Queechy Volume Ii Part 83

"How pleasant those oysters smell!" said he. "Fleda, they remind me so of the time when you and I used to roast oysters in Mrs. Renney's room for lunch ? do you recollect? ? and sometimes in the evening, when everybody was gone out, you know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining- room afterwards. How we used to enjoy them, Fleda ?you and I, all alone."

"Yes," said Fleda, in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. She was shielding her face with a paper, and making self-sacrificing efforts to persuade a large oyster-sh.e.l.l to stand so on the coals as to keep the juice.

"Don't," said Hugh; "I would rather the oysters should burn than you. Mr. Carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do so."

"Never mind," said Fleda, arranging the oysters to her satisfaction; "he isn't here to see. Now, Hugh, my dear, these are ready as soon as I am."

"I am ready," said Hugh. "How long it is since we had a roast oyster, Fleda!"

"They look good, don't they?"

A little stand was brought up between them, with the bread- and-b.u.t.ter and the cups; and Fleda opened oysters and prepared tea for Hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. She shared the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his, and much less thought of. His enjoyment was what she enjoyed, though it was with a sad twinge of alloy, which changed her face whenever it was where he could not see it: when turned upon him, it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a little too tender; but Fleda was too good a nurse to let that often appear.

"Mr. Carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters, Fleda. How kind it was of him to send them!"

"Yes."

"How long will he be gone, Fleda?"

"I don't know ? he didn't say. I don't believe many days."

Hugh was silent a little, while she was putting away the stand and the oyster-sh.e.l.ls. Then she came and sat down by him.

"You have burnt yourself over those things," said he, sorrowfully; "you shouldn't have done it. It is not right."

"Dear Hugh," said Fleda, lightly laying her head on his shoulder. "I like to burn myself for you."

"That's just the way you have been doing all your life."

"Hush!" she said, softly.

"It is true ? for me and for everybody else. It is time you were taken better care of, dear Fleda."

"Don't, dear Hugh!"

"I am right, though," said he. "You are pale and worn now with waiting upon me, and thinking of me. It is time you were gone.

But I think it is well I am going too, for what should I do in the world without you, Fleda?"

Fleda was crying now, intensely, though quietly; but Hugh went on with feeling, as calm as it was deep.

"What should I have done all these years ? or any of us? How you have tired yourself for everybody ? in the garden and in the kitchen, and with Earl Dougla.s.s ? how we could let you, I don't know, but I believe we could not help it."

Fleda put her hand upon his mouth. But he took it away and went on ?

"How often I have seen you sleeping all the evening on the sofa with a pale face, tired out, dear Fleda," said he, kissing her cheek; "I am glad there's to be an end put to it.

And all the day you went about with such a bright face, that it made mother and me happy to look at you; and I knew then, many a time, it was for our sakes ?"

"Why do you cry so, Fleda? I like to think of it, and to talk of it, now that I know you won't do so any more. I know the whole truth, and it went to the bottom of my heart; but I could do nothing but love you ? I did that! ? Don't cry so, Fleda! ? you ought not. You have been the sunshine of the house. My spirit never was so strong as yours; I should have been borne to the ground, I know, in all these years, if it had not been for you; and mother ? you have been her life."

"You have been tired too," Fleda whispered.

"Yes, at the saw-mill. And then you would come up there through the sun to look at me, and your smile would make me forget everything sorrowful for the rest of the day ? except that I couldn't help you."

"Oh, you did ? you did ? you helped me always, Hugh!"

"Not much. I couldn't help you when you were sewing for me and father till your fingers and eyes were aching, and you never would own that you were anything but 'a little' tired ? it made my heart ache. Oh, I knew it all, dear Fleda. I am very, very glad that you will have somebody to take care of you now, that will not let you burn four fingers for him or anybody else. It makes me happy!"

"You make me very unhappy, dear Hugh."

"I don't mean it," said Hugh, tenderly. "But I don't believe there is anybody else in the world that I could be so satisfied to leave you with."

Fleda made no answer to that. She sat up and tried to recover herself.

"I hope he will come back in time," said Hugh, settling himself back in the easy-chair with a weary look, and closing his eyes.

"In time for what!"

"To see me again."

"My dear Hugh! ? he will, to be sure, I hope."

"He must make haste," said Hugh. "But I want to see him again very much, Fleda."

"For anything in particular?"

"No ? only because I love him. I want to see him once more."

Hugh slumbered; and Fleda, by his side, wept tears of mixed feeling till she was tired.

Hugh was right. But n.o.body else knew it, and his brother was not sent for.

It was about a week after this, when one night a horse and waggon came up to the back of the house from the road, the gentleman who had been driving leading the horse. It was late, long past Mr. Skillcorn's usual hour of retiring, but some errand of business had kept him abroad, and he stood there looking on. The stars gave light enough.

"Can you fasten my horse where he may stand a little while, Sir, without taking him out?"

"I guess I can," replied Philetus, with reasonable confidence, "if there's a rope's end some place."

And forthwith he went back into the house to seek it; the gentleman patiently holding his horse meanwhile till he came out.

"How is Mr. Hugh to-night?"

"Well ? he aint just so smart, they say," responded Philetus, insinuating the rope's end as awkwardly as possible among the horse's head-gear. "I believe he's dying."

Instead of going round now to the front of the house, Mr.

Carleton knocked gently at the kitchen door, and asked the question anew of Barby.

"He's ? come in, Sir, if you please," she said, opening wide the door for him to enter. "I'll tell 'em you're here."

"Do not disturb any one for me," said he.