III
’Lisbeth stepped to the door and called through it: “Come in: she’s ready to see ye now.”
Florence waited, with a bright smile dawning on her face for the kindly little spirit who handled pussy-willows and armchairs so deftly. The next minute she heard a light, firm step upon the kitchen floor. It hesitated at the door, and a gentle knock followed.
“Come right in, Elsie,” cried Florence, pleased again by her delicacy. “I shall be so glad—”
She paused abruptly. The door had swung open, and there stood a tall, well-built young man, an amused twinkle in his clear gray eyes, and the corners of his mouth just failing of that demureness they aimed to achieve. Without, however, appearing to notice any element of embarrassment in the situation, he stepped forward quietly and laid in her lap a glorious bunch of roses, saying, as he did so, “I happened to be at the Corner this morning, and was fortunate in securing the first cutting at the greenhouse. It is like the cream on Aunt ’Lisbeth’s pans,” he went on, evidently to give her time. “I always was troublesome just before churning days: wasn’t I, aunt?”
“Indeed, you were,” returned ’Lisbeth, with a beaming face that flatly contradicted her words. “What with you and the two blue kittens, it’s a wonder we ever got anything but skim-milk for our butter. Them roses do look something like cream too.”
By this time Florence had recovered her self-possession: “Is it possible that this is the kind fairy who has done so much for me?” She held out her hand with a frank smile as she spoke.
He stooped, not ungracefully, and took the offered hand, then laid it, almost reverently, upon the heap of roses. “Hardly a fairy,” he remarked gravely; “a gnome or a goblin, perhaps. It was very pleasant service. Are you really better, Miss Amory?”
“Thank you; I feel almost too well to be treated as an invalid. Will you not be seated? And then please tell me how—how—I could have—thought”—
“Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” broke in ’Lisbeth, with a mischievous look at her tall nephew, who had obediently seated himself on one corner of the bed, that being the only unoccupied portion of the room. “You see, when Wesley”—
Florence flushed slightly; she had thought she recognized the voice, though she had heard it but for a moment that wintry night. The name she remembered.
“—Wesley, he used to call himself ‘Elsie’ when he was a little trudge an’ couldn’t speak plain. So we got into the way of callin’ him that ourselves an’ it’s stuck to him ever since. I’d no notion ye didn’t know who I meant, till you said ‘she’ yesterday. Then, thinks I, I’ll have a little surprise for her, and a good laugh won’t do the child no harm, bless her!”
Harm! Why, the most cynical, crabbed, disappointed old soul in the world must have brightened up at the merry little ripple of laughter that followed. The responsibilities and struggles of the last two or three years had left their trace in the gravity of Florence’s young face when in repose. It had begun to have the American tired look, and it needed excitement or a quick emotion to show to best advantage the intelligent deep-brown eyes, the wavy hair across the strong forehead, and a complexion, naturally fine and clear, rendered even more delicate by her long illness. As she looked up now, with the quick pleasure of a child, and the light of careless merriment in her eyes, her face was very sweet and winning.
Wesley was regarding her intently, his features relaxing pleasantly at her happy laugh. “No doubt you consider us all as arch-conspirators, Miss Amory,” he said; “but I assure you I knew nothing of this until half an hour ago. Aunt ’Lisbeth is the Guy Fawkes.”
“And I had no idea she could be so deceitful,” replied Florence solemnly. “Have you any gunpowder in your apron pockets, ma’am?”
“Land sakes! no,” said ’Lisbeth, with a puzzled look. “What d’ you s’pose I want with powder? I guess likely Elsie’s got some up ’n his closet; though what on airth”—
Then they all laughed again: they were so simply happy that it did not take much to amuse them.
But Florence soon began to feel her strength failing in the unusual excitement, and was glad to be left alone with her patchwork quilt and her pussy-willows.
She did not see Wesley again until several days later. He was busy mending fences, ’Lisbeth said, “and in the evenin’ he had to do his writin’.”
Florence secretly wondered what his writing could be; but, as ’Lisbeth did not seem disposed to explain, she said nothing. She had noticed the carefulness of the sturdy young farmer’s speech, the final g’s on his present participles, and the even, firm pronunciation of his vowels and consonants, so different from the drawling, carelessly-clipped words of the country-people about. He must have studied hard at some village “academy,” she thought.
People now began to drop in, after the neighborly St. John fashion so out of use in cities. They would settle themselves comfortably in the kitchen rocker, which was usually brought into the front room for company, and, taking a roll of knitting from bag or apron pocket, would keep the needles flying while they talked, though but for five minutes.
Florence learned that her mother, who was herself in feeble health, had been from time to time informed of her condition, and, as the sickness had never been considered dangerous, had contented herself with writing, at first to ’Lisbeth, afterward to Florence, who was now well enough to answer. In the pure country air she gained rapidly, and before long was enabled to take her seat with the rest at table, on which occasion, be it said, her only anxiety was lest the family should go to bed supperless, with such eagerness did they devote themselves to superintending her own plate. By this time, too, she had learned to say “’Lisbeth” and “grandfather” without hesitation. As to the third member of the family, she compromised with her sense of propriety by addressing him as “Mr. Wesley.” His last name she had not heard.
She was sitting by her window one bright, warm afternoon in April, watching the portly robins, now hopping about after their extraordinary food, now pausing to glance up wisely at the sky or at her window with an air half suspicious, half friendly. Their neat orange-colored waistcoats showed prettily against the fresh-tinted grass, just beginning to spring in velvety patches through the brown, unmown aftermath of the preceding fall.
On the shady side of the old stone wall that ran along the road toward the railway-station, a narrow, irregular snowbank, its surface fantastically carved and honeycombed by the sun, still reminded her of her winter night’s ride. How dreary it had all seemed! How she had dreaded even the Christmas festivities, with the inevitable being “left out”—the awkward movements when she felt that the company about her were not quite sure whether to treat her as an equal or a servant,—worst of all, the well-meant efforts of Mrs. Walton to smooth matters over in private! Ah! how it was all changed now! She would never, never go back to her old position; indeed,—and a shadow crossed her forehead as she thought of it,—Mrs. Walton had never signified her wish to have her return. She would soon be able to help her kind friends in the housework, in sewing, and in other little ways, until she could obtain something to do for herself. She would pay them sometime. How good they had all been to her! She thought once more of that bitter, hopeless ride through the snow. How cold she had been!—her right arm benumbed with holding the robe over the children, whom, with all her troubles, she had learned to love very dearly. She recalled the sudden halt, the moaning of the wind through the trees overhead, the sifting of the sleety snow against the sides of the sleigh. Then she thought of the firm voice, assuming control so quietly, with no needless words, but, what was better, two stout arms. How they had seemed to lift her out of all her troubles, even while she was borne straight into the whirl and might of the storm! She had felt that the arms were stronger than the wind, and so had trusted them. The girl was resting her cheek upon her hand as she lived that long night over again, and she hardly knew what a glow was in her face, or how dewy bright her eyes were, as with a start she turned to answer a knock she had learned to recognize.
Wesley looked straight into the brown eyes a moment in his grave, silent way, then reached out his hand, filled to overflowing with long trailing vines and fragrant pink-and-white blossoms.
“They told me they missed you in the woods,” he said, “and begged me to carry them to you.”
Florence took them in her hands and bent her face over them. She could not speak for a moment, the flowers were such a part of what she had been thinking. “I thank you,” she said at length, tremulously. “They are far too beautiful to claim companionship with me. It is I who should go to them and kneel while I picked them.”
“I always think of them as in ‘Miles Standish’:
Children lost in the woods and covered with leaves in their slumber.
It is as if they were the pure in heart, who had ascended into His holy hill.”
“Where did you find them, Mr. Wesley?”
“Under the pines, by the brook. It is hardly time for them, but that is a sheltered spot, where the sun shines all day. I will take you there as soon as you can go with safety.”
“Do you know,” mused Florence, “it seems odd that the first English ship anchoring in Plymouth harbor should have been called the Mayflower? Do they have these flowers in England?”
“No, Miss Amory. It would perhaps sound strange to you to hear people speak of a ‘branch of mayflowers,’ but by that name the English usually mean the hawthorn, which flowers in May. And it is a wonderfully beautiful sight, for England seems at that time to be fairly covered with blossoms, the hawthorns are so plentiful.”
“This is ‘trailing arbutus,’ is it not?”
“Yes; except—pardon me—with the accent on the first syllable. But I am becoming pedantic,” he added, with a smile. “Miss Amory, you once told Aunt ’Lisbeth you would like to be read to, did you not?”
Florence felt the color in her cheeks, but said simply, “Yes, I should enjoy it very much.”
“Here is a bit that I came across a day or two ago.” He took a printed slip from his pocket and began to read:
“Little pure-hearts, nestling shyly
On the cool, pine-shadowed slope,
Filling all the gloomy forest
With the very breath of hope,
“Whence hath come your wondrous patience,
In the dark to wait so long,—
Faith, to venture forth so bravely
At the first wee sparrow-song?
“All your alabaster boxes,
With their store of ointment sweet,
You have offered to the Master,
Humbly kneeling at his feet,
“And his gentle hands in blessing
Rest upon you day by day,
While the precious fragrance rises
Like a prayer to him alway.”
Florence sat in absolute stillness while he read, just catching her breath slightly at one of the lines. She looked very much like a mayflower herself as she sat there, her hands crossed in her lap, and her face upturned to the reader. When he had finished, she was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Who wrote that, Mr. Wesley?”
“Oh, the author’s name wasn’t mentioned,” he replied carelessly. “It was some anonymous magazine-writer who was fond of flowers and the Gospel of St. John, and chose to tell in this way what he thought about it all.”
“Mr. Wesley”—
“Miss Amory?”
“Is there an institute—academy—of any sort at the Corner? I have thought of teaching, you know.” Florence flushed as she spoke, and looked intently out of the window.
“There is something of that sort there now, I believe. It was started only a year or two ago.”
“Why, then you”—The words came before she could check them.
“No,” he answered, smiling, “I was only able to attend the district school that you passed between here and Haybrook Station.”
“But—you have learned somewhere?”
She was in for it now, though her face burned as she asked the question.
“I studied at home,” he replied quietly. “Then I worked for a man at Haybrook Center, and he helped me with my Greek and Latin until I was able to enter Bowdoin. I graduated five years ago.”
“Thank you,” she said heartily. “I’m afraid I have been unpardonably inquisitive; but you must accord a certain indulgence to invalids, which, I believe, they are usually not slow to claim. If you had not criticised my pronunciation of this little flower’s name, I should not have taken such a liberty. Am I forgiven?” she concluded, looking up brightly into his face again.
“I have passed harder examinations in history,” he said good-humoredly; “and some day I may retaliate by examining you to even better purpose. Will you answer all my questions then?”
Florence laughed outright: “How solemnly you speak! To be sure I will. My story will be even shorter than yours. I think one answer will be enough for the whole.”
“Yes, I think it will,” he said slowly, then checked himself, and, remarking soberly that “her little forest children would be none the worse for wetting their feet,” turned, without further words, and left the room.