Faire Christabelle, that ladye bright,
Was had forth of the towre:
But ever she droopeth in her minde,
As, nipt by an ungentle winde,
Doth some faire lillye flowre.
Syr Cauline
That evening, the last of their stay at Montepoole, Fleda was thought well
enough to take her tea in company. So Mr. Carleton carried her down,
though she could have walked, and placed her on the sofa in the parlour.
Whatever disposition the young officers might have felt to renew their
pleasantry on the occasion, it was shamed into silence. There was a pure
dignity about that little pale face which protected itself. They were
quite struck, and Fleda had no reason to complain of want of attention
from any of the party. Mr. Evelyn kissed her. Mr. Thorn brought a little
table to the side of the sofa for her cup of tea to stand on, and handed
her the toast most dutifully; and her cousin Rossitur went back and forth
between her and the tea-urn. All of the ladies seemed to take immense
satisfaction in looking at her, they did it so much; standing about the
hearth-rug with their cups in their hands, sipping their tea. Fleda was
quite touched with everybody's kindness, but somebody at the back of the
sofa whom she did not see was the greatest comfort of all.
"You must let me carry you up-stairs when you go, Fleda," said her cousin.
"I shall grow quite jealous of your friend Mr. Carleton."
"No," said Fleda smiling a little,--"I shall not let any one but him carry
me up,--if he will."
"We shall all grow jealous of Mr. Carleton," said Thorn "He means to
monopolize you, keeping you shut up there up-stairs."
"He didn't keep me shut up," said Fleda.
Mr. Carleton was welcome to monopolize her, if it depended on her vote.
"Not fair play, Carleton," continued the young officer, wisely shaking his
head,--"all start alike, or there's no fun in the race. You've fairly
distanced us--left us nowhere."
He might have talked Chinese and been as intelligible to Fleda, and as
interesting to Guy, for all that appeared.
"How are we going to proceed to-morrow, Mr. Evelyn?" said Mrs. Carleton.
"Has the missing stage-coach returned yet? or Will it be forthcoming in
the morning?"
"Promised, Mrs. Carleton. The landlord's faith stands pledged for it."
"Then it won't disappoint us, of course. What a dismal way of travelling!"
"This young country hasn't grown up to post-coaches yet," said Mrs.
Evelyn.
"How many will it hold?" inquired Mrs. Carleton.
"Hum!--Nine inside, I suppose."
"And we number ten, with the servants.
"Just take us," said Mr. Evelyn. "There's room on the box for one."
"It will not take me," said Mr. Carleton.
"How will you go? ride?" said his mother "I should think you would, since
you have found a horse you like so well."
"By George! I wish there was another that _I_ liked," said Rossitur, "and
I'd go on horseback too. Such weather. The landlord says it's the
beginning of Indian summer."
"It's too early for that," said Thorn.
"Well, eight inside will do very well for one day," said Mrs. Carleton.
"That will give little Fleda a little more space to lie at her ease."
"You may put Fleda out of your calculations too, mother," said Mr.
Carleton. "I will take care of her."
"How in the world," exclaimed his mother,--"if you are on horseback?"
And Fleda twisted herself round so as to give a look of bright inquiry at
his face. She got no answer beyond a smile, which however completely
satisfied her. As to the rest he told his mother that he had arranged it
and they should see in the morning. Mrs. Carleton was far from being at
ease on the subject of his arrangements, but she let the matter drop.
Fleda was secretly very much pleased. She thought she would a great deal
rather go with Mr. Carleton in the little wagon than in the stage-coach
with the rest of the people. Privately she did not at all admire Mr. Thorn
or her cousin Rossitur. They amused her though; and feeling very much
better and stronger in body, and at least quiet in mind, she sat in
tolerable comfort on her sofa, looking and listening to the people who
were gayly talking around her.
In the gaps of talk she sometimes thought she heard a distressed sound in
the hall. The buzz of tongues covered it up,--then again she heard
it,--and she was sure at last that it was the voice of a dog. Never came
an appeal in vain from any four-footed creature to Fleda's heart. All the
rest being busy with their own affairs, she quietly got up and opened the
door and looked out, and finding that she was right went softly into the
hall. In one corner lay her cousin Rossitur's beautiful black pointer,
which she well remembered and had greatly admired several times. The poor
creature was every now and then uttering short cries, in a manner as if he
would not, but they were forced from him.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Fleda, stepping fearfully towards
the dog, and speaking to Mr. Carleton who had come out to look after
her. As she spoke the dog rose and came crouching and wagging his tail
to meet them.
"O Mr. Carleton!" Fleda almost screamed,--"look at him! O what is the
matter with him! he's all over bloody! Poor creature!"--
"You must ask your cousin, Fleda," said Mr. Carleton, with as much cold
disgust in his countenance as it often expressed; and that is saying a
good deal.
Fleda could speak in the cause of a dog, where she would have been silent
in her own. She went back to the parlour and begged her cousin with a
face of distress to come out into the hall,--she did not say for what.
Both he and Thorn followed her. Rossitur's face darkened as Fleda
repeated her inquiry, her heart so full by this time as hardly to allow
her to make any.
"Why the dog didn't do his duty and has been punished," he said gloomily.
"Punished?" said Fleda.
"Shot," said Mr. Carleton coolly.
"Shot!" exclaimed Fleda, bursting into heart-wrung tears,--"Shot!--O how
_could_ any one do it! Oh how could you, how could you, cousin Charlton?"
It was a picture. The child was crying bitterly, her fingers stroking the
poor dog's head with a touch in which lay, O what tender healing, if the
will had but had magnetic power. Carleton's eye glanced significantly from
her to the young officers. Rossitur looked at Thorn.
"It was not Charlton--it was I, Miss Fleda," said the latter. "Charlton
lent him to me to-day, and he disobeyed me, and so I was angry with him
and punished him a little severely; but he'll soon get over it."
But all Fleda's answer was, "I am very sorry!--I am very sorry!--poor
dog!!"--and to weep such tears as made the young gentlemen for once
ashamed of themselves. It almost did the child a mischief. She did not get
over it all the evening. And she never got over it as far as Mr. Thorn was
concerned.
Mrs. Carleton hoped, faintly, that Guy would come to reason by the next
morning and let Fleda go in the stage-coach with the rest of the people.
But he was as unreasonable as ever, and stuck to his purpose. She had
supposed however, with Fleda, that the difference would be only an open
vehicle and his company instead of a covered one and her own. Both of
them were sadly discomfited when on coming to the hall door to take their
carriages it was found that Mr. Carleton's meaning was no less than to
take Fleda before him on horseback. He was busy even then in arranging a
cushion on the pommel of the saddle for her to sit upon. Mrs. Carleton
burst into indignant remonstrances; Fleda silently trembled.
But Mr. Carleton had his own notions on the subject, and they were not
moved by anything his mother could say. He quietly went on with his
preparations; taking very slight notice of the raillery of the young
officers, answering Mrs. Evelyn with polite words, and silencing his
mother as he came up with one of those looks out of his dark eyes to
which she always forgave the wilfulness for the sake of the beauty and
the winning power. She was completely conquered, and stepped back with
even a smile.
"But, Carleton!" cried Rossitur impatiently,--"you can't ride so! you'll
find it deucedly inconvenient."
"Possibly," said Mr. Carleton.
"Fleda would be a great deal better off in the stage-coach."
"Have you studied medicine, Mr. Rossitur?" said the young man. "Because I
am persuaded of the contrary."
"I don't believe your horse will like it," said Thorn.
"My horse is always of my mind, sir; or if he be not I generally succeed
in convincing him."
"But there is somebody else that deserves to be consulted," said Mrs.
Thorn. "I wonder how little Fleda will like it."
"I will ask her when we get to our first stopping-place," said Mr.
Carleton smiling. "Come, Fleda!"
Fleda would hardly have said a word if his purpose had been to put her
under the horse's feet instead of on his back. But she came forward with
great unwillingness and a very tremulous little heart. He must have
understood the want of alacrity in her face and manner, though he took no
notice of it otherwise than by the gentle kindness with which he led her
to the horse-block and placed her upon it. Then mounting, and riding the
horse up close to the block, he took Fleda in both hands and bidding her
spring, in a moment she was safely seated before him.
At first it seemed dreadful to Fleda to have that great horse's head so
near her, and she was afraid that her feet touching him would excite his
most serious disapprobation. However a minute or so went by and she could
not see that his tranquillity seemed to be at all ruffled, or even that he
was sensible of her being upon his shoulders. They waited to see the
stage-coach off, and then gently set forward. Fleda feared very much again
when she felt the horse moving under her, easy as his gait was, and
looking after the stagecoach in the distance, now beyond call, she felt a
little as if she was a great way from help and dry land, cast away on a
horse's back. But Mr. Carleton's arm was gently passed round her, and she
knew it held her safely and would not let her fall, and he bent down his
face to her and asked her so kindly and tenderly, and with such a look
too, that seemed to laugh at her fears, whether she felt afraid?--and with
such a kind little pressure of his arm that promised to take care of
her,--that Fleda's courage mounted twenty degrees at once. And it rose
higher every minute; the horse went very easily, and Mr. Carleton held her
so that she could not be tired, and made her lean against him; and before
they had gone a mile Fleda began to be delighted. Such a charming way of
travelling! Such a free view of the country!--and in this pleasant weather
too, neither hot nor cold, and when all nature's features were softened by
the light veil of haze that hung over them and kept off the sun's glare.
Mr. Carleton was right. In the stage-coach Fleda would have sat quiet in a
corner and moped the time sadly away, now she was roused, excited,
interested, even cheerful; forgetting herself, which was the very thing of
all others to be desired for her. She lost her fears; she was willing to
have the horse trot or canter as fast as his rider pleased; but the
trotting was too rough for her, so they cantered or paced along most of
the time, when the hills did not oblige them to walk quietly up and down,
which happened pretty often. For several miles the country was not very
familiar to Fleda. It was however extremely picturesque; and she sat
silently and gravely looking at it, her head lying upon Mr. Carleton's
breast, her little mind very full of thoughts and musings, curious, deep,
sometimes sorrowful, but not unhappy.
"I am afraid I tire you, Mr. Carleton!" said she in a sudden fit of
recollection, starting up.
His look answered her, and his arm drew her back to her place again.
"Are _you_ not tired, Elfie?"
"Oh no!----You have got a new name for me, Mr. Carleton,' said she a
moment after, looking up and smiling.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
"You are my good genius," said he,--"so I must have a peculiar title for
you, different from what other people know you by."
"What is a genius, sir?" said Fleda.
"Well a sprite then," said he smiling.
"A sprite!" said Fleda.
"I have read a story of a lady, Elfie, who had a great many little
unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon her. Some sat in
the ringlets of her hair and took charge of them; some hid in the folds of
her dress and made them lie gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her
cheek, and another perched on her eyebrows, and so on."
"To take care of her eyebrows?" said Fleda laughing.
"Yes--to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns, I suppose."
"But am I such a sprite?" said Fleda.
"Something like it."
"Why what do I do?" said Fleda, rousing herself in a mixture of
gratification and amusement that was pleasant to behold.
"What office would you choose, Elfie? what good would you like to do me?"
It was a curious wistful look with which Fleda answered his question, an
innocent look, in which Mr. Carleton read perfectly that she felt
something was wanting in him, and did not know exactly what. His smile
almost made her think she had been mistaken.
"You are just the sprite you would wish to be, Elfie," he said.
Fleda's head took its former position, and she sat for some time musing
over his question and answer, till a familiar waymark put all such
thoughts to flight. They were passing Deepwater Lake, and would presently
be at aunt Miriam's. Fleda looked now with a beating heart. Every foot of
ground was known to her. She was seeing it perhaps for the last time. It
was with even an intensity of eagerness that she watched every point and
turn of the landscape, endeavouring to lose nothing in her farewell view,
to give her farewell look at every favourite clump of trees and old rock,
and at the very mill-wheels, which for years whether working or at rest
had had such interest for her. If tears came to bid their good-by too,
they were hastily thrown off, or suffered to roll quietly down; _they_
might bide their time; but eyes must look now or never. How pleasant, how
pleasant, the quiet old country seemed to Fleda as they went long!--in
that most quiet light and colouring; the brightness of the autumn glory
gone, and the sober warm hue which the hills still wore seen under that
hazy veil. All the home-like peace of the place was spread out to make it
hard going away. Would she ever see any other so pleasant again? Those
dear old hills and fields, among which she had been so happy,--they were
not to be her home any more; would she ever have the same sweet happiness
anywhere else?--"The Lord will provide!" thought little Fleda with
swimming eyes.
It was hard to go by aunt Miriam's. Fleda eagerly looked, as well as she
could, but no one was to be seen about the house. It was just as well. A
sad gush of tears must come then, but she got rid of them as soon as
possible, that she might not lose the rest of the way, promising them
another time. The little settlement on "the hill" was passed,--the
factories and mills and mill-ponds, one after the other; they made Fleda
feel very badly, for here she remembered going with her grandfather to see
the work, and there she had stopped with him at the turner's shop to get
a wooden bowl turned, and there she had been with Cynthy when she went to
visit an acquaintance; and there never was a happier little girl than
Fleda had been in those old times. All gone!--It was no use trying to help
it; Fleda put her two hands to her face and cried at last a silent but not
the less bitter leave-taking of the shadows of the past.
She forced herself into quiet again, resolved to look to the last. As they
were going down the hill past the saw-mill Mr. Carleton noticed that her
head was stretched out to look back at it, with an expression of face he
could not withstand. He wheeled about immediately and went back and stood
opposite to it. The mill was not working to-day. The saw was standing
still, though there were plenty of huge trunks of trees lying about in all
directions waiting to be cut up. There was a desolate look of the place.
No one was there; the little brook, most of its waters cut oft', did not
go roaring and laughing down the hill, but trickled softly and plaintively
over the stones. It seemed exceeding sad to Fleda.
"Thank you, Mr. Carleton," she said after a little earnest fond looking at
her old haunt;--"you needn't stay any longer."
But as soon as they had crossed the little rude bridge at the foot of the
hill they could see the poplar trees which skirted the courtyard fence
before her grandfather's house. Poor Fleda's eyes could hardly serve her.
She managed to keep them open till the horse had made a few steps more
and she had caught the well-known face of the old house looking at her
through the poplars. Her fortitude failed, and bowing her little head she
wept so exceedingly that Mr. Carleton was fain to draw bridle and try to
comfort her.
"My dear Elfie!--do not weep so," he said tenderly. "Is there anything you
would like?--Can I do anything for you?"
He had to wait a little. He repeated his first query.
"O--it's no matter," said Fleda, striving to conquer her tears, which
found their way again,--"if I only could have gone into the house once
more!--but it's no matter--you needn't wait, Mr. Carleton--"
The horse however remained motionless.
"Do you think you would feel better, Elfie, if you had seen it again?"
"Oh yes!--But never mind, Mr. Carleton,--you may go on."
Mr. Carleton ordered his servant to open the gate, and rode up to the back
of the house.
"I am afraid there is nobody here, Elfie," he said; "the house seems
all shut up."
"I know how I can get in," said Fleda,--"there's a window down stairs--I
don't believe it is fastened,--if you wouldn't mind waiting, Mr.
Carleton,--I won't keep you long?"
The child had dried her tears, and there was the eagerness of something
like hope in her face. Mr. Carleton dismounted and took her off.
"I must find a way to get in too, Elfie,--I cannot let you go alone."
"O I can open the door when I get in," said Fleda.
"But you have not the key."
"There's no key--it's only hoi ted on the inside, that door. I can open
it."
She found the window unfastened, as she had expected; Mr. Carleton held it
open while she crawled in and then she undid the door for him. He more
than half questioned the wisdom of his proceeding. The house had a dismal
look; cold, empty, deserted,--it was a dreary reminder of Fleda's loss,
and he feared the effect of it would be anything but good. He followed and
watched her, as with an eager business step she went through the hall and
up the stairs, putting her head into every room and giving an earnest
wistful look all round it. Here and there she went in and stood a moment,
where associations were more thick and strong; sometimes taking a look out
of a particular window, and even opening a cupboard door, to give that
same kind and sorrowful glance of recognition at the old often resorted to
hiding place of her own or her grandfather's treasures and trumpery. Those
old corners seemed to touch Fleda more than all the rest; and she turned
away from one of them with a face of such extreme sorrow that Mr. Carleton
very much regretted he had brought her into the house. For her sake,--for
his own, it was a curious show of character. Though tears were sometimes
streaming, she made no delay and gave him no trouble; with the calm
steadiness of a woman she went regularly through the house, leaving no
place unvisited, but never obliging him to hasten her away. She said not
a word during the whole time; her very crying; was still; the light tread
of her little feet was the only sound in the silent empty rooms; and the
noise of their footsteps in the halls and of the opening and shutting
doors echoed mournfully through the house.
She had left her grandfather's room for the last. Mr. Carleton did not
follow her in there, guessing that she would rather be alone. But she did
not come back, and he was forced to go to fetch her.
The chill desolateness of that room had been too much for poor little
Fleda. The empty bedstead, the cold stove, the table bare of books, only
one or two lay upon the old bible,--the forlorn order of the place that
bespoke the master far away, the very sunbeams that stole in at the
little windows and met now no answering look of gladness or gratitude,--it
had struck the child's heart too heavily, and she was standing crying by
the window. A second time in that room Mr. Carleton sat down and drew his
little charge to his breast and spoke words of soothing and sympathy.
"I am very sorry I brought you here, dear Elfie," he said kindly. "It was
too hard for you."
"O no!"--even through her tears Fleda said,--"she was very glad."
"Hadn't we better try to overtake our friends?" he whispered after
another pause.
She immediately, almost immediately, put away her tears, and with a quiet
obedience that touched him went with him from the room; fastened the door
and got out again at the little window.
"O Mr. Carleton!" she said with great earnestness when they had almost
reached the horses, "won't you wait for me _one_ minute more?--I just
want a piece of the burning bush "--
[Illustration: She stood back and watched.]
Drawing her hand from him she rushed round to the front of the house. A
little more slowly Mr. Carleton followed, and found her under the burning
bush, tugging furiously at a branch beyond her strength to break off.
"That's too much for you, Elfie," said he, gently taking her hand from
the tree,--"let my hand try."
She stood back and watched, tears running down her face, while he got a
knife from his pocket and cut off the piece she had been trying for,
nicely, and gave it to her. The first movement of Fleda's head was down,
bent over the pretty spray of red berries; but by the time she stood at
the horse's side she looked up at Mr. Carleton and thanked him with a face
of more than thankfulness.
She was crying however, constantly till they had gone several miles on
their way again, and Mr. Carleton doubted he had done wrong. It passed
away, and she had been sitting quite peacefully for some time, when he
told her they were near the place where they were to stop and join their
friends. She looked up most gratefully in his face.
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Carleton, for what you did!"
"I was afraid I had made a mistake, Elfie."
"Oh, no, you didn't."
"Do you think you feel any easier after it, Elfie?"
"Oh yes!--indeed I do," said she looking up again,--"thank you, Mr.
Carleton."
A gentle kind pressure of his arm answered her thanks.
"I ought to be a good sprite to you, Mr. Carleton," Fleda said after
musing a little while,--"you are so very good to me!"
Perhaps Mr. Carleton felt too much pleasure at this speech to make any
answer, for he made none.
"It is only selfishness, Elfie," said he presently, looking down to the
quiet sweet little face which seemed to him, and was, more pure than
anything of earth's mould he had ever seen.--"You know I must take care of
you for my own sake."
Fleda laughed a little.
"But what will you do when we get to Paris?"
"I don't know. I should like to have you always, Elfie."
"You'll have to get aunt Lucy to give me to you," said Fleda.
"Mr. Carleton," said she a few minutes after, "is that story in a book?"
"What story?"
"About the lady and the little sprites that waited on her."
"Yes, it is in a book; you shall see it, Elfie.--Here we are!"
And here it was proposed to stay till the next day, lest Fleda might not
be able to bear so much travelling at first. But the country inn was not
found inviting; the dinner was bad and the rooms were worse;
uninhabitable, the ladies said; and about the middle of the afternoon they
began to cast about for the means of reaching Albany that night. None very
comfortable could be had; however it was thought better to push on at any
rate than wear out the night in such a place. The weather was very mild;
the moon at the full.
"How is Fleda to go this afternoon?" said Mrs. Evelyn.
"She shall decide herself," said Mrs. Carleton. "How will you go, my
sweet Fleda?"
Fleda was lying upon a sort of rude couch which had been spread for her,
where she had been sleeping incessantly ever since she arrived, the hour
of dinner alone excepted. Mrs. Carleton repeated her question.
"I am afraid Mr. Carleton must be tired," said Fleda, without
opening her eyes.
"That means that you are, don't it?" said Rossitur.
"No," said Fleda gently.
Mr. Carleton smiled and went out to press forward the arrangements. In
spite of good words and good money there was some delay. It was rather
late before the cavalcade left the inn; and a journey of several hours was
before them. Mr. Carleton rode rather slowly too, for Fleda's sake, so the
evening had fallen while they were yet a mile or two from the city.
His little charge had borne the fatigue well, thanks partly to his
admirable care, and partly to her quiet pleasure in being with him. She
had been so perfectly still for some distance that he thought she had
dropped asleep. Looking down closer however to make sure about it he saw
her thoughtful clear eyes most unsleepily fixed upon the sky.
"What are you gazing at, Elfie?"
The look of thought changed to a look of affection as the eyes were
brought to bear upon him, and she answered with a smile,
"Nothing,--I was looking at the stars."
"What are you dreaming about?"
"I wasn't dreaming," said Fleda,--"I was thinking."
"Thinking of what?"
"O of pleasant things."
"Mayn't I know them?--I like to hear of pleasant things."
"I was thinking,--" said Fleda, looking up again at the stars, which shone
with no purer ray than those grave eyes sent back to them,--"I was
thinking--of being ready to die."
The words, and the calm thoughtful manner in which they were said,
thrilled upon Mr. Carleton with a disagreeable shock.
"How came you to think of such a thing?" said he lightly.
"I don't know,"--said Fleda, still looking at the stars,--"I suppose--I
was thinking--"
"What?" said Mr. Carleton, inexpressibly curious to get at the workings of
the child's mind, which was not easy, for Fleda was never very forward to
talk of herself;--"what were you thinking? I want to know how you could
get such a thing into your head."
"It wasn't very strange," said Fleda. "The stars made me think of heaven,
and grandpa's being there, and then I thought how he was ready to go there
and that made him ready to die--"
"I wouldn't think of such things, Elfie," said Mr. Carleton after a
few minutes.
"Why not, sir?" said Fleda quickly.
"I don't think they are good for you."
"But Mr. Carleton," said Fleda gently,--"if I don't think about it, how
shall _I_ ever be ready to die?"
"It is not fit for you," said he, evading the question,--"it is not
necessary now,--there's time enough. You are a little body and should have
none but gay thoughts."
"But Mr. Carleton," said Fleda with timid earnestness,--"don't you think
one could have gay thoughts better if one knew one was ready to die?"
"What makes a person ready to die, Elfie?" said her friend, disliking to
ask the question, but yet more unable to answer hers, and curious to hear
what she would say.
"O--to be a Christian," said Fleda.
"But I have seen Christians," said Mr. Carleton, "who were no more ready
to die than other people."
"Then they were make-believe Christians," said Fleda decidedly.
"What makes you think so?" said her friend, carefully guarding his
countenance from anything like a smile.
"Because," said Fleda, "grandpa was ready, and my father was ready, and my
mother too; and I know it was because they were Christians."
"Perhaps your kind of Christians are different from my kind," said Mr.
Carleton, carrying on the conversation half in spite of himself. "What do
you mean by a Christian, Elfie?"
"Why, what the Bible means," said Fleda, looking at him with innocent
earnestness.
Mr. Carleton was ashamed to tell her he did not know what that was, or he
was unwilling to say what he felt would trouble the happy confidence she
had in him. He was silent; but as they rode on, a bitter wish crossed his
mind that he could have the simple purity of the little child in his arms;
and he thought he would give his broad acres supposing it possible that
religion could be true,--in exchange for that free happy spirit that looks
up to all its possessions in heaven.