CHAPTER X_Queechy, Volume I

Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright,

Was had forth of the towre:

But ever she droopeth in her minde,

As, nipt by an ungentle winde,

Doth some faire lillye flowre.

SYR CAULINE.

That evening, the last of their stay at Montepoole, Fleda was

thought well enough to take her tea in company. So Mr.

Carleton carried her down, though she could have walked, and

placed her on the sofa in the parlour.

Whatever disposition the young officers might have felt to

renew their pleasantry on the occasion, it was shamed into

silence. There was a pure dignity about that little pale face

which protected itself. They were quite struck, and Fleda had

no reason to complain of want of attention from any of the

party. Mr. Evelyn kissed her. Mr. Thorn brought a little table

to the side of the sofa for her cup of tea to stand on, and

handed her the toast most dutifully; and her cousin Rossitur

went back and forth between her and the tea-urn. All of the

ladies seemed to take immense satisfaction in looking at her,

they did it so much; standing about the hearth-rug with their

cups in their hands, sipping their tea. Fleda was quite

touched with everybody's kindness, but somebody at the back of

the sofa, whom she did not see, was the greatest comfort of

all.

"You must let me carry you upstairs when you go, Fleda," said

her cousin. "I shall grow quite jealous of your friend, Mr.

Carleton."

"No," said Fleda, smiling a little, "I shall not let any one

but him carry me up, if he will."

"We shall all grow jealous of Mr. Carleton," said Thorn. "He

means to monopolize you, keeping you shut up there, upstairs."

"He didn't keep me shut up," said Fleda.

Mr. Carleton was welcome to monopolize her, if it depended on

her vote.

"Not fair play, Carleton," continued the young officer, wisely

shaking his head, "all start alike, or there's no fun in the

race. You've fairly distanced us left us nowhere."

He might have talked Chinese, and been as intelligible to

Fleda, and as interesting to Guy, for all that appeared.

"How are we going to proceed to-morrow, Mr. Evelyn?" said Mrs.

Carleton. "Has the missing stage-coach returned yet? or will

it be forthcoming in the morning?"

"Promised, Mrs. Carleton. The landlord's faith stands pledged

for it."

"Then it wont disappoint us, of course. What a dismal way of

travelling!"

"This young country hasn't grown up to post-coaches yet," said

Mrs. Evelyn.

"How many will it hold?" inquired Mrs. Carleton.

"Hum! nine inside, I suppose."

"And we number ten, with the servants."

"Just take us," said Mr. Evelyn. "There's room on the box for

one."

"It will not take me," said Mr. Carleton.

"How will you go? ride?" said his mother. "I should think you

would, since you have found a horse you like so well."

"By George! I wish there was another that _I_ liked," said

Rossitur, "and I'd go on horseback too. Such weather! The

landlord says it's the beginning of Indian summer."

"It's too early for that," said Thorn.

"Well, eight inside will do very well for one day," said Mrs.

Carleton. "That will give little Fleda a little more space to

lie at her ease."

"You may put Fleda out of your calculations, too, mother,"

said Mr. Carleton. "I will take care of her."

"How in the world," exclaimed his mother, "if you are on

horseback?"

And Fleda twisted herself round so as to give a look of bright

inquiry at his face. She got no answer beyond a smile, which,

however, completely satisfied her. As to the rest, he told his

mother that he had arranged it, and they should see in the

morning. Mrs. Carleton was far from being at ease on the

subject of his arrangements, but she let the matter drop.

Fleda was secretly very much pleased. She thought she would a

great deal rather go with Mr. Carleton in the little wagon

than in the stage-coach with the rest of the people. Privately

she did not at all admire Mr. Thorn or her cousin Rossitur.

They amused her though; and feeling very much better and

stronger in body, and at least quiet in mind, she sat in

tolerable comfort on her sofa, looking and listening to the

people who were gaily talking around her.

In the gaps of talk she sometimes thought she heard a

distressed sound in the hall. The buzz of tongues covered it

up, then again she heard it, and she was sure at last that

it was the voice of a dog. Never came an appeal in vain from

any four-footed creature to Fleda's heart. All the rest being

busy with their own affairs she quietly got up and opened the

door and looked out, and finding that she was right, went

softly into the hall. In one corner lay her cousin Rossitur's

beautiful black pointer, which she well remembered, and had

greatly admired several times. The poor creature was every now

and then uttering short cries, in a manner as if he would not

but they were forced from him.

"What is the matter with him?" asked Fleda, stepping

fearfully towards the dog, and speaking to Mr. Carleton, who

had come out to look after her. As she spoke, the dog rose,

and came crouching and wagging his tail to meet them.

"Oh, Mr. Carleton!" Fleda almost screamed, "look at him!

Oh, what is the matter with him! he's all over bloody! Poor

creature!"

"You must ask your cousin, Fleda," said Mr. Carleton, with as

much cold disgust in his countenance as it often expressed;

and that is saying a good deal.

Fleda could speak in the cause of a dog, where she would have

been silent in her own. She went back to the parlour, and

begged her cousin, with a face of distress, to come out into

the hall, she did not say for what. Both he and Thorn

followed her. Rossitur's face darkened as Fleda repeated her

enquiry, her heart so full by this time, as hardly to allow

her to make any.

"Why, the dog didn't do his duty, and has been punished," he

said, gloomily.

"Punished!" said Fleda.

"Shot," said Mr. Carleton, coolly.

"Shot!" exclaimed Fleda, bursting into heartwrung tears

"shot! Oh, how _could_ any one do it! Oh, how could you, how

could you, cousin Charlton!"

It was a picture. The child was crying bitterly, her fingers

stroking the poor dog's head with a touch in which lay, oh

what tender healing, if the will had but had magnetic power!

Carleton's eye glanced significantly from her to the young

officers. Rossitur looked at Thorn.

"It was not Charlton it was I, Miss Fleda," said the latter.

"Charlton lent him to me to-day, and he disobeyed me, and so I

was angry with him, and punished him a little severely; but

he'll soon get over it."

But all Fleda's answer was, "I am very sorry! I am very

sorry! poor dog!" and to weep such tears as made the young

gentlemen for once ashamed of themselves. It almost did the

child a mischief. She did not get over it all the evening. And

she never got over it, as far as Mr. Thorn was concerned.

Mrs. Carleton hoped, faintly, that Guy would come to reason by

the next morning, and let Fleda go in the stage-coach with the

rest of the people. But he was as unreasonable as ever, and

stuck to his purpose. She had supposed, however, with Fleda,

that the difference would be only an open vehicle and his

company instead of a covered one and her own. Both of them

were sadly discomfited when on coming to the hall door to take

their carriages, it was found that Mr. Carleton's meaning was

no less than to take Fleda before him on horseback. He was

busy even then in arranging a cushion on the pommel of the

saddle for her to sit upon. Mrs. Carleton burst into indignant

remonstrances; Fleda silently trembled.

But Mr. Carleton had his own notions on the subject, and they

were not moved by anything his mother could say. He quietly

went on with his preparations; taking very slight notice of

the raillery of the young officers, answering Mrs. Evelyn with

polite words, and silencing his mother as he came up with one

of those looks out of his dark eyes to which she always

forgave the wilfulness for the sake of the beauty and the

winning power. She was completely conquered, and stepped back

with even a smile.

"But, Carleton!" cried Rossitur, impatiently; "you can't ride

so! you'll find it deucedly inconvenient."

"Possibly," said Mr. Carleton.

"Fleda would be a great deal better off in the stage-coach."

"Have you studied medicine, Mr. Rossitur?" said the young man.

"Because I am persuaded of the contrary."

"I don't believe your horse will like it," said Thorn.

"My horse is always of my mind, Sir; or if he be not, I

generally succeed in convincing him."

"But there is somebody else that deserves to be consulted,"

said Mrs. Thorn. "I wonder how little Fleda will like it."

"I will ask her when we get to our first stopping-place," said

Mr. Carleton, smiling. "Come, Fleda!"

Fleda would hardly have said a word if his purpose had been to

put her under the horse's feet instead of on his back. But she

came forward with great unwillingness, and a very tremulous

little heart. He must have understood the want of alacrity in

her face and manner, though he took no notice of it otherwise

than by the gentle kindness with which he led her to the

horse-block, and placed her upon it. Then mounting, and riding

the horse up close to the block, he took Fleda in both hands,

and bidding her spring, in a moment she was safely seated

before him.

At first it seemed dreadful to Fleda to have that great

horse's head so near her, and she was afraid that her feet

touching him would excite his most serious disapprobation.

However, a minute or so went by, and she could not see that

his tranquillity seemed to be at all ruffled, or even that he

was sensible of her being upon his shoulders. They waited to

see the stage-coach off, and then gently set forward. Fleda

feared very much again when she felt the horse moving under

her, easy as his gait was, and looking after the stage-coach

in the distance, now beyond call, she felt a little as if she

was a great way from help and dry land cast away on a

horse's back. But Mr. Carleton's arm was gently passed round

her, and she knew it held her safely, and would not let her

fall; and he bent down his face to her, and asked her so

kindly and tenderly, and with such a look too, that seemed to

laugh at her fears, whether she felt afraid? and with such a

kind little pressure of his arm that promised to take care of

her, that Fleda's courage mounted twenty degrees at once. And

it rose higher every minute; the horse went very easily, and

Mr. Carleton held her so that she could not be tired, and made

her lean against him; and before they had gone a mile Fleda

began to be delighted. Such a charming way of travelling! Such

a free view of the country! and in this pleasant weather, too,

neither hot nor cold, and when all nature's features were

softened by the light veil of haze that hung over them, and

kept off the sun's glare, Mr. Carleton was right. In the

stage-coach Fleda would have sat quiet in a corner, and moped

the time sadly away; now she was roused, excited, interested,

even cheerful; forgetting herself, which was the very thing of

all others to be desired for her. She lost her fears; she was

willing to have the horse trot or canter as fast as his rider

pleased; but the trotting was too rough for her, so they

cantered or paced along most of the time, when the hills did

not oblige them to walk quietly up and down, which happened

pretty often. For several miles the country was not very

familiar to Fleda. It was, however, extremely picturesque; and

she sat silently and gravely looking at it, her head lying

upon Mr. Carleton's breast, her little mind very full of

thoughts and musings, curious, deep, sometimes sorrowful, but

not unhappy.

"I am afraid I tire you, Mr. Carleton!" said she, in a sudden

fit of recollection, starting up.

His look answered her, and his arm drew her back to her place

again.

"Are _you_ not tired, Elfie?"

"Oh no! You have got a new name for me, Mr. Carleton," said

she, a moment after, looking up and smiling.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"You are my good genius," said he, "so I must a peculiar title

for you, different from what other people know you by."

"What is a genius, Sir?" said Fleda.

"Well, a sprite, then," said he, smiling.

"A sprite?" said Fleda.

"I have read a story of a lady, Elfie, who had a great many

little unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon

her. Some sat in the ringlets of her hair, and took charge of

them; some hid in the folds of her dress and made them lie

gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her cheek, and

another perched on her eyebrows, and so on."

"To take care of her eyebrows?" said Fleda, laughing.

"Yes; to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns,

I suppose."

"But am I such a sprite?" said Fleda.

"Something like it."

"Why, what do I do?" said Fleda, rousing herself in a mixture

of gratification and amusement that was pleasant to behold.

"What office would you choose, Elfie? what good would you like

to do me?"

It was a curious wistful look with which Fleda answered this

question, an innocent look, in which Mr. Carleton read

perfectly that she felt something was wanting in him, and did

not know exactly what. His smile almost made her think she had

been mistaken.

"You are just the sprite you would wish to be, Elfie," he

said.

Fleda's head took its former position, and she sat for some

time musing over his question and answer, till a familiar

waymark put all such thoughts to flight. They were passing

Deepwater Lake, and would presently be at aunt Miriam's. Fleda

looked now with a beating heart. Every foot of ground was

known to her. She was seeing it, perhaps, for the last time.

It was with even an intensity of eagerness that she watched

every point and turn of the landscape, endeavouring to lose

nothing in her farewell view, to give her farewell look at

every favourite clump of trees and old rock, and at the very

mill-wheels, which for years ,whether working or at rest, had

had such interest for her. If tears came to bid their good-by

too, they were hastily thrown off, or suffered to roll quietly

down; _they_ might bide their time; but eyes must look now or

never. How pleasant, how pleasant, the quiet old country

seemed to Fleda as they went along! in that most quiet light

and colouring; the brightness of the autumn glory gone, and

the sober warm hue which the hills still wore seen under that

hazy veil. All the home-like peace of the place was spread out

to make it hard going away. Would she ever see any other so

pleasant again? Those dear old hills and fields, among which

she had been so happy; they were not to be her home any more;

would she ever have the same sweet happiness anywhere else?

"The Lord will provide!" thought little Fleda with swimming

eyes.

It was hard to go by aunt Miriam's. Fleda eagerly looked, as

well as she could, but no one was to be seen about the house.

It was just as well. A sad gush of tears must come, then, but

she got rid of them as soon as possible, that she might not

lose the rest of the way, promising them another time. The

little settlement on "the hill" was passed, the factories, and

mills, and mill-ponds, one after the other; they made Fleda

feel very badly, for here she remembered going with her

grandfather to see the work, and there she had stopped with

him at the turner's shop to get a wooden bowl turned, and

there she had been with Cynthy when she went to visit an

acquaintance; and there never was a happier little girl than

Fleda had been in those old times. All gone! It was no use

trying to help it; Fleda put her two hands to her face and

cried, at last, a silent but not the less bitter, leave-

taking, of the shadows of the past.

She forced herself into quiet again, resolved to look to the

last. As they were going down the hill, past the saw-mill, Mr.

Carleton noticed that her head was stretched out to look back

at it, with an expression of face he could not withstand. He

wheeled about immediately, and went back and stood opposite to

it. The mill was not working today. The saw was standing

still, though there were plenty of huge trunks of trees lying

about in all directions, waiting to be cut up. There was a

desolate look of the place. No one was there; the little

brook, most of its waters cut off, did not go roaring and

laughing down the hill, but trickled softly and plaintively

over the stones. It seemed exceeding sad to Fleda.

"Thank you, Mr. Carleton," she said, after a little earnest

fond-looking at her old haunt; "you needn't stay any longer."

But as soon as they had crossed the little rude bridge at the

foot of the hill, they could see the poplar trees which

skirted the courtyard fence before her grandfather's house.

Poor Fleda's eyes could hardly serve her. She managed to keep

them open till the horse had made a few steps more and she had

caught the well-known face of the old house looking at her

through the poplars. Her fortitude failed, and bowing her

little head, she wept so exceedingly, that Mr. Carleton was

fain to draw bridle, and try to comfort her.

"My dear Elfie! do not weep so," he said, tenderly. "Is there

anything you would like? Can I do anything for you?"

He had to wait a little. He repeated his first query.

"Oh, it's no matter," said Fleda, striving to conquer her

tears, which found their way again; "if I only could have gone

into the house once more! but it's no matter you needn't

wait, Mr. Carleton "

The horse, however, remained motionless.

"Do you think you would feel better, Elfie, if you had seen it

again?"

"Oh, yes! But never mind, Mr. Carleton, you may go on."

Mr. Carleton ordered his servant to open the gate, and rode up

to the back of the house.

"I am afraid there is nobody here, Elfie," he said; "the house

seems all shut up."

"I know how I can get in," said Fleda; "there's a window down

stairs I don't believe it is fastened; if you wouldn't mind

waiting, Mr. Carleton; I wont keep you long."

The child had dried her tears, and there was the eagerness of

something like hope in her face. Mr. Carleton dismounted and

took her off.

"I must find a way to get in too, Elfie; I cannot let you go

alone."

"Oh, I can open the door when I get in," said Fleda.

"But you have not the key."

"There's no key, it's only bolted on the inside, that door. I

can open it."

She found the window unfastened as she had expected: Mr.

Carleton held it open while she crawled in, and then she undid

the door for him. He more than half questioned the wisdom of

his proceeding. The house had a dismal look; cold, empty,

deserted; it was a dreary reminder of Fleda's loss, and he

feared the effect of it would be anything but good. He

followed and watched her, as with an eager business step she

went through the hall and up the stairs, putting her head into

every room and giving an earnest wistful look all round it.

Here and there she went in and stood a moment, where

associations were more thick and strong; sometimes taking a

look out of a particular window, and even opening a cupboard

door, to give that same kind and sorrowful glance of

recognition at the old often-resorted-to hiding-place of her

own or her grandfather's treasures and trumpery. Those old

corners seemed to touch Fleda more than all the rest; and she

turned away from one of them with a face of such extreme

sorrow, that Mr. Carleton very much regretted he had brought

her into the house. For her sake, for his own, it was a

curious show of character. Though tears were sometimes

streaming, she made no delay, and gave him no trouble; with

the calm steadiness of a woman she went regularly through the

house, leaving no place unvisited, but never obliging him to

hasten her away. She said not a word during the whole time;

her very crying was still; the light tread of her little feet

was the only sound in the silent empty rooms; and the noise of

their footsteps in the halls, and of the opening and shutting

doors echoed mournfully through the house.

She had left her grandfather's room for the last. Mr. Carleton

did not follow her in there, guessing that she would rather be

alone. But she did not come back, and he was forced to go to

fetch her.

The chill desolateness of that room had been too much for poor

little Fleda. The empty bedstead, the cold stove, the table

bare of books, only one or two lay upon the old Bible; the

forlorn order of the place that bespoke the master far away;

the very sunbeams that stole in at the little windows, and met

now no answering look of gladness or gratitude; it had struck

the child's heart too heavily, and she was standing crying by

the window. A second time in that room Mr. Carleton sat down

and drew his little charge to his breast; and spoke words of

soothing and sympathy.

"I am very sorry I brought you here, dear Elfie," he said

kindly. "It was too hard for you."

"Oh, no!" even through her tears, Fleda said, "she was very

glad!"

"Hadn't we better try to overtake our friends?" he whispered,

after another pause.

She immediately, almost immediately, put away her tears, and

with a quiet obedience that touched him, went with him from

the room, fastened the door, and got out again at the little

window.

"Oh, Mr. Carleton!" she said, with great earnestness, when

they had almost reached the horses, "wont you wait for me one

minute more? I just want a piece of the burning bush."

Drawing her hand from him she rushed round to the front of the

house. A little more slowly Mr. Carleton followed, and found

her under the burning bush, tugging furiously at a branch,

beyond her strength to break off.

"That's too much for you, Elfie," said he, gently taking her

hand from the tree; "let my hand try."

She stood back and watched, tears running down her face, while

he got a knife from his pocket and cut off the piece she had

been trying for, nicely, and gave it to her. The first

movement of Fleda's head was down, bent over the pretty spray

of red berries; but by the time she stood at the horse's side

she looked up at Mr. Carleton and thanked him with a face of

more than thankfulness.

She was crying, however, constantly, till they had gone

several miles on their way again, and Mr. Carleton doubted he

had done wrong. It passed away, and she had been sitting quite

peacefully for some time, when he told her they were near the

place where they were to stop and join their friends. She

looked up most gratefully in his face.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Carleton, for what you

did!"

"I was afraid I had made a mistake, Elfie."

"Oh, no, you didn't."

"Do you think you feel any easier after it, Elfie?"

"Oh, yes! indeed I do," said she, looking up again, "thank

you, Mr. Carleton."

A gentle kind pressure of his arm answered her thanks.

"I ought to be a good sprite to you, Mr. Carleton," Fleda

said, after musing a little while, "you are so very good to

me!"

Perhaps Mr. Carleton felt too much pleasure at this speech to

make any answer, for he made none.

"It is only selfishness, Elfie," said he, presently, looking

down to the quiet sweet little face which seemed to him, and

was, more pure than anything of earth's mould he had ever

seen. "You know I must take care of you for my own sake."

Fleda laughed a little.

"But what will you do when we get to Paris?"

"I don't know. I should like to have you always, Elfie."

"You'll have to get aunt Lucy to give me to you," said Fleda.

"Mr. Carleton," said she, a few minutes after, "is that

story in a book?"

"What story ?"

"About the lady and the little sprites that waited on her."

"Yes, it is in a book; you shall see it, Elfie. Here we

are!"

And here it was proposed to stay till the next day, lest Fleda

might not be able to bear so much travelling at first. But the

country inn was not found inviting; the dinner was bad, and

the rooms were worse; uninhabitable, the ladies said; and

about the middle of the afternoon they began to cast about for

the means of reaching Albany that night. None very comfortable

could be had; however, it was thought better to push on at any

rate than wear out the night in such a place. The weather was

very mild; the moon at the full.

"How is Fleda to go this afternoon," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"She shall decide herself," said Mrs. Carleton. "How will you

go, my sweet Fleda?"

Fleda was lying upon a sort of rude couch which had been

spread for her, where she had been sleeping incessantly ever

since she arrived, the hour of dinner alone excepted. Mrs.

Carleton repeated her question.

"I am afraid Mr. Carleton must be tired," said Fleda, without

opening her eyes.

"That means that you are, don't it?" said Rossitur.

"No," said Fleda, gently.

Mr. Carleton smiled, and went out to press forward the

arrangements. In spite of good words and good money there was

some delay. It was rather late before the cavalcade left the

inn; and a journey of several hours was before them. Mr.

Carleton rode rather slowly, too, for Fleda's sake, so the

evening had fallen while they were yet a mile or two from the

city.

His little charge had borne the fatigue well, thanks partly to

his admirable care, and partly to her quiet pleasure in being

with him. She had been so perfectly still for some distance,

that he thought she had dropped asleep. Looking down closer,

however, to make sure about it, he saw her thoughtful clear

eyes most unsleepily fixed upon the sky.

"What are you gazing at, Elfie?"

The look of thought changed to a look of affection as the eyes

were brought to bear upon him, and she answered with a smile,

"Nothing, I was looking at the stars."

"What are you dreaming about?"

"I wasn't dreaming," said Fleda, "I was thinking."

"Thinking of what?"

"Oh, of pleasant things."

"Mayn't I know them? I like to hear of pleasant things."

"I was thinking, " said Fleda, looking up again at the stars,

which shone with no purer ray than those grave eyes sent back

to them, "I was thinking of being ready to die."

The words, and the calm thoughtful manner in which they were

said, thrilled upon Mr. Carleton with a disagreeable shock.

"How came you to think of such a thing?" said he, lightly.

"I don't know," said Fleda, still looking at the stars," I

suppose I was thinking "

"What?" said Mr. Carleton, inexpressibly curious to get at the

workings of the child's mind, which was not easy, for Fleda

was never very forward to talk of herself; "what were you

thinking? I want to know how you could get such a thing into

your head."

"It wasn't very strange," said Fleda. "The stars made me think

of heaven, and grandpa's being there, and then I thought how

he was ready to go there, and that made him ready to die "

"I wouldn't think of such things, Elfie," said Mr. Carleton,

after a few minutes.

"Why not, Sir?" said Fleda, quickly.

"I don't think they are good for you."

"But, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, gently, "if I don't think

about it, how shall I ever be ready to die?"

"It is not fit for you," said he, evading the question, "it

is not necessary now, there's time enough. You are a little

body, and should have none but gay thoughts."

"But, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, with timid earnestness,

"don't you think one could have gay thoughts better if one

knew one was ready to die?"

"What makes a person ready to die, Elfie?" said her friend,

disliking to ask the question, but yet more unable to answer

hers, and curious to hear what she would say.

"Oh, to be a Christian," said Fleda.

"But I have seen Christians," said Mr. Carleton, "who were no