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Queechy

<h1> Chapter XLI. </h1> <blockquote> I thank you for your company; but good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.--As You Like It. </blockquote> The first thing next morning Seth Plumfield came down to say that he had seen Dr. Quackenboss the night before and had chanced to find out that he was going to New York too, this very day; and knowing that the doctor would be just as safe an escort as himself, Seth had made over the charge of his cousin to him; "calculating," he said, "that it would make no difference to Fleda and that he had better stay at home with his mother." Fleda said nothing and looked as little as possible of her disappointment, and her cousin went away wholly unsuspecting of it. "Seth Plumfield ha'n't done a smarter thing than that in a good while," Barby remarked satirically as he was shutting the door. "I should think he'd ha' hurt himself." "I dare say the doctor will take good care of me," said Fleda;--"as good as he knows how." "Men beat all!" said Barby impatiently.--"The little sense there is into them!--" Fleda's sinking heart was almost ready to echo the sentiment; but nobody knew it. Coffee was swallowed, her little travelling bag and bonnet on the sofa; all ready. Then came the doctor. "My dear Miss Ringgan!--I am most happy of this delightful opportunity--I had supposed you were located at home for the winter. This is a sudden start." "Is it sudden to you, Dr. Quackenboss?" said Fleda. "Why--a--not disagreeably so," said the doctor smiling;--"nothing could be that in the present circumstances,--but I--a--I hadn't calculated upon it for much of a spell beforehand." Fleda was vexed, and looked,--only unconversable. "I suppose," said the doctor after a pause,--"that we have not much time to waste--a--in idle moments. Which route do you intend to travel?" "I was thinking to go by the North River, sir." "But the ice has collected,--I am afraid,--" "At Albany, I know; but when I came up there was a boat every other day, and we could get there in time by the stage--this is her day." "But we have had some pretty tight weather since, if you remember," said the doctor; "and the boats have ceased to connect with the stage. We shall have to go to Greenfield to take the Housatonic which will land us at Bridgeport on the Sound" "Have we time to reach Greenfield this morning?" "Oceans of time?" said the doctor delightedly; "I've got my team here and they're jumping out of their skins with having nothing to do and the weather--they'll carry us there as spry as grasshoppers--now, if you're ready, my dear Miss Ringgan!" There was nothing more but to give and receive those speechless lip-messages that are out of the reach of words, and Mrs. Rossitur's half-spoken last charge, to take care of herself; and with these seals upon her mission Fleda set forth and joined the doctor; thankful for one foil to curiosity in the shape of a veil and only wishing that there were any invented screen that she could place between her and hearing. "I hope your attire is of a very warm description," said the doctor as he helped her into the wagon;--"it friz pretty hard last night and I don't think it has got out of the notion yet. If I had been consulted in any other--a--form, than that of a friend, I should have disapprobated, if you'll excuse me, Miss Ringgan's travelling again before her 'Rose of Cassius' there was in blow. I hope you have heard no evil tidings? Dr.--a--Gregory, I hope, is not taken ill?" "I hope not, sir," said Fleda. "He didn't look like it. A very hearty old gentleman. Not very old either, I should judge. Was he the brother of your mother or your father?" "Neither, sir." "Ah!--I misunderstood--I thought, but of course I was mistaken,--I thought I heard you speak to him under the title of uncle. But that is a title we sometimes give to elderly people as a term of familiarity--there is an old fellow that works for me,--he has been a long time in our family, and we always call him 'uncle Jenk.'" Fleda was ready to laugh, cry, and be angry, in a breath. She looked straight before her and was mum. "That 'Rose of Cassius' is a most exquisite thing!" said the doctor, recurring to the cluster of bare bushy stems in the corner of the garden. "Did Mr. Rossitur bring it with him when he came to his present residence?" "Yes sir." "Where is Mr. Rossitur now?" Fleda replied, with a jump of her heart, that business affairs had obliged him to be away for a few days. "And when does he expect to return?" said the doctor. "I hope he will be home as soon as I am," said Fleda. "Then you do not expect to remain long in the city this time?" "I shall not have much of a winter at home if I do," said Fleda. "We are almost at January." "Because," said the doctor, "in that case I should have no higher gratification than in attending upon your motions. I--a--beg you to believe, my dear Miss Ringgan, that it would afford me the--a--most particular--it would be most particularly grateful to me to wait upon you to--a--the confines of the world." Fleda hastened to assure her officious friend that the time of her return was altogether uncertain; resolving rather to abide a guest with Mrs. Pritchard than to have Dr. Quackenboss hanging upon her motions every day of her being there. But in the mean time the doctor got upon Capt. Rossitur's subject; then came to Mr. Thorn; and then wanted to know the exact nature of Mr. Rossitur's business affairs in Michigan; through all which matters poor Fleda had to run the gauntlet of questions, interspersed with gracious speeches which she could bear even less well. She was extremely glad to reach the cars and take refuge in seeming sleep from the mongrel attentions, which if for the most part prompted by admiration owned so large a share of curiosity. Her weary head and heart would fain have courted the reality of sleep, as a refuge from more painful thoughts and a feeling of exhaustion that could scarcely support itself; but the restless roar and jumble of the rail-cars put it beyond her power. How long the hours were--how hard to wear out, with no possibility of a change of position that would give rest; Fleda would not even raise her head when they stopped, for fear of being talked to; how trying that endless noise to her racked nerves. It came to an end at last, though Fleda would not move for fear they might be only taking in wood and water. "Miss Ringgan!" said the doctor in her ear,--"my dear Miss Ringgan!--we are here!--" "Are we?" said Fleda, looking up;--"what other name has the place, doctor?" "Why Bridgeport," said the doctor,--"we're at Bridgeport--now we have leave to exchange conveyances. A man feels constrained after a prolonged length of time in a place. How have you enjoyed the ride?" "Not very well--it has seemed long. I am glad we are at the end of it!" But as she rose and threw back her veil the doctor looked startled. "My dear Miss Ringgan!--are you faint?" "No sir." "You are not well, indeed!--I am very sorry--the ride has been--Take my arm!--Ma'am," said the doctor touching a black satin cloak which filled the passage-way,--"will you have the goodness to give this lady a passport?" But the black satin cloak preferred a straightforward manner of doing this, so their egress was somewhat delayed. Happily faintness was not the matter. "My dear Miss Ringgan!" said the doctor as they reached the ground and the outer air,--"what was it?--the stove too powerful? You are looking--you are of a dreadfully delicate appearance!" "I had a headache yesterday," said Fleda; "it always leaves me with a disagreeable reminder the next day. I am not ill." But he looked frightened, and hurried her, as fast as he dared, to the steamboat; and there proposed half a dozen restoratives; the simplest of which Fleda took, and then sought delicious rest from him and from herself on the cushions of a settee. Delicious!--though she was alone, in the cabin of a steamboat, with strange forms and noisy tongues around her, the closed eyelids shut it out all; and she had time but for one resting thought of "patient continuance in well-doing," and one happy heart-look up to him who has said that he cares for his children, a look that laid her anxieties down there,--when past misery and future difficulty faded away before a sleep that lasted till the vessel reached her moorings and was made fast. She was too weary and faint even to think during the long drive up to Bleecker-st. She was fain to let it all go--the work she had to do and the way she must set about it, and rest in the assurance that nothing could be done that night. She did not so much as hear Dr. Quackenboss's observations, though she answered a few of them, till, at the door, she was conscious of his promising to see her to-morrow and of her instant conclusion to take measures to see nobody. How strange everything seemed. She walked through the familiar hall, feeling as if her acquaintance with every old thing was broken. There was no light in the back parlour, but a comfortable fire. "Is my--is Dr. Gregory at home?" she asked of the girl who had let her in. "No ma'am; he hasn't got back from Philadelphia." "Tell Mrs. Pritchard a lady wants to see her." Good Mrs. Pritchard was much more frightened than Dr. Quackenboss had been when she came into the back parlour to see "a lady" and found Fleda in the great arm-chair taking off her things. She poured out questions, wonderings and lamentings, not "in a breath" but in a great many; quite forgot to be glad to see her, she looked so dreadfully; and "what had been the matter?" Fleda answered her,--told of yesterday's illness and to-day's journey; and met all her shocked enquiries with so composed a face and such a calm smile and bearing, that Mrs. Pritchard was almost persuaded not to believe her eyes. "My uncle is not at home?" "O no, Miss Fleda! I suppose he's in Philadelphy--but his motions is so little to be depended on that I never know when I have him; maybe he'll stop going through to Boston, and maybe no, and I don't know when; so anyhow I had to have a fire made and this room all ready; and ain't it lucky it was ready for you to-night!--and now he ain't here you can have the great chair all to yourself and make yourself comfortable--we can keep warmer here, I guess, than you can in the country," said the good housekeeper, giving some skilful admonishing touches to the fire;--"and you must just sit there and read and rest, and see if you can't get back your old looks again. If I thought it was that you came for I'd be happy. I never did see such a change in any one in five days!--" She stood looking down at her guest with a face of very serious concern, evidently thinking much more than she chose to give utterance to. "I am tired, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda, smiling up at her. "I wish you had somebody to take care of you, Miss Fleda, that wouldn't let you tire yourself. It's a sin to throw your strength away so--and you don't care for looks nor nothing else when it's for other people. You're looking just as handsome, too, for all," she said, her mouth giving way a little, as she stooped down to take off Fleda's overshoes, "but that's only because you can't help it. Now what is there you'd like to have for supper!--just say and you shall have it--whatever would seem best--because I mightn't hit the right thing?" Fleda declared her indifference to everything but a cup of tea, and her hostess bustled away to get that and tax her own ingenuity and kindness for the rest. And leaning her weary head back in the lounge Fleda tried to think,--but it was not time yet; she could only feel; feel what a sad change had come over her since she had sat there last; shut her eyes and wish she could sleep again. But Mrs. Pritchard's hospitality must be gone through with first. The nicest of suppers was served in the bright little parlour and her hostess was a compound of care and good will; nothing was wanting to the feast but a merry heart. Fleda could not bring that, so her performance was unsatisfactory and Mrs. Pritchard was distressed. Fleda went to her own room promising better doings to-morrow. She awoke in the morning to the full burden of care and sorrow which sheer weakness and weariness the day before had in part laid down; to a quicker sense of the state of things than she had had yet. The blasting evil that had fallen upon them,--Fleda writhed on her bed when she thought of it. The sternest, cruellest, most inflexible, grasp of distress. Poverty may be borne, death may be sweetened, even to the survivors; but disgrace--Fleda hid her head, as if she would shut the idea out with the light. And the ruin it had wrought. Affection killed at the root,--her aunt's happiness withered, for this world,--Hugh's life threatened,--the fair name of his family gone,--the wear and weariness of her own spirit,--but that had hardly a thought. Himself?--oh no one could tell what a possible wreck, now that self-respect and the esteem of others, those two safe-guards of character, were lost to him. "So much security has any woman in a man without religion;" she remembered those words of her aunt Miriam now; and she thought if Mr. Thorn had sought an ill wind to blow upon his pretensions he could not have pitched them better. What fairer promise, without religion, could be than her uncle had given? Reproach had never breathed against his name, and no one less than those who knew him best could fancy that he had ever given it occasion. And who could have more at stake?--and the stake was lost--that was the summing up thought. No, it was not,--for Fleda's mind presently sprang beyond,--to the remedy; and after a little swift and earnest flitting about of thought over feasibilities and contingencies, she jumped up and dressed herself with a prompt energy which shewed a mind made up to its course. And yet when she came down to the parlour, though bending herself with nervous intentness to the work she had to do, her fingers and her heart were only stayed in their trembling by some of the happy assurances she had been fleeing to;-- "Commit thy works unto the Lord, and all thy thoughts shall be established."-- "In all thy ways acknowledge Him: He shall direct they paths."-- --Assurances, not indeed that her plans should meet with success, but that they should have the issue best for them. She was early, but the room was warm and in order and the servant had left it. Fleda sought out paper and pencil and sat down to fashion the form of an advertisement,--the first thing to be done. She had no notion how difficult a thing till she came to do it. "R. R. is entreated to communicate with his niece at the old place in Bleecker-street, on business of the greatest importance." "It will not do," said Fleda to herself as she sat and looked at it,--"there is not enough to catch his eye; and there is too much if it caught anybody else's eye;--'R. R.', and 'his niece,' and 'Bleecker-street,'--that would tell plain enough." "Dear uncle, F. has followed you here on business of the greatest importance. Pray let her see you--she is at the old place." "It will not do," thought Fleda again,--"there is still less to catch his eye--I cannot trust it. And if I were to put 'Queechy' over it, that would give the clue to the Evelyns and everybody. But I had better risk anything rather than his seeing it--" The miserable needlessness of the whole thing, the pitiful weighing of sorrow against sorrow, and shame against shame overcame her for a little; and then dashing away the tears she had no time for and locking up the strong box of her heart, she took her pencil again. "Queechy. "Let me see you at the old place. I have come here on urgent business for you. Do not deny me, for H---'s sake!" With a trifle of alteration she thought this would do; and went on to make a number of fair copies of it for so many papers, This was done and all traces of it out of the way before Mrs. Pritchard came in and the breakfast; and after bracing herself with coffee, though the good housekeeper was still sadly dissatisfied with her indifference to some more substantial brace in the shape of chickens and ham, Fleda prepared herself inwardly and outwardly to brave the wind and the newspaper offices, and set forth. It was a bright keen day; she was sorry; she would it had been cloudy. It seemed as if she could not hope to escape some eyes in such an atmosphere. She went to the library first, and there requested the librarian, whom she knew, to bring her from the reading-room the files of morning and evening papers. They were many more than she had supposed; she had not near advertisements enough. Paper and ink were at hand however, and making carefully her list of the various offices, morning and evening separate, she wrote out a copy of the notice for each of them. The morning was well on by the time she could leave the library. It was yet far from the fashionable hour, however, and sedulously shunning the recognition of anybody, in hopes that it would be one step towards her escaping theirs, she made her way down the bright thoroughfare as far as the City Hall, and then crossed over the Park and plunged into a region where it was very little likely she would see a face that she knew. She saw nothing else either that she knew; in spite of having studied the map of the city in the library she was forced several times to ask her way, as she visited office after office, of the evening papers first, till she had placed her notice with each one of them. Her courage almost failed her, her heart did quite, after two or three. It was a trial from which her whole nature shrank, to go among the people, to face the eyes, to exchange talk with the lips, that were at home in those purlieus; look at them she did not. Making her slow way through the choked narrow streets, where the mere confusion of business was bewildering,--very, to any one come from Queechy; among crowds, of what mixed and doubtful character, hurrying along and brushing with little ceremony past her; edging by loitering groups that filled the whole sidewalk, or perhaps edging through them, groups whose general type of character was sufficiently plain and unmixed; entering into parley with clerk after clerk who looked at such a visiter as an anomaly,--poor Fleda almost thought so too, and shrank within herself; venturing hardly her eyes beyond her thick veil, and shutting her ears resolutely as far as possible to all the dissonant rough voices that helped to assure her she was where she ought not to be. Sometimes she felt that it was impossible to go on and finish her task; but a thought or two nerved her again to plunge into another untried quarter or make good her entrance to some new office through a host of loungers and waiting news-boys collected round the door. Sometimes in utter discouragement she went on and walked to a distance and came back, in the hope of a better opportunity. It was a long business; and she often had to wait. The end of her list was reached at last, and the paper was thrown away; but she did not draw free breath till she had got to the west side of Broadway again, and turned her back upon them all. It was late then, and the street was thinned of a part of its gay throng. Completely worn, in body as well as mind, with slow faltering steps, Fleda moved on among those still left; looking upon them with a curious eye as if they and she belonged to different classes of beings; so very far her sobered and saddened spirit seemed to herself from their stir of business and gayety; if they had been a train of lady-flies or black ants Fleda would hardly have felt that she had less in common with them. It was a weary long way up to Bleecker-street, as she was forced to travel it. The relief was unspeakable to find herself within her uncle's door with the sense that her dreaded duty was done, and well and thoroughly. Now her part was to be still and wait. But with the relief came also a reaction from the strain of the morning. Before her weary feet had well mounted the stairs her heart gave up its control; and she locked herself in her room to yield to a helpless outpouring of tears which she was utterly unable to restrain, though conscious that long time could not pass before she would be called to dinner. Dinner had to wait. "Miss Fleda," said the housekeeper in a vexed tone when the meal was half over,--"I didn't know you ever did any thing wrong." "You are sadly mistaken, Mrs. Pritchard," said Fleda half lightly, half sadly. "You're looking not a bit better than last night, and if anything rather worse," Mrs. Pritchard went on. "It isn't right, Miss Fleda. You oughtn't to ha' set the first step out of doors, I know you oughtn't, this blessed day; and you've been on your feet these seven hours,--and you shew it! You're just ready to drop." "I will rest to-morrow," said Fleda,--"or try to." "You are fit for nothing but bed," said the housekeeper,--"and you've been using yourself, Miss Fleda, as if you had the strength of an elephant. Now do you think you've been doing right?" Fleda would have made some cheerful answer, but she was not equal to it; she had lost all command of herself, and she dropped knife and fork to burst into a flood of exceeding tears. Mrs. Pritchard equally astonished and mystified, hurried questions, apologies, and consolations, one upon another; and made up her mind that there was something mysterious on foot about which she had better ask no questions. Neither did she, from that time. She sealed up her mouth, and contented herself with taking the best care of her guest that she possibly could. Needed enough, but all of little avail. The reaction did not cease with that day. The next, Sunday, was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. With the necessity for exertion the power had died. Fleda could only lie upon the cushions, and sleep helplessly, while Mrs. Pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. Monday was little better, but towards the after part of the day the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and Fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle, But none came, and Tuesday morning distressed Mrs. Pritchard with its want of amendment. It was not to be hoped for, Fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. Her uncle might not have seen the advertisement--he might not have got her letter--he might be even then setting sail to quit home forever. And she could do nothing but wait. Her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. She had set the glass of expectancy for one thing in the distance; and all things else were a blur or a blank. They had sat down to dinner that Tuesday, when a ring at the door which had made her heart jump was followed--yes, it was,--by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. Fleda did not wait to ask whose it was; she seized it and saw; and sprang away up stairs. It was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature. "I will meet you at Dinah's--if you come there alone about sundown." Enough! Dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in Mr. Rossitur's family, and having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards Chelsea. Fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and Hugh had made to it in days gone by. But she recollected it was in Sloman-street and she knew she could find it; and dropping upon her knees poured out thanks too deep to be uttered and too strong to be even thought without a convulsion of tears. Her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving; she was hardly conscious of anything beside; and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. Their weariness was sweet to her now. Let her but see him;--the rest was sure. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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