With a full heart Fleda clasped her aunt’s arm,
and they went gently down the lane without saying
one word to each other, till they had left the graveyard
far behind them and were in the high road again.
Fleda internally thanked Mr. Carleton for what he
had said to her on a former occasion, for the thought
of his words had given her courage, or strength, to
go beyond her usual reserve in speaking to her aunt;
and she thought her words had done good.
Use your pleasure: If your love do
not persuade you to come, let not
my letter.
Merchant of Venice.
On the way home Mrs. Rossitur and Fleda went a trifle
out of their road to say good-bye to Mrs. Douglass’s
family. Fleda had seen her aunt Miriam in the
morning, and bid her a conditional farewell; for, as
after Mrs. Rossitur’s sailing she would be with
Mrs. Carleton, she judged it little likely that she
should see Queechy again.
They had time for but a minute at Mrs. Douglass’s.
Mrs. Rossitur had shaken hands and was leaving the
house when Mrs. Douglass pulled Fleda back.
“Be you going to the West Indies too, Fleda?”
“No, Mrs. Douglass.”
“Then why don’t you stay here?”
“I want to be with my aunt while I can,”
said Fleda.
“And then do you calculate to stop in New York?”
“For awhile,” said Fleda colouring.
“O go ’long!” said Mrs. Douglass,
“I know all about it. Now do you s’pose
you’re agoing to be any happier among all those
great folks than you would be if you staid among little
folks?” she added tartly; while Catherine looked
with a kind of incredulous admiration at the future
lady of Carleton.
“I don’t suppose that greatness has anything
to do with happiness, Mrs. Douglass,” said Fleda
gently.
So gently,—and so calmly sweet the face
was that said it that Mrs. Douglass’s mood was
overcome.
“Well you ain’t agoing to forget Queechy?”
she said, shaking Fleda’s hand with a hearty
grasp.
“Never—never!”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” said
Mrs. Douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those
in Fleda’s.—“It’ll be
a happy house that gets you into it, wherever ‘tis!
I only wish it wa’n’t out o’ Queechy.”
Fleda thought on the whole as she walked home that
she did not wish any such thing. Queechy seemed
dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to
a new place now that she had taken such a leave of
every thing here.
Two things remained however to be taken leave of;
the house and Barby. Happily Fleda had little
time for the former. It was a busy evening, and
the morning would be more busy; she contrived that
all the family should go to rest before her, meaning
then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself;
a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere
with. She sat down before the kitchen fire-place,
but she had hardly realized that she was alone when
one of the many doors opened and Barby’s tall
figure walked in.
