He from his old hereditary nook
Must part; the summons came, our final leave we took.
WORDSWORTH.
Mr. Carleton came the next day, but not early, to take Fleda
to Montepoole. She had told her grandfather that she did not
think he would come, because after last night he must know
that she would not want to go. About twelve o'clock, however,
he was there, with a little wagon, and Fleda was fain to get
her sunbonnet and let him put her in. Happily it was her maxim
never to trust to uncertainties, so she was quite ready when
he came, and they had not to wait a minute.
Though Fleda had a little dread of being introduced to a party
of strangers, and was a good deal disappointed at being
obliged to keep her promise, she very soon began to be glad.
She found her fear gradually falling away before Mr.
Carleton's quiet kind reassuring manner; he took such nice
care of her; and she presently made up her mind that he would
manage the matter so that it would not be awkward. They had so
much pleasant talk, too. Fleda had found before that she could
talk to Mr. Carleton, nay, she could not help talking to him;
and she forgot to think about it. And besides, it was a
pleasant day, and they drove fast, and Fleda's particular
delight was driving; and though the horse was a little gay she
had a kind of intuitive perception that Mr. Carleton knew how
to manage him. So she gave up every care and was very happy.
When Mr. Carleton asked after her grandfather, Fleda answered
with great animation, "O, he's very well! and such a happy
thing. You heard what that man said last night, Mr. Carleton,
didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, it is all arranged; this morning Mr. Jolly he's a
friend of grandpa's that lives over at Queechy Run and knew
about all this he's a lawyer he came this morning and told
grandpa that he had found some one that could lend him the
money he wanted, and there was no trouble about it; and we are
so happy, for we thought we should have to go away from where
we live now, and I know grandpa would have felt it dreadfully.
If it hadn't been for that, I mean, for Mr. Jolly's coming,
I couldn't have gone to Montepoole to-day."
"Then I am very glad Mr. Jolly made his appearance," said Mr.
Carleton.
"So am I," said Fleda; "but I think it was a little strange
that Mr. Jolly wouldn't tell us who it was that he had got the
money from. Grandpa said he never saw Mr. Jolly so curious."
When they got to the Pool, Fleda's nervousness returned a
little; but she went through the dreaded introduction with
great demureness and perfect propriety. And throughout the day
Mr. Carleton had no reason to fear rebuke for the judgment
which he had pronounced upon his little paragon. All the
flattering attention which was shown her, and it was a good
deal, could not draw Fleda a line beyond the dignified
simplicity which seemed natural to her; any more than the
witty attempts at raillery and endeavours to amuse themselves
at her expense, in which some of the gentlemen showed their
wisdom, could move her from her modest self-possession. _Very_
quiet, _very_ modest, as she invariably was, awkwardness could
not fasten upon her; her colour might come and her timid eye
fall it often did; but Fleda's wits were always in their
place and within a call. She would shrink from a stranger's
eye, and yet when spoken to her answers were as ready and
acute as they were marked for simplicity and gentleness. She
was kept to dinner; and though the arrangement and manner of
the service must have been strange to little Fleda, it was
impossible to guess from word or look that it was the first
time within her recollection that she had ever seen the like.
Her native instincts took it all as quietly as any old
liberalized traveller looks upon the customs of a new country.
Mr. Carleton smiled as he now and then saw a glance of
intelligence or admiration pass between one and another of the
company; and a little knowing nod from Mrs. Evelyn, and many a
look from his mother, confessed he had been quite right.
Those two, Mrs. Evelyn and Mrs. Carleton, were by far the most
kind and eager in their attention to Fleda. Mrs. Thorn did
little else but look at her. The gentlemen amused themselves
with her. But Mr. Carleton, true to the hopes Fleda had
founded upon his good-nature, had stood her friend all the
day, coming to her help if she needed any, and placing himself
easily and quietly between her and anything that threatened to
try or annoy her too much. Fleda felt it with grateful
admiration. Yet she noticed, too, that he was a very different
person at this dinner-table from what he had been the other
day at her grandfather's. Easy and graceful always, he filled
his own place, but did not seem to care to do more; there was
even something bordering on haughtiness in his air of grave
reserve. He was not the life of the company here; he contented
himself with being all that the company could possibly require
of him.
On the whole Fleda was exceedingly well pleased with her day,
and thought all the people in general very kind. It was quite
late before she set out to go home again; and then Mrs. Evelyn
and Mrs. Carleton were extremely afraid lest she should take
cold; and Mr. Carleton, without saying one word about it,
wrapped her up so very nicely after she got into the wagon, in
a warm cloak of his mother's. The drive home, through the
gathering shades of twilight, was to little Fleda thoroughly
charming. It was almost in perfect silence, but she liked
that; and all the way home her mind was full of a shadowy
beautiful world that seemed to lie before and around her.
It was a happy child that Mr. Carleton lifted from the wagon
when they reached Queechy. He read it in the utter
lightheartedness of brow and voice, and the spring to the
ground which hardly needed the help of his hands.
"Thank you, Mr. Carleton," she said, when she had reached her
own door; (he would not go in) "I have had a very nice time!"
He smiled.
"Good night," said he. "Tell your grandfather I will come to-
morrow to see him about some business."
Fleda ran gaily into the kitchen. Only Cynthia was there.
"Where is grandpa, Cynthy?"
"He went off into his room a half an hour ago. I believe he's
layin' down. He ain't right well, I s'pect. What's made you so
late?"
"O, they kept me," said Fleda. Her gayety suddenly sobered,
she took off her bonnet and coat, and throwing them down in
the kitchen, stole softly along the passage to her
grandfather's room. She stopped a minute at the door, and held
her breath to see if she could hear any movement which might
tell her he was not asleep. It was all still, and pulling the
iron latch with her gentlest hand, Fleda went on tiptoe into
the room. He was lying on the bed, but awake, for she had made
no noise, and the blue eyes opened and looked upon her as she
came near.
"Are you not well, dear grandpa?" said the little girl.
Nothing made of flesh and blood ever spoke words of more
spirit-like sweetness, not the beauty of a fine organ, but
such as the sweetness of angel-speech might be; a whisper of
love and tenderness that was hushed by its own intensity. He
did not answer, or did not notice her first question; she
repeated it.
"Don't you feel well?"
"Not exactly, dear!" he replied.
There was the shadow of somewhat in his tone, that fell upon
his little granddaughter's heart and brow at once. Her voice
next time, though not suffered to be anything but clear and
cheerful still, had in part the clearness of apprehension.
"What is the matter?"
"Oh I don't know, dear!"
She felt the shadow again, and he seemed to say that time
would show her the meaning of it. She put her little hand in
one of his which lay outside the coverlets, and stood looking
at him; and presently said, but in a very different key from
the same speech to Mr. Carleton,
"I have had a very nice time, dear grandpa."
Her grandfather made her no answer. He brought the dear little
hand to his lips and kissed it twice, so earnestly that it was
almost passionately; then laid it on the side of the bed
again, with his own upon it, and patted it slowly and fondly,
and with an inexpressible kind of sadness in the manner.
Fleda's lip trembled, and her heart was fluttering, but she
stood so that he could not see her face in the dusk, and kept
still till the rebel features were calm again, and she had
schooled the heart to be silent.
Mr. Ringgan had closed his eyes, and perhaps was asleep, and
his little granddaughter sat quietly down on a chair by the
bedside to watch by him, in that gentle sorrowful patience
which women often know, but which hardly belongs to childhood.
Her eye and thoughts, as she sat there in the dusky twilight,
fell upon the hand of her grandfather which still fondly held
one of her own; and fancy travelled fast and far, from what it
was to what it had been. Rough, discoloured, stiff, as it lay
there now, she thought how it had once had the hue, and the
freshness, and the grace of youth, when it had been, the
instrument of uncommon strength, and wielded an authority that
none could stand against. Her fancy wandered over the scenes
it had known; when it had felled trees in the wild forest; and
those fingers, then supple and slight, had played the fife to
the struggling men of the Revolution; how its activity had
outdone the activity of all other hands in clearing and
cultivating those very fields where her feet loved to run;
how, in its pride of strength, it had handled the scythe, and
the sickle, and the flail, with a grace and efficiency that no
other could attain; and how, in happy manhood, that strong
hand had fondled, and sheltered, and led, the little children
that now had grown up and were gone! Strength and activity,
ay, and the fruits of them, were passed away; his children
were dead; his race was run; the shock of corn was in full
season, ready to be gathered. Poor little Fleda! her thought
had travelled but a very little way before the sense of these
things entirely overcame her, her head bowed on her knees, and
she wept tears that all the fine springs of her nature were
moving to feed many, many, but poured forth as quietly as
bitterly; she smothered every sound. That beautiful shadowy
world with which she had been so busy a little while ago,
alas! she had left the fair outlines and the dreamy light, and
had been tracking one solitary path through the wilderness,
and she saw how the traveller, foot-sore and weather-beaten,
comes to the end of his way. And, after all, he comes to _the
end_. ''Yes, and I must travel through life, and come to the
end, too," thought little Fleda; "life is but a passing
through the world; my hand must wither and grow old too, if I
live long enough; and whether or no, I must come to _the end_.
Oh, there is only one thing that ought to be very much minded
in this world!"
That thought, sober though it was, brought sweet consolation.
Fleda's tears, if they fell as fast, grew brighter, as she
remembered, with singular tender joy, that her mother and her
father had been ready to see the end of their journey, and
were not afraid of it; that her grandfather and her aunt
Miriam were happy in the same quiet confidence, and she
believed she herself was a lamb of the Good Shepherd's flock.
"And he will let none of his lambs be lost," she thought. "How
happy I am! How happy we all are!"
Her grandfather still lay quiet, as if asleep, and gently
drawing her hand from under his, Fleda went and got a candle
and sat down by him again to read, carefully shading the light
so that it might not awake him.
He presently spoke to her, and more cheerfully.
"Are you reading, dear?"
"Yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up brightly.
"Does the candle disturb you?"
"No, dear! What have you got there'?
"I just took up this volume of Newton that has the hymns in
it."
"Read out."
Fleda read Mr. Newton's long beautiful hymn, "The Lord will
provide;" but with her late thoughts fresh in her mind it was
hard to get through the last verses;
'No strength of our own,
Or goodness we claim;
But since we have known
The Saviour's great name,
In this, our strong tower,
For safety we hide;
The Lord is our power,
The Lord will provide.
'When life sinks apace,
And death is in view,
This word of his grace
Shall comfort us through.
No fearing nor doubting,
With Christ on our side,
We hope to die shouting,
The Lord will provide !'
The little reader's voice changed, almost broke, but she
struggled through, and then was quietly crying behind her
hand.
"Read it again," said the old gentleman, after a pause.
There is no "cannot" in the vocabulary of affection. Fleda
waited a minute or two to rally her forces, and then went
through it again, more steadily than the first time.
"Yes," said Mr. Ringgan, calmly, folding his hands, "that will
do! That trust wont fail, for it is founded upon a rock. 'He
is a rock; and he knoweth them that put their trust in him!' I
have been a fool to doubt ever that he would make all things
work well 'The Lord will provide!"
"Grandpa," said Fleda, but in an unsteady voice, and shading
her face with her hand still, "I can remember reading this
hymn to my mother once when I was so little that 'suggestions'
was a hard word to me."
"Ay, ay I dare say," said the old gentleman; "your mother
knew that Rock, and rested her hope upon it, where mine
stands now. If ever there was a creature that might have
trusted to her own doings, I believe she was one, for I never
saw her do anything wrong, as I know. But she knew Christ was
all. Will you follow him, as she did, dear?"
Fleda tried in vain to give an answer.
"Do you know what her last prayer for you was, Fleda?"
"No, grandpa."
"It was that you might be kept 'unspotted from the world.' I
heard her make that prayer myself." And stretching out his
hand, the old gentleman laid it tenderly upon Fleda's bowed
head, saying with strong earnestness and affection, even his
voice somewhat shaken, "God grant that prayer! whatever else
he do with her, keep my child from the evil! and bring her
to join her father and mother in heaven! and me!"
He said no more; but Fleda's sobs said a great deal. And when
the sobs were hushed, she still sat shedding quiet tears,
sorrowed and disturbed by her grandfather's manner. She had
never known it so grave, so solemn; but there was that shadow
of something else in it besides, and she would have feared if
she had known what to fear. He told her at last that she had
better go to bed, and to say to Cynthy that he wanted to see
her. She was going, and had near reached the door, when he
said,
"Elfleda!"
She hastened back to the bedside.
"Kiss me."
He let her do so twice, without moving, and then holding her
to his breast he pressed one long earnest passionate kiss upon
her lips, and released her.
Fleda told Cynthy that her grandfather wished her to come to
him, and then mounted the stairs, to her little bedroom. She
went to the window, and opening it, looked out at the soft
moonlit sky; the weather was mild again, and a little hazy,
and the landscape was beautiful. But little Fleda was tasting
realities, and she could not go off upon dream-journeys to
seek the light food of fancy through the air. She did not
think to-night about the people the moon was shining on; she
only thought of one little sad anxious heart, and of another
down stairs, more sad and anxious still, she feared; what
could it be about? Now that Mr. Jolly had settled all that
troublesome business with McGowan?
As she stood there at the window, gazing out aimlessly into
the still night, it was very quiet, she heard Cynthy at
the back of the house, calling out, but as if she were afraid
of making too much noise, "Watkins! Watkins!"
The sound had business, if not anxiety, in it. Fleda
instinctively held her breath to listen. Presently she heard
Watkins reply; but they were round the corner, she could not
easily make out what they said. It was only by straining her
ears that she caught the words.
"Watkins, Mr. Ringgan wants you to go right up on the hill to
Mis' Plumfield's, and tell her he wants her to come right down
he thinks" the voice of the speaker fell, and Fleda could
only make out the last words "Dr. James." More was said, but
so thick and low that she could understand nothing.
She had heard enough. She shut the window, trembling, and
fastened again the parts of her dress she had loosened; and
softly and hastily went down the stairs into the kitchen.
"Cynthy! what is the matter with grandpa!"
"Why aint you in bed, Flidda?" said Cynthy, with some
sharpness. "That's what you had ought to be. I am sure your
grandpa wants you to be abed."
"But tell me," said Fleda, anxiously.
"I don't know as there's anything the matter with him," said
Cynthy. "Nothing much, I suppose. What makes you think
anything is the matter?"
"Because I heard you telling Watkins to go for aunt Miriam."
Fleda could not say, - "and the doctor."
"Well, your grandpa thought he'd like to have her come down,
and he don't feel right well, so I sent Watkins up; but
you'd better go to bed, Flidda; you'll catch cold if you sit
up o' night."
Fleda was unsatisfied, the more because Cynthy would not meet
the keen searching look with which the little girl tried to
read her face. She was not to be sent to bed, and all Cynthy's
endeavours to make her change her mind were of no avail. Fleda
saw in them but fresh reason for staying, and saw besides,
what Cynthy could not hide, a somewhat of wandering and
uneasiness in her manner which strengthened her resolution.
She sat down in the chimney corner, resolved to wait till her
aunt Miriam came; there would be satisfaction in her, for aunt
Miriam always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth.
It was a miserable three quarters of an hour. The kitchen
seemed to wear a strange desolate look, though seen in its
wonted bright light of fire and candles, and in itself nice
and cheerful as usual. Fleda looked at it also through that
vague fear which casts its own lurid colour upon everything.
The very flickering of the candle blaze seemed of ill omen,
and her grandfather's empty chair stood a signal of pain to
little Fleda whenever she looked at it. She sat still, in
submissive patience, her cheek pale with the working of a
heart too big for that little body. Cynthia was going in and
out of her grandfather's room, but Fleda would not ask her any
more questions, to be disappointed with word-answers; she
waited, but the minutes seemed very long, and very sad.
The characteristic outward calm which Fleda had kept, and
which belonged to a nature uncommonly moulded to patience and
fortitude, had yet perhaps heightened the pressure of excited
fear within. When at last she saw the cloak and hood of aunt
Miriam coming through the moonlight to the kitchen door, she
rushed to open it, and quite overcome for the moment, threw
her arms around her and was speechless. Aunt Miriam's tender
and quiet voice comforted her.
"You up yet, Fleda! Hadn't you better go to bed? 'Tisn't good
for you."
"That's what I've been a-telling her," said Cynthy, "but she
wa'n't a mind to listen to me."
But the two little arms embraced aunt Miriam's cloak and
wrappers, and the little face was hid there still, and Fleda's
answer was a half smothered ejaculation.
"I am _so_ glad you are come, dear aunt Miriam!"
Aunt Miriam kissed her again, and again repeated her request.
"O no I can't go to bed," said Fleda, crying; "I can't
till I know I am sure something is the matter, or Cynthy
wouldn't look so. _Do_ tell me, aunt Miriam!"
"I can't tell you anything, dear, except that grandpa is not
well that is all I know I am going in to see him. I will
tell you in the morning how he is."
"No," said Fleda, "I will wait here till you come out. I
couldn't sleep."
Mrs. Plumfield made no more efforts to persuade her, but rid
herself of cloak and hood and went into Mr. Ringgan's room.
Fleda placed herself again in her chimney corner. Burying her
face in her hands, she sat waiting more quietly; and Cynthy,
having finished all her business, took a chair on the hearth
opposite to her. Both were silent and motionless, except when
Cynthy once in a while got up to readjust the sticks of wood
on the fire. They sat there waiting so long that Fleda's
anxiety began to quicken again.
"Don't you think the doctor is a long time coming, Cynthy?"
said she, raising her head at last. Her question, breaking
that forced silence, sounded fearful.
"It seems kind o' long," said Cynthy. "I guess Watkins ha'n't
found him to hum."
Watkins indeed presently came in and reported as much, and
that the wind was changing and it was coming off cold; and
then his heavy boots were heard going up the stairs to his
room overhead; but Fleda listened in vain for the sound of the
latch of her grandfather's door, or aunt Miriam's quiet foot-
fall in the passage; listened and longed, till the minutes
seemed like the links of a heavy chain which she was obliged
to pass over from hand to hand, and the last link could not be
found. The noise of Watkins' feet ceased overhead, and nothing
stirred or moved but the crackling flames and Cynthia's
elbows, which took turns each in resting upon the opposite
arm, and now and then a tell-tale gust of wind in the trees.
If Mr. Ringgan was asleep, why did not aunt Miriam come out
and see them, if he was better, why not come and tell them
so. He had been asleep when she first went into his room, and
she had come back for a minute then to try again to get Fleda
to bed; why could she not come out for a minute once more. Two
hours of watching and trouble had quite changed little Fleda;
the dark ring of anxiety had come under each eye in her little
pale face; she looked herself almost ill.
Aunt Miriam's grave step was heard coming out of the room at
last, it did not sound cheerfully in Fleda's ears. She came
in, and stopping to give some direction to Cynthy, walked up
to Fleda. Her face encouraged no questions. She took the
child's head tenderly in both her hands, and told her gently,
but it was in vain that she tried to make her voice quite as
usual, that she had better go to bed that she would be sick.
Fleda looked up anxiously in her face.
"How is he?"
But her next word was the wailing cry of sorrow, "Oh
grandpa!"
The old lady took the little child in her arms, and they both
sat there by the fire until the morning dawned.