Whence came this?
This is some token from a newer friend.
Shakspeare.
The snow-flakes were falling softly and thick when Fleda got up the
next morning.
"No ride for me to-day--but how very glad I am that I had a chance of
setting that matter right. What could Mrs. Evelyn have been thinking
of?--Very false kindness!--if I had disliked to go ever so much she ought
to have made me, for my own sake, rather than let me seem so rude--it is
true she didn't know _how_ rude. O snow-flakes--how much purer and
prettier you are than most things in this place!"
No one was in the breakfast parlour when Fleda came down, so she took her
book and the dormeuse and had an hour of luxurious quiet before anybody
appeared. Not a foot-fall in the house; nor even one outside to be heard,
for the soft carpeting of snow which was laid over the streets. The gentle
breathing of the fire the only sound in the room; while the very light
came subdued through the falling snow and the thin muslin curtains, and
gave an air of softer luxury to the apartment. "Money is pleasant,"
thought Fleda, as she took a little complacent review of all this before
opening her book.--"And yet how unspeakably happier one may be without it
than another with it. Happiness never was locked up in a purse yet. I am
sure Hugh and I,--They must want me at home!--"
There was a little sober consideration of the lumps of coal and the
contented looking blaze in the grate, a most essentially home-like
thing,--and then Fleda went to her book and for the space of an hour
turned over her pages without interruption. At the end of the hour "the
fowling piece," certainly the noiseliest of his kind, put his head in, but
seeing none of his ladies took it and himself away again and left Fleda in
peace for another half hour. Then appeared Mrs. Evelyn in her morning
wrapper, and only stopping at the bell-handle, came up to the dormeuse and
stooping down kissed Fleda's forehead, with so much tenderness that it won
a look of most affectionate gratitude in reply.
"Fleda my dear, we set you a sad example. But you won't copy it. Joe,
breakfast. Has Mr. Evelyn gone down town?"
"Yes, ma'am, two hours ago."
"Did it ever occur to you, Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, breaking the
lumps of coal with the poker in a very leisurely satisfied kind of a
way,--"Did it ever occur to you to rejoice that you were not born a
business man? What a life!--"
"I wonder how it compares with that of a business woman," said Fleda
laughing. "There is an uncompromising old proverb which says
'Man's work is from sun to sun--
But a woman's work is never done.'"
A saying which she instantly reflected was entirely beyond the
comprehension of the person to whose consideration she had offered it.
And then came in Florence, rubbing her hands and knitting her eyebrows.
"Why don't you look as bright as the rest of the world, this morning,"
said Fleda.
"What a wretched storm!"
"Wretched! This beautiful snow! Here have I been enjoying it for
this hour."
But Florence rubbed her hands and looked as if Fleda were no rule for
other people.
"How horrid it will make the going out to-night, if it snows all day!"
"Then you can stay at home," said her mother composedly.
"Indeed I shall not, mamma!"
"Mamma!" said Constance now coming in with Edith,--"isn't breakfast ready?
It strikes me that the fowling-piece wants polishing up. I have an
indistinct impression that the sun would be upon the meridian if he was
anywhere."
"Not quite so bad as that," said Fleda smiling;--"it is only an hour and a
half since I came down stairs."
"You horrid little creature!--Mamma, I consider it an act of inhospitality
to permit studious habits on the part of your guests. And I am surprised
your ordinary sagacity has not discovered that it is the greatest impolicy
towards the objects of your maternal care. We are labouring under growing
disadvantages; for when we have brought the enemy to at long shot there is
a mean little craft that comes in and unmans him in a close fight before
we can get our speaking-trumpets up."
"Constance!--Do hush!" said her sister. "You are too absurd."
"Fact," said Constance gravely. "Capt. Lewiston was telling me the other
night how the thing is managed; and I recognized it immediately and told
him I had often seen it done!"
"Hold your tongue, Constance," said her mother smiling,--"and come to
breakfast."
Half and but half of the mandate the young lady had any idea of obeying.
"I can't imagine what you are talking about, Constance!" said Edith.
"And then being a friend, you see," pursued Constance, "we can do nothing
but fire a salute, instead of demolishing her."
"Can't you?" said Fleda. "I am sure many a time I have felt as if you had
left me nothing but my colours."
"Except your prizes, my dear. I am sure I don't know about your being
a friend either, for I have observed that you engage English and
American alike."
"She is getting up her colours now," said Mrs. Evelyn in mock
gravity,--"you can tell what she is."
"Blood-red!" said Constance. "A pirate!--I thought so,"--she exclaimed,
with an ecstatic gesture. "I shall make it my business to warn everybody!"
"Oh Constance!" said Fleda, burying her face in her hands. But they
all laughed.
"Fleda my dear, I would box her ears," said Mrs. Evelyn commanding
herself. "It is a mere envious insinuation,--I have always understood
those were the most successful colours carried."
"Dear Mrs. Evelyn!--"
"My dear Fleda, that is not a hot roll--you sha'n't eat it--Take this.
Florence give her a piece of the bacon--Fleda my dear, it is good for the
digestion--you must try it. Constance was quite mistaken in supposing
yours were those obnoxious colours--there is too much white with the
red--it is more like a very different flag."
"Like what then, mamma?" said Constance;--"a good American would have
blue in it."
"You may keep the American yourself," said her mother.
"Only," said Fleda trying to recover herself, "there is a slight
irregularity--with you the stars are blue and the ground white."
"My dear little Fleda!" exclaimed Constance jumping up and capering round
the table to kiss her, "you are too delicious for anything; and in future
I will be blind to your colours; which is a piece of self-denial I am sure
nobody else will practise."
"Mamma," said Edith, "what _are_ you all talking about? Can't Constance
sit down and let Fleda eat her breakfast?"
"Sit down, Constance, and eat your breakfast!"
"I will do it, mamma, out of consideration for the bacon.--Nothing else
would move me."
"Are you going to Mrs. Decatur's to-night, Fleda?"
"No, Edith, I believe not"
"I'm very glad; then there'll be somebody at home. But why don't you?"
"I think on the whole I had rather not."
"Mamma," said Constance, "you have done very wrong in permitting such a
thing. I know just how it will be. Mr. Thorn and Mr. Stackpole will make
indefinite voyages of discovery round Mrs. Decatur's rooms, and then
having a glimmering perception that the light of Miss Ringgan's eyes is in
another direction they will sheer off; and you will presently see them
come sailing blandly in, one after the other, and cast anchor for the
evening; when to your extreme delight Mr. Stackpole and Miss Ringgan will
immediately commence fighting. I shall stay at home to see!" exclaimed
Constance, with little bounds of delight up and down upon her chair which
this time afforded her the additional elasticity of springs,--"I will not
go. I am persuaded how it will be, and I would not miss it for anything."
"Dear Constance!" said Fleda, unable to help laughing through all her
vexation,--"please do not talk so! You know very well Mr. Stackpole only
comes to see your mother."
"He was here last night," said Constance in an extreme state of
delight,--"with all the rest of your admirers--ranged in the hall, with
their hats in a pile at the foot of the staircase as a token of their
determination not to go till you came home; and as they could not be
induced to come up to the drawing-room Mr. Evelyn was obliged to go down,
and with some difficulty persuaded them to disperse."
Fleda was by this time in a state of indecision betwixt crying and
laughing, assiduously attentive to her breakfast.
"Mr. Carleton asked me if you would go to ride with him again the other
day, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, with her face of delighted mischief,--"and
I excused you; for I thought you would thank me for it."
"Mamma," said Constance, "the mention of that name rouses all the bitter
feelings I am capable of! My dear Fleda--we have been friends--but if I
see you abstracting my English rose"--
"Look at those roses behind you!" said Fleda.
The young lady turned and sprang at the word, followed by both her
sisters; and for some moments nothing but a hubbub of exclamations
filled the air,
"Joe, you are enchanting!--But did you ever _see_ such flowers?--Oh those
rose-buds!--"
"And these Camellias," said Edith,--"look, Florence, how they are
cut--with such splendid long stems."
"And the roses too--all of them--see mamma, just cut from the bushes with
the buds all left on, and immensely long stems--Mamma, these must have
cost an immensity!--"
"That is what I call a bouquet," said Fleda, fain to leave the table too
and draw near the tempting shew in Florence's hand.
"This is the handsomest you have had all winter, Florence," said Edith.
"Handsomest!--I never saw anything like it. I shall wear some of these
to-night, mamma."
"You are in a great hurry to appropriate it," said Constance,--"how do you
know but it is mine?"
"Which of us is it for, Joe?"
"Say it is mine, Joe, and I will vote you--the best article of your kind!"
said Constance, with an inexpressible glance at Fleda.
"Who brought it, Joe?" said Mrs. Evelyn.
"Yes, Joe, who brought it? where did it come from, Joe?"
Joe had hardly a chance to answer.
"I really couldn't say, Miss Florence,--the man wasn't known to me."
"But did he say it was for Florence or for me?"
"No ma'am--he"--
"_Which_ did he say it was for?"
"He didn't say it was either for Miss Florence or for you, Miss
Constance; he--"
"But didn't he say who sent it?"
"No ma'am. It's"--
"Mamma here is a white moss that is beyond everything! with two of the
most lovely buds--Oh!" said Constance clasping her hands and whirling
about the room in comic ecstasy--"I sha'n't survive if I cannot find out
where it is from!--"
"How delicious the scent of these tea-roses is!" said Fleda. "You ought
not to mind the snow storm to-day after this, Florence. I should think you
would be perfectly happy."
"I shall be, if I can contrive to keep them fresh to wear to-night. Mamma
how sweetly they would dress me."
"They're a great deal too good to be wasted so," said Mrs. Evelyn; "I
sha'n't let you do it."
"Mamma!--it wouldn't take any of them at all for my hair and the bouquet
de corsage too--there'd be thousands left--Well Joe,--what are you
waiting for?"
"I didn't say," said Joe, looking a good deal blank and a little
afraid,--"I should have said--that the bouquet--is--"
"What is it?"
"It is--I believe, ma'am,--the man said it was for Miss Ringgan."
"For me!" exclaimed Fleda, her cheeks forming instantly the most exquisite
commentary on the gift that the giver could have desired. She took in her
hand the superb bunch of flowers from which the fingers of Florence
unclosed as if it had been an icicle.
"Why didn't you say so before?" she inquired sharply; but the
"fowling-piece" had wisely disappeared.
"I am very glad!" exclaimed Edith. "They have had plenty all winter, and
you haven't had one--I am very glad it is yours, Fleda."
But such a shadow had come upon every other face that Fleda's pleasure
was completely overclouded. She smelled at her roses, just ready to burst
into tears, and wishing sincerely that they had never come.
"I am afraid, my dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn quietly going on with her
breakfast,--"that there is a thorn somewhere among those flowers."
Fleda was too sure of it. But not by any means the one Mrs. Evelyn
intended.
"He never could have got half those from his own greenhouse, mamma," said
Florence,--"if he had cut every rose that was in it; and he isn't very
free with his knife either."
"I said nothing about anybody's greenhouse," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"though
I don't suppose there is more than one Lot in the city they could have
come from."
"Well," said Constance settling herself back in her chair and closing
her eyes,--"I feel extinguished!----Mamma, do you suppose it possible
that a hot cup of tea might revive me? I am suffering from a universal
sense of unappreciated merit!--and nobody can tell what the pain is that
hasn't felt it."
"I think you are extremely foolish, Constance," said Edith. "Fleda hasn't
had a single flower sent her since she has been here and you have had them
every other day. I think Florence is the only one that has a right to be
disappointed."
"Dear Florence," said Fleda earnestly,--"you shall have as many of them as
you please to dress yourself,--and welcome!"
"Oh no--of course not!--" Florence said,--"it's of no sort of
consequence--I don't want them in the least, my dear. I wonder what
somebody would think to see his flowers in my head!"
Fleda secretly had mooted the same question and was very well pleased not
to have it put to the proof. She took the flowers up stairs after
breakfast, resolving that they should not be an eye-sore to her friends;
placed them in water and sat down to enjoy and muse over them in a very
sorrowful mood. She again thought she would take the first opportunity of
going home. How strange--out of their abundance of tributary flowers to
grudge her this one bunch! To be sure it was a magnificent one. The
flowers were mostly roses, of the rarer kinds, with a very few fine
Camellias; all of them cut with a freedom that evidently had known no
constraint but that of taste, and put together with an exquisite skill
that Fleda felt sure was never possessed by any gardener. She knew that
only one hand had had anything to do with them, and that the hand that had
bought, not the one that had sold; and "How very kind!"--presently quite
supplanted "How very strange!"--"How exactly like him,--and how singular
that Mrs. Evelyn and her daughters should have supposed they could have
come from Mr. Thorn." It was a moral impossibility that _he_ should have
put such a bunch of flowers together; while to Fleda's eye they so bore
the impress of another person's character that she had absolutely been
glad to get them out of sight for fear they might betray him. She hung
over their varied loveliness, tasted and studied it, till the soft breath
of the roses had wafted away every cloud of disagreeable feeling and she
was drinking in pure and strong pleasure from each leaf and bud. What a
very apt emblem of kindness and friendship she thought them; when their
gentle preaching and silent sympathy could alone so nearly do friendship's
work; for to Fleda there was both counsel and consolation in flowers. So
she found it this morning. An hour's talk with them had done her a great
deal of good, and when she dressed herself and went down to the
drawing-room her grave little face was not less placid than the roses she
had left; she would not wear even one of them down to be a disagreeable
reminder. And she thought that still snowy day was one of the very
pleasantest she had had in New York.
Florence went to Mrs. Decatur's; but Constance according to her avowed
determination remained at home to see the fun. Fleda hoped most sincerely
there would be none for her to see.
But a good deal to her astonishment, early in the evening Mr. Carleton
walked in, followed very soon by Mr. Thorn. Constance and Mrs. Evelyn
were forthwith in a perfect effervescence of delight, which as they could
not very well give it full play promised to last the evening; and Fleda,
all her nervous trembling awakened again, took her work to the table and
endeavoured to bury herself in it. But ears could not be fastened as well
as eyes; and the mere sound of Mrs. Evelyn's voice sometimes sent a
thrill over her.
"Mr. Thorn," said the lady in her smoothest manner,--"are you a lover of
floriculture, sir?"
"Can't say that I am, Mrs. Evelyn,--except as practised by others."
"Then you are not a connoisseur in roses?--Miss Ringgan's happy lot--sent
her a most exquisite collection this morning, and she has been wanting to
apply to somebody who could tell her what they are--I thought you might
know.--O they are not here," said Mrs. Evelyn as she noticed the
gentleman's look round the room;--"Miss Ringgan judges them too precious
for any eyes but her own. Fleda, my dear, won't you bring down your roses
to let Mr. Thorn tell us their names?"
"I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me, Mrs. Evelyn--I believe he would find
it a puzzling task."
"The surest way, Mrs. Evelyn, would be to apply at the fountain head for
information," said Thorn dryly.
"If I could get at it," said Mrs. Evelyn, (Fleda knew with quivering
lips,)--"but it seems to me I might as well try to find the Dead Sea!"
"Perhaps Mr. Carleton might serve your purpose," said Thorn.
That gentleman was at the moment talking to Constance.
"Mr. Carleton--" said Mrs. Evelyn,--"are you a judge, sir?"
"Of what, Mrs. Evelyn?--I beg your pardon."
The lady's tone somewhat lowered.
"Are you a judge of roses, Mr. Carleton?"
"So far as to know a rose when I see it," he answered smiling, and with an
imperturbable coolness that it quieted Fleda to hear.
[Illustration: "I am sure Mr. Thorn will excuse me."]
"Ay, but the thing is," said Constance, "do you know twenty roses when you
see them?"
"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "has received a most
beautiful supply this morning; but like a true woman she is not satisfied
to enjoy unless she can enjoy intelligently--they are strangers to us all,
and she would like to know what name to give them--Mr. Thorn suggested
that perhaps you might help us out of our difficulty."
"With great pleasure, so far as I am able,--if my judgment may be
exercised by daylight. I cannot answer for shades of green in the
night time."
But he spoke with an ease and simplicity that left no mortal able to
guess whether he had ever heard of a particular bunch of roses in his
life before.
"You give me more of Eve in my character, Mrs. Evelyn, than I think
belongs to me," said Fleda from her work at the far centre-table, which
certainly did not get its name from its place in the room. "My enjoyment
to-day has not been in the least troubled by curiosity."
Which none of the rest of the family could have affirmed.
"Do you mean to say, Mr. Carleton," said Constance, "that it is necessary
to distinguish between shades of green in judging of roses?"
"It is necessary to make shades of distinction in judging of almost
anything, Miss Constance. The difference between varieties of the same
flower is often extremely nice."
"I have read of magicians," said Thorn softly, bending down towards
Fleda's work,--"who did not need to see things to answer questions
respecting them."
Fleda thought that was a kind of magic remarkably common in the world;
but even her displeasure could not give her courage to speak. It gave her
courage to be silent, however; and Mr. Thorn's best efforts in a
conversation of some length could gain nothing but very uninterested
rejoinders. A sudden pinch from Constance then made her look up and
almost destroyed her self-possession as she saw Mr. Stackpole make his
way into the room.
"I hope I find my fair enemy in a mollified humour," he said
approaching them.
"I suppose you have repaired damages, Mr. Stackpole," said
Constance,--"since you venture into the region of broken windows again."
"Mr. Stackpole declared there were none to repair," said Mrs. Evelyn
from the sofa.
"More than I knew of," said the gentleman laughing--"there were more than
I knew of; but you see I court the danger, having rashly concluded that I
might as well know all my weak points at once."
"Miss Ringgan will break nothing to-night, Mr. Stackpole--she promised me
she would not."
"Not even her silence?" said the gentleman.
"Is she always so desperately industrious?" said Mr. Thorn.
"Miss Ringgan, Mr. Stackpole," said Constance, "is subject to occasional
fits of misanthropy, in which cases her retreating with her work to the
solitude of the centre-table is significant of her desire to avoid
conversation,--as Mr. Thorn has been experiencing."
"I am happy to see that the malady is not catching, Miss Constance."
"Mr. Stackpole!" said Constance,--"I am in a morose state of mind!--Miss
Ringgan this morning received a magnificent bouquet of roses which in the
first place I rashly appropriated to myself; and ever since I discovered
my mistake I have been meditating the renouncing of society--it has
excited more bad feelings than I thought had existence in my nature."
"Mr. Stackpole," said Mrs. Evelyn, "would you ever have supposed that
roses could be a cause of discord?"
Mr. Stackpole looked as if he did not exactly know what the ladies were
driving at.
"There have five thousand emigrants arrived at this port within a week!"
said he, as if that were something worth talking about.
"Poor creatures! where will they all go?" said Mrs. Evelyn comfortably.
"Country's large enough," said Thorn.
"Yes, but such a stream of immigration will reach the Pacific and come
back again before long: and then there will be a meeting of the waters!
This tide of German and Irish will sweep over everything."
"I suppose if the land will not bear both, one party will have to seek
other quarters," said Mrs. Evelyn with an exquisite satisfaction which
Fleda could hear in her voice. "You remember the story of Lot and Abraham,
Mr. Stackpole,--when a quarrel arose between them?--not about roses."
Mr. Stackpole looked as if women were--to say the least--incomprehensible.
"Five thousand a week!" he repeated.
"I wish there was a Dead Sea for them all to sheer off into!" said Thorn.
"If you had seen the look of grave rebuke that speech called forth, Mr.
Thorn," said Constance, "your feelings would have been penetrated--if you
have any."
"I had forgotten," he said, looking round with a bland change of
manner,--"what gentle charities were so near me."
"Mamma!" said Constance with a most comic shew of indignation,--"Mr.
Thorn thought that with Miss Ringgan he had forgotten all the gentle
charities in the room!--I am of no further use to society!--I will trouble
you to ring that bell, Mr. Thorn, if you please. I shall request candles
and retire to the privacy of my own apartment!"
"Not till you have permitted me to expiate my fault!" said Mr.
Thorn laughing.
"It cannot be expiated!--My worth will be known at some future day.--Mr.
Carleton, _will_ you have the goodness to summon our domestic attendant?"
"If you will permit me to give the order," he said smiling, with his hand
on the bell. "I am afraid you are hardly fit to be trusted alone."
"Why?"
"May I delay obeying you long enough to give my reasons?"
"Yes."
"Because," said he coming up to her, "when people turn away from the world
in disgust they generally find worse company in themselves."
"Mr. Carleton!--I would not sit still another minute, if curiosity didn't
keep me. I thought solitude was said to be such a corrector?"
"Like a clear atmosphere--an excellent medium if your object is to take an
observation of your position--worse than lost if you mean to shut up the
windows and burn sickly lights of your own."
"Then according to that one shouldn't seek solitude unless one
doesn't want it."
"No," said Mr. Carleton, with that eye of deep meaning to which Constance
always rendered involuntary homage,--"every one wants it;--if we do not
daily take an observation to find where we are, we are sailing about
wildly and do not know whither we are going."
"An observation?" said Constance, understanding part and impatient of not
catching the whole of his meaning.
"Yes," he said with a smile of singular fascination,--"I mean, consulting
the unerring guides of the way to know where we are and if we are sailing
safely and happily in the right direction--otherwise we are in danger of
striking upon some rock or of never making the harbour; and in either
case, all is lost."
The power of eye and smile was too much for Constance, as it had happened
more than once before; her own eyes fell and for a moment she wore a look
of unwonted sadness and sweetness, at what from any other person would
have roused her mockery.
"Mr. Carleton," said she, trying to rally herself but still not daring to
look up, knowing that would put it out of her power,--"I can't understand
how you ever came to be such a grave person."
"What is your idea of gravity?" said he smiling. "To have a mind so at
rest about the future as to be able to enjoy thoroughly all that is worth
enjoying in the present?"
"But I can't imagine how _you_ ever came to take up such notions."
"May I ask again, why not I?"
"O you know--you have so much to make you otherwise."
"What degree of present contentment ought to make one satisfied to leave
that of the limitless future an uncertain thing?"
"Do you think it can be made certain?"
"Undoubtedly!--why not? the tickets are free--the only thing is to make
sure that ours has the true signature. Do you think the possession of that
ticket makes life a sadder thing? The very handwriting of it is more
precious to me, by far, Miss Constance, than everything else I have."
"But you are a very uncommon instance," said Constance, still unable to
look up, and speaking without any of her usual attempt at jocularity.
"No, I hope not," he said quietly.
"I mean," said Constance, "that it is very uncommon language to hear from
a person like you."
"I suppose I know your meaning," he said after a minute's pause;--"but,
Miss Constance, there is hardly a graver thought to me than that power and
responsibility go hand in hand."
"It don't generally work so," said Constance rather uneasily.
"What are you talking about, Constance?" said Mrs. Evelyn.
"Mr. Carleton, mamma,--has been making me melancholy."
"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, "I am going to petition that you will
turn your efforts in another direction--I have felt oppressed all the
afternoon from the effects of that funeral service I was attending--I am
only just getting over it. The preacher seemed to delight in putting
together all the gloomy thoughts he could think of."
"Yes!" said Mr. Stackpole, putting his hands in his pockets,--"it is the
particular enjoyment of some of them, I believe, to do their best to make
other people miserable."
Mr. Thorn said nothing, being warned by the impatient little hammering of
Fleda's worsted needle upon the marble, while her eye was no longer
considering her work, and her face rested anxiously upon her hand.
"There wasn't a thing," the lady went on,--"in anything he said, in his
prayer or his speech,--there wasn't a single cheering or elevating
consideration,--all he talked and prayed for was that the people there
might be filled with a sense of their wickedness--"
"It's their trade, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole,--"it's their trade! I
wonder if it ever occurs to them to include themselves in that petition."
"There wasn't the slightest effort made in anything he said or prayed
for,--and one would have thought that would have been so natural!--there
was not the least endeavour to do away with that superstitious fear of
death which is so common--and one would think it was the very occasion to
do it;--he never once asked that we might be led to look upon it
rationally and calmly.--It's so unreasonable, Mr. Stackpole--it is so
dissonant with our views of a benevolent Supreme Being--as if it could be
according to _his_ will that his creatures should live lives of
tormenting themselves--it so shews a want of trust in his goodness!"
"It's a relic of barbarism, ma'am," said Mr. Stackpole;--"it's a popular
delusion--and it is like to be, till you can get men to embrace wider and
more liberal views of things."
"What do you suppose it proceeds from?" said Mr. Carleton, as if the
question had just occurred to him.
"I suppose, from false notions received from education, sir."
"Hardly," said Mr. Carleton;--"it is too universal. You find it
everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but
shifting the question back one generation."
"It is a root of barbarous ages," said Mr. Stackpole,--"a piece of
superstition handed down from father to son--a set of false ideas
which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly
get rid of."
"How can that be a root of barbarism, which the utmost degree of
intelligence and cultivation has no power to do away, nor even to lessen,
however it may afford motive to control? Men may often put a brave face
upon it and shew none of their thoughts to the world; but I think no one
capable of reflection has not at times felt the influence of that dread."
"Men have often sought death, of purpose and choice," said Mr. Stackpole
dryly and rubbing his chin.
"Not from the absence of this feeling, but from the greater momentary
pressure of some other."
"Of course," said Mr. Stackpole, rubbing his chin still,--there is a
natural love of life--the world could not get on if there was not."
"If the love of life is natural, the fear of death must be so, by the
same reason."
"Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is natural--it is part of the
constitution of our nature."
"Yes," said Mr. Stackpole, settling himself again in his chair with his
hands in his pockets--"it is not unnatural, I suppose,--but then that is
the first view of the subject--it is the business of reason to correct
many impressions and prejudices that are, as we say, natural."
"And there was where my clergyman of to-day failed utterly," said Mrs.
Evelyn;--"he aimed at strengthening that feeling and driving it down as
hard as he could into everybody's mind--not a single lisp of anything to
do it away or lessen the gloom with which we are, naturally as you say,
disposed to invest the subject."
"I dare say he has held it up as a bugbear till it has become one to
himself," said Mr. Stackpole.
"It is nothing more than the mere natural dread of dissolution," said
Mr. Carleton.
"I think it is that," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"I think that is the
principal thing."
"Is there not besides an undefined fear of what lies beyond--an
uneasy misgiving that there may be issues which the spirit is not
prepared to meet?"
"I suppose there is," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"but sir--"
"Why that is the very thing," said Mr. Stackpole,--"that is the mischief
of education I was speaking of--men are brought up to it."
"You cannot dispose of it so, sir, for this feeling is quite as universal
as the other; and so strong that men have not only been willing to render
life miserable but even to endure death itself, with all the aggravation
of torture, to smooth their way in that unknown region beyond."
"It is one of the maladies of human nature," said Mr. Stackpole,--"that
it remains for the progress of enlightened reason to dispel."
"What is the cure for the malady?" said Mr. Carleton quietly.
"Why sir!--the looking upon death as a necessary step in the course of our
existence which simply introduces us from a lower to a higher
sphere,--from a comparatively narrow to a wider and nobler range of
feeling and intellect."
"Ay--but how shall we be sure that it is so?"
"Why Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"do you doubt that? Do you
suppose it possible for a moment that a benevolent being would make
creatures to be anything but happy?"
"You believe the Bible, Mrs. Evelyn?" he said smiling slightly.
"Certainly, sir; but Mr. Carleton, the Bible I am sure holds out the same
views of the goodness and glory of the Creator; you cannot open it but you
find them on every page. If I could take such views of things as some
people have," said Mrs. Evelyn, getting up to punch the fire in her
extremity,--"I don't know what I should do!--Mr. Carleton, I think I would
rather never have been born, sir!"
"Every one runs to the Bible!" said Mr. Stackpole. "It is the general
armoury, and all parties draw from it to fight each other."
"True," said Mr. Carleton,--"but only while they draw partially. No man
can fight the battle of truth but in the whole panoply; and no man so
armed can fight any other."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"I mean that the Bible is not a riddle, neither inconsistent with
itself; but if you take off one leg of a pair of compasses the measuring
power is gone."
"But Mr. Carleton, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"do you think that reading
the Bible is calculated to give one gloomy ideas of the future?"
"By no means," he said with one of those meaning-fraught smiles,--"but
is it safe, Mrs. Evelyn, in such a matter, to venture a single grasp of
hope without the direct warrant of God's word?"
"Well, sir?"
"Well, ma'am,--that says, 'the soul that sinneth, it shall die.'"
"That disposes of the whole matter comfortably at once," said Mr.
Stackpole.
"But, sir," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"that doesn't stand alone--the Bible
everywhere speaks of the fulness and freeness of Christ's salvation?"
"Full and free as it can possibly be," he answered with something of a sad
expression of countenance;--"but, Mrs. Evelyn, _never offered but with
conditions_."
"What conditions?" said Mr. Stackpole hastily.
"I recommend you to look for them, sir," answered Mr. Carleton,
gravely;--"they should not be unknown to a wise man."
"Then you would leave mankind ridden by this nightmare of fear?--or what
is your remedy?"
"There is a remedy, sir," said Mr. Carleton, with that dilating and
darkening eye which shewed him deeply engaged in what he was thinking
about;--"it is not mine. When men feel themselves lost and are willing to
be saved in God's way, then the breach is made up--then hope can look
across the gap and see its best home and its best friend on the other
side--then faith lays hold on forgiveness and trembling is done--then, sin
being pardoned, the sting of death is taken away and the fear of death is
no more, for it is swallowed up in victory. But men will not apply to a
physician while they think themselves well; and people will not seek the
sweet way of safety by Christ till they know there is no other; and so, do
you see, Mrs. Evelyn, that when the gentleman you were speaking of sought
to-day to persuade his hearers that they were poorer than they thought
they were, he was but taking the surest way to bring them to be made
richer than they ever dreamed."
There was a power of gentle earnestness in his eye that Mrs Evelyn could
not answer; her look fell as that of Constance had done, and there was a
moment's silence.
Thorn had kept quiet, for two reasons--that he might not displease Fleda,
and that he might watch her. She had left her work, and turning half round
from the table had listened intently to the conversation, towards the last
very forgetful that there might be anybody to observe her,--with eyes
fixed, and cheeks flushing, and the corners of the mouth just indicating
delight,--till the silence fell; and then she turned round to the table
and took up her worsted-work. But the lips were quite grave now, and
Thorn's keen eyes discerned that upon one or two of the artificial roses
there lay two or three very natural drops.
"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "what makes you talk such sober things?--you
have set Miss Ringgan to crying."
"Mr. Carleton could not be better pleased than at such a tribute to his
eloquence," said Mr. Thorn with a saturnine expression.
"Smiles are common things," said Mr. Stackpole a little maliciously; "but
any man may be flattered to find his words drop diamonds."
"Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn, with that trembling tone of concealed
ecstasy which always set every one of Fleda's nerves a jarring,--"you may
tell the gentlemen that they do not always know when they are making an
unfelicitous compliment--I never read what poets say about 'briny drops'
and 'salt tears' without imagining the heroine immediately to be something
like Lot's wife."
"Nobody said anything about briny drops, mamma," said Edith. "Why there's
Florence!--"
Her entrance made a little bustle, which Fleda was very glad of.
Unkind!--She was trembling again in every finger. She bent down over her
canvas and worked away as hard as she could. That did not hinder her
becoming aware presently that Mr. Carleton was standing close beside her.
"Are you not trying your eyes?" said he.
The words were nothing, but the tone was a great deal, there was a kind of
quiet intelligence in it. Fleda looked up, and something in the clear
steady self-reliant eye she met wrought an instant change in her feeling.
She met it a moment and then looked at her work again with nerves quieted.
"Cannot I persuade them to be of my mind?" said Mr. Carleton, bending down
a little nearer to their sphere of action.
"Mr. Carleton is unreasonable, to require more testimony of that this
evening," said Mr. Thorn;--"his own must have been ill employed."
Fleda did not look up, but the absolute quietness of Mr. Carleton's manner
could be felt; she felt it, almost with sympathetic pain. Thorn
immediately left them and took leave.
"What are you searching for in the papers, Mr. Carleton?" said Mrs. Evelyn
presently coming up to them.
"I was looking for the steamers, Mrs. Evelyn."
"How soon do you think of bidding us good-bye?"
"I do not know, ma'am," he answered coolly--"I expect my mother."
Mrs. Evelyn walked back to her sofa.
But in the space of two minutes she came over to the centre-table again,
with an open magazine in her hand.
"Mr. Carleton," said the lady, "you must read this for me and tell me
what you think of it, will you sir? I have been shewing it to Mr.
Stackpole and he can't see any beauty in it, and I tell him it is his
fault and there is some serious want in his composition. Now I want to
know what you will say to it."
"An arbiter, Mrs. Evelyn, should be chosen by both parties."
"Read it and tell me what you think!" repeated the lady, walking away to
leave him opportunity. Mr. Carleton looked it over.
"That is something pretty," he said putting it before Fleda. Mrs. Evelyn
was still at a distance.
"What do you think of that print for trying the eyes?" said Fleda laughing
as she took it. But he noticed that her colour rose a little.
"How do you like it?"
"I like it,--pretty well," said Fleda rather hesitatingly.
"You have seen it before?"
"Why?" Fleda said, with a look up at him at once a little startled and a
little curious;--"what makes you say so?"
"Because--pardon me--you did not read it."
"Oh," said Fleda laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "I
can tell how I like some things without reading them very carefully."
Mr. Carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again.
"What have you there, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence.
"A piece of English on which I was asking this lady's opinion, Miss
Evelyn."
"Now, Mr. Carleton!" exclaimed Constance jumping up,--"I am going to ask
you to decide a quarrel between Fleda and me about a point of English"--
"Hush, Constance!" said her mother,--"I want to speak to Mr. Carleton--Mr.
Carleton, how do you like it?"
"Like what, mamma?" said Florence.
"A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell how you
like it, sir."
"But what is it, mamma?"
"A piece of poetry in an old Excelsior--'The Spirit of the Fireside.' Mr.
Carleton, won't you read it aloud, and let us all hear--but tell me first
what you think of it."
"It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn."
"Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, sir."
"Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole,--"it's a little fanciful--and I can't
quite make out what the fancy is."
"It has been the misfortune of many good things before not to be prized,
Mr. Stackpole," said the lady funnily.
"True, ma'am," said that gentleman rubbing his chin--"and the converse is
also true unfortunately,--and with a much wider application."
"There is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said Mr.
Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds because of their wanting
the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a
hidden freemasonry of its own."
"Very hidden indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole;--"the cloud is so thick that I
can't see the electricity!"
"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn laughing, "I take that remark as a
compliment, sir. I have always appreciated that writer's pieces--I enjoy
them very much."
"Well, won't you please read it, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence, "and let us
know what we are talking about."
Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was by the centre-table.
"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells,
The child of bygone years,--
He lieth hid the stones amid,
And liveth on smiles and tears.
"But when the night is drawing on,
And the fire burns clear and bright,
He Cometh out and walketh about,
In the pleasant grave twilight.
"He goeth round on tiptoe soft,
And scanneth close each face;
If one in the room be sunk in gloom,
By him he taketh his place.
"And then with fingers cool and soft,
(Their touch who does not know)
With water brought from the well of Thought,
That was dug long years ago,
"He layeth his hand on the weary eyes--
They are closed and quiet now;--
And he wipeth away the dust of the day
Which had settled on the brow.
"And gently then he walketh away
And sits in the corner chair;
And the closed eyes swim--it seemeth to _him_
The form that once sat there.
"And whispered words of comfort and love
Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow;--
'Why weepest thou?--thou art troubled now,
But there cometh a bright to-morrow.
"'We too have passed over life's wild stream
In a frail and shattered boat,
But the pilot was sure--and we sailed secure
When we seemed but scarce afloat.
"'Though tossed by the rage of waves and wind,
The bark held together still,--
One arm was strong--it bore us along,
And has saved from every ill.'
"The Spirit returns to his hiding-place,
But his words have been like balm.
The big tears start--but the fluttering heart
Is soothed and softened and calm."
"I remember that," said Florence;--"it is beautiful."
"Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"it is signed 'Hugh'--there have been
a good many of his pieces in the Excelsior for a year past--and all of
them pretty."
"Hugh!" exclaimed Edith springing forward,--"that's the one that wrote the
Chestnuts!--Fleda, won't you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?"
"Why no, Edith, I think not."
"Ah do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it,--and you know mamma
says they're all pretty. Won't you?"
"My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to day."
"But I want you to read it for me again."
"Let me have it, Miss Edith," said Mr. Carleton smiling,--"I will read
it for you."
"Ah but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said
Edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine,--"she reads it so well.
It's so funny--about the coffee and buckwheat cakes."
"What is that, Edith?" said her mother.
"Something Mr. Carleton is going to read for me, mamma."
"Don't you trouble Mr. Carleton."
"It won't trouble him, mamma--he promised of his own accord."
"Let us all have the benefit of it, Mr. Carleton," said the lady.
It is worthy of remark that Fleda's politeness utterly deserted her during
the reading of both this piece and the last. She as near as possible
turned her back upon the reader.
"Merrily sang the crickets forth
One fair October night;--
And the stars looked down, and the northern crown
Gave its strange fantastic light.
"A nipping frost was in the air,
On flowers and grass it fell;
And the leaves were still on the eastern hill
As if touched by a fairy spell.
"To the very top of the tall nut-trees
The frost-king seemed to ride;
With his wand he stirs the chestnut burs,
And straight they are opened wide.
"And squirrels and children together dream
Of the coming winter's hoard;
And many, I ween, are the chestnuts seen
In hole or in garret stored.
"The children are sleeping in feather-beds--
Poor Bun in his mossy nest,--
_He_ courts repose with his tail on his nose.
On the others warm blankets rest.
"Late in the morning the sun gets up
From behind the village spire;
And the children dream, that the first red gleam
Is the chestnut trees on fire!
"The squirrel had on when he first awoke
All the clothing he could command;
And his breakfast was light--he just took a bite
Of an acorn that lay at hand;
"And then he was off to the trees to work;--
While the children some time it takes
To dress and to eat what _they_ think meet
Of coffee and buckwheat cakes.
"The sparkling frost when they first go out,
Lies thick upon all around;
And earth and grass, as they onward pass,
Give a pleasant crackling sound.
"O there is a heap of chestnuts, see!'
Cried the youngest of the train;
For they came to a stone where the squirrel had thrown
What he meant to pick up again.
"And two bright eyes from the tree o'erhead,
Looked down at the open bag
Where the nuts went in--and so to begin,
Almost made his courage flag.
"Away on the hill, outside the wood,
Three giant trees there stand;
And the chestnuts bright that hang in sight,
Are eyed by the youthful band.
"And one of their number climbs the tree,
And passes from bough to bough,--
And the children run--for with pelting fun
The nuts fall thickly now.
"Some of the burs are still shut tight,--
Some open with chestnuts three,--
And some nuts fall with no burs at all--
Smooth, shiny, as nuts should be.
"O who can tell what fun it was
To see the prickly shower!
To feel what a whack on head or back.
Was within a chestnut's power!--
"To run beneath the shaking tree,
And then to scamper away;
And with laughing shout to dance about
The grass where the chestnuts lay.
"With flowing dresses, and blowing hair,
And eyes that no shadow knew,--
Like the growing light of a morning bright---
The dawn of the summer blue!
"The work was ended--the trees were stripped--
The children were 'tired of play.'
And they forgot (but the squirrel did not)
The wrong they had done that day."
Whether it was from the reader's enjoyment or good giving of these lines,
or from Edith's delight in them, he was frequently interrupted with bursts
of laughter.
"I can understand _that_" said Mr. Stackpole, "without any difficulty."
"You are not lost in the mysteries of chestnuting in open daylight," said
Mrs. Evelyn.
"Mr. Carleton," said Edith, "wouldn't you have taken the squirrel's
chestnuts?"
"I believe I should, Miss Edith,--if I had not been hindered."
"But what would have hindered you? don't you think it was right?"
"Ask your friend Miss Ringgan what she thinks of it," said he smiling.
"Now Mr. Carleton," said Constance as he threw down the magazine, "will
you decide that point of English between Miss Ringgan and me?"
"I should like to hear the pleadings on both sides, Miss Constance."
"Well, Fleda, will you agree to submit it to Mr. Carleton?"
"I must know by what standards Mr. Carleton will be guided before I agree
to any such thing," said Fleda.
"Standards! but aren't you going to trust anybody in anything without
knowing what standards they go by?"
"Would that be a safe rule to follow in general?" said Fleda smiling.
"You won't be a true woman if you don't follow it, sooner or later, my
dear Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Every woman must."
"The later the better, ma'am, I cannot help thinking."
"You will change your mind," said Mrs. Evelyn complacently.
"Mamma's notions, Mr. Stackpole, would satisfy any man's pride, when she
is expatiating upon the subject of woman's dependence," said Florence.
"The dependence of affection," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course! It's their
lot. Affection always leads a true woman to merge her separate judgment,
on anything, in the judgment of the beloved object."
"Ay," said Fleda laughing,--"suppose her affection is wasted on an
object that has none?"
"My dear Fleda!" said Mrs. Evelyn with a funny expression,--"that
can never be, you know--don't you remember what your favourite
Longfellow says--'affection never is wasted'?--Florence, my love,
just hand me 'Evangeline' there--I want you to listen to it, Mr.
Stackpole--here it is--
'Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted;
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning
Back to their springs shall fill them full of refreshment.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.'"
"How very plain it is that was written by a man!" said Fleda.
"Why?" said Mr. Carleton laughing.
"I always thought it was so exquisite!" said Florence.
"_I_ was so struck with it," said Constance, "that I have been looking
ever since for an object to waste _my_ affections upon."
"Hush, Constance!" said her mother. "Don't you like it, Mr. Carleton?"
"I should like to hear Miss Ringgan's commentary," said Mr. Stackpole;--"
I can't anticipate it. I should have said the sentiment was quite soft and
tender enough for a woman."
"Don't you agree with it, Mr. Carleton," repeated Mrs. Evelyn.
"I beg leave to second Mr. Stackpole's motion," he said smiling.
"Fleda my dear, you must explain yourself,--the gentlemen are at a stand."
"I believe, Mrs. Evelyn," said Fleda smiling and blushing,--I am of the
mind of the old woman who couldn't bear to see anything wasted."
"But the assertion is that it _isn't_ wasted," said Mr. Stackpole.
"'That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain,'"
said Mrs. Evelyn.
"Yes, to flood and lay waste the fair growth of nature," said Fleda with a
little energy, though her colour rose and rose higher.
"Did it never occur to you, Mrs. Evelyn, that the streams which fertilize
as they flow do but desolate if their course be checked?"
"But your objection lies only against the author's figure," said Mr.
Stackpole;--"come to the fact."
"I was speaking as he did, sir, of the fact under the figure--I did not
mean to separate them."
Both the gentlemen were smiling, though with very different expression.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Carleton, "the writer was thinking of a gentler and
more diffusive flow of kind feeling, which however it may meet with barren
ground and raise no fruit there, is sure in due time to come back,
heaven-refined, to refresh and replenish its source."
"Perhaps so," said Fleda with a very pleased answering look,--"I do not
recollect how it is brought in--I may have answered rather Mrs. Evelyn
than Mr. Longfellow."
"But granting that it is an error," said Mr. Stackpole, "as you understood
it,--what shews it to have been made by a man?"
"Its utter ignorance of the subject, sir."
"You think _they_ never waste their affections?" said he.
"By no means! but I think they rarely waste so much in any one direction
as to leave them quite impoverished."
"Mr. Carleton, how do you bear that, sir?" said Mrs. Evelyn. "Will you let
such an assertion pass unchecked?"
"I would not if I could help it, Mrs. Evelyn."
"That isn't saying much for yourself," said Constance;--"but Fleda my
dear, where did you get such an experience of waste and desolation?"
"Oh, 'man is a microcosm,' you know," said Fleda lightly.
"But you make it out that only one-half of mankind can appropriate that
axiom," said Mr. Stackpole. "How can a woman know _men's_ hearts so well?"
"On the principle that the whole is greater than a part?" said Mr.
Carleton smiling.
"I'll sleep upon that before I give my opinion," said Mr. Stackpole. "Mrs.
Evelyn, good-evening!--"
"Well Mr. Carleton!" said Constance, "you have said a great deal for
women's minds."
"Some women's minds," he said with a smile.
"And some men's minds," said Fleda. "I was speaking only in the general."
Her eye half unconsciously reiterated her meaning as she shook hands with
Mr. Carleton. And without speaking a word for other people to hear, his
look and smile in return were more than an answer. Fleda sat for some
time after he was gone trying to think what it was in eye and lip which
had given her so much pleasure. She could not make out anything but
approbation,--the look of loving approbation that one gives to a good
child; but she thought it had also something of that quiet
intelligence--a silent communication of sympathy which the others in
company could not share.
She was roused from her reverie by Mrs. Evelyn.
"Fleda my dear, I am writing to your aunt Lucy--have you any
message to send?"
"No Mrs. Evelyn--I wrote myself to-day."
And she went back to her musings.
"I am writing about you, Fleda," said Mrs. Evelyn, again in a few minutes.
"Giving a good account, I hope, ma'am," said Fleda smiling.
"I shall tell her I think sea-breezes have an unfavourable effect upon
you," said Mrs. Evelyn;--"that I am afraid you are growing pale; and that
you have clearly expressed yourself in favour of a garden at Queechy
rather than any lot in the city--or anywhere else;--so she had better send
for you home immediately."
Fleda tried to find out what the lady really meant; but Mrs. Evelyn's
delighted amusement did not consist with making the matter very
plain. Fleda's questions did nothing but aggravate the cause of them,
to her own annoyance; so she was fain at last to take her light and
go to her own room.
She looked at her flowers again with a renewal of the first pleasure and
of the quieting influence the giver of them had exercised over her that
evening; thought again how very kind it was of him to send them, and to
choose them so; how strikingly he differed from other people; how glad she
was to have seen him again, and how more than glad that he was so happily
changed from his old self. And then from that change and the cause of it,
to those higher, more tranquilizing, and sweetening influences that own no
kindred with earth's dust and descend like the dew of heaven to lay and
fertilize it. And when she laid herself down to sleep it was with a spirit
grave but simply happy; every annoyance and unkindness as unfelt now as
ever the parching heat of a few hours before when the stars are abroad.