and the light which gleamed through the silvery veil of Truth fell on
the types of his prayers. Lo! death had breathed on the birds whose
plumage looked so bright from afar! Stiff and cold, with ruffled
feathers, they lay on the marble! A few, but a few, with some feeble
show of life, fluttered their pinions and rose for a little way from
earth, then sank down again as though these pinions were of lead! And
many others were already corrupted by decay, so that the Rajah shrank
from the touch of them as from pollution!
"Are these, then, thy merits!" exclaimed Truth; "thy lifeless prayers
that rise not to Heaven--the prayers which thou fearest to examine!
Here is the form, but where is the life--the outside show, but the
spirit is wanting! Thou hast never uttered one real and acceptable
prayer, for the first petition that can rise as on an eagle's wing from
guilty man to his Creator is the petition for mercy--the first cry that
brings down a blessing is the cry, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'"
The Rajah bowed his head and was silent
"Let us return into the Temple of the Heart," said Truth. "But a small
portion of it can be seen by thee: it has deep recesses, which can never
be explored but by the eye of Omniscience; yet mayst thou learn
something by the quest."
Then reluctantly, yet drawn on by invisible power, Futtey Sing
re-entered through the porch of the temple.
The place seemed strangely changed, as places do change in dreams. The
gold on the pillars was dim, the silver was tarnished and blackened;
where jewels had shone there were spots, and spots upon the pavement of
marble.
"What are these spots?" cried the Rajah; "I behold them wherever I turn
my eye, staining the wall, specking the floor, numerous as a flight of
locusts, which darken the earth as with a cloud!"
"These are the evil words of thy lips," replied Truth; "every day has
added to the number, and well mayst thou compare them to locusts, whose
myriads blacken the plain. Thou hast deemed that a word once spoken
hath passed away from thee for ever, because thou seest not its shape on
the air, nor its shadow on the ground; but every one is remembered and
recorded. Each hasty word of anger has fallen like a red drop, not to
be washed away; every word of profanity or pride like a black drop,
whose stain lies deep on the soul; nay, every idle and foolish word hath
left its mark--and who, O Futtey Sing! shall number them?"
Then the Rajah started and trembled. "What are these unclean birds," he
cried, "that swoop round my head, filling the air with the rustle of
their flight; and these winged reptiles and creeping ones that cross my
path, unsightly and loathsome to behold?"
"These are the evil thoughts that have haunted thy heart ever since thy
mind opened to knowledge--thoughts of pride, thoughts of covetousness,
of malice, envy, and impurity. Thou didst think them gone for ever,
like the track of a vessel through the waves, or of a vulture through
the air; but they live in the sight of the Omniscient, before whom the
past and the future form but one infinite present."
I hen Futtey Sing wrung his hands in despair. "Who then can say, I have
made my heart clean?" he exclaimed; "where is the being who is faultless
before God? In vain shall we seek for the righteous upon earth; there
is none who is holy, none!" And from the dome above, and from the earth
beneath, a hollow echo repeated "_None!_"
"Behold here!" cried Truth, and she touched the wan, and the face of the
marble was changed to glass, and a wide mirror appeared before them.
"If thou wouldst know more, look into this, and see some of thy sins of
_omission_!"
Then the mirror became crowded with figures; and though his eyes ached
as he gazed, the Rajah could not choose but look. Fast scene succeeded
to scene, and each shot a pang through his heart. He saw evils that he
had winked at--duties that he had overlooked--the proud oppressing the
weak--the hand of the magistrate closing on the bribe--the quiet,
uncomplaining poor left to suffer neglected, while idle mendicants
absorbed the stream of charity which should have flowed to bless them!
Futtey Sing often had dwelt with complacence on the good which he had
done: he started to behold how much he had left undone. He groaned and
hid his face in his hands.
"Thou hast beheld some of thy sins of _omission_," cried Truth; "shall I
now show thee the sins which thou hast committed?"
"No, no!" exclaimed the Rajah; "I have seen enough, and too much! I
have seen enough to humble me in dust and ashes--to make me know myself
blind, wretched, and guilty! Why," he continued, bitterly, "why hast
thou come to break my peace--to poison my happiness in the very temple
which I have erected to the Deity? Mean and polluted it may be, but
still it hath been raised to his honour."
"Is God then enthroned in this temple?" replied Truth. "It cannot be,
or the presence of divine purity would have purified even it.
Self-deceiver! thou standest now in the centre of the temple--thou
standest at the foot of the shrine; lift up thine eyes and behold the
object of thy worship--behold the Idol which thou hast adored all thy
days!"
Futtey Sing glanced up; the pedestal was lofty--on image of clay was on
the summit. He saw the idol, and he knew it; he saw the effigy of
himself, dressed in the robes of his pride, and he fell on his face with
a cry.
"To exalt self have thy good deeds been performed--to exalt self has
been the motive of thy actions--to exalt self has been the object of thy
life! And will the Supreme see His rightful throne in the heart given to
another? Will not His lightning strike down the idol?"
It seemed as though the words shook the earth beneath their feet; it
shuddered, it reeled, it heaved. It seemed as though the words awakened
the thunders above their heads; they rolled, they burst, they roared in
the sky. The walls trembled, rent, fell with a fearful crash, as if to
bury the sinner beneath their ruins; while a vivid flash of forked
lightning darted from the heavens, struck the idol of Self, and laid it
prostrate in the dust.
"Save me! I perish! I perish!" exclaimed the Rajah; and with that cry
of terror he awoke.
*CHAPTER V.*
*SECRET INFLUENCES.*
Mrs. Vernon closed the book. Various comments were made on the story.
The question was discussed whether it were really a translation from an
Eastern composition, or the work of a Christian author, who had chosen
to adopt the peculiarities of the Oriental style. Flora was decidedly
of the latter opinion, and showed so well the grounds upon which her
judgment was formed, that she completely won over her opponent, Ada, and
closed the discussion in triumph.
Was, then, Flora's position so entirely different from that of the
self-righteous Rajah that his story afforded her nothing more than a
field for intellectual exercise?
It was with Flora as it is with many that have been brought up in what
is called "the religious world." She had heard so much, read so much,
talked so much, on spiritual subjects, that she had acquired a certain
amount of theological knowledge, which not only supplied the place of
deep heart-devotion, but blinded her to her own want of it. Flora never
for one moment during her life had felt her soul in danger, or doubted
that she was walking in the narrow path which her widowed mother so
faithfully trod. The warnings which she heard in sermons she constantly
applied to others. She read serious works rather as a critic than as
one anxiously gleaning from them lessons for the conduct of her own
life. Flora earnestly upheld the doctrine of justification by faith;
she owned that through the merits of the Saviour alone a sinner could
find pardon from God. But in the depths of her heart; unknown to
herself, there was a secret lurking feeling that her own virtue, her
benevolence, her gentleness, her filial obedience, her early piety,
deserved the favour of the Almighty. She did not believe that her
slight short-comings merited any severe condemnation. She was
unconsciously going to the marriage-supper of the King's Son in the
garment of her own righteousness. The seed of the Word, received with
so much joy, had fallen on stony ground; it lacked depth of earth; the
leaves were fair to the eye, but the root of humility was wanting.
On the following day Ada took her departure. Her visit was not without
its effect, both on herself and her cousin; for it is a solemn
consideration that two beings can seldom mix in close and familiar
intercourse without exercising some degree of influence on each other
for evil or for good.
What she had seen and heard at Laurel Bank had rendered Ada in some
degree discontented with herself. She had seen something of the beauty
of a life of holiness and benevolence--at least so it appeared to her
mind; and it sickened her to contrast with it her own course of
selfishness and frivolity. Not, perhaps, that the impression was a very
deep one, or that Ada had the slightest present intention of following
the example which she admired; but she had a vague hope that a day might
come, perhaps when the spring-time of youth should be over, when she too
might be of some use in the world, and live for some object more noble
than to flutter through a round of gaiety amidst those whose friendship
would be as lightly lost as it had been lightly given.
The effect of Ada's visit was very different upon Flora. It had not
humbled, but rather confirmed her in her false estimate of her own
character. At the same time it had awakened within her bosom a secret
discontent at her own quiet lot, a yearning for the more brilliant and
exciting scenes which her cousin loved to describe. Flora began to
think--though she breathed the thought to no one--that living in the
complete seclusion in which the will of Providence had placed her, was
in truth a serious disadvantage. She cared less for the beauties of her
garden, spent more time at her toilette, and as she looked at the lovely
reflection in her mirror, she turned over in her mind, as a miser might
his treasures, the flattering words of admiration which she had heard
from the lips of Ada. Her school children seemed to her duller than
usual; her thoughts wandered greatly at prayers; the conversation of the
poor old lame captain grew insufferably tedious; and when Miss
Butterfield paid one of her long, tiresome visits, Flora took care not
to appear at all, but left her mother to entertain the old lady. As
Eve, amidst all the charms of Eden, looked longingly at the one
forbidden tree, so Flora, surrounded by blessings, inwardly repined at
the decrees of Providence, yearning for the one thing denied to
her--denied to her by divine wisdom and love!
Mrs. Vernon had less leisure to observe any change in her beloved
daughter, from being much occupied in making preparations for the
reception of the family from Barbadoes. She studiously regarded Flora's
comfort in all her arrangements, while she quite neglected her own: but
it was impossible to receive so large an addition to her limited
household without making some changes which necessarily somewhat
affected the convenience of her daughter. Flora felt the petty
sacrifices which she was compelled to make, more than can be readily
imagined by those who, from having been members of large families, have
been accustomed from childhood to submit to them. She had been the
object of her mother's almost undivided attention and care, and had
grown a little selfish without being aware of it.
Nevertheless, Flora had a gentle, kindly heart. The situation of her
sister-in-law touched her compassion; she felt for the young widow,
bowed down by the double trial of poverty and bereavement, quitting her
native land to come amongst those who were strangers to her. She was
sure that she would love the dear helpless little orphans; and she spoke
so sweetly on the subject, seemed to make so light of difficulties, was
so ready to give herself to the congenial task of comforting the
afflicted, that never had her mother more fervently thanked Heaven for
such a child, or visitors left the house more impressed with the idea
that Flora was the impersonification of every Christian virtue, as she
was of every feminine charm!
At length dawned the long-expected day of the arrival. In a place so
retired as the village of Wingsdale, comparatively trifling occurrences
rose to the rank of important events. Flora, who was imaginative and
poetical, had drawn in her mind so touching, a picture of the pale widow
and her golden-haired cherubs, had rehearsed to herself so often the
scene of the meeting, that she had worked herself into a state of eager
impatience. Unable to settle steadily to anything, she fluttered from
room to room, now altering the arrangement of the flowers with which she
had adorned the widow's pretty boudoir, now bringing some elegant trifle
of her own to add to the beauty of the effect. She pulled up the blind,
that the view might be seen; then drew it down again hastily, lest the
glare from without should fall painfully on the eye of sorrow. She had
amused herself for several evenings by preparing a pretty book of
pictures for the children, and had pleased herself by collecting little
toys, with which she doubted not to find a speedy road to their hearts.
At last, in the quiet village, appeared the unexpected apparition of a
post-chaise and four--an equipage which had never been seen there since
the county member came to canvass in Wingsdale. All the little rustics
ran eagerly to look at the unusual sight, and the cottagers stood in
their doorways as the vehicle rolled past in a cloud of dust, with a
quantity of luggage piled on the top, box upon box, the whole heap
surmounted by a parrot cage with its screaming tenant. But what most
excited the wonder of the rustics was the negro who sat upon the box.
The children stared with open eyes and mouths at his black face, curly
woollen hair, and thick lips, which, parted in a merry, self-satisfied
grin, displayed two rows of shining white teeth.
Through the village, sweeping past the church, up the shady lane, dashed
the post-chaise! The gate of Mrs. Vernon's little shrubbery stood open,
and along the narrow drive rolled the dusty wheels, the horses' hoofs
tearing up the carefully smoothed gravel, which even the doctor had
always respected, tying up his black nag at the gate. At the sound of
the arrival of the vehicle, Mrs. Vernon and Flora hastened to the
entrance, their faces expressive of the welcome which their lips eagerly
pronounced. The carriage-door was opened by Flora, too impatient to wait
till the grinning negro tumbled down from the box: she stretched out her
hands to receive some infant treasure from the crowded chaise, and a
cage with a squirrel, followed by a bundle of shawls and a broken
bonnet-box, were hastily thrust into them. Before she could disencumber
herself of the luggage, three of the children had been handed, or rather
tumbled, out of the carriage--thin, sickly-looking creatures, wrapped up
in gaudy scarfs, which strangely contrasted with their faded black
ribbons and dresses, and complexions which varied in shades from
whity-brown to dingy-yellow. While Mrs. Vernon stooped to kiss and
welcome the little strangers, the youngest of whom, from some cause
unknown, was crying as if her heart would break, Flora pressed forward
to assist the widow to alight. Instead of the lady, a very fat negress,
very gaudily attired, with gilt bracelets on her wrists and beads in her
ears, holding a screaming baby in her arms, slowly shoved her stout
person through the doorway, and heavily descended to the ground.
"My dear sister!" exclaimed Flora, in a tone of sympathy, again pressing
to the carriage, and leaning forward into it to greet the afflicted
widow.
A very languid voice answered from within, "Just see, do, that they are
careful in taking down the parrot."
It was a chill to the feelings of Flora, and her first glance of her
sister-in-law was little calculated to re-warm them into interest. Emma
Vernon might once have been pretty, at least something in her air
conveyed the idea that she had--and perhaps still considered herself to
be so; but she had a sallow, withered look on her face, an affected
expression in her sleepy black eyes, a languid listlessness in her
manner, which to Flora were almost repulsive. Coldness and indifference
seemed conveyed in the very touch of her thin fingers, and the cheek
which, half hidden by a profusion of black curls, she turned to receive
Flora's kiss. Slowly, very slowly, she descended from the carriage,
leaning heavily on Mrs. Vernon and her daughter, and moving as though
she were scarcely equal to the effort of placing one foot before the
other. With many a pause, and many a sigh, she reached the lovely
little boudoir which Mrs. Vernon, at considerable personal
inconvenience, had appropriated to her use.
[Illustration: Slowly, very slowly, she descended from the carriage.]
Emma sank on the sofa, and in an affected voice exclaimed, "Take away
those flowers--I can't bear them!--take them away or I shall faint!"
Flora hastened to remove the beautiful bouquet, while Mrs. Vernon
offered a scent-bottle to the languishing lady.
"I hope, dear Emma, that country quiet will soon restore you," she said
soothingly.
"Do open the window--there's not a breath of air--this room is so
small!" lisped the newly arrived.
"How strange it is," thought Flora, "that she neither asks nor thinks
about her children! Nothing but her own comfort seems to occupy her
mind, and it does not appear very easy to please her. I will go and
look after her little ones."
Flora was followed into the passage by her mother, who looked a little
troubled and anxious.
"My dear child," said Mrs. Vernon, laying her hand on Flora's arm, "what
are we to make of the negro? I never calculated on Emma's bringing a
man-servant with her."
"I'm sure I don't know, mamma. It was very inconsiderate in her, I
think. But everything seems so strange and confusing and uncomfortable,
I am afraid--" she stopped in her sentence.
"We must make the best of everything, my love. Just go and see that the
poor dear children are comfortable in their nursery."
Flora obeyed without reply.
*CHAPTER VI.*
*THE NURSERY.*
As Flora approached the nursery, its vicinity was sufficiently indicated
by the sound of loud, passionate crying, and then that of several sharp
slaps; which made her quicken her steps, lest the black nurse, whose
looks she distrusted, should be maltreating any of the children. The
first glance at the interior of the room, however, showed her that the
fat old negress was not the giver, but the recipient of the blows!
Before her was a little boy in a furious tempest of passion, kicking,
striking, and roaring, while Flora's pretty book of pictures lay in a
hundred fragments at his feet!
"Oh! Massa Johnny, Massa Johnny!" exclaimed old Chloe in an
expostulating tone, as he struck her again and again with the ferocity
of a little tiger. Flora sprang forward and caught his hand, but only
turned his passion upon herself. The child clutched at her flowing
locks, and it was not without difficulty and pain that she extricated
her hair from his grasp. He then flung himself down on the floor, and
rolled on it in impotent passion.
"What can be the meaning of all this?" exclaimed Flora, surprised and
ruffled by the unexpected attack.
"Oh! Massa Johnny, he only want to pull de swing 'uns off de clock; he
very angry cause he cannot get em."
"I am afraid that Johnny is a very naughty boy," said Flora, smoothing
down her disordered tresses, and looking down with the reverse of
admiration on the dark little savage before her.
"Oh! Massa Johnny, he have great speerit, he have mighty great
speerit!" was the nonchalant reply, as the negress slowly rose from her
seat to attend to the baby, who had been sleeping in a cradle, but who,
awakened by the noise, now swelled it with his fretful cry.
"I'm sure, if one doesn't want a dozen hands atween them all!" pursued
the old woman, trying to hush the child; "there's Miss Lyddie now,
there's no knowing where she's agone--I've not set eyes on her this
half-hour!"
"Not know where she is!" said Flora, glancing round anxiously. Emmie,
the youngest child but one, was quietly amusing herself in a corner,
breaking off the legs of the wooden animals belonging to an ark which
Mrs. Vernon had provided for her amusement. But no trace of Miss Lyddie
was to be seen. Flora hurried from the room to search for the little
truant.
It was not long before she found her in the dining-room, close to a
small press in which various preserves and other little dainties were
kept. Lyddie was several years older than the other children, and tall
for her age; her lank over-grown form, untidy hair, awkward carriage and
sickly face, conveying to the mind the idea that she was like some idle
weed, which had sprung up uncared-for and untended, She started slightly
on seeing Flora, and hastily closed the door of the press, which had
stood a little ajar.
"O Lyddie!" exclaimed Flora, "it is very wrong indeed to take sweets
without asking leave!"
"I didn't!" said the child, shrinking back from her touch, and eyeing
her with a furtive glance.
"Look there!" cried Flora, pointing very gravely to some unmistakable
crimson stains on the dress and hands of the girl. "It is still worse
to tell an untruth about it."
The girl pouted, and put two fingers into her mouth.
"O Lyddie! has no one taught you who sees our actions, and--" Flora was
commencing a gentle, but very serious reproof, when it was suddenly cut
short by her auditor darting from the room.
"What dreadful children!" said poor Flora to herself; "they seem more
unmanageable, more uncared for, both as regards their physical and moral
condition, than the poorest cottager in the village! We must speak
seriously to their mother about them; it is impossible to let them go on
in this way."
To speak to Mrs. John Vernon was not at that moment practicable, as she
had gone to sleep on the sofa, and was on no account to be disturbed.
The dinner, which had been delayed for some hours for her arrival, was
thus again indefinitely postponed, as both Mrs. Vernon and her daughter
thought it more courteous to take their meal with their guest, instead
of sharing that prepared for the children. Flora felt irritated and
tired, and very little disposed to look at the bright side of affairs.
The noisy voices of the children seemed never to be silent. They
penetrated every part of the house; no room appeared safe from the
intrusion of unwelcome little guests: for a spirit of active curiosity
was a characteristic of Lyddie, and Johnny was prosecuting a search for
his negro Sambo, which carried him to places where he was unlikely, as
well as those where he was likely to find him.
At length Emma awoke from her siesta, but Mrs. Vernon found that her
politeness towards the lady had been carried to an unnecessary extent.
Emma declined joining the family at table; she preferred having her
dinner carried to her in her boudoir. Flora, desirous to please her new
guest, herself took the refreshment to her, and had the mortification to
find that it consisted of the only thing, as Emma declared with a sickly
smile, that really she could not touch; while, when pressed to say what
she fancied, she named something which it was difficult, if not
impossible to procure!
Flora dined alone with her mother. This was a relief, for she was
weary, and out of spirits and out of patience. She resolved not to
trouble her mother more than she could possibly help with her own
annoyances and perplexities, for Mrs. Vernon looked harassed and anxious
already. When the lady had gone to superintend the sleeping
arrangements of the children, Flora sought the boudoir of her
sister-in-law, having previously rehearsed many times in her mind the
conversation which she thought might take place between them, and having
studied how she could tell painful truths in the most gentle and least
irritating way.