"Methought I was there is no man can tell what. Methought I
was, and methought I had But man is but a patched fool, if
he will offer to say what methought I had."
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
Mrs. Evelyn drove down to the boat with Fleda, and did not
leave her till she was safely put in charge of Mrs. Renney.
Fleda immediately retreated to the. innermost depths of the
ladies' cabin, hoping to find some rest for the body at least,
if not forgetfulness for the mind.
The latter was not to be. Mrs. Renney was exceeding glad to
see her, and bent upon knowing what had become of her since
those days when they used to know each other.
"You're just the same, Miss Fleda, that you used to be
you're very little altered I can see that though you're
looking a good-deal more thin and pale; you had very pretty
roses in your cheeks in those times. Yes, I know, I understood
Mrs. Evelyn to say you had not been well; but, allowing for
that, I can see you are just yourself still I'm glad of it.
Do you recollect, Miss Fleda, what a little thing you was
then?"
"I recollect, very well," said Fleda.
"I'm sure of another thing you're just as good as you used
to be," said the housekeeper, looking at her complacently. "Do
you remember how you used to come into my room to see me make
jelly? I see it as well as if it was yesterday; and you used
to beg me to let you squeeze the lemons; and I never could
refuse you, because you never did anything I didn't want you
to. And do you mind how I used to tie you up in a big towel,
for fear you would stain your dress with the acid, and I'd
stand and watch to see you putting all your strength to
squeeze 'em clean, and be afraid that Mrs. Rossitur would be
angry with me for letting you spoil your hands; but you used
to look up and smile at me so, I couldn't help myself, but let
you do just whatever you had a mind? You don't look quite so
light and bright as you did in those times; but, to be sure,
you aint feeling well! See here just let me pull some of
these things onto this settee, and you put yourself down there
and rest pillows let's have another pillow there, how's
that?"
Oh, if Fleda might have silenced her! She thought it was
rather hard that she should have two talkative companions on
this journey of all others. The housekeeper paused no longer
than to arrange her couch and see her comfortably laid down.
"And then Mr. Hugh would come in to find you and carry you
away he never could bear to be long from you. How is Mr.
Hugh, Miss Fleda? he used to be always a very delicate-looking
child. I remember you and him used to be always together he
was a very sweet boy! I have often said I never saw such
another pair of children. How does Mr. Hugh have his health,
Miss Fleda?"
"Not very well, just now," said Fleda, gently, and shutting
her eyes that they might reveal less.
There was need; for the housekeeper went on to ask
particularly after every member of the family, and where they
had been living, and as much as she conveniently could about
how they had been living. She was very kind through it all, or
she tried to be; but Fleda felt there was a difference since
the time when her aunt kept house in State Street, and Mrs.
Renney made jellies for her. When her neighbours' affairs were
exhausted, Mrs. Renney fell back upon her own, and gave Fleda
a very circumstantial account of the occurrences that were
drawing her westward; how so many years ago her brother had
married and removed thither; how lately his wife had died;
what, in general, was the character of his wife, and what, in
particular, the story of her decease; how many children were
left without care, and the state of her brother's business,
which demanded a great deal; and how, finally, she, Mrs.
Renney, had received and accepted an invitation to go on to
Belle Rivière, and be housekeeper de son chef. And as Fleda's
pale worn face had for some time given her no sign of
attention, the housekeeper then hoped she was asleep, an
placed herself so as to screen her, and have herself a good
view of everything that was going on in the cabin.
But poor Fleda was not asleep, much as she rejoiced in being
thought so. Mind and body could get no repose, sadly as the
condition of both called for it. Too worn to sleep, perhaps;
too down-hearted to rest. She blamed herself for it, and told
over to herself the causes, the recent causes, she had of joy
and gratitude; but it would not do. Grateful she could be and
was; but tears that were not the distillation of joy came with
her gratitude; came from under the closed eyelid in spite of
her; the pillow was wet with them. She excused herself, or
tried to, with thinking that she was weak and not very well,
and that her nerves had gone through so much for a few days
past, it was no wonder if a reaction left her without her
usual strength of mind. And she could not help thinking, there
had been a want of kindness in the Evelyns to let her come
away to-day to make such a journey, at such a season, under
such guardianship. But it was not all that; she knew it was
not. The journey was a small matter; only a little piece of
disagreeableness that was well in keeping with her other
meditations. She was going home, and home had lost all its
fair-seeming; its honours were withered. It would be pleasant
indeed to be there again to nurse Hugh; but nurse him for
what? life or death? she did not like to think; and beyond
that she could fix upon nothing at all that looked bright in
the prospect; she almost thought herself wicked, but she could
not. If she might hope that her uncle would take hold of his
farm like a man, and redeem his character and his family's
happiness on the old place that would have been something;
but he had declared a different purpose, and Fleda knew him
too well to hope that he would be better than his word. Then
they must leave the old homestead, where at least the
associations of happiness clung, and go to a strange land. It
looked desolate to Fleda, wherever it might be. Leave Queechy!
that she loved unspeakably beyond any other place in the
world; where the very hills had been the friends of her
childhood, and where she had seen the maples grow green and
grow red, through as many coloured changes of her own
fortunes; the woods where the shade of her grandfather walked
with her, and where the presence even of her father could be
brought back by memory; where the air was sweeter and the
sunlight brighter; by far, than in any other place for both
had some strange kindred with the sunny days of long ago. Poor
Fleda turned her face from Mrs. Renney, and leaving doubtful
prospects and withering comforts for a while, as it were, out
of sight, she wept the fair outlines and the red maples of
Queechy, as if they had been all she had to regret. They had
never disappointed her. Their countenance had comforted her
many a time, under many a sorrow. After all, it was only fancy
choosing at which shrine the whole offering of sorrow should
be made. She knew that many of the tears that fell were due to
some other. It was in vain to tell herself they were selfish;
mind and body were in no condition to struggle with anything.
It had fallen dark some time, and she had wept and sorrowed
herself into a half-dozing state, when a few words spoken near
aroused her.
"It is snowing," was said by several voices.
"Going very slow, aint we?" said Fleda's friend, in a
suppressed voice.
"Yes, 'cause it's so dark, you see; the Captain durstn't let
her run."
Some poor witticism followed from a third party about the
"Butterfly's" having run herself off her legs the first time
she ever ran at all; and then Mrs. Renney went on.
"Is the storm so bad, Hannah?"
"Pretty thick can't see far ahead I hope we'll make out to
find our way in that's all I care for."
"How far are we?"
"Not half way yet I don't know depends on what headway we
make, you know; there aint much wind yet, that's a good
thing."
"There aint any danger, is there?"
This, of course, the chambermaid denied, and a whispered
colloquy followed, which Fleda did not try to catch. A new
feeling came upon her weary heart a feeling of fear. There
was a sad twinge of a wish that she were out of the boat, and
safe back again with the Evelyns; and a fresh sense of the
unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so
attended. And then, with that sickness of heart, the forlorn
feeling of being alone, of wanting some one at hand to depend
upon, to look to. It is true, that, in case of real danger,
none such could be a real protection; and yet lot so neither,
for strength and decision can live and make live, where a
moment's faltering will kill; and weakness must often falter
of necessity. "All the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth"
to his people; she thought of that, and yet she feared for
his ways are often what we do not like. A few moments of sick-
heartedness and trembling and then Fleda mentally folded her
arms about a few other words of the Bible, and laid her head
down in quiet again. "_The Lord is my refuge and my fortress:
my God: in him will I trust_."
And then what comes after
"_He shall cover thee with his feathers; and under his wings
shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler_."
Fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea.
"Bless me, how pale you are?" said the housekeeper, as Fleda
raised herself up at this summons; "do you feel very bad, Miss
Fleda?"
Fleda said "No."
"Are you frighted?" said the housekeeper "there's no need of
that Hannah says there's no need we'll be in by and by."
"No, Mrs. Renney," said Fleda, smiling. "I believe I am not
very strong yet."
The housekeeper and Hannah both looked at her with strangely
touched faces, and again begged her to try the refreshment of
tea. But Fleda would not go down, so they served her up there,
with great zeal and tenderness. And then she waited patiently
and watched the people in the cabin, as they sat gossiping in
groups, or stupefying in solitude; and thought how miserable a
thing is existence where religion and refinement have not
taught the mind to live in somewhat beyond and above its
every-day concerns.
Late at night the boat arrived safe at Bridgeport. Mrs. Renney
and Fleda had resolved to stay on board till morning, when the
former promised to take her to the house of a sister she had
living in the town; as the cars would not leave the place till
near eleven o'clock. Rest was not to be hoped for meantime in
the boat, on the miserable couch which was the best the cabin
could furnish; but Fleda was so thankful to have finished the
voyage in safety, that she took thankfully everything else,
even lying awake. It was a wild night. The wind rose soon
after they reached Bridgeport, and swept furiously over the
boat, rattling the tiller chains, and making Fleda so
nervously alive to possibilities that she got up two or three
times to see if the boat were fast to her moorings. It was
very dark, and only by a fortunately-placed lantern, she could
see a bit of the dark wharf and one of the posts belonging to
it, from which the lantern never budged; so, at last quieted,
or tired-out, nature had her rights, and she slept.
It was not refreshing rest after all, and Fleda was very glad
that Mrs. Renney's impatience for something comfortable made
her willing to be astir as early as there was any chance of
finding people up in the town. Few were abroad when they left
the boat, they two. Not a foot had printed the deep layer of
snow that covered the wharf. It had fallen thick during the
night. Just then it was not snowing; the clouds seemed to have
taken a recess, for they hung threatening yet; one uniform
leaden canopy was over the whole horizon.
"The snow aint done yet," said Mrs. Renney.
"No, but the worst of our journey is over," said Fleda. "I am
glad to be on the land."
"I hope we'll get something to eat here," said Mrs. Renney, as
they stepped along over the wharf. "They ought to be ashamed
to give people such a mess, when it's just as easy to have
things decent. My! how it has snowed! I declare, if I'd ha'
known, I'd ha' waited till somebody had tracked a path for us.
But I guess it's just as well we didn't; you look as like a
ghost as you can, Miss Fleda. You'll be better when you get
some breakfast. You'd better catch on to my arm I'll waken
up the seven sleepers but what I'll have something to put life
into you directly."
Fleda thanked her, but declined the proffered accommodation,
and followed her companion in the narrow beaten path a few
travellers had made in the street, feeling enough like a
ghost, if want of flesh and blood reality were enough. It
seemed a dream that she was walking through the grey light,
and the empty streets of the little town; everything looked
and felt so wild and strange.
If it was a dream, she was soon waked out of it. In the house,
where they were presently received and established in
sufficient comfort, there was such a little specimen of
masculine humanity as never showed his face in dream-land yet
a little bit of reality, enough to bring any dreamer to his
senses. He seemed to have been brought up on stove heat, for
he was all glowing yet from a very warm bed he had just
tumbled out of somewhere, and he looked at the pale thin
stranger by his mother's fire-place, as if she were an anomaly
in the comfortable world. If he could have contented himself
with looking! but he planted himself firmly on the rug, just
two feet from Fleda, and, with a laudable and most persistent
desire to examine into the causes of what he could not
understand, he commenced inquiring
"Are you cold? say! Are you cold? say!" in a tone most
provokingly made up of wonder and dulness. In vain Fleda
answered him, that she was not very cold, and would soon not
be cold at all by that good fire the question came again,
apparently in all its freshness, from the interrogator's mind
"Are you cold? say !"
And silence and words, looking grave and laughing, were alike
thrown away. Fleda shut her eyes at length, and used the small
remnant of her patience to keep herself quiet till she was
called to breakfast. After breakfast she accepted the offer of
her hostess to go up stairs and lie down till the cars were
ready; and there got some real and much needed refreshment of
sleep and rest.
It lasted longer than she had counted upon. For the cars were
not ready at eleven o'clock the snow last night had
occasioned some perplexing delays. It was not till near three
o'clock, that the often-despatched messenger to the depôt
brought back word that they might go as soon as they pleased.
It pleased Mrs. Renney to be in a great hurry, for her baggage
was in the cars, she said, and it would be dreadful if she and
it went different ways; so Fleda and her companion hastened
down to the station-house and chose their places some time
before anybody else thought of coming. They had a long, very
tiresome waiting to go through, and room for some uneasy
speculations about being belated and a night-journey. But
Fleda was stronger now, and bore it all with her usual patient
submission At length, by degrees, the people dropped in and
filled the cars, and they set off.
"How early do you suppose we shall reach Greenfield?" said
Fleda.
"Why, we ought to get there between nine and ten o'clock, I
should think," said her companion. "I hope the snow will hold
up till we get there."
Fleda thought it a hope very unlikely to be fulfilled. There
were as yet no snow-flakes to be seen near by, but, at a
little distance, the low clouds seemed already to enshroud
every clump of trees, and put a mist about every hill. They
surely would descend more palpably soon.
It was pleasant to be moving swiftly on again towards the end
of their journey, if Fleda could have rid herself of some
qualms about the possible storm and the certain darkness; they
might not reach Greenfield by ten o'clock; and she disliked
travelling in the night at any time. But she could do nothing,
and she resigned herself anew to the comfort and trust she had
built upon last night. She had the seat next the window, and
with a very sober kind of pleasure watched the pretty
landscape they were flitting by misty as her own prospects
darkening as they? no, she would not allow that thought. "
'Surely I know that it shall be well with them that fear God;'
and I can trust Him." And she found a strange sweetness in
that naked trust and clinging of faith, that faith never tried
never knows. But the breath of daylight was already gone,
though the universal spread of snow gave the eye a fair range
yet, white, white, as far as the view could reach, with that
light misty drapery round everything in the distance, and
merging into the soft grey sky; and every now and then, as the
wind served, a thick wreath of white vapour came by from the
engine and hid all, eddying past the windows, and then
skimming off away over the snowy ground from which it would
not lift; a more palpable veil for a moment of the distant
things and then broken, scattered, fragmentary, lovely in
its frailty, and evanishing. It was a pretty afternoon, but a
sober; and the bare, black, solitary trees near hand which the
cars flew by, looked to Fleda constantly like finger-posts of
the past; and back, at their bidding, her thoughts and her
spirits went, back and forward, comparing, in her own mental
view what had once been so gay and genial with its present
bleak and chill condition. And from this, in sudden contrast,
came a strangely fair and bright image of heaven its
exchange of peace for all this turmoil of rest for all this
weary bearing up of mind and body against the ills that beset
both of its quiet home for this unstable strange world,
where nothing is at a standstill of perfect and pure society
for the unsatisfactory and wearying friendships that the most
are here. The thought came to Fleda like one of those
unearthly clear north-western skies from which a storm-cloud
has rolled away, that seem almost to mock earth with their
distance from its defilement and agitations. "Truly I know
that it shall be well with them that fear God!" She could
remember Hugh she could not think of the words without him
and yet say them with the full bounding assurance. And in that
weary and uneasy afternoon, her mind rested and delighted
itself with two lines of George Herbert, that only a Christian
can well understand
"Thy power and love, my love and trust,
Make one place everywhere."
But the night fell, and Fleda at last could see nothing but
the dim rail-fences they were flying by, and the reflection
from some stationary lantern on the engine, or one of the
forward cars, that always threw a bright spot of light on the
snow. Still she kept her eyes fastened out of the window;
anything but the view _inboard_. They were going slowly now, and
frequently stopping; for they were out of time, and some other
trains were to be looked-out for. Nervous work; and whenever
they stopped, the voices which at other times were happily
drowned in the rolling of the car-wheels, rose and jarred in
discords far less endurable. Fleda shut her ears to the words,
but it was easy enough without words to understand the
indications of coarse and disagreeable natures in whose
neighbourhood she disliked to find herself of whose
neighbourhood she exceedingly disliked to be reminded. The
muttered oath, the more than muttered jest, the various laughs
that tell so much of head or heart emptiness the shadowy but
sure tokens of that in human nature which one would not
realize, and which one strives to forget; Fleda shrank within
herself, and would gladly have stopped her ears; did sometimes
covertly. Oh, if home could be but reached, and she out of
this atmosphere! how well she resolved that never another
time, by any motive of delicacy, or otherwise, she would be
tempted to trust herself in the like again without more than
womanly protection. The hours rolled wearily on; they heard
nothing of Greenfield yet.
They came at length to a more obstinate stop than usual. Fleda
took her hands from her ears to ask what was the matter.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Renney. "I hope they won't keep us a
great while waiting here."
The door swung open, and the red comforter and tarpaulin hat
of one of the breakmen showed itself a moment. Presently
after, "Can't get on," was repeated by several voices in the
various tones of assertion, interrogation, and impatience. The
women folks, having nobody to ask questions of, had nothing
for it but to be quiet and use their ears.
"Can't get on!" said another man, coming in "there's nothing
but snow out o' doors track's all foul."
A number of people instantly rushed out to see.
"Can't get on any further to-night?" asked a quiet old
gentleman of the news-bringer.
"Not another inch, Sir; worse off than old Dobbs was in the
mill-pond we've got half way, but we can't turn and go
back."
"And what are we going to do?" said an unhappy wight, not
quick in drawing conclusions.
"I s'pose we'll all be stiff by the morning," answered the
other, gravely "unless the wood holds out, which aint
likely."
How much there is in even a cheery tone of voice. Fleda was
sorry when this man took his away with him. There was a most
uncheering confusion of tongues for a few minutes among the
people he had left, and then the car was near deserted;
everybody went out to bring his own wits to bear upon the
obstacles in the way of their progress. Mrs. Renney observed
that she might as well warm her feet while she could, and went
to the stove for the purpose.
Poor Fleda felt as if she had no heart left. She sat still in
her place, and leaned her head upon the back of the deserted
chair before her, in utter inability to keep it up. The night
journey was bad enough, but _this_ was more than she had counted
upon. Danger, to be sure, there might be none in standing
still there all night, unless, perhaps, the danger of death
from the cold. She had heard of such things; but to sit there
till morning among all those people, and obliged to hear their
unloosed tongues, Fleda felt almost that she could not bear it
a most forlorn feeling, with which came anew a keen
reflection upon the Evelyns, for having permitted her to run
even the hazard of such trouble. And in the morning, if well
it came, who would take care of them in all the subsequent
annoyance and difficulty of getting out of the snow?
It must have taken very little time for these thoughts to run
through her head, for half a minute had not flown, when the
vacant seat beside her was occupied, and a band softly touched
one of hers which lay in her lap. Fleda started up in terror,
to have the hand taken and her eye met by Mr. Carleton.
"Mr. Carleton! O Sir, how glad I am to see you!" was said by
eye and cheek, as unmistakably as by word.
"Have you come from the clouds?"
"I might rather ask that question of you," said he, smiling.
"You have been invisible ever since the night when I had the
honour of playing the part of your physician."
"I could not help it, Sir I was sure you would believe it. I
wanted exceedingly to see you, and to thank you as well as I
could, but I was obliged to leave it."
She could hardly say so much. Her swimming eye gave him more
thanks than he wanted. But she scolded herself vigorously, and
after a few minutes, was able to look and speak again.
"I hoped you would not think me ungrateful, Sir, but in case
you might, I wrote to let you know that you were mistaken."
"You wrote to me?" said he.
"Yes, Sir, yesterday morning at least it put in the post
yesterday morning."
"It was more unnecessary than you are aware of," he said, with
a smile, and turning one of his deep looks away from her.
"Are we fast here for all night, Mr. Carleton!" she said,
presently.
"I am afraid so I believe so I have been out to examine,
and the storm is very thick."
"You need not look so about it for me," said Fleda "I don't
care for it all now."
And a long-drawn breath half told how much she had cared for
it, and what a burden was gone.
"You look very little like breasting hardships," said Mr.
Carleton, bending on her so exactly the look of affectionate
care that she had often had from him when she was a child,
that Fleda was very near overcome again.
"Oh, you know," she said, speaking by dint of great force upon
herself "you know the will is everything, and mine is very
good."
But he looked extremely unconvinced and unsatisfied.
"I am so comforted to see you sitting there, Sir," Fleda went
on gratefully, "that I am sure I can bear patiently all the
rest."
His eye turned away, and she did not know what to make of his
gravity. But a moment after, he looked again, and spoke with
his usual manner.
"That business you entrusted to me," he said, in a lower tone,
"I believe you will have no more trouble with it."
"So I thought! so I gathered, the other night," said Fleda,
her heart and her face suddenly full of many things.
"The note was given up I saw it burned."
Fleda's two hands clasped each other mutely.
"And will he be silent?"
"I think he will choose to be so, for his own sake."
The only sake that would avail in that quarter, Fleda knew.
How had Mr. Carleton ever managed it?
"And Charlton?" she said, after a few minutes' cheerful
musing.
"I had the pleasure of Captain Rossitur's company to breakfast
the next morning, and I am happy to report that there is no
danger of any trouble arising there."
"How shall I ever thank you, Sir!" said Fleda, with trembling
lips.
His smile was so peculiar, she almost thought he was going to
tell her. But just then, Mrs. Renney having accomplished the
desirable temperature of her feet, came back to warm her ears,
and placed herself on the next seat happily not the one
behind, but the one before them, where her eyes were thrown
away; and the lines of Mr. Carleton's mouth came back to their
usual quiet expression.
"You were in particular haste to reach home?" he asked.
Fleda said no, not in the abstract; it made no difference
whether to-day or to-morrow.
"You had heard no ill news of your cousin?"
"Not at all, but it is difficult to find an opportunity of
making the journey, and I thought I ought to come yesterday."
He was silent again; and the baffled seekers after ways and
means, who had gone out to try arguments upon the storm, began
to come pouring back into the car. And bringing with them not
only their loud and coarse voices, with every shade of
disagreeableness, aggravated by ill-humour, but also an
average amount of snow upon their hats and shoulders, the
place was soon full of a reeking atmosphere of great-coats.
Fleda was trying to put up her window, but Mr. Carleton gently
stopped her, and began bargaining with a neighbouring fellow-
traveller for the opening of his.
"Well, Sir, I'll open it if you wish it," said the man,
civilly, "but they say we sha'n't have nothing to make fires
with more than an hour or two longer; so maybe you'll think we
can't afford to let any too much cold in."
The gentleman however, persisting in his wish, and the wish
being moreover backed with those arguments to which every
grade of human reason is accessible, the window was opened. At
first the rush of fresh air was a great relief; but it was not
very long before the raw snowy atmosphere, which made its way
in, was felt to be more dangerous, if it was more endurable,
than the close pent-up one it displaced. Mr. Carleton ordered
the window closed again; and Fleda's glance of meek grateful
patience was enough to pay any reasonable man for his share of
the suffering. _Her_ share of it was another matter. Perhaps Mr.
Carleton thought so, for he immediately bent himself to reward
her and to avert the evil, and for that purpose brought into
play every talent of manner and conversation that could
beguile the time, and make her forget what she was among. If
success were his reward he had it. He withdrew her attention
completely from all that was around her, and without tasking
it; she could not have borne that. He did not seem to task
himself; but without making any exertion, he held her eye and
ear, and guarded both from communication with things
disagreeable. He knew it. There was not a change in her eye's
happy interest, till, in the course of the conversation, Fleda
happened to mention Hugh, and he noticed the saddening of the
eye immediately afterwards.
"Is he ill?" said Mr. Carleton.
"I don't know," said Fleda, faltering a little "he was not
very but a few weeks ago."
Her eye explained the broken sentences which there, in the
neighbourhood of other ears, she dared not finish.
"He will be better after he has seen you," said Mr. Carleton,
gently.
"Yes."
A very sorrowful and uncertain "yes," with an "if" in the
speaker's mind, which she did not bring out.
"Can you sing your old song yet?" said Mr. Carleton, softly
"Yet one thing secures us,
Whatever betide?"
But Fleda burst into tears.
"Forgive me," he whispered, earnestly, "for reminding you of
that you did not need it, and I have only troubled you."
"No, Sir, you have not," said Fleda "it did not trouble me,
and Hugh knows it better than I do. I cannot bear anything to-
night I believe"
"So you have remembered that, Mr. Carleton?" she said, a
minute after.
"Do you remember that?" said he, putting her old little Bible
into her hand.
Fleda seized it, but she could hardly bear the throng of
images that started up around it. The smooth worn cover
brought so back the childish happy days when it had been her
constant companion the shadows of the Queechy of old, and
Cynthia and her grandfather, and the very atmosphere of those
times when she had led a light-hearted strange wild life all
alone with them, reading the Encyclopaedia, and hunting out
the wood-springs. She opened the book and slowly turned over
the leaves where her father's hand had drawn those lines of
remark and affection round many a passage the very look of
them she knew; but she could not see it now, for her eyes were
dim, and tears were dropping fast into her lap she hoped Mr.
Carleton did not see them, but she could not help it; she
could only keep the book out of the way of being blotted. And
there were other and later associations she had with it too
how dear! how tender! how grateful!
Mr. Carleton was quite silent for a good while till the
tears had ceased; then he bent towards her so as to be heard
no further off.
"It has been for many years my best friend and companion," he
said, in a low tone.
Fleda could make no answer, even by look.
"At first," he went on, softly, "I had a strong association of
you with it; but the time came when I lost that entirely, and
itself quite swallowed up the thought of the giver."
A quick glance and smile told how well Fleda understood, how
heartily she was pleased with that. But she instantly looked
away again.
"And now," said Mr. Carleton, after a pause "for some time
past, I have got the association again; and I do not choose to
have it so. I have come to the resolution to put the book back
into your hands, and not receive it again, unless the giver go
with the gift."
Fleda looked up, a startled look of wonder, into his face, but
the dark eye left no doubt of the meaning of his words; and in
unbounded confusion she turned her own and her attention,
ostensibly, to the book in her hand, though sight and sense
were almost equally out of her power. For a few minutes poor
Fleda felt as if all sensation had retreated to her finger-
ends. She turned the leaves over and over, as if willing to
cheat herself or her companion into the belief that she had
something to think of there, while associations and images of
the past were gone with a vengeance, swallowed up in a
tremendous reality of the present; and the book, which a
minute ago was her father's Bible, was now, what was it?
something of Mr. Carleton's, which she must give back to him.
But still she held it and looked at it conscious of no one
distinct idea but that, and a faint one besides, that he might
like to be repossessed of his property in some reasonable time
time like everything else was in a whirl? the only steady
thing in creation seemed to be that perfectly still and
moveless figure by her side till her trembling fingers
admonished her they would not be able to hold anything much
longer; and gently and slowly, without looking, her hand put
the book back towards Mr. Carleton. That both were detained
together she knew, but hardly felt; the thing was that she
had given it!
There was no other answer; and there was no further need that
Mr. Carleton should make any efforts for diverting her from
the scene and the circumstances where they were. Probably he
knew that, for he made none. He was perfectly silent for a
long time, and Fleda was deaf to any other voice that could be
raised, near or far. She could not even think.
Mrs. Renney was happily snoring, and most of the other people
had descended into their coat collars, or, figuratively
speaking, had lowered their blinds by tilting over their hats
in some uncomfortable position that signified sleep; and
comparative quiet had blessed the place for some time; as
little noticed, indeed, by Fleda, as noise would have been.
The sole thing that she clearly recognized in connexion with
the exterior world, was that clasp in which one of her hands
lay. She did not know that the car had grown quiet, and that
only an occasional grunt of ill-humour or waking-up colloquy
testified that it was the unwonted domicile of a number of
human beings, who were harbouring there in a disturbed state
of mind. But this state of things could not last. The time
came that had been threatened, when their last supply of
extrinsic warmth was at an end. Despite shut windows, the
darkening of the stove was presently followed by a very
sensible and fast-increasing change of temperature; and this
addition to their causes of discomfort roused every one of the
company from his temporary lethargy. The growl of dissatisfied
voices awoke again, more gruff than before; the spirit of
jesting had long languished, and now died outright, and in its
stead came some low, and deep, and bitter-spoken curses. Poor
Mrs. Renney shook off her somnolency and shook her shoulders,
a little business shake, admonitory to herself to keep cool;
and Fleda came to the consciousness that some very
disagreeable chills were making their way over her.
"Are you warm enough?" said Mr. Carleton, suddenly, turning to
her.
"Not quite," said Fleda, hesitating; "I feel the cold a
little. Please don't, Mr. Carleton!" she added, earnestly, as
she saw him preparing to throw off his cloak, the identical
black fox which Constance had described, with so much
vivacity; "pray do not. I am not very cold I can bear a
little I am not so tender as you think me; I do not need it,
and you would feel the want very much after wearing it. I
won't put it on."
But he smilingly bade her "stand up," stooping down and taking
one of her hands to enforce his words, and giving her, at the
same time, the benefit of one of those looks of good-humoured
wilfulness to which his mother always yielded, and to which
Fleda yielded instantly, though with a colour considerably
heightened at the slight touch of peremptoriness in his tone.
"You are not offended with me, Elfie?" he said, in another
manner, when she had sat down again, and he was arranging the
heavy folds of the cloak.
Offended! a glance answered.
"You shall have everything your own way," he whispered,
gently, as he stooped down to bring the cloak under her feet,
"_except yourself_."
What good care should be taken of that exception was said in
the dark eye at which Fleda hardly ventured half a glance. She
had much ado to command herself.
She was shielded again from all the sights and sounds within
reach. She was in a maze. The comfort of the fur-cloak was
curiously mixed with the feeling of something else, of which
that was an emblem a surrounding of care and strength which
would effectually be exerted for her protection somewhat
that Fleda had not known for many a long day the making up
of the old want. Fleda had it in her heart to cry like a baby.
Such a dash of sunlight had fallen at her feet that she hardly
dared look at it for fear of being dazzled; but she could not
look anywhere that she did not see the reflection.
In the mean time the carful of people settled again into
sullen quietude. The cold was not found propitious to
quarrelling. Those who could subsided again into lethargy;
those who could not, gathered in their outposts to make the
best defence they might of the citadel. Most happily it was
not an extreme night; cold enough to be very disagreeable, and
even (without a fur-cloak) dangerous; but not enough to put
even noses and ears in immediate jeopardy. Mr. Carleton had
contrived to procure a comfortable wrapper for Mrs. Renney,
from a Yankee, who, for the sake of being a "warm man" as to
his pockets, was willing to be cold otherwise for a time. The
rest of the great-coats and cloaks, which were so alert and
erect a little while ago, were doubled up on every side in all
sorts of despondent attitudes. A dull quiet brooded over the
assembly, and Mr. Carleton walked up and down the vacant
space. Once he caught an anxious glance from Fleda, and came
immediately to her side.
"You need not be troubled about me," he said, with a most
genial smile; "I am not suffering never was farther from it
in my life."
Fleda could neither answer nor look.
"There are not many hours of the night to wear out," he said.
"Can't you follow your neighbour's example?"
She shook her head.
"This watching is too hard for you. You will have another
headache to-morrow."
"No, perhaps not," she said, with a grateful look up.
"You do not feel the cold now, Elfie?"
"Not at all not in the least I am perfectly comfortable
I am doing very well."
He stood still, and the changing lights and shades on Fleda's
cheek grew deeper.
"Do you know where we are, Mr. Carleton?"
"Somewhere between a town the name of which I have forgotten,
and a place called Quarrenton, I think; and Quarrenton, they
tell me, is but a few miles from Greenfield. Our difficulties
will vanish, I hope, with the darkness."
He walked again, and Fleda mused, and wondered at herself in
the black fox. She did not venture another look, though her
eye took in nothing very distinctly but the outlines of that
figure passing up and down through the car. He walked
perseveringly; and weariness at last prevailed over everything
else with Fleda; she lost herself, with her head leaning
against the bit of wood between the windows.
The rousing of the great-coats, and the growing gray light,
roused her before her uneasy sleep had lasted an hour. The
lamps were out, the car was again spotted with two long rows
of window-panes, through which the light as yet came but
dimly. The morning had dawned at last, and seemed to have
brought with it a fresh accession of cold, for everybody was
on the stir. Fleda put up her window to get a breath of fresh
air, and see how the day looked.
A change of weather had come with the dawn. It was not fine
yet. The snowing had ceased, but the clouds hung overhead
still, though not with the leaden uniformity of yesterday;
they were higher, and broken into many a soft, gray fold, that
promised to roll away from the sky by and by. The snow was
deep on the ground; every visible thing lapped in a thick
white covering; a still, very grave, very pretty winter
landscape, but somewhat dreary in its aspect, to a trainful of
people fixed in the midst of it, out of sight of human
habitation. Fleda felt that; but only in the abstract to her
it did not seem dreary; she enjoyed the wild, solitary beauty
of the scene very much, with many a grateful thought of what
might have been. As it was, she left difficulties entirely to
others.
As soon as it was light, the various inmates of the strange
dormitory gathered themselves up, and set out on foot for
Quarrenton. By one of them Mr. Carleton sent an order for a
sleigh, which in as short a time as possible arrived, and
transported him and Fleda, and Mrs. Renney, and one other ill-
bestead woman, safely to the little town of Quarrenton.