CHAPTER IX.

"Whence came this?

This is some token from a newer friend."

SHAKESPEARE.

The snow-flakes were falling softly and thick when Fleda got

up the next morning.

"No ride for me to-day — but how very glad I am that I had a

chance of setting that matter right. What could Mrs. Evelyn

have been thinking of? Very false kindness! if I had disliked

to go ever so much, she ought to have made me, for my own

sake, rather than let me seem so rude — it is true she didn't

know _how_ rude. O snow-flakes, how much purer and prettier you

are than most things in this place!"

No one was in the breakfast-parlour when Fleda came down, so

she took her book and the _dormeuse_, and had an hour of

luxurious quiet before anybody appeared. Not a footfall in the

house, nor even one outside to be heard, for the soft

carpeting of snow which was laid over the streets. The gentle

breathing of the fire the only sound in the room, while the

very light came subdued through the falling snow and the thin

muslin curtains, and gave an air of softer luxury to the

apartment. "Money is pleasant," thought Fleda, as she took a

little complacent review of all this before opening her book.

"And yet how unspeakably happier one may be without it, than

another with it. Happiness never was locked up in a purse vet.

I am sure Hugh and I — They must want me at home!" —

There was a little sober consideration of the lumps of coal

and the contented-looking blaze in the grate, a most

essentially home-like thing — and then Fleda went to her book,

and for the space of an hour turned over her pages without

interruption. At the end of the hour "the fowling-piece,"

certainly the noisiest of his kind, put his head in, but

seeing none of his ladies, took it and himself away again, and

left Fleda in peace for another half-hour. Then appeared Mrs.

Evelyn in her morning wrapper, and only stopping at the bell-

handle, came up to the _dormeuse_, and stooping down, kissed

Fleda's forehead with so much tenderness that it won a look of

most affectionate gratitude in reply.

"Fleda, my dear, we set you a sad example. But you won't copy

it. Joe, breakfast. Has Mr. Evelyn gone down town?"

"Yes, Ma'am, two hours ago."

"Did it ever occur to you, Fleda, my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn,

breaking the lumps of coal with the poker, in a very leisurely

satisfied kind of a way — "Did it ever occur to you to rejoice

that you were not born a business man? What a life —"

"I wonder how it compares with that of a business woman," said

Fleda, laughing. "There is an uncompromising old proverb which

says —

'Man's work is from sun to sun —

But a woman's work is never done.' "

A saying which, she instantly reflected, was entirely beyond

the comprehension of the person to whose consideration she had

offered it.

And then came in Florence, rubbing her hands and knitting her

eyebrows.

"Why, you don't look as bright as the rest of the world this

morning," said Fleda.

"What a wretched storm!"

"Wretched! This beautiful snow! Here have I been enjoying it

for this hour."

But Florence rubbed her hands, and looked as if Fleda were no

rule for other people.

"How horrid it will make the going out to-night, if it snows

all day!"

"Then you, can stay at home," said her mother, composedly.

"Indeed I shall not, Mamma."

"Mamma," said Constance, now coming in with Edith, "isn't

breakfast ready? It strikes me that the fowling-piece wants

polishing up. I have an indistinct impression that the sun

would be upon the meridian, if he was anywhere."

"Not quite so bad as that," said Fleda, smiling; "it is only

an hour and a half since I came down stairs."

"You horrid little creature! — Mamma, I consider it an act of

inhospitality to permit studious habits on the part of your

guests. And I am surprised your ordinary sagacity has not

discovered that it is the greatest impolicy towards the

objects of your maternal care. We are labouring under growing

disadvantages; for when we have brought the enemy to, at long

shot, there is a mean little craft that comes in and unmans

him, in a close fight, before we can get our speaking-trumpets

up."

"Constance! — do hush!" said her sister. "You are too absurd."

"Fact," said Constance, gravely. "Captain Lewiston was telling

me the other night how the thing is managed; and I recognised

it immediately, and told him I had often seen it done."

"Hold your tongue, Constance," said her mother, smiling, "and

come to breakfast."

Half, and but half, of the mandate the young lady had any idea

of obeying.

"I can't imagine what you are talking about, Constance," said

Edith.

"And then, being a friend, you see," pursued Constance, "we

can do nothing but fire a salute, instead of demolishing her."

"Can't you!" said Fleda. "I am sure many a time I have felt as

if you had left me nothing but my colours."

"Except your prizes, my dear. I am sure I don't know about

your being a friend, either, for I have observed that you

engage English and American alike."

"She is getting up her colours now," said Mrs. Evelyn, in mock

gravity — "you call tell what she is."

"Blood-red!" said Constance. "A pirate! — I thought so," she

exclaimed, with an ecstatic gesture. "I shall make it my

business to warn everybody."

"Oh, Constance!" said Fleda, burying her face in her hands.

But they all laughed.

"Fleda, my dear, I would box her ears," said Mrs. Evelyn,

commanding herself. It is a mere envious insinuation — I have

always understood those were the most successful colours

carried."

"Dear Mrs. Evelyn!" —

"My dear Fleda, that is not a hot roll — you shan't eat it —

take this. Florence, give her a piece of the bacon — Fleda, my

dear, it is good for the digestion — you must try it.

Constance was quite mistaken in supposing yours were those

obnoxious colours — there is too much white with the red — it

is more like a very different flag."

"Like what, then, Mamma!" said Constance; "a good American

would have blue in it."

"You may keep the American yourself," said her mother.

"Only," said Fleda, trying to recover herself, "there is a

slight irregularity; with you the stars are blue and the

ground white."

"My dear little Fleda," exclaimed Constance, jumping up, and

capering round the table to kiss her, "you are too delicious

for anything; and in future I will be blind to your colours,

which is a piece of self-denial I am sure nobody else will

practise."

"Mamma," said Edith, "what _are_ you all talking about? Can't

Constance sit down and let Fleda eat her breakfast?"

"Sit down, Constance, and eat your breakfast."

"I will do it, Mamma, out of consideration for the bacon.

Nothing else would move me."

"Are you going to Mrs. Decatur's to-night, Fleda?"

"No, Edith, I believe not."

"I'm very glad; then there'll be somebody at home. But why

don't you?"

"I think, on the whole, I had rather not."

"Mamma," said Constance, "you have done very wrong in

permitting such a thing. I know just how it will be. Mr. Thorn

and Mr. Stackpole will make indefinite voyages of discovery

round Mrs. Decatur's rooms, and then, having a glimmering

perception that the light of Miss Ringgan's eyes is in another

direction, they will sheer off; and you will presently see

them come sailing blandly in, one after the other, and cast

anchor for the evening; when, to your extreme delight, Mr.

Stackpole and Miss Ringgan will immediately commence fighting.

I shall stay at home to see!" exclaimed Constance, with little

bounds of delight up and down upon her chair, which this time

afforded her the additional elasticity of springs; "I will not

go. I am persuaded how it will be, and I would not miss it for

anything."

"Dear Constance," said Fleda, unable to help laughing through

all her vexation, "please do not talk so. You know very well

Mr. Stackpole only comes to see your mother."

"He was here last night," said Constance, in an extreme state

of delight, "with all the rest of your admirers, ranged in the

hall, with their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase,

as a token of their determination not to go till you came

home; and, as they could not be induced to come up to the

drawing-room, Mr. Evelyn was obliged to go down, and with some

difficulty persuaded them to disperse."

Fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying

and laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast.

"Mr. Carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again

the other day, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, with her face of

delighted mischief, "and I excused you, for I thought you

would thank me for it."

"Mamma," said Constance, "the mention of that name rouses all

the bitter feelings I am capable of. My dear Fleda, we have

been friends; but if I see you abstracting my English rose —"

"Look at those roses behind you!" said Fleda.

The young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both

her sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of

exclamations filled the air.

"Joe, you are enchanting! But did you ever see such flowers?

Oh, those rose-buds!"

"And these camellias," said Edith; "look, Florence, how they

are cut — with such splendid long stems!"

"And the roses, too — all of them — see, Mamma, just cut from

the bushes, with the buds all left on, and immensely long

stems! Mamma, these must have cost an immensity!"

"That is what I call a bouquet," said Fleda, fain to leave the

table, too, and draw near the tempting show in Florence's

hand.

"This is the handsomest you have had all winter, Florence,"

said Edith.

"Handsomest! I never saw anything like it. I shall wear some

of these to-night, Mamma."

"You are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said Constance;

"how do you know but it is mine?"

"Which of us is it for, Joe?"

"Say it is mine, Joe, and I will vote you — the best article

of your kind," said Constance, with an inexpressible glance at

Fleda.

"Who brought it, Joe?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Yes, Joe, who brought it? where did it come from, Joe?" Joe

had hardly a chance to answer.

"I really couldn't say, Miss Florence; the man wasn't known to

me."

"But did he say it was for Florence or for me?"

"No, Ma'am — he —"

"_Which_ did he say it was for?"

"He didn't say it was either for Miss Florence or for you,

Miss Constance; he —"

"But didn't he say who sent it?"

"No, Ma'am. It's —"

"Mamma, here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with

two of the most lovely buds. Oh!" said Constance, clasping her

hands, and whirling about the room in comic ecstasy, "I

sha'n't survive it if I cannot find out where it is from."

"How delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said Fleda.

"You ought not to mind the snow-storm to-day, after this,

Florence. I should think you would be perfectly happy."

"I shall be, if I can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to-

night. Mamma, how sweetly they would dress me!"

"They're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said Mrs.

Evelyn; "I sha'n't let you do it."

"Mamma! it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair, and

the _bouquet de corsage_, too; there'd be thousands left. Well,

Joe, what are you waiting for?"

"I didn't say," said Joe, looking a good deal blank and a

little afraid — "I should have said — that the bouquet — is —"

"What is it?"

"It is — I believe, Ma'am — the man said it was for Miss

Ringgan."

"For me!" exclaimed Fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the

most exquisite commentary on the gift that the giver could

have desired. She took in her hand the superb bunch of flowers

from which the fingers of Florence unclosed as if it had been

an icicle.

"Why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the

"fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared.

"I am very glad!" exclaimed Edith. "They have had plenty all

winter, and you haven't had one. I am very glad it is yours,

Fleda."

But such a shadow had come upon every other face that Fleda's

pleasure was completely overclouded. She smelled at her roses,

just ready to burst into tears, and wishing sincerely that

they had never come.

"I am afraid, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, quietly going

on with her breakfast, "that there is a thorn somewhere among

those flowers."

Fleda was too sure of it; but not by any means the one Mrs.

Evelyn intended.

"He never could have got half those from his own green-house,

Mamma," said Florence, "if he had cut every rose that was in

it; and he isn't very free with his knife, either."

"I said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said Mrs. Evelyn,

"though I don't suppose there is more than one Lot in the city

they could have come from."

"Well," said Constance, settling herself back in her chair and

closing her eyes, "I feel extinguished! Mamma, do you suppose

it possible that a hot cup of tea might revive me? I am

suffering from a universal sense of unappreciated merit, and

nobody can tell what the pain is that hasn't felt it."

"I think you are extremely foolish, Constance," said Edith.

"Fleda hasn't had a single flower sent her since she has been

here, and you have had them every other day. I think Florence

is the only one that has a right to be disappointed."

"Dear Florence," said Fleda, earnestly, "you shall have as

many of them as you please, to dress yourself — and welcome!"

"Oh, no — of course not!" Florence said; "it's of no sort of

consequence — I don't want them in the least, my dear. I

wonder what somebody would think to see his flowers in my

head!"

Fleda secretly had mooted the same question, and was very well

pleased not to have it put to the proof. She took the flowers

up stairs after breakfast, resolving that they should not be

an eyesore to her friends; placed them in water, and sat down

to enjoy and muse over them in a very sorrowful mood. She

again thought she would take the first opportunity of going

home. How strange! — out of their abundance of tributary

flowers, to grudge her this one bunch! To be sure, it was a

magnificent one. The flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer

kinds, with a very few fine camellias; all of them cut with a

freedom that evidently had known no constraint but that of

taste, and put together with an exquisite skill that Fleda

felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. She knew that

only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the

hand that had bought, not the one that had sold; and "How very

kind!" presently quite supplanted "How very strange!" "How

exactly like him! and how singular that Mrs. Evelyn and her

daughters should have supposed they could have come from Mr.

Thorn!" It was a moral impossibility that _he_ should have put

such a bunch of flowers together; while to Fleda's eye they so

bore the impress of another person's character, that she had

absolutely been glad to get them out of sight for fear they

might betray him. She hung over their varied loveliness,

tasted and studied it, till the soft breath of the roses had

wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling, and she was

drinking in pure and strong pleasure from. each leaf and bud.

What a very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought

them; when their gentle preaching and silent sympathy could

alone so nearly do friendship's work; for to Fleda there was

both counsel and consolation in flowers. So she found it this

morning. An hour's talk with them had done her a great deal of

good; and, when she dressed herself and went down to the

drawing-room, her grave little face was not less placid than

the roses she had left; she would not wear even one of them

down to be a disagreeable reminder. And she thought that still

snowy day was one of the very pleasantest she had had in New

York.

Florence went to Mrs. Decatur's; but Constance, according to

her avowed determination, remained at home to see the fun.

Fleda hoped most sincerely there would be none for her to see.

But, a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening,

Mr. Carleton walked in, followed very soon by Mr. Thorn.

Constance and Mrs. Evelyn were forthwith in a perfect

effervescence of delight, which as they could not very well

give it full play, promised to last the evening; and Fleda,

all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the

table, and endeavoured to bury herself in it. But ears could

not be fastened as well as eyes; and the mere sound of Mrs.

Evelyn's voice sometimes sent a thrill over her.

"Mr. Thorn," said the lady, in her smoothest manner, "are you

a lover of floriculture, Sir?"

"Can't say that I am, Mrs. Evelyn — except as practised by

others."

"Then you are not a _connoisseur_ in roses? Miss Ringgan's happy

lot — sent her a most exquisite collection this morning, and

she has been wanting to apply to somebody who could tell her

what they are — I thought you might know. Oh, they are not

here," said Mrs. Evelyn, as she noticed the gentleman's look

round the room; "Miss Ringgan judges them too precious for any

eyes but her own. Fleda, my dear, wont you bring down your

roses to let Mr. Thorn tell us their names?"

"I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me, Mrs. Evelyn — I believe

he would find it a puzzling task."

"The surest way, Mrs. Evelyn, would be to apply at the

fountain head for information," said Thorn, drily.

"If I could get at it," said Mrs. Evelyn (Fleda knew, with

quivering lips) — "but it seems to me I might as well try to

find the Dead Sea!"

"Perhaps Mr. Carleton might serve your purpose," said Thorn.

That gentleman was at the moment talking to Constance.

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "are you a judge, Sir?"

"Of what, Mrs. Evelyn? — I beg your pardon."

The lady's tone somewhat lowered.

"Are you a judge of roses, Mr. Carleton?"

"So far as to know a rose when I see it," he answered,

smiling, and with an imperturbable coolness that it quieted

Fleda to hear.

"Ay, but the thing is," said Constance, "do you know twenty

roses when you see them?"

"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "has received

a most beautiful supply this morning; but, like a true woman,

she is not satisfied to enjoy unless she can enjoy

intelligently — they are strangers to us all, and she would

like to know what name to give them; Mr. Thorn suggested that

perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty."

"With great pleasure, so far as I am able — if my judgment may

be exercised by day-light. I cannot answer for shades of green

in the night-time."

But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal

able to guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch

of roses in his life before.

"You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I

think belongs to me," said Fleda, from her work at the far

centre-table, which certainly did not get its name from its

place in the room. "My enjoyment to-day has not been in the

least troubled by curiosity."

Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed.

"Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, "that it

is necessary to distinguish between shades of green in judging

of roses?"

"It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of

almost anything, Miss Constance. The difference between

varieties of the same flower is often extremely nice."

"I have read of magicians," said Thorn, softly, bending down

towards Fleda's work — "who did not need to see things to

answer questions respecting them."

Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in

the world; but even her displeasure could not give her courage

to speak. It gave her courage to be silent, however; and Mr.

Thorn's best efforts, in a conversation of some length, could

gain nothing but very uninterested rejoinders. A sudden pinch

from Constance then made her look up, and almost destroyed her

self-possession, as she saw Mr. Stackpole male his way into

the room.

"I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said,

approaching them.

"I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole," said

Constance, "since you venture into the region of broken

windows again."

"Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair," said Mrs.

Evelyn, from the sofa.

"More than I knew of," said the gentleman, laughing — "there

were more than I knew of; but you see I court the danger,

having rashly concluded that I might as well know all my weak

points at once."

"Miss Ringgan will break nothing to-night, Mr. Stackpole — she

promised me she would not."

"Not even her silence?" said the gentleman.

"Is she always so desperately industrious?" said Mr. Thorn.

"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "is subject to

occasional fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating

with her work to the solitude of the centre-table is

significant of her desire to avoid conversation — as Mr. Thorn

has been experiencing."

"I am happy to see that the malady is not catching, Miss

Constance."

"Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "I am in a morose state of

mind! — Miss Ringgan, this morning, received a magnificent

bouquet of roses, which, in the first place, I rashly

appropriated to myself; and ever since I discovered my

mistake, I have been meditating the renouncing of society — it

has excited more bad feelings than I thought had existence in

my nature."

"Mr. Stackpole," said Mrs. Evelyn, "would you ever have

supposed that roses could be a cause of discord?"

Mr. Stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the

ladies were driving at.

"There have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port

within a week!" said he, as if that were something worth

talking about.

"Poor creatures! where will they all go?" said Mrs. Evelyn,

comfortably.

"Country's large enough," said Thorn.

"Yes — but such a stream of immigration will reach the

Pacific, and come back again before long; and then there will

be a meeting of the waters! This tide of German and Irish will

sweep over everything."

"I suppose, if the land will not bear both, one party will

have to seek other quarters," said Mrs. Evelyn, with an

exquisite satisfaction, which Fleda could hear in her voice.

"You remember the story of Lot and Abraham, Mr. Stackpole —

when a quarrel arose between them? — not about roses."

Mr. Stackpole looked as if women were — to say the least —

incomprehensible.

"Five thousand a week!" he repeated.

"I wish there was a Dead Sea for them all to sheer off into!"

said Thorn.

"If you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called

forth, Mr. Thorn," said Constance, "your feelings would have

been penetrated — if you have any."

"I had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change

of manner, "what gentle charities were so near me."

"Mamma!" said Constance, with a most comic show of

indignation, "Mr. Thorn thought that with Miss Ringgan he had

forgotten all the gentle charities in the room! — I am of no

further use to society! — I will trouble you to ring that

bell, Mr. Thorn, if you please. I shall request candles, and

retire to the privacy of my own apartment."

"Not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault," said Mr.

Thorn, laughing.

"It cannot be expiated! — My worth will be known at some

future day. Mr. Carleton, will you have the goodness to summon

our domestic attendant?"

"If you will permit me to give the order," he said, smiling,

with his hand on the bell. "I am afraid you are hardly fit to

be trusted alone."

"Why?"

"May I delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?"

"Yes."

"Because," said he, coming up to her, "when people turn away

from the world in disgust, they generally find worse company

in themselves."

"Mr. Carleton! — I would not sit still another minute, if

curiosity didn't keep me. I thought solitude was said to be

such a corrector!"

"Like a clear atmosphere — an excellent medium if your object

is to take an observation of your position; worse than lost if

you mean to shut up the windows and burn sickly lights of your

own."

"Then, according to that, one shouldn't seek solitude unless

one doesn't want it."

"No," said Mr. Carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to

which Constance always rendered involuntary homage — "every

one wants, it; if we do not daily take an observation to find

where we are, we are sailing about wildly, and do not know

whither we are going."

"An observation?" said Constance, understanding part, and

impatient of not catching the whole of his meaning.

"Yes," he said, with a smile of singular fascination — "I

mean, consulting the unerring guides of the way to know where

we are, and if we are sailing safely and happily in the right

direction — otherwise we are in danger of striking upon some

rock, or of never making the harbour; and in either case, all

is lost."

The power of eye and smile was too much for Constance, as it

had happened more than once before; her own eyes fell, and for

a moment she wore a look of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at

what from any other person would have roused her mockery.

"Mr. Carleton," said she, trying to rally herself, but still

not daring to look up, knowing that would put it out of her

power, "I can't understand how you ever came to be such a

grave person."

"What is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "To have a

mind so at rest about the future, as to be able to enjoy

thoroughly all that is worth enjoying in the present?"

"But I can't imagine how _you_ ever came to take up such

notions."

"May I ask again, why not I?"

"Oh, you know, you have so much to make you otherwise."

"What degree of present contentment ought to make one

satisfied to leave that of the limitless future an uncertain

thing?"

"Do you think it can be made certain?"

"Undoubtedly! — why not? the tickets are free — the only thing

is, to make sure that ours has the true signature. Do you

think the possession of that ticket makes life a sadder thing?

The very handwriting of it is more precious to me, by far,

Miss Constance, than everything else I have."

"But you are a very uncommon instance," said Constance, still

unable to look up, and speaking without any of her usual

attempt at jocularity.

"No, I hope not," he said, quietly.

"I mean," said Constance, "that it is very uncommon language

to hear from a person like you."

"I suppose I know your meaning," he said, after a minute's

pause; "but, Miss Constance, there is hardly a graver thought

to me, than that power and responsibility go hand in hand."

"It don't generally work so," said Constance, rather uneasily.

"What are you talking about, Constance?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Mr. Carleton, Mamma, has been making me melancholy."

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "I am going to petition that

you will turn your efforts in another direction. I have felt

oppressed all the afternoon, from the effects of that funeral

service I was attending — I am only just getting over it. The

preacher seemed to delight in putting together all the gloomy

thoughts he could think of."

"Yes," said Mr. Stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets,

"it is the particular enjoyment of some of them, I believe, to

do their best to make other people miserable."

Mr. Thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little

hammering of Fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her

eye was no longer considering her work, and her face rested

anxiously upon her hand.

"There wasn't a thing," the lady went on, "in anything he

said; in his prayer or his speech, there wasn't a single

cheering or elevating consideration — all he talked and prayed

for was, that the people there might be filled with a sense of

their wickedness —"

"It's their trade, Ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole — "it's their

trade! I wonder if it ever occurs to them to include

themselves in that petition."

"There wasn't the slightest effort made, in anything he said,

or prayed for — and one would have thought that would have

been so natural; there was not the least endeavour to do away

with that superstitious fear of death which is so common — and

one would think it was the very occasion to do it; he never

once asked that we might be led to look upon it rationally and

calmly. It's so unreasonable, Mr. Stackpole — it is so

dissonant with our views of a benevolent Supreme Being — as if

it could be according to _his_ will that his creatures should

live lives of tormenting themselves — it so shows a want of

trust in his goodness."

"It's a relic of barbarism, Ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole — it's

a popular delusion, and it is like to be, till you can get men

to embrace wider and more liberal views of things."

"What do you suppose it proceeds from?" said Mr. Carleton, as

if the question had just occurred to him.

"I suppose from false notions received from education, Sir."

"Hardly," said Mr. Carleton; "it is too universal. You find it

everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be

but shifting the question back one generation."

"It is a root of barbarous ages," said Mr. Stackpole — "a

piece of superstition handed down from father to son — a set

of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and

that they can hardly get rid of."

"How can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree

of intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor

even to lessen, however it may afford motive to control? Men

may often put a brave face upon it, and show none of their

thoughts to the world; but I think, no one, capable of

reflection, has not at times felt the influence of that

dread."

"Men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said Mr.

Stackpole, drily, and rubbing his chin.

"Not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater

momentary pressure of some other."

"Of course," said Mr. Stackpole, rubbing his chin still,

"there is a natural love of life — the world could not get on

if there was not."

"If the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so,

by the same reason."

"Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is natural — it is part

of the constitution of our nature."

"Yes," said Mr. Stackpole, settling himself again in his

chair, with his hands in his pockets — "it is not unnatural, I

suppose — but then that is the first view of the subject — it

is the business of reason to correct many impressions and

prejudices that are, as we say, natural."

"And there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly,"

said Mrs. Evelyn — "he aimed at strengthening that feeling,

and driving it down as hard as he could into everybody's mind

— not a single lisp of anything to do it away, or lessen the

gloom with which we are, naturally, as you say, disposed to

invest the subject."

"I dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become

one to himself," said Mr. Stackpole.

"Is it nothing more than the mere natural dread of

dissolution?" said Mr. Carleton.

"I think it is that," said Mrs. Evelyn — "I think that is the

principal thing."

"Is there not, besides, an undefined fear of what lies beyond

— an uneasy misgiving, that there may be issues which the

spirit is not prepared to meet?"

"I suppose there is," said Mrs. Evelyn — "but, Sir —"

"Why, that is the very thing," said Mr. Stackpole — "that is

the mischief of education I was speaking of — men are brought

up to it."

"You cannot dispose of it so, Sir, for this feeling is quite

as universal as the other, and so strong, that men have not

only been willing to render life miserable, but even to endure

death itself, with all the aggravation of torture, to smooth

their way in that unknown region beyond."

"It is one of the maladies of human nature," said Mr.

Stackpole, "that it remains for the progress of enlightened

reason to dispel."

"What is the cure for the malady?" said Mr. Carleton, quietly.

"Why, Sir, the looking upon death as a necessary step in the

course of our existence, which simply introduces us from a

lower to a higher sphere — from a comparatively narrow to a

wider and nobler range of feeling and intellect."

"Ay, but how shall we be sure that it is so?"

"Why, Mr. Carleton, Sir," said Mrs. Evelyn, "do you doubt

that? Do you suppose it possible, for a moment, that a

benevolent being would make creatures to be anything but

happy?"

"You believe the Bible, Mrs. Evelyn?" he said, smiling

slightly.

"Certainly, Sir; but, Mr. Carleton, the Bible, I am sure,

holds out the same views, of the goodness and glory of the

Creator — you cannot open it but you find them on every page.

If I could take such views of things as some people have,"

said Mrs. Evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her

extremity — "I don't know what I should do! Mr. Carleton, I

think I would rather never have been born, Sir!"

"Every one runs to the Bible!" said Mr. Stackpole. "It is the

general armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each

other."

"True," said Mr. Carleton, "but only while they draw

partially. No man can fight the battle of truth but in the

whole panoply, and no man so armed can fight any other."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I mean that the Bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent

with itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of

compasses, the measuring power is gone."

"But, Mr. Carleton, Sir," said Mrs. Evelyn — "do you think

that reading the Bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas

of the future?"

"By no means," he said, with one of those meaning-fraught

smiles; "but is it safe, Mrs. Evelyn, in such a matter, to

venture a single grasp of hope without the direct warrant of

God's Word?"

"Well, Sir?"

"Well, Ma'am, that says, 'The soul that sinneth, it shall

die.' "

"That disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said

Mr. Stackpole.

"But, Sir," said Mrs. Evelyn — "that doesn't stand alone — the

Bible everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of

Christ's salvation!"

"Full and free as it can possibly be," he answered, with

something of a sad expression of countenance; "but, Mrs.

Evelyn, _never offered but with conditions_."

"What conditions?" said Mr. Stackpole, hastily.

"I recommend you to look for them, Sir," answered Mr.

Carleton, gravely; — "they should not be unknown to a wise

man."

"Then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of

fear? — or what is your remedy?"

"There is a remedy, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, with that

dilating and darkening eye which showed him deeply engaged in

what he was thinking about; "it is not mine. When men feel

themselves lost, and are willing to be saved in God's way,

then the breach is made up — then hope can look across the gap

and see its best home and its best friend on the other side —

then faith lays hold on forgiveness, and trembling is done —

then, sin being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and

the fear of death is no more, for it is swallowed up in

victory. But men will not apply to a physician while they

think themselves well; and people will not seek the sweet way

of safety by Christ till they know there is no other; and so,

do you see, Mrs. Evelyn, that when the gentleman you were

speaking of sought to-day to persuade his hearers that they

were poorer than they thought they were, he was but taking the

surest way to bring them to be made richer than they ever

dreamed."

There was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that Mrs.

Evelyn could not answer; her look fell as that of Constance

had done, and there was a moment's silence.

Thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons — that he might not

displease Fleda, and that he might watch her. She had left her

work and turning half round from the table, had listened

intently to the conversation, towards the last, very forgetful

that there might be anybody to observe her — with eyes fixed

and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just

indicating delight — till the silence fell; and then she

turned round to the table and took up her worsted-work. But

the lips were quite grave now, and Thorn's keen eyes discerned

that upon one or two of the artificial roses there lay two or

three very natural drops.

"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "what makes you talk such sober

things? — you have set Miss Ringgan to crying."

"Mr. Carleton could not be better pleased than at such a

tribute to his eloquence," said Mr. Thorn, with a saturnine

expression.

"Smiles are common things," said Mr. Stackpole, a little

maliciously; "but any man may be flattered to find his words

drop diamonds."

"Fleda, my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, with that trembling tone

of concealed ecstasy which always set every one of Fleda's

nerves a-jarring — "you may tell the gentlemen that they do

not always know when they are making an unfelicitous

compliment — I never read what poets say about 'briny drops'

and 'salt tears', without imagining the heroine immediately to

be something like Lot's wife."

"Nobody said anything about briny drops, Mamma," said Edith;

"why, there's Florence!"

Her entrance made a little bustle, which Fleda was very glad

of. Unkind! — She was trembling again in every finger. She

bent down over her canvas and worked away as hard as she

could. That did not hinder her becoming aware presently that

Mr. Carleton was standing close beside her.

"Are you not trying your eyes?" said he.

The words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal; there

was a kind of quiet intelligence in it. Fleda looked up, and

something in the clear steady self-reliant eye she met wrought

an instant change in her feeling. She met it a moment, and

then looked at her work again with nerves quieted.

"Cannot I persuade them to be of my mind?" said Mr. Carleton,

bending down a little nearer to their sphere of action.

"Mr. Carleton is unreasonable to require more testimony of

that this evening," said Mr. Thorn; "his own must have been

ill employed."

Fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of Mr.

Carleton's manner could be felt; she felt it, almost with

sympathetic pain. Thorn immediately left them, and took leave.

"What are you searching for in the papers, Mr. Carleton?" said

Mrs. Evelyn, presently coming up to them.

"I was looking for the steamers, Mrs. Evelyn."

"How soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?"

"I do not know, Ma'am," he answered, coolly; "I expect my

mother."

Mrs. Evelyn walked back to her sofa.

But in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre-

table again, with an open magazine in her hand.

"Mr. Carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me, and

tell me what you think of it, will you, Sir? I have been

showing it to Mr. Stackpole, and he can't see any beauty in

it; and I tell him it is his fault, and there is some serious

want in his composition. Now, I want to know what you will say

to it."

"An arbiter, Mrs. Evelyn, should be chosen by both parties."

"Read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady,

walking away, to leave him opportunity. Mr. Carleton looked it

over.

"That is something pretty," he said, putting it before Fleda.

Mrs. Evelyn was still at a distance.

"What do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said

Fleda, laughing as she took it. But he noticed that her colour

rose a little.

"How do you like it?"

"I like it pretty well," said Fleda, rather hesitatingly.

"You have seen it before?"

"Why?" Fleda said, with a look up at him, at once a little

startled and a little curious — "what makes you say so?"

"Because — pardon me — you did not read it."

"Oh," said Fleda, laughing, but colouring at the same time

very frankly, "I can tell how I like some things without

reading them very carefully."

Mr. Carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again.

"What have you there, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence.

"A piece of English, on which I was asking this lady's

opinion, Miss Evelyn."

"Now, Mr. Carleton," exclaimed Constance, jumping up — "I am

going to ask you to decide a quarrel between Fleda and me

about a point of English —"

"Hush, Constance!" said her mother — "I want to speak to Mr.

Carleton. Mr. Carleton, how do you like it?"

"Like what, Mamma?" said Florence.

"A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell me

how you like it, Sir."

"But what is it, Mamma!"

"A piece of poetry in an old _Excelsior_ — 'The Spirit of the

Fireside.' Mr. Carleton, wont you read it aloud, and let us

all hear? but tell me, first, what you think of it."

"It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn."

"Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, Sir."

"Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole; "it's a little fanciful — and

I can't quite make out what the fancy is."

"It has been the misfortune of many good things before, not to

be prized, Mr. Stackpole," said the lady, funnily.

"True, Ma'am," said that gentleman, rubbing his chin, "and the

converse is also true, unfortunately, and with a much wider

application."

"There is a peculiarity of mental development or training,"

said Mr. Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds,

because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or

experience. Some literature has a hidden free-masonry of its

own."

"Very hidden, indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole; "the cloud is so

thick that I can't see the electricity."

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, laughing, "I take that

remark as a compliment, Sir; I have always appreciated that

writer's pieces; I enjoy them very much."

"Well, wont you, please, read it, Mr. Carleton?" said

Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about."

Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was, by the centre-

table.

"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells,

The child of bygone years —

He lieth hid the stones amid,

And liveth on smiles and tears.

"But when the night is drawing on,

And the fire burns clear and bright,

He cometh out and walketh about

In the pleasant grave twilight.

"He goeth round on tiptoe soft,

And scanneth close each face;

If one in the room be sunk in gloom,

By him he taketh his place.

"And then with fingers cool and soft

(Their touch who does not know?)

With water brought from the well of thought,

That was dug long years ago,

"He layeth his hand on the weary eyes —

They are closed and quiet now; —

And he wipeth away the dust of the day

Which had settled on the brow.

"And gently then he walketh away

And sits in the corner chair;

And the closed eyes swim — it seemeth to him

The form that once sat there.

"And whisper'd words of comfort and love

Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow; —

'Why weepest thou? — thou art troubled now,

But there cometh a bright to-morrow.

" 'We, too, have pass'd over life's wild stream

In a frail and shatter'd boat,

But the pilot was sure — and we sail'd secure

When we seem'd but scarce afloat.

" 'Though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind,

The bark held together still,

One arm was strong — it bore us along,

And has saved from every ill.'

"The Spirit returns to his hiding-place,

But his words have been like balm.

The big tears start, but the fluttering heart

Is sooth'd, and soften'd, and calm."

"I remember that," said Florence; "it is beautiful."

"Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is signed 'Hugh'. There

have been a good many of his pieces in the _Excelsior_, for a

year past, and all of them pretty."

"Hugh!" exclaimed Edith, springing forward, "that's the one

that wrote the Chestnuts! Fleda, wont you read Mr. Carleton

the Chestnuts?"

"Why, no, Edith; I think not."

"Ah, do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it; and you

know Mamma says they're all pretty. Wont you?"

"My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to-day"

"But I want you to read it for me again."

"Let me have it, Miss Edith," said Mr. Carleton, smiling. "I

will read it for you."

"Ah, but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read

it," said Edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine,

"she reads it so well. It's so funny — about the coffee and

buckwheat cakes."

"What is that, Edith?" said her mother.

"Something Mr. Carleton is going to read for me, Mamma."

"Don't you trouble Mr. Carleton."

"It won't trouble him, Mamma; he promised of his own accord."

"Let us all have the benefit of it, Mr. Carleton," said the

lady.

It is worthy of remark that Fleda's politeness utterly

deserted her during the reading of both this piece and the

last. She as near as possible turned her back upon the reader.

"Merrily sang the crickets forth

One fair October night;

And the stars look'd down, and the northern crown

Gave its strange fantastic light.

"A nipping frost was in the air,

On flowers and grass it fell;

And the leaves were still on the eastern hill,

As if touched by a fairy spell.

"To the very top of the tall nut-trees

The frost-king seemed to ride;

With his wand he stirs the chestnut burrs,

And straight they are open'd wide.

"And squirrels and children together dream

Of the coming winter's hoard;

And many, I ween, are the chestnuts seen

In hole or in garret stored.

"The children are sleeping in feather-beds —

Poor Bun in his mossy nest;

_He_ courts repose with his tail on his nose,

On the others warm blankets rest.

"Late in the morning the sun gets up

From behind the village spire;

And the children dream that the first red gleam

Is the chestnut-trees on fire!

"The squirrel had on when he first awoke,

All the clothing he could command;

And his breakfast was light — he just took a bite

Of an acorn that lay at hand:

"And then he was off to the trees to work:

While the children some time it takes

To dress and to eat what _they_ think meet

Of coffee and buckwheat cakes.

"The sparkling frost, when they first go out,

Lies thick upon all around;

And earth and grass, as they onward pass,

Give a pleasant crackling sound.

"Oh, there is a heap of chestnuts, see!'

Cried the youngest of the train;

For they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown

What he meant to pick up again.

"And two bright eyes, from the tree o'er head,

Look'd down at the open bag

Where the nuts went in — and so to begin,

Almost made his courage flag.

"Away on the hill, outside the wood,

Three giant trees there stand:

And the chestnuts bright, that hang in sight,

Are eyed by the youthful band.

"And one of their number climbs the tree,

And passes from bough to bough —

And the children run — for with pelting fun

The nuts fall thickly now.

"Some of the burrs are still shut tight —

Some open with chestnuts three,

And some nuts fall with no burrs at all —

Smooth, shiny, as nuts should be.

"Oh, who can tell what fun it was

To see the prickly shower:

To feel what a whack on head or back

Was within a chestnut's power!

"To run beneath the shaking tree,

And then to scamper away;

And with laughing shout to dance about

The grass where the chestnuts lay.

"With flowing dresses, and blowing hair,

And eyes that no shadow knew,

Like the growing light of a morning bright —

The dawn of the summer blue!

"The work was ended — the trees were stripped —

The children were 'tired of play:'

And they forgot (but the squirrel did not)

The wrong they had done that day."

Whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of

these lines, or from Edith's delight in them, he was

frequently interrupted with bursts of laughter.

"I can understand _that_," said Mr. Stackpole, "without any

difficulty."

"You are not lost in the mysteries of chestnutting in open

daylight," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "wouldn't you have taken the

squirrel's chestnuts?"

"I believe I should, Miss Edith, if I had not been hindered."

"But what would have hindered you? don't you think it was

right?"

"Ask your friend, Miss Ringgan, what she thinks of it," said

he, smiling.

"Now, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, as he threw down the

magazine, "will you decide that point of English between Miss

Ringgan and me?"

"I should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, Miss

Constance."

"Well, Fleda, will you agree to submit it to Mr. Carleton?"

"I must know by what standards Mr. Carleton will be guided,

before I agree to any such thing," said Fleda.

"Standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything,

without knowing what standards they go by ?"

"Would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said Fleda,

smiling.

"You wont be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or

later, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Every woman must."

"The later the better, Ma'am, I cannot help thinking."

"You will change your mind," said Mrs. Evelyn, complacently.

"Mamma's notions, Mr. Stackpole, would satisfy any man's

pride, when she is expatiating upon the subject of woman's

dependence," said Florence.

"The dependence of affection," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course!

It's their lot. Affection always leads a true woman to merge

her separate judgment, on anything, in the judgment of the

beloved object."

"Ay," said Fleda, laughing, "suppose her affection is wasted

on an object that has none?"

"My dear Fleda!" said Mrs. Evelyn, with a funny expression,

"that can never be, you know; don't you remember what your

favourite, Longfellow, says, — 'Affection never is wasted'? —

Florence, my love, just hand me 'Evangeline,' there — I want

you to listen to it, Mr. Stackpole, here it is —

'Talk not of wasted affection: affection never was wasted:

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning

Back to their springs, shall fill them full of refreshment.

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the

fountain.' "

"How very plain it is that was written by a man," said Fleda.

"Why?" said Mr. Carleton, laughing.

"I always thought it was so exquisite!" said Florence.

"_I_ was so struck with it," said Constance, "that I have been

looking ever since for an object to waste _my_ affections upon."

"Hush, Constance!" said her mother. "Don't you like it, Mr.

Carleton?"

"I should like to hear Miss Ringgan's commentary," said Mr.

Stackpole; "I can't anticipate it. I should have said the

sentiment was quite soft and tender enough for a woman."

"Don't you agree with it, Mr. Carleton?" repeated Mrs. Evelyn.

"I beg leave to second Mr. Stackpole's motion," he said,

smiling.

"Fleda, my dear, you must explain yourself; the gentlemen are

at a stand."

"I believe, Mrs. Evelyn," said Fleda, smiling and blushing —

"I am of the mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see

anything wasted."

"But the assertion is, that it _isn't_ wasted," said Mr.

Stackpole.

" 'That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the

fountain,' " said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said

Fleda, with a little energy, though her colour rose and rose

higher. "Did it never occur to you, Mrs. Evelyn, that the

streams which fertilize as they flow, do but desolate if their

course be checked?"

"But your objection lies only against the author's figure,"

said Mr. Stackpole — "come to the fact."

"I was speaking as he did, Sir, of the fact under the figure —

I did not mean to separate them."

Both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different

expression.

"Perhaps," said Mr. Carleton, "the writer was thinking of a

gentler and more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which,

however it may meet with barren ground and raise no fruit

there, is sure, in due time, to come back, heaven-refined, to

refresh and replenish its source."

"Perhaps so," said Fleda, with a very pleased answering look —

"I do not recollect how it is brought in — I may have answered

rather Mrs. Evelyn than Mr. Longfellow."

"But granting that it is an error," said Mr. Stackpole, "as

you understood it — what shows it to have been made by a man?"

"Its utter ignorance of the subject, Sir."

"You think _they_ never waste their affections?" said he.

"By no means! but I think they rarely waste so much in any one

direction as to leave them quite impoverished."

"Mr. Carleton, how do you bear that, Sir?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Will you let such an assertion pass unchecked?"

"I would not, if I could help it, Mrs. Evelyn."

"That isn't saying much for yourself," said Constance; "but

Fleda, my dear, where did you get such an experience of waste

and desolation?"

"Oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said Fleda, lightly.

"But you make it out that only one-half of mankind can

appropriate that axiom," said Mr. Stackpole. "How can a woman

know _men's_ hearts so well?"

"On the principle that the whole is greater than a part?' said

Mr. Carleton, smiling.

"I'll sleep upon that, before I give my opinion," said Mr.

Stackpole. "Mrs. Evelyn, good evening!" —

"Well, Mr. Carleton!" said Constance, "you have said a great

deal for women's minds."

"Some women's minds," he said, with a smile.

"And some men's minds," said Fleda. "I was speaking only in

the general."

Her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook

hands with Mr. Carleton. And without speaking a word for other

people to hear, his look and smile in return were more than an

answer. Fleda sat for some time after he was gone, trying to

think what it was in eye and lip which had given her so much

pleasure. She could not make out anything but approbation —

the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good child;

but she thought it had also something of that quiet

intelligence — a silent communication of sympathy which the

others in company could not share.

She was roused from her reverie by Mrs. Evelyn.

"Fleda, my dear, I am writing to your aunt Lucy — have you any

message to send?"

"No, Mrs. Evelyn — I wrote myself to-day."

And she went back to her musings.

"I am writing about you, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn again, in a

few minutes.

"Giving a good account, I hope, ma'am," said Fleda, smiling.

"I shall tell her I think sea-breezes have an unfavourable

effect upon you," said Mrs. Evelyn — "that I am afraid you are

growing pale; and that you have clearly expressed yourself in

favour of a garden at Queechy, rather than any lot in the city

— or anywhere else — so she had better send for you home

immediately."

Fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but Mrs.

Evelyn's delighted amusement did not consist with making the

matter very plain. Fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate

the cause of them, to her own annoyance; so she was fain at

last to take her light and go to her own.

She looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first

pleasure and of the quieting influence the giver of them had

exercised over her that evening; thought again how very kind

it was of him to send them, and to choose them so; how

strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she was to

have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so

happily changed from his old self. And then from that change

and the cause of it, to those higher, more tranquillizing, and

sweetening influences that own no kindred with earth's dust,

and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and fertilize it.

And when she laid herself down to sleep, it was with a spirit

grave, but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as

unfelt now as ever the parching heat of a few hours before

when the stars are abroad.