Chapter 23

"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 look'd for the tops Of the mountains in vain; Twilight was gathering, And dark grew the west, And the wood-fire'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 — I 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 quicker 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 showed, 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 is very foolish and wrong —"

"Is that a reason for my not knowing it?"

"No — not a good one. — But you have read it now — wont 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, he 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 show 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 ever 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.