Part 10

“Indeed, you were,” returned ’Lisbeth, with a beaming face that flatly contradicted her words. “What with you and the two blue kittens, it’s a wonder we ever got anything but skim-milk for our butter. Them roses do look something like cream too.”

By this time Florence had recovered her self-possession: “Is it possible that this is the kind fairy who has done so much for me?” She held out her hand with a frank smile as she spoke.

He stooped, not ungracefully, and took the offered hand, then laid it, almost reverently, upon the heap of roses. “Hardly a fairy,” he remarked gravely; “a gnome or a goblin, perhaps. It was very pleasant service. Are you really better, Miss Amory?”

“Thank you; I feel almost too well to be treated as an invalid. Will you not be seated? And then please tell me how--how--I could have--thought”--

“Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” broke in ’Lisbeth, with a mischievous look at her tall nephew, who had obediently seated himself on one corner of the bed, that being the only unoccupied portion of the room. “You see, when Wesley”--

Florence flushed slightly; she had thought she recognized the voice, though she had heard it but for a moment that wintry night. The name she remembered.

“--Wesley, he used to call himself ‘Elsie’ when he was a little trudge an’ couldn’t speak plain. So we got into the way of callin’ him that ourselves an’ it’s stuck to him ever since. I’d no notion ye didn’t know who I meant, till you said ‘she’ yesterday. Then, thinks I, I’ll have a little surprise for her, and a good laugh won’t do the child no harm, bless her!”

Harm! Why, the most cynical, crabbed, disappointed old soul in the world must have brightened up at the merry little ripple of laughter that followed. The responsibilities and struggles of the last two or three years had left their trace in the gravity of Florence’s young face when in repose. It had begun to have the American tired look, and it needed excitement or a quick emotion to show to best advantage the intelligent deep-brown eyes, the wavy hair across the strong forehead, and a complexion, naturally fine and clear, rendered even more delicate by her long illness. As she looked up now, with the quick pleasure of a child, and the light of careless merriment in her eyes, her face was very sweet and winning.

Wesley was regarding her intently, his features relaxing pleasantly at her happy laugh. “No doubt you consider us all as arch-conspirators, Miss Amory,” he said; “but I assure you I knew nothing of this until half an hour ago. Aunt ’Lisbeth is the Guy Fawkes.”

“And I had no idea she could be so deceitful,” replied Florence solemnly. “Have you any gunpowder in your apron pockets, ma’am?”

“Land sakes! no,” said ’Lisbeth, with a puzzled look. “What d’ you s’pose I want with powder? I guess likely Elsie’s got some up ’n his closet; though what on airth”--

Then they all laughed again: they were so simply happy that it did not take much to amuse them.

But Florence soon began to feel her strength failing in the unusual excitement, and was glad to be left alone with her patchwork quilt and her pussy-willows.

She did not see Wesley again until several days later. He was busy mending fences, ’Lisbeth said, “and in the evenin’ he had to do his writin’.”

Florence secretly wondered what his writing could be; but, as ’Lisbeth did not seem disposed to explain, she said nothing. She had noticed the carefulness of the sturdy young farmer’s speech, the final g’s on his present participles, and the even, firm pronunciation of his vowels and consonants, so different from the drawling, carelessly-clipped words of the country-people about. He must have studied hard at some village “academy,” she thought.

People now began to drop in, after the neighborly St. John fashion so out of use in cities. They would settle themselves comfortably in the kitchen rocker, which was usually brought into the front room for company, and, taking a roll of knitting from bag or apron pocket, would keep the needles flying while they talked, though but for five minutes.

Florence learned that her mother, who was herself in feeble health, had been from time to time informed of her condition, and, as the sickness had never been considered dangerous, had contented herself with writing, at first to ’Lisbeth, afterward to Florence, who was now well enough to answer. In the pure country air she gained rapidly, and before long was enabled to take her seat with the rest at table, on which occasion, be it said, her only anxiety was lest the family should go to bed supperless, with such eagerness did they devote themselves to superintending her own plate. By this time, too, she had learned to say “’Lisbeth” and “grandfather” without hesitation. As to the third member of the family, she compromised with her sense of propriety by addressing him as “Mr. Wesley.” His last name she had not heard.

She was sitting by her window one bright, warm afternoon in April, watching the portly robins, now hopping about after their extraordinary food, now pausing to glance up wisely at the sky or at her window with an air half suspicious, half friendly. Their neat orange-colored waistcoats showed prettily against the fresh-tinted grass, just beginning to spring in velvety patches through the brown, unmown aftermath of the preceding fall.

On the shady side of the old stone wall that ran along the road toward the railway-station, a narrow, irregular snowbank, its surface fantastically carved and honeycombed by the sun, still reminded her of her winter night’s ride. How dreary it had all seemed! How she had dreaded even the Christmas festivities, with the inevitable being “left out”--the awkward movements when she felt that the company about her were not quite sure whether to treat her as an equal or a servant,--worst of all, the well-meant efforts of Mrs. Walton to smooth matters over in private! Ah! how it was all changed now! She would never, never go back to her old position; indeed,--and a shadow crossed her forehead as she thought of it,--Mrs. Walton had never signified her wish to have her return. She would soon be able to help her kind friends in the housework, in sewing, and in other little ways, until she could obtain something to do for herself. She would pay them sometime. How good they had all been to her! She thought once more of that bitter, hopeless ride through the snow. How cold she had been!--her right arm benumbed with holding the robe over the children, whom, with all her troubles, she had learned to love very dearly. She recalled the sudden halt, the moaning of the wind through the trees overhead, the sifting of the sleety snow against the sides of the sleigh. Then she thought of the firm voice, assuming control so quietly, with no needless words, but, what was better, two stout arms. How they had seemed to lift her out of all her troubles, even while she was borne straight into the whirl and might of the storm! She had felt that the arms were stronger than the wind, and so had trusted them. The girl was resting her cheek upon her hand as she lived that long night over again, and she hardly knew what a glow was in her face, or how dewy bright her eyes were, as with a start she turned to answer a knock she had learned to recognize.

Wesley looked straight into the brown eyes a moment in his grave, silent way, then reached out his hand, filled to overflowing with long trailing vines and fragrant pink-and-white blossoms.

“They told me they missed you in the woods,” he said, “and begged me to carry them to you.”

Florence took them in her hands and bent her face over them. She could not speak for a moment, the flowers were such a part of what she had been thinking. “I thank you,” she said at length, tremulously. “They are far too beautiful to claim companionship with me. It is I who should go to them and kneel while I picked them.”

“I always think of them as in ‘Miles Standish’:

Children lost in the woods and covered with leaves in their slumber.

It is as if they were the pure in heart, who had ascended into His holy hill.”

“Where did you find them, Mr. Wesley?”

“Under the pines, by the brook. It is hardly time for them, but that is a sheltered spot, where the sun shines all day. I will take you there as soon as you can go with safety.”

“Do you know,” mused Florence, “it seems odd that the first English ship anchoring in Plymouth harbor should have been called the Mayflower? Do they have these flowers in England?”

“No, Miss Amory. It would perhaps sound strange to you to hear people speak of a ‘branch of mayflowers,’ but by that name the English usually mean the hawthorn, which flowers in May. And it is a wonderfully beautiful sight, for England seems at that time to be fairly covered with blossoms, the hawthorns are so plentiful.”

“This is ‘trailing arbutus,’ is it not?”

“Yes; except--pardon me--with the accent on the first syllable. But I am becoming pedantic,” he added, with a smile. “Miss Amory, you once told Aunt ’Lisbeth you would like to be read to, did you not?”

Florence felt the color in her cheeks, but said simply, “Yes, I should enjoy it very much.”

“Here is a bit that I came across a day or two ago.” He took a printed slip from his pocket and began to read:

“Little pure-hearts, nestling shyly On the cool, pine-shadowed slope, Filling all the gloomy forest With the very breath of hope,

“Whence hath come your wondrous patience, In the dark to wait so long,-- Faith, to venture forth so bravely At the first wee sparrow-song?

“All your alabaster boxes, With their store of ointment sweet, You have offered to the Master, Humbly kneeling at his feet,

“And his gentle hands in blessing Rest upon you day by day, While the precious fragrance rises Like a prayer to him alway.”

Florence sat in absolute stillness while he read, just catching her breath slightly at one of the lines. She looked very much like a mayflower herself as she sat there, her hands crossed in her lap, and her face upturned to the reader. When he had finished, she was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Who wrote that, Mr. Wesley?”

“Oh, the author’s name wasn’t mentioned,” he replied carelessly. “It was some anonymous magazine-writer who was fond of flowers and the Gospel of St. John, and chose to tell in this way what he thought about it all.”

“Mr. Wesley”--

“Miss Amory?”

“Is there an institute--academy--of any sort at the Corner? I have thought of teaching, you know.” Florence flushed as she spoke, and looked intently out of the window.

“There is something of that sort there now, I believe. It was started only a year or two ago.”

“Why, then you”--The words came before she could check them.

“No,” he answered, smiling, “I was only able to attend the district school that you passed between here and Haybrook Station.”

“But--you have learned somewhere?”

She was in for it now, though her face burned as she asked the question.

“I studied at home,” he replied quietly. “Then I worked for a man at Haybrook Center, and he helped me with my Greek and Latin until I was able to enter Bowdoin. I graduated five years ago.”

“Thank you,” she said heartily. “I’m afraid I have been unpardonably inquisitive; but you must accord a certain indulgence to invalids, which, I believe, they are usually not slow to claim. If you had not criticised my pronunciation of this little flower’s name, I should not have taken such a liberty. Am I forgiven?” she concluded, looking up brightly into his face again.

“I have passed harder examinations in history,” he said good-humoredly; “and some day I may retaliate by examining you to even better purpose. Will you answer all my questions then?”

Florence laughed outright: “How solemnly you speak! To be sure I will. My story will be even shorter than yours. I think one answer will be enough for the whole.”

“Yes, I think it will,” he said slowly, then checked himself, and, remarking soberly that “her little forest children would be none the worse for wetting their feet,” turned, without further words, and left the room.

IV

A few days after this conversation, ’Lisbeth entered the kitchen waving an envelope over her head. “It’s accepted,” she cried; “I know by the feel of it! It’s a money-order or a check,--it don’t make no difference which. Abner Slack was just comin’ back from the Corner, so he called in t’ the post-office an’ brought it along.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Florence, who was the only other person in the room. “Whom is it from, and to whom is it addressed, please?”

“Why, to Elsie, of course. Look there!”

She pointed to the name of a well-known periodical, printed in an upper corner of the envelope.

“He’s been trying to get something into that for these six months past, and nothin’s ever come back but those old circulars, telling how the editor’s feelin’ _so_ bad, because the piece is a leetle bit too long, or not quite suited, or better for some other magazine! Poor boy, he’d got so discouraged and put down ’bout it that I didn’t know but he’d give up for good.”

“Then that’s why he writes so much. Oh, but are you sure he wouldn’t mind your telling me?”

“Bless you, no; he don’t make no secret of it. He got into the way of writin’ for the papers while he was schoolin’ at Bowdoin, and when he came home he just made up his mind that that was his callin’, and that he would stick to farmin’ for a while until he got money enough to move to the city, where he could get at more books. About six weeks ago he sent a great thick bunch o’ paper--I’m sure I don’t know what ’t was all about--to the magazine, and, as I told ye, they’ve sent back this envelope instead of the bunch. So I know it’s taken.”

’Lisbeth’s kind face fairly beamed as she spoke, and her eyes were moist. “If you’d known,” she went on, wiping them with the corner of her apron, “the setbacks that boy’s had, and the big pack of them old printed things he’s got saved up--he’s the most perseverin’ critter--There! here ’m I standin’ talkin’, instead of givin’ the letter to him this minute!” She ran up-stairs in her quick, nervous way, and, as they all sat round the uneven table that night, the light in the young man’s eyes showed that ’Lisbeth had not mistaken the contents of the mail.

“I’m trying to do my duty on the farm,” he told Florence afterward, “and at the same time to find whether I really have a message to the world, or a part of it, however small. I always have to remember the reply of the old Scotch minister who was asked by an anxious young pulpit aspirant whether he thought he had a call to preach. ‘Try it, mon,’ he said; ‘try it, an’ dootless ye’ll succeed, gin ye find oot ’at onybody has a ca’ to hear ye.’ I shouldn’t want to be ‘stickit,’” he added, smiling.

“But--pardon me, Mr. Wesley--what kind of writing do you mean to do? There are so many branches, you know: poetry, fiction, history, essays”--

“That is just what I must discover. The main thing is not the form, but the substance. I want to write that which shall comfort and strengthen people, help them when they are in trouble, give them rest when they are tired, make life bright and cheery for them when the world seems gray.” He spoke with kindling eyes. “If I have ever written--if I shall ever write--a line that does not, in some poor way, however feeble, tend to this result, I pray that it may be blotted out, destroyed with the paper on which it is printed!”

This talk was followed by others of like nature. By degrees Wesley, finding a sympathetic listener always ready, and a kind but firm critic as well, fell insensibly into the habit of reading, at first passages here and there, afterward whole articles, to the gentle, dark-haired girl who was so quick to catch the deeper significance he had intended in this or that turn of thought and reflect it in her intent brown eyes.

So the spring wore on, and then came summer, with its long, fair days, its fragrant hay-fields, its never-ceasing chirp and whir of insect life. Month after month passed, and still Florence lingered with her kind friends. With the oppressive heats of August the old man had felt his strength fail rapidly, and spent much of his time within-doors, lying upon the lounge or in the stuffed rocking-chair, and needing many little offices from those around. This special duty Florence from the first assumed, and more loving care or regard to his slightest want he could not have received from a granddaughter. She would read or talk softly to him by the hour, would listen patiently to his childish, halting speech, and move lightly to and fro in his service, until he would have no one else about him, lying perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, when she was out of the house, until the familiar footfall or the pleasant voice told of her return.

As the flowers in the little garden fell before the early frosts and the maple boughs began to kindle through the mellow autumn haze, the life of the old man, weary with its long stay upon earth, was plainly preparing to lay aside its worn-out garments; and one bright September morning when the first rays of the sun found their way through the little window-panes of the low-browed east chamber, Florence knew that the moment had come.

She had been sitting up all night, and now stepped quickly across the kitchen to call the other members of the household. They came, and the final long, tired breath was drawn at last. They waited, but no more came. Wesley turned to Florence, took her hand and held it silently for a moment, and then, in the quiet country way, went out to give notice of the death, have the bell tolled, and arrange for the funeral.

In the loneliness that fell upon the old house during the next few weeks, Florence made no effort to go. It was plain that she was needed, for death, no matter how long or fully expected, is an awful visitor at the last, and leaves behind him an oppression which cannot be soon thrown off. So it was Florence who quietly carried away the funeral flowers after the family had returned from the little churchyard, it was she who threw open the blinds of grandfather’s room and let in the sweet, fresh sunshine, and it was she who, without forcing an unwelcome cheerfulness upon the rest, was nevertheless the light of the house from the time when her bright face, full of sympathy, greeted ’Lisbeth in the gray November mornings until the three gathered about the cosy tea-table by the flickering light of the fire.

Once her mother came down for a visit of a day or two, which lengthened into a fortnight. She had offered to pay for her daughter’s accommodations, to the intense astonishment and displeasure of ’Lisbeth.

“She earns her board, every bit of it,” said that lady with energy. “I don’t know what I should do without her workin’ and singin’ round the house. You jest let her stay till she wants to go,--that is, ma’am, if you can spare her yourself. She’s gainin’ in health every day of her life, and when she’s ready she’ll take hold as she never did before, I can tell you.”

So matters were left as they were, until, with a start, Florence remembered, one bright, cold afternoon, that it was just a year since she had been carried in through the front door that bitter night.

Wesley had come in from his work a few moments before, glowing with the exercise and the keen air, to ask her to take a sleigh-ride with him that evening. The roads were fine, he said, and the colt, not having been out for a week, was in the best of spirits. There was a full moon, too, and they would celebrate Christmas Eve by this drive, just by way of contrast with that of a year ago.

In gayest mood, therefore, Florence stood upon the broad door-stone in front of the house when, a few hours later, the colt came jingling up from the barn with a light step, plainly considering the sleigh and its load the most stupendous joke conceivable, really nothing at all for a strong young fellow like him; it was difficult for him, on the whole, to realize that he was in harness at all. That his driver, however, was hardly inclined to allow him to forget that fact was evident from the even, steady rein and the firm voice behind it.

For a few moments, as Florence took her place beside Wesley, she felt unaccountably shy; this soon wore off in the rush of sweet, cool air past their cheeks and the wonderful beauty of the night. How the starlight twinkled and danced from each little bright point above the white, silent world, waiting for the far-off chords of angel music! Christmas Eve. No sound in the air but the silvery voice of the bells and the murmur of the pines, “Peace, peace on earth.”

Wesley stooped to arrange the heavy fur robe more warmly about his companion. Then he turned and looked into her earnest, upturned face. “Do you know,” he said, quietly, “what I should label my picture if I were to paint your portrait? ’A Brown Study.’”

Florence laughed a little: “I was only thinking how very contented I was, and how much more happiness this Christmas looks back upon than the last.”

“Miss Amory, are you in a mood for answering questions to-night?” He felt her start slightly under the robe. “Because, you know, you have never passed that examination.”

There was something in his voice, an earnestness underlying his light words, that made her turn her head quickly to meet his glance.

At that moment they were passing through a belt of woods where the brightness of the sky and the faint light of the rising moon made the shadows cower thick and black beside every log and snowy mound.

Whether the young horse had spied one of these stretching into the road, or she had jarred the reins by her involuntary movement, Florence never knew. It happened like a lightning-stroke,--the sudden quiver of the colt from head to foot, and at the same instant the sharp word of command from Wesley, then the plunge ahead. In one terrified glance at the half-maddened animal she saw a fragment of leather hanging from the foam-covered bit. The rein had parted under the strain, and the remnant lay loose and worse than useless in the driver’s hand.

The horse was bounding wildly along the icy road, with the light sleigh swaying from side to side, half the time upon one runner, threatening every moment to overturn.

“Florence, will you do what I say?”

“Yes.”

She did not mind the name. Were they not together in the shadow of death? Oh, that awful whirl of hoof-beats! the utter helplessness of it all; the mockery of the cushioned seats and warm wraps!

But there was no time for thought. Wesley was taking the heavy buffalo-robe and turning it with quick, skillful hands, as she had seen him turn a paper at home when he was reading aloud to them all in the quiet evenings around the old brick fireplace. His calmness gave her strength.

“Take this corner,” he said. “Hold it with the fur up. Now let the rest of the robe fall slowly over the dasher in front of the whiffletree. When I give the word, lower the whole instantly, as I do, keeping your hold of the upper corner, so that the lower part will clog the runners. Do you understand?”

She nodded. There was little time now to spare. They knew the road well enough to remember the clump of oaks just ahead of them. There was a sudden turn there, to avoid a ledge where the workmen had blasted for the bridge last summer.

Florence crouched in the bottom of the sleigh, set her teeth hard, and, with both hands buried in the long fur, waited.

The ledge came in sight, ugly and black.

“Now!”

For an instant it seemed as if the slender wrists would break, or that she must be drawn over the dasher and thrown under the horse’s hoofs. She never thought of letting go her hold. All her New England heroism came to her aid, and the robe did not gain an inch.