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Queechy

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"She has been sleeping all the afternoon," said Mrs. Carleton,--"she
lay as quiet as a mouse, without stirring;--you were sleeping, weren't
you, dear?"

Fleda's lips hardly formed the word "no," and her features were quivering
sadly. Mr. Carleton's were impenetrable.

"Dear Fleda," said he, stooping down and speaking with equal gravity and
kindliness of manner,--"you were not able to go."

Fleda's shake of the head gave a meek acquiescence. But her face was
covered, and the gay talkers around her were silenced and sobered by the
heaving of her little frame with sobs that she could not keep back. Mr.
Carleton secured the permanence of their silence for that evening. He
dismissed them the room again and would have nobody there but himself and
his mother.

Instead of being better the next day Fleda was not able to get up; she was
somewhat feverish and exceedingly weak. She lay like a baby, Mrs. Carleton
said, and gave as little trouble. Gentle and patient always, she made no
complaint, and even uttered no wish, and whatever they did made no
objection. Though many a tear that day and the following paid its faithful
tribute to the memory of what she had lost, no one knew it; she was never
seen to weep; and the very grave composure of her face and her passive
unconcern as to what was done or doing around her alone gave her friends
reason to suspect that the mind was not as quiet as the body. Mr. Carleton
was the only one who saw deeper; the only one that guessed why the little
hand often covered the eyes so carefully, and read the very, very grave
lines of the mouth that it could not hide.

As soon as she could bear it he had her brought out to the
dressing-room again, and laid on the sofa; and it was several days
before she could be got any further. But there he could be more with
her and devote himself more to her pleasure; and it was not long before
he had made himself necessary to the poor child's comfort in a way
beyond what he was aware of.

He was not the only one who shewed her kindness. Unwearied care and most
affectionate attention were lavished upon her by his mother and both her
friends; they all thought they could not do enough to mark their feeling
and regard for her. Mrs. Carleton and Mrs. Evelyn nursed her by night and
by day. Mrs. Evelyn read to her. Mrs. Thorn would come often to look and
smile at her and say a few words of heart-felt pity and sympathy. Yet
Fleda could not feel quite at home with any one of them. They did not see
it. Her manner was affectionate and grateful, to the utmost of their wish;
her simple natural politeness, her nice sense of propriety, were at every
call; she seemed after a few days to be as cheerful and to enter as much
into what was going on about her as they had any reason to expect she
could; and they were satisfied. But while moving thus smoothly among her
new companions, in secret her spirit stood aloof; there was not one of
them that could touch her, that could understand her, that could meet the
want of her nature. Mrs. Carleton was incapacitated for it by education;
Mrs. Evelyn by character; Mrs. Thorn by natural constitution. Of them all,
though by far the least winning and agreeable in personal qualifications,
Fleda would soonest have relied on Mrs. Thorn, could soonest have loved
her. Her homely sympathy and kindness made their way to the child's heart;
Fleda felt them and trusted them. But there were too few points of
contact. Fleda thanked her, and did not wish to see her again. With Mrs.
Carleton Fleda had almost nothing at all in common. And that
notwithstanding all this lady's politeness, intelligence, cultivation, and
real kindness towards herself. Fleda would readily have given her credit
for them all; and yet, the nautilus may as soon compare notes with the
navigator, the canary might as well study Maelzel's Metronome, as a child
of nature and a woman of the world comprehend and suit each other. The
nature of the one must change or the two must remain the world wide apart.
Fleda felt it, she did not know why. Mrs. Carleton was very kind, and
perfectly polite; but Fleda had no pleasure in her kindness, no trust in
her politeness; or if that be saying too much, at least she felt that for
some inexplicable reason both were unsatisfactory. Even the tact which
each possessed in an exquisite degree was not the same in each; in one it
was the self-graduating power of a clever machine,--in the other, the
delicateness of the sensitive plant. Mrs. Carleton herself was not without
some sense of this distinction; she confessed, secretly, that there was
something in Fleda out of the reach of her discernment, and consequently
beyond the walk of her skill; and felt, rather uneasily, that more
delicate hands were needed to guide so delicate a nature. Mrs. Evelyn came
nearer the point. She was very pleasant, and she knew how to do things in
a charming way; and there were times, frequently, when Fleda thought she
was everything lovely. But yet, now and then a mere word, or look, would
contradict this fair promise, a something of _hardness_ which Fleda could
not reconcile with the soft gentleness of other times; and on the whole
Mrs. Evelyn was unsure ground to her; she could not adventure her
confidence there.

With Mr. Carleton alone Fleda felt at home. He only, she knew, completely
understood and appreciated her. Yet she saw also that with others he was
not the same as with her. Whether grave or gay there was about him an air
of cool indifference, very often reserved and not seldom haughty; and the
eye which could melt and glow when turned upon her, was sometimes as
bright and cold as a winter sky. Fleda felt sure however that she might
trust him entirely so far as she herself was concerned; of the rest she
stood in doubt. She was quite right in both cases. Whatever else there
might be in that blue eye, there was truth in it when it met hers; she
gave that truth her full confidence and was willing to honour every
draught made upon her charity for the other parts of his character.

He never seemed to lose sight of her. He was always doing something for
which Fleda loved him, but so quietly and happily that she could neither
help his taking the trouble nor thank him for it. It might have been
matter of surprise that a gay young man of fashion should concern himself
like a brother about the wants of a little child; the young gentlemen down
stairs who were not of the society in the dressing-room did make
themselves very merry upon the subject, and rallied Mr. Carleton with the
common amount of wit and wisdom about his little sweetheart; a raillery
which met the most flinty indifference. But none of those who saw Fleda
ever thought strange of anything that was done for her; and Mrs. Carleton
was rejoiced to have her son take up the task she was fain to lay down. So
he really, more than any one else, had the management of her; and Fleda
invariably greeted his entrance into the room with a faint smile, which
even the ladies who saw agreed was well worth working for.




Chapter IX.



If large possessions, pompous titles, honourable charges, and
profitable commissions, could have made this proud man happy, there
would have been nothing wanting.--L'Estrange.


Several days had passed. Fleda'a cheeks had gained no colour, but she had
grown a little stronger, and it was thought the party might proceed on
their way without any more tarrying; trusting that change and the motion
of travelling would do better things for Fleda than could be hoped from
any further stay at Montepoole. The matter was talked over in an evening
consultation in the dressing-room, and it was decided that they would set
off on the second day thereafter.

Fleda was lying quietly on her sofa, with her eyes closed, having had
nothing to say during the discussion. They thought she had perhaps not
heard it. Mr. Carleton's sharper eyes, however, saw that one or two tears
were glimmering just under the eyelash. He bent down over her and
whispered,

"I know what you are thinking of Fleda, do I not?"

"I was thinking of aunt Miriam," Fleda said in an answering whisper,
without opening her eyes.

"I will take care of that."

Fleda looked up and smiled most expressively her thanks, and in five
minutes was asleep. Mr. Carleton stood watching her, querying how long
those clear eyes would have nothing to hide,--how long that bright purity
could resist the corrosion of the world's breath; and half thinking that
it would be better for the spirit to pass away, with its lustre upon it,
than stay till self-interest should sharpen the eye, and the lines of
diplomacy write themselves on that fair brow. "Better so; better so."

"What are you thinking of so gloomily, Guy?" said his Mother.

"That is a tender little creature to struggle with a rough world."

"She won't have to struggle with it," said Mrs. Carleton.

"She will do very well," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"I don't think she'd find it a rough world, where _you_ were, Mr.
Carleton," said Mrs. Thorn.

"Thank you ma'am," he said smiling. "But unhappily my power reaches very
little way."

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Evelyn with a sly smile,--"that might be arranged
differently--Mrs. Rossitur--I have no doubt--would desire nothing better
than a smooth world for her little niece--and Mr. Carleton's power might
be unlimited in its extent."

There was no answer, and the absolute repose of all the lines of the
young gentleman's face bordered too nearly on contempt to encourage the
lady to pursue her jest any further.

The next day Fleda was well enough to bear moving. Mr. Carleton had her
carefully bundled up, and then carried her down stairs and placed her in
the little light wagon which had once before brought her to the Pool.
Luckily it was a mild day, for no close carriage was to be had for love or
money. The stage coach in which Fleda had been fetched from her
grandfather's was in use, away somewhere. Mr. Carleton drove her down to
aunt Miriam's, and leaving her there he went off again; and whatever he
did with himself it was a good two hours before he came back. All too
little yet they were for the tears and the sympathy which went to so many
things both in the past and in the future. Aunt Miriam had not said half
she wished to say, when the wagon was at the gate again, and Mr. Carleton
came to take his little charge away.

He found her sitting happily in aunt Miriam's lap. Fleda was very grateful
to him for leaving her such a nice long time, and welcomed him with even a
brighter smile than usual. But her head rested wistfully on her aunt's
bosom after that; and when he asked her if she was almost ready to go, she
hid her face there and put her arms about her neck. The old lady held her
close for a few minutes, in silence.

"Elfleda," said aunt Miriam gravely and tenderly,--"do you know what was
your mother's prayer for you?"

"Yes,"--she whispered.

"What was it?"

"That I--might be kept--"

"Unspotted from the world!" repeated aunt Miriam, in a tone of tender and
deep feeling;--"My sweet blossom!--how wilt thou keep so? Will you
remember always your mother's prayer?"

"I will try."

"How will you try, Fleda?

"I will pray."

Aunt Miriam kissed her again and again, fondly repeating, "The Lord hear
thee!--The Lord bless thee!--The Lord keep thee!--as a lily among thorns,
my precious little babe;--though in the world, not of it.--"

"Do you think that is possible?" said Mr. Carleton significantly, when a
few moments after they had risen and were about to separate. Aunt Miriam
looked at him in surprise and asked,

"What, sir?"

"To live in the world and not be like the world?"

She cast her eyes upon Fleda, fondly smoothing down her soft hair with
both hands for a minute or two before she answered,

"By the help of one thing sir, yes!"

"And what is that?" said he quickly.

"The blessing of God, with whom all things are possible."

His eyes fell, and there was a kind of incredulous sadness in his half
smile which aunt Miriam understood better than he did. She sighed as she
folded Fleda again to her breast and whisperingly bade her "Remember!" But
Fleda knew nothing of it; and when she had finally parted from aunt Miriam
and was seated in the little wagon on her way home, to her fancy the best
friend she had in the world was sitting beside her.

Neither was her judgment wrong, so far as it went. She saw true where she
saw at all. But there was a great deal she could not see.

Mr. Carleton was an unbeliever. Not maliciously,--not wilfully,--not
stupidly;--rather the fool of circumstance. His skepticism might be traced
to the joint workings of a very fine nature and a very bad education. That
is, education in the broad sense of the term; of course none of the means
and appliances of mental culture had been wanting to him.

He was an uncommonly fine example of what nature alone can do for a man. A
character of nature's building is at best a very ragged affair, without
religion's finishing hand; at the utmost a fine ruin--no more. And if that
be the _utmost_, of nature's handiwork, what is at the other end of the
scale?--alas! the rubble stones of the ruin; what of good and fair nature
had reared there was not strong enough to stand alone. But religion cannot
work alike on every foundation; and the varieties are as many as the
individuals. Sometimes she must build the whole, from the very ground; and
there are cases where nature's work stands so strong and fair that
religion's strength may be expended in perfecting and enriching and
carrying it to an uncommon height of grace and beauty, and dedicating the
fair temple to a new use.

Of religion Mr. Carleton had nothing at all, and a true Christian
character had never crossed his path near enough for him to become
acquainted with it. His mother was a woman of the world; his father had
been a man of the world; and what is more, so deep-dyed a politician that
to all intents and purposes, except as to bare natural affection, he was
nothing to his son and his son was nothing to him. Both mother and father
thought the son a piece of perfection, and mothers and fathers have very
often indeed thought so on less grounds. Mr. Carleton saw, whenever he
took time to look at him, that Guy had no lack either of quick wit or
manly bearing; that he had pride enough to keep him from low company and
make him abhor low pursuits; if anything more than pride and better than
pride mingled with it, the father's discernment could not reach so far. He
had a love for knowledge too, that from a child made him eager in seeking
it, in ways both regular and desultory; and tastes which his mother
laughingly said would give him all the elegance of a woman, joined to the
strong manly character which no one ever doubted he possessed. _She_
looked mostly at the outside, willing if that pleased her to take
everything else upon trust; and the grace of manner which a warm heart and
fine sensibilities and a mind entirely frank and above board had given
him, from his earliest years had more than met all her wishes. No one
suspected the stubbornness and energy of will which was in fact the
back-bone of his character. Nothing tried it. His father's death early
left little Guy to his mother's guardianship. Contradicting him was the
last thing she thought of, and of course it was attempted by no one else.

If she would ever have allowed that he had a fault, which she never would,
it was one that grew out of his greatest virtue, an unmanageable truth of
character; and if she ever unwillingly recognised its companion virtue,
firmness of will, it was when she endeavoured to combat certain
troublesome demonstrations of the other. In spite of all the grace and
charm of manner in which he was allowed to be a model, and which was as
natural to him as it was universal, if ever the interests of truth came in
conflict with the dictates of society he flung minor considerations behind
his back and came out with some startling piece of bluntness at which his
mother was utterly confounded. These occasions were very rare; he never
sought them. Always where it was possible he chose either to speak or be
silent in an unexceptionable manner. But sometimes the barrier of
conventionalities, or his mother's unwise policy, pressed too hard upon
his integrity or his indignation; and he would then free the barrier and
present the shut-out truth in its full size and proportions before his
mother's shocked eyes. It was in vain to try to coax or blind him; a
marble statue is not more unruffled by the soft air of summer; and Mrs.
Carleton was fain to console herself with the reflection that Guy's very
next act after one of these breaks would be one of such happy fascination
that the former would be forgotten; and that in this world of
discordancies it was impossible on the whole for any one to come nearer
perfection. And if there was inconvenience there were also great comforts
about this character of truthfulness.

So nearly up to the time of his leaving the University the young heir
lived a life of as free and uncontrolled enjoyment as the deer on his
grounds, happily led by his own fine instincts to seek that enjoyment in
pure and natural sources. His tutor was proud of his success; his
dependants loved his frank and high bearing; his mother rejoiced in his
personal accomplishments, and was secretly well pleased that his tastes
led him another way from the more common and less safe indulgences of
other young men. He had not escaped the temptations of opportunity and
example. But gambling was not intellectual enough, jockeying was too
undignified, and drinking too coarse a pleasure for him. Even hunting and
coursing charmed him but for a few times; when he found he could out-ride
and out leap all his companions, he hunted no more; telling his mother,
when she attacked him on the subject, that he thought the hare the
worthier animal of the two upon a chase; and that the fox deserved an
easier death. His friends twitted him with his want of spirit and want of
manliness; but such light shafts bounded back from the buff suit of cool
indifference in which their object was cased; and his companions very soon
gave over the attempt either to persuade or annoy him, with the conclusion
that "nothing could be done with Carleton."

The same wants that had displeased him in the sports soon led him to
decline the company of those who indulged in them. From the low-minded,
from the uncultivated, from the unrefined in mind and manner, and such
there are in the highest class of society as well as in the less-favoured,
he shrank away in secret disgust or weariness. There was no affinity. To
his books, to his grounds, which he took endless delight in overseeing, to
the fine arts in general, for which he had a great love and for one or two
of them a great talent,--he went with restless energy and no want of
companionship; and at one or the other, always pushing eagerly forward
after some point of excellence or some new attainment not yet reached, and
which sprang up after one another as fast as ever "Alps on Alps," he was
happily and constantly busy. Too solitary, his mother thought,--caring
less for society than she wished to see him; but that she trusted would
mend itself. He would be through the University and come of age and go
into the world as a matter of necessity.

But years brought a change--not the change his mother looked for. That
restless active energy which had made the years of his youth so happy,
became, in connection with one or two other qualities, a troublesome
companion when he had reached the age of manhood and obeying manhood's
law had "put away childish things." On what should it spend itself? It
had lost none of its strength; while his fastidious notions of excellence
and a far-reaching clear-sightedness which belonged to his truth of
nature, greatly narrowed the sphere of its possible action. He could not
delude himself into the belief that the oversight of his plantations and
the perfecting his park scenery could be a worthy end of existence; or
that painting and music were meant to be the stamina of life; or even
that books were their own final cause. These things had refined and
enriched him;--they might go on doing so to the end of his days;--but
_for what_? For what?

It is said that everybody has his niche, failing to find which nobody
fills his place or acts his part in society. Mr. Carleton could not find
his niche, and he consequently grew dissatisfied everywhere. His mother's
hopes from the University and the World, were sadly disappointed.

At the University he had not lost his time. The pride of character which
joined with less estimable pride of birth was a marked feature in his
composition, made him look with scorn upon the ephemeral pursuits of one
set of young men; while his strong intellectual tastes drew him in the
other direction; and the energetic activity which drove him to do
everything well that he once took in hand, carried him to high
distinction. Being there he would have disdained to be anywhere but at the
top of the tree. But out of the University and in possession of his
estates, what should he do with himself and them?

A question easy to settle by most young men! very easy to settle by Guy,
if he had had the clue of Christian truth to guide him through the
labyrinth. But the clue was wanting, and the world seemed to him a world
of confusion.

A certain clearness of judgment is apt to be the blessed handmaid of
uncommon truth of character; the mind that knows not what it is to play
tricks upon its neighbours is rewarded by a comparative freedom from
self-deception. Guy could not sit down upon his estates and lead an insect
life like that recommended by Rossitur. His energies wanted room to expend
themselves. But the world offered no sphere that would satisfy him; even
had his circumstances and position laid all equally open. It was a busy
world, but to him people seemed to be busy upon trifles, or working in a
circle, or working mischief; and his nice notions of what _ought to be_
were shocked by what he saw _was_, in every direction around him. He was
disgusted with what he called the drivelling of some unhappy specimens of
the Church which had come in his way; he disbelieved the truth of what
such men professed. If there had been truth in it, he thought, they would
deserve to be drummed out of the profession. He detested the crooked
involvments and double-dealing of the law. He despised the butterfly life
of a soldier; and as to the other side of a soldier's life, again he
thought, what is it for?--to humour the arrogance of the proud,--to pamper
the appetite of the full,--to tighten the grip of the iron hand of
power;--and though it be sometimes for better ends, yet the soldier cannot
choose what letters of the alphabet of obedience he will learn. Politics
was the very shaking of the government sieve, where if there were any
solid result it was accompanied with a very great flying about of chaff
indeed. Society was nothing but whip syllabub,--a mere conglomeration of
bubbles,--as hollow and as unsatisfying. And in lower departments of human
life, as far as he knew, he saw evils yet more deplorable. The Church
played at shuttlecock with men's credulousness, the law with their
purses, the medical profession with their lives, the military with their
liberties and hopes. He acknowledged that in all these lines of action
there was much talent, much good intention, much admirable diligence and
acuteness brought out--but to what great general end? He saw in short that
the machinery of the human mind, both at large and in particular, was out
of order. He did not know what was the broken wheel the want of which set
all the rest to running wrong.

This was a strange train of thought for a very young man, but Guy had
lived much alone, and in solitude one is like a person who has climbed a
high mountain; the air is purer about him, his vision is freer; the eye
goes straight and clear to the distant view which below on the plain a
thousand things would come between to intercept. But there was some
morbidness about it too. Disappointment in two or three instances where he
had given his full confidence and been obliged to take it back had
quickened him to generalize unfavourably upon human character, both in the
mass and in individuals. And a restless dissatisfaction with himself and
the world did not tend to a healthy view of things. Yet truth was at the
bottom; truth rarely arrived at without the help of revelation. He
discerned a want he did not know how to supply. His fine perceptions felt
the jar of the machinery which other men are too busy or too deaf to hear.
It seemed to him hopelessly disordered.

This habit of thinking wrought a change very unlike what his mother had
looked for. He mingled more in society, but Mrs. Carleton saw that the eye
with which he looked upon it was yet colder than it wont to be. A cloud
came over the light gay spirited manner he had used to wear. The charm of
his address was as great as ever where he pleased to shew it, but much
more generally now he contented himself with a cool reserve, as impossible
to disturb as to find fault with. His temper suffered the same eclipse. It
was naturally excellent. His passions were not hastily moved. He had never
been easy to offend; his careless good-humour and an unbounded proud
self-respect made him look rather with contempt than anger upon the things
that fire most men; though when once moved to displeasure it was stern and
abiding in proportion to the depth of his character. The same good-humour
and cool self-respect forbade him even then to be eager in shewing
resentment; the offender fell off from his esteem and apparently from the
sphere of his notice as easily as a drop of water from a duck's wing, and
could with as much ease regain his lost lodgment, but unless there were
wrong to be righted or truth to be vindicated he was in general safe from
any further tokens of displeasure. In those cases Mr. Carleton was an
adversary to be dreaded. As cool, as unwavering, as persevering there as
in other things, he there as in other things no more failed of his end.
And at bottom these characteristics remained the same; it was rather his
humour than his temper that suffered a change. That grew more gloomy and
less gentle. He was more easily irritated and would shew it more freely
than in the old happy times had ever been.

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