"Welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day
smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!"
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST.
It had been a wild night, and the morning looked scared.
Perhaps it was only the particular locality, for if ever a
place showed bleak and winter-stricken, the little town of
Quarrenton was in that condition that morning. The snow
overlaid and enveloped everything, except where the wind had
been at work; and the wind and the gray clouds seemed the only
agencies abroad. Not a ray of sunlight to relieve the uniform
sober tints, the universal gray and white, only varied where a
black house-roof, partially cleared, or a blacker bare-
branched tree, gave it a sharp interruption. There was not a
solitary thing that bore an indication of comfortable life,
unless the curls of smoke that went up from the chimneys; and
Fleda was in no condition to study their physiognomy.
A little square hotel, perched alone on a rising ground,
looked the especial bleak and unpromising spot of the place.
It bore, however, the imposing title of the Pocahontas; and
there the sleigh set them down.
They were ushered upstairs into a little parlour, furnished in
the usual style, with one or two articles a great deal too
showy for the place, and a general dearth as to the rest. A
lumbering mahogany sofa, that showed as much wood and as
little promise as possible, a marble-topped centre-table,
chairs in the minority, and curtains minus, and the hearth-rug
providently turned bottom upwards. On the centre-table lay a
pile of Penny Magazines, a volume of' selections of poetry
from various good authors, and a sufficient complement of
newspapers. The room was rather cold, but of that the waiter
gave a reasonable explanation in the fact that the fire had
not been burning long.
Furs, however, might be dispensed with, or Fleda thought so;
and taking off her bonnet, she endeavoured to rest her weary
head against the sharp-cut top of the sofa-back, which seemed
contrived expressly to punish and forbid all attempts at ease-
seeking. The mere change of position was still comparative
ease. But the black fox had not done duty yet. Its ample folds
were laid over the sofa, cushion, back, and all, so as at once
to serve for pillow and mattress; and Fleda being gently
placed upon it, laid her face down again upon the soft fur,
which gave a very kindly welcome not more to the body than to
the mind. Fleda almost smiled as she felt that. The furs were
something more than a pillow for her cheek they were the
soft image of somewhat for her mind to rest on. But entirely
exhausted, too much for smiles or tears, though both were
near, she resigned herself as helplessly as an infant to the
feeling of rest; and, in five minutes, was in a state of
dreamy unconsciousness.
Mrs. Renney, who had slept a great part of the night, courted
sleep anew in the rocking-chair, till breakfast should be
ready; the other woman had found quarters in the lower part of
the house; and Mr. Carleton stood still, with folded arms, to
read at his leisure the fair face that rested so confidingly
upon the black fur of his cloak, looking so very fair in the
contrast. It was the same face he had known in time past the
same, with only an alteration that had added new graces, but
had taken away none of the old. Not one of the soft outlines
had grown hard under Time's discipline: not a curve had lost
its grace, or its sweet mobility; and yet the hand of Time had
been there; for on brow and lip, and cheek and eyelid, there
was that nameless, grave composure, which said touchingly,
that hope had long ago clasped hands with submission. And,
perhaps, that if hope's anchor had not been well placed, ay,
even where it could not be moved, the storms of life might
have beaten even hope from her ground, and made a clean sweep
of desolation over all she had left. Not the storms of the
last few weeks. Mr. Carleton saw and understood their work in
the perfectly colourless and thin cheek. But these other finer
drawn characters had taken longer to write. He did not know
the instrument, but he read the handwriting, and came to his
own resolutions therefrom.
Yet if not untroubled, she had remained unspotted by the
world; that was as clear as the other. The slight eyebrow sat
with its wonted calm purity of outline just where it used; the
eyelid fell as quietly; the forehead above it was as
unruffled; and if the mouth had a subdued gravity that it had
taken years to teach, it had neither lost any of the
sweetness, nor any of the simplicity of childhood. It was a
strange picture that Mr. Carleton was looking at strange for
its rareness. In this very matter of simplicity, that the
world will never leave those who belong to it. Half sitting
and half reclining, she had given herself to rest with the
abandonment and self-forgetfulness of a child; her attitude
had the very grace of a child's unconsciousness; and her face
showed that, even in placing herself there, she had lost all
thought of any other presence or any other eyes than her own;
even of what her hand and cheek lay upon, and what it
betokened. It meant something to Mr. Carleton, too; and if
Fleda could have opened her eyes, she would have seen in those
that were fixed upon her a happy promise for her future life.
She was beyond making any such observations; and Mrs. Renney
gave no interruption to his till the breakfast bell rang.
Mr. Carleton had desired the meal to be served in a private
room. But he was met with a speech in which such a confusion
of arguments endeavoured to persuade him to be of another
mind, that he had at last given way. It was asserted that the
ladies would have their breakfast a great deal quicker, and a
great deal hotter, with the rest of the company; and in the
same breath that it would be a very great favour to the house
if the gentleman would not put them to the inconvenience of
setting a separate table; the reasons of which inconvenience
were set forth in detail, or would have been if the gentleman
would have heard them; and desirous especially of haste, on
Fleda's account, Mr. Carleton signified his willingness to let
the house accommodate itself. Following the bell, a waiter now
came to announce and conduct them to their breakfast.
Down the stairs, through sundry narrow turning passages, they
went to a long low room at one corner of the house; where a
table was spread for a very nondescript company, as it soon
proved, many of their last night's companions having found
their way thither. The two ladies, however, were given the
chief posts at the head, as near as possible to a fiery hot
stove, and served with tea and coffee from a neighbouring
table, by a young lady in long ringlets, who was there
probably for their express honour. But, alas for the
breakfast! They might as good have had the comfort of a
private room, for there was none other to be had. Of the tea
and coffee it might be said, as once it was said of two bad
roads "whichever one you take, you will wish you had taken
the other;" the beefsteak was a problem of impracticability;
and the chickens Fleda could not help thinking, that a well-
to-do rooster which she saw flapping his wings in the yard,
must, in all probability, be at that very moment endeavouring
to account for a sudden breach in his social circle; and if
the oysters had been some very fine ladies, they could hardly
have retained less recollection of their original
circumstances. It was in vain to try to eat or to drink; and
Fleda returned to her sofa with even an increased appetite for
rest, the more that her head began to take its revenge for the
trials to which it had been put the past day and night.
She had closed her eyes again in her old position. Mrs. Renney
was tying her bonnet-strings. Mr. Carleton was pacing up and
down.
"Aren't you going to get ready, Miss Ringgan?" said the
former.
"How soon will the cars be here?" exclaimed Fleda, starting
up.
"Presently," said Mr. Carleton; "but," said he, coming up to
her and taking her hands "I am going to prescribe for you
again will you let me?"
Fleda's face gave small promise of opposition.
"You are not fit to travel now. You need some hours of quiet
rest before we go any further."
"But when shall we get home?" said Fleda.
"In good time not by the railroad there is a nearer way
that will take us to Queechy without going through Greenfield.
I have ordered a room to be made ready for you will you try
if it be habitable?"
Fleda submitted; and, indeed, there was in his manner a sort
of gentle determination to which few women would have opposed
themselves; besides that, her head threatened to make a
journey a miserable business.
"You are ill now," said Mr. Carleton. "Cannot you induce your
companion to stay and attend you?"
"I don't want her," said Fleda.
Mr. Carleton, however, mooted the question himself with Mrs.
Renney, but she represented to him, though with much
deference, that the care of her property must oblige her to go
where and when it went. He rang, and ordered the housekeeper
to be sent.
Presently after, a young lady in ringlets entered the room,
and first taking a somewhat leisurely survey of the company,
walked to the window, and stood there looking out. A dim
recollection of her figure and air made Fleda query whether
she were not the person sent for; but it was several minutes
before it came into Mr. Carleton's head to ask if she belonged
to the house.
"I do, Sir," was the dignified answer.
"Will you show this lady the room prepared for her. And take
care that she wants nothing."
The owner of the ringlets answered not, but turning the front
view of them full upon Fleda, seemed to intimate that she was
ready to act as her guide. She hinted, however, that the rooms
were very _airy_ in winter, and that Fleda would stand a better
chance of comfort where she was. But this Fleda would not
listen to, and followed her adviser to the half-warmed, and
certainly very airy apartment which had been got ready for
her. It was probably more owing to something in her own
appearance, than to Mr. Carleton's word of admonition on the
subject, that her attendant was really assiduous and kind.
"Be you of this country?" she said, abruptly, after her good
offices, as Fleda thought, were ended, and she had just closed
her eyes.
She opened them again, and said "Yes."
"Well, that aint in the parlour, is he?"
"What?" said Fleda.
"One of our folks?"
"An American, you mean? No."
"I thought he wa'n't What is he?"
"He is English."
"Is he your brother?"
"No."
The young lady gave her a good look out of her large dark
eyes, and remarking that "she thought they didn't look much
like," left the room.
The day was spent by poor Fleda between pain and stupor, each
of which acted in some measure to check the other too much
exhausted for nervous pain, to reach the height it sometimes
did, while yet that was sufficient to prevent stupor from
sinking into sleep. Beyond any power of thought, or even
fancy, with only a dreamy succession of images flitting across
her mind, the hours passed, she knew not how; that they did
pass, she knew from her handmaid in the long curls, who was
every now and then coming in to look at her, and give her
fresh water; it needed no ice. Her handmaid told her that the
cars were gone by that it was near noon then, that it was
past noon. There was no help for it; she could only lie still
and wait; it was long past noon before she was able to move;
and she was looking ill enough yet, when she at last opened
the door of the parlour and slowly presented herself.
Mr. Carleton was there alone, Mrs. Renney having long since
accompanied her baggage. He came forward instantly, and led
Fleda to the sofa, with such gentle, grave kindness, that she
could hardly bear it; her nerves had been in an unsteady state
all day. A table was set, and partially spread with evidently
much more care than the one of the morning, and Fleda sat
looking at it, afraid to trust herself to look anywhere else.
For years she had been taking care of others, and now there
was something so strange in this feeling of being cared for,
that her heart was full. Whatever Mr. Carleton saw or
suspected of this, it did not appear. On the contrary, his
manner and his talk on different matters was as cool, as
quiet, as graceful, as if neither he nor Fleda had anything
particular to think of; avoiding even an allusion to whatever
might in the least distress her. Fleda thought she had a great
many reasons to be grateful to him, but she never thanked him
for anything more than at that moment she thanked him for the
delicacy which so regarded her delicacy, and put her in a few
minutes completely at her ease as she could be.
The refreshments were presently brought, and Fleda was served
with them in a way that went, as far as possible, towards
making them satisfactory; but, though a great improvement upon
the morning, they furnished still but the substitute for a
meal. There was a little pause then, after the horses were
ordered.
"I am afraid you have wanted my former prescription to-day,"
said Mr. Carleton, after considering the little-improved
colour of Fleda's face.
"I have, indeed."
"Where is it?"
Fleda hesitated, and then, in a little confusion, said, she
supposed it was lying on Mrs. Evelyn's centre-table.
"How happens that?" said he, smiling.
"Because I could not help it, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, with
no little difficulty; "I was foolish, I could not bring it
away."
He understood and was silent.
"Are you fit to bear a long ride in the cold?" he said,
compassionately, a few minutes after.
"Oh, yes; it will do me good."
"You have had a miserable day, have you not?"
"My head has been pretty bad," said Fleda, a little evasively.
"Well, what would you have?" said he, lightly; "doesn't that
make a miserable day of it?"
Fleda hesitated and coloured, and then, conscious that her
cheeks were answering for her, coloured so exceedingly, that
she was fain to put both her hands up to hide what they only
served the more plainly to show. No advantage was taken. Mr.
Carleton said nothing; she could not see what answer might be
in his face. It was only by a peculiar quietness in his tone
whenever he spoke to her afterwards that Fleda knew she had
been thoroughly understood. She dared not lift her eyes.
They had soon employment enough around her. A sleigh and
horses, better than anything else Quarrenton had been known to
furnish, were carrying her rapidly towards home, the weather
had perfectly cleared off, and in full brightness and fairness
the sun was shining upon a brilliant world. It was cold
indeed, though the only wind was that made by their progress;
but Fleda had been again unresistingly wrapped in the furs,
and was, for the time, beyond the reach of that or any other
annoyance. She sat silently and quietly enjoying; so quietly
that a stranger might have questioned there being any
enjoyment in the case. It was a very picturesque, broken
country, fresh covered with snow; and at that hour, late in
the day, the lights and shadows were a constantly varying
charm to the eye. Clumps of evergreens stood out in full
disclosure against the white ground; the bare branches of
neighbouring trees in all their barrenness, had a wild
prospective or retrospective beauty peculiar to themselves. On
the wavy white surface of the meadow land, or the steep hill-
sides, lay every variety of shadow in blue and neutral tint;
where they lay not, the snow was too brilliant to be borne.
And afar off, through a heaven, bright and cold enough to hold
the canopy over winter's head, the ruler of the day was gently
preparing to say good-bye to the world. Fleda's eye seemed to
be new set for all forms of beauty, and roved from one to the
other as grave and bright as nature itself.
For a little way, Mr. Carleton left her to her musings, and
was as silent as she. But then he gently drew her into a
conversation that broke up the settled gravity of her face,
and obliged her to divide her attention between nature and
him, and his part of it he knew how to manage. But though eye
and smile constantly answered him, he could win neither to a
straightforward bearing.
They were about a mile from Queechy, when Fleda suddenly
exclaimed
"Oh, Mr. Carleton, please stop the sleigh!"
The horses were stopped.
"It is only Earl Douglass, our farmer," Fleda said, in
explanation: "I want to ask how they are at home?"
In answer to her nod of recognition, Mr. Douglass came to the
side of the vehicle; but till he was there, close, gave her no
other answer by word or sign; when there, broke forth his
accustomed guttural "How d'ye do?"
"How d'ye do, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda. "How are they all at
home?"
"Well, there aint nothin' new among 'em, as I've heerd on,"
said Earl, diligently though stealthily, at the same time
qualifying himself to make a report of Mr. Carleton. "I guess
they'll be glad to see you. _I_ be."
"Thank you, Mr. Douglass. How is Hugh?"
"He aint nothin' different from what he's been for a spell
back at least I ain't heerd that he was. Maybe he is, but if
he is, I ha'n't heerd speak of it, and if he was, I think I
should ha' heerd speak of it. He was pretty bad a spell ago
about when you went away but he's been better sen. So they
say. I ha'n't seen him. Well Flidda," he added, with somewhat
of a sly gleam in his eye, "do you think you're going to make
up your mind to stay to hum this time?"
"I have no immediate intention of running away, Mr. Douglass,"
said Fleda, her pale cheeks turning rose as she saw him
looking curiously up and down the edges of the black fox. His
eye came back to hers with a good- humoured intelligence that
she could hardly stand.
"It's time you was back," said he. "Your uncle's to hum, but
he don't do me much good, whatever he does to other folks, or
himself nother, as far as the farm goes; there's that corn "
"Very well, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda, "I shall be at home
now, and I'll see about it."
"_Very_ good!" said Earl, as he stepped back, "Queechy can't get
along without you, that's no mistake."
They drove on a few minutes in silence.
"Aren't you thinking, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, "that my
countrymen are a strange mixture?"
"I was not thinking of them at all at this moment. I believe
such a notion has crossed my mind."
"It has crossed mine very often," said Fleda.
"How do you read them? What is the basis of it?"
"I think, the strong self-respect which springs from the
security and importance that republican institutions give
every man. But," she added, colouring, "I have seen very
little of the world, and ought not to judge."
"I have no doubt you are quite right," said Mr. Carleton,
smiling. "But don't you think an equal degree of self-respect
may consist with giving honour where honour is due?"
"Yes," said Fleda, a little doubtfully, "where religion and
not republicanism is the spring of it."
"Humility and not pride," said he. "Yes, you are right."
"My countrymen do yield honour where they think it is due,"
said Fleda, "especially where it is not claimed. They must
give it to reality, not to pretension. And, I confess, I would
rather see them a little rude in their independence, than
cringing before mere advantages of external position even
for my own personal pleasure."
"I agree with you, Elfie, putting, perhaps, the last clause
out of the question."
"Now, that man," said Fleda, smiling at his look "I suppose
his address must have struck you as very strange; and yet
there was no want of respect under it. I am sure he has a true
thorough respect, and even regard for me, and would prove it
on any occasion."
"I have no doubt of that."
"But it does not satisfy you?"
"Not quite. I confess I should require more from any one under
my control."
"Oh, nobody is under control here," said Fleda. "That is, I
mean, individual control, unless so far as self-interest comes
in. I suppose that is all-powerful here as elsewhere."
"And the reason it gives less power to individuals is, that
the greater freedom of resources makes no man's interest
depend so absolutely on one other man. That is a reason you
cannot regret. No, your countrymen have the best of it, Elfie.
But, do you suppose that this is a fair sample of the whole
country?"
"I dare not say that," said Fleda. "I am afraid there is not
so much intelligence and cultivation everywhere. But I am sure
there are many parts of the land that will bear a fair
comparison with it."
"It is more than I would dare say for my own land."
"I should think" Fleda suddenly stopped.
"What?" said Mr. Carleton, gently.
"I beg your pardon, Sir I was going to say something very
presumptuous."
"You cannot," he said in the same tone.
"I was going to say," said Fleda, blushing, "that I should
think there might be a great deal of pleasure in raising the
tone of mind and character among the people, as one could who
had influence over a large neighbourhood."
His smile was very bright in answer.
"I have been trying that, Elfie, for the last eight years."
Fleda's eye looked now eagerly in pleasure and in curiosity
for more. But he was silent.
"I was thinking a little while ago," he said, "of the time,
once before, when I rode here with you when you were
beginning to lead me to the problem I have been trying to work
out ever since. When I left you in Paris, I went to resolve
with myself the question, What I had to do in the world? Your
little Bible was my invaluable help. I had read very little of
it when I threw aside all other books; and my problem was soon
solved. I saw that the life has no honour nor value which is
not spent to the glory of God. I saw the end I was made for
the happiness I was fitted for the dignity to which even a
fallen creature may rise, through his dear Redeemer and
Surety."
Fleda's eyes were down now. Mr. Carleton was silent a moment,
watching one or two bright witnesses that fell from them.
"The next conclusion was easy that my work was at home I
have wanted my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on, smiling.
"But I hope she will be contented to carry the standard of
Christianity, without that of republicanism."
"But Christianity tends directly to republicanism, Mr.
Carleton," said Fleda, trying to laugh.
"I know that," said he, smiling "and I am willing to know
it. But the leaven of truth is one thing, and the powder train
of the innovator is another."
Fleda sat thinking that she had very little in common with the
layers of powder trains. She did not know the sleigh was
passing Deepwater lake, till Mr. Carleton said
"I am glad, my dear Elfie, for your sake, that we are almost
at the end of your journey."
"I should think you might be glad for your own sake, Mr.
Carleton."
"No my journey is not ended "
"Not?"
"No it will not be ended till I get back to New York, or
rather till I find myself here again I shall make very
little delay there "
"But you will not go any further to-night?" said Fleda, her
eye this time meeting his fully.
"Yes I must take the first train to New York. I have some
reason to expect my mother by this steamer."
"Back to New York!" said Fleda. "Then taking care of me has
just hindered you in your business."
But even as she spoke, she read the truth in his eye, and her
own fell in confusion.
"My business?" said he, smiling; "you know it now, Elfie. I
arrived at Mrs. Evelyn's just after you had quitted it,
intending to ask you to take the long-talked-of drive; and
learned, to my astonishment, that you had left the city, and,
as Edith kindly informed me, under no better guardianship than
that in which I found you. I was just in time to reach the
boat."
"And you ere in the boat night before last?"
"Certainly."
"I should have felt a great deal easier if I had known that,"
said Fleda.
"So should I," said he; "but you were invisible, till I
discerned you in the midst of a crowd of people before me in
the car."
Fleda was silent, till the sleigh stopped, and Mr. Carleton
had handed her out.
"What's going to be done with this here trunk?" said heir
driver, trying a tug at one handle.
"I will send somebody down to help you with it," said Fleda.
"It is too heavy for one alone."
"Well, I reckon it is," said he. "I guess you didn't know I
was a cousin, did you?"
"No," said Fleda.
"I believe I be."
"Who are you?"
"I am Pierson Barnes. I live to Quarrenton for a year back.
Squire Joshua Springer's your uncle, aint he?"
"Yes, my father's uncle."
"Well, he's mine too. His sister's my mother."
"I'll send somebody to help you, Mr. Barnes."
She took Mr. Carleton's arm, and walked half the way up to the
house without daring to look at him.
"Another specimen of your countrymen," he said, smiling.
There was nothing but quiet amusement in the tone, and there
was not the shadow of anything else in his face. Fleda looked,
and thanked him mentally, and drew breath easier. At the
house-door he made a pause.
"You are coming in, Mr. Carleton?"
"Not now."
"It is a long drive to Greenfield, Mr. Carleton; you must
not turn away from a country-house till we have shown
ourselves unworthy to live in it. You will come in and let us
give you something more substantial than those Quarrenton
oysters. Do not say no," she said, earnestly, as she saw a
refusal in his eye "I know what you are thinking of, but
they do not know that you have been told anything it makes
no difference."
She laid her gentle detaining hand, as irresistible in its way
as most things, upon his arm, and he followed her in.
Only Hugh was in the sitting-room, and n a great easy-chair by
the fire. It struck to Fleda's heart; but there was no time
but for a flash of thought. He had turned his face and saw
her. Fleda meant to have controlled herself and presented Mr.
Carleton properly, but Hugh started up; he saw nothing but
herself, and one view of the ethereal delicacy of his face
made Fleda for a moment forget everything but him. They were
in each other's arms, and then still as death. Hugh was
unconscious that a stranger was there, and though Fleda was
very conscious that one was there who was no stranger there
was so much in both hearts, so much of sorrow and joy, and
gratitude and tenderness, on the one part and on the other, so
much that even if they had been alone lips could only have
said silently that for a little while they kissed each other
and wept in a passionate attempt to speak what their hearts
were too full of.
Fleda at last whispered to Hugh that somebody else was there,
and turned to make, as well as she might, the introduction.
But Mr. Carleton did not need it, and made his own with that
singular talent which in all circumstances, wherever he chose
to exert it, had absolute power. Fleda saw Hugh's countenance
change, with a kind of pleased surprise, and herself stood
still under the charm for a minute; then she recollected she
might be dispensed with. She took up her little spaniel, who
was in an agony of gratulation at her feet, and went out into
the kitchen.
"Well, do you mean to say you are here at last?" said Barby,
her gray eyes flashing pleasure as she came forward to take
the half hand which, owing to King's monopoly, was all Fleda
had to give her. "Have you come home to stay, Fleda?"
"I am tired enough to be quiet," said Fleda. "But, dear Barby,
what have you got in the house? I want supper as quickly as
it can be had."
"Well, you do look dreadful bad," said Barby eyeing her. "Why,
there aint much particular, Fleda; nobody's had any heart to
eat lately; I thought I might a'most as well save myself the
fuss of getting victuals. Hugh lives like a bird, and Mis'
Rossitur aint much better, and I think all of 'em have been
keeping their appetites till you came back; 'cept Philetus and
me; we keep it up pretty well. Why, you're come home hungry,
aint you?"
"No, not I," said Fleda; "but there's a gentleman here that
came with me that must have something before he goes away
again. What have you, Barby?"
"Who is he?" said Barby.
"A friend that took care of me on the way I'll tell you
about it; but, in the meantime, supper, Barby."
"Is he a New Yorker, that one must be curious for?"
"As curious as you like," said Fleda, "but he is not a New
Yorker."
"Where _is_ he from, then?" said Barby, who was busily putting
on the tea-kettle.
"England."
"England!" said Barby, facing about. "Oh, if he's an
Englishman, I don't care for him, Fleda."
"But you care for me," said Fleda, laughing; "and for my sake
don't let our hospitality fail to somebody who has been very
kind to me, if he is an Englishman; and he is in haste to be
off."
"Well, I don't know what we're a-going to give him," said
Barby, looking at her. "There aint much in the pantry besides
cold pork and beans, that Philetus and me made our dinner on
they wouldn't have it in there, and eat nothing but some
pickerel the doctor sent down and cold fish aint good for
much."
"None of them left uncooked?"
"Yes, there's a couple he sent a great lot I guess he
thought there was more in the family but two aint enough to
go round; they're little ones."
"No, but put them down, and I'll make an omelette. Just get
the things ready for me, Barby, will you, while I run up to
see aunt Lucy. The hens have begun to lay?"
"La, yes Philetus fetches in lots of eggs he loves 'em, I
reckon but you aint fit this minute to do a thing but rest,
Fleda."
"I'll rest afterwards. Just get the things ready for me,
Barby, and an apron; and the table I'll be down in a minute.
And, Barby, grind some coffee, will you?"
But, as she turned to run upstairs, her uncle stood in her
way, and the supper vanished from Fleda's head. His arms were
open, and she was silently clasped in them, with so much
feeling on both sides, that thought, and well nigh strength,
for anything else on her part was gone. His smothered words of
deep blessing overcame her. Fleda could do nothing but sob, in
distress, till she recollected Barby. Putting her arms round
his neck, then she whispered to him that Mr. Carleton was in
the other room, and shortly explained how he came to be there,
and begged her uncle would go in and see him till supper
should be ready. Enforcing this request with a parting kiss on
his cheek, she ran off up stairs. Mr. Rossitur looked
extremely moody and cloudy for a few minutes, and then went in
and joined his guest. Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter could not
be induced to show themselves.
Little Rolf, however, had no scruples of any kind. He
presently edged himself into the room to see the stranger,
whom he no sooner saw than, with a joyous exclamation, he
bounded forward to claim an old friend.
"Why, Mr. Carleton," exclaimed Mr. Rossitur, in surprise, "I
was not aware that this young gentleman had the honour of your
acquaintance."
"But I have," said Rolf.
"In London, Sir, I had that pleasure," said Mr. Carleton.
"I think it was _I_ had the pleasure," said Rolf, pounding one
hand upon Mr. Carleton's knee.
"Where is your mother?"
"She wouldn't come down," said Rolf; "but I guess she will
when she knows who is here"
And he was darting away to tell her, when Mr. Carleton, within
whose arms he stood, quietly restrained him, and told him he
was going away presently, but would come again and see his
mother another time.
"Are you going back to England, Sir?"
"By and by."
"But you will come here again first?"
"Yes, if Mr. Rossitur will let me."
"Mr. Carleton knows he commands his own welcome," said that
gentleman, somewhat stately. "Go and tell your aunt Fleda that
tea is ready, Rolf."
"She knows," said Rolf. "She was making an omelette I guess
it was for this gentleman."
Whose name he was not clear of yet. Mr. Rossitur looked vexed,
but Hugh laughed, and asked if his aunt gave him leave to tell
that. Rolf entered forthwith into discussion on this subject,
while Mr. Carleton, who had not seemed to hear it, engaged Mr.
Rossitur busily in another, till the omelette and Fleda came
in. Rolf's mind, however, was ill at ease.
"Aunt Fleda," said he, as soon as she had fairly taken her
place at the head of the table, "would you mind my telling
that you made the omelette for this gentleman?"
Fleda cast a confused glance, first at the person in question
and then round the table; but Mr. Carleton, without looking at
her, answered instantly
"Don't you understand, Rolf, that the same kindness which will
do a favour for a friend, will keep him in ignorance of it?"
Rolf pondered a moment, and then burst forth
"Why, Sir, wouldn't you like it as well for knowing she made
it?"
It was hardly in human gravity to stand this. Fleda herself
laughed, but Mr. Carleton, as unmoved as possible, answered
him, "Certainly not," and Rolf was nonplussed.
The supper was over. Hugh had left the room, and Mr. Rossitur
had before that gone out to give directions about Mr.
Carleton's horses. He and Fleda were left alone.
"I have something against you, fairy," said he, lightly,
taking her hand, and putting it to his lips. "You shall not
again do me such honour as you have done me to-day I did not
deserve it, Elfie."
The last words were spoken half reproachfully. Fleda stood a
moment motionless, and then by some curious revulsion of
feeling, put both her hands to her face and burst into tears.
She struggled against them, and spoke almost immediately
"You will think me very foolish, Mr. Carleton I am ashamed
of myself but I have lived here so long in this way my
spirits have grown so quieted by different things, that it
seems, sometimes, as if I could not bear anything I am
afraid"
"Of what, my dear Elfie?"
But she did not answer, and her tears came again.
"You are weary and spent," he said, gently, repossessing
himself of one of her hands. "I will ask you another time what
you are afraid of, and rebuke all your fears."
"I deserve nothing but rebuke now," said Fleda.
But her hand knew, by the gentle and quiet clasp in which it
lay, that there was no disposition to give it.
"Do not speak to me for a minute," she said, hastily, as she
heard some one coming.
She went to the window, and stood there looking out, till Mr.
Carleton came to bid her good-bye.
"Will you permit me to say to Mrs. Evelyn," he said, in a low
tone, "that you left a piece of your property in her house,
and have commissioned me to bring it you?"
"Yes," said Fleda, hesitating, and looking a little confused;
"but will you let me write a note instead, Mr. Carleton?"
"Certainly! but what are you thinking of, Elfie? what grave
doubt is lying under your brow?"
All Fleda's shadows rolled away before that clear, bright eye.
"I have found by experience," she said, smiling a little, but
looking down, "that whenever I tell my secret thoughts to
anybody, I have some reason afterwards to be sorry for it."
"You shall make me an exception to your rule, however, Elfie."
Fleda looked up, one of her looks, half questioning, half
fearing, and then answered, a little hesitating
"I was afraid, Sir, that if you went to Mrs. Evelyn's on that
errand I was afraid you would show them you were
displeased."
"And what then?" said he, quietly.
"Only that I wanted to spare them what always gives me a
cold chill."
"Gives you!" said Mr. Carleton.
"No, Sir only by sympathy I thought my agency would be the
gentlest."
"I see I was right," she said, looking up, as he did not
answer; "but they don't deserve it not half so much as you
think. They talk they don't know what. I am sure they never
meant half they said never meant to annoy me with it, I mean
and I am sure they have a true love for me they have shown
it in a great many ways. Constance, especially, never showed
me anything else. They have been very kind to me; and as to
letting me come away as they did, I suppose they thought I was
in a greater hurry to get home than I really was; and they
would very likely not have minded travelling so themselves; I
am so different from them, that they might in many things
judge me by themselves, and yet judge far wrong."
Fleda was going on, but she suddenly became aware that the eye
to which she was speaking had ceased to look at the Evelyns,
even in imagination, and she stopped short.
"Will you trust me, after this, to see Mrs. Evelyn without the
note?" said he, smiling.
But Fleda gave him her hand, very demurely, without raising
her eyes again, and he went.
Barby, who had come in to clear away the table, took her stand
at the window to watch Mr. Carleton drive off. Fleda had
retreated to the fire. Barby looked in silence till the sleigh
was out of sight.
"Is he going back to England now?" she said, coming back to
the table.
"No."
Barby gathered a pile of plates together, and then inquired
"Is he going to settle in America?"
"Why, no, Barby! What makes you ask such a thing?"
"I thought he looked as if he had dressed himself for a cold
climate," said Barby, drily.
Fleda sat down by Hugh's easy-chair, and laid her head on his
breast.
"I like your Mr. Carleton very much," Hugh whispered, after a
while.
"Do you?" said Fleda, a little wondering at Hugh's choice of
that particular pronominal adjective.
"Very much indeed. But he has changed, Fleda."
"Yes in some things some great things."
"He says he is coming again," said Hugh.
Fleda's heart beat. She was silent.
"I am very glad," repeated Hugh, "I like him very much. But
you won't leave me, Fleda, will you?"
"Leave you?" said Fleda, looking at him.
"Yes," said Hugh, smiling, and drawing her head down again: "I
always thought what he came over here for. But you will stay
with me while I want you, Fleda?"
"While you want me!" said Fleda, again.
"Yes it won't be long."
"What won't be long?"
"I," said Hugh, quietly. "Not long. I am very glad I shall not
leave you alone, dear Fleda very glad! promise me you will
not leave me any more."
"Don't talk so, dear Hugh!"
"But it is true, Fleda," said Hugh, gently. "I know it. I
sha'n't be here, but a little while. I am so glad you are come
home, dear Fleda! You will not let anybody take you away till
I am gone first?"
Fleda drew her arm close around Hugh's neck, and was still
still even to his ear for a good while. A hard battle must
be fought, and she must not be weak, for his sake, and for
everybody's sake. Others of the family had come, or were
coming into the room. Hugh waited till a short breath, but
freer drawn, told him he might speak.
"Fleda," he whispered.
"What?"
"I am very happy. I only want your promise about that."
"I can't talk to you, Hugh."
"No; but promise me."
"What?"
"That you will not let anybody take you away while I want
you."
"I am sure he would not ask it," said Fleda, hiding her cheeks
and eyes at once in his breast.