Patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest.
KING LEAR.
When Mr. Carleton knocked at the front door the next day,
about two o'clock, it was opened to him by Cynthy. He asked
for his late host.
"Mr. Ringgan is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed the young man, much shocked; "when how?"
"Wont you come in, Sir?" said Cynthy; "maybe you'll see Mis'
Plumfield."
"No, certainly," replied the visitor. "Only tell me about Mr.
Ringgan."
"He died last night."
"What was the matter with him?"
"I don't know," said Cynthy in a business-like tone of voice,
"I s'pose the doctor knows, but he didn't say nothing about
it. He died very sudden."
"Was he alone?"
"No his sister was with him; he had been complaining all the
evening that he didn't feel right, but I didn't think nothing
of it, and I didn't know as he did; and towards evening he
went and laid down, and Flidda was with him a spell, talking
to him; and at last he sent her to bed, and called me in and
said he felt mighty strange, and he didn't know what it was
going to be, and that he had as lieve I should send up and ask
Mis' Plumfield to come down, and perhaps I might as well send
for the doctor, too. And I sent right off, but the doctor
wa'n't to hum, and didn't get here till long after. Mis'
Plumfield, she come; and Mr. Ringgan was asleep then, and I
didn't know as it was going to be anything more after all than
just a turn, such as anybody might take; and Mis' Plumfield
went in and sot by him; and there wa'n't no one else in the
room; and after a while he come to, and talked to her, she
said, a spell; but he seemed to think it was something more
than common ailed him; and all of a sudden he just riz up half
way in bed, and then fell back and died, with no more
warning than that."
"And how is the little girl?"
"Why," said Cynthy, looking off at right angles from her
visitor, "she's middling now, I s'pose, but she wont be before
long, or else she must be harder to make sick than other
folks. We can't get her out of the room," she added, bringing
her eyes to bear, for an instant, upon the young gentleman,
"she stays in there the hull time since morning, I've tried,
and Mis' Plumfield's tried, and everybody has tried, and there
can't none of us manage it; she will stay in there, and it's
an awful cold room when there aint no fire."
Cynthy and her visitor were both taking the benefit of the
chill blast which rushed in at the open door.
"_The room?_" said Mr. Carleton. "The room where the body lies?"
"Yes it's dreadful chill in there when the stove aint
heated, and she sits there the hull time. And she ha'n't got
much to boast of now; she looks as if a feather would blow her
away."
The door at the further end of the hall opened about two
inches, and a voice called out through the crack,
"Cynthy! Mis' Plumfield wants to know if that is Mr.
Carleton?"
"Yes. "
"Well, she'd like to see him. Ask him to walk into the front
room, she says."
Cynthy upon this showed the way, and Mr. Carleton walked into
the same room where a very few days before he had been so
kindly welcomed by his fine old host. Cold indeed it was now,
as was the welcome he would have given. There was no fire in
the chimney, and even all the signs of the fire of the other
day had been carefully cleared away; the clean empty fireplace
looked a mournful assurance that its cheerfulness would not
soon come back again. It was a raw disagreeable day; the paper
window-shades fluttered uncomfortably in the wind, which had
its way now; and the very chairs and tables seemed as if they
had taken leave of life and society for ever. Mr. Carleton
walked slowly up and down, his thoughts running perhaps
somewhat in the train where poor little Fleda's had been so
busy last night; and wrapped up in broadcloth as he was to the
chin, he shivered when he heard the chill wind moaning round
the house and rustling the paper hangings, and thought of
little Fleda's delicate frame, exposed as Cynthia had
described it. He made up his mind it must not be.
Mrs. Plumfield presently came in, and met him with the calm
dignity of that sorrow which needs no parade, and that truth
and meekness of character which can make none. Yet there was
nothing like stoicism, no affected or proud repression of
feeling; her manner was simply the dictate of good sense,
borne out by a firm and quiet spirit. Mr. Carleton was struck
with it; it was a display of character different from any he
had ever before met with; it was something he could not quite
understand. For he wanted the key. But all the high respect he
had felt for this lady from the first was confirmed and
strengthened.
After quietly receiving Mr. Carleton's silent grasp of the
hand, aunt Miriam said,
"I troubled you to stop, Sir, that I might ask you how much
longer you expect to stop at Montepoole."
Not more than two or three days, he said.
"I understood," said aunt Miriam, after a minute's pause,
"that Mrs. Carleton was so kind as to say she would take care
of Elfleda to France, and put her in the hands of her aunt."
"She would have great pleasure in doing it," said Mr.
Carleton. "I can promise for your little niece that she shall
have a mother's care so long as my mother can render it."
Aunt Miriam was silent, and he saw her eyes fill.
"You should not have had the pain of seeing me to-day," said
he gently, "if I could have known it would give you any; but
since I am here, may I ask, whether it is your determination
that Fleda shall go with us?"
"It was my brother's," said aunt Miriam, sighing; "he told
me last night that he wished her to go with Mrs. Carleton
if she would still be so good as to take her."
"I have just heard about her from the housekeeper," said Mr.
Carleton, "what has disturbed me a good deal. Will you forgive
me, if I venture to propose that she should come to us at
once. Of course we will not leave the place for several days
till you are ready to part with her."
Aunt Miriam hesitated, and again the tears flushed to her
eyes.
"I believe it would be best, " she said, "since it must be
I cannot get the child away from her grandfather I am afraid
I want firmness to do it and she ought not to be there she
is a tender little creature "
For once self-command failed her, she was obliged to cover
her face.
"A stranger's hands cannot be more tender of her than ours
will be," said Mr. Carleton, his warm pressure of aunt
Miriam's hand repeating the promise. "My mother will bring a
carriage for her this afternoon, if you will permit."
"If you please, Sir, since it must be, it does not matter a
day sooner or later," repeated aunt Miriam "if she can be
got away I don't know whether it will be possible."
Mr. Carleton had his own private opinion on that point. He
merely promised to be there again in a few hours, and took his
leave.
He came, with his mother, about five o'clock in the afternoon.
They were shown this time into the kitchen, where they found
two or three neighbours and friends with aunt Miriam and
Cynthy. The former received them with the same calm simplicity
that Mr. Carleton had admired in the morning, but said she was
afraid their coming would be in vain; she had talked with
Fleda about the proposed plan, and could not get her to listen
to it. She doubted whether it would be possible to persuade
her. And yet
Aunt Miriam's self-possession seemed to be shaken when she
thought of Fleda; she could not speak of her without watering
eyes.
"She's fixing to be sick as fast as ever she can," remarked
Cynthia, dryly in a kind of aside meant for the audience;
"there wa'n't a grain of colour in her face when I went in to
try to get her out a little while ago; and Mis' Plumfield
ha'n't the heart to do anything with her, nor nobody else."
"Mother, will you see what you can do?" said Mr. Carleton.
Mrs. Carleton went, with all expression of face that her son,
nobody else, knew meant that she thought it a particularly
disagreeable piece of business. She came back after the lapse
of a few minutes, in tears.
"I can do nothing with her," she said hurriedly; "I don't know
what to say to her, and she looks like death. Go yourself,
Guy; you can manage her, if any one can."
Mr. Carleton went immediately.
The room into which a short passage admitted him was cheerless
indeed. On a fair afternoon the sun's rays came in there
pleasantly, but this was a true November day; a grey sky and a
chill raw wind that found its way in between the loose window-
sashes and frames. One corner of the room was sadly tenanted
by the bed which held the remains of its late master and
owner. At a little table between the windows, with her back
turned towards the bed, Fleda was sitting, her face bowed in
her hands upon the old quarto bible that lay there open; a
shawl round her shoulders.
Mr. Carleton went up to the side of the table and softly spoke
her name. Fleda looked up at him for an instant, and then
buried her face in her hands on the book as before. That look
might have staggered him, but that Mr. Carleton rarely was
staggered in any purpose when he had once made up his mind. It
did move him so much that he was obliged to wait a minute or
two before he could muster firmness to speak to her again.
Such a look, so pitiful in its sorrow, so appealing in its
helplessness, so imposing in its purity, he had never seen,
and it absolutely awed him. Many a child's face is lovely to
look upon for its innocent purity, but more commonly it is not
like this; it is the purity of snow, unsullied, but not
unsulliable; there is another kind more ethereal, like that of
light, which you feel is from another sphere and will not know
soil. But there were other signs in the face that would have
nerved Mr. Carleton's resolution if he had needed it. Twenty-
four hours had wrought a sad change. The child looked as if
she had been ill for weeks. Her cheeks were colourless; the
delicate brow would have seemed pencilled on marble but for
the dark lines which weeping and watching, and still more
sorrow, had drawn underneath; and the beautiful moulding of
the features showed under the transparent skin like the work
of the sculptor. She was not crying then, but the open pages
of the great bible had been wet with very many tears since her
head had rested there.
"Fleda," said Mr. Carleton, after a moment, "you must come
with me."
The words were gently and tenderly spoken, yet they had that
tone which young and old instinctively know it is vain to
dispute. Fleda glanced up again, a touching imploring look it
was very difficult to bear, and her "Oh no I cannot," went
to his heart. It was not resistance, but entreaty; and all the
arguments she would have urged seemed to lie in the mere tone
of her voice. She had no power of urging them in any other
way, for even as she spoke her head went down again on the
bible with a burst of sorrow. Mr. Carleton was moved, but not
shaken in his purpose. He was silent a moment, drawing back
the hair that fell over Fleda's forehead with a gentle
caressing touch; and then he said, still lower and more
tenderly than before, but without flinching, "You must come
with me, Fleda."
"Mayn't I stay," said Fleda, sobbing, while he could see in
the tension of the muscles a violent effort at self-control
which he did not like to see, "mayn't I stay till till
the day after to-morrow?"
"No, dear Fleda," said he, still stroking her head kindly, "I
will bring you back, but you must go with me now. Your aunt
wishes it, and we all think it is best. I will bring you
back."
She sobbed bitterly for a few minutes. Then she begged, in
smothered words, that he would leave her alone a little while.
He went immediately.
She checked her sobs when she heard the door close upon him,
or as soon as she could, and rising went and knelt down by the
side of the bed. It was not to cry, though what she did could
not be done without many tears, it was to repeat with equal
earnestness and solemnity her mother's prayer, that she might
be kept pure from the world's contact. There, beside the
remains of her last dear earthly friend, as it were before
going out of his sight for ever, little Fleda knelt down to
set the seal of faith and hope to his wishes, and to lay the
constraining hand of Memory upon her conscience. It was soon
done; and then there was but one thing more to do. But, oh,
the tears that fell as she stood there! before she could go
on; how the little hands were pressed to the bowed face, as if
_they_ would have borne up the load they could not reach; the
convulsive struggle, before the last look could be taken, the
last good-by said! But the sobs were forced back, the hands
wiped off the tears, the quivering features were bidden into
some degree of calmness; and she leaned forward, over the
loved face that in death had kept all its wonted look of
mildness and placid dignity. It was in vain to try to look
through Fleda's blinded eyes; the hot tears dropped fast,
while her trembling lips kissed, and kissed, those cold and
silent that could make no return; and then feeling that it was
the last, that the parting was over, she stood again by the
side of the bed as she had done a few minutes before, in a
convulsion of grief, her face bowed down and her little frame
racked with feeling too strong for it; shaken visibly, as if
too frail to bear the trial to which it was put.
Mr. Carleton had waited and waited, as he thought, long
enough, and now at last came in again, guessing how it was
with her. He put his arm round the child and gently drew her
away, and sitting down took her on his knee; and endeavoured
rather with actions than with words to soothe and comfort her;
for he did not know what to say. But his gentle delicate way,
the soft touch with which he again stroked back her hair or
took her hand, speaking kindness and sympathy, the loving
pressure of his lips once or twice to her brow, the low tones
in which he told her that she was making herself sick; that
she must not do so; that she must let him take care of her;
were powerful to soothe or quiet a sensitive mind, and Fleda
felt them. It was a very difficult task, and if undertaken by
any one else, would have been more likely to disgust and
distress her. But his spirit had taken the measure of hers,
and he knew precisely how to temper every word and tone so as
just to meet the nice sensibilities of her nature. He had said
hardly any thing, but she had understood all he meant to say,
and when he told her at last, softly, that it was getting
late, and she must let him take her away, she made no more
difficulty, rose up, and let him lead her out of the room
without once turning her head to look back.
Mrs. Carleton looked relieved that there was a prospect of
getting away, and rose up with a happy adjusting of her shawl
round her shoulders. Aunt Miriam came forward to say good-by,
but it was very quietly said. Fleda clasped her round the neck
convulsively for an instant, kissed her as if a kiss could
speak a whole heartful, and then turned submissively to Mr.
Carleton, and let him lead her to the carriage.
There was no fault to be found with Mrs. Carleton's kindness
when they were on the way. She held the forlorn little child
tenderly in her arm, and told her how glad she was to have her
with them, how glad she should be if she were going to keep
her always; but her saying so only made Fleda cry, and she
soon thought it best to say nothing. All the rest of the way
Fleda was a picture of resignation; transparently pale, meek
and pure, and fragile seemingly as the delicatest wood-flower
that grows. Mr. Carleton looked grieved, and leaning forward
he took one of her hands in his own and held it
affectionately, till they got to the end of their journey. It
marked Fleda's feeling towards him that she let it lie there
without making a motion to draw it away. She was so still for
the last few miles, that her friends thought she had fallen
asleep; but when the carriage stopped and the light of the
lantern was flung inside, they saw the grave hazel eyes broad
open and gazing intently out of the window.
"You will order tea for us in your dressing-room, mother?"
said Mr. Carleton.
"_Us_ who is _us?_"
"Fleda and me, unless you will please to make one of the
party."
"Certainly I will, but perhaps Fleda might like it better down
stairs. Wouldn't you, dear?"
"If you please, Ma'am," said Fleda. "Wherever you please."
"But which would you rather, Fleda?" said Mr. Carleton.
"I would _rather_ have it up-stairs," said Fleda, gently, "but
it's no matter."
"We will have it up-stairs," said Mrs. Carleton. "We will be a
nice little party up there by ourselves. You shall not come
down till you like."
"You are hardly able to walk up," said Mr. Carleton, tenderly.
"Shall I carry you?"
The tears rushed to Fleda's eyes, but she said no, and managed
to mount the stairs, though it was evidently an exertion. Mrs.
Carleton's dressing-room, as her son had called it, looked
very pleasant when they got there. It was well lighted and
warmed, and something answering to curtains had been summoned
from its obscurity in storeroom or garret and hung up at the
windows, "them air fussy English folks had made such a pint
of it," the landlord said. Truth was, that Mr. Carleton as
well as his mother wanted this room as a retreat for the quiet
and privacy which travelling in company as they did they could
have nowhere else. Everything the hotel could furnish in the
shape of comfort had been drawn together to give this room as
little the look of a public-house as possible. Easy chairs, as
Mrs. Carleton remarked with a disgusted face, one could not
expect to find in a country inn; there were instead as many as
half-a-dozen of "those miserable substitutes", as she called
rocking-chairs, and sundry fashions of couches and sofas, in
various degrees of elegance and convenience. The best of
these, a great chintz-covered thing, full of pillows, stood
invitingly near the bright fire. There Mr. Carleton placed
little Fleda, took off her bonnet and things, and piled the
cushions about her just in the way that would make her most
easy and comfortable. He said little, and she nothing, but her
eyes watered again at the kind tenderness of his manner. And
then he left her in peace till the tea came.
The tea was made in that room for those three alone. Fleda
knew that Mr. and Mrs. Carleton stayed up there only for her
sake, and it troubled her, but she could not help it. Neither
could she be very sorry so far as one of them was concerned.
Mr. Carleton was too good to be wished away. All that evening
his care of her never ceased. At tea, which the poor child
would hardly have shared but for him and after tea, when in
the absence of bustle she had leisure to feel more fully her
strange circumstances and position, he hardly permitted her to
feel either, doing everything for her ease and pleasure, and
quietly managing at the same time to keep back his mother's
more forward and less happily adapted tokens of kind feeling.
Though she knew he was constantly occupied with her, Fleda
could not feel oppressed; his kindness was as pervading and as
unobtrusive as the summer air itself; she felt as if she was
in somebody's hands that knew her wants before she did, and
quietly supplied or prevented them, in a way she could not
tell how. It was very rarely that she even got a chance to
utter the quiet and touching "thank you," which invariably
answered every token of kindness or thoughtfulness that
permitted an answer. How greatly that harsh and sad day was
softened to little Fleda's heart by the good feeling and fine
breeding of one person. She thought when she went to bed that
night, thought seriously and gratefully, that since she must
go over the ocean and take that long journey to her aunt, how
glad she was, how thankful she ought to be, that she had so
very kind and pleasant people to go with. Kind and pleasant
she counted them both; but what more she thought of a Mr.
Carleton it would be hard to say. Her admiration of him was
very high, appreciating as she did to the full all that charm
of manner which she could neither analyze nor describe.
Her last words to him that night, spoken with a most wistful
anxious glance into his face, were,
"You will take me back again, Mr. Carleton?"
He knew what she meant.
"Certainly I will. I promised you, Fleda."
"Whatever Guy promises you may be very sure he will do," said
his mother, with a smile.
Fleda believed it. But the next morning it was very plain that
this promise he would not be called upon to perform; Fleda
would not be well enough to go to the funeral. She was able
indeed to get up, but she lay all day upon the sofa in the
dressing-room. Mr. Carleton had bargained for no company last
night; to-day female curiosity could stand it no longer, and
Mrs. Thorn and Mrs. Evelyn came up to look and gossip openly,
and to admire and comment privately, when they had a chance.
Fleda lay perfectly quiet and still, seeming not much to
notice or care for their presence; they thought she was
tolerably easy in body and mind, perhaps tired and sleepy, and
like to do well enough after a few days. How little they knew!
How little they could imagine the assembly of Thought which
was holding in that child's mind; how little they deemed of
the deep, sad, serious look into life which that little spirit
was taking. How far they were from fancying while they were
discussing all manner of trifles before her, sometimes when
they thought her sleeping, that in the intervals between
sadder and weightier things her nice instincts were taking the
gauge of all their characters unconsciously, but surely; how
they might have been ashamed if they had known that while they
were busy with all affairs in the universe but those which
most nearly concerned them, the little child at their side,
whom they had almost forgotten, was secretly looking up to her
Father in heaven, and asking to be kept pure from the world!
"Not unto the wise and prudent;" how strange it may seem in
one view of the subject, in another, how natural, how
beautiful, how reasonable.
Fleda did not ask again to be taken to Queechy. But as the
afternoon drew on she turned her face away from the company
and shielded it from view among the cushions, and lay in that
utterly motionless state of body which betrays a concentrated
movement of the spirits in some hidden direction. To her
companions it betrayed nothing. They only lowered their tones
a little lest they should disturb her.
It had grown dark, and she was sitting up again, leaning
against the pillows, and in her usual quietude, when Mr.
Carleton came in. They had not seen him since before dinner.
He came to her side, and taking her hand made some gentle
inquiry how she was.
"She has had a fine rest," said Mrs. Evelyn.
"She has been sleeping all the afternoon," said Mrs. Carleton,
"she lay as quiet as a mouse, without stirring; you were
sleeping, weren't you, dear?"
Fleda's lips hardly formed the word "no," and her features
were quivering sadly. Mr. Carleton's were impenetrable.
"Dear Fleda," said he, stooping down and speaking with equal
gravity and kindliness of manner, "you were not able to go."
Fleda's shake of the head gave a meek acquiescence. But her
face was covered, and the gay talkers around her were silenced
and sobered by the heaving of her little frame with sobs that
she could not keep back. Mr. Carleton secured the permanence
of their silence for that evening. He dismissed them the room
again, and would have nobody there but himself and his mother.
Instead of being better the next day Fleda was not able to get
up; she was somewhat feverish and exceedingly weak. She lay
like a baby, Mrs. Carleton said, and gave as little trouble.
Gentle and patient always, she made no complaint, and even
uttered no wish, and whatever they did made no objection.
Though many a tear that day and the following paid its
faithful tribute to the memory of what she had lost, no one
knew it; she was never seen to weep; and the very grave
composure of her face, and her passive unconcern as to what
was done or doing around her, alone gave her friends reason to
suspect that the mind was not as quiet as the body. Mr.
Carleton was the only one who saw deeper; the only one that
guessed why the little hand often covered the eyes so
carefully, and read the very, very grave lines of the mouth
that it could not hide.
As soon as she could bear it he had her brought out to the
dressing-room again, and laid on the sofa; and it was several
days before she could be got any further. But there he could
be more with her, and devote himself more to her pleasure; and
it was not long before he had made himself necessary to the
poor child's comfort in a way beyond what he was aware of.
He was not the only one who showed her kindness. Unwearied
care and most affectionate attention were lavished upon her by
his mother and both her friends; they all thought they could
not do enough to mark their feeling and regard for her. Mrs.
Carleton and Mrs. Evelyn nursed her by night and by day. Mrs.
Evelyn read to her. Mrs. Thorn would come often to look and
smile at her and say a few words of heartfelt pity and
sympathy. Yet Fleda could not feel quite at home with any one
of them. They did not see it. Her manner was affectionate and
grateful, to the utmost of their wish; her simple natural
politeness, her nice sense of propriety, were at every call;
she seemed after a few days to be as cheerful and to enter as
much into what was going on about her as they had any reason
to expect she could; and they were satisfied. But while moving
thus smoothly among her new companions, in secret her spirit
stood aloof; there was not one of them that could touch her,
that could understand her, that could meet the want of her
nature. Mrs. Carleton was incapacitated for it by education;
Mrs. Evelyn by character; Mrs. Thorn by natural constitution.
Of them all, though by far the least winning and agreeable in
personal qualifications, Fleda would soonest have relied on
Mrs. Thorn, could soonest have loved her. Her homely sympathy
and kindness made their way to the child's heart; Fleda felt
them and trusted them. But there were too few points of
contact. Fleda thanked her, and did not wish to see her again.
With Mrs. Carleton Fleda had almost nothing at all in common.
And that notwithstanding all this lady's politeness,
intelligence, cultivation, and real kindness towards herself.
Fleda would readily have given her credit for them all; and
yet, the nautilus may as soon compare notes with the
navigator, the canary might as well study Mälzel's metronome,
as a child of nature and a woman of the world comprehend and
suit each other. The nature of the one must change or the two
must remain the world wide apart. Fleda felt it, she did not
know why. Mrs. Carleton was very kind, and perfectly polite;
but Fleda had no pleasure in her kindness, no trust in her
politeness; or if that be saying too much, at least she felt
that for some inexplicable reason both were unsatisfactory.
Even the tact which each possessed in an exquisite degree was
not the same in each; in one it was the self-graduating power
of a clever machine, in the other, the delicateness of the
sensitive-plant. Mrs. Carleton herself was not without some
sense of this distinction; she confessed, secretly, that there
was something in Fleda out of the reach of her discernment,
and consequently beyond the walk of her skill; and felt,
rather uneasily, that more delicate hands were needed to guide
so delicate a nature. Mrs. Evelyn came nearer the point. She
was very pleasant, and she knew how to do things in a charming
way; and there were times, frequently, when Fleda thought she
was everything lovely. But yet, now and then a mere word, or
look, would contradict this fair promise, a something of
_hardness_ which Fleda could not reconcile with the soft
gentleness of other times; and on the whole Mrs. Evelyn was
unsure ground to her; she could not adventure her confidence
there.
With Mr. Carleton alone Fleda felt at home. He only, she knew,
completely understood and appreciated her. Yet she saw also
that with others he was not the same as with her. Whether
grave or gay there was about him an air of cool indifference,
very often reserved, and not seldom haughty; and the eye which
could melt and glow when turned upon her, was sometimes as
bright and cold as a winter sky. Fleda felt sure, however,
that she might trust him entirely, so far as she herself was
concerned; of the rest she stood in doubt. She was quite right
in both cases. Whatever else there might be in that blue eye,
there was truth in it when it met hers; she gave that truth
her full confidence and was willing to honour every draught
made upon her charity for the other parts of his character.
He never seemed to lose sight of her. He was always doing
something for which Fleda loved him; but so quietly and
happily that she could neither help his taking the trouble,
nor thank him for it. It might have been matter of surprise
that a gay young man of fashion should concern himself like a
brother about the wants of a little child; the young gentlemen
down stairs who were not of the society in the dressing-room,
did make themselves very merry upon the subject, and rallied
Mr. Carleton with the common amount of wit and wisdom about
his little sweetheart; a raillery which met the most flinty
indifference. But none of those who saw Fleda ever thought
strange of anything that was done for her; and Mrs. Carleton
was rejoiced to have her son take up the task she was fain to
lay down. So he really, more than any one else, had the
management of her; and Fleda invariably greeted his entrance
into the room with a faint smile, which even the ladies who
saw agreed was well worth working for.