Volume I Part 85 (1/2)
”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? ?