Part 9

At first she had been uncertain at what door she should knock of all those opening into the tower named Self-Support, but, as she approached, one of them flew open before her hand was raised. A lady who was spending the summer near by gave out word that she wished for a governess to take charge of her two children and accompany them to the city in the autumn. Miss Amory’s bright face and gentle ways won the children at first sight. She was retained on trial, and had proved too great a treasure to be relinquished.

Mrs. Walton had been more than kind and considerate, but her very effort to offer attentions and induce the new governess to forget her position only made it more marked, like an erasure upon white paper.

Miss Amory scolded herself twenty times a day, and devoted herself more and more to her duties, but still she could not help looking forward to next summer, when--when--well, beyond that it was all vague. At any rate, there might be some change for the better. Perhaps she could give music-lessons, or could teach school; something she would do where she was her own mistress.

The train rumbled on, and the storm increased. Twice they had to stop and back before they could push their way through a narrow cut where the huge drifts were wedged in solidly from brim to brim. At last, just as the December light was fading from the sky, hurried by the whirling snow-mist, the cars came to a standstill beside a long, low building, and the conductor shouted, “Haybrook! Haybrook!”

Ten minutes later, two sleighs, one in advance loaded with boxes and parcels, the other with the ladies and the two children, crept slowly up the hill that led from the little brown station to the main road. For a while the houses on each side and a few half-obliterated tracks made navigation comparatively easy; but once out of the village it became a matter of nice calculation. The sleet stung the faces of the drivers and formed little icy crusts over the eyes of the patient horses, who struggled on, setting their hoofs down firmly into the smooth, unbroken sheet of snow and sending it out on either side like foam. Suddenly there was a creak, a lurch, and then a dead stop. The drivers consulted in muffled tones as they examined the harness.

“Broken jest above the buckle; nothing to hitch to.”

“Better call up the old man, ’n’ get Wesley to help. ’S only a step further ’n the Corner.”

In the sleigh, Mrs. Walton and her governess, covered with heavy buffalo-robes, waited patiently. The children fidgeted.

“I want to get out and wade.”

“No, Morrie, you just keep still, and perhaps Santa Claus will come along and help us. He must have started by this time.”

“H’m! guess reindeers wouldn’t do much good. I wish I had my pony here. Why, Miss Amory, how cold your hand is! Why, you’ve been keeping that robe over me, and you’re right out in the cold. See the snow on her sleeve, mamma.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” interposed the little governess; but her teeth chattered, and it was an intense relief when she heard a new, strong voice just outside: “Where are they, Marston? In that heap of buffaloes?” After a moment’s pause, the robes were lifted, and before she could say a word the girl felt herself raised from the sleigh and borne along through the storm in a pair of stout arms, while the same cheery voice said: “Beg your pardon, miss, it’s the only way. The house is but a few rods from here.”

“Thank you,” she answered smiling, in spite of the cold, at her situation: “but I’m afraid I shall tire you!”

The young man said nothing, but gravely picked his way between drifts and treacherous hollows. Once he staggered, and nearly fell with his burden. She instinctively threw her arm round his neck like a child, to save herself, withdrawing it quietly a moment after. He plodded on in silence.

“He’s a gentleman,” she thought, “or he would have laughed or joked about it.”

Close behind them the men were following with those left in the sleigh, and the whole company were soon gathered around ’Lisbeth’s fire, exchanging comments, throwing aside their snowy wraps, and refreshing themselves with hot tea.

“Just like a desert island,” whispered Maurice.

“Only savages don’t have doughnuts and milk,” returned Edie, helping herself liberally.

The fire leaped higher and glowed more and more ardently in its efforts to warm the castaways, until they were glad to draw back their chairs from the hearth,--all except the little governess, who was still chilled through and through, although she meekly drank three cups of hot tea in succession, and crouched as near the friendly fire as she could without scorching the pretty dark-blue traveling dress. Little ripples of shiver seemed to run over her from head to foot, like a cold breeze.

“I think, if you please, I’ll go to my room,” she said at last, with a grateful look at ’Lisbeth, who was watching her anxiously, and who doubtless supposed her to be a relative, probably the children’s aunt. “Governess” was an idea that had not struck Haybrook, except through the medium of an old English novel or two.

“Well, just step right in here,” she said, sympathetically; “and don’t you get up till ye’re called in the mornin’.”

As she spoke she opened one of the little, gray, uneven doors behind her guests, and lighting a tallow candle in a knobby brass candlestick, placed it upon some article of furniture within.

“Good-night,” she said again, kindly. “Don’t let me disturb ye by my travelin’ round the kitchen gettin’ breakfast. You can leave the door open a crack for company, if you’re lonesome.”

II

When Florence Amory opened her eyes the next morning, she was at a loss for some minutes to determine her own position in the great white world that lay around her. Then the events of the preceding night marshaled themselves into line one by one, and at the same time came the consciousness that she possessed a head,--a most unmanageable one, too. It danced and whirled in such an uncomfortable way that she was glad to shut her eyes once more.

Presently the sound of an old-fashioned coffee-mill, with its unwilling halts and sudden compliances, fell upon her ear in such close proximity that there was no mistaking the character of the adjoining room. A moment or two later the crushed berries sent through the keyhole a delicious whiff of aroma that spread itself through the room. Encouraged by this appeal to two of her senses, the girl once more took a survey of her quarters. A narrow bedroom, with just space enough beside the high-posted bed on which she lay to permit one person to pass; a chest of drawers, with shining brass handles that tinkled faintly in response to footsteps in another part of the house; one or two straight-backed chairs: these completed the furniture of the room, with the exception of a small looking-glass (one corner gone), a frame washstand, and a tiny yellow table. The windows were hung with green paper curtains. Just as she finished this journey around her room, her head took another flight, and was hardly down again when the door opened softly and the cheery face of ’Lisbeth peeped in. Seeing that the stranger was awake, she advanced to the bedside and bent over the flushed face upon the pillow.

“How’d ye sleep?” she inquired, softly brushing aside a stray lock or two of brown hair, as a mother might have done, from the tired young forehead.

“Not very much, I’m afraid. I’m not much rested: my head doesn’t feel quite right;” and she tried to smile.

“Well,”--this woman had a strong, comfortable way of beginning her sentences with that monosyllable, which seemed to put quite out of sight all doubts and difficulties in the way, and carried with it a conviction that everything was coming out just right,--“well, there’s nothing in the world to do but to stay just where you be. Your folks ain’t up yet, and won’t be this two hours. I’m goin’ to brown ye a piece of bread, and the tea’ll be ready by the time that’s done: it’s drawin’ now, front of the fire.”

“Oh, indeed I must get up. The children”--

“Land, the children can dress themselves, or their mother’ll help ’em if they need anything. Do’n’t you say another word, dear, but just shut your eyes and think about something easy,--dandelions in a cloverfield, say, or birds singin’ ’long towards night.”

The firm steps turned away and again began their journeyings up and down the floor of the adjoining room. Florence closed her eyes willingly enough, and lay perfectly quiet, with a sense of being cared for, such as she had not felt since she left her own home.

The morning light showed dimly through the frosty little panes behind the green curtain. Upon the old-fashioned bureau she could just see, as she glanced up wearily now and then, the shape of her tall brass candlestick, with its long stalactites of tallow hanging from the upper rim. The footsteps plodded to and fro. Pots and pans occasionally interjected a staccato note above the soft purring of the fire and the hum of the teakettle. Then another pair of boots joined the first,--evidently a man’s, but managed with wonderful care so as not to disturb the visitors.

Pretty soon the door opened once more, and ’Lisbeth entered, bearing a small japanned tray, upon which were set a plate of toast in tiny slices, a steaming cup of tea, and a sugar-bowl with its pair of silver tongs, slim but solid.

“Now, dear, a bit of this will do you good.”

“But I’m not hungry.”

“No, poor child, I didn’t suppose you would be. Well” (comfortably again), “suppose I butter a piece of toast,--the littlest piece,--just for you to taste. Maybe ’t will make ye sleepy.” There was no resisting that, and the feverish girl did manage to take a very wee lunch from the motherly fingers. Then she fell back among the pillows, exhausted.

“If ye can jest ketch a nap now,” said ’Lisbeth in a whisper, as if her charge were already in danger of being waked, “it’ll do ye lots of good.”

The toast and the hot tea and Lisbeth’s whispers must have had a soothing effect, for Florence soon dropped into an uneasy slumber, throughout which, however, she had a continual sense of heat and discomfort. When she awoke, it was broad day. The world was as silent as a dream. To ears accustomed to the roar of a city and the cries and laughter of children at play, the stillness was not a mere negative quality of the air,--an absence of sound,--it was an almost tangible thing, and Florence felt smothered beneath its folds. She pressed her hand to her head, and found it burning hot. Her pulse was throbbing fiercely through her slender wrists.

“Mrs. Eldridge!” she called faintly. She had heard ’Lisbeth so addressed by the driver the night before.

The soft rustle of a woolen dress, and the firm, now familiar footfall, were heard at once. In a moment more the elder woman was holding the hand of the younger.

“I believe--I am afraid--I am going to be ill.”

“Well, Miss Amory, ’f you be, you shall be well taken care of. I’ll tend ye myself, nights; and if there’s anything you want that can be got, why, Elsie’ll get it for ye.”

“And is there a physician?”

“Oh, yes’m; Elsie’s gone for one now. They’ll be here in an hour or two.”

“In all this snow?”

“Oh, we don’t mind that, ma’am. Get used to it, you know. The road’s been broke out clean up t’ the village, they say, so ’s ’t the pung’ll go well enough.”

“Where are Mrs. Walton and the children? And--please don’t call me ma’am.”

’Lisbeth smiled good-humoredly: “I won’t, if you won’t call me ‘Mis’ Eldridge.’ ’T always makes me feel ’s if I must talk just so straight when anybody calls me that. My name’s ’Lisbeth; and if you’ll call me so, why, I’ll call you Florence,--the boy told me your name,--and so we’ll feel better acquainted. Oh, the others? Why, they went along up t’ the Hill, to spend Christmas with their folks, about noon to-day. She said you was to stay here till you felt better, if we could keep you. And we can.”

That night Florence was worse, and the succeeding days and weeks were but so many chapters of feverish fancies and hot, throbbing pain. The sun climbed higher and the snowbanks sank lower day by day, but she knew nothing of them. Her world was square, her sky a dingy white, her surroundings the changing forms of a disordered dream. The gray-haired country doctor had peered at her through his spectacles and made the motions of “Typhoid” with his lips to ’Lisbeth. Florence had seen it under her half-closed eyelids, but was too weary to care much. So January came and went, and after it February, before she found herself inclined to take the slightest interest in anything outside of those four walls, with their faded, large-figured paper.

It was a warm, delicious day in early March,--one of those foretastes of spring which in New England match the Indian summer of late autumn. The green curtain swayed slightly back and forth as the sweet south wind crept in through the crannies of the old, warped window-frame. A song-sparrow, perching on the fence just outside, sang his contented little Easter hymn over and over, until the sick girl felt herself being drawn back to life once more, and life seemed beautiful. ’Lisbeth was sitting in the kitchen, with the door half open between, and Florence could hear the soothing creak of her chair as she rocked gently to and fro at her knitting. Presently she called, “Mrs. Eldridge!”

The creaking stopped instantly, and health and life, embodied in ’Lisbeth, entered the room.

“Well, dearie, feelin’ a little better, ain’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,”--gratefully. “I want to know, if you please, about things that have happened since I have been ill.”

“Oh, that’s a short story. Mrs. Walton ’n’ the children went back t’ the city six weeks ago, and left you in my charge. An’ it’s precious little trouble you’ve been. For my part I’d rather take care o’ ten women, all sick with the typhus, than one man with a headache.”

Florence smiled faintly. Then she said, “I haven’t heard so many footsteps in the kitchen lately. Have any of your family gone?”

“Bless you, no. That’s only because Elsie’s made a pair o’ slippers to wear about the house, so ’s not to wake you when you’d caught a sleep.”

“How very kind! Can I see Elsie soon? I should so like to be read to a little bit.”

“Why, yes, I s’pose so,” said ’Lisbeth rather doubtfully. “I d’ know ’s there’d be any objection. Oh, that reminds me. Elsie was over t’ the Corner early this morning, and brought these flowers. There’s a greenhouse there, where they keep ’em growing right through the winter. Seems ’s if they might have been a little brighter, now, don’t it?”

While she was talking, she stepped into the next room, raising her voice as she went, and returned with a china vase painted gaudily on one side and containing a loose cluster of cut flowers. Florence noticed at the first glance that they were so arranged as to bring the unpainted side of the vase in front; at the second, that they had been chosen thoughtfully. One or two dark heliotropes, white pinks, and a creamy, half-opened rose, with slender ferns for a background: that was all.

“I was going to tie the stems up with a piece of string, but Elsie would have it they’d wilt quicker, and would look kind o’ sot besides. You was to take out one of the pinks to hold in your hand, if you liked. They last longer ’n the rest.”

So the dainty blossom, with its folds within folds of whiteness, was held between the slight girl-fingers, in no way less dainty and delicate than itself. By a sudden impulse Florence pressed it to her lips like a child. “You are all so good to me!” she said, with quivering lips. “I’m not used to being taken care of. Please thank Elsie for me, and ask her to come in when she can spare the time.”

Mrs. Eldridge had been stooping to pick up a shred from the neat carpet, and but half caught the words. “Who d’ you say? O, Elsie! Well, I’ll give your message just ’s you put it.”

But Elsie did not come the next day, nor the next. She began to seem to Florence like some beneficent brownie, doing all her good deeds before the household was awake, and then disappearing until her services were again needed.

At last came the eventful day when the invalid was to be allowed to sit up for half an hour. She had looked forward to the time with eagerness. The old doctor, who had a vein of grim humor under his white beard, gruffly called her his little im-patient. But, to tell the truth, the stiff-backed chairs which she had thus far seen were hardly suggestive of luxurious rest; they were built for well people. Men and women in that part of the country make but little reckoning upon sickness. When it comes, it is met with a stern and uncompromising resistance; but the thought of humoring it by such compliances as reclining-chairs never for a moment enters their heads. It was, therefore, a genuine surprise when, after an extraordinary amount of whispering and hurrying in the kitchen, the door opened, and, assisted by ’Lisbeth, in walked a chair of such inviting proportions and soft, padded curves that they plainly expressed themselves to the effect that they would be extremely miserable unless reclined upon, and that speedily.

“Why, where did you find that lovely chair?” cried Florence delightedly. “I thought I should have to sit up just as straight!”

“Oh, we jest made it up out of one of the old armchairs in the best room,” said the other, surveying the luxurious piece of upholstery with pardonable pride. “You see, Elsie thought it all out, and put us to work, when you said you wanted to set up: so we jest stuffed the back an’ arms, and Elsie sawed off the hind legs an’ fixed that place for your feet in front, and there you be!”

Five minutes later, Florence sat, weak and trembling after her long inactivity, in the comfortable chintz-covered chair, with a great sense of achievement and a new hold on the realities of life.

“Now, if I could only see Elsie, and thank her.”

“And--_what_?”

“Why, tell her how much I thank her for all the trouble she has taken for me.”

A queer look came into ’Lisbeth’s face, and her eyes twinkled. “Guess ye’d better wait till to-morrow,” she said. “You’ll feel stronger then, and--she--can come in while you’re settin’ up.”

“But why not to-day?” persisted the other, with a convalescent’s freedom.

“Well, to tell the truth, Elsie’s busy to-day outdoors, and won’t be in till you’re abed again; and then you ought to rest.”

“Out of doors?”

“Oh, she’ll tell you all about it to-morrow,” said ’Lisbeth, pursing up her mouth in the same funny way as before.

Florence was too weak to pursue the subject further, and presently was glad enough to lay her tired head upon the pillow once more.

The next morning the first object that caught her eye was a bunch of slender willow-wands, with their soft, clinging “pussies,” such as she had not seen since she was a child running about under the elms in the old, quiet town by the sea. The fresh, sweet sunlight peeped through the window and rested on their gray fur, creeping down from one to another and dancing in and out in the merriest manner possible. As Florence lay there beneath the old patchwork quilt, watching this pretty play of sunshine and kittens, and listening to the soft bustle of the morning’s work in the next room, a sense of great comfort and rest stole over her, and in her weakness her eyes filled with happy tears. Whatever was troublesome in the past she forgot: the future seemed as bright and yet as intangible as the sunbeams. She only realized the watchful care and devotion that were hovering about her day and night, and, in the clear, wholesome atmosphere, her mother’s religion seemed nearer to her than ever before. Her favorite verse, “Return unto thy rest, O my soul,” was written in sunny characters upon the faded wall before her.

Then she began to wonder how it would seem to meet the other members of the family. The shrill voice of the old man she had often heard, but she had listened in vain for some snatch of song or girlish footfall which might belong to the gentle “Elsie” whose unseen ministrations were always attending to her comfort. As for the sturdy young fellow who had borne her so lightly through the snow, she had heard him once or twice only, speaking to ’Lisbeth in low tones, or calling cheerily somewhere outside to a passing neighbor.

“He must at least live near here,” she thought, “but has probably forgotten all about me. Breakdowns are common enough in the country, and the ‘women-folks’ always have to be carried through the drifts.”

Still, she could not help wondering a little who he was, and where he learned that slow, quiet speech, with its correctly-placed adverbs and adjectives, She at last concluded that he must be a neighbor in rather better circumstances than her hostess,--perhaps one of the proud “Hill-folks” whom Mrs. Walton was to visit. How they must have laughed over the adventure as they sat about their loaded tables on Christmas day! Could he not have just called at the door and inquired for her during all these long weeks of suffering? Then the color came faintly to her cheeks. She was a dependant, a servant: how could she expect such attentions? The old rebellious uprising of her whole nature was beginning to assert itself once more, when ’Lisbeth’s soft knock was heard at the door, and ’Lisbeth herself immediately appeared, while the sunbeams, which had somehow hidden behind a cloud just before, danced in through the window again to meet her.

“Now, dear, for breakfast. The pullets have just begun to lay, an’ Elsie’s been out and found a nest in the haymow where that little Plymouth-Rock was a-cacklin’ yesterday. Look!” She held up the warm, coffee-colored egg as she spoke. “How’ll you have it cooked? Boiled? Well, I’ll do it just right, and show ye how to take off the lid with a knife and eat it out of the shell. Father always has his that way.”

Florence smiled in spite of herself at being treated so like a child.

“That’s right,” continued Lisbeth briskly: “don’t ye go to feelin’ solemn, for it’s goin’ to be a grand day. And as for time to come, why, all I say is, don’t worry. You’re as welcome as the flowers of May, and I love to have ye round. You remind me of a little sister I had once, and--and--Yes, I’m comin’!” And ’Lisbeth, guilty, for the only time in her life, of a downright deception, hurried out of the room, pausing, however, to shut the door gently behind her.

Breakfast over, and the ceremony of enthronement in the easy chair performed, Florence, with spirits quite recovered, again recurred to Elsie. “Now, ’Lisbeth,” she said gayly, “please hand me the longest pussy-willow stem for a scepter, and I will give audience to my subjects. Where is Elsie?”

III

’Lisbeth stepped to the door and called through it: “Come in: she’s ready to see ye now.”

Florence waited, with a bright smile dawning on her face for the kindly little spirit who handled pussy-willows and armchairs so deftly. The next minute she heard a light, firm step upon the kitchen floor. It hesitated at the door, and a gentle knock followed.

“Come right in, Elsie,” cried Florence, pleased again by her delicacy. “I shall be so glad--”

She paused abruptly. The door had swung open, and there stood a tall, well-built young man, an amused twinkle in his clear gray eyes, and the corners of his mouth just failing of that demureness they aimed to achieve. Without, however, appearing to notice any element of embarrassment in the situation, he stepped forward quietly and laid in her lap a glorious bunch of roses, saying, as he did so, “I happened to be at the Corner this morning, and was fortunate in securing the first cutting at the greenhouse. It is like the cream on Aunt ’Lisbeth’s pans,” he went on, evidently to give her time. “I always was troublesome just before churning days: wasn’t I, aunt?”