Do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela as well as a joyful?
Sidney.
Mr. Carleton came back without his mother; she had chosen to put off her
voyage till spring. He took up his quarters at Montepoole, which, far
though it was, was yet the nearest point where his notions of ease could
have freedom enough.
One would have thought that saw him,--those most nearly concerned almost
did think,--that in his daily coming to Queechy Mr. Carleton sought
everybody's pleasure rather than his own. He was Fleda's most gentle and
kind assistant in taking care of Hugh, soon dearly valued by the sick one,
who watched for and welcomed his coming as a bright spot in the day; and
loved particularly to have Mr. Carleton's hand do anything for him. Rather
than almost any other. His mother's was too feeling; Fleda's Hugh often
feared was weary; and his father's, though gentle to him as to an infant,
yet lacked the mind's training. And though Marion was his sister in blood,
Guy was his brother in better bonds. The deep blue eye that little Fleda
had admired Hugh learned to love and rest on singularly.
To the rest of the family Mr. Carleton's influence was more soothing and
cheering than any cause beside. To all but the head of it. Even Mrs.
Rossitur, after she had once made up her mind to see him, could not bear
to be absent when he was in the house. The dreaded contrast with old times
gave no pain, either to her or Marion. Mr. Carleton forgot so completely
that there was any difference that they were charmed into forgetting it
too. But Mr. Rossitur's pride lay deeper, or had been less humbled by
sorrow; the recollections that his family let slip never failed to gall
him when Mr. Carleton was present; and if now and then for a moment these
were banished by his guest's graces of mind and manner, the next breath
was a sigh for the circles and the pleasures they served to recall, now
seeming for ever lost to him. Mr. Carleton perceived that his company
gave pain and not pleasure to his host and for that reason was the less in
the house, and made his visits to Hugh at times when Mr. Rossitur was not
in the way. Fleda he took out of the house and away with him, for her good
and his own.
To Fleda the old childish feeling came back, that she was in somebody's
hands who had a marvellous happy way of managing things about her and even
of managing herself. A kind of genial atmosphere, that was always doing
her good, yet so quietly and so skilfully that she could only now and then
get a chance even to look her thanks. Quietly and efficiently he was
exerting himself to raise the tone of her mind, to brighten her spirits,
to reach those sober lines that years of patience had drawn round her eye
and mouth, and charm them away. So gently, so indirectly, by efforts so
wisely and gracefully aimed, he set about it, that Fleda did not know what
he was doing; but _he_ knew. He knew when he saw her brow unbend and her
eye catch its old light sparkle, that his conversation and the thoughts
and interests with which he was rousing her mind or fancy, were working,
and would work all he pleased. And though the next day he might find the
old look of patient gravity again, he hardly wished it not there, for the
pleasure of doing it away. Hugh's anxious question to Fleda had been very
uncalled for, and Fleda's assurance was well-grounded; that subject was
never touched upon.
Fleda's manner with Mr. Carleton was peculiar and characteristic. In the
house, before others, she was as demure and reserved as though he had been
a stranger; she never placed herself near him, nor entered into
conversation with him, unless when he obliged her; but when they were
alone there was a frank confidence and simplicity in her manner that most
happily answered the high-bred delicacy that had called it out.
One afternoon of a pleasant day in March Fleda and Hugh were sitting alone
together in the sick room. Hugh was weaker than usual, but not confined to
his bed; he was in his great easy-chair which had been moved up-stairs for
him again. Fleda had been repeating hymns.
"You are tired," Hugh said.
"No--"
"There's something about you that isn't strong," said Hugh fondly. "I
wonder where is Mr. Carleton to-day. It is very pleasant, isn't it?"
"Very pleasant, and warm; it is like April; the snow all went off
yesterday, and the ground is dry except in spots."
"I wish he would come and give you a good walk. I have noticed how you
always come back looking so much brighter after one of your walks or rides
with him."
"What makes you think so, dear Hugh?" said Fleda a little troubled.
"Only my eyes," said Hugh smiling. "It does me as much good as you,
Fleda."
"I _never_ want to go and leave you, Hugh."
"I am very glad there is somebody to take you. I wish he would come. You
want it this minute."
"I don't think I shall let him take me if he comes."
"Whither? and whom?" said another voice.
"I didn't know you were there, sir," said Fleda suddenly rising.
"I am but just here--Rolf admitted me as he passed out."
Coming in between them and still holding the hand of one Mr. Carleton bent
down towards the other.
"How is Hugh, to-day?"
It was pleasant to see, that meeting of eyes,--the grave kindliness on the
one side, the confident affection on the other. But the wasted features
said as plainly as the tone of Hugh's gentle reply, that he was passing
away,--fast.
"What shall I do for you?"
"Take Fleda out and give her a good walk. She wants it."
"I will, presently. You are weary--what shall I do to rest you?"
"Nothing--" said Hugh, closing his eyes with a very placid look;--"unless
you will put me in mind of something about heaven, Mr. Carleton."
"Shall I read to you?--Baxter,--or something else?"
"No--just give me something to think of while you're gone,--as you have
done before, Mr. Carleton."
"I will give you two or three of the Bible bits on that subject; they are
but hints and indications you know--rather rays of light that stream out
from the place than any description of it; but you have only to follow one
of these indications and see whither it will lead you. The first I
recollect is that one spoken to Abraham, 'Fear not--I am thy shield, and
thy exceeding great reward.'"
"Don't go any further, Mr. Carleton," said Hugh with a smile. "Fleda--do
you remember?"
They sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long.
"You were going to walk," said Hugh without looking at them.
Fleda however did not move till a word or two from Mr. Carleton had backed
Hugh's request; then she went.
"Is she gone?" said Hugh. "Mr. Carleton, will you hand me that
little desk."
It was his own. Mr. Carleton brought it. Hugh opened it and took out a
folded paper which he gave to Mr. Carleton, saying that he thought he
ought to have it.
"Do you know the handwriting, sir?"
"No."
"Ah she has scratched it so. It is Fleda's."
Hugh shut his eyes again and Mr. Carleton seeing that he had settled
himself to sleep went to the window with the paper. It hardly told him
anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light.
"Cold blew the east wind
And thick fell the rain,
I looked for the tops
Of the mountains in vain;
Twilight was gathering
And dark grew the west,
And the woodfire's crackling
Toned well with the rest.
"Speak fire and tell me--
Thy flickering flame
Fell on me in years past--
Say, am I the same?
Has my face the same brightness
In those days it wore?--
My foot the same lightness
As it crosses the floor?
"Methinks there are changes--
Am weary to-night,--
I once was as tireless
As the bird on her flight;
My bark in full measure
Threw foam from the prow;--
Not even for pleasure
Would I care to move now.
"Tis not the foot only
That lieth thus still,--
I am weary in spirit,
I am listless in will.
My eye vainly peereth
Through the darkness, to find
Some object that cheereth--
Some light for the mind.
"What shadows come o'er me--
What things of the past,--
Bright things of my childhood
That fled all too fast,
The scenes where light roaming
My foot wandered free,
Come back through the gloamin'--
Come all back to me.
"The cool autumn evening,
The fair summer morn,--
The dress and the aspect
Some dear ones have worn,--
The sunshiny places--
The shady hill-side--
The words and the faces
That might not abide.--
"Die out little fire--
Ay, blacken and pine!--
So have paled many lights
That were brighter than thine.
I can quicken thy embers
Again with a breath,
But the others lie cold
In the ashes of death."
Mr. Carleton had read near through the paper before Fleda came in.
"I have kept you a long time, Mr. Carleton," she said coming up to the
window; "I found aunt Lucy wanted me."
But she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and
which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. Her own eye went to
the paper in search of explanation.
"What have you there?--Oh, Mr. Carleton," she said, putting her hand over
it,--"Please to give it to me!"
Fleda's face was very much in earnest. He took the hand but did not give
her the paper, and looked his refusal.
"I am ashamed you should see that!--who gave it to you?"
"You shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said smiling.
"But have you read it?"
"Yes."
"I am very sorry!"
"I am very glad, my dear Elfie."
"You will think--you will think what wasn't true,--it was just a mood I
used to get into once in a while--I used to be angry with myself for it,
but I could not help it--one of those listless fits would take me now
and then--"
"I understand it, Elfie."
"I am very sorry you should know I ever felt or wrote so."
"Why?"
"It was very foolish and wrong--"
"Is that a reason for my not knowing it?"
"No--not a good one--But you have read it now,--won't you let me have it?"
"No--I shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, Elfie," he said as he
put it in a place of security.
"Pray do not!" said Fleda most unaffectedly.
"Why?"
"Because I remember Mrs. Carleton says you always have what you ask for."
"Give me permission to put on your bonnet, then," said he laughingly,
taking it from her hand.
The air was very sweet, the footing pleasant. The first few steps of the
walk were made by Fleda in silence, with eager breath and a foot that grew
lighter as it trod.
"I don't think it was a right mood of mind I had when I wrote that," she
said. "It was morbid. But I couldn't help it.--Yet if one could keep
possession of those words you quoted just now, I suppose one never would
have morbid feelings, Mr. Carleton?"
"Perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many
things may make it weaker."
"Mine is weak," said Fleda. "But it is possible to keep firm hold of those
words, Mr. Carleton?"
"Yes--by strength that is not human nature's--And after all the firm hold
is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. The very
hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. And so it
is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the Author and Finisher of
our faith."
"I love those words," said Fleda. "But Mr. Carleton, how shall one be
_sure_ that one has a right to those other words--those I mean that you
told to Hugh? One cannot take the comfort of them unless one is _sure_."
Her voice trembled.
"My dear Elfie, the promises have many of them their _double_--stamped
with the very same signet--and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it
is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise."
"Well--in this case?" said Fleda eagerly.
"In this case,--God says, 'I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great
reward.' Now see if your own heart can give the countersign,--'_Thou art
my portion, O Lord_!'"
Fleda's head sank instantly and almost lay upon his arm.
"If you have the one, my dear Elfie, the other is yours--it is the note of
hand of the maker of the promise--sure to be honoured. And if you want
proof here it is,--and a threefold cord is not soon broken.--'Because he
hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on
high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will
answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour
him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.'"
There was a pause of some length. Fleda had lifted up her head, but walked
along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak.
"Have you the countersign, Elfie?"
Fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from
weeping again.
"Yes.--But so I had then, Mr. Carleton--only sometimes I got those fits
of feeling--I forgot it, I suppose."
"When were these verses written?"
"Last fall;--uncle Rolf was away, and aunt Lucy unhappy,--and I believe I
was tired--I suppose it was that."
For a matter of several rods each was busy with his own musings. But Mr.
Carleton bethought himself.
"Where are you, Elfie?"
"Where am I?"
"Yes--Not at Queechy?"
"No indeed," said Fleda laughing. "Far enough away."
"Where?"
"At Paris--at the Marché des Innocens."
"How did you get to Paris?"
"I don't know--by a bridge of associations, I suppose, resting one end on
last year, and the other on the time when I was eleven years old."
"Very intelligible," said Mr. Carleton smiling.
"Do you remember that morning, Mr. Carleton?--when you took Hugh and me to
the Marché des Innocens?"
"Perfectly."
"I have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early
that morning."
"I think I was well paid at the time. I remember I thought I had seen one
of the prettiest sights I had even seen in Paris."
"So I thought!" said Fleda. "It has been a pleasant picture in my
imagination ever since."
There was a curious curl in the corners of Mr. Carleton's mouth which
made Fleda look an inquiry--a look so innocently wistful that his
gravity gave way.
"My dear Elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then."
"Am I?" said Fleda. "I dare say I am, for I feel so. I have the very same
feeling I used to have then, that I am a child, and you taking the care of
me into your own hands."
"One half of that is true, and the other half nearly so."
"How good you always were to me!" Fleda said with a sigh.
"Not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he
said with a smile, "as the account bids fair to run a good while."
A silence again, during which Fleda is clearly _not_ enjoying the
landscape nor the fine weather.
"Elfie,--what are you meditating?"
She came back from her meditations with a very frank look.
"I was thinking,--Mr. Carleton,--of your notions about female education."
"Well?--"
They had paused upon a rising ground. Fleda hesitated, and then looked up
in his face.
"I am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in
the way of being all you wish me to be?"
Her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. He gave her no answer, except
by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no
longer and her own fell. Mr. Carleton recollected himself.
"My dear Elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant Elfie was at no
loss for the tone now,--"what do you consider yourself deficient in?"
Fleda spoke with a little difficulty.
"I am afraid in a good many things--in general reading,--and in what are
called accomplishments--"
"You shall read as much as you please by and by," said he, "provided you
will let me read with you; and as for the other want, Elfie, it is rather
a source of gratification to me."
Elfie very naturally asked why?
"Because as soon as I have the power I shall immediately constitute myself
your master in the arts of riding and drawing, and in any other art or
acquisition you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently."
"And will there be gratification in that?" said Fleda.
His answer was by a smile. But he somewhat mischievously asked her, "Will
there not?"--and Fleda was quiet.