Volume Ii Part 41 (1/2)
”Just got back yesterday,” said Fleda.
”Why didn't you stay longer?”
”I thought my friends at home would be glad to see me,” said Fleda. ”Was I mistaken?”
He made no answer for a minute, and then said ?
”Is your uncle at home?”
”No,” said Fleda; ”he went away this morning on business, and we do not expect him home before nightfall. Do you want to see him?”
”No,” said Seth, very decidedly. ”I wish he had staid in Michigan, or gone further west ? anywhere that Queechy'd never have heard of him.”
”Why, what has he done?” said Fleda, looking up, half laughing, and half amazed at her cousin. But his face was disagreeably dark, though she could not make out that the expression was one of displeasure. It did not encourage her to talk.
”Do you know a man in New York by the name of Thorn?” he said, after standing still a minute or two.
”I know two men of that name,” said Fleda, colouring and wondering.
”Is either on 'em a friend of your'n?”
”No”
”He aint?” said Mr. Plumfield, giving the forestick on the fire an energetic kick, which Fleda could not help thinking was mentally aimed at the said New Yorker.
”No, certainly, what makes you ask?”
”Oh,” said Seth, drily, ”folks' tongues will find work to do; I heerd say something like that; I thought you must take to him more than I do.”
”Why what do you know of him?”
”He's been here a spell lately,” said Seth, ”poking round; more for ill than for good, I reckon.”
He turned, and quitted the room abruptly; and Fleda bethought her that she must go home while she had light enough.
CHAPTER XII.
”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.
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 showed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and outline darkening against the twilight. In better days, perhaps, some friendly tree had hung over it, s.h.i.+elding 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 pa.s.sing 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.”* [* 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 ?