"The full sum of me
Is sum of something; which to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd:
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king."
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
They had a very speedy passage to the other side, and partly
in consequence of that Mr. Carleton was _not_ found waiting for
them in Liverpool. Mrs. Carleton would not tarry there, but
hastened down at once to the country, thinking to be at home
before the news of their arrival.
It was early morning of one fair day in July when they were at
last drawing near the end of their journey. They would have
reached it the evening before but for a storm which had
constrained them to stop and wait over the night at a small
town about eight miles off. For fear, then, of passing Guy on
the road, his mother sent a servant before, and, making an
extraordinary exertion, was actually herself in the carriage
by seven o'clock.
Nothing could be fairer than that early drive, if Fleda might
have enjoyed it in peace. The sweet morning air was exceeding
sweet, and the summer light fell upon a perfect luxuriance of
green things. Out of the carriage Fleda's spirits were at
home, but not within it; and it was sadly irksome to be
obliged to hear and respond to Mrs. Carleton's talk, which was
kept up, she knew, in the charitable intent to divert her. She
was just in a state to listen to nature's talk; to the other
she attended and replied with a patient longing to be left
free that she might steady and quiet herself. Perhaps Mrs.
Carleton's tact discovered this in the matter-of-course and
uninterested manner of her rejoinders; for, as they entered
the park-gates, she became silent, and the long drive from
them to the house was made without a word on either side.
For a length of way the road was through a forest of trees of
noble growth, which in some places closed their arms overhead,
and in all sentinelled the path in stately array. The eye had
no scope beyond the ranks of this magnificent body; Carleton
park was celebrated for its trees; but magnificent though they
were, and dearly as Fleda loved every form of forest beauty
she felt oppressed. The eye forbidden to range, so was the
mind, shut in to itself; and she only felt under the gloom and
shadow of those great trees the shadow of the responsibilities
and of the change that were coming upon her. But after a while
the ranks began to be thinned and the ground to be broken; the
little touches of beauty with which the sun had enlivened the
woodland began to grow broader and cheerfuller; and then as
the forest scattered away to the right and left, gay streams
of light came through the glades and touched the surface of
the rolling ground, where, in the hollows, on the heights, on
the sloping sides of the dingles, knots of trees of yet more
luxuriant and picturesque growth, planted or left by the
cultivator's hand long ago, and trained by no hand but
nature's, stood so as to distract a painter's eye; and just
now, in the fresh gilding of the morning, and with all the
witchery of the long shadows upon the uneven ground, certainly
charmed Fleda's eye and mind both. Fancy was dancing again,
albeit with one hand upon gravity's shoulder, and the dancing
was a little nervous too. But she looked and caught her breath
as she looked, while the road led along the very edge of a
dingle, and then was lost in a kind of enchanted open woodland
it seemed so and then passing through a thicket came out
upon a broad sweep of green turf that wiled the eye by its
smooth facility to the distant screen of oaks and beeches and
firs on its far border. It was all new. Fleda's memory had
retained only an indistinct vision of beauty, like the face of
an angel in a cloud as painters have drawn it; now came out
the beautiful features one after another, as if she had never
seen them.
So far nature had seemed to stand alone. But now another hand
appeared; not interfering with nature, but adding to her. The
road came upon a belt of the shrubbery where the old tenants
of the soil were mingled with lighter and gayer companionship,
and in some instances gave it place, though in general the
mingling was very graceful. There was never any crowding of
effects; it seemed all nature still, only as if several climes
had joined together to grace one. Then that was past; and over
smooth undulating ground, bearing a lighter growth of foreign
wood, with here and there a stately elm or ash that disdained
their rivalry, the carriage came under the brown walls and
turrets of the house. Fleda's mood had changed again, and, as
the grave outlines rose above her, half remembered, and all
the more for that imposing, she trembled at the thought of
what she had come there to do and to be. She felt very nervous
and strange and out of place, and longed for the familiar face
and voice that would bid her be at home. Mrs. Carleton, now,
was not enough of a stand-by. With all that, Fleda descended
from the carriage with her usual quiet demureness; no one that
did not know her well would have seen in her any other token
of emotion than a somewhat undue and wavering colour.
They were welcomed, at least one of them was, with every
appearance of sincerity by the most respectable-looking
personage who opened to them, and whom Fleda remembered
instantly. The array of servants in the hall would almost have
startled her if she had not recollected the same thing on her
first coming to Carleton. She stepped in with a curious sense
of that first time, when she had come there a little child.
"Where is your master?" was Mrs. Carleton's immediate demand.
"Mr. Carleton set off this morning for Liverpool."
Mrs. Carleton gave a quick glance at Fleda, who kept her eyes
at home.
"We did not meet him we have not passed him how long ago?"
were her next rapid words.
"My master left Carleton as early as five o'clock; he gave
orders to drive as fast as possible."
"Then he had gone through Hollonby an hour before we left it,"
said Mrs. Carleton, looking again to her companion; "but he
will hear of us at Carstairs we stopped there yesterday
afternoon he will be back again in a few hours, I am sure.
Then we have been expected?"
"Yes Ma'am my master gave orders that you should be
expected."
"Is all well, Popham?"
"All is well, Madam."
"Is Lady Peterborough here?"
"His Lordship and Lady Peterborough arrived the day before
yesterday," was the succinct reply.
Drawing Fleda's arm within hers, and giving kind recognition
to the rest who stood around, Mrs. Carleton led her to the
stairs and mounted them, repeating in a whisper, "He will be
here presently again." They went to Mrs. Carleton's dressing-
room, Fleda wondering in an internal fever, whether "orders
had been given" to expect her also? from the old butler's
benign look at her, as he said, "All is well!" she could not
help thinking it. If she maintained her outward quiet, it was
the merest external crust of seeming; there was nothing like
quiet beneath it; and Mrs. Carleton's kiss and fond words of
welcome were hardly composing.
Mrs. Carleton made her sit down, and with very gentle hands
was busy arranging her hair, when the housekeeper came in to
pay her more particular respects, and to offer her services.
Fleda hardly ventured a glance to see whether _she_ looked
benign. She was a dignified elderly person, as stately and
near as handsome as Mrs. Carleton herself.
"My dear Fleda," said the latter, when she had finished the
hair, "I am going to see my sister; will you let Mrs.
Fothergill help you in anything you want, and take you then to
the library you will find no one, and I will come to you
there. Mrs. Fothergill, I recommend you to the particular care
of this lady."
The recommendation was not needed, Fleda thought, or was very
effectual; the housekeeper served her with most assiduous
care, and in absolute silence. Fleda hurried the finishing of
her toilet.
"Are the people quiet in the country?" she forced herself to
say.
"Perfectly quiet, Ma'am. It needed only that my master should
be at home to make them so."
"How is that?"
"He has their love and their ear, Ma'am, and so it is that he
can just do his pleasure with them."
"How is it in the neighbouring country?"
"They're quiet, Ma'am, I believe mostly there's been some
little disturbance in one place and another, and more fear of
it, as well as I can make out, but it's well got over, as it
appears. The noblemen and gentlemen in the country around were
very glad, all of them, I am told, of Mr. Carleton's return.
Is there nothing more I can do for you, Ma'am?"
The last question was put with an indefinable touch of
kindliness which had not softened the respect of her first
words. Fleda begged her to show the way to the library, which
Mrs. Fothergill immediately did, remarking, as she ushered her
in, that "those were Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms."
Fleda did not need to be told that; she put the remark and the
benignity together, and drew a nervous inference. But Mrs.
Fothergill was gone, and she was alone. Nobody was there, as
Mrs. Carleton had said.
Fleda stood still in the middle of the floor, looking around
her, in a bewildered effort to realize the past and the
present; with all the mind in the world to cry, but there was
too great a pressure of excitement, and too much strangeness
of feeling at work. Nothing before her, in the dimly familiar
place, served at all to lessen this feeling, and, recovering
from her maze, she went to one of the glazed doors, which
stood open, and turned her back upon the room with its
oppressive recollections. Her eye lighted upon nothing that
was not quiet now. A secluded piece of smooth green, partially
bordered with evergreens, and set with light shrubbery of rare
kinds, exquisitely kept; over against her a sweetbriar that
seemed to have run wild, indicating, Fleda was sure, the
entrance of the path to the rose garden, that her memory alone
would hardly have helped her to find. All this in the bright
early summer morning, and the sweet aromatic smell of firs and
flowers coming with every breath. There were draughts of
refreshment in the air. It composed her, and drinking it in
delightedly, Fleda stood with folded arms in the doorway, half
forgetting herself and her position, and going in fancy from
the firs and the roses, over a very wide field of meditation
indeed. So lost that she started fearfully on suddenly
becoming aware that a figure had come just beside her.
It was an elderly and most gentlemanly-looking man, as a
glance made her know. Fleda was reassured and ashamed in a
breath. The gentleman did not notice her confusion, however,
otherwise than by a very pleasant and well-bred smile, and
immediately entered into some light remarks on the morning,
the place, and the improvements Mr. Carleton had made in the
latter. Though he said the place was one of those which could
bear very well to want improvement; but Carleton was always
finding something to do which excited his admiration.
"Landscape gardening is one of the pleasantest of amusements,"
said Fleda.
"I have just knowledge enough in the matter to admire; to
originate any ideas is beyond me; I have to depend for them
upon my gardener and my wife, and so I lose a pleasure, I
suppose; but every man has his own particular hobby. Carleton,
however, has more than his share he has half a dozen, I
think."
"Half a dozen hobbies!" said Fleda.
"Perhaps I should not call them hobbies, for he manages to
ride them all skilfully; and a hobby-horse, I believe, always
runs away with a man."
Fleda could hardly return his smile. She thought people were
possessed with an unhappy choice of subjects in talking to her
that morning. But fancying that she had very ill kept up her
part in the conversation, and must have looked like a
simpleton, she forced herself to break the silence which
followed the last remark, and asked the same question she had
asked Mrs. Fothergill if the country was quiet?
"Outwardly quiet," he said; "O yes there is no more
difficulty that is, none which cannot easily be handled.
There was some danger a few months ago, but it is blown over;
all was quiet on Carleton's estates so soon as he was at home,
and that, of course, had great influence on the neighbourhood.
No, there is nothing to be apprehended. He has the hearts of
his people completely, and one who has their hearts can do
what he pleases with their heads, you know. Well, he deserves
it he has done a great deal for them."
Fleda was afraid to ask in what way; but perhaps he read the
question in her eyes.
"That's one of his hobbies ameliorating the condition of the
poorer classes on his estates. He has given himself to it for
some years back; he has accomplished a great deal for them a
vast deal indeed! He has changed the face of things, mentally
and morally, in several places, with his adult schools, and
agricultural systems, and I know not what; but the most
powerful means, I think, after all, has been the weight of his
personal influence, by which he can introduce and carry
through any measure; neither ignorance, nor prejudice, nor
obstinacy, seem to make head against him. It requires a
peculiar combination of qualities, I think very peculiar and
rare to deal successfully with the mind of the masses."
"I should think so, indeed," said Fleda.
"He has it I don't comprehend it and I have not studied
his machinery enough to understand that; but I have seen the
effects. Never should have thought he was the kind of man
either but there it is I don't comprehend him. There is
only one fault to be found with him, though."
"What is that?" said Fleda, smiling.
"He has built a fine Dissenting chapel down here towards
Hollonby," he said, gravely, looking her in the face "and,
what is yet worse, his uncle tells me, he goes there half the
time himself."
Fleda could not help laughing, nor colouring, at his manner.
"I thought it was always considered a meritorious action to
build a church," she said.
"Indubitably. But you see, this was a chapel."
The laugh and the colour both grew more unequivocal Fleda
could not help it.
"I beg your pardon, Sir I have not learned such nice
distinctions. Perhaps a chapel was wanted just in that place."
"That is presumable. But _he_ might be wanted somewhere else.
However," said the gentleman, with a good-humoured smile
"his uncle forgives him; and if his mother cannot influence
him, I am afraid nobody else will. There is no help for it.
And I should be very sorry to stand ill with him. I have given
you the dark side of his character."
"What is the other side in the contrast?" said Fleda,
wondering at herself for her daring.
"It is not for me to say," he answered, with a slight shrug of
the shoulders and an amused glance at her; "I suppose it
depends upon people's vision but if you will permit me, I
will instance a bright spot that was shown to me the other
day, that I confess, when I look at it, dazzles my eyes a
little."
Fleda only bowed; she dared not speak again.
"There was a poor fellow the son of one of Mr. Carleton's
old tenants down here at Enchapel who was under sentence of
death, lying in prison at Carstairs. The father, I am told, is
an excellent man, and a good tenant; the son had been a
miserable scapegrace, and now for some crime I forget what
had at last been brought to justice. The evidence against him
was perfect, and the offence was not trifling; there was not
the most remote chance of a pardon, but it seemed the poor
wretch had been building up his dependence upon that hope, and
was resting on it; and, consequently, was altogether
indisposed and unfit to give his attention to the subjects
that his situation rendered proper for him.
"The gentleman who gave me this story was requested by a
brother clergyman to go with him to visit the prisoner. They
found him quite stupid unmovable by all that could be urged,
or rather, perhaps, the style of the address, as it was
described to me, was fitted to confound find bewilder the man
rather than enlighten him. In the midst of all this, Mr.
Carleton came in he was just then on the wing for America,
and he had heard of the poor creature's condition in a visit
to his father. He came my informant said like a being of a
different planet. He took the man's hand he was chained foot
and wrist 'My poor friend,' he said, 'I have been thinking
of you here, shut out from the light of the sun, and I thought
you might like to see the face of a friend;' with that
singular charm of manner which he knows how to adapt to
everybody and every occasion. The man was melted at once at
his feet, as it were he could do anything with him. Carleton
began then, quietly, to set before him the links in the chain
of evidence which had condemned him one by one in such a
way as to prove to him, by degrees, but irresistibly, that he
had no hope in this world. The man was perfectly subdued sat
listening and looking into those powerful eyes that perhaps
you know taking in all his words, and completely in his
hand. And then Carleton went on to bring before him the
considerations that he thought should affect him in such a
case, in a way that this gentleman said was indescribably
effective and winning; till that hardened creature was broken
down sobbing like a child actually sobbing!"
Fleda did her best, but she was obliged to hide her face in
her hands, let what would be thought of her.
"It was the finest exhibition of eloquence, this gentleman
said, he had ever listened to. For me it was an exhibition of
another kind. I would have believed such an account of few
men, but of all the men I know I would least have believed it
of Guy Carleton a few years ago; even now I can hardly believe
it. But it is a thing that would do honour to any man."
Fleda felt that the tears were making their way between her
fingers, but she could not help it; and she presently knew
that her companion had gone, and she was left alone again. Who
was this gentleman? and how much did he know about her? More
than that she was a stranger, Fleda was sure; and dreading his
return, or that somebody else might come and find her with the
tokens of tears upon her face, she stepped out upon the
greensward, and made for the flaunting sweet-briar that seemed
to beckon her to visit its relations.
The entrance of a green path was there, or a grassy glade,
more or less wide, leading through a beautiful growth of firs
and larches. No roses, nor any other ornamental shrubs only
the soft well-kept footway through the woodland. Fleda went
gently on and on, admiring where the trees sometimes swept
back, leaving an opening, and at other places stretched their
graceful branches over her head. The perfect condition of
everything to the eye the rich coloured vegetation of
varying colour above and below the absolute retirement, and
the strong pleasant smell of the evergreens, had a kind of
charmed effect upon senses and mind too. It was a fairyland
sort of place. The presence of its master seemed everywhere
it was like him, and Fleda pressed on to see yet livelier
marks of his character and fancy beyond. By degrees the wood
began to thin on one side then at once the glade opened into
a bright little lawn, rich with roses in full bloom. Fleda was
stopped short at the sudden vision of loveliness. There was
the least possible appearance of design no dry beds were to
be seen the luxuriant clumps of Provence and white roses,
with the varieties of the latter seemed to have chosen their
own places, only to have chosen them very happily. One hardly
imagined that they had submitted to dictation, if it were not
that Queen Flora never was known to make so effective a
disposition of her forces without help. The screen of trees
was very thin on the border of this opening so thin that the
light from beyond came through. On a slight rocky elevation,
which formed the further side of it, sat an exquisite little
Gothic chapel, about which, and the face of the rock below,
some noisette and multiflora climbers were vying with each
other, and just at the entrance of the further path a white
dog-rose had thrown itself over the way, covering the lower
branches of the trees with its blossoms.
Fleda stood spell-bound a good while, with a breath oppressed
with pleasure. But what she had seen excited her to see more,
and a dim recollection of the sea-view from somewhere in the
walk drew her on. Roses met her now frequently. Now and then a
climber, all alone, seemed to have sought protection in a tree
by the path-side, and to have displayed itself thence in the
very wantonness of security, hanging out its flowery wreaths,
fearless of hand or knife. Clusters of noisettes, or of French
or damask roses, where the ground was open enough, stood
without a rival, and needing no foil other than the beautiful
surrounding of dark evergreen foliage. But the distance was
not long before she came out upon a wider opening, and found
what she was seeking the sight of the sea. The glade here
was upon the brow of high ground, and the wood disappearing
entirely for a space, left the eye free to go over the lower
tree-tops, and the country beyond to the distant shore and
sea-line. Roses were here too the air was full of the
sweetness of damask and Bourbon varieties and a few
beautiful banksias, happily placed, contrasted without
interfering with them. It was very still it was very perfect
the distant country was fresh-coloured with the yet early
light which streamed between the trees, and laid lines of
enchantment upon the green turf; and the air came up from the
sea-board, and bore the breath of the roses to Fleda every now
and then with a gentle puff of sweetness. Such light she had
seen none such light since she was a child. Was it the burst
of mental sunshine that had made it so bright? or was she
going to be really a happy child again? No no not that,
and yet something very like it so like it, that she almost
startled at herself. She went no further. She could not have
borne, just then, to see any more; and feeling her heart too
full, she stood even there, with hands crossed upon her bosom,
looking away from the roses to the distant sea-line.
That said something very different. That was very sobering; if
she had needed sobering, which she did not. But it helped her
to arrange the scattered thoughts which had been pressing
confusedly upon her brain. "Look away from the roses," indeed,
she could not, for the same range of vision took in the sea
and them and the same range of thought. These might stand
for an emblem of the present; that, of the future grave,
far-off, impenetrable; and passing, as it were, the roses of
time, Fleda fixed upon that image of eternity; and weighing
the one against the other, felt, never in her life more
keenly, how wild it would be to forget in smelling the roses
her preparations for that distant voyage that must be made
from the shores where they grow. With one eye upon this
brightest bit of earth before her, the other mentally was upon
Hugh's grave. The roses could not be sweeter to any one; but,
in view of the launching away in to that distant sea-line, in
view of the issues on the other shore, in view of the welcome
that might be had there the roses might fade and wither, but
her happiness could not go with their breath. They were
something to be loved, to be used, to be thankful for but
not to live upon; something too that whispered of an increased
burden of responsibility, and never more deeply than at that
moment did Fleda remember her mother's prayer never more
simply recognised that happiness could not be made of these
things. She might be as happy at Queechy as here. It depended
on the sun-light of undying hopes, which indeed would give
wonderful colour to the flowers that might be in her way; on
the possession of resources the spring of which would never
dry; on the peace which secures the continual feast of a merry
heart, Fleda could take her new honours and advantages very
meekly, and very soberly, with all her appreciation of them.
The same work of life was to be done here as at Queechy. To
fulfil the trust committed to her, larger here to keep her
hope for the future undeceived by the sunshine of earth, to
plant her roses where they would bloom everlastingly.
The weight of these things bowed Fleda to the ground and made
her bury her face in her hands. But there was one item of
happiness from which her thoughts never even in imagination
dissevered themselves, and round it they gathered now in their
weakness. A strong mind and heart to uphold hers a strong
hand for hers to rest in that was a blessing; and Fleda
would have cried heartily, but that her feelings were too
high-wrought. They made her deaf to the light sound of
footsteps coming over the grass, till two hands gently touched
hers and lifted her up, and then Fleda was at home. But,
surprised and startled, she could hardly lift up her face. Mr.
Carleton's greeting was as grave and gentle as if she had been
a stray child.
"Do not fancy I am going to thank you for the grace you have
shown me," said he, lightly. "I know you would never have done
it if circumstances had not been hard pleaders in my cause. I
will thank you presently when you have answered one or two
questions for me."
"Questions?" said Fleda, looking up. But she blushed the next
instant at her own simplicity.
He was leading her back on the path she had come. No further,
however, than to the first opening where the climbing dog-rose
hung over the way. There he turned aside, crossing the little
plot of greensward, and they ascended some steps cut in the
rock to the chapel Fleda had looked at from a distance.
It stood high enough to command the same sea-view. On that
side it was entirely open, and of very light construction on
the others.
Several people were there; Fleda could hardly tell how many;
and when Lord Peterborough was presented to her, she did not
find out that he was her morning's acquaintance. Her eye only
took in besides that there were one or two ladies, and a
clergyman in the dress of the Church of England; she could not
distinguish. Yet she stood beside Mr. Carleton with all her
usual quiet dignity, though her eye did not leave the ground,
and her words were in no higher key than was necessary, and
though she could hardly bear the unchanged easy tone of his.
The birds were in a perfect ecstasy all about them; the soft
breeze came through the trees, gently waving the branches and
stirring the spray wreaths of the roses, the very fluttering
of summer's drapery; some roses looked in at the lattice, and
those which could not be there sent in their congratulations
on the breath of the wind, while the words were spoken that
bound them together.
Mr. Carleton then dismissing his guests to the house, went
with Fleda again the other way. He had felt the extreme
trembling of the hand which he took, and would not go in till
it was quieted. He led her back to the very rose-bush where he
had found her, and in his own way presently brought her spirit
home from its trembling and made it rest; and then suffered
her to stand a few minutes quite silent, looking out again
over the fair rich spread of country that lay between them and
the sea.
"Now tell me, Elfie," said he, softly, drawing back, with the
same old caressing and tranquillizing touch, the hair that
hung over her brow, "what you were thinking about when I found
you here in the very luxury of seclusion behind a rose-
bush."
Fleda looked a quick look, smiled, and hesitated, and then
said it was rather a confusion of thoughts.
"It will be a confusion no longer when you have disentangled
them for me."
"I don't know" said Fleda. And she was silent, but so was
he, quietly waiting for her to go on.
"Perhaps you will wonder at me, Mr. Carleton," she said,
hesitating and colouring.
"Perhaps," he said, smiling; "but if I do, I will not keep
you in ignorance, Elfie."
"I was almost bewildered, in the first place, with beauty
and then "
"Do you like the rose garden?"
"Like it! I cannot speak of it!"
"I don't want you to speak of it," said he, smiling at her.
"What followed upon liking it, Elfie?"
"I was thinking," said Fleda, looking resolutely away from
him, "in the midst of all this that it is not these things
which make people happy."
"There is no question of that," he replied. "I have realized
it thoroughly for a few months past."
"No, but seriously, I mean," said Fleda, pleadingly.
"And, seriously, you are quite right, dear Elfie. What then?"
"I was thinking," said Fleda, speaking with some difficulty
"of Hugh's grave and of the comparative value of things;
and, afraid, I believe especially here "
"Of making a wrong estimate?"
"Yes; and of not doing and being just what I ought."
Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute, considering the brow
from which his fingers drew off the light screen.
"Will you trust me to watch over and tell you?"
Fleda did not trust her voice to tell him, but her eyes did
it.
"As to the estimate the remedy is to 'keep ourselves in the
love of God;' and then these things are the gifts of our
Father's hand, and will never be put in competition with him.
And they are never so sweet as when taken so."
"Oh, I know that!"
"This is a danger I share with you. We will watch over each
other."
Fleda was silent with filling eyes.
"We do not seek our happiness in these things," he said,
tenderly. "I never found it in them. For years, whatever
others may have judged, I have felt myself a poor man; because
I had not in the world a friend in whom I could have entire
sympathy. And if I am rich now, it is not in any treasure that
I look to enjoy in this world alone."
"Oh, do not, Mr. Carleton!" exclaimed Fleda, bowing her head
in distress, and giving his hand an earnest entreaty.
"What shall I not do?" said he, half laughing and half gently,
bringing her face near enough for his lips to try another kind
of eloquence. "You shall not do this, Elfie, for any so light
occasion. Was this the whole burden of those grave thoughts?"
"Not quite entirely" she said, stammering. "But grave
thoughts are not always unhappy."
"Not always. I want to know what gave yours a tinge of that
colour this morning."
"It was hardly that. You know what Foster says about 'power to
its very last particle being duty.' I believe it frightened
me a little."
"If you feel that as strongly as I do, Elfie, it will act as a
strong corrective to the danger of false estimates."
"I do feel it," said Fleda. "One of my fears was that I should
not feel it enough."
"One of my cares will be that you do not act upon it too
fiercely," said he, smiling. "The power being limited, so is
the duty. But you shall have power enough, Elfie, and work
enough. I have precisely what I have needed my good sprite
back again."
"With a slight difference."
"What difference?"
"She is to act under direction now."
"Not at all only under safe control," he said, laughing.
"I am very glad of the difference, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda,
with a grave and grateful remembrance of it.
"If you think the sprite's old office is gone, you are
mistaken," said he. "What were your other fears? one was
that you should not feel enough your responsibility, and the
other that you might forget it."
"I don't know that there were any other particular fears,"
said Fleda; "I had been thinking of all these things "
"And what else?"
Her colour and her silence begged him not to ask. He said no
more, and let her stand still again, looking off through the
roses, while her mind more quietly and lightly went over the
same train of thoughts that had moved it before; gradually
calmed; came back from being a stranger to being at home, at
least in one presence; and ended, her action even before her
look told him where, as her other hand unconsciously was
joined to the one already on his arm. A mute expression of
feeling, the full import of which he read, even before her
eye, coming back from its musings, was raised to him, perhaps
unconsciously, too, with all the mind in it; its timidity was
not more apparent than its simplicity of clinging affection
and dependence. Mr. Carleton's answer was in three words, but
in the tone and manner that accompanied them there was a
response to every part of her appeal so perfect that Fleda
was confused at her own frankness.
They began to move towards the house, but Fleda was in a maze
again and could hardly realize anything. "His wife!" was she
that? had so marvellous a change really been wrought in her?
the little asparagus-cutter of Queechy transformed into the
mistress of all this domain, and of the stately mansion of
which they caught glimpses now and then, as they drew near it
by another approach into which Mr. Carleton had diverged. And
his wife! that was the hardest to realise of all.
She was as far from realising it when she got into the house.
They entered now at once into the breakfast-room, where the
same party were gathered whom she had met once before that
morning. Mr. Carleton the elder, and Lord Peterborough and
Lady Peterborough, she had met without seeing. But Fleda could
look at them now; and if her colour came and went as frankly
as when she was a child, she could speak to them and meet
their advances with the same free and sweet self-possession as
then the rare dignity a little wood-flower, that is moved by
a breath, but recovers as easily and instantly its quiet
standing. There were one or two who looked a little curiously
at first to see whether this new member of the family were
worthy of her place and would fill it to satisfy them. Not Mr.
Carleton; he never sought to ascertain the value of anything
that belonged to him by a popular vote; and his own judgment
always stood carelessly alone. But Mrs. Carleton was less sure
of her own ground, or of others. For five minutes she noted
Fleda's motions and words, her blushes and smiles, as she
stood talking to one and another for five minutes, and then,
with a little smile at her sister, Mrs. Carleton moved off to
the breakfast-table, well pleased that Lady Peterborough was
too engaged to answer her. Fleda had won them all. Mr.
Carleton's intervening shield of grace and kindness was only
needed here against the too much attention or attraction that
might distress her. He was again, now they were in presence of
others, exactly what he had been to her when she was a child
the same cool and efficient friend and protector. Nobody in
the room showed less thought of her, _except_ in action; a great
many little things done for her pleasure or comfort, so
quietly that nobody knew it but one person, and she hardly
noticed it at the time. All could not have the same tact.
There was an uninterrupted easy flow of talk at the table,
which Fleda heard just enough to join in where it was
necessary; the rest of the time she sat in a kind of
abstraction, dipping enormous strawberries one by one into
white sugar, with a curious want of recognition between them
and the ends of her fingers; it never occurred to her that
they had picked baskets full.
"I have done something for which you will hardly thank me, Mr.
Carleton," said Lord Peterborough. "I have driven this lady to
tears within the first hour of her being in the house."
"If she will forgive you, I will, my lord," Mr. Carleton
answered, carelessly.
"I will confess myself, though," continued his lordship,
looking at the face that was so intent over the strawberries,
"I was under the impression, when I first saw a figure in the
window, that it was Lady Peterborough. I own, as soon as I
found it was a stranger, I had my suspicions, which did not
lack confirmation in the course of the interview. I trust I am
forgiven the means I used."
"It seems you had your curiosity, too, my lord," said Mr.
Carleton, the uncle.
"Which ought, in all justice, to have lacked gratification,"
said Lady Peterborough. "I hope Fleda will not be too ready to
forgive you."
"I expect forgiveness, nevertheless," said he, looking at
Fleda. "Must I wait for it?"
"I am much obliged to you, Sir."
And then she gave him a very frank smile and blush, as she
added, "I beg pardon you know my tongue is American."
"I don't like that," said his lordship, gravely.
"Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," said
the elder Carleton. "The heart being English, we may hope the
tongue will become so too."
"I will not assure you of that, Sir," Fleda said, laughing,
though her cheeks showed the conversation was not carried on
without effort. Oddly enough, nobody saw it with any
dissatisfaction.
"Of what, Madam?" said Lord Peterborough.
"That I will not always keep a rag of the stars and stripes
flying somewhere."
But that little speech had almost been too much for her
equanimity.
"Like Queen Elizabeth, who retained the crucifix when she gave
up the profession of Popery."
"Very unlike indeed!" said Fleda, endeavouring to understand
what Mr. Carleton was saying to her about wood strawberries
and _hautbois_.
"Will you allow that, Carleton?"
"What, my lord?"
"A rival banner to float alongside of St. George's?"
"The flags are friendly, my lord."
"Hum just now they may seem so. Has your little standard-
bearer anything of a rebellious disposition."
"Not against any lawful authority, I hope," said Fleda.
"Then there is hope for you, Mr. Carleton, that you will be
able to prevent the introduction of mischievous doctrines."
"For shame, Lord Peterborough!' said his wife "what
atrocious suppositions you are making! I am blushing, I am
sure, for your want of discernment."
"Why yes" said his lordship, looking at another face whose
blushes were more unequivocal "it may seem so there is no
appearance of anything untoward, but she is a woman after all.
I will try her. Mrs. Carleton, don't you think with my Lady
Peterborough that in the present nineteenth century women
ought to stand more on that independent footing from which
lordly monopoly has excluded them?"
The first name Fleda thought belonged to another person, and
her downcast eyelids prevented her seeing to whom it was
addressed. It was no matter, for any answer was anticipated.
"The boast of independence is not engrossed by the boldest
footing, my lord."
"She has never considered the subject," said Lady
Peterborough.
"It is no matter," said his lordship. "I must respectfully beg
an answer to my question."
The silence made Fleda look up.
"Don't you think that the rights of the weak ought to be on a
perfect equality with those of the strong?"
"The rights of the weak _as such_ yes, my lord."
The gentlemen smiled; the ladies looked rather puzzled.
"I have no more to say, Mr. Carleton," said his lordship, "but
that we must make an Englishwoman of her!"
"I am afraid she will never be a perfect cure," said Mr.
Carleton, smiling.
"I conceive it might require peculiar qualities in the
physician but I do not despair. I was telling her of some of
your doings this morning, and happy to see that they met with
her entire disapproval."
Mr. Carleton did not even glance towards Fleda, and made no
answer, but carelessly gave the conversation another turn; for
which she thanked him unspeakably.
There was no other interruption of any consequence to the
well-bred flow of talk and kindliness of manner on the part of
all the company, that put Fleda as much as possible at her
ease. Still she did not realise anything, and yet she did
realise it so strongly, that her woman's heart could not rest
till it had eased itself in tears. The superbly appointed
table at which she sat her own, though Mrs. Carleton this
morning presided the like of which she had not seen since
she was at Carleton before; the beautiful room with its
arrangements, bringing back a troop of recollections of that
old time; all the magnificence about her, instead of
elevating, sobered her spirits to the last degree. It pressed
home upon her that feeling of responsibility, of the change
that come over her; and though beneath it all very happy,
Fleda hardly knew it, she longed so to be alone, and to cry.
One person's eyes, however little seemingly observant of her,
read sufficiently well the unusual shaded air of her brow and
her smile. But a sudden errand of business called him abroad
immediately after breakfast.
The ladies seized the opportunity to carry Fleda up and
introduce her to her dressing-room, and take account of Lady
Peterborough's commission, and ladies and ladies' maids soon
formed a busy committee of dress and decorations. It did not
enliven Fleda it wearied her, though she forgave them the
annoyance in gratitude for the pleasure they took in looking
at her. Even the delight her eye had from the first minute she
saw it, in the beautiful room, and her quick sense of the
carefulness with which it had been arranged for her, added to
the feeling with which she was oppressed; she was very passive
in the hands of her friends.
In the midst of all this the housekeeper was called in and
formally presented, and received by Fleda with a mixture of
frankness and bashfulness that caused Mrs. Fothergill
afterwards to pronounce her "a lady of a very sweet dignity
indeed."
"She is just such a lady as you might know my master would
have fancied," said Mr. Spenser.
"And what kind of a lady is that?" said Mrs. Fothergill.
But Mr. Spenser was too wise to enter into any particulars,
and merely informed Mrs. Fothergill that she would know in a
few days.
"The first words Mrs. Carleton said when Mr. Carleton got
home," said the old butler "she put both her hands on his
arms and cried out, 'Guy, I am delighted with her!' "
"And what did _he_ say?" said Mrs. Fothergill.
"He!" echoed Mr. Spenser, in a tone of indignant intelligence
"what should _he_ say! He didn't say anything; only asked
where she was, I believe."
In the midst of silks, muslins, and jewels, Mr. Carleton found
Fleda still, on his return; looking pale, and even sad, though
nobody but himself, through her gentle and grateful bearing,
would have discerned it. He took her out of the hands of the
committee, and carried her down to the little library,
adjoining the great one, but never thrown open his room, as
it was called where more particularly art and taste had
accumulated their wealth of attractions.
"I remember this very well," said Fleda. "This beautiful
room!"
"It is as free to you as to me, Elfie; and I never gave the
freedom of it to any one else."
"I will not abuse it," said Fleda.
"I hope not, my dear Elfie," said he smiling, "for the room
will want something to me now when you are not in it; and a
gift is abused that is not made free use of."
A large and deep bay-window in the room looked upon the same
green lawn and fir wood, with the windows of the library. Like
these, this casement stood open, and Mr. Carleton, leading
Fleda there, remained quietly beside her for a moment,
watching her face, which his last words had a little moved
from its outward composure. Then, gently and gravely, as if
she had been a child, putting his arm round her shoulders, and
drawing her to him, he whispered
"My dear Elfie you need not fear being misunderstood "
Fleda started, and looked up to see what he meant. But his
face said it so plainly, in its perfect intelligence and
sympathy with her, that her barrier of self-command and
reserve was all broken down; and hiding her head in her hands
upon his breast, she let the pent-up burden upon her heart
come forth in a flood of unrestrained tears. She could not
help herself. And when she would fain have checked them after
the first burst, and bidden them, according to her habit, to
wait another time, it was out of her power; for the same
kindness and tenderness that had set them a-flowing, perhaps
witting of her intent, effectually hindered its execution. He
did not say a single word, but now and then a soft touch of
his hand, or of his lips upon her brow, in its expressive
tenderness, would unnerve all her resolution, and oblige her
to have no reserve that time, at least in letting her secret
thoughts and feelings be known, as far as tears could tell
them. She wept, at first in spite of herself, and afterwards
in the very luxury of indulged feeling; till she was as quiet
as a child, and the weight of oppression was all gone. Mr.
Carleton did not move, nor speak, till she did.
"I never knew before how good you were, Mr. Carleton," said
Fleda, raising her head, at length, as soon as she dared, but
still held fast by that kind arm.
"What new light have you got on the subject?" said he,
smiling.
"Why," said Fleda, trying as hard as ever did sunshine to
scatter the remnants of a cloud it was a bright cloud too,
by this time "I have always heard that men cannot endure the
sight of a woman's tears."
"You shall give me a reward, then, Elfie."
"What reward?" said Elfie.
"Promise me that you will shed them nowhere else."
"Nowhere else?"
"But here in my arms."
"I don't feel like crying any more now," said Fleda,
evasively; "at least," for drops were falling rather fast
again "not sorrowfully."
"Promise me, Elfie," said Mr. Carleton, after a pause.
But Fleda hesitated still, and looked dubious.
"Come!" he said, smiling "you know you promised a little
while ago that you would have a particular regard to my
wishes."
Fleda's cheeks answered that appeal with sufficient
brightness, but she looked down, and said, demurely
"I am sure one of your wishes is, that I should not say
anything rashly."
"Well?"
"One cannot answer for such wilful things as tears."
"And for such wilful things as men?" said he, smiling.
But Fleda was silent.
"Then I will alter the form of my demand. Promise me that no
shadow of anything shall come over your spirit that you do not
let me either share or remove."
There was no trifling in the tone, full of gentleness as it
was; there could be no evading its requisition. But the
promise demanded was a grave one. Fleda was half afraid to
make it. She looked up, in the very way he had seen her do
when a child, to find a warrant for her words before she
uttered them. But the full, clear, steadfast eye into which
she looked for two seconds, authorised as well as required the
promise; and hiding her face again on his breast, Fleda gave
it, amid a gush of tears, every one of which was illumined
with heart-sunshine.
THE END.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
Typographical errors :
Chapter 1 : =biding her tears= silently corrected as =hiding her
tears=
Chapter 1 : =fox within.= silently corrected as =fox within."=
Chapter 5 : =Conque de Venus= silently corrected as =Conque de
Vénus=
Chapter 7 : =said Fleda; "to give= silently corrected as =said
Fleda, "to give=
Chapter 7 : =drily; stroking= silently corrected as =drily,
stroking=
Chapter 7 : =sure so do I,= silently corrected as =sure so do I,"=
Chapter 7 : =throwing stones.= silently corrected as =throwing
stones."=
Chapter 10 : =at Mrs. Evelyn's.'= silently corrected as =at
Mrs.Evelyn's."=
Chapter 10 : =breakfast, to morrow= silently corrected as
=breakfast, to-morrow=
Chapter 12 : =at the hills; They= silently corrected as =at the
hills? They=
Chapter 12 : ="trembling even= silently corrected as =trembling
even=
Chapter 12 : =following her= silently corrected as =following
her.=
Chapter 15 : =Fleda. Don't you= silently corrected as =Fleda.
"Don't you=
Chapter 19 : =prescription.= silently corrected as
=prescription."=
Chapter 19 : =doubt about that= silently corrected as =doubt
about that,=
Chapter 19 : =anybody else.= silently corrected as =anybody
else."=
Chapter 20 : =How far are we!= silently corrected as =How far are
we?=
Chapter 23 : =latter and more= silently corrected as =later and
more=
Chapter 25 : =Daughhter, they seem= silently corrected as
="Daughter, they seem=