Volume I Part 24 (1/2)
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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstance.
His scepticism 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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.