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Queechy

<h1> Chapter XXXVI. </h1> <blockquote> Whence came this? This is some token from a newer friend. </blockquote> <blockquote> Shakspeare. </blockquote> The snow-flakes were falling softly and thick when Fleda got up the next morning. "No ride for me to-day--but how very glad I am that I had a chance of setting that matter right. What could Mrs. Evelyn have been thinking of?--Very false kindness!--if I had disliked to go ever so much she ought to have made me, for my own sake, rather than let me seem so rude--it is true she didn't know how rude. O snow-flakes--how much purer and prettier you are than most things in this place!" No one was in the breakfast parlour when Fleda came down, so she took her book and the dormeuse and had an hour of luxurious quiet before anybody appeared. Not a foot-fall in the house; nor even one outside to be heard, for the soft carpeting of snow which was laid over the streets. The gentle breathing of the fire the only sound in the room; while the very light came subdued through the falling snow and the thin muslin curtains, and gave an air of softer luxury to the apartment. "Money is pleasant," thought Fleda, as she took a little complacent review of all this before opening her book.--"And yet how unspeakably happier one may be without it than another with it. Happiness never was locked up in a purse yet. I am sure Hugh and I,--They must want me at home!--" There was a little sober consideration of the lumps of coal and the contented looking blaze in the grate, a most essentially home-like thing,--and then Fleda went to her book and for the space of an hour turned over her pages without interruption. At the end of the hour "the fowling piece," certainly the noiseliest of his kind, put his head in, but seeing none of his ladies took it and himself away again and left Fleda in peace for another half hour. Then appeared Mrs. Evelyn in her morning wrapper, and only stopping at the bell-handle, came up to the dormeuse and stooping down kissed Fleda's forehead, with so much tenderness that it won a look of most affectionate gratitude in reply. "Fleda my dear, we set you a sad example. But you won't copy it. Joe, breakfast. Has Mr. Evelyn gone down town?" "Yes, ma'am, two hours ago." "Did it ever occur to you, Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, breaking the lumps of coal with the poker in a very leisurely satisfied kind of a way,--"Did it ever occur to you to rejoice that you were not born a business man? What a life!--" "I wonder how it compares with that of a business woman," said Fleda laughing. "There is an uncompromising old proverb which says 'Man's work is from sun to sun-- But a woman's work is never done.'" A saying which she instantly reflected was entirely beyond the comprehension of the person to whose consideration she had offered it. And then came in Florence, rubbing her hands and knitting her eyebrows. "Why don't you look as bright as the rest of the world, this morning," said Fleda. "What a wretched storm!" "Wretched! This beautiful snow! Here have I been enjoying it for this hour." But Florence rubbed her hands and looked as if Fleda were no rule for other people. "How horrid it will make the going out to-night, if it snows all day!" "Then you can stay at home," said her mother composedly. "Indeed I shall not, mamma!" "Mamma!" said Constance now coming in with Edith,--"isn't breakfast ready? It strikes me that the fowling-piece wants polishing up. I have an indistinct impression that the sun would be upon the meridian if he was anywhere." "Not quite so bad as that," said Fleda smiling;--"it is only an hour and a half since I came down stairs." "You horrid little creature!--Mamma, I consider it an act of inhospitality to permit studious habits on the part of your guests. And I am surprised your ordinary sagacity has not discovered that it is the greatest impolicy towards the objects of your maternal care. We are labouring under growing disadvantages; for when we have brought the enemy to at long shot there is a mean little craft that comes in and unmans him in a close fight before we can get our speaking-trumpets up." "Constance!--Do hush!" said her sister. "You are too absurd." "Fact," said Constance gravely. "Capt. Lewiston was telling me the other night how the thing is managed; and I recognized it immediately and told him I had often seen it done!" "Hold your tongue, Constance," said her mother smiling,--"and come to breakfast." Half and but half of the mandate the young lady had any idea of obeying. "I can't imagine what you are talking about, Constance!" said Edith. "And then being a friend, you see," pursued Constance, "we can do nothing but fire a salute, instead of demolishing her." "Can't you?" said Fleda. "I am sure many a time I have felt as if you had left me nothing but my colours." "Except your prizes, my dear. I am sure I don't know about your being a friend either, for I have observed that you engage English and American alike." "She is getting up her colours now," said Mrs. Evelyn in mock gravity,--"you can tell what she is." "Blood-red!" said Constance. "A pirate!--I thought so,"--she exclaimed, with an ecstatic gesture. "I shall make it my business to warn everybody!" "Oh Constance!" said Fleda, burying her face in her hands. But they all laughed. "Fleda my dear, I would box her ears," said Mrs. Evelyn commanding herself. "It is a mere envious insinuation,--I have always understood those were the most successful colours carried." "Dear Mrs. Evelyn!--" "My dear Fleda, that is not a hot roll--you sha'n't eat it--Take this. Florence give her a piece of the bacon--Fleda my dear, it is good for the digestion--you must try it. Constance was quite mistaken in supposing yours were those obnoxious colours--there is too much white with the red--it is more like a very different flag." "Like what then, mamma?" said Constance;--"a good American would have blue in it." "You may keep the American yourself," said her mother. "Only," said Fleda trying to recover herself, "there is a slight irregularity--with you the stars are blue and the ground white." "My dear little Fleda!" exclaimed Constance jumping up and capering round the table to kiss her, "you are too delicious for anything; and in future I will be blind to your colours; which is a piece of self-denial I am sure nobody else will practise." "Mamma," said Edith, "what are you all talking about? Can't Constance sit down and let Fleda eat her breakfast?" "Sit down, Constance, and eat your breakfast!" "I will do it, mamma, out of consideration for the bacon.--Nothing else would move me." "Are you going to Mrs. Decatur's to-night, Fleda?" "No, Edith, I believe not" "I'm very glad; then there'll be somebody at home. But why don't you?" "I think on the whole I had rather not." "Mamma," said Constance, "you have done very wrong in permitting such a thing. I know just how it will be. Mr. Thorn and Mr. Stackpole will make indefinite voyages of discovery round Mrs. Decatur's rooms, and then having a glimmering perception that the light of Miss Ringgan's eyes is in another direction they will sheer off; and you will presently see them come sailing blandly in, one after the other, and cast anchor for the evening; when to your extreme delight Mr. Stackpole and Miss Ringgan will immediately commence fighting. I shall stay at home to see!" exclaimed Constance, with little bounds of delight up and down upon her chair which this time afforded her the additional elasticity of springs,--"I will not go. I am persuaded how it will be, and I would not miss it for anything." "Dear Constance!" said Fleda, unable to help laughing through all her vexation,--"please do not talk so! You know very well Mr. Stackpole only comes to see your mother." "He was here last night," said Constance in an extreme state of delight,--"with all the rest of your admirers--ranged in the hall, with their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase as a token of their determination not to go till you came home; and as they could not be induced to come up to the drawing-room Mr. Evelyn was obliged to go down, and with some difficulty persuaded them to disperse." Fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying and laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast. "Mr. Carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again the other day, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, with her face of delighted mischief,--"and I excused you; for I thought you would thank me for it." "Mamma," said Constance, "the mention of that name rouses all the bitter feelings I am capable of! My dear Fleda--we have been friends--but if I see you abstracting my English rose"-- "Look at those roses behind you!" said Fleda. The young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both her sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of exclamations filled the air, "Joe, you are enchanting!--But did you ever see such flowers?--Oh those rose-buds!--" "And these Camellias," said Edith,--"look, Florence, how they are cut--with such splendid long stems." "And the roses too--all of them--see mamma, just cut from the bushes with the buds all left on, and immensely long stems--Mamma, these must have cost an immensity!--" "That is what I call a bouquet," said Fleda, fain to leave the table too and draw near the tempting shew in Florence's hand. "This is the handsomest you have had all winter, Florence," said Edith. "Handsomest!--I never saw anything like it. I shall wear some of these to-night, mamma." "You are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said Constance,--"how do you know but it is mine?" "Which of us is it for, Joe?" "Say it is mine, Joe, and I will vote you--the best article of your kind!" said Constance, with an inexpressible glance at Fleda. "Who brought it, Joe?" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Yes, Joe, who brought it? where did it come from, Joe?" Joe had hardly a chance to answer. "I really couldn't say, Miss Florence,--the man wasn't known to me." "But did he say it was for Florence or for me?" "No ma'am--he"-- "Which did he say it was for?" "He didn't say it was either for Miss Florence or for you, Miss Constance; he--" "But didn't he say who sent it?" "No ma'am. It's"-- "Mamma here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with two of the most lovely buds--Oh!" said Constance clasping her hands and whirling about the room in comic ecstasy--"I sha'n't survive if I cannot find out where it is from!--" "How delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said Fleda. "You ought not to mind the snow storm to-day after this, Florence. I should think you would be perfectly happy." "I shall be, if I can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to-night. Mamma how sweetly they would dress me." "They're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said Mrs. Evelyn; "I sha'n't let you do it." "Mamma!--it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair and the bouquet de corsage too--there'd be thousands left--Well Joe,--what are you waiting for?" "I didn't say," said Joe, looking a good deal blank and a little afraid,--"I should have said--that the bouquet--is--" "What is it?" "It is--I believe, ma'am,--the man said it was for Miss Ringgan." "For me!" exclaimed Fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the most exquisite commentary on the gift that the giver could have desired. She took in her hand the superb bunch of flowers from which the fingers of Florence unclosed as if it had been an icicle. "Why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the "fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared. "I am very glad!" exclaimed Edith. "They have had plenty all winter, and you haven't had one--I am very glad it is yours, Fleda." But such a shadow had come upon every other face that Fleda's pleasure was completely overclouded. She smelled at her roses, just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come. "I am afraid, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn quietly going on with her breakfast,--"that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers." Fleda was too sure of it. But not by any means the one Mrs. Evelyn intended. "He never could have got half those from his own greenhouse, mamma," said Florence,--"if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very free with his knife either." "I said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"though I don't suppose there is more than one Lot in the city they could have come from." "Well," said Constance settling herself back in her chair and closing her eyes,--"I feel extinguished!----Mamma, do you suppose it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? I am suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit!--and nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it." "I think you are extremely foolish, Constance," said Edith. "Fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been here and you have had them every other day. I think Florence is the only one that has a right to be disappointed." "Dear Florence," said Fleda earnestly,--"you shall have as many of them as you please to dress yourself,--and welcome!" "Oh no--of course not!--" Florence said,--"it's of no sort of consequence--I don't want them in the least, my dear. I wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!" Fleda secretly had mooted the same question and was very well pleased not to have it put to the proof. She took the flowers up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eye-sore to her friends; placed them in water and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. She again thought she would take the first opportunity of going home. How strange--out of their abundance of tributary flowers to grudge her this one bunch! To be sure it was a magnificent one. The flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine Camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that Fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. She knew that only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "How very kind!"--presently quite supplanted "How very strange!"--"How exactly like him,--and how singular that Mrs. Evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have come from Mr. Thorn." It was a moral impossibility that he should have put such a bunch of flowers together; while to Fleda's eye they so bore the impress of another person's character that she had absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. She hung over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling and she was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from each leaf and bud. What a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to Fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. So she found it this morning. An hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of good, and when she dressed herself and went down to the drawing-room her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable reminder. And she thought that still snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in New York. Florence went to Mrs. Decatur's; but Constance according to her avowed determination remained at home to see the fun. Fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see. But a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening Mr. Carleton walked in, followed very soon by Mr. Thorn. Constance and Mrs. Evelyn were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well give it full play promised to last the evening; and Fleda, all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table and endeavoured to bury herself in it. But ears could not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of Mrs. Evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her. "Mr. Thorn," said the lady in her smoothest manner,--"are you a lover of floriculture, sir?" "Can't say that I am, Mrs. Evelyn,--except as practised by others." "Then you are not a connoisseur in roses?--Miss Ringgan's happy lot--sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her what they are--I thought you might know.--O they are not here," said Mrs. Evelyn as she noticed the gentleman's look round the room;--"Miss Ringgan judges them too precious for any eyes but her own. Fleda, my dear, won't you bring down your roses to let Mr. Thorn tell us their names?" "I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me, Mrs. Evelyn--I believe he would find it a puzzling task." "The surest way, Mrs. Evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for information," said Thorn dryly. "If I could get at it," said Mrs. Evelyn, (Fleda knew with quivering lips,)--"but it seems to me I might as well try to find the Dead Sea!" "Perhaps Mr. Carleton might serve your purpose," said Thorn. That gentleman was at the moment talking to Constance. "Mr. Carleton--" said Mrs. Evelyn,--"are you a judge, sir?" "Of what, Mrs. Evelyn?--I beg your pardon." The lady's tone somewhat lowered. "Are you a judge of roses, Mr. Carleton?" "So far as to know a rose when I see it," he answered smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted Fleda to hear. <ANTIMG src="images/illus20.jpg" height-obs="250" alt="'I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me.'" title="'I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me.'" /> "I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me." "Ay, but the thing is," said Constance, "do you know twenty roses when you see them?" "Miss Ringgan, Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "has received a most beautiful supply this morning; but like a true woman she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently--they are strangers to us all, and she would like to know what name to give them--Mr. Thorn suggested that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty." "With great pleasure, so far as I am able,--if my judgment may be exercised by daylight. I cannot answer for shades of green in the night time." But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his life before. "You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I think belongs to me," said Fleda from her work at the far centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "My enjoyment to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity." Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed. "Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, "that it is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?" "It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost anything, Miss Constance. The difference between varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice." "I have read of magicians," said Thorn softly, bending down towards Fleda's work,--"who did not need to see things to answer questions respecting them." Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. It gave her courage to be silent, however; and Mr. Thorn's best efforts in a conversation of some length could gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. A sudden pinch from Constance then made her look up and almost destroyed her self-possession as she saw Mr. Stackpole make his way into the room. "I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said approaching them. "I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance,--"since you venture into the region of broken windows again." "Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair," said Mrs. Evelyn from the sofa. "More than I knew of," said the gentleman laughing--"there were more than I knew of; but you see I court the danger, having rashly concluded that I might as well know all my weak points at once." "Miss Ringgan will break nothing to-night, Mr. Stackpole--she promised me she would not." "Not even her silence?" said the gentleman. "Is she always so desperately industrious?" said Mr. Thorn. "Miss Ringgan, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "is subject to occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid conversation,--as Mr. Thorn has been experiencing." "I am happy to see that the malady is not catching, Miss Constance." "Mr. Stackpole!" said Constance,--"I am in a morose state of mind!--Miss Ringgan this morning received a magnificent bouquet of roses which in the first place I rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since I discovered my mistake I have been meditating the renouncing of society--it has excited more bad feelings than I thought had existence in my nature." "Mr. Stackpole," said Mrs. Evelyn, "would you ever have supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?" Mr. Stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were driving at. "There have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port within a week!" said he, as if that were something worth talking about. "Poor creatures! where will they all go?" said Mrs. Evelyn comfortably. "Country's large enough," said Thorn. "Yes, but such a stream of immigration will reach the Pacific and come back again before long: and then there will be a meeting of the waters! This tide of German and Irish will sweep over everything." "I suppose if the land will not bear both, one party will have to seek other quarters," said Mrs. Evelyn with an exquisite satisfaction which Fleda could hear in her voice. "You remember the story of Lot and Abraham, Mr. Stackpole,--when a quarrel arose between them?--not about roses." Mr. Stackpole looked as if women were--to say the least--incomprehensible. "Five thousand a week!" he repeated. "I wish there was a Dead Sea for them all to sheer off into!" said Thorn. "If you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called forth, Mr. Thorn," said Constance, "your feelings would have been penetrated--if you have any." "I had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change of manner,--"what gentle charities were so near me." "Mamma!" said Constance with a most comic shew of indignation,--"Mr. Thorn thought that with Miss Ringgan he had forgotten all the gentle charities in the room!--I am of no further use to society!--I will trouble you to ring that bell, Mr. Thorn, if you please. I shall request candles and retire to the privacy of my own apartment!" "Not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault!" said Mr. Thorn laughing. "It cannot be expiated!--My worth will be known at some future day.--Mr. Carleton, will you have the goodness to summon our domestic attendant?" "If you will permit me to give the order," he said smiling, with his hand on the bell. "I am afraid you are hardly fit to be trusted alone." "Why?" "May I delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?" "Yes." "Because," said he coming up to her, "when people turn away from the world in disgust they generally find worse company in themselves." "Mr. Carleton!--I would not sit still another minute, if curiosity didn't keep me. I thought solitude was said to be such a corrector?" "Like a clear atmosphere--an excellent medium if your object is to take an observation of your position--worse than lost if you mean to shut up the windows and burn sickly lights of your own." "Then according to that one shouldn't seek solitude unless one doesn't want it." "No," said Mr. Carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which Constance always rendered involuntary homage,--"every one wants it;--if we do not daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about wildly and do not know whither we are going." "An observation?" said Constance, understanding part and impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning. "Yes," he said with a smile of singular fascination,--"I mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where we are and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right direction--otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some rock or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all is lost." The power of eye and smile was too much for Constance, as it had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell and for a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would have roused her mockery. "Mr. Carleton," said she, trying to rally herself but still not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her power,--"I can't understand how you ever came to be such a grave person." "What is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "To have a mind so at rest about the future as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?" "But I can't imagine how you ever came to take up such notions." "May I ask again, why not I?" "O you know--you have so much to make you otherwise." "What degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?" "Do you think it can be made certain?" "Undoubtedly!--why not? the tickets are free--the only thing is to make sure that ours has the true signature. Do you think the possession of that ticket makes life a sadder thing? The very handwriting of it is more precious to me, by far, Miss Constance, than everything else I have." "But you are a very uncommon instance," said Constance, still unable to look up, and speaking without any of her usual attempt at jocularity. "No, I hope not," he said quietly. "I mean," said Constance, "that it is very uncommon language to hear from a person like you." "I suppose I know your meaning," he said after a minute's pause;--"but, Miss Constance, there is hardly a graver thought to me than that power and responsibility go hand in hand." "It don't generally work so," said Constance rather uneasily. "What are you talking about, Constance?" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Mr. Carleton, mamma,--has been making me melancholy." "Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "I am going to petition that you will turn your efforts in another direction--I have felt oppressed all the afternoon from the effects of that funeral service I was attending--I am only just getting over it. The preacher seemed to delight in putting together all the gloomy thoughts he could think of." "Yes!" said Mr. Stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets,--"it is the particular enjoyment of some of them, I believe, to do their best to make other people miserable." Mr. Thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little hammering of Fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her eye was no longer considering her work, and her face rested anxiously upon her hand. "There wasn't a thing," the lady went on,--"in anything he said, in his prayer or his speech,--there wasn't a single cheering or elevating consideration,--all he talked and prayed for was that the people there might be filled with a sense of their wickedness--" "It's their trade, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole,--"it's their trade! I wonder if it ever occurs to them to include themselves in that petition." "There wasn't the slightest effort made in anything he said or prayed for,--and one would have thought that would have been so natural!--there was not the least endeavour to do away with that superstitious fear of death which is so common--and one would think it was the very occasion to do it;--he never once asked that we might be led to look upon it rationally and calmly.--It's so unreasonable, Mr. Stackpole--it is so dissonant with our views of a benevolent Supreme Being--as if it could be according to his will that his creatures should live lives of tormenting themselves--it so shews a want of trust in his goodness!" "It's a relic of barbarism, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole;--"it's a popular delusion--and it is like to be, till you can get men to embrace wider and more liberal views of things." "What do you suppose it proceeds from?" said Mr. Carleton, as if the question had just occurred to him. "I suppose, from false notions received from education, sir." "Hardly," said Mr. Carleton;--"it is too universal. You find it everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but shifting the question back one generation." "It is a root of barbarous ages," said Mr. Stackpole,--"a piece of superstition handed down from father to son--a set of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly get rid of." "How can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree of intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor even to lessen, however it may afford motive to control? Men may often put a brave face upon it and shew none of their thoughts to the world; but I think no one capable of reflection has not at times felt the influence of that dread." "Men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said Mr. Stackpole dryly and rubbing his chin. "Not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater momentary pressure of some other." "Of course," said Mr. Stackpole, rubbing his chin still,--there is a natural love of life--the world could not get on if there was not." "If the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so, by the same reason." "Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is natural--it is part of the constitution of our nature." "Yes," said Mr. Stackpole, settling himself again in his chair with his hands in his pockets--"it is not unnatural, I suppose,--but then that is the first view of the subject--it is the business of reason to correct many impressions and prejudices that are, as we say, natural." "And there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly," said Mrs. Evelyn;--"he aimed at strengthening that feeling and driving it down as hard as he could into everybody's mind--not a single lisp of anything to do it away or lessen the gloom with which we are, naturally as you say, disposed to invest the subject." "I dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become one to himself," said Mr. Stackpole. "It is nothing more than the mere natural dread of dissolution," said Mr. Carleton. "I think it is that," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"I think that is the principal thing." "Is there not besides an undefined fear of what lies beyond--an uneasy misgiving that there may be issues which the spirit is not prepared to meet?" "I suppose there is," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"but sir--" "Why that is the very thing," said Mr. Stackpole,--"that is the mischief of education I was speaking of--men are brought up to it." "You cannot dispose of it so, sir, for this feeling is quite as universal as the other; and so strong that men have not only been willing to render life miserable but even to endure death itself, with all the aggravation of torture, to smooth their way in that unknown region beyond." "It is one of the maladies of human nature," said Mr. Stackpole,--"that it remains for the progress of enlightened reason to dispel." "What is the cure for the malady?" said Mr. Carleton quietly. "Why sir!--the looking upon death as a necessary step in the course of our existence which simply introduces us from a lower to a higher sphere,--from a comparatively narrow to a wider and nobler range of feeling and intellect." "Ay--but how shall we be sure that it is so?" "Why Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"do you doubt that? Do you suppose it possible for a moment that a benevolent being would make creatures to be anything but happy?" "You believe the Bible, Mrs. Evelyn?" he said smiling slightly. "Certainly, sir; but Mr. Carleton, the Bible I am sure holds out the same views of the goodness and glory of the Creator; you cannot open it but you find them on every page. If I could take such views of things as some people have," said Mrs. Evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her extremity,--"I don't know what I should do!--Mr. Carleton, I think I would rather never have been born, sir!" "Every one runs to the Bible!" said Mr. Stackpole. "It is the general armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each other." "True," said Mr. Carleton,--"but only while they draw partially. No man can fight the battle of truth but in the whole panoply; and no man so armed can fight any other." "What do you mean, sir?" "I mean that the Bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent with itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of compasses the measuring power is gone." "But Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"do you think that reading the Bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas of the future?" "By no means," he said with one of those meaning-fraught smiles,--"but is it safe, Mrs. Evelyn, in such a matter, to venture a single grasp of hope without the direct warrant of God's word?" "Well, sir?" "Well, ma'am,--that says, 'the soul that sinneth, it shall die.'" "That disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said Mr. Stackpole. "But, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"that doesn't stand alone--the Bible everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of Christ's salvation?" "Full and free as it can possibly be," he answered with something of a sad expression of countenance;--"but, Mrs. Evelyn, never offered but with conditions." "What conditions?" said Mr. Stackpole hastily. "I recommend you to look for them, sir," answered Mr. Carleton, gravely;--"they should not be unknown to a wise man." "Then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of fear?--or what is your remedy?" "There is a remedy, sir," said Mr. Carleton, with that dilating and darkening eye which shewed him deeply engaged in what he was thinking about;--"it is not mine. When men feel themselves lost and are willing to be saved in God's way, then the breach is made up--then hope can look across the gap and see its best home and its best friend on the other side--then faith lays hold on forgiveness and trembling is done--then, sin being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and the fear of death is no more, for it is swallowed up in victory. But men will not apply to a physician while they think themselves well; and people will not seek the sweet way of safety by Christ till they know there is no other; and so, do you see, Mrs. Evelyn, that when the gentleman you were speaking of sought to-day to persuade his hearers that they were poorer than they thought they were, he was but taking the surest way to bring them to be made richer than they ever dreamed." There was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that Mrs Evelyn could not answer; her look fell as that of Constance had done, and there was a moment's silence. Thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons--that he might not displease Fleda, and that he might watch her. She had left her work, and turning half round from the table had listened intently to the conversation, towards the last very forgetful that there might be anybody to observe her,--with eyes fixed, and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just indicating delight,--till the silence fell; and then she turned round to the table and took up her worsted-work. But the lips were quite grave now, and Thorn's keen eyes discerned that upon one or two of the artificial roses there lay two or three very natural drops. "Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "what makes you talk such sober things?--you have set Miss Ringgan to crying." "Mr. Carleton could not be better pleased than at such a tribute to his eloquence," said Mr. Thorn with a saturnine expression. "Smiles are common things," said Mr. Stackpole a little maliciously; "but any man may be flattered to find his words drop diamonds." "Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, with that trembling tone of concealed ecstasy which always set every one of Fleda's nerves a jarring,--"you may tell the gentlemen that they do not always know when they are making an unfelicitous compliment--I never read what poets say about 'briny drops' and 'salt tears' without imagining the heroine immediately to be something like Lot's wife." "Nobody said anything about briny drops, mamma," said Edith. "Why there's Florence!--" Her entrance made a little bustle, which Fleda was very glad of. Unkind!--She was trembling again in every finger. She bent down over her canvas and worked away as hard as she could. That did not hinder her becoming aware presently that Mr. Carleton was standing close beside her. "Are you not trying your eyes?" said he. The words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal, there was a kind of quiet intelligence in it. Fleda looked up, and something in the clear steady self-reliant eye she met wrought an instant change in her feeling. She met it a moment and then looked at her work again with nerves quieted. "Cannot I persuade them to be of my mind?" said Mr. Carleton, bending down a little nearer to their sphere of action. "Mr. Carleton is unreasonable, to require more testimony of that this evening," said Mr. Thorn;--"his own must have been ill employed." Fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of Mr. Carleton's manner could be felt; she felt it, almost with sympathetic pain. Thorn immediately left them and took leave. "What are you searching for in the papers, Mr. Carleton?" said Mrs. Evelyn presently coming up to them. "I was looking for the steamers, Mrs. Evelyn." "How soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?" "I do not know, ma'am," he answered coolly--"I expect my mother." Mrs. Evelyn walked back to her sofa. But in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre-table again, with an open magazine in her hand. "Mr. Carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me and tell me what you think of it, will you sir? I have been shewing it to Mr. Stackpole and he can't see any beauty in it, and I tell him it is his fault and there is some serious want in his composition. Now I want to know what you will say to it." "An arbiter, Mrs. Evelyn, should be chosen by both parties." "Read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady, walking away to leave him opportunity. Mr. Carleton looked it over. "That is something pretty," he said putting it before Fleda. Mrs. Evelyn was still at a distance. "What do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said Fleda laughing as she took it. But he noticed that her colour rose a little. "How do you like it?" "I like it,--pretty well," said Fleda rather hesitatingly. "You have seen it before?" "Why?" Fleda said, with a look up at him at once a little startled and a little curious;--"what makes you say so?" "Because--pardon me--you did not read it." "Oh," said Fleda laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "I can tell how I like some things without reading them very carefully." Mr. Carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again. "What have you there, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence. "A piece of English on which I was asking this lady's opinion, Miss Evelyn." "Now, Mr. Carleton!" exclaimed Constance jumping up,--"I am going to ask you to decide a quarrel between Fleda and me about a point of English"-- "Hush, Constance!" said her mother,--"I want to speak to Mr. Carleton--Mr. Carleton, how do you like it?" "Like what, mamma?" said Florence. "A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell how you like it, sir." "But what is it, mamma?" "A piece of poetry in an old Excelsior--'The Spirit of the Fireside.' Mr. Carleton, won't you read it aloud, and let us all hear--but tell me first what you think of it." "It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn." "Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, sir." "Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole,--"it's a little fanciful--and I can't quite make out what the fancy is." "It has been the misfortune of many good things before not to be prized, Mr. Stackpole," said the lady funnily. "True, ma'am," said that gentleman rubbing his chin--"and the converse is also true unfortunately,--and with a much wider application." "There is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said Mr. Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a hidden freemasonry of its own." "Very hidden indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole;--"the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity!" "Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn laughing, "I take that remark as a compliment, sir. I have always appreciated that writer's pieces--I enjoy them very much." "Well, won't you please read it, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about." Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was by the centre-table. <blockquote> "By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells, The child of bygone years,-- He lieth hid the stones amid, And liveth on smiles and tears. </blockquote> <blockquote> "But when the night is drawing on, And the fire burns clear and bright, He Cometh out and walketh about, In the pleasant grave twilight. </blockquote> <blockquote> "He goeth round on tiptoe soft, And scanneth close each face; If one in the room be sunk in gloom, By him he taketh his place. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And then with fingers cool and soft, (Their touch who does not know) With water brought from the well of Thought, That was dug long years ago, </blockquote> <blockquote> "He layeth his hand on the weary eyes-- They are closed and quiet now;-- And he wipeth away the dust of the day Which had settled on the brow. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And gently then he walketh away And sits in the corner chair; And the closed eyes swim--it seemeth to him The form that once sat there. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And whispered words of comfort and love Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow;-- 'Why weepest thou?--thou art troubled now, But there cometh a bright to-morrow. </blockquote> <blockquote> "'We too have passed over life's wild stream In a frail and shattered boat, But the pilot was sure--and we sailed secure When we seemed but scarce afloat. </blockquote> <blockquote> "'Though tossed by the rage of waves and wind, The bark held together still,-- One arm was strong--it bore us along, And has saved from every ill.' </blockquote> <blockquote> "The Spirit returns to his hiding-place, But his words have been like balm. The big tears start--but the fluttering heart Is soothed and softened and calm." </blockquote> "I remember that," said Florence;--"it is beautiful." "Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole. "I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"it is signed 'Hugh'--there have been a good many of his pieces in the Excelsior for a year past--and all of them pretty." "Hugh!" exclaimed Edith springing forward,--"that's the one that wrote the Chestnuts!--Fleda, won't you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?" "Why no, Edith, I think not." "Ah do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it,--and you know mamma says they're all pretty. Won't you?" "My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to day." "But I want you to read it for me again." "Let me have it, Miss Edith," said Mr. Carleton smiling,--"I will read it for you." "Ah but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said Edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine,--"she reads it so well. It's so funny--about the coffee and buckwheat cakes." "What is that, Edith?" said her mother. "Something Mr. Carleton is going to read for me, mamma." "Don't you trouble Mr. Carleton." "It won't trouble him, mamma--he promised of his own accord." "Let us all have the benefit of it, Mr. Carleton," said the lady. It is worthy of remark that Fleda's politeness utterly deserted her during the reading of both this piece and the last. She as near as possible turned her back upon the reader. <blockquote> "Merrily sang the crickets forth One fair October night;-- And the stars looked down, and the northern crown Gave its strange fantastic light. </blockquote> <blockquote> "A nipping frost was in the air, On flowers and grass it fell; And the leaves were still on the eastern hill As if touched by a fairy spell. </blockquote> <blockquote> "To the very top of the tall nut-trees The frost-king seemed to ride; With his wand he stirs the chestnut burs, And straight they are opened wide. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And squirrels and children together dream Of the coming winter's hoard; And many, I ween, are the chestnuts seen In hole or in garret stored. </blockquote> <blockquote> "The children are sleeping in feather-beds-- Poor Bun in his mossy nest,-- He courts repose with his tail on his nose. On the others warm blankets rest. </blockquote> <blockquote> "Late in the morning the sun gets up From behind the village spire; And the children dream, that the first red gleam Is the chestnut trees on fire! </blockquote> <blockquote> "The squirrel had on when he first awoke All the clothing he could command; And his breakfast was light--he just took a bite Of an acorn that lay at hand; </blockquote> <blockquote> "And then he was off to the trees to work;-- While the children some time it takes To dress and to eat what they think meet Of coffee and buckwheat cakes. </blockquote> <blockquote> "The sparkling frost when they first go out, Lies thick upon all around; And earth and grass, as they onward pass, Give a pleasant crackling sound. </blockquote> <blockquote> "O there is a heap of chestnuts, see!' Cried the youngest of the train; For they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown What he meant to pick up again. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And two bright eyes from the tree o'erhead, Looked down at the open bag Where the nuts went in--and so to begin, Almost made his courage flag. </blockquote> <blockquote> "Away on the hill, outside the wood, Three giant trees there stand; And the chestnuts bright that hang in sight, Are eyed by the youthful band. </blockquote> <blockquote> "And one of their number climbs the tree, And passes from bough to bough,-- And the children run--for with pelting fun The nuts fall thickly now. </blockquote> <blockquote> "Some of the burs are still shut tight,-- Some open with chestnuts three,-- And some nuts fall with no burs at all-- Smooth, shiny, as nuts should be. </blockquote> <blockquote> "O who can tell what fun it was To see the prickly shower! To feel what a whack on head or back. Was within a chestnut's power!-- </blockquote> <blockquote> "To run beneath the shaking tree, And then to scamper away; And with laughing shout to dance about The grass where the chestnuts lay. </blockquote> <blockquote> "With flowing dresses, and blowing hair, And eyes that no shadow knew,-- Like the growing light of a morning bright--- The dawn of the summer blue! </blockquote> <blockquote> "The work was ended--the trees were stripped-- The children were 'tired of play.' And they forgot (but the squirrel did not) The wrong they had done that day." </blockquote> Whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of these lines, or from Edith's delight in them, he was frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter. "I can understand that" said Mr. Stackpole, "without any difficulty." "You are not lost in the mysteries of chestnuting in open daylight," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "wouldn't you have taken the squirrel's chestnuts?" "I believe I should, Miss Edith,--if I had not been hindered." "But what would have hindered you? don't you think it was right?" "Ask your friend Miss Ringgan what she thinks of it," said he smiling. "Now Mr. Carleton," said Constance as he threw down the magazine, "will you decide that point of English between Miss Ringgan and me?" "I should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, Miss Constance." "Well, Fleda, will you agree to submit it to Mr. Carleton?" "I must know by what standards Mr. Carleton will be guided before I agree to any such thing," said Fleda. "Standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything without knowing what standards they go by?" "Would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said Fleda smiling. "You won't be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or later, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Every woman must." "The later the better, ma'am, I cannot help thinking." "You will change your mind," said Mrs. Evelyn complacently. "Mamma's notions, Mr. Stackpole, would satisfy any man's pride, when she is expatiating upon the subject of woman's dependence," said Florence. "The dependence of affection," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course! It's their lot. Affection always leads a true woman to merge her separate judgment, on anything, in the judgment of the beloved object." "Ay," said Fleda laughing,--"suppose her affection is wasted on an object that has none?" "My dear Fleda!" said Mrs. Evelyn with a funny expression,--"that can never be, you know--don't you remember what your favourite Longfellow says--'affection never is wasted'?--Florence, my love, just hand me 'Evangeline' there--I want you to listen to it, Mr. Stackpole--here it is-- <blockquote> 'Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs shall fill them full of refreshment. That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.'" </blockquote> "How very plain it is that was written by a man!" said Fleda. "Why?" said Mr. Carleton laughing. "I always thought it was so exquisite!" said Florence. "I was so struck with it," said Constance, "that I have been looking ever since for an object to waste my affections upon." "Hush, Constance!" said her mother. "Don't you like it, Mr. Carleton?" "I should like to hear Miss Ringgan's commentary," said Mr. Stackpole;--" I can't anticipate it. I should have said the sentiment was quite soft and tender enough for a woman." "Don't you agree with it, Mr. Carleton," repeated Mrs. Evelyn. "I beg leave to second Mr. Stackpole's motion," he said smiling. "Fleda my dear, you must explain yourself,--the gentlemen are at a stand." "I believe, Mrs. Evelyn," said Fleda smiling and blushing,--I am of the mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see anything wasted." "But the assertion is that it isn't wasted," said Mr. Stackpole. "'That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain,'" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said Fleda with a little energy, though her colour rose and rose higher. "Did it never occur to you, Mrs. Evelyn, that the streams which fertilize as they flow do but desolate if their course be checked?" "But your objection lies only against the author's figure," said Mr. Stackpole;--"come to the fact." "I was speaking as he did, sir, of the fact under the figure--I did not mean to separate them." Both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different expression. "Perhaps," said Mr. Carleton, "the writer was thinking of a gentler and more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which however it may meet with barren ground and raise no fruit there, is sure in due time to come back, heaven-refined, to refresh and replenish its source." "Perhaps so," said Fleda with a very pleased answering look,--"I do not recollect how it is brought in--I may have answered rather Mrs. Evelyn than Mr. Longfellow." "But granting that it is an error," said Mr. Stackpole, "as you understood it,--what shews it to have been made by a man?" "Its utter ignorance of the subject, sir." "You think they never waste their affections?" said he. "By no means! but I think they rarely waste so much in any one direction as to leave them quite impoverished." "Mr. Carleton, how do you bear that, sir?" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Will you let such an assertion pass unchecked?" "I would not if I could help it, Mrs. Evelyn." "That isn't saying much for yourself," said Constance;--"but Fleda my dear, where did you get such an experience of waste and desolation?" "Oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said Fleda lightly. "But you make it out that only one-half of mankind can appropriate that axiom," said Mr. Stackpole. "How can a woman know men's hearts so well?" "On the principle that the whole is greater than a part?" said Mr. Carleton smiling. "I'll sleep upon that before I give my opinion," said Mr. Stackpole. "Mrs. Evelyn, good-evening!--" "Well Mr. Carleton!" said Constance, "you have said a great deal for women's minds." "Some women's minds," he said with a smile. "And some men's minds," said Fleda. "I was speaking only in the general." Her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook hands with Mr. Carleton. And without speaking a word for other people to hear, his look and smile in return were more than an answer. Fleda sat for some time after he was gone trying to think what it was in eye and lip which had given her so much pleasure. She could not make out anything but approbation,--the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good child; but she thought it had also something of that quiet intelligence--a silent communication of sympathy which the others in company could not share. She was roused from her reverie by Mrs. Evelyn. "Fleda my dear, I am writing to your aunt Lucy--have you any message to send?" "No Mrs. Evelyn--I wrote myself to-day." And she went back to her musings. "I am writing about you, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, again in a few minutes. "Giving a good account, I hope, ma'am," said Fleda smiling. "I shall tell her I think sea-breezes have an unfavourable effect upon you," said Mrs. Evelyn;--"that I am afraid you are growing pale; and that you have clearly expressed yourself in favour of a garden at Queechy rather than any lot in the city--or anywhere else;--so she had better send for you home immediately." Fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but Mrs. Evelyn's delighted amusement did not consist with making the matter very plain. Fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate the cause of them, to her own annoyance; so she was fain at last to take her light and go to her own room. She looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first pleasure and of the quieting influence the giver of them had exercised over her that evening; thought again how very kind it was of him to send them, and to choose them so; how strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she was to have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so happily changed from his old self. And then from that change and the cause of it, to those higher, more tranquilizing, and sweetening influences that own no kindred with earth's dust and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and fertilize it. And when she laid herself down to sleep it was with a spirit grave but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as unfelt now as ever the parching heat of a few hours before when the stars are abroad. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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