Volume Ii Part 92 (2/2)
”I should think so, indeed,” said Fleda.
”He has it ? I don't comprehend it ? and I have not studied his machinery enough to understand that; but I have seen the effects. Never should have thought he was the kind of man either ? but there it is ? I don't comprehend him. There is only one fault to be found with him, though.”
”What is that?” said Fleda, smiling.
”He has built a fine Dissenting chapel down here towards Hollonby,” he said, gravely, looking her in the face ? ”and, what is yet worse, his uncle tells me, he goes there half the time himself.”
Fleda could not help laughing, nor colouring, at his manner.
”I thought it was always considered a meritorious action to build a church,” she said.
”Indubitably. ? But you see, this was a chapel.”
The laugh and the colour both grew more unequivocal ? Fleda could not help it.
”I beg your pardon, Sir ? I have not learned such nice distinctions. Perhaps a chapel was wanted just in that place.”
”That is presumable. But _he_ might be wanted somewhere else.
However,” said the gentleman, with a good-humoured smile ?
”his uncle forgives him; and if his mother cannot influence him, I am afraid n.o.body else will. There is no help for it.
And I should be very sorry to stand ill with him. I have given you the dark side of his character.”
”What is the other side in the contrast?” said Fleda, wondering at herself for her daring.
”It is not for me to say,” he answered, with a slight shrug of the shoulders and an amused glance at her; ”I suppose it depends upon people's vision ? but if you will permit me, I will instance a bright spot that was shown to me the other day, that I confess, when I look at it, dazzles my eyes a little.”
Fleda only bowed; she dared not speak again.
”There was a poor fellow ? the son of one of Mr. Carleton's old tenants down here at Enchapel ? who was under sentence of death, lying in prison at Carstairs. The father, I am told, is an excellent man, and a good tenant; the son had been a miserable scapegrace, and now for some crime ? I forget what ?
had at last been brought to justice. The evidence against him was perfect, and the offence was not trifling; there was not the most remote chance of a pardon, but it seemed the poor wretch had been building up his dependence upon that hope, and was resting on it; and, consequently, was altogether indisposed and unfit to give his attention to the subjects that his situation rendered proper for him.
”The gentleman who gave me this story was requested by a brother clergyman to go with him to visit the prisoner. They found him quite stupid ? unmovable by all that could be urged, or rather, perhaps, the style of the address, as it was described to me, was fitted to confound find bewilder the man rather than enlighten him. In the midst of all this, Mr.
Carleton came in ? he was just then on the wing for America, and he had heard of the poor creature's condition in a visit to his father. He came ? my informant said ? like a being of a different planet. He took the man's hand ? he was chained foot and wrist ? 'My poor friend,' he said, 'I have been thinking of you here, shut out from the light of the sun, and I thought you might like to see the face of a friend;' ? with that singular charm of manner which he knows how to adapt to everybody and every occasion. The man was melted at once ? at his feet, as it were ? he could do anything with him. Carleton began then, quietly, to set before him the links in the chain of evidence which had condemned him ? one by one ? in such a way as to prove to him, by degrees, but irresistibly, that he had no hope in this world. The man was perfectly subdued ? sat listening and looking into those powerful eyes that perhaps you know ? taking in all his words, and completely in his hand. And then Carleton went on to bring before him the considerations that he thought should affect him in such a case, in a way that this gentleman said was indescribably effective and winning; till that hardened creature was broken down ? sobbing like a child ? actually sobbing!”
Fleda did her best, but she was obliged to hide her face in her hands, let what would be thought of her.
”It was the finest exhibition of eloquence, this gentleman said, he had ever listened to. For me it was an exhibition of another kind. I would have believed such an account of few men, but of all the men I know I would least have believed it of Guy Carleton a few years ago; even now I can hardly believe it. But it is a thing that would do honour to any man.”
Fleda felt that the tears were making their way between her fingers, but she could not help it; and she presently knew that her companion had gone, and she was left alone again. Who was this gentleman? and how much did he know about her? More than that she was a stranger, Fleda was sure; and dreading his return, or that somebody else might come and find her with the tokens of tears upon her face, she stepped out upon the greensward, and made for the flaunting sweet-briar that seemed to beckon her to visit its relations.
The entrance of a green path was there, or a gra.s.sy glade, more or less wide, leading through a beautiful growth of firs and larches. No roses, nor any other ornamental shrubs ? only the soft well-kept footway through the woodland. Fleda went gently on and on, admiring where the trees sometimes swept back, leaving an opening, and at other places stretched their graceful branches over her head. The perfect condition of everything to the eye ? the rich coloured vegetation ? of varying colour above and below ? the absolute retirement, and the strong pleasant smell of the evergreens, had a kind of charmed effect upon senses and mind too. It was a fairyland sort of place. The presence of its master seemed everywhere ?
it was like him, and Fleda pressed on to see yet livelier marks of his character and fancy beyond. By degrees the wood began to thin on one side ? then at once the glade opened into a bright little lawn, rich with roses in full bloom. Fleda was stopped short at the sudden vision of loveliness. There was the least possible appearance of design ? no dry beds were to be seen ? the luxuriant clumps of Provence and white roses, with the varieties of the latter seemed to have chosen their own places, only to have chosen them very happily. One hardly imagined that they had submitted to dictation, if it were not that Queen Flora never was known to make so effective a disposition of her forces without help. The screen of trees was very thin on the border of this opening ? so thin that the light from beyond came through. On a slight rocky elevation, which formed the further side of it, sat an exquisite little Gothic chapel, about which, and the face of the rock below, some noisette and multiflora climbers were vying with each other, and just at the entrance of the further path a white dog-rose had thrown itself over the way, covering the lower branches of the trees with its blossoms.
Fleda stood spell-bound a good while, with a breath oppressed with pleasure. But what she had seen excited her to see more, and a dim recollection of the sea-view from somewhere in the walk drew her on. Roses met her now frequently. Now and then a climber, all alone, seemed to have sought protection in a tree by the path-side, and to have displayed itself thence in the very wantonness of security, hanging out its flowery wreaths, fearless of hand or knife. Cl.u.s.ters of noisettes, or of French or damask roses, where the ground was open enough, stood without a rival, and needing no foil other than the beautiful surrounding of dark evergreen foliage. But the distance was not long before she came out upon a wider opening, and found what she was seeking ? the sight of the sea. The glade here was upon the brow of high ground, and the wood disappearing entirely for a s.p.a.ce, left the eye free to go over the lower tree-tops, and the country beyond to the distant sh.o.r.e and sea-line. Roses were here too ? the air was full of the sweetness of damask and Bourbon varieties ? and a few beautiful banksias, happily placed, contrasted without interfering with them. It was very still ? it was very perfect ? the distant country was fresh-coloured with the yet early light which streamed between the trees, and laid lines of enchantment upon the green turf; and the air came up from the sea-board, and bore the breath of the roses to Fleda every now and then with a gentle puff of sweetness. Such light ? she had seen none such light since she was a child. Was it the burst of mental suns.h.i.+ne that had made it so bright? ? or was she going to be really a happy child again? No ? no ? not that, and yet something very like it ? so like it, that she almost startled at herself. She went no further. She could not have borne, just then, to see any more; and feeling her heart too full, she stood even there, with hands crossed upon her bosom, looking away from the roses to the distant sea-line.
That said something very different. That was very sobering; if she had needed sobering, which she did not. But it helped her to arrange the scattered thoughts which had been pressing confusedly upon her brain. ”Look away from the roses,” indeed, she could not, for the same range of vision took in the sea and them ? and the same range of thought. These might stand for an emblem of the present; that, of the future ? grave, far-off, impenetrable; and pa.s.sing, as it were, the roses of time, Fleda fixed upon that image of eternity; and weighing the one against the other, felt, never in her life more keenly, how wild it would be to forget in smelling the roses her preparations for that distant voyage that must be made from the sh.o.r.es where they grow. With one eye upon this brightest bit of earth before her, the other mentally was upon Hugh's grave. The roses could not be sweeter to any one; but, in view of the launching away in to that distant sea-line, in view of the issues on the other sh.o.r.e, in view of the welcome that might be had there ? the roses might fade and wither, but her happiness could not go with their breath. They were something to be loved, to be used, to be thankful for ? but not to live upon; something too that whispered of an increased burden of responsibility, and never more deeply than at that moment did Fleda remember her mother's prayer ? never more simply recognised that happiness could not be made of these things. She might be as happy at Queechy as here. It depended on the sun-light of undying hopes, which indeed would give wonderful colour to the flowers that might be in her way; on the possession of resources the spring of which would never dry; on the peace which secures the continual feast of a merry heart, Fleda could take her new honours and advantages very meekly, and very soberly, with all her appreciation of them.
The same work of life was to be done here as at Queechy. To fulfil the trust committed to her, larger here ? to keep her hope for the future ? undeceived by the suns.h.i.+ne of earth, to plant her roses where they would bloom everlastingly.
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