“I know two men of that name,” said Fleda,
colouring and wondering.
“Is either on ’em a friend of your’n?”
“No.”
“He ain’t?” 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?”
“O,” said Seth dryly, “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.
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
shewed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness
of angle and outline darkening against the twilight.
In better days perhaps some friendly tree had hung
over it, shielding 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 passing 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!”—
