Volume I Part 26 (2/2)

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.

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