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Queechy

<h1> Chapter XXXIX. </h1> <blockquote> Nothing could be more obliging and respectful than the lion's letter was, in appearance; but there was death in the true intent.--L'Estrange. </blockquote> The landscape had grown more dark since Fleda came up the hill,--or else the eyes that looked at it. Both probably. It was just after sundown, and that is a very sober time of day in winter, especially in some states of the weather. The sun had left no largesses behind him; the scenery was deserted to all the coming poverty of night and looked grim and threadbare already. Not one of the colours of prosperity left. The land was in mourning dress; all the ground and even the ice on the little mill-ponds a uniform spread of white, while the hills were draperied with black stems, here just veiling the snow, and there on a side view making a thick fold of black. Every little unpainted workshop or mill shewed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and outline darkening against the twilight. In better days perhaps some friendly tree had hung over it, shielding part of its faults and redeeming the rest. Now nothing but the gaunt skeleton of a friend stood there,--doubtless to bud forth again as fairly as ever should the season smile. Still and quiet all was, as Fleda's spirit, and in too good harmony with it; she resolved to choose the morning to go out in future. There was as little of the light of spring or summer in her own mind as on the hills, and it was desirable to catch at least a cheering reflection. She could rouse herself to no bright thoughts, try as she would; the happy voices of nature that used to speak to her were all hushed,--or her ear was deaf; and her eye met nothing that did not immediately fall in with the train of sad images that were passing through her mind and swell the procession. She was fain to fall back and stay herself upon these words, the only stand-by she could lay hold of;-- "To them who by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immortality, eternal life!"-- They toned with the scene and with her spirit exactly; they suited the darkening sky and the coming night; for "glory, honour, and immortality" are not now. They filled Fleda's mind, after they had once entered, and then nature's sympathy was again as readily given; each barren stern-looking hill in its guise of present desolation and calm expectancy seemed to echo softly, "patient continuance in well-doing." And the tears trembled then in Fleda's eyes; she had set her face, as the old Scotchman says, "in the right airth. [Footnote: quarter, direction]" "How sweet is the wind that bloweth out of the airth where Christ is!" "Well," said Hugh, who entered the kitchen with her, "you have been late enough. Did you have a pleasant walk? You are pale, Fleda!" "Yes, it was pleasant," said Fleda with one of her winning smiles,--"a kind of pleasant. But have you looked at the hills? They are exactly as if they had put on mourning--nothing but white and black--a crape-like dressing of black tree-stems upon the snowy face of the ground, and on every slope and edge of the hills the crape lies in folds. Do look at it when you go out! It has a most curious effect." "Not pleasant, I should think," said Hugh. "You'll see it is just as I have described it. No--not pleasant exactly--the landscape wants the sun to light it up just now--it is cold and wilderness looking. I think I'll take the morning in future. Whither are you bound?" "I must go over to Queechy Run for a minute, on business--I'll be home before supper--I should have been back by this time but Philetus has gone to bed with a headache and I had to take care of the cows." "Three times and out," said Barby. "I won't try again. I didn't know as anything would be too powerful for his head; but I find as sure as he has apple dumplin' for dinner he goes to bed for his supper and leaves the cows without none. And then Hugh has to take it. It has saved so many Elephants--that's one thing." Hugh went out by one door and Fleda by another entered the breakfast-room; the one generally used in winter for all purposes. Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone in an easy-chair; and Fleda no sooner caught the outline of her figure than her heart sank at once to an unknown depth,--unknown before and unfathomable now. She was cowering over the fire,--her head sunk in her hands, so crouching, that the line of neck and shoulders instantly conveyed to Fleda the idea of fancied or felt degradation--there was no escaping it--how, whence, what, was all wild confusion. But the language of mere attitude was so unmistakable,--the expression of crushing pain was so strong, that after Fleda had fearfully made her way up beside her she could do no more. She stood there tongue-tied, spell-bound, present to nothing but a nameless chill of fear and heart-sinking. She was afraid to speak--afraid to touch her aunt, and abode motionless in the grasp of that dread for minutes. But Mrs. Rossitur did not stir a hair, and the terror of that stillness grew to be less endurable than any other. <ANTIMG src="images/illus22.jpg" height-obs="250" alt="Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone." title="Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone." /> Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone. Fleda spoke to her,--it did not win the shadow of a reply,--again and again. She laid her hand then upon Mrs. Rossitur's shoulder, but the very significant answer to that was a shrinking gesture of the shoulder and neck, away from the hand. Fleda growing desperate then implored an answer in words--prayed for an explanation--with an intensity of distress in voice and manner, that no one whose ears were not stopped with a stronger feeling could have been deaf to; but Mrs. Rossitur would not raise her head, nor slacken in the least the clasp of the fingers that supported it, that of themselves in their relentless tension spoke what no words could. Fleda's trembling prayers were in vain, in vain. Poor nature at last sought a woman's relief in tears--but they were heart-breaking, not heart-relieving tears--racking both mind and body more than they ought to bear, but bringing no cure. Mrs. Rossitur seemed as unconscious of her niece's mute agony as she had been of her agony of words; and it was from Fleda's own self-recollection alone that she fought off pain and roused herself above weakness to do what the time called for. "Aunt Lucy," she said laying her hand upon her shoulder, and this time the voice was steady and the hand would not be shaken off,--"Aunt Lucy,--Hugh will be in presently--hadn't you better rouse yourself and go up stairs--for awhile?--till you are better?--and not let him see you so?--" How the voice was broken and quivering before it got through! The answer this time was a low long-drawn moan, so exceeding plaintive and full of pain that it made Fleda shake like an aspen. But after a moment she spoke again, bearing more heavily with her hand to mark her words. "I am afraid he will be in presently--he ought not to see you now--Aunt Lucy, I am afraid it might do him an injury he might not get over--" She spoke with the strength of desperation; her nerves were unstrung by fear, and every joint weakened so that she could hardly support herself. She had not however spoken in vain; one or two convulsive shudders passed over her aunt, and then Mrs. Rossitur suddenly rose turning her face from Fleda; neither would she permit her to follow her. But Fleda thought she had seen that one or two unfolded letters or papers of some kind, they looked like letters, were in her lap when she raised her head. Left alone, Fleda sat down on the floor by the easy-chair and rested her head there; waiting,--she could do nothing else,--till her extreme excitement of body and mind should have quieted itself. She had a kind of vague hope that time would do something for her before Hugh came in. Perhaps it did; for though she lay in a kind of stupor, and was conscious of no change whatever, she was able when she heard him coming to get up and sit in the chair in an ordinary attitude. But she looked like the wraith of herself an hour ago. "Fleda!" Hugh exclaimed as soon as he looked from the fire to her face,--"what is the matter?--what is the matter with you?" "I am not very well--I don't feel very well," said Fleda speaking almost mechanically,--"I shall have a headache to-morrow--" "Headache! But you look shockingly! what has happened to you? what is the matter, Fleda?" "I am not ill--I shall be better by and by. There is nothing the matter with me that need trouble you, dear Hugh." "Nothing the matter with you!" said he,--and Fleda might see how she looked in the reflection of his face,--"where's mother?" "She is up-stairs--you mustn't go to her, Hugh!" said Fleda laying a detaining hand upon him with more strength than she thought she had,--"I don't want anything." "Why mustn't I go to her?" "I don't think she wants to be disturbed--" "I must disturb her--" "You musn't!--I know she don't--she isn't well--something has happened to trouble her--" "What?" "I don't know." "And is that what has troubled you too?" said Hugh, his countenance changing as he gained more light on the subject;--"what is it, dear Fleda?" "I don't know," repeated Fleda, bursting into tears. Hugh was quiet enough now, and sat down beside her, subdued and still, without even desiring to ask a question. Fleda's tears flowed violently, for a minute,--then she checked them, for his sake; and they sat motionless, without speaking to one another, looking into the fire and letting it die out before them into embers and ashes, neither stirring to put a hand to it. As the fire died the moonlight streamed in,--how very dismal the room looked! "What do you think about having tea?" said Barby opening the door of the kitchen. Neither felt it possible to answer her. "Mr. Rossitur ain't come home, is he?" "No," said Fleda shuddering. "So I thought, and so I told Seth Plumfield just now--he was asking for him--My stars! ha'n't you no fire here? what did you let it go out for?" Barby came in and began to build it up. "It's growing cold I can tell you, so you may as well have something in the chimney to look at. You'll want it shortly if you don't now." "Was Mr. Plumfield here, did you say, Barby?" "Yes." "Why didn't he come in?" "I s'pose he hadn't a mind to," said Barby. "Twa'n't for want of being asked. I did the civil thing by him if he didn't by me;--but he said he didn't want to see anybody but Mr. Rossitur." Did not wank to see anybody but Mr. Rossitur, when he had distinctly said he did not wish to see him? Fleda felt sick, merely from the mysterious dread which could fasten upon nothing and therefore took in everything. "Well what about tea?" concluded Barby, when the fire was going according to her wishes. "Will you have it, or will you wait longer?" "No--we won't wait--we will have it now, Barby," said Fleda, forcing herself to make the exertion; and she went to the window to put down the hangings. The moonlight was very bright, and Fleda's eye was caught in the very act of letting down the curtain, by a figure in the road slowly passing before the courtyard fence. It paused a moment by the horse-gate, and turning paced slowly back till it was hid behind the rose acacias. There was a clump of shrubbery in that corner thick enough even in winter to serve for a screen. Fleda stood with the curtain in her hand, half let down, unable to move, and feeling almost as if the very currents of life within her were standing still too. She thought, she was almost sure, she knew the figure; it was on her tongue to ask Hugh to come and look, but she checked that. The form appeared again from behind the acacias, moving with the same leisurely pace the other way towards the horse-gate. Fleda let down the curtain, then the other two quietly, and then left the room and stole noiselessly out at the front door, leaving it open that the sound of it might not warn Hugh what she was about, and stepping like a cat down the steps ran breathlessly over the snow to the courtyard gate. There waited, shivering in the cold but not feeling it for the cold within,--while the person she was watching stood still a lew moments by the horse-gate and came again with leisurely steps towards her. "Seth Plumfield!"--said Fleda, almost as much frightened at the sound of her own voice as he was. He stopped immediately, with a start, and came up to the little gate behind which she was standing. But said nothing. "What are you doing here?" "You oughtn't to be out without anything on," said he,--"you're fixing to take your death." He had good reason to say so. But she gave him no more heed than the wind. "What are you waiting here for? What do you want?" "I have nothing better to do with my time," said he;--"I thought I'd walk up and down here a little. You go in!" "Are you waiting to see uncle Rolf?" she said, with teeth chattering. "You mustn't stay out here," said he earnestly--"you're like nothing but a spook this minute--I'd rather see one, or a hull army of 'em. Go in, go in!" "Tell me if you want to see him, Seth." "No I don't--I told you I didn't." "Then why are you waiting for him?" "I thought I'd see if he was coming home to-night--I had a word to say if I could catch him before he got into the house." "Is he coming home to-night?" said Fleda. "I don't know!" said he looking at her. "Do you?" Fleda burst open the gate between them and putting her hands on his implored him to tell her what was the matter. He looked singularly disturbed; his fine eye twinkled with compassion; but his face, never a weak one, shewed no signs of yielding now. "The matter is," said he pressing hard both her hands, "that you are fixing to be down sick in your bed by to-morrow. You mustn't stay another second." "Come in then." "No--not to-night." "You won't tell me!--" "There is nothing I can tell you--Maybe there'll be nothing to tell--Run in, run in, and keep quiet." Fleda hurried back to the house, feeling that she had gone to the limit of risk already. Not daring to show herself to Hugh in her chilled state of body and mind she went into the kitchen. "Why what on earth's come over you?" was Barby's terrified ejaculation when she saw her. "I have been out and got myself cold--" "Cold!" said Barby,--"you're looking dreadful! What on earth ails you, Fleda?" "Don't ask me, Barby," said Fleda hiding her face in her hands and shivering,--"I made myself very cold just now--Aunt Lucy doesn't feel very well and I got frightened," she added presently. "What's the matter with her?" "I don't know--if you'll make me a cup of tea I'll take it up to her, Barby." "You put yourself down there," said Barby placing her with gentle force in a chair,--"you'll do no such a thing till I see you look as if there was some blood in you. I'll take it up myself." But Fleda held her, though with a hand much too feeble indeed for any but moral suasion. It was enough. Barby stood silently and very anxiously watching her, till the fire had removed the outward chill at least. But even that took long to do, and before it was well done Fleda again asked for the cup of tea. Barby made it without a word, and Fleda went to her aunt with it, taking her strength from the sheer emergency. Her knees trembled under her as she mounted the stairs, and once a glimpse of those words flitted across her mind,--"patient continuance in well-doing." It was like a lightning flash in a dark night shewing the way one must go. She could lay hold of no other stay. Her mind was full of one intense purpose--to end the suspense. She gently tried the door of her aunt's room; it was unfastened, and she went in. Mrs. Rossitur was lying on the bed; but her first mood had changed, for at Fleda's soft word and touch she half rose up and putting both arms round her waist laid her face against her. There were no tears still, only a succession of low moans, so inexpressibly weak and plaintive that Fleda's nature could hardly bear them without giving way. A more fragile support was never clung to. Yet her trembling fingers, in their agony moved caressingly among her aunt's hair and over her brow as she begged her--when she could, she was not able at first--to let her know the cause that was grieving her. The straightened clasp of Mrs. Rossitur's arms and her increased moaning gave only an answer of pain. But Fleda repeated the question. Mrs. Rossitur still neglecting it, then made her sit down upon the bed, so that she could lay her head higher, on Fleda's bosom; where she hid it, with a mingling of fondness given and asked, a poor seeking for comfort and rest, that wrung her niece's heart. They sat so for a little time; Fleda hoping that her aunt would by degrees come to the point herself. The tea stood cooling on the table, not even offered; not wanted there. "Wouldn't you feel better if you told me, dear aunt Lucy?" said Fleda, when they had been for a little while perfectly still. Even the moaning had ceased. "Is your uncle come home?" whispered Mrs. Rossitur, but so low that Fleda could but half catch the words. "Not yet." "What o'clock is it?" "I don't know--not early--it must be near eight.--Why?" "You have not heard anything of him?" "No--nothing." There was silence again for a little, and then Mrs. Rossitur said in a low fearful whisper, "Have you seen anybody round the house?" Fleda's thoughts flew to Seth, with that nameless fear to which she could give neither shape nor direction, and after a moment's hesitation she said, "What do you mean?" "Have you?" said Mrs. Rossitur with more energy. "Seth Plumfield was here a little while ago." Her aunt had the clew that she had not, for with a half scream, half exclamation, she quitted Fleda's arms and fell back upon the pillows, turning from her and hiding her face there. Fleda prayed again for her confidence, as well as the weakness and the strength of fear could do; and Mrs. Rossitur presently grasping a paper that lay on the bed held it out to her, saying only as Fleda was about quitting the room, "Bring me a light." Fleda left the letter there and went down to fetch one. She commanded herself under the excitement and necessity of the moment,--all but her face; that terrified Barby exceedingly. But she spoke with a strange degree of calmness; told her Mrs. Rossitur was not alarmingly ill; that she did not need Barby's services and wished to see nobody but herself and didn't want a fire. As she was passing through the hall again Hugh came out of the sitting-room to ask after his mother. Fleda kept the light from her face. "She does not want to be disturbed--I hope she will be better to-morrow." "What is the matter, Fleda?" "I don't know yet." "And you are ill yourself, Fleda!--you are ill!--" "No--I shall do very well--never mind me. Hugh, take some tea--I will be down by and by." He went back, and Fieda went up stairs. Mrs. Rossitur had not moved. Fleda set down the light and herself beside it, with the paper her aunt had given her. It was a letter. "Queechy, Thursday-- "It gives me great concern, my dear madam, to be the means of bringing to you a piece of painful information--but it cannot be long kept from your knowledge and you may perhaps learn it better from me than by any other channel. May I entreat you not to be too much alarmed, since I am confident the cause will be of short duration. "Pardon me for what I am about to say. "There are proceedings entered into against Mr. Rossitur--there are writs out against him--on the charge of having, some years ago, endorsed my father's name upon a note of his own giving.--Why it has lain so long I cannot explain. There is unhappily no doubt of the fact. "I was in Queechy some days ago, on business of my own, when I became aware that this was going on--my father had made no mention of it to me. I immediately took strict measures--I am happy to say I believe with complete success,--to have the matter kept a profound secret. I then made my way as fast as possible to New York to confer on the subject with the original mover of it--unfortunately I was disappointed. My father had left for a neighbouring city, to be absent several days. Finding myself too late to prevent, as I had hoped to do, any open steps from being taken at Queechy, I returned hither immediately to enforce secrecy of proceedings and to assure you, madam, that my utmost exertions shall not be wanting to bring the whole matter to a speedy and satisfactory termination. I entertain no doubt of being able to succeed entirely--even to the point of having the whole transaction remain unknown and unsuspected by the world. It is so entirely as yet, with the exception of one or two law-officers whose silence I have means of procuring. "May I confess that I am not entirely disinterested? May the selfishness of human nature ask its reward, and own its moving spring? May I own that my zeal in this cause is quickened by the unspeakable excellencies of Mr. Rossitur's lovely niece--which I have learned to appreciate with my whole heart--and be forgiven?--And may I hope for the kind offices and intercession of the lady I have the honour of addressing, with her niece Miss Ringgan, that my reward,--the single word of encouragement I ask for,--may be given me?--Having that, I will promise anything--I will guaranty the success of any enterprise, however difficult, to which she may impel me,--and I will undertake that the matter which furnishes the painful theme of this letter shall never more be spoken or thought of, by the world, or my father, or by Mrs. Rossitur's obliged, grateful, and faithful servant, Lewis Thorn." Fleda felt as she read as if icicles were gathering about her heart. The whirlwind of fear and distress of a little while ago which could take no definite direction, seemed to have died away and given place to a dead frost--the steady bearing down of disgrace and misery, inevitable, unmitigable, unchangeable; no lessening, no softening of that blasting power, no, nor ever any rising up from under it; the landscape could never be made to smile again. It was the fall of a bright star from their home constellation; but alas! the star was fallen long ago, and the failure of light which they had deplored was all too easily accounted for; yet now they knew that no restoration was to be hoped. And the mother and son--what would become of them? And the father--what would become of him? what further distress was in store?--Public disgrace?--and Fleda bowed her head forward on her clasped hands with the mechanical, vain endeavour to seek rest or shelter from thought. She made nothing of Mr. Thorn's professions; she took only the facts of his letter; the rest her eye had glanced over as if she had no concern with it, and it hardly occurred to her that she had any. But the sense of his words she had taken in, and knew, better perhaps than her aunt, that there was nothing to look for from his kind offices. The weight on her heart was too great just then for her to suspect as she did afterwards that he was the sole mover of the whole affair. As the first confusion of thought cleared away, two images of distress loomed up and filled the view,--her aunt, broken under the news, and Hugh still unknowing to them; her own separate existence Fleda was hardly conscious of. Hugh especially,--how was he to be told, and how could he bear to hear? with his most sensitive conformation of both physical and moral nature. And if an arrest should take place there that night!--Fleda shuddered, and unable to go on thinking rose up and went to her aunt's bedside. It had not entered her mind till the moment she read Mr. Thorn's letter that Seth Plumfield was sheriff for the county. She was shaking again from head to foot with fear. She could not say anything--the touch of her lips to the throbbing temples, soft and tender as sympathy itself, was all she ventured. "Have you heard anything of him?" Mrs. Rossitur whispered. "No--I doubt if we do at all to-night." There was a half breathed "Oh!--" of indescribable pain and longing; and with a restless change of position Mrs. Rossitur gathered herself up on the bed and sat with her head leaning on her knees. Fleda brought a large cloak and put it round her. "I am in no danger," she said,--"I wish I were!" Again Fleda's lips softly, tremblingly, touched her cheek. Mrs. Rossitur put her arm round her and drew her down to her side, upon the bed; and wrapped half of the big cloak about her; and they sat there still in each other's arms, without speaking or weeping, while quarter after quarter of an hour passed away,--nobody knew how many. And the cold bright moonlight streamed in on the floor, mocking them. "Go!" whispered Mrs. Rossitur at last,--"go down stairs and take care of yourself--and Hugh." "Won't you come?" Mrs. Rossitur shook her head. "Mayn't I bring you something?--do let me!" But Mrs. Rossitur's shake of the head was decisive. Fleda crawled off the bed, feeling as if a month's illness had been making its ravages upon her frame and strength. She stood a moment to collect her thoughts; but alas, thinking was impossible; there was a palsy upon her mind. She went into her own room and for a minute kneeled down,--not to form a petition in words, she was as much beyond that; it was only the mute attitude of appeal, the pitiful outward token of the mind's bearing, that could not be forborne, a silent uttering of the plea she had made her own in happy days. There was something of comfort in the mere feeling of doing it; and there was more in one or two words that even in that blank came to her mind;--"Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him;" and she again recollected that "Providence runneth not upon broken wheels." Nothing could be darker than the prospect before her, and these things did not bring light; but they gave her a sure stay to hold on by and keep her feet; a bit of strength to preserve from utterly fainting. Ah! the storehouse must be filled and the mind well familiarized with what is stored in it while yet the days are bright, or it will never be able to find what it wants in the dark. Fleda first went into the kitchen to tell Barby to fasten the doors and not sit up. "I don't believe uncle Rolf will be home to-night; but if he comes I will let him in." Barby looked at her with absolutely a face of distress; but not daring to ask and not knowing how to propose anything, she looked in silence. "It must be nine o'clock now," Fleda went on. "And how long be you going to sit up?" said Barby. "I don't know--a while yet." "You look proper for it!" said Barby half sorrowfully and half indignantly;--"you look as if a straw would knock you down this minute. There's sense into everything. You catch me a going to bed and leaving you up! It won't do me no hurt to sit here the hull night; and I'm the only one in the house that's fit for it, with the exception of Philetus, and the little wit he has by day seems to forsake him at night. All the light that ever gets into his head, I believe, comes from the outside; as soon as ever that's gone he shuts up his shutters. He's been snoozing a'ready now this hour and a half. Go yourself off to bed, Fleda," she added with a mixture of reproach and kindness, "and leave me alone to take care of myself and the house too." Fleda did not remonstrate, for Barby was as determined in her way as it was possible for anything to be. She went into the other room without a particle of notion what she should say or do. Hugh was walking up and down the floor--a most unusual sign of perturbation with him. He met and stopped her as she came in. "Fleda, I cannot bear it. What is the matter?--Do you know?'" he said as her eyes fell. "Yes.----" "What is it?" She was silent and tried to pass on to the fire. But he stayed her. "What is it?" he repeated. "Oh I wish I could keep it from you!" said Fleda bursting into tears. He was still a moment, and then bringing her to the arm-chair made her sit down, and stood himself before her, silently waiting, perhaps because he could not speak, perhaps from the accustomed gentle endurance of his nature. But Fleda was speechless too. "You are keeping me in distress," he said at length. "I cannot end the distress, dear Hugh," said Fleda. She saw him change colour and he stood motionless still. "Do you remember," said Fleda, trembling even to her voice,--"what Rutherford says about Providence 'not running on broken wheels'?" He gave her no answer but the intent look of expectation. Its intentness paralyzed Fleda. She did not know how to go on. She rose from her chair and hung upon his shoulder. "Believe it now, if you can--for oh, dear Hugh!--we have something to try it." "It is strange my father don't come home," said he, supporting her with tenderness which had very little strength to help it,--"we want him very much." Whether or not any unacknowledged feeling prompted this remark, some slight involuntary movement of Fleda's made him ask suddenly, "Is it about him?" He had grown deadly pale and Fleda answered eagerly, "Nothing that has happened to-day--it is not anything that has happened to-day--he is perfectly well, I trust and believe." "But it is about him?" Fleda's head sank, and she burst into such an agony of tears that Hugh's distress was for a time divided. "When did it happen, Fleda?" "Years ago." "And what?" Fleda hesitated still, and then said, "It was something he did, Hugh." "What?" "He put another person's name on the back of a note he gave." She did not look up, and Hugh was silent for a moment. "How do you know?" "Mr. Thorn wrote it to aunt Lucy--it was Mr. Thorn's father." Hugh sat down and leaned his head on the table. A long, long, time passed,--unmeasured by the wild coursing of thought to and fro. Then Fleda came and knelt down at the table beside him, and put her arm round his neck. "Dear Hugh," she said--and if ever love and tenderness and sympathy could be distilled in tones, such drops were those that fell upon the mind's ear,--"can't you look up at me?" He did then, but he did not give her a chance to look at him. He locked his arms about her, bringing her close to his breast; and for a few minutes, in utter silence, they knew what strange sweetness pure affection can mingle even in the communion of sorrow. There were tears shed in those minutes that, bitter as they seemed at the time, Memory knew had been largely qualified with another admixture. "Dear Hugh," said Fleda,--"let us keep what we can--won't you go to bed and rest?" He looked dreadfully as if he needed it. But the usual calmness and sweetness of his face was not altered;--it was only deepened to very great sadness. Mentally, Fleda thought, he had borne the shock better than his mother; for the bodily frame she trembled. He had not answered and she spoke again. "You need it worse than I, poor Fleda" "I will go too presently--I do not think anybody will be here tonight." "Is--Are there--Is this what has taken him away?" said Hugh. Her silence and her look told him, and then laying her cheek again alongside of his she whispered, how unsteadily, "We have only one help, dear Hugh." They were still and quiet again for minutes, counting the pulses of pain; till Fleda came back to her poor wish "to keep what they could." She mixed a restorative of wine and water, which however little desired, she felt was necessary for both of them, and Hugh went up stairs. She staid a few minutes to prepare another glass with particular care for her aunt. It was just finished, and taking her candle she had bid Barby good-night, when there came a loud rap at the front door. Fleda set down candle and glass, from the quick inability to hold them as well as for other reasons; and she and Barby stood and looked at each other, in such a confusion of doubt and dread that some little time had passed before either stirred even her eyes. Barby then threw down the tongs with which she had begun to make preparations for covering up the fire and set off to the front. "You mustn't open the door, Barby," cried Fleda, following her. "Come in here and let us look out of one of the windows." Before this could be reached however, there was another prolonged repetition of the first thundering burst. It went through Fleda's heart, because of the two up stairs who must hear it. Barby threw up the sash. "Who's there?" "Is this Mr. Rossitur's place?" enquired a gruff voice. "Yes, it is." "Well will you come round and open the door?" "Who wants it open?" "A lady wants it open?" "A lady!--what lady?" "Down yonder in the carriage." "What lady? who is she?" "I don't know who she is--she wanted to come to Mr. Rossitur's place--will you open the door for her?" Barby and Fleda both now saw a carriage standing in the road. "We must see who it is first," whispered Fleda. "When the lady comes I'll open the door," was Barby's ultimatum. The man withdrew to the carriage; and after a few moments of intense watching Fleda and Barby certainly saw something in female apparel enter the little gate of the court-yard and come up over the bright moonlit snow towards the house, accompanied by a child; while the man with whom they had had the interview came behind transformed into an unmistakeable baggage-carrier. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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