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Queechy

<h1> Chapter LIV. </h1> <blockquote> The full sum of me Is sum of something; which to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. </blockquote> <blockquote> Merchant of Venice. </blockquote> They had a very speedy passage to the other side, and partly in consequence of that Mr. Carleton was not found waiting for them in Liverpool. Mrs. Carleton would not tarry there but hastened down at once to the country, thinking to be at home before the news of their arrival. It was early morning of one fair day in July when they were at last drawing near the end of their journey. They would have reached it the evening before but for a storm which had constrained them to stop and wait over the night at a small town about eight miles off. For fear then of passing Guy on the road his mother sent a servant before, and making an extraordinary exertion was actually herself in the carriage by seven o'clock. Nothing could be fairer than that early drive, if Fleda might have enjoyed it in peace. The sweet morning air was exceeding sweet, and the summer light fell upon a perfect luxuriance of green things. Out of the carriage Fleda's spirits were at home, but not within it; and it was sadly irksome to be obliged to hear and respond to Mrs. Carleton's talk, which was kept up, she knew, in the charitable intent to divert her. She was just in a state to listen to nature's talk; to the other she attended and replied with a patient longing to be left free that she might steady and quiet herself. Perhaps Mrs. Carleton's tact discovered this in the matter-of-course and uninterested manner of her rejoinders; for as they entered the park gates she became silent, and the long drive from them to the house was made without a word on either side. For a length of way the road was through a forest of trees of noble growth, which in some places closed their arms overhead and in all sentinelled the path in stately array. The eye had no scope beyond the ranks of this magnificent body; Carleton park was celebrated for its trees; but magnificent though they were and dearly as Fleda loved every form of forest beauty, she felt oppressed. The eye forbidden to range, so was the mind, shut in to itself; and she only felt under the gloom and shadow of those great trees the shadow of the responsibilities and of the change that were coming upon her. But after a while the ranks began to be thinned and the ground to be broken; the little touches of beauty with which the sun had enlivened the woodland began to grow broader and cheerfuller; and then as the forest scattered away to the right and left, gay streams of light came through the glades and touched the surface of the rolling ground, where in the hollows, on the heights, on the sloping sides of the dingles, knots of trees of yet more luxuriant and picturesque growth, planted or left by the cultivator's hand long ago and trained by no hand but nature's, stood so as to distract a painter's eye; and just now, in the fresh gilding of the morning and with all the witchery of the long shadows upon the uneven ground certainly charmed Fleda's eye and mind both. Fancy was dancing again, albeit with one hand upon gravity's shoulder, and the dancing was a little nervous too. But she looked and caught her breath as she looked, while the road led along the very edge of a dingle, and then was lost in a kind of enchanted open woodland--it seemed so--and then passing through a thicket came out upon a broad sweep of green turf that wiled the eye by its smooth facility to the distant screen of oaks and beeches and firs on its far border. It was all new. Fleda's memory had retained only an indistinct vision of beauty, like the face of an angel in a cloud as painters have drawn it; now came out the beautiful features one after another, as if she had never seen them. So far nature had seemed to stand alone. But now another hand appeared, not interfering with nature but adding to her. The road came upon a belt of the shrubbery where the old tenants of the soil were mingled with lighter and gayer companionship and in some instances gave it place; though in general the mingling was very graceful. There was never any crowding of effects; it seemed all nature still, only as if several climes had joined together to grace one. Then that was past; and over smooth undulating ground, bearing a lighter growth of foreign wood with here and there a stately elm or ash that disdained their rivalry, the carriage came under the brown walls and turrets of the house. Fleda's mood had changed again; and as the grave outlines rose above her, half remembered and all the more for that imposing, she trembled at the thought of what she had come there to do and to be. She felt very nervous and strange and out of place, and longed for the familiar free and voice that would bid her be at home. Mrs. Carleton, now, was not enough of a stand-by. With all that, Fleda descended from the carriage with her usual quiet demureness; no one that did not know her well would have seen in her any other token of emotion than a somewhat undue and wavering colour. They were welcomed, at least one of them was, with every appearance of sincerity by the most respectable-looking personage who opened to them and whom Fleda remembered instantly. The array of servants in the hall would almost have startled her if she had not recollected the same thing on her first coming to Carleton. She stepped in with a curious sense of that first time, when she had come there a little child. "Where is your master?' was Mrs. Carleton's immediate demand. "Mr. Carleton set off this morning for Liverpool." Mrs. Carleton gave a quick glance at Fleda, who kept her eyes at home. "We did not meet him--we have not passed him--how long ago?" were her next rapid words. "My master left Carleton as early as five o'clock--he gave orders to drive as fast as possible." "Then he had gone through Hollonby an hour before we left it," said Mrs. Carleton looking again to her companion;--"but he will hear of us at Carstairs--we stopped there yesterday afternoon--he will be back again in a few hours I am sure. Then we have been expected?" "Yes ma'am--my master gave orders that you should be expected." "Is all well, Popham?" "All is well, madam!" "Is Lady Peterborough here?" "His lordship and Lady Peterborough arrived the day before yesterday," was the succint reply. Drawing Fleda's arm within hers and giving kind recognition to the rest who stood around, Mrs. Carleton led her to the stairs and mounted them, repeating in a whisper, "He will be here presently again." They went to Mrs. Carleton's dressing room, Fleda wondering in an interval fever whether "orders had been given" to expect her also; from the old butler's benign look at her as he said "All is well!" she could not help thinking it. If she maintained her outward quiet it was the merest external crust of seeming; there was nothing like quiet beneath it; and Mrs. Carleton's kiss and fond words of welcome were hardly composing. Mrs. Carleton made her sit down, and with very gentle hands was busy arranging her hair, when the housekeeper came in; to pay her more particular respects and to offer her services. Fleda hardly ventured a glance to see whether she looked benign. She was a dignified elderly person, as stately and near as handsome as Mrs. Carleton herself. "My dear Fleda," said the latter when she had finished the hair,--"I am going to see my sister--will you let Mrs. Fothergill help you in anything you want, and take you then to the library--you will find no one, and I will come to you there. Mrs. Fothergill, I recommend you to the particular care of this lady." The recommendation was not needed, Fleda thought, or was very effectual; the housekeeper served her with most assiduous care, and in absolute silence. Fleda hurried the finishing of her toilet. "Are the people quiet in the country?" she forced herself to say. "Perfectly quiet, ma'am. It needed only that my master should be at home to make them so." "How is that?" "He has their love and their ear, ma'am, and so it is that he can just do his pleasure with them." "How is it in the neighbouring country?" "They're quiet, ma'am, I believe,--mostly--there's been some little disturbance in one place and another, and more fear of it, as well as I can make out, but it's well got over, as it appears. The noblemen and gentlemen in the country around were very glad, all of them I am told, of Mr. Carleton's return. Is there nothing more I can do for you, ma'am?" The last question was put with an indefinable touch of kindliness which had not softened the respect of her first words. Fleda begged her to show the way to the library, which Mrs. Fothergill immediately did, remarking as she ushered her in that "those were Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms." Fleda did not need to be told that; she put the remark and the benignity together, and drew a nervous inference. But Mrs. Fothergill was gone and she was alone. Nobody was there, as Mrs. Carleton had said. Fleda stood still in the middle of the floor, looking around her, in a bewildered effort to realize the past and the present; with all the mind in the world to cry, but there was too great a pressure of excitement and too much strangeness of feeling at work. Nothing before her in the dimly familiar place served at all to lessen this feeling, and recovering from her maze she went to one of the glazed doors, which stood open, and turned her back upon the room with its oppressive recollections. Her eye lighted upon nothing that was not quiet now. A secluded piece of smooth green, partially bordered with evergreens and set with light shrubbery of rare kinds, exquisitely kept; over against her a sweetbriar that seemed to have run wild, indicating, Fleda was sure, the entrance of the path to the rose garden, that her memory alone would hardly have helped her to find. All this in the bright early summer morning, and the sweet aromatic smell of firs and flowers coming with every breath. There were draughts of refreshment in the air. It composed her, and drinking it in delightedly Fleda stood with folded arms in the doorway, half forgetting herself and her position, and going in fancy from the firs and the roses over a very wide field of meditation indeed. So lost, that she started fearfully on suddenly becoming aware that a figure had come just beside her. It was an elderly and most gentlemanly-looking man, as a glance made her know. Fleda was reassured and ashamed in a breath. The gentleman did not notice her confusion, however, otherwise than by a very pleasant and well-bred smile, and immediately entered into some light remarks on the morning, the place, and the improvements Mr. Carleton had made in the latter. Though he said the place was one of those which could bear very well to want improvement; but Carleton was always finding something to do which excited his admiration. "Landscape gardening is one of the pleasantest of amusements," said Fleda. "I have just knowledge enough in the matter to admire;--to originate any ideas is beyond me; I have to depend for them upon my gardener,--and my wife--and so I lose a pleasure, I suppose; but every man has his own particular hobby. Carleton, however, has more than his share--he has half a dozen, I think." "Half a dozen hobbies!" said Fleda. "Perhaps I should not call them hobbies, for he manages to ride them all skilfully; and a hobby-horse, I believe, always runs away with the man?" Fleda could hardly return his smile. She thought people were possessed with an unhappy choice of subjects in talking to her that morning. But fancying that she had very ill kept up her part in the conversation and must have looked like a simpleton, she forced herself to break the silence which followed the last remark, and asked the same question she had asked Mrs. Fothergill,--if the country was quiet? "Outwardly quiet," he said;--"O yes--there is no more difficulty--that is, none which cannot easily be handled. There was some danger a few months ago, but it is blown over; all was quiet on Carleton's estates so soon as he was at home, and that of course had great influence on the neighbourhood. No, there is nothing to be apprehended. He has the hearts of his people completely, and one who has their hearts can do what he pleases with their heads, you know. Well he deserves it--he has done a great deal for them." Fleda was afraid to ask in what way,--but perhaps he read the question in her eyes. "That's one of his hobbies--ameliorating the condition of the poorer classes on his estates. He has given himself to it for some years back; he has accomplished a great deal for them--a vast deal indeed! He has changed the face of things, mentally and morally, in several places, with his adult schools, and agricultural systems, and I know not what; but the most powerful means I think after all has been the weight of his personal influence, by which he can introduce and carry through any measure; neither ignorance nor prejudice nor obstinacy seem to make head against him. It requires a peculiar combination of qualities, I think,--very peculiar and rare,--to deal successfully with the mind of the masses." "I should think so indeed," said Fleda. "He has it--I don't comprehend it--and I have not studied his machinery enough to understand that; but I have seen the effects. Never should have thought he was the kind of man either--but there it is!--I don't comprehend him. There is only one fault to be found with him though." "What is that?" said Fleda smiling. "He has built a fine dissenting chapel down here towards Hollonby," he said gravely, looking her in the face,--"and what is yet worse, his uncle tells me, he goes there half the time himself!" Fleda could not help laughing, nor colouring, at his manner. "I thought it was always considered a meritorious action to build a church," she said. "Indubitably.--But you see, this was a chapel." The laugh and the colour both grew more unequivocal--Fleda could not help it. "I beg your pardon, sir--I have not learned such nice distinctions--Perhaps a chapel was wanted just in that place." "That is presumable. But he might be wanted somewhere else. However," said the gentleman with a good-humoured smile,--"his uncle forgives him; and if his mother cannot influence him,--I am afraid nobody else will. There is no help for it. And I should be very sorry to stand ill with him. I have given you the dark side of his character." "What is the other side in the contrast?" said Fleda, wondering at herself for her daring. "It is not for me to say," he answered with a slight shrug of the shoulders and an amused glance at her;--"I suppose it depends upon people's vision,--but if you will permit me, I will instance a bright spot that was shewn to me the other day, that I confess, when I look at it, dazzles my eyes a little." Fleda only bowed; she dared not speak again. "There was a poor fellow--the son of one of Mr. Carleton's old tenants down here at Enchapel,--who was under sentence of death, lying in prison at Carstairs. The father, I am told, is an excellent man and a good tenant; the son had been a miserable scapegrace, and now for some crime--I forget what--had at last been brought to justice. The evidence against him was perfect and the offence was not trifling--there was not the most remote chance of a pardon, but it seemed the poor wretch had been building up his dependence upon that hope and was resting on it; and consequently was altogether indisposed and unfit to give his attention to the subjects that his situation rendered proper for him. "The gentleman who gave me this story was requested by a brother clergyman to go with him to visit the prisoner. They found him quite stupid--unmovable by all that could be urged, or rather perhaps the style of the address, as it was described to me, was fitted to confound and bewilder the man rather than enlighten him. In the midst of all this Mr. Carleton came in--he was just then on the wing for America, and he had heard of the poor creature's condition in a visit to his father. He came,--my informant said,--like a being of a different planet. He took the man's hand,--he was chained foot and wrist,--'My poor friend,' he said, 'I have been thinking of you here, shut out from the light of the sun, and I thought you might like to see the face of a friend';--with that singular charm of manner which he knows how to adapt to everybody and every occasion. The man was melted at once--at his feet, as it were;--he could do anything with him. Carleton began then, quietly, to set before him the links in the chain of evidence which had condemned him--one by one--in such a way as to prove to him, by degrees but irresistibly, that he had no hope in this world. The man was perfectly subdued--sat listening and looking into those powerful eyes that perhaps you know,--taking in all his words and completely in his hand. And then Carleton went on to bring before him the considerations that he thought should affect him in such a case, in a way that this gentleman said was indescribably effective and winning; till that hardened creature was broken down,--sobbing like a child,--actually sobbing!--" Fleda did her best, but she was obliged to hide her face in her hands, let what would be thought of her. "It was the finest exhibition of eloquence, this gentleman said, he had ever listened to.--For me it was an exhibition of another kind. I would have believed such an account of few men, but of all the men I know I would least have believed it of Guy Carleton a few years ago; even now I can hardly believe it. But it is a thing that would do honour to any man."-- Fleda felt that the tears were making their way between her fingers, but she could not help it; and she presently knew that her companion had gone and she was left alone again. Who was this gentleman? and how much did he know about her? More than that she was a stranger, Fleda was sure; and dreading his return, or that somebody else might come and find her with tokens of tears upon her face, she stepped out upon the greensward and made for the flaunting sweet-briar that seemed to beckon her to visit its relations. The entrance of a green path was there, or a grassy glade, more or less wide, leading through a beautiful growth of firs and larches. No roses, nor any other ornamental shrubs; only the soft, well-kept footway through the woodland. Fleda went gently on and on, admiring, where the trees sometimes swept back, leaving an opening, and at other places stretched their graceful branches over her head. The perfect condition of everything to the eye, the rich coloured vegetation,--of varying colour above and below,--the absolute retirement, and the strong pleasant smell of the evergreens, had a kind of charmed effect upon senses and mind too. It was a fairyland sort of place. The presence of its master seemed everywhere; it was like him; and Fleda pressed on to see yet livelier marks of his character and fancy beyond. By degrees the wood began to thin on one side; then at once the glade opened into a bright little lawn rich with roses in full bloom. Fleda was stopped short at the sudden vision of loveliness. There was the least possible appearance of design; no dry beds were to be seen; the luxuriant clumps of Provence and white roses, with the varieties of the latter, seemed to have chosen their own places; only to have chosen them very happily. One hardly imagined that they had submitted to dictation, if it were not that Queen Flora never was known to make so effective a disposition of her forces without help. The screen of trees was very thin on the border of this opening, so thin that the light from beyond came through. On a slight rocky elevation which formed the further side of it sat an exquisite little Moorish temple, about which and the face of the rock below some Noisette and Multiflora climbers were vying with each other; and just at the entrance of the further path a white dog-rose had thrown itself over the way, covering the lower branches of the trees with its blossoms. Fleda stood spell bound a good while, with a breath oppressed with pleasure. But what she had seen excited her to see more, and a dim recollection of the sea-view from somewhere in the walk drew her on. Roses met her now frequently. Now and then a climber, all alone, seemed to have sought protection in a tree by the path-side, and to have displayed itself thence in the very wantonness of security, hanging out its flowery wreaths, fearless of hand or knife. Clusters of Noisettes, or of French or Damask roses, where the ground was open enough, stood without a rival and needing no foil, other than the beautiful surrounding of dark evergreen foliage. But the distance was not long before she came out upon a wider opening and found what she was seeking--the sight of the sea. The glade, here, was upon the brow of high ground, and the wood disappearing entirely for a space left the eye free to go over the lower tree-tops and the country beyond to the distant shore and sea-line. Roses were here too; the air was full of the sweetness of Damask and Bourbon varieties; and a few beautiful Banksias, happily placed, contrasted without interfering with them. It was very still;--it was very perfect;--the distant country was fresh-coloured with the yet early light which streamed between the trees and laid lines of enchantment upon the green turf; and the air came up from the sea-board and bore the breath of the roses to Fleda every now and then with a gentle puff of sweetness. Such light--she had seen none such light since she was a child. Was it the burst of mental sunshine that had made it so bright?--or was she going to be really a happy child again? No--no,--not that; and yet something very like it. So like it that she almost startled at herself. She went no further. She could not have borne, just then, to see any more; and feeling her heart too full she stood even there, with hands crossed upon her bosom, looking away from the roses to the distant sea-line. That said something very different. That was very sobering; if she had needed sobering, which she did not. But it helped her to arrange the scattered thoughts which had been pressing confusedly upon her brain. "Look away from the roses" indeed she could not, for the same range of vision took in the sea and them,--and the same range of thought. These might stand for an emblem of the present; that, of the future,--grave, far-off, impenetrable;--and passing as it were the roses of time Fleda fixed upon that image of eternity; and weighing the one against the other, felt, never in her life more keenly, how wild it would be to forget in smelling the roses her preparations for that distant voyage that must be made from the shores where they grow. With one eye upon this brightest bits of earth before her, the other mentally was upon Hugh's grave. The roses could not be sweeter to any one; but in view of the launching away into that distant sea-line, in view of the issues on the other shore, in view of the welcome that might be had there,--the roses might fade and wither, but her happiness could not go with their breath. They were something to be loved, to be used, to be thankful for,--but not to live upon; something too that whispered of an increased burden of responsibility, and never more deeply than at that moment did Fleda remember her mother's prayer; never more simply recognized that happiness could not be made of these things. She might be as happy at Queechy as here. It depended on the sunlight of undying hopes, which indeed would give wonderful colour to the flowers that might be in her way;--on the possession of resources the spring of which would never dry;--on the peace which secures the continual feast of a merry heart. Fleda could take her new honours and advantages very meekly, and very soberly, with all her appreciation of them. The same work of life was to be done here as at Queechy. To fulfil the trust committed to her, larger here--to keep her hope for the future--undeceived by the sunshine of earth to plant her roses where they would bloom everlastingly. The weight of these things bowed Fleda to the ground and made her bury her face in her hands. But there was one item of happiness from which her thoughts never even in imagination dissevered themselves, and round it they gathered now in their weakness. A strong mind and heart to uphold hers,--a strong hand for here to rest in,--that was a blessing; and Fleda would have cried heartily but that her feelings were too high wrought. They made her deaf to the light sound of footsteps coming over the grass,--till two hands gently touched hers and lifted her up, and then Fleda was at home. But surprised and startled she could hardly lift up her face. Mr. Carleton's greeting was as grave and gentle as if she had been a stray child. "Do not fancy I am going to thank you for the grace you have shewn me," said he lightly. "I know you would never have done it if circumstances had not been hard pleaders in my cause. I will thank you presently when you have answered one or two questions for me." "Questions?" said Fleda looking up. But she blushed the next instant at her own simplicity. He was leading her back on the path she had come. No further however than to the first opening, where the climbing dog-rose hung over the way. There he turned aside crossing the little plot of greensward, and they ascended some steps cut in the rock to the pavilion Fleda had looked at from a distance. It stood high enough to command the same sea-view. On that side it was entirely open, and of very light construction on the others. Several people were there; Fleda could hardly tell how many; and when Lord Peterborough was presented to her she did not find out that he was her morning's acquaintance. Her eye only took in besides that there were one or two ladies, and a clergyman in the dress of the Church of England; she could not distinguish. Yet she stood beside Mr. Carleton with all her usual quiet dignity, though her eye did not leave the ground and her words were in no higher key than was necessary, and though she could hardly bear the unchanged easy tone of his. The birds were in a perfect ecstasy all about them; the soft breeze came through the trees, gently waving the branches and stirring the spray wreaths of the roses, the very fluttering of summer's drapery; some roses looked in at the lattice, and those which could not be there sent in their congratulations on the breath of the wind, while the words were spoken that bound them together. Mr. Carleton then dismissing his guests to the house, went with Fleda again the other way. He had felt the extreme trembling of the hand which he took, and would not go in till it was quieted. He led her back to the very rose-bush where he had found her, and in his own way, presently brought her spirit home from its trembling and made it rest; and then suffered her to stand a few minutes quite silent, looking out again over the fair rich spread of country that lay between them and the sea. "Now tell me, Elfie," said he softly, drawing back with the same old caressing and tranquillizing touch the hair that hung over her brow,--"what you were thinking about when I found you here?--in the very luxury of seclusion--behind a rose-bush." Fleda looked a quick look, smiled, and hesitated, and then said it was rather a confusion of thoughts. "It will be a confusion no longer when you have disentangled them for me." "I don't know--" said Fleda. And she was silent, but so was he, quietly waiting for her to go on. "Perhaps you will wonder at me, Mr. Carleton," she said, hesitating and colouring. "Perhaps," he said smiling;--"but if I do I will not keep you in ignorance, Elfie." "I was almost bewildered, in the first place,--with beauty--and then--" "Do you like the rose garden?" "Like it!--I cannot speak of it!" "I don't want you to speak of it," said he smiling at her. "What followed upon liking it, Elfie?" "I was thinking," said Fleda, looking resolutely away from him,--"in the midst of all this,--that it is not these things which make people happy." "There is no question of that," he replied. "I have realized it thoroughly for a few months past." "No, but seriously, I mean," said Fleda pleadingly. "And seriously you are quite right, dear Elfie. What then?" "I was thinking," said Fieda, speaking with some difficulty, "of Hugh's grave,--and of the comparative value of things; and afraid, I believe,--especially--here--" "Of making a wrong estimate?" "Yes--and of not doing and being just what I ought." Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute, considering the brow from which his fingers drew off the light screen. "Will you trust me to watch over and tell you?" Fleda did not trust her voice to tell him, but her eyes did it. "As to the estimate--the remedy is to 'keep ourselves in the love of God;' and then these things are the gifts of our Father's hand and will never be put in competition with him. And they are never so sweet as when taken so." "Oh I know that!" "This is a danger I share with you. We will watch over each other." Fleda was silent with filling eyes. "We do not seek our happiness in these things," he said tenderly. "I never found it in them. For years, whatever others may have judged, I have felt myself a poor man; because I had not in the world a friend in whom I could have entire sympathy. And if I am rich now, it is not in any treasure that I look to enjoy in this world alone." "Oh do not, Mr. Carleton!" exclaimed Fleda, bowing her head in distress, and giving his hand an earnest entreaty. "What shall I not do?" said he half laughing and half gently, bringing her face near enough for his lips to try another kind of eloquence. "You shall not do this, Elfie, for any so light occasion.--Was this the whole burden of those grave thoughts?" "Not quite--entirely--" she said stammering. "But grave thoughts are not always unhappy." "Not always. I want to know what gave yours a tinge of that colour this morning." "It was hardly that.--You know what Foster says about 'power to its very last particle being duty'--I believe it frightened me a little." "If you feel that as strongly as I do, Elfie, it will act as a strong corrective to the danger of false estimates." "I do feel it," said Fleda. "One of my fears was that I should not feel it enough." "One of my cares will be that you do not act upon it too fiercely," said he smiling. "The power being limited so is the duty. But you shall have power enough, Elfie, and work enough. I have precisely what I have needed--my good sprite back again." "With a slight difference." "What difference?" "She is to act under direction now." "Not at all--only under safe control," he said laughing. "I am very glad of the difference, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, with a grave and grateful remembrance of it. "If you think the sprite's old office is gone, you are mistaken," said he. "What were your other fears?--one was that you should not feel enough your responsibility, and the other that you might forget it." "I don't know that there were any other particular fears," said Fleda;--"I had been thinking of all these things--" "And what else?" Her colour and her silence begged him not to ask. He said no more, and let her stand still again looking off through the roses, while her mind more quietly and lightly went over the same train of thoughts that had moved it before; gradually calmed; came back from being a stranger to being at home, at least in one presence; and ended, her action even before her look told him where, as her other hand unconsciously was joined to the one already on his arm. A mute expression of feeling the full import of which he read, even before her eye coming back from its musings was raised to him, perhaps unconsciously too, with all the mind in it; its timidity was not more apparent than its simplicity of clinging affection and dependence. Mr. Carleton's answer was in three words, but in the tone and manner that accompanied them there was a response to every part of her appeal; so perfect that Fleda was confused at her own frankness. They began to move towards the house, but Fleda was in a maze again and could hardly realize anything. "His wife"!--was she that?--had so marvellous a change really been wrought in her?--the little asparagus cutter of Queechy transformed into the mistress of all this domain, and of the stately mansion of which they caught glimpses now and then, as they drew near it by another approach into which Mr. Carleton had diverged. And his wife!--that was the hardest to realize of all. She was as far from realizing it when she got into the house. They entered now at once into the breakfast-room where the same party were gathered whom she had met once before that morning. Mr. Carleton the elder, and Lord Peterborough and Lady Peterborough, she had met without seeing. But Fleda could look at them now; and if her colour came and went as frankly as when she was a child, she could speak to them and meet their advances with the same free and sweet self-possession as then; the rare dignity of a little wood-flower, that is moved by a breath, but recovers as easily and instantly its quiet standing. There were one or two who looked a little curiously at first to see whether this new member of the family were worthy of her place and would fill it to satisfy them. Not Mr. Carleton; he never sought to ascertain the value of anything that belonged to him by a popular vote; and his own judgment always stood carelessly alone. But Mrs. Carleton was less sure of her own ground or of others. For five minutes she noted Fleda's motions and words, her blushes and smiles, as she stood talking to one and another;--for five minutes, and then with a little smile at her sister Mrs. Carleton moved off to the breakfast-table, well pleased that Lady Peterborough was too engaged to answer her. Fleda had won them all. Mr. Carleton's intervening shield of grace and kindness was only needed here against the too much attention or attraction that might distress her. He was again, now they were in presence of others, exactly what he had been to her when she was a child, the same cool and efficient friend and protector. Nobody in the room shewed less thought of her except in action; a great many little things done for her pleasure or comfort, so quietly that nobody knew it but one person, and she hardly noticed it at the time. All could not have the same tact. There was an uninterrupted easy flow of talk at the table, which Fleda heard just enough to join in where it was necessary; the rest of the time she sat in a kind of abstraction, dipping enormous strawberries one by one into white sugar, with a curious want of recognition between them and the ends of her fingers; it never occurred to her that they had picked baskets full. "I have done something for which you will hardly thank me, Mr. Carleton," said Lord Peterborough. "I have driven this lady to tears within the first hour of her being in the house." "If she will forgive you, I will, my lord," Mr. Carleton answered carelessly. "I will confess myself though," continued his lordship looking at the face that was so intent over the strawberries. "I was under the impression when I first saw a figure in the window that it was Lady Peterborough. I own as soon as I found it was a stranger I had my suspicions--which did not lack confirmation in the course of the interview--I trust I am forgiven the means I used." "It seems you had your curiosity too, my lord," said Mr. Carleton the uncle. "Which ought in all justice to have lacked gratification," said Lady Peterborough. "I hope Fleda will not be too ready to forgive you." "I expect forgiveness nevertheless," said he looking at Fleda. "Must I wait for it?" "I am much obliged to you, sir." And then she gave him a very frank smile and blush as she added, "I beg pardon--you know my tongue is American." "I don't like that," said his lordship gravely. "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," said the elder Carleton. "The heart being English, we may hope the tongue will become so too." "I will not assure you of that, sir," Fleda said laughingly, though her cheeks showed the conversation was not carried on without effort. Oddly enough nobody saw it with any dissatisfaction. "Of what, madam?" said Lord Peterborough. "That I will not always keep a rag of the stars and stripes flying somewhere." But that little speech had almost been too much for her equanimity. "Like Queen Elizabeth who retained the crucifix when she gave up the profession of popery." "Very unlike indeed!" said Fleda, endeavouring to understand what Mr. Carleton was saying to her about wood strawberries and hautbois. "Will you allow that, Carleton?" "What, my lord?" "A rival banner to float alongside of St. George's?" '"The flags are friendly, my lord." "Hum--just now,--they may seem so.--Has your little standard-bearer anything of a rebellious disposition?" "Not against any lawful authority, I hope," said Fleda. "Then there is hope for you, Mr. Carleton, that you will be able to prevent the introduction of mischievous doctrines." "For shame, Lord Peterborough!" said his wife,--"what atrocious suppositions you are making. I am blushing, I am sure, for your want of discernment." "Why--yes--" said his lordship, looking at another face whose blushes were more unequivocal,--"it may seem so--there is no appearance of anything untoward, but she is a woman after all. I will try her. Mrs. Carleton, don't you think with my Lady Peterborough that in the present nineteenth century women ought to stand more on that independent footing from which lordly monopoly has excluded them?" The first name Fleda thought belonged to another person, and her downcast eyelids prevented her seeing to whom it was addressed. It was no matter, for any answer was anticipated. "The boast of independence is not engrossed by the boldest footing, my lord." "She has never considered the subject," said Lady Peterborough. "It is no matter," said his lordship. "I must respectfully beg an answer to my question." The silence made Fleda look up. "Don't you think that the rights of the weak ought to be on a perfect equality with those of the strong?" "The rights of the weak as such--yes, my lord." The gentlemen smiled; the ladies looked rather puzzled. "I have no more to say, Mr. Carleton," said his lordship, "but that we must make an Englishwoman of her!" "I am afraid she will never be a perfect cure," said Mr. Carleton smiling. "I conceive it might require peculiar qualities in the physician,--but I do not despair. I was telling her of some of your doings this morning, and happy to see that they met with her entire disapproval." Mr. Carleton did not even glance towards Fleda and made no answer, but carelessly gave the conversation another turn; for which she thanked him unspeakably. There was no other interruption of any consequence to the well-bred flow of talk and kindliness of manner on the part of all the company, that put Fleda as much as possible at her ease. Still she did not realize anything, and yet she did realize it so strongly that her woman's heart could not rest till it bad eased itself in tears. The superbly appointed table at which she sat,--her own, though Mrs. Carleton this morning presided,--the like of which she had not seen since she was at Carleton before; the beautiful room with its arrangements, bringing back a troop of recollections of that old time; all the magnificence about her, instead of elevating sobered her spirits to the last degree. It pressed home upon her that feeling of responsibility, of the change that come over her; and though beneath it all very happy, Fleda hardly knew it, she longed so to be alone and to cry. One person's eyes, however little seemingly observant of her, read sufficiently well the unusual shaded air of her brow and her smile. But a sudden errand of business called him abroad immediately after breakfast. The ladies seized the opportunity to carry Fleda up and introduce her to her dressing-room and take account of Lady Peterborough's commission, and ladies and ladies' maids soon formed a busy committee of dress and decorations. It did not enliven Fleda, it wearied her, though she forgave them the annoyance in gratitude for the pleasure they took in looking at her. Even the delight her eye had from the first minute she saw it, in the beautiful room, and her quick sense of the carefulness with which it had been arranged for her, added to the feeling with which she was oppressed; she was very passive in the hands of her friends. In the midst of all this the housekeeper was called in and formally presented, and received by Fleda with a mixture of frankness and bashfulness that caused Mrs. Fothergill afterwards to pronounce her "a lady of a very sweet dignity indeed." "She is just such a lady as you might know my master would have fancied," said Mr. Spenser. "And what kind of a lady is that?" said Mrs. Fothergill. But Mr. Spenser was too wise to enter into any particulars and merely informed Mrs. Fothergill that she would know in a few days. "The first words Mrs. Carleton said when Mr. Carleton got home," said the old butler,--"she put both her hands on his arms and cried out, 'Guy, I am delighted with her!'" "And what did he say?" said Mrs. Fothergill. "He!" echoed Mr. Spenser in a tone of indignant intelligence,--"what should he say?--He didn't say anything; only asked where she was, I believe." In the midst of silks, muslins and jewels Mr. Carleton found Fleda still on his return; looking pale and even sad, though nobody but himself through her gentle and grateful bearing would have discerned it. He took her out of the hands of the committee and carried her down to the little library, adjoining the great one, but never thrown open,--his room, as it was called, where more particularly art and taste had accumulated their wealth of attractions. "I remember this very well," said Fleda. "This beautiful room!" "It is as free to you as to me, Elfie; and I never gave the freedom of it to any one else." "I will not abuse it," said Fleda. "I hope not, my dear Elfie," said he smiling,--"for the room will want something to me now when you are not in it; and a gift is abused that is not made free use of." A large and deep bay window in the room looked upon the same green lawn and fir wood with the windows of the library. Like those this casement stood open, and Mr. Carleton leading Fleda there remained quietly beside her for a moment, watching her face which his last words had a little moved from its outward composure. Then, gently and gravely as if she had been a child, putting his arm round her shoulders and drawing her to him he whispered, "My dear Elfie,--you need not fear being misunderstood--" Fleda started and looked up to see what he meant. But his face said it so plainly, in its perfect intelligence and sympathy with her, that her barrier of self-command and reserve was all broken down; and hiding her head in her hands upon his breast she let the pent-up burden upon her heart come forth in a flood of unrestrained tears. She could not help herself. And when she would fain have checked them after the first burst and bidden them, according to her habit to wait another time, it was out of her power; for the same kindness and tenderness that had set them a flowing, perhaps witting of her intent, effectually hindered its execution. He did not say a single word, but now and then a soft touch of his hand or of his lips upon her brow, in its expressive tenderness would unnerve all her resolution and oblige her to have no reserve that time at least in letting her secret thoughts and feelings be known, as far as tears could tell them. She wept, at first in spite of herself and afterwards in the very luxury of indulged feeling; till she was as quiet as a child, and the weight of oppression was all gone. Mr. Carleton did not move, nor speak, till she did. "I never knew before how good you were, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda raising her head at length, as soon as she dared, but still held fast by that kind arm. "What new light have you got on the subject?" said he, smiling. "Why," said Fleda, trying as hard as ever did sunshine to scatter the remnants of a cloud,--it was a bright cloud too by this time, "I have always heard that men cannot endure the sight of a woman's tears." "You shall give me a reward then. Elfie." "What reward?" said Fleda. "Promise me that you will shed them nowhere else." "Nowhere else?--" "But here--in my arms." "I don't feel like crying any more now," said Fleda evasively;--at least."--for drops were falling rather fast again,--" not sorrowfully." "Promise me, Elfie," said Mr. Carleton after a pause. But Fleda hesitated still and looked dubious. "Come!--" he said smiling,--"you know you promised a little while ago that you would have a particular regard to my wishes." Fleda's cheeks answered that appeal with sufficient brightness, but she looked down and said demurely, "I am sure one of your wishes is that I should not say anything rashly." "Well?--" "One cannot answer for such wilful things as tears." "And for such wilful things as men?" said he smiling. But Fleda was silent. "Then I will alter the form of my demand. Promise me that no shadow of anything shall come over your spirit that you do not let me either share or remove." There was no trifling in the tone,--full of gentleness as it was; there could be no evading its requisition. But the promise demanded was a grave one. Fleda was half afraid to make it. She looked up, in the very way he had seen her do when a child, to find a warrant for her words before she uttered them. But the full, clear, steadfast eye into which she looked for two seconds, authorized as well as required the promise; and hiding her face again on his breast Fleda gave it, amid a gush of tears every one of which was illumined with heart-sunshine. The End. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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