"There the most daintie paradise on ground
Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye
The painted flowers, the trees upshooting hye,
The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space,
The trembling groves, the christall running by;
And that, which all faire works doth most aggrace,
The art which all that wrought appeared in no place."
FAERY QUEENE.
They had taken ship for London, as Mr. and Mrs. Carleton
wished to visit home for a day or two before going on to
Paris. So leaving Charlton to carry news of them to the French
capital, so soon as he could persuade himself to leave the
English one, they with little Fleda in company posted down to
Carleton, in shire.
It was a time of great delight to Fleda, that is, as soon as
Mr. Carleton had made her feel at home in England; and,
somehow, he had contrived to do that, and to scatter some
clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about her, before
they had reached the end of their first day's journey. To be
out of the ship was itself a comfort, and to be along with
kind friends was much more. With great joy Fleda put her
cousin Charlton and Mr. Thorn at once out of sight and out of
mind, and gave herself with even more than her usual happy
readiness, to everything the way and the end of the way had
for her. Those days were to be painted days in Fleda's memory.
She thought Carleton was a very odd place that is, the
house, not the village, which went by the same name. If the
manner of her two companions had not been such as to put her
entirely at her ease, she would have felt strange and shy. As
it was, she felt half afraid of losing herself in the house;
to Fleda's unaccustomed eyes, it was a labyrinth of halls and
staircases, set with the most unaccountable number and variety
of rooms old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and
magnificent; some with stern old-fashioned massiveness of
style and garniture, others absolutely bewitching (to Fleda's
eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and luxuriousness
of their arrangements. Mr. Carleton's own particular haunts
were of these; his private room (the little library as it was
called), the library, and the music-room, which was, indeed,
rather a gallery of the fine arts, so many treasures of art
were gathered there. To an older and nice-judging person,
these rooms would have given no slight indications of their
owner's mind it had been at work on every corner of them. No
particular fashion had been followed in anything, nor any
model consulted, but that which fancy had built to the mind's
order. The wealth of years had drawn together an enormous
assemblage of matters, great and small, every one of which was
fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought, or to
satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. And if pride had had
the ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly
museum, a literary alphabet that its possessor could not put
together, an ungainly confession of ignorance on the part of
the intellect that could do nothing with this rich heap of
material. But pride was not the genius of the place. A most
refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and
harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental
hieroglyphics had been ordered by one to whom the reading of
them was no mystery. Nothing struck a stranger at first
entering, except the very rich effect and faultless air of the
whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of
intellectual cultivation which appeared on every hand
facilities which, it must be allowed, do seem in general not
to facilitate the work they are meant to speed. In this case,
however, it was different. The mind that wanted them had
brought them together to satisfy its own craving.
These rooms were Guy's peculiar domain. In other parts of the
house, where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their
joint tastes had struck out another style of adornment, which
might be called a style of superb elegance. Not superb alone,
for taste had not permitted so heavy a characteristic to be
predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of all the
details would warrant an ampler word. A larger part of the
house than both these together had been left as generations
past had left it, in various stages of refinement, comfort,
and comeliness. It was a day or two before Fleda found out
that it was all one; she thought at first that it was a
collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat
down there with their backs to each other; it was so
straggling and irregular a pile of building, covering so much
ground, and looking so very unlike the different parts to each
other. One portion was quite old; the other parts ranged
variously between the present and the far past. After she once
understood this, it was a piece of delicious wonderment, and
musing, and great admiration to Fleda; she never grew weary of
wandering round it, and thinking about it for, from a child,
fanciful meditation was one of her delights. Within doors, she
best liked Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms. Their rich
colouring and moderated light, and endless stores of beauty
and curiosity, made them a place of fascination.
Out of doors she found still more to delight her. Morning,
noon, and night, she might be seen near the house gazing,
taking in pictures of natural beauty, which were for ever
after to hang in Fleda's memory as standards of excellence in
that sort. Nature's hand had been very kind to the place,
moulding the ground in beautiful style. Art had made happy use
of the advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was
neither art nor nature, but a perfection that can only spring
from the hands of both. Fleda's eyes were bewitched. She stood
watching the rolling slopes of green turf, so soft and lovely,
and the magnificent trees, that had kept their ground for
ages, and seen generations rise and fall before their growing
strength and grandeur. They were scattered here and there on
the lawn; and further back stood on the heights, and stretched
along the ridges of the undulating ground, the outposts of a
wood of the same growth still beyond them.
"How do you like it, Elfie?" Mr. Carleton asked her, the
evening of the first day, as he saw her for a length of time
looking out gravely and intently from before the hall door.
"I think it is beautiful!" said Fleda. "The ground is a great
deal smoother here than it was at home."
"I'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he, smiling, "and show
you rough ground enough."
"As you did when we came from Montepoole?" said Fleda, rather
eagerly.
"Would you like that!"
"Yes, very much if _you_ would like it, Mr. Carleton.
"Very well," said he. "So it shall be."
And not a day passed during their short stay that he did not
give her one of those rides. He showed her rough ground,
according to his promise, but Fleda still thought it did not
look much like the mountains "at home." And, indeed, unsightly
roughness had been skilfully covered or removed; and though a
large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was
wildly broken, and had apparently been left as nature left it,
the hand of taste had been there; and many an unsuspected
touch, instead of hindering, had heightened both the wild and
the beautiful character. Landscape gardening had long been a
great hobby of its owner.
"How far does your ground come, Mr. Carleton?" inquired Fleda
on one of these rides, when they had travelled a good distance
from home.
"Further than you can see, Elfie."
"Further than I can see! It must be a very large farm."
"This is not a farm where we are now," said he; "did you mean
that? This is the park; we are almost at the edge of it on
this side."
"What is the difference between a farm and a park?" said
Fleda.
"The grounds of a farm are tilled for profit; a park is an
uncultivated enclosure, kept merely for men and women and deer
to take pleasure in."
"_I_ have taken a good deal of pleasure in it," said Fleda. "And
have you a farm besides, Mr. Carleton?"
"A good many, Elfie."
Fleda looked surprised; and then remarked, that it must be
very nice to have such a beautiful piece of ground just for
pleasure.
She enjoyed it to the full during the few days she was there.
And one thing more, the grand piano in the music-room. The
first evening of their arrival she was drawn by the far-off
sounds, and Mrs. Carleton seeing it, went immediately to the
music-room with her. The room had no light, except from the
moonbeams that stole in through two glass doors which opened
upon a particularly private and cherished part of the grounds,
in summer-time full of flowers; for, in the very refinement of
luxury, delights had been crowded about this favourite
apartment. Mr. Carleton was at the instrument, playing. Fleda
sat down quietly in one corner, and listened in a rapture of
pleasure she had hardly ever known from any like source. She
did not think it could be greater; till, after a time, in a
pause of the music, Mrs. Carleton asked her son to sing a
particular ballad; and that one was followed by two or three
more. Fleda left her corner she could not contain herself,
and, favoured by the darkness, came forward; and stood quite
near; and if the performer had had light to see by, he would
have been gratified with the tribute paid to his power by the
unfeigned tears that ran down her cheeks. This pleasure was
also repeated from evening to evening.
"Do you know we set off for Paris to-morrow?" said Mrs.
Carleton the last evening of their stay, as Fleda came up to
the door after a prolonged ramble in the park, leaving Mr.
Carleton with one or two gardeners at a little distance.
"Yes!" said Fleda, with a sigh that was more than half
audible.
"Are you sorry?" said Mrs. Carleton, smiling.
"I cannot be glad," said Fleda, giving a sober look over the
lawn.
"Then you like Carleton?"
"Very much! it is a prettier place than Queechy."
"But we shall have you here again, dear Fleda," said Mrs.
Carleton, restraining her smile at this, to her, very moderate
compliment.
"Perhaps not," said Fleda quietly. "Mr. Carleton said," she
added, a minute after, with more animation, "that a park was a
place for men and women and deer to take pleasure in. I am
sure it is for children too!"
"Did you have a pleasant ride this morning?"
"Oh, very! I always do. There isn't anything I like so
well."
"What, as to ride on horseback with Guy?" said Mrs. Carleton,
looking exceedingly benignant.
"Yes unless "
"Unless what, my dear Fleda?"
"Unless, perhaps I don't know, I was going to say, unless
perhaps to hear him sing."
Mrs. Carleton's delight was unequivocally expressed; and she
promised Fleda that she should have both rides and songs there
in plenty another time a promise upon which Fleda built no
trust at all.
The short journey to Paris was soon made. The next morning
Mrs. Carleton, making an excuse of her fatigue, left Guy to
end the care he had rather taken upon himself, by delivering
his little charge into the hands of her friends. So they drove
to the Hôtel , Rue , where Mr. Rossitur had apartments in
very handsome style. They found him alone in the saloon.
"Ha! Carleton come back again. Just in time very glad to
see you. And who is this? Ah, another little daughter for
aunt Lucy."
Mr. Rossitur, who gave them this greeting very cordially, was
rather a fine-looking man decidedly agreeable both in person
and manner. Fleda was pleasantly disappointed after what her
grandfather had led her to expect. There might be something of
sternness in his expression; people gave him credit for a
peremptory, not to say imperious, temper; but, if truly, it
could not often meet with opposition. The sense and
gentlemanly character which marked his face and bearing had an
air of smooth politeness which seemed habitual. There was no
want of kindness nor even of tenderness in the way he drew
Fleda within his arm and held her there, while he went on
talking to Mr. Carleton now and then stooping his face to
look in at her bonnet and kiss her, which was his only
welcome. He said nothing to her after his first question.
He was too busy talking to Guy. He seemed to have a great deal
to tell him. There was this for him to see, and that for him
to hear, and charming new things which had been done or doing
since Mr. Carleton left Paris. The impression upon Fleda's
mind after listening awhile was, that the French capital was a
great gallery of the fine arts, with a magnified likeness of
Mr. Carleton's music-room at one end of' it. She thought her
uncle must be most extraordinarily fond of pictures and works
of art in general, and must have a great love for seeing
company, and hearing people sing. This latter taste, Fleda was
disposed to allow, might be a very reasonable one. Mr.
Carleton, she observed, seemed much more cool on the whole
subject. But, meanwhile, where was aunt Lucy? and had Mr.
Rossitur forgotten the little armful that he held so fast and
so perseveringly? No, for here was another kiss, and another
look into her face, so kind, that Fleda gave him a piece of
her heart from that time.
"Hugh!" said Mr. Rossitur suddenly to somebody she had not
seen before "Hugh! here is your little cousin. Take her off
to your mother."
A child came forward at this bidding, hardly larger than
herself. He was a slender, graceful little figure, with
nothing of the boy in his face or manner; delicate as a girl,
and with something almost melancholy in the gentle sweetness
of his countenance. Fleda's confidence was given to it on the
instant, which had not been the case with anything in her
uncle, and she yielded without reluctance the hand he took to
obey his father's command. Before two steps had been taken,
however, she suddenly broke away from him, and springing to
Mr. Carleton's side, silently laid her hand in his. She made
no answer whatever to a light word or two of kindness that he
spoke just for her ear. She listened with downcast eyes and a
lip that he saw was too unsteady to be trusted, and then after
a moment more, without looking, pulled away her hand, and
followed her cousin. Hugh did not once get a sight of her face
on the way to his mother's room, but owing to her exceeding
efforts; and quiet generalship, he never guessed the cause.
There was nothing in her face to raise suspicion, when he
reached the door, and opening it, announced her with
"Mother, here's cousin Fleda come."
Fleda had seen her aunt before, though several years back, and
not long enough to get acquainted with her. But no matter it
was her mother's sister sitting there, whose face gave her so
lovely a welcome at that speech of Hugh's, whose arms were
stretched out so eagerly towards her: and springing to them as
to a very haven of rest, Fleda wept on her bosom those
delicious tears that are only shed where the heart is at home.
And even before they were dried the ties were knit that bound
her to her new sphere.
"Who came with you, dear Fleda?" said Mrs. Rossitur then. "Is
Mrs. Carleton here? I must go and thank her for bringing you
to me."
"_Mr._ Carleton is here." said Hugh.
"I must go and thank him, then. Jump down, dear Fleda I'll
be back in a minute."
Fleda got off her lap, and stood looking in a kind of
enchanted maze, while her aunt hastily arranged her hair at
the glass; looking, while fancy and memory were making
strong the net in which her heart was caught. She was trying
to see something of her mother in one who had shared her blood
and her affection so nearly. A miniature of that mother was
left to Fleda, and she had studied it till she could hardly
persuade herself that she had not some recollection of the
original; and now she thought she caught a precious shadow of
something like it in her aunt Lucy. Not in those pretty bright
eyes which had looked through kind tears so lovingly upon her,
but in the graceful ringlets about the temples, the delicate
contour of the face, and a something Fleda could only have
said it was "a something" about the mouth when at rest, the
shadow of her mother's image rejoiced her heart. Rather that
faint shadow of the loved lost one for little Fleda, than any
other form or combination of beauty on earth. As she stood
fascinated, watching the movements of her aunt's light figure,
Fleda drew a long breath with which went off the whole burden
of doubt and anxiety that had lain upon her mind ever since
the journey began. She had not known it was there, but she
felt it go, yet even when that sigh of relief was breathed,
and while fancy and feeling were weaving their rich embroidery
into the very tissue of Fleda's happiness, most persons would
have seen merely that the child looked very sober, and have
thought, probably, that she felt very tired and strange.
Perhaps Mrs. Rossitur thought so, for, again tenderly kissing
her before she left the room, she told Hugh to take off her
things and make her feel at home.
Hugh upon this made Fleda sit down, and proceeded to untie her
tippet-strings and take off her coat, with an air of delicate
tenderness which showed he had great pleasure in his task, and
which made Fleda take a good deal of pleasure in it too.
"Are you tired, cousin Fleda?" said he, gently.
"No," said Fleda "O no!"
"Charlton said you were tired on board ship."
"I wasn't tired," said Fleda, in not a little surprise; "I
liked it very much."
"Then maybe I mistook. I know Charlton said _he_ was tired, and
I thought he said you were too. You know my brother Charlton,
don't you?"
"Yes."
" Are you glad to come to Paris?"
"I am glad, now," said Fleda. "I wasn't glad before."
"I am very glad," said Hugh. "I think you will like it. We
didn't know you were coming till two or three days ago, when
Charlton got here. Do you like to take walks?"
"Yes, very much."
"Father and mother will take us delightful walks in the
Tuileries the gardens, you know and the Champs Elysées,
and Versailles, and the Boulevards, and ever so many places,
and it will be a great deal pleasanter now you are here. Do
you know French?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to learn. I'll help you if you will let me.
It is very easy. Did you get my last letter?"
"I don't know," said Fleda; "the last one I had came with one
of aunt Lucy's telling me about Mrs. Carleton I got it just
before "
Alas! before what? Fleda suddenly remembered, and was stopped
short. From all the strange scenes and interests which lately
had whirled her along, her spirit leapt back with strong
yearning recollection to her old home and her old ties; and
such a rain of tears witnessed the dearness of what she had
lost, and the tenderness of the memory that had let them slip
for a moment, that Hugh was as much distressed as startled.
With great tenderness and touching delicacy, he tried to
soothe her, and at the same time, though guessing, to find out
what was the matter, lest he should make a mistake.
"Just before what?" said he, laying his hand caressingly on
his little cousin's shoulder. "Don't grieve so, dear Fleda!"
"It was only just before grandpa died," said Fleda.
Hugh had known of that before, though like her he had
forgotten it for a moment. A little while his feeling was too
strong to permit any further attempt at condolence; but as he
saw Fleda grow quiet, he took courage to speak again.
"Was he a good man?" he asked softly.
"O yes!"
"Then," said Hugh, "you know he is happy now, Fleda. If he
loved Jesus Christ, he is gone to be with him. That ought to
make you glad as well as sorry."
Fleda looked up, though tears were streaming yet, to give that
full happy answer of the eye that no words could do. This was
consolation, and sympathy. The two children had a perfect
understanding of each other from that time forward, a
fellowship that never knew a break nor a weakening.
Mrs. Rossitur found on her return that Hugh had obeyed her
charge to the letter. He had made Fleda feel at home. They
were sitting close together, Hugh's hand affectionately
clasping hers, and he was holding forth on some subject with a
gracious politeness that many of his elders might have copied,
while Fleda listened and assented with entire satisfaction.
The rest of the morning she passed in her aunt's arms,
drinking draughts of pleasure from those dear bright eyes,
taking in the balm of gentlest words of love and soft kisses,
every one of which was felt at the bottom of Fleda's heart,
and the pleasure of talking over her young sorrows with one
who could feel them all, and answer with tears as well as
words of sympathy. And Hugh stood by the while, looking at his
little orphan cousin as if she might have dropped from the
clouds into his mother's lap, a rare jewel or delicate flower,
but much more delicate and precious than they or any other
possible gift.
Hugh and Fleda dined alone: for, as he informed her, his
father never would have children at the dinner-table when he
had company, and Mr. and Mrs. Carleton, and other people were
to be there to-day. Fleda made no remark on the subject, by
word or look, but she thought none the less. She thought it
was a very mean fashion. _She_ not come to the table when
strangers were there! And who would enjoy them more? When Mr.
Rossitur and Mr. Carleton had dined with her grandfather, had
she not taken as much pleasure in their society, and in the
whole thing, as any other one of the party? And at Carleton
had she not several times dined with a tableful, and been
unspeakably amused to watch the different manners and
characteristics of people who were strange to her? However,
Mr. Rossitur had other notions. So she and Hugh had their
dinner in aunt Lucy's dressing-room by themselves; and a very
nice dinner it was, Fleda thought, and Rosaline, Mrs.
Rossitur's French maid, was well affected and took admirable
care of them. Indeed, before the close of the day, Rosaline
privately informed her mistress, "qu'elle serait entêtée
sûrement de cet enfant dans trois jours;" and "que son regard
vraiment lui serrait le coeur." And Hugh was excellent
company, failing all other, and did the honours of the table
with the utmost thoughtfulness, and amused Fleda the whole
time with accounts of Paris, and what they would do, and what
she should see; and how his sister Marion was at school at a
convent, and what kind of a place a convent was; and how he
himself always stayed at home and learned of his mother and
his father; "or by himself," he said, "just as it happened,"
and he hoped they would keep Fleda at home too. So Fleda hoped
exceedingly, but this stern rule about the dining had made her
feel a little shy of her uncle; she thought perhaps he was not
kind and indulgent to children, like her aunt Lucy, and if he
said she must go to a convent, she would not dare to ask him
to let her stay. The next time she saw him, however, she was
obliged to change her opinion again, in part; for he was very
kind and indulgent, both to her and Hugh, and, more than that,
he was very amusing. He showed her pictures, and told her new
and interesting things, and finding that she listened eagerly,
he seemed pleased to prolong her pleasure, even at the expense
of a good deal of his own time.
Mr. Rossitur was a man of cultivated mind and very refined and
fastidious taste. He lived for the pleasures of art and
literature, and the society where these are valued. For this,
and not without some secret love of display, he lived in
Paris; not extravagant in his pleasures, nor silly in his
ostentation, but leading, like a gentleman, as worthy and
rational a life as a man can lead who lives only to himself,
with no further thought than to enjoy the passing hours. Mr.
Rossitur enjoyed them elegantly, and, for a man of the world,
moderately; bestowing, however, few of those precious hours
upon his children. It was his maxim, that they should be kept
out of the way whenever their presence might by any chance
interfere with the amusements of their elders; and this maxim,
a good one certainly in some hands, was, in his reading of it,
a very broad one. Still, when he did take time to give his
family, he was a delightful companion to those of them who
could understand him. If they showed no taste for sensible
pleasure, he had no patience with them, nor desire of their
company. Report had done him no wrong in giving him a stern
temper; but this almost never came out in actual exercise;
Fleda knew it only from in occasional hint now and then, and
by her childish intuitive reading of the lines it had drawn
round the mouth and brow. It had no disagreeable bearing on
his everyday life and manner; and the quiet fact probably
served but to heighten the love and reverence in which his
family held him very high.
Mr. Rossitur did once moot the question, whether Fleda should
not join Marion at her convent. But his wife looked very
grave, and said that she was too tender and delicate a little
thing to be trusted to the hands of strangers. Hugh pleaded,
and argued that she might share all his lessons; and Fleda's
own face pleaded more powerfully. There was something
appealing in its extreme delicacy and purity which seemed to
call for shelter and protection from every rough breath of the
world; and Mr. Rossitur was easily persuaded to let her remain
in the stronghold of home. Hugh had never quitted it. Neither
father nor mother ever thought of such a thing. He was the
cherished idol of the whole family. Always a delicate child,
always blameless in life and behaviour, his loveliness of mind
and person, his affectionateness, the winning sweetness that
was about him like a halo, and the slight tenure by which they
seemed to hold him, had wrought to bind the hearts of father
and mother to this child, as it were, with the very life-
strings of both. Not his mother was more gentle with Hugh than
his much sterner father. And now little Fleda, sharing
somewhat of Hugh's peculiar claims upon their tenderness, and
adding another of her own, was admitted, not to the same place
in their hearts that could not be but, to their honour be
it spoken, to the same place in all outward show of thought
and feeling. Hugh had nothing that Fleda did not have, even to
the time, care, and caresses of his parents. And not Hugh
rendered them a more faithful return of devoted affection.
Once made easy on the question of school, which was never
seriously stirred again, Fleda's life became very happy. It
was easy to make her happy; affection and sympathy would have
done it almost anywhere; but in Paris she had much more; and
after time had softened the sorrow she brought with her, no
bird ever found existence less of a burden, nor sang more
light-heartedly along its life. In her aunt she had all but
the name of a mother; in her uncle with kindness and
affection, she had amusement, interest, and improvement; in
Hugh, everything love, confidence, sympathy, society, help;
their tastes, opinions, pursuits, went hand in hand. The two
children were always together. Fleda's spirits were brighter
than Hugh's, and her intellectual tastes stronger and more
universal. That might be as much from difference of physical
as of mental constitution. Hugh's temperament led him somewhat
to melancholy, and to those studies and pleasures which best
side with subdued feeling and delicate nerves. Fleda's nervous
system was of the finest too, but, in short, she was as like a
bird as possible. Perfect health, which yet a slight thing was
enough to shake to the foundation; joyous spirits, which a
look could quell; happy energies, which a harsh hand might
easily crush for ever. Well for little Fleda that so tender a
plant was permitted to unfold in so nicely tempered an
atmosphere. A cold wind would soon have killed it. Besides all
this, there were charming studies to be gone through every day
with Hugh some for aunt Lucy to hear, some for masters and
mistresses. There were amusing walks in the Boulevards, and
delicious pleasure-taking in the gardens of Paris, and a new
world of people, and manners, and things, and histories, for
the little American. And despite her early rustic experience,
Fleda had from nature an indefeasible taste for the elegances
of life; it suited her well, to see all about her, in dress,
in furniture, in various appliances, as commodious and
tasteful as wealth and refinement could contrive it; and she
very soon knew what was right in each kind. There were, now
and then, most gleeful excursions in the environs of Paris,
when she and Hugh found in earth and air a world of delights
more than they could tell anybody but each other. And at home,
what peaceful times they two had what endless conversations,
discussions, schemes, air journeys of memory and fancy,
backward and forward! what sociable dinners alone, and
delightful evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur in the saloon,
when nobody, or only a very few people, were there, how
pleasantly in those evenings the foundations were laid of a
strong and enduring love for the works of art, painted,
sculptured, or engraven; what a multitude of curious and
excellent bits of knowledge Fleda's ears picked up from the
talk of different people. They were capital ears; what they
caught they never let fall. In the course of the year her
gleanings amounted to more than many another person's harvest.