There the most daintie paradise on ground
Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye,--
-----The painted flowres, the trees upshooting hye,
The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space,
The trembling groves, the christall running by;
And that, which all faire works doth most aggrace,
The art which all that wrought appeared in no place.
Færy Queene.
They had taken ship for London, as Mr. and Mrs. Carleton wished to visit
home for a day or two before going on to Paris. So leaving Charlton to
carry news of them to the French capital, so soon as he could persuade
himself to leave the English one, they with little Fleda in company posted
down to Carleton, in ----shire.
It was a time of great delight to Fleda, that is, as soon as Mr. Carleton
had made her feel at home in England; and somehow he had contrived to do
that and to scatter some clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about
her, before they had reached the end of their first day's journey. To be
out of the ship was itself a comfort, and to be alone with kind friends
was much more. With great joy Fleda put her cousin Charlton and Mr. Thorn
at once out of sight and out of mind; and gave herself with even more than
her usual happy readiness to everything the way and the end of the way had
for her. Those days were to be painted days in Fleda's memory.
She thought Carleton was a very odd place. That is, the house, not the
village which went by the same name. If the manner of her two companions
had not been such as to put her entirely at her ease she would have felt
strange and shy. As it was she felt half afraid of losing herself in the
house, to Fleda's unaccustomed eyes it was a labyrinth of halls and
staircases, set with the most unaccountable number and variety of rooms;
old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and magnificent; some with
stern old-fashioned massiveness of style and garniture; others absolutely
bewitching (to Fleda's eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and
luxuriousness of their arrangements. Mr. Carleton's own particular haunts
were of these; his private room, the little library as it was called, the
library, and the music-room, which was indeed rather a gallery of fine
arts, so many treasures of art were gathered there. To an older and
nice-judging person these rooms would have given no slight indications of
their owner's mind--it had been at work on every corner of them. No
particular fashion had been followed in anything, nor any model consulted
but that which fancy had built to the mind's order. The wealth of years
had drawn together an enormous assemblage of matters, great and small,
every one of which was fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought,
or to satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. And if pride had had the
ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly museum, a
literary alphabet that its possessor could not put together, an ungainly
confession of ignorance on the part of the intellect that could do nothing
with this rich heap of material. But pride was not the genius of the
place. A most refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and
harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental hieroglyphics had been
ordered by one to whom the reading of them was no mystery. Nothing struck
a stranger at first entering, except the very rich effect and faultless
air of the whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of
intellectual cultivation which appeared on every hand; facilities which it
must be allowed do seem in general _not_ to facilitate the work they are
meant to speed. In this case however it was different. The mind that
wanted them bad brought them together to satisfy its own craving.
These rooms were Guy's peculiar domain. In other parts of the house,
where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their joint tastes had
struck out another style of adornment which might be called a style of
superb elegance. Not superb alone, for taste had not permitted so heavy a
characteristic to be predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of
all the details would warrant an ampler word. A larger part of the house
than both these together had been left as generations past had left it, in
various stages of, refinement, comfort and comeliness. It was a day or two
before Fleda found out that it was all one; she thought at first that it
was a collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat down
there with their backs to each other; it was so straggling and irregular a
pile of building, covering so much ground, and looking so very unlike the
different parts to each other. One portion was quite old; the other parts
ranged variously between the present and the far past. After she once
understood this it was a piece of delicious wonderment and musing and
great admiration to Fleda; she never grew weary of wandering round it and
thinking about it, for from a child fanciful meditation was one of her
delights. Within doors she best liked Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms.
Their rich colouring and moderated light and endless stores of beauty and
curiosity made them a place of fascination.
Out of doors she found still more to delight her. Morning, noon, and night
she might be seen near the house gazing, taking in pictures of natural
beauty which were for ever after to hang in Fleda's memory as standards of
excellence in that sort. Nature's hand had been very kind to the place,
moulding the ground in beautiful style. Art had made happy use of the
advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was neither art nor
nature, but a perfection that can only spring from the hands of both.
Fleda's eyes were bewitched. She stood watching the rolling slopes of
green turf, _so_ soft and lovely, and the magnificent trees, that had kept
their ground for ages and seen generations rise and fall before their
growing strength and grandeur. They were scattered here and there on the
lawn, and further back stood on the heights and stretched along the ridges
of the undulating ground, the outposts of a wood of the same growth still
beyond them.
"How do you like it, Elfie?" Mr. Carleton asked her the evening of the
first day, as he saw her for a length of time looking out gravely and
intently from before the hall door.
"I think it is beautiful!" said Fleda. "The ground is a great deal
smoother here than it was at home."
"I'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he smiling, "and shew you rough
ground enough."
"As you did when we came from Montepoole?" raid Fleda rather eagerly.
"Would you like that?"
"Yes, very much,--if _you_ would like it, Mr. Carleton."
"Very well," said he. "So it shall be."
And not a day passed during their short stay that he did not give her one
of those rides. He shewed her rough ground, according to his promise, but
Fleda still thought it did not look much like the mountains "at home." And
indeed unsightly roughnesses had been skilfully covered or removed; and
though a large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was
wildly broken and had apparently been left as nature left it, the hand of
taste had been there; and many an unsuspected touch instead of hindering
had heightened both the wild and the beautiful character. Landscape
gardening had long been a great hobby of its owner.
"How far does your ground come, Mr Carleton?" inquired Fleda on one of
these rides, when they had travelled a good distance from home.
"Further than you can see, Elfie."
"Further than I can see!--It must be a very large farm!"
"This is not a farm where we are now," said he;--"did you mean
that?--this is the park; we are almost at the edge of it on this side."
"What is the difference between a farm and a park?" said Fleda.
"The grounds of a farm are tilled for profit; a park is an uncultivated
enclosure kept merely for men and women and deer to take pleasure in."
"_I_ have taken a good deal of pleasure in it," said Fleda. "And have you
a farm besides, Mr. Carleton?"
"A good many, Elfie."
Fleda looked surprised, and then remarked that it must be very nice to
have such a beautiful piece of ground just for pleasure.
She enjoyed it to the full during the few days she was there. And one
thing more, the grand piano in the music-room. The first evening of their
arrival she was drawn by the far-off sounds, and Mrs. Carleton seeing it
went immediately to the music-room with her. The room had no light, except
from the moonbeams that stole in through two glass doors which opened upon
a particularly private and cherished part of the grounds, in summer-time
full of flowers; for in the very refinement of luxury delights had been
crowded about this favourite apartment. Mr. Carleton was at the
instrument, playing. Fleda sat down quietly in one corner and
listened,--in a rapture of pleasure she had hardly ever known from any
like source. She did not think it could be greater, till after a time, in
a pause of the music, Mrs. Carleton asked her son to sing a particular
ballad, and that one was followed by two or three more. Fleda left her
corner, she could not contain herself, and favoured by the darkness came
forward and stood quite near; and if the performer bad bad light to see
by, he would have been gratified with the tribute paid to his power by the
unfeigned tears that ran down her cheeks. This pleasure was also repeated
from evening to evening.
"Do you know we set off for Paris to-morrow?" said Mrs. Carleton the last
evening of their stay, as Fleda came up to the door after a prolonged
ramble in the park, leaving Mr. Carleton with one or two gardeners at a
little distance.
"Yes!" said Fleda, with a sigh that was more than half audible.
"Are you sorry?" said Mrs. Carleton smiling.
"I cannot be glad," said Fleda, giving a sober look over the lawn.
"Then you like Carleton?"
"Very much!--It is a prettier place than Queechy."
"But we shall have you here again, dear Fleda," said Mrs. Carleton
restraining her smile at this, to her, very moderate complement.
"Perhaps not," said Fleda quietly.--"Mr. Carleton said," she added a
minute after with more animation, "that a park was a place for men and
women and deer to take pleasure in. I am sure it is for children too!"
"Did you have a pleasant ride this morning?"
"O very!--I always do. There isn't anything I like so well."
"What, as to ride on horseback with Guy?" said Mrs. Carleton looking
exceedingly benignant.
"Yes,--unless--"
"Unless what, my dear Fleda?"
"Unless, perhaps,--I don't know,--I was going to say, unless perhaps to
hear him sing."
Mrs. Carleton's delight was unequivocally expressed; and she promised
Fleda that she should have both rides and songs there in plenty another
time; a promise upon which Fleda built no trust at all.
The short journey to Pans was soon made. The next morning Mrs. Carleton
making an excuse of her fatigue left Guy to end the care he had rather
taken upon himself by delivering his little charge into the hands of her
friends. So they drove to the Hotel------, Rue------, where Mr. Rossitur
had apartments in very handsome style. The found him alone in the saloon.
"Ha! Carleton--come back again. Just in time--very glad to see you. And
who is this?--Ah, another little daughter for aunt Lucy."
Mr. Rossitur, who gave them this greeting very cordially, was rather a
fine looking man, decidedly agreeable both in person and manner. Fleda was
pleasantly disappointed after what her grandfather had led her to expect.
There might be something of sternness in his expression; people gave him
credit for a peremptory, not to say imperious temper; but if truly, it
could not often meet with opposition. The sense and gentlemanly character
which marked his face and bearing had an air of smooth politeness which
seemed habitual. There was no want of kindness nor even of tenderness in
the way he drew Fleda within his arm and held her there, while he went on
talking to Mr. Carleton; now and then stooping his face to look in at her
bonnet and kiss her, which was his only welcome. He said nothing to her
after his first question.
He was too busy talking to Guy. He seemed to have a great deal to tell
him. There was this for him to see, and that for him to hear, and charming
new things which had been done or doing since Mr. Carleton left Paris. The
impression upon Fleda's mind after listening awhile was that the French
capital was a great Gallery of the Fine Arts, with a magnified likeness of
Mr. Carleton's music room at one end of it. She thought her uncle must be
most extraordinarily fond of pictures and works of art in general, and
must have a great love for seeing company and hearing people sing. This
latter taste Fleda was disposed to allow might be a very reasonable one.
Mr. Carleton, she observed, seemed much more cool on the whole subject.
But meanwhile where was aunt Lucy?--and had Mr. Rossitur forgotten the
little armful that he held so fast and so perseveringly? No, for here was
another kiss, and another look into her face, so kind that Fleda gave him
a piece of her heart from that time.
"Hugh!" said Mr. Rossitur suddenly to somebody she had not seen
before,--"Hugh!--here is your little cousin. Take her off to your mother."
A child came forward at this bidding hardly larger than herself. He was a
slender graceful little figure, with nothing of the boy in his face or
manner; delicate as a girl, and with something almost melancholy in the
gentle sweetness of his countenance. Fleda's confidence was given to it on
the instant, which had not been the case with anything in her uncle, and
she yielded without reluctance the hand he took to obey his father's
command. Before two steps had been taken however, she suddenly broke away
from him and springing to Mr. Carleton's side silently laid her hand in
his. She made no answer whatever to a ligit word or two of kindness that
he spoke just for her ear. She listened with downcast eyes and a lip that
he saw was too unsteady to be trusted, and then after a moment more,
without looking, pulled away her hand and followed her cousin. Hugh did
not once get a sight of her face on the way to his mother's room, but
owing to her exceeding efforts and quiet generalship he never guessed the
cause. There was nothing in her face to raise suspicion when he reached
the door and opening it announced her with,
"Mother, here's cousin Fleda come."
Fleda had seen her aunt before, though several years back, and not long
enough to get acquainted with her. But no matter;--it was her mother's
sister sitting there, whose face gave her so lovely a welcome at that
speech of Hugh's, whose arms were stretched out so eagerly towards her;
and springing to them as to a very haven of rest Fleda wept on her
bosom those delicious tears that are only shed where the heart is at
home. And even before they were dried the ties were knit that bound her
to her new sphere.
"Who came with you, dear Fleda?" said Mrs. Rossitur then. "Is Mrs.
Carleton here? I must go and thank her for bringing you to me."
"_Mr_. Carleton is here," said Hugh.
"I must go and thank him then. Jump down, dear Fleda--I'll be back in
a minute."
Fleda got off her lap, and stood looking in a kind of enchanted maze,
while her aunt hastily arranged her hair at the glass. Looking, while
fancy and memory were making strong the net in which her heart was caught.
She was trying to see something of her mother in one who had shared her
blood and her affection so nearly. A miniature of that mother was left to
Fleda, and she had studied it till she could hardly persuade herself that
she had not some recollection of the original; and now she thought she
caught a precious shadow of something like it in her aunt Lucy. Not in
those pretty bright eyes which had looked through kind tears so lovingly
upon her; but in the graceful ringlets about the temples, the delicate
contour of the face, and a something, Fleda could only have said it was "a
something," about the mouth _when at rest_, the shadow of her mother's
image rejoiced her heart. Rather that faint shadow of the loved lost one
for little Fleda, than any other form or combination of beauty on earth.
As she stood fascinated, watching the movements of her aunt's light
figure, Fleda drew a long breath with which went off the whole burden of
doubt and anxiety that had lain upon her mind ever since the journey
began. She had not known it was there, but she felt it go. Yet even when
that sigh of relief was breathed, and while fancy and feeling were weaving
their rich embroidery into the very tissue of Fleda's happiness, most
persons would have seen merely that the child looked very sober, and have
thought probably that she felt very tired and strange. Perhaps Mrs.
Rossitur thought so, for again tenderly kissing her before she left the
room she told Hugh to take off her things and make her feel at home.
Hugh upon this made Fleda sit down and proceeded to untie her tippet
strings and take off her coat with an air of delicate tenderness which
shewed he had great pleasure in his task, and which made Fleda take a good
deal of pleasure in it too.
"Are you tired, cousin Fleda?" said he gently.
"No," said Fleda. "O no."
"Charlton said you were tired on board ship."
"I wasn't tired," said Fleda, in not a little surprise; "I liked it
very much."
"Then maybe I mistook. I know Charlton said _he_ was tired, and I thought
he said you were too. You know my brother Charlton, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you glad to come to Paris?"
"I am glad now," said Fleda. "I wasn't glad before."
"I am very glad," said Hugh. "I think you will like it. We didn't know you
were coming till two or three days ago when Charlton got here. Do you like
to take walks?"
"Yes, very much."
"Father and mother will take us delightful walks in the Tuileries, the
gardens you know, and the Champs Elysées, and Versailles, and the
Boulevards, and ever so many places; and it will be a great deal
pleasanter now you are here. Do you know French?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to learn. I'll help you if you will let me. It is very
easy. Did you get my last letter?"
"I don't know," said Fleda,--"the last one I had came with one of aunt
Lucy's, telling me about Mrs. Carleton--I got it just before "--
Alas! before what? Fleda suddenly remembered, and was stopped short. From
all the strange scenes and interests which lately had whirled her along,
her spirit leaped back with strong yearning recollection to her old home
and her old ties; and such a rain of tears witnessed the dearness of what
she had lost and the tenderness of the memory that had let them slip for a
moment, that Hugh was as much distressed as startled. With great
tenderness and touching delicacy he tried to soothe her and at the same
time, though guessing to find out what was the matter, lest he should make
a mistake.
"Just before what?" said he, laying his hand caressingly on his little
cousin's shoulder;--"Don't grieve so, dear Fleda!"
"It was only just before grandpa died," said Fleda.
Hugh had known of that before, though like her he had forgotten it for a
moment. A little while his feeling was too strong to permit any further
attempt at condolence; but as he saw Fleda grow quiet he took courage to
speak again.
"Was he a good man?" he asked softly.
"Oh yes!"
"Then," said Hugh, "you know he is happy now, Fleda. If he loved Jesus
Christ he is gone to be with him. That ought to make you glad as well
as sorry."
Fleda looked up, though tears were streaming yet, to give that full happy
answer of the eye that no words could do. This was consolation and
sympathy. The two children had a perfect understanding of each other from
that time forward; a fellowship that never knew a break nor a weakening.
Mrs. Rossitur found on her return that Hugh had obeyed her charge to the
letter. He had made Fleda feel at home. They were sitting close together,
Hugh's hand affectionately clasping hers, and he was holding forth on some
subject with a gracious politeness that many of his elders might have
copied; while Fleda listened and assented with entire satisfaction. The
rest of the morning she passed in her aunt's arms; drinking draughts of
pleasure from those dear bright eyes; taking in the balm of gentlest words
of love, and soft kisses, every one of which was felt at the bottom of
Fleda's heart, and the pleasure of talking over her young sorrows with one
who could feel them all and answer with tears as well as words of
sympathy. And Hugh stood by the while looking at his little orphan cousin
as if she might have dropped from the clouds into his mother's lap, a rare
jewel or delicate flower, but much more delicate and precious than they or
any other possible gift.
Hugh and Fleda dined alone. For as he informed her his father never would
have children at the dinner-table when he had company; and Mr. and Mrs.
Carleton and other people were to be there to-day, Fleda made no remark
on the subject, by word or look, but she thought none the less. She
thought it was a very mean fashion. _She_ not come to the table when
strangers were there! And who would enjoy them more? When Mr. Rossitur
and Mr Carleton had dined with her grandfather, had she not taken as much
pleasure in their society, and in the whole thing, as any other one of
the party? And at Carleton, had she not several times dined with a
tableful, and been unspeakably amused to watch the different manners and
characteristics of people who were strange to her? However, Mr. Rossitur
had other notions. So she and Hugh had their dinner in aunt Lucy's
dressing-room, by themselves; and a very nice dinner it was, Fleda
thought; and Rosaline, Mrs. Rossitur's French maid, was well affected and
took admirable care of them. Indeed before the close of the day Rosaline
privately informed her mistress, "qu'elle serait entêtée sûrement de cet
enfant dans trois jours;" and "que son regard vraiment lui serrait le
coeur." And Hugh was excellent company, failing all other, and did the
honours of the table with the utmost thoughtfulness, and amused Fleda the
whole time with accounts of Paris and what they would do and what she
should see; and how his sister Marion was at school at a convent, and
what kind of a place a convent was; and how he himself always staid at
home and learned of his mother and his father; "or by himself," he said,
"just as it happened;" and he hoped they would keep Fleda at home too. So
Fleda hoped exceedingly, but this stern rule about the dining had made
her feel a little shy of her uncle; she thought perhaps he was not kind
and indulgent to children like her aunt Lucy; and if he said she must go
to a convent she would not dare to ask him to let her stay. The next time
she saw him however, she was obliged to change her opinion again, in
part; for he was very kind and indulgent, both to her and Hugh; and more
than that he was very amusing. He shewed her pictures, and told her new
and interesting things; and finding that she listened eagerly he seemed
pleased to prolong her pleasure, even at the expense of a good deal of
his own time.
Mr. Rossitur was a man of cultivated mind and very refined and fastidious
taste. He lived for the pleasures of Art and Literature and the society
where these are valued. For this, and not without some secret love of
display, he lived in Paris; not extravagant in his pleasures, nor silly in
his ostentation, but leading, like a gentleman, as worthy and rational a
life as a man can lead who lives only to himself, with no further thought
than to enjoy the passing hours. Mr. Rossitur enjoyed them elegantly, and
for a man of the world, moderately, bestowing however few of those
precious hours upon his children. It was his maxim that they should be
kept out of the way whenever their presence might by any chance interfere
with the amusements of their elders; and this maxim, a good one certainly
in some hands, was in his reading of it a very broad one. Still when he
did take time to give his family he was a delightful companion to those of
them who could understand him. If they shewed no taste for sensible
pleasure he had no patience with them nor desire of their company. Report
had done him no wrong in giving him a stern temper; but this almost never
came out in actual exercise; Fleda knew it only from an occasional hint
now and then, and by her childish intuitive reading of the lines it had
drawn round the mouth and brow. It had no disagreeable bearing on his
everyday life and manner; and the quiet fact probably served but to
heighten the love and reverence in which his family held him very high.
Mr. Rossitur did once moot the question whether Fleda should not join
Marion at her convent. But his wife looked very grave and said that she
was too tender and delicate a little thing to be trusted to the hands of
strangers; Hugh pleaded, and argued that she might share all his lessons;
and Fleda's own face pleaded more powerfully. There was something
appealing in its extreme delicacy and purity which seemed to call for
shelter and protection from every rough breath of the world; and Mr.
Rossitur was easily persuaded to let her remain in the stronghold of home.
Hugh had never quitted it. Neither father nor mother ever thought of such
a thing. He was the cherished idol of the whole family. Always a delicate
child, always blameless in life and behaviour, his loveliness of mind and
person, his affectionateness, the winning sweetness that was about him
like a halo, and the slight tenure by which they seemed to hold him, had
wrought to bind the hearts of father and mother to this child, as it were,
with the very life-strings of both. Not his mother was more gentle with
Hugh than his much sterner father. And now little Fleda, sharing somewhat
of Hugh's peculiar claims upon their tenderness and adding another of her
own, was admitted, not to the same place in their hearts,--that could not
be,--but to their honour be it spoken, to the same place in all outward
shew of thought and feeling. Hugh had nothing that Fleda did not have,
even to the time, care, and caresses of his parents. And not Hugh rendered
them a more faithful return of devoted affection.
[Illustration: The children were always together.]
Once made easy on the question of school, which was never seriously
stirred again, Fleda's life became very happy. It was easy to make her
happy; affection and sympathy would have done it almost anywhere; but in
Paris she had much more; and after time had softened the sorrow she
brought with her, no bird ever found existence less of a burden, nor sang
more light-heartedly along its life. In her aunt she had all but the name
of a mother; in her uncle, with kindness and affection, she had amusement,
interest, and improvement; in Hugh everything;--love, confidence,
sympathy, society, help; their tastes, opinions, pursuits, went hand in
hand. The two children were always together. Fleda's spirits were brighter
than Hugh's, and her intellectual tastes stronger and more universal. That
might be as much from difference of physical as of mental constitution.
Hugh's temperament led him somewhat to melancholy, and to those studies
and pleasures which best side with subdued feeling and delicate nerves.
Fleda's nervous system was of the finest too, but, in short, she was as
like a bird as possible. Perfect health, which yet a slight thing was
enough to shake to the foundation;--joyous spirits, which a look could
quell;--happy energies, which a harsh hand might easily crush for ever.
Well for little Fleda that so tender a plant was permitted to unfold in so
nicely tempered an atmosphere. A cold wind would soon have killed it.
Besides all this there were charming studies to be gone through every day
with Hugh; some for aunt Lucy to hear, some for masters and mistresses.
There were amusing walks in the Boulevards, and delicious pleasure taking
in the gardens of Paris, and a new world of people and manners and things
and histories for the little American. And despite her early rustic
experience Fleda had from nature an indefeasible taste for the elegancies
of life; it suited her well to see all about her, in dress, in furniture,
in various appliances, as commodious and tasteful as wealth and refinement
could contrive it; and she very soon knew what was right in each kind.
There were now and then most gleeful excursions in the environs of Paris,
when she and Hugh found in earth and air a world of delights more than
they could tell anybody but each other. And at home, what peaceful times
they two had,--what endless conversations, discussions, schemes,
air-journeys of memory and fancy, backward and forward; what sociable
dinners alone, and delightful evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur in the
saloon when nobody or only a very few people were there; how pleasantly in
those evenings the foundations were laid of a strong and enduring love for
the works of art, painted, sculptured, or engraven, what a multitude of
curious and excellent bits of knowledge Fleda's ears picked up from the
talk of different people. They were capital ears; what they caught they
never let fall. In the course of the year her gleanings amounted to more
than many another person's harvest.