Queechy Volume I Part 35

Captain Beebee touched his cap, and went back to Mr. Thorn, to whom he reported that the young Englishman was thoroughly impracticable, and that there was nothing to be gained by dealing with him; and the vexed conclusion of Thorn's own mind, in the end, was in favour of the wisdom of letting him alone.

In a very different mood, saddened and disgusted, Mr. Carleton shook himself free of Rossitur, and went and stood alone by the guards, looking out upon the sea. He did not at all regret his promise to his mother, nor wish to take other ground than that he had taken. Both the theory and the practice of duelling he heartily despised, and he was not weak enough to fancy that he had brought any discredit upon either his sense or his honour by refusing to comply with an unwarrantable and barbarous custom. And he valued mankind too little to be at all concerned about their judgment in the matter. His own opinion was at all times enough for him. But the miserable folly and puerility of such an altercation as that in which he had just been engaged, the poor display of human character, the little, low pa.s.sions which had been called up, even in himself, alike dest.i.tute of worthy cause and aim, and which had, perhaps, but just missed ending in the death of some, and the living death of others ? it all wrought to bring him back to his old wearying of human nature and despondent eyeing of the every-where jarrings, confusions, and discordances in the moral world. The fresh sea-breeze that swept by the s.h.i.+p, roughening the play of the waves, and brus.h.i.+ng his own cheek with its health-bearing wing, brought with. it a sad feeling of contrast. Free, and pure, and steadily directed, it sped on its way, to do its work. And, like it, all the rest of the natural world, faithful to the law of its Maker was stamped with the same signet of perfection. Only man, in all the universe, seemed to be at cross purposes with the end of his being. Only man, of all animate or inanimate things, lived an aimless, fruitless, broken life ? or fruitful only in evil.

How was this? and whence? and when would be the end? and would this confused ma.s.s of warring elements ever be at peace? would this disordered machinery ever work smoothly, without let or stop any more, and work out the beautiful. something for which sure it was designed? And could any hand but its first Maker mend the broken wheel, or supply the spring that was wanting?

Has not the Desire of all nations been often sought of eyes that were never taught where to look for Him?

Mr. Carleton was standing still by the guards, looking thoughtfully out to windward to meet the fresh breeze, as if the spirit of the wilderness were in it, and could teach him the truth that the spirit of the world knew not and had not to give, when he became sensible of something close beside him; and, looking down; met little Fleda's upturned face, with such a look of purity, freshness, and peace, it said as plainly as ever the dial-plate of a clock that _that_ little piece of machinery was working right. There was a sunlight upon it, too, of happy confidence and affection. Mr. Carleton's mind experienced a sudden revulsion. Fleda might see the reflection of her own light in his face as he helped her up to a stand where she could be more on a level with him, putting his arm round her to guard against any sudden roll of the s.h.i.+p.

"What makes you wear such a happy face?" said he, with an expression half envious, half regretful.

"I don't know!" said Fleda, innocently. "You I suppose."

He looked as bright as she did, for a minute.

"Were you ever angry, Elfie?"

"I don't know " said Fleda. " I don't know but I have."

He smiled to see that, although evidently her memory could not bring the charge, her modesty would not deny it.

"Were you not angry yesterday with your cousin and that unmannerly friend of his?"

"No," said Fleda, a shade crossing her face ? "I was not _angry_ ?"

And as she spoke, her hand was softly put upon Mr. Carleton's, as if partly in the fear of what might have grown out of _his_ anger, and partly in thankfulness to him that he had rendered it unnecessary. There was a singular delicate timidity and tenderness in the action.

"I wish I had your secret, Elfie," said Mr. Carleton, looking wistfully into the clear eyes that met his.

"What secret?" said Fleda, smiling.

"You say one can always do right ? is that the reason you are happy? ? because you follow that out?"

"No," said Fleda, seriously. "But I think it is a great deal pleasanter."

"I have no doubt at all of that ? neither, I dare say, have the rest of the world; only, somehow, when it comes to the point, they find it is easier to do wrong. What's your secret, Elfie?"

"I haven't any secret," said Fleda. But presently seeming to bethink herself, she added gently and gravely ?

"Aunt Miriam says ?

"What?"

"She says that when we love Jesus Christ, it is easy to please him."

"And do you love him, Elfie?" Mr. Carleton asked, after a minute.

Her answer was a very quiet and sober "yes."

He doubted still whether she were not unconsciously using a form of speech, the spirit of which she did not quite realize.

That one might "not see and yet believe," he could understand; but for _affection_ to go forth towards an unseen object was another matter. His question was grave and acute.

"By what do you judge that you do, Elfie?"

"Why, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, with an instant look of appeal, "who else _should_ I love?"

"If not him" ? her eye and her voice made sufficiently plain.

Mr. Carleton was obliged to confess to himself that she spoke intelligently, with deeper intelligence than he could follow.

He asked no more questions. Yet truth s.h.i.+nes by its own light, like the sun. He had not perfectly comprehended her answers, but they struck him as something that deserved to be understood, and he resolved to make the truth of them his own.

The rest of the voyage was perfectly quiet. Following the earnest advice of his friend, Captain Beebee, Thorn had given up trying to push Mr. Carleton to extremity; who, on his part, did not seem conscious of Thorn's existence.

CHAPTER XIII

"There the most daintie paradise on ground Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye ?

? The painted flowers, the trees upshooting hye, The dales for shade, the hills for breathing s.p.a.ce, The trembling groves, the christall running by; And that, which all faire works doth most aggrace, The art which all that wrought appeared in no place."

FAERY QUEENE.

They had taken s.h.i.+p for London, as Mr. and Mrs. Carleton wished to visit home for a day or two before going on to Paris. So leaving Charlton to carry news of them to the French capital, so soon as he could persuade himself to leave the English one, they with little Fleda in company posted down to Carleton, in ? s.h.i.+re.

It was a time of great delight to Fleda, that is, as soon as Mr. Carleton had made her feel at home in England; and, somehow, he had contrived to do that, and to scatter some clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about her, before they had reached the end of their first day's journey. To be out of the s.h.i.+p was itself a comfort, and to be along with kind friends was much more. With great joy Fleda put her cousin Charlton and Mr. Thorn at once out of sight and out of mind, and gave herself with even more than her usual happy readiness, to everything the way and the end of the way had for her. Those days were to be painted days in Fleda's memory.

She thought Carleton was a very odd place ? that is, the house, not the village, which went by the same name. If the manner of her two companions had not been such as to put her entirely at her ease, she would have felt strange and shy. As it was, she felt half afraid of losing herself in the house; to Fleda's unaccustomed eyes, it was a labyrinth of halls and staircases, set with the most unaccountable number and variety of rooms ? old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and magnificent; some with stern old-fas.h.i.+oned ma.s.siveness of style and garniture, others absolutely bewitching (to Fleda's eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and luxuriousness of their arrangements. Mr. Carleton's own particular haunts were of these; his private room (the little library as it was called), the library, and the music-room, which was, indeed, rather a gallery of the fine arts, so many treasures of art were gathered there. To an older and nice-judging person, these rooms would have given no slight indications of their owner's mind ? it had been at work on every corner of them. No particular fas.h.i.+on had been followed in anything, nor any model consulted, but that which fancy had built to the mind's order. The wealth of years had drawn together an enormous a.s.semblage of matters, great and small, every one of which was fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought, or to satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. And if pride had had the ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly museum, a literary alphabet that its possessor could not put together, an ungainly confession of ignorance on the part of the intellect that could do nothing with this rich heap of material. But pride was not the genius of the place. A most refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental hieroglyphics had been ordered by one to whom the reading of them was no mystery. Nothing struck a stranger at first entering, except the very rich effect and faultless air of the whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of intellectual cultivation which appeared on every hand ?

facilities which, it must be allowed, do seem in general not to facilitate the work they are meant to speed. In this case, however, it was different. The mind that wanted them had brought them together to satisfy its own craving.

These rooms were Guy's peculiar domain. In other parts of the house, where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their joint tastes had struck out another style of adornment, which might be called a style of superb elegance. Not superb alone, for taste had not permitted so heavy a characteristic to be predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of all the details would warrant an ampler word. A larger part of the house than both these together had been left as generations past had left it, in various stages of refinement, comfort, and comeliness. It was a day or two before Fleda found out that it was all one; she thought at first that it was a collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat down there with their backs to each other; it was so straggling and irregular a pile of building, covering so much ground, and looking so very unlike the different parts to each other. One portion was quite old; the other parts ranged variously between the present and the far past. After she once understood this, it was a piece of delicious wonderment, and musing, and great admiration to Fleda; she never grew weary of wandering round it, and thinking about it ? for, from a child, fanciful meditation was one of her delights. Within doors, she best liked Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms. Their rich colouring and moderated light, and endless stores of beauty and curiosity, made them a place of fascination.

Out of doors she found still more to delight her. Morning, noon, and night, she might be seen near the house gazing, taking in pictures of natural beauty, which were for ever after to hang in Fleda's memory as standards of excellence in that sort. Nature's hand had been very kind to the place, moulding the ground in beautiful style. Art had made happy use of the advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was neither art nor nature, but a perfection that can only spring from the hands of both. Fleda's eyes were bewitched. She stood watching the rolling slopes of green turf, so soft and lovely, and the magnificent trees, that had kept their ground for ages, and seen generations rise and fall before their growing strength and grandeur. They were scattered here and there on the lawn; and further back stood on the heights, and stretched along the ridges of the undulating ground, the outposts of a wood of the same growth still beyond them.

"How do you like it, Elfie?" Mr. Carleton asked her, the evening of the first day, as he saw her for a length of time looking out gravely and intently from before the hall door.

"I think it is beautiful!" said Fleda. "The ground is a great deal smoother here than it was at home."

"I'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he, smiling, "and show you rough ground enough."

"As you did when we came from Montepoole?" said Fleda, rather eagerly.

"Would you like that!"

"Yes, very much ? if _you_ would like it, Mr. Carleton.

"Very well," said he. "So it shall be."

And not a day pa.s.sed during their short stay that he did not give her one of those rides. He showed her rough ground, according to his promise, but Fleda still thought it did not look much like the mountains "at home." And, indeed, unsightly roughness had been skilfully covered or removed; and though a large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was wildly broken, and had apparently been left as nature left it, the hand of taste had been there; and many an unsuspected touch, instead of hindering, had heightened both the wild and the beautiful character. Landscape gardening had long been a great hobby of its owner.

"How far does your ground come, Mr. Carleton?" inquired Fleda on one of these rides, when they had travelled a good distance from home.