Fleda’s eyes grew more wistful.
“And will you promise me that if ever you want
anything you will come or send straight there?”
“If ever I want anything I can’t get nor
do without,” said Fleda.
“Pshaw!” said the doctor letting her go,
but laughing at the same time. “Mind my
words, Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur;—if ever that
girl takes the wrong bit in her mouth—Well,
well! I’ll go home.”
Home he went. The rest drew together particularly
near, round the fire; Hugh at his father’s shoulder,
and Fleda kneeling on the rug between her uncle and
aunt with a hand on each; and there was not one of
them whose gloom was not lightened by her bright face
and cheerful words of hope that in the new scenes
they were going to, “they would all be so happy.”
The days that followed were gloomy; but Fleda’s
ministry was unceasing. Hugh seconded her well,
though more passively. Feeling less pain himself,
he perhaps for that very reason was less acutely alive
to it in others; not so quick to foresee and ward
off, not so skilful to allay it. Fleda seemed
to have intuition for the one and a charm for the other.
To her there was pain in every parting; her sympathies
clung to whatever wore the livery of habit. There
was hardly any piece of furniture, there was no book
or marble or picture, that she could take leave of
without a pang. But it was kept to herself; her
sorrowful good-byes were said in secret; before others,
in all those weeks she was a very Euphrosyne; light,
bright, cheerful, of eye and foot and hand; a shield
between her aunt and every annoyance that she
could take instead; a good little fairy, that sent
her sunbeam wand, quick as a flash, where any eye rested
gloomily. People did not always find out where
the light came from, but it was her witchery.
The creditors would touch none of Mrs. Rossitur’s
things, her husband’s honourable behaviour had
been so thorough. They even presented him with
one or two pictures which he sold for a considerable
sum; and to Mrs. Rossitur they gave up all the plate
in daily use; a matter of great rejoicing to Fleda
who knew well how sorely it would have been missed.
She and her aunt had quite a little library too, of
their own private store; a little one it was indeed,
but the worth of every volume was now trebled in her
eyes. Their furniture was all left behind; and
in its stead went some of neat light painted wood
which looked to Fleda deliciously countryfied.
A promising cook and housemaid were engaged to go with
them to the wilds; and about the first of April they
turned their backs upon the city.
The thresher’s weary flingin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me:
And whan the day bad closed his e’e,
Far i’ the west,
Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie,
I ’gaed to rest.
Burns.
Queechy was reached at night. Fleda had promised
herself to be off almost with the dawn of light the
next morning to see aunt Miriam, but a heavy rain
kept her fast at home the whole day. It was very
well; she was wanted there.
