Queechy Volume I Part 4

"She? yes, bless her! she is always well. Where is she? Fairy, where are you? Cynthy, just call Elfleda here."

"She's just in the thick of the m.u.f.fins, Mr. Ringgan."

"Let the m.u.f.fins burn! Call her."

Miss Cynthia accordingly opened a little way the door of the pa.s.sage, from which a blue stifling smoke immediately made its way into the room, and called out to Fleda, whose little voice was heard faintly responding from the distance.

"It's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked Cynthia.

"She," said Mr. Ringgan, laughing; "she's playing cook or housekeeper in yonder, getting something ready for tea. She's a busy little spirit, if ever there was one. Ah! there she is.

Come here, Fleda ? here's your cousin Rossitur from West Point, and Mr. Carleton."

Fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove and the excitement of turning the m.u.f.fins, and the little iron spatula she used for that purpose still in her hand; and a fresh and larger puff of the unsavoury blue smoke accompanied her entrance. She came forward, however, gravely, and without the slightest embarra.s.sment, to receive her cousin's somewhat unceremonious "How do, Fleda?" and, keeping the spatula still in one hand, shook hands with him with the other. But at the very different manner in which Mr. Carleton _rose_ and greeted her, the flush on Fleda's cheek deepened, and she cast down her eyes and stepped back to her grandfather's side with the demureness of a young lady just undergoing the ceremony of presentation.

"You come upon us out of a cloud, Fleda," said her cousin. "Is that the way you have acquired a right to the name of Fairy?"

"I am sure, no," said Mr. Carleton.

Fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour showed that she understood both speeches.

"Because, if you are in general such a misty personage," Mr.

Rossitur went on, half laughing, "I would humbly recommend a choice of incense."

"O, I forgot to open the windows!" exclaimed Fleda, ingenuously. "Cynthy, wont you, please, go and do it! And take this with you," said she, holding out the spatula.

" She is as good a fairy as _I_ want to see," said her grandfather, pa.s.sing his arm fondly round her. "She carries a ray of sunshine in her right hand; and that's as magic-working a wand as any fairy ever wielded ? hey, Mr. Carleton?"

Mr. Carleton bowed. But whether the sunshine of affection in Fleda's glance and smile at her grandfather, made him feel that she was above a compliment, or whether it put the words out of his head, certain it is that he uttered none.

"So you've had bad success to-day," continued Mr. Ringgan, "Where have you been? and what after? partridges?"

"No, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, "my friend Rossitur promised me a rare bag of woodc.o.c.k, which I understand to be the best of American feathered game; and, in pursuance of his promise, led me over a large extent of meadow and swamp land, this morning, with which, in the course of several hours, I became extremely familiar, without flushing a single bird."

"Meadow and swamp land!" said the old gentleman.

"Whereabouts?"

"A mile or more beyond the little village over here, where we left our horses," said Rossitur. "We beat the ground well, but there were no signs of them even."

"We had not the right kind of dog," said Mr. Carleton.

"We had the kind that is always used here," said Rossitur; "n.o.body knows anything about a c.o.c.ker in America."

"Ah, it was too wet," said Mr. Ringgan. "I could have told you that. There has been too much rain. You wouldn't find a woodc.o.c.k in that swamp, after such a day as we had a few days ago. But speaking of game, Mr. Rossitur, I don't know anything in America equal to the grouse. It is far before woodc.o.c.k. I remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, I and a friend, down in Pennsylvania; we went two or three days running, and the birds we got were worth a whole season of woodc.o.c.k. But, gentlemen, if you are not discouraged with your day's experience, and want to try again, _I'll_ put you in a way to get as many woodc.o.c.k as will satisfy you ? if you'll come here to-morrow morning. I'll go out with you far enough to show you the way to the best ground _I_ know for shooting that game in all this country; you'll have a good chance for partridges, too, in the course of the day; and that aint bad eating, when you can't get better ? is it, Fairy?" he said, with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side.

Her answer again was only an intelligent glance.

The young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take advantage of his kind offer. Fleda seized the opportunity to steal another look at the strangers; but meeting Mr.

Carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably soft and gentle expression, she withdrew her own again as fast as possible, and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them was the floor.

"I wish I was a little younger, and I'd take my gun and go along with you myself," said the old gentleman, pleasantly; "but," he added, sighing, "there is a time for everything, and my time for sporting is past."

"You have no right to complain, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, with a meaning glance and smile, which the old gentleman took in excellent good part.

"Well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the little demure figure at his side, "I don't say that I have. I hope I thank G.o.d for his mercies, and am happy. But in this world, Mr. Carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws a care after it. Well ? well ? these things will all be arranged for us!"

It was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some subject of care, not vague nor undefined pressing upon Mr.

Ringgan's mind as he said this.

"Have you heard from my mother lately, Fleda?" said her cousin.

"Why, yes," said Mr. Ringgan, ? "she had a letter from her only to-day. You ha'n't read it yet, have you, Fleda?"

"No, grandpa," said the little girl; "you know I've been busy."

"Ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let Cynthia bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till you're as red as a turkey-c.o.c.k?"

"This morning I was like a chicken," said Fleda, laughing, "and now like a turkey-c.o.c.k."

"Shall I tell mamma, Fleda," said young Rossitur, "that you put off reading her letter to bake m.u.f.fins?"

Fleda answered without looking up, "Yes, if he pleased."

"What do you suppose she will think?"

"I don't know."

"She will think that you love m.u.f.fins better than her."

"No," said Fleda, quietly, but firmly, ? "she will not think that, because it isn't true."

The gentlemen laughed, but Mr. Carleton declared that Fleda's reasoning was unanswerable.

"Well, I will see you to-morrow," said Mr. Rossitur, "after you have read the letter, for I suppose you will read it some time. You should have had it before, ? it came enclosed to me, ? but I forgot unaccountably to mail it to you till a few days ago."

"It will be just as good now, Sir," said Mr. Ringgan.

"There is a matter in it, though," said Rossitur, "about which my mother has given me a charge. We will see you to-morrow. It was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening."

"I am very glad you did," said Mr. Ringgan. "I hope your way will bring you here often. Wont you stay and try some of these same m.u.f.fins before you go?"

But this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; Fleda, it must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking but Mr. Carleton's look and smile. The m.u.f.fins were a very tame affair after it.

When supper was over, she sat down fairly to her letter, and read it twice through before she folded it up. By this time the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of Cynthia's presence, and Fleda and her grandfather were alone in the darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it; both silent, both thinking, for some time. At length Mr.

Ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his seriousness with the same effort.

"Well, dear!" said he, cheerfully, ? "what does she say?"

"O, she says a great many things, grandpa; shall I read you the letter?"

"No, dear, I don't care to hear it; only tell me what she says."