Queechy by Susan Warner

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[Illustration: She stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge.]

Queechy.

by

Elizabeth Wetherell.

Illustrated

By Frederic Dielman.

"I hope I may speak of woman without offence to ladies."

The Guardian

Contents.

I. Curtain Rises at Queechy
II. Things Loom Out Dimly Through the Smoke
III. You Amuse Me and I'll Amuse You
IV. Aunt Miriam
V. As to Whether a Flower Can Grow in the Woods
VI. Queechy at Dinner
VII. The Curtain Falls Upon the Scene
VIII. The Fairy Leaves the House
IX. How Mr. Carleton Happened To Be Not at Home
X. The Fairy and the Englishman
XI. A Little Candle
XII. Spars Below
XIII. The Fairy Peeps into an English House, but Does Not Stay There
XIV. Two Bibles in Paris
XV. Very Literary
XVI. Dissolving View--Ending with a Saw-Mill in the Distance
XVII. Rain and Water--Cresses for Breakfast
XVIII. Mr. Rossitur's Wits Sharpened upon a Ploughshare
XIX. Fleda Goes After Help and Finds Dr. Quackenboss
XX. Society in Queechy
XXI. "The Sweetness of a Man's Friend by a Hearty Counsel"
XXII. Wherein a Great Many People Pay Their Respects in Form and
Substance
XXIII. The Captain Out-Generalled by the Fairy
XXIV. A Breath of the World at Queechy
XXV. "As Good a Boy as You Need to Have"
XXVI. Pine Knots
XXVII. Sweet--In Its Consequences
XXVIII. The Brook's Old Song--And the New
XXIX. Flighty and Unsatisfactory
XXX. Disclosures--By Mr. Skillcorn
XXXI. Mr. Olmney's Cause Argued
XXXII. Sometimes Inconvenient "From the Loophole of Retreat to Peep at
Such a World"
XXXIII. Fleda's White Muslin
XXXIV. How the Fairy Engaged the Two Englishmen
XXXV. Fleda Forgets Herself
XXXVI. The Roses and the Gentlemen
XXXVII. "An Unseen Enemy Round the Corner"
XXXVIII. The Fairy at Her Work Again
XXXIX. A Night of Uncertain Length
XL. A Thorn Enters
XLI. Dealings with the Press
XLII. Ends with Sweet Music
XLIII. How Fleda Was Watched by Blue Eyes
XLIV. What Pleasant People One Meets in Society
XLV. How Much Trouble One May Have about a Note
XLVI. Aromatic Vinegar
XLVII. The Fur Cloak on a Journey
XLVIII. Quarrenton to Queechy
XLIX. Montepoole Becomes a Point of Interest
L. The House on "The Hill" Once More
LI. The First One That Left Queechy
LII. The Last Sunset There
LIII. Fleda Alone on an Isthmus
LIV. The Moorish Temple before Breakfast

List of Illustrations.

She stopped a moment when she came upon the bridge. (_Frontispiece_)
She made a long job of her bunch of holly.
"I wasn't thinking of myself in particular."
"Who's got it now, Cynthy?"
Fleda coloured and looked at her grandfather.
Fleda was sitting, her face bowed in her hands.
She stood back and watched.
Then he seated himself beside her.
The children were always together.
"He is not a pug."
"They will expect me at home."
"Well, sir, you know the road by Deacon Patterson's?"
"O uncle Rolf, don't have anything to do with him."
"Look at these roses, and don't ask me for papers!"
She knelt down before him.
"How lovely it is, Hugh!"
Philetus was left to "shuck" and bring home a load of the fruit.
"And there goes Mr. Carleton!" said Constance.
Fleda saw with a start that it was Mr. Carleton.
"I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me."
"My dear child," he said, holding her face in both his hands.
Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone.
Barby's energies and fainting remedies were again put in use.
Then he stood and watched her.
"Well, take your place," said Thorn.
"I told him, 'O you were not gone yet!'"
"How are they all at home?"
"Is this the gentleman that's to be your husband?"
Slowly and lingeringly they moved away.
The roses could not be sweeter to any one.

Queechy.

Chapter I.

A single cloud on a sunny day
When all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear,
When skies are blue and earth is gay.

Byron.

Come, dear grandpa!--the old mare and the wagon are at the
gate--all ready."

"Well, dear!"--responded a cheerful hearty voice, "they must wait a bit; I
haven't got my hat yet."

"O I'll get that."

And the little speaker, a girl of some ten or eleven years old, dashed
past the old gentleman and running along the narrow passage which led to
his room soon returned with the hat in her hand.

"Yes, dear,--but that ain't all. I must put on my great-coat--and I must
look and see if I can find any money--"

"O yes--for the post-office. It's a beautiful day, grandpa. Cynthy!--won't
you come and help grandpa on with his great-coat?--And I'll go out and
keep watch of the old mare till you're ready."

A needless caution. For the old mare, though spirited enough for her
years, had seen some fourteen or fifteen of them and was in no sort of
danger of running away. She stood in what was called the back meadow, just
without the little paling fence that enclosed a small courtyard round the
house. Around this courtyard rich pasture-fields lay on every side, the
high road cutting through them not more than a hundred or two feet from
the house.

The little girl planted herself on the outside of the paling and setting
her back to it eyed the old mare with great contentment; for besides other
grounds for security as to her quiet behaviour, one of the men employed
about the farm, who had harnessed the equipage, was at the moment busied
in putting some clean straw in the bottom of the vehicle.

"Watkins," said the child presently to this person, "here is a strap that
is just ready to come unbuckled."

"What do you know about straps and buckles?" said the man rather grumly.
But he came round however to see what she meant, and while he drew the one
and fastened the other took special good care not to let Fleda know that
her watchful eyes had probably saved the whole riding party from ruin; as
the loosing of the strap would of necessity have brought on a trial of the
old mare's nerves which not all her philosophy could have been expected to
meet. Fleda was satisfied to see the buckle made fast, and that Watkins,
roused by her hint or by the cause of it, afterwards took a somewhat
careful look over the whole establishment. In high glee then she climbed
to her seat in the little wagon, and her grandfather coming out coated and
hatted with some difficulty mounted to his place beside her.

"I think Watkins might have taken the trouble to wash the wagon,
without hurting himself," said Fleda; "it is all specked with mud since
last time."

"Ha'n't he washed it!" said the old gentleman in a tone of displeasure.
"Watkins!"--

"Well."--

"Why didn't you wash the wagon as I told you?"

"I did."

"It's all over slosh."

"That's Mr. Didenhover's work--he had it out day 'fore yesterday; and if
you want it cleaned, Mr. Ringgan, you must speak to him about it. Mr.
Didenhover may file his own doings; it's more than I'm a going to."

The old gentleman made no answer, except to acquaint the mare with the
fact of his being in readiness to set out. A shade of annoyance and
displeasure for a moment was upon his face; but the gate opening from the
meadow upon the high road had hardly swung back upon its hinges after
letting them out when he recovered the calm sweetness of demeanour that
was habitual with him, and seemed as well as his little granddaughter to
have given care the go-by for the time. Fleda had before this found out
another fault in the harness, or rather in Mr. Didenhover, which like a
wise little child she kept to herself. A broken place which her
grandfather had ordered to be properly mended was still tied up with the
piece of rope which had offended her eyes the last time they had driven
out. But she said not a word of it, because "it would only worry grandpa
for nothing;" and forgetting it almost immediately she moved on with him
in a state of joyous happiness that no mud-stained wagon nor untidy
rope-bound harness could stir for an instant. Her spirit was like a clear
still-running stream which quietly and surely deposits every defiling and
obscuring admixture it may receive from its contact with the grosser
elements around; the stream might for a moment be clouded; but a little
while, and it would run as clear as ever. Neither Fleda nor her
grandfather cared a jot for the want of elegancies which one despised, and
the other if she had ever known had well nigh forgotten. What mattered it
to her that the little old green wagon was rusty and worn, or that years
and service had robbed the old mare of all the jauntiness she had ever
possessed, so long as the sun shone and the birds sang? And Mr. Ringgan,
in any imaginary comparison, might be pardoned for thinking that _he_ was
the proud man, and that his poor little equipage carried such a treasure
as many a coach and four went without.

"Where are we going first, grandpa? to the post-office?"

"Just there!"

"How pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? You have the
paper to get, and I--I don't very often get a letter, but I have always
the _hope_ of getting one; and that's something. Maybe I'll have one
to-day, grandpa?"

"We'll see. It's time those cousins of yours wrote to you."

"O _they_ don't write to me--it's only Aunt Lucy; I never had a letter
from a single one of them, except once from little Hugh,--don't you
remember, grandpa? I should think he must be a very nice little boy,
shouldn't you?"

"Little boy? why I guess he is about as big as you are, Fleda--he is
eleven years old, ain't he?"

"Yes, but I am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and I am a little girl."

This reasoning being unanswerable Mr. Ringgan only bade the old
mare trot on.

It was a pleasant day in autumn. Fleda thought it particularly pleasant
for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin hazy clouds. The air was mild
and still, and the woods, like brave men, putting the best face upon
falling fortunes. Some trees were already dropping their leaves; the
greater part standing in all the varied splendour which the late frosts
had given them. The road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down
across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation and now
shewing all the rich variety of autumn. The redish buckwheat patches, and
fine wood tints of the fields where other grain had been; the bright green
of young rye or winter wheat, then soberer coloured pasture or meadow
lands, and ever and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or
a knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly upon the
fleeting glories of the world around them, these were mingled and
interchanged and succeeded each other in ever-varying fresh combinations.
With its high picturesque beauty the whole scene had a look of thrift and
plenty and promise which made it eminently cheerful. So Mr. Ringgan and
his little granddaughter both felt it to be. For some distance the grounds
on either hand the road were part of the old gentleman's farm; and many a
remark was exchanged between him and Fleda as to the excellence or
hopefulness of this or that crop or piece of soil; Fleda entering into all
his enthusiasm, and reasoning of clover leys and cockle and the proper,
harvesting of Indian corn and other like matters, with no lack of interest
or intelligence.

"O grandpa," she exclaimed suddenly, "won't you stop a minute and let me
get out. I want to get some of that beautiful bittersweet."

"What do you want that for?" said he. "You can't get out very well."

"O yes I can--please, grandpa! I want some of it _very_ much--just
one minute!"

He stopped, and Fleda got out and went to the roadside, where a
bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree and hung it as it were
with red coral. But her one minute was at least four before she had
succeeded in breaking off as much as she could carry of the splendid
creeper; for not until then could Fleda persuade herself to leave it. She
came back and worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it
could hold of her brilliant trophies.

"Now what good'll that do you?" inquired Mr. Ringgan good-humouredly, as
he lent Fleda what help he could to her seat.

"Why grandpa, I want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar at home--it
will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful. Isn't that handsome?--only
it was a pity to break it."

"Why yes, it's handsome enough," said Mr. Ringgan, "but you've got
something just by the front door there at home that would do just as
well--what do you call it?--that naming thing there?"

"What, my burning bush? O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for any thing in
the world! It's the only pretty thing about the house; and besides," said
Fleda, looking up with a softened mien, "you said that it was planted by
my mother. O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for any thing."

Mr. Ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "Well, dear!" said he, "it shall grow
till it's as big as the house, if it will."

"It won't do that," said Fleda. "But I am very glad I have got this
bittersweet--this is just what I wanted. Now if I can only find
some holly--"

"We'll come across some, I guess, by and by," said Mr. Ringgan; and Fleda
settled herself again to enjoy the trees, the fields, the roads, and all
the small handiwork of nature, for which her eyes had a curious
intelligence. But this was not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure.

"Why what are those bars down for?" she said as they came up with a field
of winter grain. "Somebody's been in here with a wagon. O grandpa! Mr.
Didenhover has let the Shakers have my butternuts!--the butternuts that
you told him they mustn't have."

The old gentleman drew up his horse. "So he has!" said he.

Their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where at the edge of one
of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a picturesque group of men and boys
in frocks and broad-brimmed white hats were busied in filling their wagon
under a clump of the now thin and yellow leaved butternut trees.

"The scoundrel!" said Mr. Ringgan under his breath.

"Would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and tell them
you don't want them to take the butternuts?--I shall have so few."

"No, dear, no," said her grandfather, "they have got 'em about all by this
time; the mischief's done. Didenhover meant to let 'em have 'em unknown to
me, and pocket the pay himself. Get up!"

Fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant wagon where
_her_ butternuts were going in by handfuls. She said no more.

It was but a few fields further on that the old gentleman came to a sudden
stop again.

"Ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, Fleda,--along with Squire
Thornton's?"

"I don't know, grandpa," said Fleda,--"I can't see--yes, I do see--yes,
they are, grandpa; I see the mark."

"I thought so!" said Mr. Ringgan bitterly; "I told Didenhover, only three
days ago, that if he didn't make up that fence the sheep would be out, or
Squire Thornton's would be in;--only three days ago!--Ah well!" said he,
shaking the reins to make the mare move on again,--"it's all of a
piece.--Every thing goes--I can't help it."

"Why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?" Fleda ventured
to ask gently.

"'Cause I can't get rid of him, dear," Mr. Ringgan answered rather
shortly.

And till they got to the post-office he seemed in a disagreeable kind of
muse, which Fleda did not choose to break in upon. So the mile and a half
was driven in sober silence.

"Shall I get out and go in, grandpa?" said Fleda when he drew up before
the house.

"No, deary," said he in his usual kind tone; "you sit still. Holloa
there!--Good-day, Mr. Sampion--have you got any thing for me?" The man
disappeared and came out again.

"There's your paper, grandpa," said Fleda.

"Ay, and something else," said Mr. Ringgan: "I declare!--Miss Fleda
Ringgan--care of E. Ringgan, Esq.'--There, dear, there it is."

"Paris!" exclaimed Fleda, as she clasped the letter and both her hands
together. The butternuts and Mr Didenhover were forgotten at last. The
letter could not be read in the jolting of the wagon, but, as Fleda
said, it was all the pleasanter, for she had the expectation of it the
whole way home.

"Where are we going now, grandpa?"

"To Queechy Run."

"That will give us a nice long ride. I am very glad. This has been a
good day. With my letter and my bittersweet I have got enough, haven't
I, grandpa?"

Queechy Run was a little village, a very little village, about half a mile
from Mr. Ringgan's house. It boasted however a decent brick church of some
size, a school-house, a lawyer's office, a grocery store, a dozen or two
of dwelling-houses, and a post-office; though for some reason or other Mr.
Ringgan always chose to have his letters come through the Sattlersville
post-office, a mile and a half further off. At the door of the lawyer's
office Mr. Ringgan again stopped, and again shouted "Holloa!"--

"Good-day, sir. Is Mr. Jolly within?"

"He is, sir."

"Will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? I cannot very
well get out."

Mr. Jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and sleek, pleasant
and plausible, reasonably honest too, as the world goes; a nice man to
have to do with, the world went so easy with his affairs that you were
sure he would make no unnecessary rubs in your own. He came now fresh and
brisk to the side of the wagon, with that uncommon hilarity which people
sometimes assume when they have a disagreeable matter on hand that must be
spoken of.

"Good-morning, sir! Fine day, Mr. Jolly."

"Beautiful day, sir! Splendid season! How do you do, Mr. Ringgan?"

"Why, sir, I never was better in my life, barring this lameness, that
disables me very much. I can't go about and see to things any more as I
used to. However--we must expect evils at my time of life. I don't
complain. I have a great deal to be thankful for."

"Yes, sir,--we have a great deal to be thankful for," said Mr. Jolly
rather abstractedly, and patting the old mare with kind attention.

"Have you seen that fellow McGowan?" said Mr. Ringgan abruptly, and in a
lower tone.

"I have seen him," said Mr. Jolly, coming back from the old mare to
business.

"He's a hard customer I guess, ain't he?"

"He's as ugly a cur as ever was whelped!"

"What does he say?"

"Says he must have it."

"Did you tell him what I told you?"

"I told him, sir, that you had not got the returns from your farm that you
expected this year, owing to one thing and 'nother; and that you couldn't
make up the cash for him all at once; and that he would have to wait a
spell, but that he'd be sure to get it in the long run. Nobody ever
suffered by Mr. Ringgan yet, as I told him."

"Well?"

"Well, sir,--he was altogether refractible--he's as pig-headed a fellow as
I ever see."

"What did he say?"

"He gave me names, and swore he wouldn't wait a day longer--said he'd
waited already six months."

"He has so. I couldn't meet the last payment. There's a year's rent due
now. I can't help it. There needn't have been an hour,--if I could go
about and attend to things myself. I have been altogether disappointed in
that Didenhover."

"I expect you have."

"What do you suppose he'll do, Mr. Jolly?--McGowan, I mean."

"I expect he'll do what the law'll let him, Mr. Ringgan; I don't know
what'll hinder him."

"It's a worse turn than I thought my infirmities would ever play me," said
the old gentleman after a short pause,--"first to lose the property
altogether, and then not to be permitted to wear out what is left of life
in the old place--there won't be much."

"So I told him, Mr. Ringgan. I put it to him. Says I, 'Mr. McGowan, it's a
cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town that wouldn't leave Mr.
Ringgan the shelter of his own roof as long as he wants any, and think it
a pleasure,--if the rent was anyhow.'"

"Well--well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of dignity and
bitterness,--"it doesn't much matter. My head will find a shelter somehow,
above ground or under it. The Lord will provide.--Whey! stand still, can't
ye! what ails the fool? The creature's seen years enough to be steady," he
added with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh.

Fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the lowered
tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one too many in the
company. But she could not help catching a few bits of the conversation,
and a few bits were generally enough for Fleda's wit to work upon; she had
a singular knack at putting loose ends of talk together. If more had been
wanting, the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up every
gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to her ear. Her heart
sank fast as the dialogue went on, and she needed no commentary or
explanation to interpret the bitter little laugh with which it closed. It
was a chill upon all the rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful
little nature.

The old mare was in motion again, but Fleda no longer cared or had the
curiosity to ask where they were going. The bittersweet lay listlessly in
her lap; her letter, clasped to her breast, was not thought of; and tears
were quietly running one after the other down her cheeks and falling on
her sleeve; she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards
her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. Her grandfather?--could it
be possible that he must be turned out of his old home in his old age?
could it be possible? Mr. Jolly seemed to think it might be, and her
grandfather seemed to think it must. Leave the old house! But where would
he go?--Son or daughter he had none left; resources be could have none, or
this need not happen. Work he could not; be dependent upon the charity of
any kin or friend she knew he would never; she remembered hearing him once
say he could better bear to go to the almshouse than do any such thing.
And then, if they went, he would have his pleasant room no more where the
sun shone in so cheerfully, and they must leave the dear old kitchen where
they had been so happy, and the meadows and hills would belong to somebody
else; and she would gather her stores of buttercups and chestnuts under
the loved old trees never again. But these things were nothing, though the
image of them made the tears come hot and fast, these were nothing in her
mind to the knowledge or the dread of the effect the change would have
upon Mr. Ringgan. Fleda knew him and knew it would not be slight. Whiter
his head could not be, more bowed it well might, and her own bowed in
anticipation as her childish fears and imaginings ran on into the possible
future. Of McGowan's tender mercies she had no hope. She had seen him
once, and being unconsciously even more of a physiognomist than most
children are, that one sight of him was enough to verify all Mr. Jolly had
said. The remembrance of his hard sinister face sealed her fears. Nothing
but evil could come of having to do with such a man. It was however still
not so much any foreboding of the future that moved Fleda's tears as the
sense of her grandfather's present pain,--the quick answer of her gentle
nature to every sorrow that touched him. His griefs were doubly hers.
Both from his openness of character and her penetration, they could rarely
be felt unshared; and she shared them always in more than due measure.

In beautiful harmony, while the child had forgotten herself in keen
sympathy with her grandfather's sorrows, he on the other hand had half
lost sight of them in caring for her. Again, and this time not before any
house but in a wild piece of woodland, the little wagon came to a stop.

"Ain't there some holly berries that I see yonder?" said Mr.
Ringgan,--"there, through those white birch stems? That's what you were
wanting, Fleda, ain't it? Give your bittersweet to me while you go get
some,--and here, take this knife dear, you can't break it. Don't cut
yourself."

Fleda's eyes were too dim to see white birch or holly, and she had no
longer the least desire to have the latter; but with that infallible tact
which assuredly is the gift of nature and no other, she answered, in a
voice that she forced to be clear, "O yes, thank you, grandpa;"--and
stealthily dashing away the tears clambered down from the rickety little
wagon and plunged with a cheerful _step_ at least through trees and
underbrush to the clump of holly. But if anybody had seen Fleda's
face!--while she seemed to be busied in cutting as large a quantity as
possible of the rich shining leaves and bright berries. Her grandfather's
kindness and her effort to meet it had wrung her heart; she hardly knew
what she was doing, as she cut off sprig after sprig and threw them down
at her feet; she was crying sadly, with even audible sobs. She made a long
job of her bunch of holly. But when at last it must come to an end she
choked back her tears, smoothed her face, and came back to Mr. Ringgan
smiling and springing over the stones and shrubs in her way, and
exclaiming at the beauty of her vegetable stores. If her cheeks were red
he thought it was the flush of pleasure and exercise, and she did not let
him get a good look at her eyes.