Queechy Volume I Part 26

"Because I am persuaded of the contrary."

"I don't believe your horse will like it," said Thorn.

"My horse is always of my mind, Sir; or if he be not, I generally succeed in convincing him."

"But there is somebody else that deserves to be consulted,"

said Mrs. Thorn. "I wonder how little Fleda will like it."

"I will ask her when we get to our first stopping-place," said Mr. Carleton, smiling. "Come, Fleda!"

Fleda would hardly have said a word if his purpose had been to put her under the horse's feet instead of on his back. But she came forward with great unwillingness, and a very tremulous little heart. He must have understood the want of alacrity in her face and manner, though he took no notice of it otherwise than by the gentle kindness with which he led her to the horse-block, and placed her upon it. Then mounting, and riding the horse up close to the block, he took Fleda in both hands, and bidding her spring, in a moment she was safely seated before him.

At first it seemed dreadful to Fleda to have that great horse's head so near her, and she was afraid that her feet touching him would excite his most serious disapprobation.

However, a minute or so went by, and she could not see that his tranquillity seemed to be at all ruffled, or even that he was sensible of her being upon his shoulders. They waited to see the stage-coach off, and then gently set forward. Fleda feared very much again when she felt the horse moving under her, easy as his gait was, and looking after the stage-coach in the distance, now beyond call, she felt a little as if she was a great way from help and dry land ? cast away on a horse's back. But Mr. Carleton's arm was gently pa.s.sed round her, and she knew it held her safely, and would not let her fall; and he bent down his face to her, and asked her so kindly and tenderly, and with such a look too, that seemed to laugh at her fears, whether she felt afraid? and with such a kind little pressure of his arm that promised to take care of her, that Fleda's courage mounted twenty degrees at once. And it rose higher every minute; the horse went very easily, and Mr. Carleton held her so that she could not be tired, and made her lean against him; and before they had gone a mile Fleda began to be delighted. Such a charming way of travelling! Such a free view of the country! and in this pleasant weather, too, neither hot nor cold, and when all nature's features were softened by the light veil of haze that hung over them, and kept off the sun's glare, Mr. Carleton was right. In the stage-coach Fleda would have sat quiet in a corner, and moped the time sadly away; now she was roused, excited, interested, even cheerful; forgetting herself, which was the very thing of all others to be desired for her. She lost her fears; she was willing to have the horse trot or canter as fast as his rider pleased; but the trotting was too rough for her, so they cantered or paced along most of the time, when the hills did not oblige them to walk quietly up and down, which happened pretty often. For several miles the country was not very familiar to Fleda. It was, however, extremely picturesque; and she sat silently and gravely looking at it, her head lying upon Mr. Carleton's breast, her little mind very full of thoughts and musings, curious, deep, sometimes sorrowful, but not unhappy.

"I am afraid I tire you, Mr. Carleton!" said she, in a sudden fit of recollection, starting up.

His look answered her, and his arm drew her back to her place again.

"Are _you_ not tired, Elfie?"

"Oh no! ? You have got a new name for me, Mr. Carleton," said she, a moment after, looking up and smiling.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"You are my good genius," said he, "so I must a peculiar t.i.tle for you, different from what other people know you by."

"What is a genius, Sir?" said Fleda.

"Well, a sprite, then," said he, smiling.

"A sprite?" said Fleda.

"I have read a story of a lady, Elfie, who had a great many little unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon her. Some sat in the ringlets of her hair, and took charge of them; some hid in the folds of her dress and made them lie gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her cheek, and another perched on her eyebrows, and so on."

"To take care of her eyebrows?" said Fleda, laughing.

"Yes; to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns, I suppose."

"But am I such a sprite?" said Fleda.

"Something like it."

"Why, what do I do?" said Fleda, rousing herself in a mixture of gratification and amus.e.m.e.nt that was pleasant to behold.

"What office would you choose, Elfie? what good would you like to do me?"

It was a curious wistful look with which Fleda answered this question, an innocent look, in which Mr. Carleton read perfectly that she felt something was wanting in him, and did not know exactly what. His smile almost made her think she had been mistaken.

"You are just the sprite you would wish to be, Elfie," he said.

Fleda's head took its former position, and she sat for some time musing over his question and answer, till a familiar waymark put all such thoughts to flight. They were pa.s.sing Deepwater Lake, and would presently be at aunt Miriam's. Fleda looked now with a beating heart. Every foot of ground was known to her. She was seeing it, perhaps, for the last time.

It was with even an intensity of eagerness that she watched every point and turn of the landscape, endeavouring to lose nothing in her farewell view, to give her farewell look at every favourite clump of trees and old rock, and at the very mill-wheels, which for years ,whether working or at rest, had had such interest for her. If tears came to bid their good-by too, they were hastily thrown off, or suffered to roll quietly down; _they_ might bide their time; but eyes must look now or never. How pleasant, how pleasant, the quiet old country seemed to Fleda as they went along! ? in that most quiet light and colouring; the brightness of the autumn glory gone, and the sober warm hue which the hills still wore seen under that hazy veil. All the home-like peace of the place was spread out to make it hard going away. Would she ever see any other so pleasant again? Those dear old hills and fields, among which she had been so happy; they were not to be her home any more; would she ever have the same sweet happiness anywhere else?

"The Lord will provide!" thought little Fleda with swimming eyes.

It was hard to go by aunt Miriam's. Fleda eagerly looked, as well as she could, but no one was to be seen about the house.

It was just as well. A sad gush of tears must come, then, but she got rid of them as soon as possible, that she might not lose the rest of the way, promising them another time. The little settlement on "the hill" was pa.s.sed, the factories, and mills, and mill-ponds, one after the other; they made Fleda feel very badly, for here she remembered going with her grandfather to see the work, and there she had stopped with him at the turner's shop to get a wooden bowl turned, and there she had been with Cynthy when she went to visit an acquaintance; and there never was a happier little girl than Fleda had been in those old times. All gone! It was no use trying to help it; Fleda put her two hands to her face and cried, at last, a silent but not the less bitter, leave- taking, of the shadows of the past.

She forced herself into quiet again, resolved to look to the last. As they were going down the hill, past the saw-mill, Mr.

Carleton noticed that her head was stretched out to look back at it, with an expression of face he could not withstand. He wheeled about immediately, and went back and stood opposite to it. The mill was not working today. The saw was standing still, though there were plenty of huge trunks of trees lying about in all directions, waiting to be cut up. There was a desolate look of the place. No one was there; the little brook, most of its waters cut off, did not go roaring and laughing down the hill, but trickled softly and plaintively over the stones. It seemed exceeding sad to Fleda.

"Thank you, Mr. Carleton," she said, after a little earnest fond-looking at her old haunt; "you needn't stay any longer."

But as soon as they had crossed the little rude bridge at the foot of the hill, they could see the poplar trees which skirted the courtyard fence before her grandfather's house.

Poor Fleda's eyes could hardly serve her. She managed to keep them open till the horse had made a few steps more and she had caught the well-known face of the old house looking at her through the poplars. Her fort.i.tude failed, and bowing her little head, she wept so exceedingly, that Mr. Carleton was fain to draw bridle, and try to comfort her.

"My dear Elfie! do not weep so," he said, tenderly. "Is there anything you would like? Can I do anything for you?"

He had to wait a little. He repeated his first query.

"Oh, it's no matter," said Fleda, striving to conquer her tears, which found their way again; "if I only could have gone into the house once more! ? but it's no matter ? you needn't wait, Mr. Carleton ?"

The horse, however, remained motionless.

"Do you think you would feel better, Elfie, if you had seen it again?"

"Oh, yes! ? But never mind, Mr. Carleton, you may go on."

Mr. Carleton ordered his servant to open the gate, and rode up to the back of the house.

"I am afraid there is n.o.body here, Elfie," he said; "the house seems all shut up."

"I know how I can get in," said Fleda; "there's a window down stairs ? I don't believe it is fastened; if you wouldn't mind waiting, Mr. Carleton; I wont keep you long."

The child had dried her tears, and there was the eagerness of something like hope in her face. Mr. Carleton dismounted and took her off.

"I must find a way to get in too, Elfie; I cannot let you go alone."

"Oh, I can open the door when I get in," said Fleda.

"But you have not the key."

"There's no key, it's only bolted on the inside, that door. I can open it."

She found the window unfastened as she had expected: Mr.

Carleton held it open while she crawled in, and then she undid the door for him. He more than half questioned the wisdom of his proceeding. The house had a dismal look; cold, empty, deserted; it was a dreary reminder of Fleda's loss, and he feared the effect of it would be anything but good. He followed and watched her, as with an eager business step she went through the hall and up the stairs, putting her head into every room and giving an earnest wistful look all round it.

Here and there she went in and stood a moment, where a.s.sociations were more thick and strong; sometimes taking a look out of a particular window, and even opening a cupboard door, to give that same kind and sorrowful glance of recognition at the old often-resorted-to hiding-place of her own or her grandfather's treasures and trumpery. Those old corners seemed to touch Fleda more than all the rest; and she turned away from one of them with a face of such extreme sorrow, that Mr. Carleton very much regretted he had brought her into the house. For her sake, for his own, it was a curious show of character. Though tears were sometimes streaming, she made no delay, and gave him no trouble; with the calm steadiness of a woman she went regularly through the house, leaving no place unvisited, but never obliging him to hasten her away. She said not a word during the whole time; her very crying was still; the light tread of her little feet was the only sound in the silent empty rooms; and the noise of their footsteps in the halls, and of the opening and shutting doors echoed mournfully through the house.