CHAPTER XIII. "There the most daintie paradise on ground -The painted flowers, the trees upshooting hye, THEY had taken ship for London, as Mr. and Mrs. Carleton wished to visit home for a day or two before going on to Paris. So leaving Charlton to carry news of them to the French capital, so soon as he could persuade himself to leave the English one, they with little Fleda in company posted down to Carleton, in -shire. It was a time of great delight to Fleda, that is, as soon as Mr. Carleton had made her feel at home in England; and, somehow, he had contrived to do that, and to scatter some clouds of remembrance that seemed to gather about her, before they had reached the end of their first day's journey. To be out of the ship was itself a comfort, and to be along with kind friends was much more. With great joy Fleda put her cousin Charlton and Mr. Thorn at once out of sight and out of mind, and gave herself with even more than her usual happy readiness, to everything the way and the end of the way had for her. Those days were to be painted days in Fleda's memory. She thought Carleton was a very odd place-that is, the house, not the village, which went by the same name. If the manner of her two companions had not been such as to put her entirely at her ease, she would have felt strange and shy. As it was, she felt half afraid of losing herself in the house; to Fleda's unaccustomed eyes, it was a labyrinth of halls and staircases, set with a most unaccountable number and variety of rooms-old and new, quaint and comfortable, gloomy and magnificent; some with stern old-fashioned massiveness of style and garniture, others absolutely bewitching (to Fleda's eyes and understanding) in the rich beauty and luxuriousness of their arrangements. Mr. Carleton's own particular haunts were of these; his private room (the little library, as it was called), the library, and the music-room, which was, indeed, rather a gallery of the fine arts, so many treasures of art were gathered there. To an older and nice-judging person, these rooms would have given no slight indications of their owner's mind-it had been at work on every corner of them. No particular fashion had been followed in anything, nor any model consulted, but that which fancy had built to the mind's order. The wealth of years had drawn together an enormous assemblage of matters, great and small, every one of which was fitted either to excite fancy, or suggest thought, or to satisfy the eye by its nice adaptation. And if pride had had the ordering of them, all these might have been but a costly museum, a literary alphabet that its possessor could not put together, an ungainly confession of ignorance on the part of the intellect that could do nothing with this rich heap of material. But pride was not the genius of the place. A most refined taste and curious fastidiousness had arranged and harmonized all the heterogeneous items; the mental hieroglyphics had been ordered by one to whom the reading of them was no mystery. Nothing struck a stranger at first entering, except the very rich effect and faultless air of the whole, and perhaps the delicious facilities for every kind of intellectual cultivation which appeared on every handfacilities which, it must be allowed, do seem in general not to facilitate the work they are meant to speed. In this case, however, it was different. The mind that wanted them had brought them together to satisfy its own craving. These rooms were Guy's peculiar domain. In other parts of the house, where his mother reigned conjointly with him, their joint tastes had struck out another style of adornment, which might be called a style of superb elegance. Not superb alone, for taste had not permitted so heavy a characteristic to be predominant; not merely elegant, for the fineness of all the details would warrant an ampler word. A larger part of the house than both these together had been left as generations past had left it, in various stages of refinement, comfort, and comeliness. It was a day or two before Fleda found out that it was all one; she thought at first that it was a collection of several houses that had somehow inexplicably sat down there with their backs to each other; it was so straggling and irregular a pile of building, covering so much ground, and looking so very unlike the different parts to each other. One portion was quite old; the other parts ranged variously between the present and the far past. After she once understood this, it was a piece of delicious wonderment, and musing, and great admiration to Fleda; she never grew weary of wandering round it and thinking about it-for, from a child, fanciful meditation was one of her delights. Within doors, she best liked Mr. Carleton's favourite rooms. Their rich colouring and moderated light, and endless stores of beauty and curiosity, made them a place of fascination. Out of doors she found still more to delight her. Morning, noon, and night, she might be seen near the house gazing, taking in pictures of natural beauty, which were for ever after to hang in Fleda's memory as standards of excellence in that sort. Nature's hand had been very kind to the place, moulding the ground in beautiful style. Art had made happy use of the advantage thus given her; and now what appeared was neither art nor nature, but a perfection that can only spring from the hands of both. Fleda's eyes were bewitched. She stood watching the rolling slopes of green turf, so soft and lovely, and the magnificent trees, that had kept their ground for ages, and seen generations rise and fall before their growing strength and grandeur. They were scattered here and there on the lawn; and further back stood on the heights, and stretched along the ridges of the undulating ground, the outposts of a wood of the same growth, still beyond them. "How do you like it, Elfie?" Mr. Carleton asked her, the evening of the first day, as he saw her for a length of time looking out gravely and intently from before the hall door. "I think it is beautiful!" said Fleda. "The ground is a great deal smoother here than it was at home." "I'll take you to ride to-morrow," said he, smiling, "and show you rough ground enough." "As you did when we came from Montepoole?” said Fleda, rather eagerly. “Would you like that?" "Yes, very much-if you would like it, Mr. Carleton." "Very well," said he. "So it shall be." And not a day passed during their short stay that he did not give her one of those rides. He showed her rough ground, according to his promise, but Fleda still thought it did not look much like the mountains "at home." And, indeed, unsightly roughness had been skilfully covered or removed; and though a large part of the park, which was a very extensive one, was wildly broken, and had apparently been left as nature left it, the hand of taste had been there; and many an unsuspected touch, instead of hindering, had heightened both the wild and the beautiful character. Landscape gardening had long been a great hobby of its owner. "How far does your ground come, Mr. Carleton ?" inquired Fleda on one of these rides, when they had travelled a good distance from home. "Further than you can see, Elfie." "Further than I can see !—it must be a very large farm." "This is not a farm where we are now," said he; “did you mean that? This is the park; we are almost at the edge of it on this side." "What is the difference between a farm and a park?" said Fleda. "The grounds of a farm are tilled for profit; a park is an uncultivated enclosure, kept merely for men and women and deer to take pleasure in.” "I have taken a good deal of pleasure in it," said Fleda. "And have you a farm besides, Mr. Carleton ?" "A good many, Elfie." Fleda looked surprised; and then remarked, that it must be very nice to have such a beautiful piece of ground just for pleasure. She enjoyed it to the full during the few days she was there. And one thing more, the grand piano in the music-room. The first evening of their arrival she was drawn by the far-off sounds, and Mrs. Carleton seeing it, went immediately to the music-room with her. The room had no light, except from the moonbeams that stole in through two glass doors which opened upon a particularly private and cherished part of the grounds, in summer-time full of flowers; for in the very refinement of luxury, delights had been crowded about this favourite apartment. Mr. Carleton was at the instrument, playing. Fleda sat down quietly in one corner, and listened-in a rapture of pleasure she had hardly ever known from any like source. did not think it could be greater; till, after a time, in a pause of the music, Mrs. Carleton asked her son to sing a particular ballad; and that one was followed by two or three more. Fleda left her corner-she could not contain herself; and, favoured by the darkness, came forward, and stood quite near; and if the performer had had light to see by, he would have been gratified with the tribute paid to his power by the unfeigned tears that ran down her cheeks. This pleasure was also repeated from evening to evening. She "Do you know we set off for Paris to-morrow?" said Mrs. Carleton the last evening of their stay, as Fleda came up to the door after a prolonged ramble in the park, leaving Mr. Carleton with one or two gardeners at a little distance. 66 Yes," said Fleda, with a sigh that was more than half audible. "Are you sorry?" said Mrs. Carleton, smiling. "I cannot be glad," said Fleda, giving a sober look over the lawn. "Then you like Carleton ?" "Very much!—it is a prettier place than Queechy." "But we shall have you here again, dear Fleda,” said Mrs, Carleton, restraining her smile at this, to her, very moderate compliment. "Perhaps not," said Fleda quietly, "Mr. Carleton said,” she added, a minute after, with more animation, "that a park was a place for men and women and deer to take pleasure in. “Did you have a pleasant ride this morning?" I am “Oh, very!—I always do. There isn't anything I like so well." "What, as to ride on horseback with Guy?" said Mrs. Carleton looking exceedingly benignant. "Yes-unless "Unless what, my dear Fleda ?” "Unless, perhaps I don't know-I was going to say, unless perhaps to hear him sing." Mrs. Carleton's delight was unequivocally expressed; and she promised Fleda that she should have both rides and songs there in plenty another time—a promise upon which Fleda built no trust at all. The next The short journey to Paris was soon made. morning Mrs. Carleton, making an excuse of her fatigue, left Guy to end the care he had taken upon himself, by delivering his little charge into the hands of her friends. So they drove to the Hotel where Mr. Rossitur had apartments in very handsome style. They found him alone in the saloon. Rue 2 "Ha! Carleton-come back again. Just in time-very glad to see you. And who is this?—Ah, another little daughter for aunt Lucy." Mr. Rossitur, who gave them this greeting very cordially, was rather a fine-looking_man—decidedly agreeable both in person and manner. Fleda was pleasantly disappointed after what her grandfather had led her to expect. There might be something of sternness in his expression; people gave him credit for a peremptory, not to say imperious, temper; but, if truly, it could not often meet with opposition. The sense and gentlemanly character which marked his face and bearing had an air of smooth politeness which seemed habitual. There was no want of kindness nor even of tenderness in the way he drew Fleda within his arm and held her there, while he went on talking to Mr. Carleton-now and then stooping his face to look in at her bonnet and kiss her, which was his only welcome. He said nothing to her after his first question. He was too busy talking to Guy. He seemed to have a grea deal to tell him. There was this for him to see, and that for him to hear, and charming new things which had been done o |