened to assure her officious friend that the time of her return was altogether uncertain; resolving rather to abide a guest with Mrs. Pritchard than to have Dr. Quackenboss hanging upon her motions every day of her being there. But in the mean time the doctor got upon Capt. Rossitur's subject; then came to Mr. Thorn; and then wanted to know the exact nature of Mr. Rossitur's business affairs in Michigan; through all which matters poor Fleda had to run the gauntlet of questions, interspersed with gracious speeches which she could bear even less well. She was extremely glad to reach the cars and take refuge in seeming sleep from the mongrel attentions, which if for the most part prompted by admiration owned so large a share of curiosity. Her weary head and heart would fain have courted the reality of sleep, as a refuge from more painful thoughts and a feeling of exhaustion that could scarcely support itself; but the restless roar and jumble of the rail-cars put it beyond her power. How long the hours were--how hard to wear out, with no possibility of a change of position that would give rest; Fleda would not even raise her head when they stopped, for fear of being talked to; how trying that endless noise to her racked nerves. It came to an end at last, though Fleda would not move for fear they might be only taking in wood and water.
"Miss Ringgan!" said the doctor in her ear,--"my dear Miss Ringgan!--we are here!--"
"Are we?" said Fleda, looking up;--"what other name has the place, doctor?"
"Why Bridgeport," said the doctor,--"we're at Bridgeport--now we have leave to exchange conveyances. A man feels constrained after a prolonged length of time in a place. How have you enjoyed the ride?"
"Not very well--it has seemed long. I am glad we are at the end of it!"
But as she rose and threw back her veil the doctor looked startled.
"My dear Miss Ringgan!--are you faint?"
"No sir."
"You are not well, indeed!--I am very sorry--the ride has been--Take my arm!--Ma'am," said the doctor touching a black satin cloak which filled the passage-way,--"will you have the goodness to give this lady a passport?"
But the black satin cloak preferred a straightforward manner of doing this, so their egress was somewhat delayed. Happily faintness was not the matter.
"My dear Miss Ringgan!" said the doctor as they reached the ground and the outer air,--"what was it?--the stove too powerful? You are looking--you are of a dreadfully delicate appearance!"
"I had a headache yesterday," said Fleda; "it always leaves me with a disagreeable reminder the next day. I am not ill."
But he looked frightened, and hurried her, as fast as he dared, to the steamboat; and there proposed half a dozen restoratives; the simplest of which Fleda took, and then sought delicious rest from him and from herself on the cushions of a settee. Delicious!--though she was alone, in the cabin of a steamboat, with strange forms and noisy tongues around her, the closed eyelids shut it out all; and she had time but for one resting thought of "patient continuance in well-doing," and one happy heart-look up to him who has said that he cares for his children, a look that laid her anxieties down there,--when past misery and future difficulty faded away before a sleep that lasted till the vessel reached her moorings and was made fast.
She was too weary and faint even to think during the long drive up to Bleecker-st. She was fain to let it all go--the work she had to do and the way she must set about it, and rest in the assurance that nothing could be done that night. She did not so much as hear Dr. Quackenboss's observations, though she answered a few of them, till, at the door, she was conscious of his promising to see her to-morrow and of her instant conclusion to take measures to see nobody.
How strange everything seemed. She walked through the familiar hall, feeling as if her acquaintance with every old thing was broken. There was no light in the back parlour, but a comfortable fire.
"Is my--is Dr. Gregory at home?" she asked of the girl who had let her in.
"No ma'am; he hasn't got back from Philadelphia."
"Tell Mrs. Pritchard a lady wants to see her."
Good Mrs. Pritchard was much more frightened than Dr. Quackenboss had been when she came into the back parlour to see "a lady" and found Fleda in the great arm-chair taking off her things. She poured out questions, wonderings and lamentings, not "in a breath" but in a great many; quite forgot to be glad to see her, she looked so dreadfully; and "whathadbeen the matter?" Fleda answered her,--told of yesterday's illness and to-day's journey; and met all her shocked enquiries with so composed a face and such a calm smile and bearing, that Mrs. Pritchard was almost persuaded not to believe her eyes.
"My uncle is not at home?"
"O no, Miss Fleda! I suppose he's in Philadelphy--but his motions is so little to be depended on that I never know when I have him; maybe he'll stop going through to Boston, and maybe no, and I don't know when; so anyhow I had to have a fire made and this room all ready; and ain't it lucky it was ready for you to-night!--and now he ain't here you can have the great chair all to yourself and make yourself comfortable--we can keep warmer here, I guess, than you can in the country," said the good housekeeper, giving some skilful admonishing touches to the fire;--"and you must just sit there and read and rest, and see if you can't get back your old looks again. If I thought it wasthatyou came for I'd be happy. I neverdidsee such a change in any one in five days!--"
She stood looking down at her guest with a face of very serious concern, evidently thinking much more than she chose to give utterance to.
"I am tired, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda, smiling up at her.
"I wish you had somebody to take care of you, Miss Fleda, that wouldn't let you tire yourself. It's a sin to throw your strength away so--and you don't care for looks nor nothing else when it's for other people. You're looking just as handsome, too, for all," she said, her mouth giving way a little, as she stooped down to take off Fleda's overshoes, "but that's only because you can't help it. Now what is there you'd like to have for supper!--just say and you shall have it--whatever would seem best--because I mightn't hit the right thing?"
Fleda declared her indifference to everything but a cup of tea, and her hostess bustled away to get that and tax her own ingenuity and kindness for the rest. And leaning her weary head back in the lounge Fleda tried to think,--but it was not time yet; she could only feel; feel what a sad change had come over her since she had sat there last; shut her eyes and wish she could sleep again.
But Mrs. Pritchard's hospitality must be gone through with first.
The nicest of suppers was served in the bright little parlour and her hostess was a compound of care and good will; nothing was wanting to the feast but a merry heart. Fleda could not bring that, so her performance was unsatisfactory and Mrs. Pritchard was distressed. Fleda went to her own room promising better doings to-morrow.
She awoke in the morning to the full burden of care and sorrow which sheer weakness and weariness the day before had in part laid down; to a quicker sense of the state of things than she had had yet. The blasting evil that had fallen upon them,--Fleda writhed on her bed when she thought of it. The sternest, cruellest, most inflexible, grasp of distress. Poverty may be borne, death may be sweetened, even to the survivors; butdisgrace--Fleda hid her head, as if she would shut the idea out with the light. And the ruin it had wrought. Affection killed at the root,--her aunt's happiness withered, for this world,--Hugh's life threatened,--the fair name of his family gone,--the wear and weariness of her own spirit,--but that had hardly a thought. Himself?--oh no one could tell what a possible wreck, now that self-respect and the esteem of others, those two safe-guards of character, were lost to him. "So much security has any woman in a man without religion;" she remembered those words of her aunt Miriam now; and she thought if Mr. Thorn had sought an ill wind to blow upon his pretensions he could not have pitched them better. What fairer promise, without religion, could be than her uncle had given? Reproach had never breathed against his name, and no one less than those who knew him best could fancy that he had ever given it occasion. And who could have more at stake?--and the stake was lost--that was the summing up thought.
No, it was not,--for Fleda's mind presently sprang beyond,--to the remedy; and after a little swift and earnest flitting about of thought over feasibilities and contingencies, she jumped up and dressed herself with a prompt energy which shewed a mind made up to its course. And yet when she came down to the parlour, though bending herself with nervous intentness to the work she had to do, her fingers and her heart were only stayed in their trembling by some of the happy assurances she had been fleeing to;--
"Commit thy works unto the Lord, and all thy thoughts shall be established."--
"In all thy ways acknowledge Him: He shall direct they paths."--
--Assurances, not indeed that her plans should meet with success, but that they should have the issue best for them.
She was early, but the room was warm and in order and the servant had left it. Fleda sought out paper and pencil and sat down to fashion the form of an advertisement,--the first thing to be done. She had no notion how difficult a thing till she came to do it.
"R. R. is entreated to communicate with his niece at the old place in Bleecker-street, on business of the greatest importance."
"It will not do," said Fleda to herself as she sat and looked at it,--"there is not enough to catch his eye; and there istoo muchif it caught anybody else's eye;--'R. R.', and 'his niece,' and 'Bleecker-street,'--that would tell plain enough."
"Dear uncle, F. has followed you here on business of the greatest importance. Pray let her see you--she is at the old place."
"It will not do," thought Fleda again,--"there is still less to catch his eye--I cannot trust it. And if I were to put 'Queechy' over it, that would give the clue to the Evelyns and everybody. But I had better risk anything rather than his seeing it--"
The miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame overcame her for a little; and then dashing away the tears she had no time for and locking up the strong box of her heart, she took her pencil again.
"Queechy.
"Let me see you at the old place. I have come here on urgent businessfor you.Do not deny me, for H---'s sake!"
With a trifle of alteration she thought this would do; and went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many papers, This was done and all traces of it out of the way before Mrs. Pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, Fleda prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and the newspaper offices, and set forth. It was a bright keen day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. It seemed as if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an atmosphere.
She went to the library first, and there requested the librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room the files of morning and evening papers. They were many more than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough. Paper and ink were at hand however, and making carefully her list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them.
The morning was well on by the time she could leave the library. It was yet far from the fashionable hour, however, and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the City Hall, and then crossed over the Park and plunged into a region where it was very little likely she would see a face that she knew. She saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of having studied the map of the city in the library she was forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed her notice with each one of them. Her courage almost failed her, her heart did quite, after two or three. It was a trial from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips, that were at home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. Making her slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere confusion of business was bewildering,--very, to any one come from Queechy; among crowds, of what mixed and doubtful character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole sidewalk, or perhaps edging through them, groups whose general type of character was sufficiently plain and unmixed; entering into parley with clerk after clerk who looked at such a visiter as an anomaly,--poor Fleda almost thought so too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely as far as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to assure her she was where she ought not to be. Sometimes she felt that it wasimpossibleto go on and finish her task; but a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another untried quarter or make good her entrance to some new office through a host of loungers and waiting news-boys collected round the door. Sometimes in utter discouragement she went on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a better opportunity. It was a long business; and she often had to wait. The end of her list was reached at last, and the paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till she had got to the west side of Broadway again, and turned her back upon them all.
It was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its gay throng. Completely worn, in body as well as mind, with slow faltering steps, Fleda moved on among those still left; looking upon them with a curious eye as if they and she belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir of business and gayety; if they had been a train of lady-flies or black ants Fleda would hardly have felt that she had less in common with them. It was a weary long way up to Bleecker-street, as she was forced to travel it.
The relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's door with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well and thoroughly. Now her part was to be still and wait. But with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the morning. Before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time could not pass before she would be called to dinner. Dinner had to wait.
"Miss Fleda," said the housekeeper in a vexed tone when the meal was half over,--"I didn't know you ever did any thing wrong."
"You are sadly mistaken, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda half lightly, half sadly.
"You're looking not a bit better than last night, and if anything rather worse," Mrs. Pritchard went on. "It isn't right, Miss Fleda. You oughtn't to ha' set the first step out of doors, I know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've been on your feet these seven hours,--and you shew it! You're just ready to drop."
"I will rest to-morrow," said Fleda,--"or try to."
"You are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper,--"and you've been using yourself, Miss Fleda, as if you had the strength of an elephant. Now do you think you've been doing right?"
Fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not equal to it; she had lost all command of herself, and she dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding tears. Mrs. Pritchard equally astonished and mystified, hurried questions, apologies, and consolations, one upon another; and made up her mind that there was something mysterious on foot about which she had better ask no questions. Neither did she, from that time. She sealed up her mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her guest that she possibly could. Needed enough, but all of little avail.
The reaction did not cease with that day. The next, Sunday, was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. With the necessity for exertion the power had died. Fleda could only lie upon the cushions, and sleep helplessly, while Mrs. Pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. Monday was little better, but towards the after part of the day the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and Fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle, But none came, and Tuesday morning distressed Mrs. Pritchard with its want of amendment. It was not to be hoped for, Fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. Her uncle might not have seen the advertisement--he might not have got her letter--he might be even then setting sail to quit home forever. And she could do nothing but wait. Her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. She had set the glass of expectancy for one thing in the distance; and all things else were a blur or a blank.
They had sat down to dinner that Tuesday, when a ring at the door which had made her heart jump was followed--yes, it was,--by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. Fleda did not wait to ask whose it was; she seized it and saw; and sprang away up stairs. It was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature.
"I will meet youat Dinah's--if you come there alone about sundown."
Enough! Dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in Mr. Rossitur's family, and having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards Chelsea. Fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and Hugh had made to it in days gone by. But she recollected it was in Sloman-street and she knew she could find it; and dropping upon her knees poured out thanks too deep to be uttered and too strong to be even thought without a convulsion of tears. Her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving; she was hardly conscious of anything beside; and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. Their weariness was sweet to her now. Let her but see him;--the rest was sure.
How well appaid she was her bird to find.
How well appaid she was her bird to find.
Sidney.
Sidney.
Fleda counted the minutes till it wanted an hour of sundown; and then avoiding Mrs. Pritchard made her escape out of the house. A long walk was before her and the latter part of it through a region which she wished to pass while the light was good. And she was utterly unable to travel at any but a very gentle rate. So she gave herself plenty of time.
It was a very bright afternoon and all the world was astir. Fleda shielded herself with a thick veil and went up one of the narrow streets, not daring to venture into Broadway; and passing Waverly Place which was almost as bright, turned down Eighth-street. A few blocks now and she would be out of all danger of meeting any one that knew her. She drew her veil close and hurried on. But the proverb saith "a miss is as good as a mile," and with reason; for if fate wills the chances make nothing. As Fleda set her foot down to cross Fifth Avenue she saw Mr. Carleton on the other side coming up from Waverly Place. She went as slowly as she dared, hoping that he would pass without looking her way, or be unable to recognize her through her thick wrapper. In vain,--she soon saw that she was known; he was waiting for her, and she must put up her veil and speak to him.
"Why I thought you had left New York," said he;--"I was told so."
"I had left it--I have left it, sir," said Fleda;--"I have only come back for a day or two--"
"Have you been ill?" he said with a sudden change of tone, the light in his eye and smile giving place to a very marked gravity.
Fleda would have answered with a half smile, but such a sickness of heart came over her that speech failed and she was very near bursting into tears. Mr. Carleton looked at her earnestly a moment, and then put the hand which Fleda had forgotten he still held, upon his arm and began to walk forward gently with her. Something in the grave tenderness with which this was done reminded Fleda irresistibly of the times when she had been a child under his care; and somehow her thoughts went off on a tangent back to the further days of her mother and father and grandfather, the other friends from whom she had had the same gentle protection, which now there was no one in the world to give her. And their images did never seem more winning fair than just then,--when their place was left most especially empty. Her uncle she had never looked up to in the same way, and whatever stay he had been was cut down. Her aunt leaned uponher; and Hugh had always been more of a younger than an elder brother. The quick contrast of those old happy childish days was too strong; the glance back at what she had had, made her feel the want. Fleda blamed herself, reasoned and fought with herself;--but she was weak in mind and body, her nerves were unsteady yet, her spirits unprepared for any encounter or reminder of pleasure; and though vexed and ashamed shecouldnot hold her head up, and she could not prevent tear after tear from falling as they went along; she could only hope that nobody saw them.
Nobody spoke of them. But then nobody said anything; and the silence at last frightened her into rousing herself She checked her tears and raised her head; she ventured no more; she dared not turn her face towards her companion. He looked at her once or twice, as if in doubt whether to speak or not.
"Are you not going beyond your strength?" he said at length gently.
Fleda said no, although in a tone that half confessed his suspicion. He was silent again, however, and she cast about in vain for something to speak of; it seemed to her that all subjects of conversation in general had been packed up for exportation, neither eye nor memory could light upon a single one. Block after block was passed, the pace at which he walked, and the manner of his care for her, alone shewing that he knew what a very light hand was resting upon his arm.
"How pretty the curl of blue smoke is from that chimney," he said.
It was said with a tone so carelessly easy that Fleda's heart jumped for one instant in the persuasion that he had seen and noticed nothing peculiar about her.
"I know it," she said eagerly,--"I have often thought of it--especially here in the city--"
"Why is it? what is it?--"
Fleda's eye gave one of its exploratory looks at his, such as he remembered from years ago, before she spoke.
"Isn't it contrast?--or at least I think that helps the effect here."
"What do you make the contrast?" he said quietly.
"Isn't it," said Fleda with another glance, "the contrast of something pure and free and upward-tending, with what is below it. I did not mean the mere painter's contrast. In the country smoke is more picturesque, but in the city I think it has more character."
"To how many people do you suppose it ever occurred that smoke had a character?" said he smiling.
"You are laughing at me, Mr. Carleton? perhaps I deserve it."
"You do not think that," said he with a look that forbade her to think it. "But I see you are of Lavater's mind, that everything has a physiognomy?"
"I think he was perfectly right," said Fleda. "Don't you, Mr. Carleton?"
"To some people, yes!--But the expression is so subtle that only very nice sensibilities, with fine training, can hope to catch it; therefore to the mass of the world Lavater would talk nonsense."
"That is a gentle hint to me. But if I talk nonsense I wish you would set me right, Mr. Carleton;--I am very apt to amuse myself with tracing out fancied analogies in almost everything, and I may carry it too far--too far--to be spoken of wisely. I think it enlarges one's field of pleasure very much. Where one eye is stopped, another is but invited on."
"So," said Mr. Carleton, "while that puff of smoke would lead one person's imagination only down the chimney to the kitchen fire, it would take another's----where did yours go?" said he suddenly turning round upon her.
Fleda met his eye again, without speaking; but her look had perhaps more than half revealed her thought, for she was answered with a smile so intelligent and sympathetic that she was abashed.
"How very much religion heightens the enjoyments of life," Mr. Carleton said after a while.
Fieda's heart throbbed an answer; she did not speak.
"Both in its direct and indirect action. The mind is set free from influences that narrowed its range and dimmed its vision; and refined to a keener sensibility, a juster perception, a higher power of appreciation, by far, than it had before. And then, to say nothing of religion's own peculiar sphere of enjoyment, technically religious,--what a field of pleasure it opens to its possessor in the world of moral beauty, most partially known to any other,--and the fine but exquisite analogies of things material with things spiritual,--thoseharmonies of Nature, to which, talk as they will, all other ears are deaf!"
"You know," said Fleda with full eyes that she dared not shew, "how Henry Martyn said that he found he enjoyed painting and music so much more after he became a Christian."
"I remember. It is the substituting a just medium for a false one--it is putting nature within and nature without in tune with each other, so that the chords are perfect now which were jarring before."
"And yet how far people would be from believing you, Mr. Carleton."
"Yes--they are possessed with the contrary notion. But in all the creation nothing has a one-sided usefulness;--what a reflection it would be upon the wisdom of its author if godliness alone were the exception--if it were not 'profitable for the life that now is, as well as for that which is to come'!"
"They make that work the other way, don't they?" said Fleda.--"Not being able to see how thorough religion should be for anybody's happiness, they make use of your argument to conclude that it is not what the Bible requires. How I have heard that urged--that God intended his creatures to be happy--as a reason why they should disobey him. They lay hold on the wrong end of the argument and work backwards."
"Precisely.
"'God intended his creatures to be happy.
"'Strict obedience would make them unhappy.
"'Therefore, he does not intend them to obey.'"
"They never put it before them quite so clearly," said Fleda.
"They would startle at it a little. But so they would at the right stating of the case."
"And how would that be, Mr. Carleton?"
"It might be somewhat after this fashion--
"'God requires nothing that is not for the happiness of his people--
"'He requires perfect obedience--
"'Therefore perfect obedience is for their happiness'
"But unbelief will not understand that. Did it ever strike you how much there is in those words 'Come and see'?--All that argument can do, after all, is but to persuade to that. Only faith will submit to terms and enter the narrrow gate; and only obedience knows what the prospect is on the other side."
"But isn't it true, Mr. Carleton, that the world have some cause for their opinion?--judging as they do by the outside? The peculiar pleasures of religion, as you say, are out of sight, and they do not always find in religious people that enlargement and refinement of which you were speaking."
"Because they make unequal comparisons. Recollect that, as God has declared, the ranks of religion are not for the most part filled from the wise and the great. In making your estimate you must measure things equal in other respects. Compare the same man with himself before he was a Christian or with his unchristianized fellows--and you will find invariably the refining, dignifying, ennobling, influence of true religion; the enlarged intelligence and the greater power of enjoyment."
"And besides those causes of pleasure-giving that you mentioned," said Fleda,--"there is a mind at ease; and how much that is alone. If I may judge others by myself,--the mere fact of being unpoised--unresting-- disables the mind from a thousand things that are joyfully relished by one entirely at ease."
"Yes," said he,--"do you remember that word--'The stones of the field shall be at peace with thee'?"
"I am afraid people would understand you as little as they would me, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda laughing.
He smiled, rather a prolonged smile, the expression of which Fleda could not make out; she felt thatshedid not quite understand him.
"I have thought," said he after a pause, "that much of the beauty we find in many things is owing to a hidden analogy--the harmony they make with some unknown string of the mind's harp which they have set a vibrating. But the music of that is so low and soft that one must listen very closely to find out what it is."
"Why that is the very theory of which I gave you a smoky illustration a little while ago," said Fleda. "I thought I was on safe ground, after what you said about the characters of flowers, for that was a little--"
"Fanciful?" said he smiling.
"What you please," said Fleda colouring a little,--"I am sure it is true. The theory, I mean. I have many a time felt it, though I never put it in words. I shall think of that."
"Did you ever happen to see the very early dawn of a winter's morning?" said he.
But he laughed the next instant at the comical expression of Fleda's face as it was turned to him.
"Forgive me for supposing you as ignorant as myself. I have seen it--once."
"Appreciated it, I hope, that time?" said Fleda.
"I shall never forget it."
"And it never wrought in you a desire to see it again?"
"I might see many a dawn," said he smiling, "without what I saw then. It was very early--and a cloudy morning, so that night had still almost undisturbed possession of earth and sky; but in the south-eastern quarter, between two clouds, there was a space of fair white promise, hardly making any impression upon the darkness but only set off by it. And upon this one bright spot in earth or heaven, rode the planet of the morning--the sun's forerunner--bright upon the brightness. All else was dusky--except where overhead the clouds had parted again and shewed a faint old moon, glimmering down upon the night it could no longer be said to 'rule'."
"Beautiful!" said Fleda. "There is hardly any time I like so well as the dawn of a winter morning with an old moon in the sky. Summer weather has no beauty like it--in some things."
"Once," continued Mr, Carleton, "I should have seen no more than I have told you--the beauty that every cultivated eye must take in. But now, methought I saw the dayspring that has come upon a longer night--and from out of the midst of it there was the fair face of the morning star looking at me with its sweet reminder and invitation--looking over the world with its aspect of triumphant expectancy;--there was its calm assurance of the coming day,--its promise that the star of hope which now there were only a few watching eyes to see, should presently be followed by the full beams of the Sun of righteousness making the kingdoms of the world his own.--Your memory may bring to you the words that came to mine,--the promise 'to him that overcometh', and the beauty of the lips that made it--the encouragement to 'patient continuance in well-doing', 'till the day break and the shadows flee away.'--And there on the other hand was the substituted light of earth's wisdom and inventions, dominant yet, but waning and soon to be put out for ever."
Fleda was crying again, and perhaps that was the reason why Mr. Carleton was silent for some time. She was very sorry to shew herself so weak, but she could not help it; part of his words had come too close. And when she had recovered again she was absolutely silent too, for they were nearing Sloman-street and she could not take him there with her. She did not know what to say, nor what he would think; and she said not another word till they came to the corner. There she must stop and speak.
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Carleton," she said drawing her hand from his arm, "for taking care of me all this disagreeable way--I will not give you any more trouble."
"You are not going to dismiss me?" said he looking at her with a countenance of serious anxiety.
"I must," said Fleda ingenuously,--"I have business to attend to here--"
"But you will let me have the pleasure of waiting for you?"
"O no," said Fleda hesitating and flushing,--"thank you, Mr. Carleton,--but pray do not--I don't know at all how long I may be detained."
He bowed, she thought gravely, and turned away, and she entered the little wretched street; with a strange feeling of pain that she could not analyze. She did not know where it came from, but she thought if there only had been a hiding-place for her she could have sat down and wept a whole heartful. The feeling must be kept back now, and it was soon forgotten in the throbbing of her heart at another thought which took entire possession.
The sun was not down, there was time enough, but it was with a step and eye of hurried anxiety that Fleda passed along the little street, for fear of missing her quest or lest Dinah should have changed her domicil. Yet would her uncle have named it for their meeting if he had not been sure of it? It was very odd he should have appointed that place at all, and Fleda was inclined to think he must have seen Dinah by some chance, or it never would have come into his head. Still her eye passed unheeding over all the varieties of dinginess and misery in her way, intent only upon finding that particular dingy cellar-way which used to admit her to Dinah's premises. It was found at last, and she went in.
The old woman, herself most unchanged, did not know the young lady, but well remembered the little girl whom Fleda brought to her mind. And then she was overjoyed to see her, and asked a multitude of questions, and told a long story of her having met Mr. Rossitur in the street the other day "in the last place where she'd have looked to see him;" and how old he had grown, and how surprised she had been to see the grey hairs in his head. Fleda at last gave her to understand that she expected him to meet her there and would like to see him alone; and the good woman immediately took her work into another apartment, made up the fire and set up the chairs, and leaving her assured Fleda she would lock up the doors "and not let no one come through."
It was sundown, and later, Fleda thought, and she felt as if every pulse was doing double duty. No matter--if she were shattered and the work done. But what work!--Oh the needlessness, the cruelty, the folly of it! And how much of the ill consequences she might be unable after all to ward off. She took off her hat, to relieve a nervous smothered feeling; and walked, and sat down; and then sat still, from trembling inability to do anything else. Dinah's poor little room, clean though it was, looked to her the most dismal place in the world from its association with her errand; she hid her face on her knees that she might have no disagreeableness to contend with but that which could not be shut out.
It had lain there some time, till a sudden felling of terror at the growing lateness made her raise it to look at the window. Mr. Rossitur was standing still before her, he must have come in very softly,--and looking,--oh Fleda had not imagined him looking so changed. All was forgotten,--the wrong, and the needlessness, and the indignation with which she had sometimes thought of it; Fleda remembered nothing but love and pity, and threw herself upon his neck with such tears of tenderness and sympathy, such kisses of forgiveness and comfort-speaking, as might have broken a stouter heart than Mr. Rossitur's. He held her in his arms for a few minutes, passively suffering her caresses, and then gently unloosing her hold placed her on a seat; sat down a little way off, covered his face and groaned aloud.
Fleda could not recover herself at once. Then shaking off her agitation she came and knelt down by his side and putting one arm over his shoulder laid her cheek against his forehead. Words were beyond reach, but his forehead was wet with her tears; and kisses, of soft entreaty, of winning assurance, said all she could say.
"What did you come here for, Fleda?" said Mr. Rossitur at length, without changing his position.
"To bring you home, uncle Rolf."
"Home!" said he, with an accent between bitterness and despair.
"Yes, for it's all over, it's all forgotten--there is no more to be said about it at all," said Fleda, getting her words out she didn't know how.
"What is forgotten?" said he harshly.
"All that you would wish, sir," replied Fleda softly and gently;--"there is no more to be done about it; and I came to tell you if possible before it was too late. Oh I'm so glad!--" and her arms and her cheek pressed closer as fresh tears stopped her voice.
"How do you know, Fleda?" said Mr. Rossitur raising his head and bringing hers to his shoulder, while his arms in turn enclosed her.
Fleda whispered, "He told me so himself."
"Who?"
"Mr. Thorn."
The words were but just spoken above her breath. Mr. Rossitur was silent for some time.
"Are you sure you understood him?"
"Yes, sir; it could not have been spoken plainer."
"Are you quite sure he meant what he said, Fleda?"
"Perfectly sure, uncle Rolf! I know he did."
"What stipulation did he make beforehand?"
"He did it without any stipulation, sir."
"What was his inducement then? If I know him he is not a man to act without any."
Fleda's cheek was dyed, but except that she gave no other answer.
"Why has it been left so long?" said her uncle presently.
"I don't know, sir--he said nothing about that. He promised that neither we nor the world should hear anything more of it."
"The world?" said Mr. Rossitur.
"No sir, he said that only one or two persons had any notion of it and that their secrecy he had the means of securing."
"Did he tell you anything more?"
"Only that he had the matter entirely under his control and that never a whisper of it should be heard again, No promise could be given more fully and absolutely."
Mr. Rossitur drew a long breath, speaking to Fleda's ear very great relief, and was silent.
"And what reward is he to have for this, Fleda?" he said after some musing.
"All that my hearty thanks and gratitude can give, as far as I am concerned, sir."
"Is that what he expects, Fleda?"
"I cannot help what he expects," said Fleda, in some distress.
"What have you engaged yourself to, my child?"
"Nothing in the world, uncle Rolf!" said Fleda earnestly--"nothing in the world. I haven't engaged myself to anything. The promise was made freely, without any sort of stipulation."
Mr. Rossitur looked thoughtful and disquieted. Fleda's tears were pouring again.
"I will not trust him," he said,--"I will not stay in the country!"
"But you will come home, uncle?" said Fleda, terrified.
"Yes my dear child--yes my dear child!" he said tenderly, putting his arms round Fleda again and kissing, with an earnestness of acknowledgment that went to her heart, her lips and brow,--"you shall do what you will with me; and when I go, we will all go together."
From Queechy! From America!--But she had no time for that thought now.
"You said 'for Hugh's sake,'" Mr. Rossitur observed after a pause, and with some apparent difficulty;--"what of him?"
"He is not well, uncle Rolf," said Fleda,--"and I think the best medicine will be the sight of you again."
Mr. Rossitur looked pale and was silent a moment.
"And my wife?" he said.
His face, and the thought of those faces at home, were too much for Fleda; she could not help it; "Oh, uncle Rolf," she said, hiding her face, "they only want to see you again now!"
Mr. Rossitur leaned his head in his hands and groaned; and Fleda could but cry; she felt there was nothing to say.
"It was for Marion," he said at length;--"it was when I was hard pressed and I was fearful if it were known that it might ruin her prospects.--I wanted that miserable sum--only four thousand dollars--that fellow Schwiden asked to borrow it of me for a few days, and to refuse would have been to confess all. I dared not try my credit, and I just madly took that step that proved irretrievable--I counted at the moment upon funds that were coming to me only the next week, sure, I thought, as possible,--but the man cheated me, and our embarrassments thickened from that time; that thing has been a weight--oh a weight of deadening power!--round my neck ever since. I have died a living death these six years!--"
"I know it, dear uncle--I know it all!" said Fleda, bringing the sympathizing touch of her cheek to his again.
"The good that it did has been unspeakably overbalanced by the evil--even long ago I knew that."
"The good that it did"! It was no timethento moralize, but he must know that Marion was at home, or he might incautiously reveal to her what happily there was no necessity for her ever knowing. And the story must give him great and fresh pain----
"Dear uncle Rolf!" said Fleda pressing closer to him, "we may be happier than we have been in a long time, if you will only take it so. The cloud upon you has been a cloud upon us."
"I know it!" he exclaimed,--"a cloud that served to shew me that my jewels were diamonds!"
"You have an accession to your jewels, uncle Rolf."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Fleda trembling, "that there are two more at home."
He held her back to look at her.
"Can't you guess who?"
"No!" said he. "What do you mean?"
"I must tell you, because they know nothing, and needn't know, of all this matter."
"What are you talking about?"
"Marion is there----"
"Marion!" exclaimed Mr. Rossitur, with quick changes of expression,--" Marion!--At Queechy!--and her husband?"
"No sir,--a dear little child."
"Marion!--and her husband--where is he?"
Fleda hesitated.
"I don't know--I don't know whether she knows--"
"Is he dead?"
"No sir--"
Mr. Rossitur put her away and got up and walked, or strode, up and down, up and down, the little apartment. Fleda dared not look at him, even by the faint glimmer that came from the chimney.
But abroad it was perfectly dark--the stars were shining, the only lamps that illumined the poor little street, and for a long time there had been no light in the room but that of the tiny wood fire. Dinah never could be persuaded of the superior cheapness of coal. Fleda came at last to her uncle's side and putting her arm within his said,
"How soon will you set off for home, uncle Rolf?"
"To-morrow morning."
"You must take the boat to Bridgeport now--you know the river is fast."
"Yes I know----"
"Then I will meet you at the wharf, uncle Rolf,--at what o'clock?"
"My dear child," said he, stopping and passing his hand tenderly over her cheek, "are you fit for it to-morrow? You had better stay where you are quietly for a few days--you want rest."
"No, I will go home with you," said Fleda, "and rest there. But hadn't we better let Dinah in and bid her good bye? for I ought to be somewhere else to get ready."
Dinah was called, and a few kind words spoken, and with a more substantial remembrance, or reward, from Fleda's hand, they left her.
Fleda had the support of her uncle's arm till they came within sight of the house, and then he stood and watched her while she went the rest of the way alone.
Then he stood and watched her.Then he stood and watched her.
Anything more white and spirit-looking, and more spirit-like in its purity and peacefulness, surely did not walk that night. There was music in her ear, and abroad in the star-light, more ethereal than Ariel's, but she knew where it came from; it was the chimes of her heart that were ringing; and never a happier peal, nor never had the mental atmosphere been more clear for their sounding. Thankfulness,--that was the oftenest note,--swelling thankfulness for her success,--joy for herself and for the dear ones at home,--generous delight at having been the instrument of their relief,--the harmonies of pure affections, without any grating now,--the hope well grounded she thought, of improvement in her uncle and better times for them all,--a childlike peace that was at rest with itself and the world,--these were mingling and interchanging their music, and again and again in the midst of it all, faith rang the last chime in heaven.