Queechy Volume I Part 85

"It is just like you! ? exactly as it can be."

"Things put themselves in my head," said Fleda, tucking another splinter into the fire. "Isn't this better than a chandelier?"

"Ten times!"

"And so much pleasanter for having got it ourselves. What a nice time we had, Hugh!"

"Very. Now for the portfolio, Fleda ? come ? mother is fast; she wont see or hear anything. What does father say, mother?"

In answer to this they had the letter read, which, indeed, contained nothing remarkable beyond its strong expressions of affection to each one of the little family ? a cordial which Mrs. Rossitur drank and grew strong upon in the very act of reading. It is pity the medicine of kind words is not more used in the world ? it has so much power. Then, having folded up her treasure and talked a little while about it, Mrs.

Rossitur caught up the magazine like a person who had been famished in that kind; and soon she and it and her tallow candle formed a trio apart from all the world again. Fleda and Hugh were safe to pa.s.s most mysterious-looking little papers from hand to hand right before her, though they had the care to read them behind newspapers, and exchanges of thought and feeling went on more swiftly still, and softly, across the fire. Looks, and smiles, and whispers, and tears too, under cover of a _Tribune_ and an _Express_. And the blaze would die down just when Hugh had got to the last verse of something, and then while impatiently waiting for the new pine splinters to catch, he would tell Fleda how much he liked it, or how beautiful he thought it, and whisper inquiries and critical questions; till the fire reached the fat vein, and leaped up in defiant emulation of gas-lights unknown, and then he would fall to again with renewed gusto. And Fleda hunted out in her portfolio what bits to give him first, and bade him, as she gave them, remember this and understand that, which was necessary to be borne in mind in the reading. And through all the brightening and fading blaze, and all the whispering, congratulating, explaining, and rejoicing going on at her side, Mrs. Rossitur and her tallow candle were devoted to each other, happily and engrossingly. At last, however, she flung the magazine from her, and turning from the table sat looking into the fire with a rather uncommonly careful and unsatisfied brow.

"What did you think of the second piece of poetry there, mother?" said Hugh ? "that ballad? ? 'The Wind's Voices,' it is called."

" 'The Wind's Voices?' ? I don't know ? I didn't read it, I believe."

"Why, mother! I liked it very much. Do read it ? read it aloud."

Mrs. Rossitur took up the magazine again abstractedly, and read

" 'Mamma, what makes your face so sad?

The sound of the wind makes me feel glad; But whenever it blows, as grave you look As if you were reading a sorrowful book.'

" 'A sorrowful book I am reading, dear ?

A book of weeping, and pain, and fear ?

A book deep printed on my heart, Which I cannot read but the tears will start.

" 'That breeze to my ear was soft and mild, Just so, when I was a little child; But now I hear in its freshening breath The voices of those that sleep in death.'

" 'Mamma,' said the child, with shaded brow, What is this book you are reading now?

And why do you read what makes you cry?'

'My child, it comes up before my eye;

" ' 'Tis the memory, love, of a far-off day, When my life's best friend was taken away; ?

Of the weeks and months that my eyes were dim, Watching for tidings ? watching for him.

" 'Many a year has come and pa.s.s'd Since a s.h.i.+p sailed over the ocean fast, Bound for a port on England's sh.o.r.e ?

She sail'd ? but was never heard of more.'

" 'Mamma' ? and she closer press'd her side ?

'Was that the time when my father died? ?

Is it his s.h.i.+p you think you see? ?

Dearest mamma ? wont you speak to me?'

"The lady paused, but then calmly said ?

Yes, Lucy ? the sea was his dying bed!

And now, whenever I hear the blast, I think again of that storm long past.

" 'The winds' fierce howlings hurt not me, But I think how they beat on the pathless sea ?

Of the breaking mast ? of the parting rope ?

Of the anxious strife, and the failing hope.'

" 'Mamma,' said the child, with streaming eyes, My father has gone above the skies; And you tell me this world is mean and base Compared with heaven ? that blessed place.'

" 'My daughter, I know ? I believe it all ?

I would not his spirit to earth recal.

The bless'd one he ? his storm was brief ?

Mine, a long tempest of tears and grief.

" 'I have you, my darling ? I should not sigh ?

I have one star more in my cloudy sky ?

The hope that we both shall join him there, In that perfect rest from weeping and care.' "

"Well, mother; how do you like it?" said Hugh, whose eyes gave tender witness to his liking for it.

"It is pretty" ? said Mrs. Rossitur.

Hugh exclaimed, and Fleda, laughing, took it out of her hand.

"Why, mother," said Hugh ? "it is Fleda's!"

"Fleda's!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur, s.n.a.t.c.hing the magazine again. "My dear child, I was not thinking in the least of what I was reading. Fleda's!" ?

She read it over anew, with swimming eyes this time, and then clasped Fleda in her arms, and gave her, not words, but the better reward of kisses and tears. They remained so a long time, even till Hugh left them; and then Fleda, released from her aunt's embrace, still crouched by her side with one arm in her lap.

They both sat thoughtfully looking into the fire till it had burnt itself out, and nothing but a glowing bed of coals remained.

"That is an excellent young man," said Mrs. Rossitur.

"Who?"

"Mr. Olmney. He sat with me some time after you had gone."

"So you said before," said Fleda, wondering at the troubled expression of her aunt's face.