Volume I Part 38 (2/2)
Carleton knew the Bible better; divided between him and ”that disciple” whom she and Hugh had been talking about.
”I suppose you are very busy now, Elfie,” observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence.
”O yes!” said Fleda. ” Hugh and I are as busy as we can be. We are busy every minute.”
”Except when you are on some chase after pleasure?”
”Well,” said Fleda, laughing, ”that is a kind of business; and all the business is pleasure too. I didn't mean that we were always busy about work. Oh, Mr. Carleton, we had such a nice time the day before yesterday!” ? And she went on to give him the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which they had made to St. Cloud.
”And yet you like Queechy better?”
”Yes,” said Fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to herself ? ”if I had aunt Lucy, and Hugh, and uncle Rolf there, and everybody that I care for, I should like it a great deal better.”
” 'Unspotted' yet,” he thought.
”Mr. Carleton,” said Fleda, presently ? ”do you play and sing every day here in Paris?”
”Yes,” said he, smiling, ? ”about every day. Why?”
”I was thinking how pleasant it was at your house in England.”
”Has Carleton the honour of rivalling Queechy in your liking?”
”I haven't lived there so long, you know,” said Fleda, ”I dare say it would if I had. I think it is quite as pretty a place.”
Mr. Carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. Truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace.
He brought Fleda to her own door, and there was leaving her.
”Stop! Oh, Mr. Carleton,” cried Fleda, ”come in, just for one minute ? I want to show you something.”
He made no resistance to that. She led him to the saloon, where it happened that n.o.body was, and repeating, ”One minute!” ? rushed out of the room. In less than that time, she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. The rose was fairly eclipsed. She put the bud quietly, but with a most satisfied air of affection, into Mr. Carleton's hand. It had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of' their first visits to the Quai aux Fleurs. She had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flouris.h.i.+ng little rose-bush, that as yet showed nothing but leaves and green buds, partly, because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly, because she thought having no flowers, it would not cost much. The former reason, however, was all that she had given to Mr. Carleton's remonstrances.
”What is all this, Elfie?” said he. ”Have you been robbing your rose-tree?”
”No,” said Elfie, ”there are plenty more buds! Isn't it lovely? This is the first one. They've been a great while coming out.”
His eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. Fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that goodwill to him had been the moving power.
He was so much struck and moved, that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. He turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted goodwill that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower he held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went.
Mr. Carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his text was a rose.
Laugh who will. To many it may seem ridiculous; and to most minds it would have been impossible; but to a nature very finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser senses cannot hear, comes with an utterance as clear as it is sweet-spoken; many a touch that coa.r.s.er nerves cannot heed, reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that duller eyes have no skill to see, shows its fair features, hid away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the wings of a b.u.t.terfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew.
The material is but a veil for the spiritual; but, then, eyes must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impa.s.sable cloud.
That particular rose was to Mr. Carleton's eye a most perfect emblem and representative of its little giver. He traced out the points of resemblance as he went along. The delicacy and character of refinement for which that kind of rose is remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that called for gentle handling and tender cheris.h.i.+ng; the sweetness, rare indeed, but a.s.serting itself as it were timidly, at least with equally rare modesty; the very style of the beauty that, with all its loveliness, would not startle nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth, nor liability to infection.
As he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair character from the type before him, the feeling of contrast that he had known before pressed upon Mr. Carleton's mind; the feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be again what he once had been ? something like this. How changed now he seemed to himself ? not a point of likeness left. How much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less dignified, than that fair innocent child! How much better a part she was acting in life ? what an influence she was exerting, ? as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as un.o.btrusive, as the very rose in his hand! And he ? doing no good to an earthly creature, and losing himself by inches.
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