Queechy Volume Ii Part 87

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 flus.h.i.+ng 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 circ.u.mstances, 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."

"O 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 down 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 gra.s.s in that place.

Fleda and Mrs. Rossitur went softly to one spot where the gra.s.s was not grown, and where the bright white marble caught the eye and spoke of grief, fresh too. O 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 a while 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.

A while she stood there; and then pa.s.sed 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 suns.h.i.+ny green mound came a throng of strangely tender and sweet a.s.sociations, 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 gra.s.s almost touched it, in an agony of human sorrow. Could she leave them? ? and for ever in this world? and be content to see on 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 G.o.d bring with him_."

? It was like the march of angels' 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 gra.s.s 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!