"Do you remember that?" said he, putting her old little Bible into her hand.
Fleda seized it, but she could hardly bear the throng of images that started up around it. The smooth worn cover brought so back the childish happy days when it had been her constant companion--the shadows of the Queechy of old, and Cynthia and her grandfather; and the very atmosphere of those times when she had led a light-hearted strange wild life all alone with them, reading the Encyclopædia and hunting out the wood-springs. She opened the book and slowly turned over the leaves where her father's hand had drawn those lines, of remark and affection, round many a passage,--the very look of them she knew; but she could not see it now, for her eyes were dim and tears were dropping fast into her lap,--she hoped Mr. Carleton did not see them, but she could not help it; she could only keep the book out of the way of being blotted. And there were other and later associations she had with it too,--how dear!--how tender!--how grateful!
Mr. Carleton was quite silent for a good while--till the tears had ceased; then he bent towards her so as to be heard no further off.
"It has been for many years my best friend and companion," he said in a low tone.
Fleda could make no answer, even by look.
"At first," he went on softly, "I had a strong association of you with it; but the time came when I lost that entirely, and itself quite swallowed up the thought of the giver."
A quick glance and smile told how well Fleda understood, how heartily she was pleased with that. But she instantly looked away again.
"And now," said Mr. Carleton after a pause,--"for some time past, I have got the association again; and I do not choose to have it so. I have come to the resolution to put the book back into your hands and not receive it again, unless the giver go with the gift."
Fleda looked up, a startled look of wonder, into his face, but the dark eye left no doubt of the meaning of his words; and in unbounded confusion she turned her own and her attention, ostensibly, to the book in her hand, though sight and sense were almost equally out of her power. For a few minutes poor Fleda felt as if all sensation had retreated to her finger-ends. She turned the leaves over and over, as if willing to cheat herself or her companion into the belief that she had something to think of there, while associations and images of the past were gone with a vengeance, swallowed up in a tremendous reality of the present; and the book, which a minute ago was her father's Bible, was now--what was it?--something of Mr. Carleton's which she must give back to him. But still she held it and looked at it--conscious of no one distinct idea but that, and a faint one besides that he might like to be repossessed of his property in some reasonable time--time like everything else was in a whirl; the only steady thing in creation seemed to be that perfectly still and moveless figure by her side--till her trembling fingers admonished her they would not be able to hold anything much longer; and gently and slowly, without looking, her hand put the book back towards Mr. Carleton. That both were detained together she knew but hardly felt;--the thing was that she had given it!--
There was no other answer; and there was no further need that Mr. Carleton should make any efforts for diverting her from the scene and the circumstances where they were. Probably he knew that, for he made none. He was perfectly silent for a long time, and Fleda was deaf to any other voice that could be raised, near or far. She could not even think.