II
When Florence Amory opened her eyes the next morning, she was at a loss for some minutes to determine her own position in the great white world that lay around her. Then the events of the preceding night marshaled themselves into line one by one, and at the same time came the consciousness that she possessed a head,—a most unmanageable one, too. It danced and whirled in such an uncomfortable way that she was glad to shut her eyes once more.
Presently the sound of an old-fashioned coffee-mill, with its unwilling halts and sudden compliances, fell upon her ear in such close proximity that there was no mistaking the character of the adjoining room. A moment or two later the crushed berries sent through the keyhole a delicious whiff of aroma that spread itself through the room. Encouraged by this appeal to two of her senses, the girl once more took a survey of her quarters. A narrow bedroom, with just space enough beside the high-posted bed on which she lay to permit one person to pass; a chest of drawers, with shining brass handles that tinkled faintly in response to footsteps in another part of the house; one or two straight-backed chairs: these completed the furniture of the room, with the exception of a small looking-glass (one corner gone), a frame washstand, and a tiny yellow table. The windows were hung with green paper curtains. Just as she finished this journey around her room, her head took another flight, and was hardly down again when the door opened softly and the cheery face of ’Lisbeth peeped in. Seeing that the stranger was awake, she advanced to the bedside and bent over the flushed face upon the pillow.
“How’d ye sleep?” she inquired, softly brushing aside a stray lock or two of brown hair, as a mother might have done, from the tired young forehead.
“Not very much, I’m afraid. I’m not much rested: my head doesn’t feel quite right;” and she tried to smile.
“Well,”—this woman had a strong, comfortable way of beginning her sentences with that monosyllable, which seemed to put quite out of sight all doubts and difficulties in the way, and carried with it a conviction that everything was coming out just right,—“well, there’s nothing in the world to do but to stay just where you be. Your folks ain’t up yet, and won’t be this two hours. I’m goin’ to brown ye a piece of bread, and the tea’ll be ready by the time that’s done: it’s drawin’ now, front of the fire.”
“Oh, indeed I must get up. The children”—
“Land, the children can dress themselves, or their mother’ll help ’em if they need anything. Do’n’t you say another word, dear, but just shut your eyes and think about something easy,—dandelions in a cloverfield, say, or birds singin’ ’long towards night.”
The firm steps turned away and again began their journeyings up and down the floor of the adjoining room. Florence closed her eyes willingly enough, and lay perfectly quiet, with a sense of being cared for, such as she had not felt since she left her own home.
The morning light showed dimly through the frosty little panes behind the green curtain. Upon the old-fashioned bureau she could just see, as she glanced up wearily now and then, the shape of her tall brass candlestick, with its long stalactites of tallow hanging from the upper rim. The footsteps plodded to and fro. Pots and pans occasionally interjected a staccato note above the soft purring of the fire and the hum of the teakettle. Then another pair of boots joined the first,—evidently a man’s, but managed with wonderful care so as not to disturb the visitors.
Pretty soon the door opened once more, and ’Lisbeth entered, bearing a small japanned tray, upon which were set a plate of toast in tiny slices, a steaming cup of tea, and a sugar-bowl with its pair of silver tongs, slim but solid.
“Now, dear, a bit of this will do you good.”
“But I’m not hungry.”
“No, poor child, I didn’t suppose you would be. Well” (comfortably again), “suppose I butter a piece of toast,—the littlest piece,—just for you to taste. Maybe ’t will make ye sleepy.” There was no resisting that, and the feverish girl did manage to take a very wee lunch from the motherly fingers. Then she fell back among the pillows, exhausted.
“If ye can jest ketch a nap now,” said ’Lisbeth in a whisper, as if her charge were already in danger of being waked, “it’ll do ye lots of good.”
The toast and the hot tea and Lisbeth’s whispers must have had a soothing effect, for Florence soon dropped into an uneasy slumber, throughout which, however, she had a continual sense of heat and discomfort. When she awoke, it was broad day. The world was as silent as a dream. To ears accustomed to the roar of a city and the cries and laughter of children at play, the stillness was not a mere negative quality of the air,—an absence of sound,—it was an almost tangible thing, and Florence felt smothered beneath its folds. She pressed her hand to her head, and found it burning hot. Her pulse was throbbing fiercely through her slender wrists.
“Mrs. Eldridge!” she called faintly. She had heard ’Lisbeth so addressed by the driver the night before.
The soft rustle of a woolen dress, and the firm, now familiar footfall, were heard at once. In a moment more the elder woman was holding the hand of the younger.
“I believe—I am afraid—I am going to be ill.”
“Well, Miss Amory, ’f you be, you shall be well taken care of. I’ll tend ye myself, nights; and if there’s anything you want that can be got, why, Elsie’ll get it for ye.”
“And is there a physician?”
“Oh, yes’m; Elsie’s gone for one now. They’ll be here in an hour or two.”
“In all this snow?”
“Oh, we don’t mind that, ma’am. Get used to it, you know. The road’s been broke out clean up t’ the village, they say, so ’s ’t the pung’ll go well enough.”
“Where are Mrs. Walton and the children? And—please don’t call me ma’am.”
’Lisbeth smiled good-humoredly: “I won’t, if you won’t call me ‘Mis’ Eldridge.’ ’T always makes me feel ’s if I must talk just so straight when anybody calls me that. My name’s ’Lisbeth; and if you’ll call me so, why, I’ll call you Florence,—the boy told me your name,—and so we’ll feel better acquainted. Oh, the others? Why, they went along up t’ the Hill, to spend Christmas with their folks, about noon to-day. She said you was to stay here till you felt better, if we could keep you. And we can.”
That night Florence was worse, and the succeeding days and weeks were but so many chapters of feverish fancies and hot, throbbing pain. The sun climbed higher and the snowbanks sank lower day by day, but she knew nothing of them. Her world was square, her sky a dingy white, her surroundings the changing forms of a disordered dream. The gray-haired country doctor had peered at her through his spectacles and made the motions of “Typhoid” with his lips to ’Lisbeth. Florence had seen it under her half-closed eyelids, but was too weary to care much. So January came and went, and after it February, before she found herself inclined to take the slightest interest in anything outside of those four walls, with their faded, large-figured paper.
It was a warm, delicious day in early March,—one of those foretastes of spring which in New England match the Indian summer of late autumn. The green curtain swayed slightly back and forth as the sweet south wind crept in through the crannies of the old, warped window-frame. A song-sparrow, perching on the fence just outside, sang his contented little Easter hymn over and over, until the sick girl felt herself being drawn back to life once more, and life seemed beautiful. ’Lisbeth was sitting in the kitchen, with the door half open between, and Florence could hear the soothing creak of her chair as she rocked gently to and fro at her knitting. Presently she called, “Mrs. Eldridge!”
The creaking stopped instantly, and health and life, embodied in ’Lisbeth, entered the room.
“Well, dearie, feelin’ a little better, ain’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,”—gratefully. “I want to know, if you please, about things that have happened since I have been ill.”
“Oh, that’s a short story. Mrs. Walton ’n’ the children went back t’ the city six weeks ago, and left you in my charge. An’ it’s precious little trouble you’ve been. For my part I’d rather take care o’ ten women, all sick with the typhus, than one man with a headache.”
Florence smiled faintly. Then she said, “I haven’t heard so many footsteps in the kitchen lately. Have any of your family gone?”
“Bless you, no. That’s only because Elsie’s made a pair o’ slippers to wear about the house, so ’s not to wake you when you’d caught a sleep.”
“How very kind! Can I see Elsie soon? I should so like to be read to a little bit.”
“Why, yes, I s’pose so,” said ’Lisbeth rather doubtfully. “I d’ know ’s there’d be any objection. Oh, that reminds me. Elsie was over t’ the Corner early this morning, and brought these flowers. There’s a greenhouse there, where they keep ’em growing right through the winter. Seems ’s if they might have been a little brighter, now, don’t it?”
While she was talking, she stepped into the next room, raising her voice as she went, and returned with a china vase painted gaudily on one side and containing a loose cluster of cut flowers. Florence noticed at the first glance that they were so arranged as to bring the unpainted side of the vase in front; at the second, that they had been chosen thoughtfully. One or two dark heliotropes, white pinks, and a creamy, half-opened rose, with slender ferns for a background: that was all.
“I was going to tie the stems up with a piece of string, but Elsie would have it they’d wilt quicker, and would look kind o’ sot besides. You was to take out one of the pinks to hold in your hand, if you liked. They last longer ’n the rest.”
So the dainty blossom, with its folds within folds of whiteness, was held between the slight girl-fingers, in no way less dainty and delicate than itself. By a sudden impulse Florence pressed it to her lips like a child. “You are all so good to me!” she said, with quivering lips. “I’m not used to being taken care of. Please thank Elsie for me, and ask her to come in when she can spare the time.”
Mrs. Eldridge had been stooping to pick up a shred from the neat carpet, and but half caught the words. “Who d’ you say? O, Elsie! Well, I’ll give your message just ’s you put it.”
But Elsie did not come the next day, nor the next. She began to seem to Florence like some beneficent brownie, doing all her good deeds before the household was awake, and then disappearing until her services were again needed.
At last came the eventful day when the invalid was to be allowed to sit up for half an hour. She had looked forward to the time with eagerness. The old doctor, who had a vein of grim humor under his white beard, gruffly called her his little im-patient. But, to tell the truth, the stiff-backed chairs which she had thus far seen were hardly suggestive of luxurious rest; they were built for well people. Men and women in that part of the country make but little reckoning upon sickness. When it comes, it is met with a stern and uncompromising resistance; but the thought of humoring it by such compliances as reclining-chairs never for a moment enters their heads. It was, therefore, a genuine surprise when, after an extraordinary amount of whispering and hurrying in the kitchen, the door opened, and, assisted by ’Lisbeth, in walked a chair of such inviting proportions and soft, padded curves that they plainly expressed themselves to the effect that they would be extremely miserable unless reclined upon, and that speedily.
“Why, where did you find that lovely chair?” cried Florence delightedly. “I thought I should have to sit up just as straight!”
“Oh, we jest made it up out of one of the old armchairs in the best room,” said the other, surveying the luxurious piece of upholstery with pardonable pride. “You see, Elsie thought it all out, and put us to work, when you said you wanted to set up: so we jest stuffed the back an’ arms, and Elsie sawed off the hind legs an’ fixed that place for your feet in front, and there you be!”
Five minutes later, Florence sat, weak and trembling after her long inactivity, in the comfortable chintz-covered chair, with a great sense of achievement and a new hold on the realities of life.
“Now, if I could only see Elsie, and thank her.”
“And—what?”
“Why, tell her how much I thank her for all the trouble she has taken for me.”
A queer look came into ’Lisbeth’s face, and her eyes twinkled. “Guess ye’d better wait till to-morrow,” she said. “You’ll feel stronger then, and—she—can come in while you’re settin’ up.”
“But why not to-day?” persisted the other, with a convalescent’s freedom.
“Well, to tell the truth, Elsie’s busy to-day outdoors, and won’t be in till you’re abed again; and then you ought to rest.”
“Out of doors?”
“Oh, she’ll tell you all about it to-morrow,” said ’Lisbeth, pursing up her mouth in the same funny way as before.
Florence was too weak to pursue the subject further, and presently was glad enough to lay her tired head upon the pillow once more.
The next morning the first object that caught her eye was a bunch of slender willow-wands, with their soft, clinging “pussies,” such as she had not seen since she was a child running about under the elms in the old, quiet town by the sea. The fresh, sweet sunlight peeped through the window and rested on their gray fur, creeping down from one to another and dancing in and out in the merriest manner possible. As Florence lay there beneath the old patchwork quilt, watching this pretty play of sunshine and kittens, and listening to the soft bustle of the morning’s work in the next room, a sense of great comfort and rest stole over her, and in her weakness her eyes filled with happy tears. Whatever was troublesome in the past she forgot: the future seemed as bright and yet as intangible as the sunbeams. She only realized the watchful care and devotion that were hovering about her day and night, and, in the clear, wholesome atmosphere, her mother’s religion seemed nearer to her than ever before. Her favorite verse, “Return unto thy rest, O my soul,” was written in sunny characters upon the faded wall before her.
Then she began to wonder how it would seem to meet the other members of the family. The shrill voice of the old man she had often heard, but she had listened in vain for some snatch of song or girlish footfall which might belong to the gentle “Elsie” whose unseen ministrations were always attending to her comfort. As for the sturdy young fellow who had borne her so lightly through the snow, she had heard him once or twice only, speaking to ’Lisbeth in low tones, or calling cheerily somewhere outside to a passing neighbor.
“He must at least live near here,” she thought, “but has probably forgotten all about me. Breakdowns are common enough in the country, and the ‘women-folks’ always have to be carried through the drifts.”
Still, she could not help wondering a little who he was, and where he learned that slow, quiet speech, with its correctly-placed adverbs and adjectives, She at last concluded that he must be a neighbor in rather better circumstances than her hostess,—perhaps one of the proud “Hill-folks” whom Mrs. Walton was to visit. How they must have laughed over the adventure as they sat about their loaded tables on Christmas day! Could he not have just called at the door and inquired for her during all these long weeks of suffering? Then the color came faintly to her cheeks. She was a dependant, a servant: how could she expect such attentions? The old rebellious uprising of her whole nature was beginning to assert itself once more, when ’Lisbeth’s soft knock was heard at the door, and ’Lisbeth herself immediately appeared, while the sunbeams, which had somehow hidden behind a cloud just before, danced in through the window again to meet her.
“Now, dear, for breakfast. The pullets have just begun to lay, an’ Elsie’s been out and found a nest in the haymow where that little Plymouth-Rock was a-cacklin’ yesterday. Look!” She held up the warm, coffee-colored egg as she spoke. “How’ll you have it cooked? Boiled? Well, I’ll do it just right, and show ye how to take off the lid with a knife and eat it out of the shell. Father always has his that way.”
Florence smiled in spite of herself at being treated so like a child.
“That’s right,” continued Lisbeth briskly: “don’t ye go to feelin’ solemn, for it’s goin’ to be a grand day. And as for time to come, why, all I say is, don’t worry. You’re as welcome as the flowers of May, and I love to have ye round. You remind me of a little sister I had once, and—and—Yes, I’m comin’!” And ’Lisbeth, guilty, for the only time in her life, of a downright deception, hurried out of the room, pausing, however, to shut the door gently behind her.
Breakfast over, and the ceremony of enthronement in the easy chair performed, Florence, with spirits quite recovered, again recurred to Elsie. “Now, ’Lisbeth,” she said gayly, “please hand me the longest pussy-willow stem for a scepter, and I will give audience to my subjects. Where is Elsie?”