Queechy Volume I Part 75

CHAPTER XXIV.

"My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster."

_Tempest_.

The Evelyns spent several weeks at the Pool; and both mother and daughters conceiving a great affection for Fleda, kept her in their company as much as possible. For those weeks Fleda had enough of gaiety. She was constantly spending the day with them at the Pool, or going on some party of pleasure, or taking quiet sensible walks and rides with them alone, or with only one or two more of the most rational and agreeable people that the place could command. And even Mrs. Rossitur was persuaded, more times than one, to put herself in her plainest remaining French silk, and entertain the whole party, with the addition of one or two of Charlton's friends, at her Queechy farm-house.

Fleda enjoyed it all with the quick spring of a mind habitually bent to the patient fulfilment of duty, and habitually under the pressure of rather sobering thoughts. It was a needed and very useful refreshment. Charlton's being at home gave her the full good of the opportunity more than would else have been possible. He was her constant attendant, driving her to and from the Pool, and finding as much to call him there as she had; for, besides the Evelyns, his friend Thorn abode there all this time. The only drawback to Fleda's pleasure as she drove off from Queechy would be the leaving Hugh plodding away at his saw-mill. She used to nod and wave to him as they went by, and almost feel that she ought not to go on and enjoy herself while he was tending that wearisome machinery all day long. Still she went on and enjoyed herself; but the mere thought of his patient smile as she pa.s.sed would have kept her from too much elation of spirits, if there had been any danger. There never was any.

"That's a lovely little cousin of yours," said Thorn, one evening, when he and Rossitur, on horseback, were leisurely making their way along the up-and-down road between Montepoole and Queechy.

"She is not particularly little," said Rossitur, with a dryness that somehow lacked any savour of gratification.

"She is of a most fair stature," said Thorn; "I did not mean anything against that; but there are characters to which one gives instinctively a softening appellative."

"Are there?" said Charlton.

"Yes. She is a lovely little creature."

"She is not to compare to one of those girls we have left behind us at Montepoole," said Charlton.

"Hum ? well, perhaps you are right; but which girl do you mean? ? for I profess I don't know."

"The second of Mrs. Evelyn's daughters ? the auburn-haired one."

"Miss Constance, eh?" said Thorn. "In what isn't the other one to be compared to her?"

"In anything! n.o.body would ever think of looking at her in the same room."

"Why not?" said Thorn, coolly.

"I don't know why not," said Charlton, "except that she has not a t.i.the of her beauty. That's a superb girl!"

For a matter of twenty yards, Mr. Thorn went softly humming a tune to himself, and leisurely switching the flies off his horse.

"Well," said he, "there's no accounting for tastes ?

'I ask no red and white To make up my delight, No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-what in faces.' "

"What _do_ you want, then?" said Charlton, half laughing at him though his friend was perfectly grave.

"A cool eye, and a mind in it."

"A cool eye!" said Rossitur.

"Yes. Those we have left behind us are arrant will-o'-the- wisps ? dancing fires ? no more."

"I can tell you, there is fire sometimes in the other eyes,"

said Charlton.

"Very likely," said his friend, composedly; "I could have guessed as much; but that is a fire you may warm yourself at; no eternal phosph.o.r.escence ? it is the leaping up of all internal fire, that only shows itself upon occasion."

"I suppose you know what you are talking about," said Charlton; "but I can't follow you into the region of volcanoes. Constance Evelyn has superb eyes. It is uncommon to see a light blue so brilliant."

"I would rather trust a sick head to the handling of the lovely lady than the superb one, at a venture."

"I thought you never had a sick head," said Charlton.

"That is lucky for me, as the hands do not happen to be at my service. But no imagination could put Miss Constance in Desdemona's place, when Oth.e.l.lo complained of his headache ?

you remember, Charlton, ?

"Faith, that's with watching ? 'twill away again ?

Let me but bind this handkerchief about it hard.' "

Thorn gave the intonation truly and admirably.

"Fleda never said anything so soft as that," said Charlton.

"No?"

"No."

"You speak ? well, but _soft!_ ? do you know what you are talking about there?"

"Not very well," said Charlton. "I only remember there was nothing soft about Oth.e.l.lo; what you quoted of his wife just now seemed to me to smack of that quality."

"I forgive your memory," said Thorn, "or else I certainly would not forgive you. If there is a fair creation in all Shakespeare, it is Desdemona; and if there is a pretty combination on earth that nearly matches it, I believe it is that one."

"What one?"

"Your pretty cousin."

Charlton was silent.

"It is generous in me to undertake her defence," Thorn went on, "for she bestows as little of her fair countenance upon me as she can well help. But try as she will, she cannot be so repellent as she is attractive."

Charlton pushed his horse into a brisker pace not favourable to conversation; and they rode forward in silence, till, in descending the hill below Deepwater, they came within view of Hugh's work-place, the saw-mill. Charlton suddenly drew bridle.

"There she is."

"And who is with her?" said Thorn. "As I live! ? our friend ?

what's his name? ? who has lost all his ancestors. ? And who is the other?"