Queechy Volume Ii Part 15

"I never studied faces in a cla.s.s," said Constance, a little scornfully. "Come from? ? a region of mist and clouds, I should say, for it is sometimes pretty well covered up."

"There are some eyes whose sparkling is nothing more than the play of light upon a bright bead of gla.s.s."

"It is not that," said Constance, answering in spite of herself, after delaying as long as she dared.

"There is the brightness that is only the reflection of outward circ.u.mstances, and pa.s.ses away with them."

"It isn't that in Fleda Ringgan," said Constance, "for her outward circ.u.mstances have no brightness, I should think, that reflection would not utterly absorb."

She would fain have turned the conversation, but the questions were put so lightly and quietly that it could not be gracefully done. She longed to cut it short, but her hand was upon Mr. Carleton's arm, and they were slowly sauntering down the rooms ? too pleasant a state of things to be relinquished for a trifle.

"There is the broad day-light of mere animal spirits," he went on, seeming rather to be suggesting these things for her consideration than eager to set forth any opinions of his own ? "there is the sparkling of mischief, and the fire of hidden pa.s.sions ? there is the pa.s.sing brilliance of wit, as satisfactory and resting as these gaslights ? and there is now and then the light of refined affections out of a heart unspotted from the world, as pure and abiding as the stars, and, like them, throwing its soft ray especially upon the shadows of life."

"I have always understood," said Constance, "that cat's eyes are brightest in the dark."

"They do not love the light, I believe," said Mr. Carleton, calmly.

"Well," said Constance, not relis.h.i.+ng the expression of her companion's eye, which, from glowing, had suddenly be come cool and bright ? "where would you put me, Mr. Carleton, among all these illuminators of the social system?"

"You may put yourself ? where you please, Miss Constance," he said, again turning upon her an eye so deep and full in its meaning, that her own and her humour fell before it; for a moment she looked most unlike the gay scene around her.

"Is not that the best brightness," he said speaking low, "that will last forever? ? and is not that lightness of heart best worth having which does not depend on circ.u.mstances, and will find its perfection just when all other kinds of happiness fail utterly?"

"I can't conceive," said Constance, presently rallying, or trying to rally herself ? "what you and I have to do in a place where people are enjoying themselves at this moment, Mr.

Carleton!"

He smiled at that, and led her out of it into the conservatory, close to which they found themselves. It was a large and fine one, terminating the suite of rooms in this direction. Few people were there; but, at the far end stood a group, among whom Fleda and Mr. Thorn were conspicuous. He was busying himself in putting together a quant.i.ty of flowers for her; and Mrs. Evelyn and old Mr. Thorn stood looking on; with Mr. Stackpole. Mr. Stackpole was an Englishman, of certainly not very prepossessing exterior, but somewhat noted as an author, and a good deal sought after in consequence. At present he was engaged by Mrs. Evelyn. Mr. Carleton and Constance sauntered up towards them, and paused at a little distance to look at some curious plants.

"Don't try for that, Mr. Thorn," said Fleda, as the gentleman was making rather ticklish efforts to reach a superb fuchsia that hung high. "You are endangering sundry things besides yourself."

"I have learned, Miss Fleda," said Thorn, as with much ado he grasped the beautiful cl.u.s.ter, "that what we take the most pains for is apt to be reckoned the best prize ? a truth I should never think of putting into a lady's head if I believed it possible that a single one of them was ignorant of its practical value."

"I have this same rose in my garden at home," said Fleda.

"You are a great gardener, Miss Fleda, I hear," said the old gentleman. "My son says you are an adept in it."

"I am very fond of it, Sir," said Fleda, answering him with an entirely different face.

"I thought the delicacy of American ladies was beyond such a masculine employment as gardening," said Mr. Stackpole, edging away from Mrs. Evelyn.

"I guess this young lady is an exception to the rule," said old Mr. Thorn.

"I guess she is an exception to most rules that you have got in your note-book, Mr. Stackpole," said the younger man. "But there is no guessing about the garden, for I have with my own eyes seen these gentle hands at one end of a spade, and her foot at the other ? a sight that, I declare, I don't know whether I was most filled with astonishment or admiration."

"Yes," said Fleda, half laughing and colouring, "and he ingenuously confessed in his surprise that he didn't know whether politeness ought to oblige him to stop and shake hands, or to pa.s.s by without seeing me; evidently showing that he thought I was about something equivocal."

The laugh was now turned against Mr. Thorn, but he went on cutting his geraniums with a grave face.

"Well," said he at length, "I think it is something of very equivocal utility. Why should such gentle hands and feet spend their strength in clod-breaking, when rough ones are at command?"

There was nothing equivocal about Fleda's merriment this time.

"I have learned, Mr. Thorn, by sad experience, that the rough hands break more than the clods. One day I set Philetus to work among my flowers; and the first thing I knew, he had pulled up a fine pa.s.sion-flower which didn't make much show above ground, and was displaying it to me with the grave commentary, 'Well! that root did grow to a great haigth!' "

"Some mental clod-breaking to be done up there, isn't there?"

said Thorn, in a kind of aside. "I cannot express my admiration at the idea of your dealing with those boors, as it has been described to me."

"They do not deserve the name, Mr. Thorn," said Fleda. "They are many of them most sensible and excellent people, and friends that I value very highly."

"Ah! your goodness would make friends of everything."

"Not of boors, I hope," said Fleda, coolly. "Besides, what do you mean by the name?"

"Anybody incapable of appreciating that of which you alone should be unconscious," he said, softly.

Fleda stood impatiently tapping her flowers against her left hand.

"I doubt their power of appreciation reaches a point that would surprise you, Sir."

"It does indeed ? if I am mistaken in my supposition," he said, with a glance which Fleda refused to acknowledge.

"What proportion, do you suppose," she went on, "of all these roomfuls of people behind us ? without saying anything uncharitable ? what proportion of them, if compelled to amuse themselves for two hours at a bookcase, would pitch upon Macaulay's Essays, or anything like them, to spend the time?"

"Hum ? really, Miss Fleda," said Thorn, "I should want to brush up my Algebra considerably before I could hope to find x, y, and z in such a confusion of the alphabet."

"Or extract the small sensible root of such a quant.i.ty of light matter," said Mr. Stackpole.

"Will you bear with my vindication of my country friends? ?

Hugh and I sent for a carpenter to make some new arrangement of shelves in a cupboard where we kept our books; he was one of these boors, Mr. Thorn, in no respect above the rest. The right stuff for his work was wanting, and while it was sent for, he took up one of the volumes that were lying about, and read perseveringly until the messenger returned. It was a volume of Macaulay's Miscellanies; and afterwards he borrowed the book of me."

"And you lent it to him?" said Constance.

"Most a.s.suredly; and with a great deal of pleasure."

"And is this no more than a common instance, Miss Ringgan?"

said Mr. Carleton.

"No, I think not," said Fleda; the quick blood in her cheeks again answering the familiar voice and old a.s.sociations; ? "I know several of the farmers' daughters around us that have studied Latin and Greek; and philosophy is a common thing; and I am sure there is more sense ?"

She suddenly checked herself, and her eye which had been sparkling grew quiet.

"It is very absurd!" said Mr. Stackpole.

"Why, Sir?"

"Oh, these people have nothing to do with such things ? do them nothing but harm!"

"May I ask again, what harm?" said Fleda, gently.