of the heat, a fan and scent-bottle beside her; and she received Flora
with the languid, affected smile, which to that young lady was
peculiarly unpleasing.
"I hope that you have now recovered a little from your fatigue," said
Flora, seating herself beside Emma.
The only reply was a languid sigh, accompanied by a slight elevation of
the eyebrows, and then a closing of the eyes.
Flora paused for awhile, and played with the clasp of her bracelet,
before she ventured to say, "Emma, there was one thing which I wished to
ask you--have you perfect confidence in your black nurse?"
The lady opened her eyes. "Oh! she's the best creature in the world!"
Here the scent-bottle was in requisition.
"You know, of course, whether she is a Christian?"
"Well--oh! why"--(each word was drawled forth as though to speak were
too fatiguing)--"yes; she has a crucifix and beads; she is a Christian,
I am sure of it."
"And is it possible--" Flora felt herself beginning to warm with her
subject, but with an effort of self-control she commanded herself, and
proceeded in the same gentle tones as those in which she had commenced.
"Do you think it desirable to trust her so entirely with the children?
I viewed a little scene in the nursery to-day which gave me an idea that
Johnny's temper requires more judicious management."
Emma looked so utterly indifferent, that Flora gave her a more lively
description of the little scene, and of her own unpleasant part in it,
than she had intended to have done.
"Poor dear! he has so much spirit!" was the only observation of the
mother.
"But I have more painful things to tell you," said Flora, feeling
utterly provoked; and without further reserve, she gave an account of
Lyddie's conduct at the press, which would greatly have distressed a
tender and conscientious parent, but which only elicited the words "Poor
dear!" uttered in a more sleepy tone than before.
"But, Emma, this must not be!" exclaimed Flora, with kindling
indignation; "these poor unhappy orphans are not to be left to acquire
habits of dishonesty and untruth--"
She stopped suddenly, for she knew that she had said too much; she saw
it in the malignant expression which lighted for a moment the sleepy
black eye, she felt it in the quick throbbing of her own heart. Glad
was Flora that her mother's entrance gave her an excuse for quitting the
room. She sought her own in a very bitter spirit.
"Mamma," said Flora to Mrs. Vernon, when they were both retiring to
rest, "I fear that we shall have a dreadful time with this family!
There will be no more comfort in the house. Those miserable, neglected
children will be the torments of our lives!"
"We must have patience with them, my love; they will not be neglected
here."
"But Emma will hang as a drag-chain on all our efforts to improve them.
She seems to regard nothing upon earth but her own comfort and
convenience, and listens with that odious smile to things which should
make a mother blush for very shame!"
"My love--" expostulated Mrs. Vernon.
"I do not like that woman, mother, and I am certain that I never shall.
She looks so heartless, and silly, and affected!"
"We must not be hard upon her, my Flora; her own education has probably
been neglected. You have had a day of fatigue and excitement, and it
re-acts on your own spirits, my dear. Go and rest now, you need it; all
may seem more sunshiny in the morning."
Flora sought rest, but that night she was not destined to find it. In
the room next to hers was the baby, and hour after hour his wailing cry
sounded in her ears, driving away sleep; thrice she started up and
hastened to see if nothing could be done to soothe him. As morning
dawned the babe fell asleep, and so did the exhausted Flora, to dream of
the house being attacked by a legion of negroes, till she was awakened
at an earlier hour than usual by the sound of a furious quarrel between
Johnny and Lyddie.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*THE TOUCHSTONE.*
And so passed day after day, each appearing to Flora more unendurable
than the last. She at first sought refuge in her favourite woody
haunts, and there reading some pleasant book, or throwing her own
thoughts into verse, she enjoyed brief but delicious respite from the
cares and vexations of her home. But a season of rainy weather cut off
even this source of enjoyment, and she was imprisoned in the house with
four noisy, quarrelsome children, and a companion whom she disliked and
despised.
Mrs. John Vernon was a very weak woman, and had all the infirmities and
follies naturally attendant on characters of such a stamp. She was, of
course, passionately fond of dress--a fondness which even the necessity
for wearing mourning did not subdue. Flora could scarcely disguise her
contempt when she saw how completely the thoughts and time of this vain,
silly woman, were engrossed by the cares of the toilette; how she
squandered money, which she would perhaps have to borrow, In decking out
her person in all the extravagance of fashion. "As if," Flora thought
to herself, "all the silks and lace in the world could ever give the
shadow of beauty to that insipid, affected face!"
Emma was unpunctual in the extreme; and this, to one accustomed to the
clock-work regularity of a small, well-ordered household, was a defect
of no small magnitude. It interfered with the comfort of every one, and
sorely tried the patience of Flora.
The widow was also absurdly fanciful about her own health. She was
afraid of exertion, afraid of cold; and, by some unfortunate
contrariety, her opinion on the subject of the weather never seemed to
coincide with that of those around her. When Mrs. Vernon felt chilly,
Emma was certain to be longing for open windows and air; if Flora found
the room oppressively warm, Emma languidly suggested a fire. The widow
loved to draw upon herself the attention of all who approached her; she
would rather have been disliked than unnoticed; she must attract the
observation, occupy the thoughts of all, or she felt herself wronged and
neglected.
Gently did Mrs. Vernon bear with the infirmities of one whom it was
difficult to love, impossible to respect. Gradually and quietly she
made suggestions on the management of Emma's family, or the arrangement
of her pecuniary affairs. But tenderly as every hint was given, it was
received either with irritation or peevish distress; and when, at
length, detected instances of dishonesty on the part of both Sambo and
the nurse induced Mrs. Vernon gently, but firmly, to urge the necessity
for dismissing them both, her words occasioned a burst of passionate
tears, succeeded by a long fit of depression.
"Mamma," said Flora one morning to her parent, as they sat together at
breakfast, a meal which was never graced by the presence of the widow,
who kept her own room till noonday--"Mamma, I do not think that we can
endure all this much longer. It is impossible to please Emma, whatever
we do: let her set up house for herself, and manage as she may!"
Mrs. Vernon looked very grave, and it was some moments before she
replied. "I think, Flora, that you can scarcely have reflected on what
would be the result of such an attempt. You can scarcely have failed to
observe how careless poor Emma is of money, how unable she is to manage
a household, or to keep account of its expenses. She would certainly
involve herself inextricably in debt, while the consequences to the
unhappy orphans must be such as would deeply distress us both."
"They could scarcely be worse than they are," said Flora, bitterly;
"wild, ignorant, unmanageable little creatures. I have attempted
several times to teach Lyddie, but she has always darted away like a
little wild colt; while Master Johnny, the other day, threw the
spelling-book out of the window. Their footprints are over all my
borders, their fingers cannot be kept off my flowers; Lyddie strewed the
walks yesterday with apple-blossoms, while Emmie managed to get hold of
my paint-box, and has not only mixed all the colours together, but has
left traces of them on a dozen of our books."
"It is very trying; it quite distresses me, my Flora, to see the
annoyance and discomfort which you suffer. Night after night I lie
awake, turning over in my mind by what means I can prevent the
inconvenience from falling upon my child. But no path seems to open
before me. Emma is as unfit to keep house for herself as her own Lyddie
would be; and I feel--I am sure that you feel--that, as long as we have
a home, the orphan grandchildren of your beloved father should never be
denied its shelter!"
Flora pressed her mother's hand fondly to her lips, "Oh, mamma! you are
so good!" she exclaimed; "and what a return do you meet! I do believe
that if we were to give up our house altogether, or only to remain in it
as servants, slaving from morning till night, and denying ourselves
common comforts that Emma might enjoy every luxury, she would take it
quite as a matter of course, think that everything was as it should be,
and feel not one spark of gratitude towards us, whatever our sacrifices
might cost us!"
There was much truth in Flora's remark. In a mind mean and selfish as
the widow's, gratitude has rarely a place. Alas! that in the world it
should be a virtue so rare! Not that I would for a moment swell with my
voice that cry so common, yet often so unjust, which indiscriminately
charges the poor with ingratitude towards their benefactors. Far from
it; in this virtue, as in many others, I believe that the comparatively
rich may often learn a lesson from the poor. There are perhaps few in
the world who have no opportunity of exercising gratitude, few who lie
under no obligations either for substantial services, or for kindly
attentions; watchful care in infancy, help in difficulty, generous
hospitality, or some other of the thousand acts of benevolence and
friendship which so sweeten the cup of human life. Yes, the many are
laid under obligations, but the few have the candour to acknowledge
them; the many are helped, benefited, and cheered--the few gratefully
remember the benefactor. The lepers in the gospel are still types of
human nature. _Ten were cleansed, but where are the nine_? Reader!
pause a moment; ask your own heart, do you treasure up the remembrance
of benefits--do you carefully keep up the warm glow which perhaps
kindled in your heart when you first received them? Or has the cold
wave of time chilled the generous warmth of your feelings--or, worse
still, did that warmth never exist? From such observations as I have
been enabled to make, it seems to me to be almost a general rule that
the most truly generous are also the most grateful--that those who most
readily do acts of kindness, most thankfully acknowledge them from
others.
Nor let us think want of gratitude a light sin, or one which we may
safely overlook. The same proud, thankless spirit which leads us to
forget our obligations to man, is at the root of our unbelief, our
indifference, our coldness towards Him who is the giver of all good. We
receive our blessings as rights; we think little of the mercy which
bestowed them, or we should scarcely dare to murmur and repine when the
smallest is taken away from us. When Flora accused her sister-in-law of
ingratitude, she little thought how well the charge might have been
retorted on herself. Had she not been loaded with mercies--granted
health, strength, all the comforts of life, opportunity of benefiting
others, and power of pleasing--the love of her friends, the deep
tenderness of a mother--and, above all, innumerable spiritual blessings,
the means of grace, and the hope of glory!
And yet, with all this, the heart which the world deemed so pure, the
heart whose depths she had never yet fathomed, was now filled with a
bitter, almost a rebellious spirit. Flora had worked--was well pleased
to work for God, but it must be in her own way; she could make
sacrifices for religion, but the choice of the sacrifice must be her
own. It was as though the soldier who for years had glittered on
parade, and performed the routine of daily duty with faultless
regularity in time of peace, had started back when the war-trumpet
sounded, had turned from the sterner obligations before him, and
murmured because he was called upon at last to "endure hardness," and to
face trial in a holy cause.
Flora was still ready to sit by the sick, to visit the dying, and to
teach in the school; she was still willing to give freely to the poor,
looking for a plenteous reward hereafter, and receiving in the present
the interest of human gratitude, admiration, and love. But she was not
ready to be "_kind to the unthankful and the evil_," to "_let patience
have its perfect work_," to strive to reclaim wilful and unruly
children, with the prospect of awakening the jealousy of their parent,
but never of rousing her to a sense of obligation. Flora's religion was
not "the love of Christ" which "_constraineth_," therefore in the time
of trial it failed her.
Consideration for her mother usually restrained Flora from making
audible complaints, though she had not sufficient command over herself
to abstain from them altogether; but she indemnified herself for her
forbearance by writing to Ada full and circumstantial details of all her
petty miseries, with a by no means flattering description of the family
from Barbadoes. It was a letter which Flora would not willingly have
seen in the hands of her revered pastor; she would never have addressed
it to her mother; she had some doubts, after having finished it, whether
it would be well to post it. But it was really a clever and amusing
letter; it eased her heart to write it; she was glad to have some way of
giving vent to the pent-up flood of bitterness which was beginning to
overflow its bounds.
The letter brought a speedy reply, containing an affectionate and urgent
invitation to Flora to join her cousin in London, giving a glowing
description of the amusements which she would enjoy, while a P.S.
entreated her not to delay her visit, lest she should lose all the
May-meetings in Exeter Hall, which Ada was "sure that to one so good
would be a greater pleasure than all the rest."
Flora uttered an involuntary exclamation of delight as she perused the
letter of her cousin. It was as though a caged bird had suddenly seen
the door of his prison open, and the way free to liberty and to
sunshine. She was full of impatience to show Ada's epistle to her
mother, and could scarcely endure the delay occasioned by Mrs. Vernon's
having to examine into the cause of a furious dispute between Johnny and
his elder sister, and then to administer gentle advice and reproof to
each of the little offenders. The interruption appeared to Flora so
vexatious and petty--she would willingly have ended it at once by
sending both the children away to the most distant part of the house, to
settle their disputes by themselves; but her mother calculated more
truly the importance of whatever regards the training of immortal
beings.
At length, however, Johnny and Lyddie were dismissed, having been, after
much trouble, induced to exchange the kiss of forgiveness; and the door
had scarcely closed behind them, when Flora placed the letter in the
hand of her mother. Eagerly she watched the expression of Mrs. Vernon's
countenance as she read it. The lady perused it to the end before she
uttered a word, and then she glanced up with a smile.
"What do you say to this, Flora?"
"Oh, mamma--it is just as you like--just as you think best--but--"
"This invitation seems to meet a difficulty which has pressed heavily on
my mind. I have grieved to feel how trying to you has been the change
in our family arrangements. You have grown thinner and paler; your
spirits have left you; for the first time in my life it has pained me to
look at my child, It is better, perhaps, that you should be absent from
home till we bring matters into a somewhat better train."
"It seems almost like deserting you, mamma; and yet--I do not think that
I can help you much--I have not the least influence with the children."
Why was it that even Flora knew that her absence at this time would be
actually a relief to her mother? How was it that she had proved a burden
rather than a helper? She had never put the question fairly to her own
heart, and was very glad to substitute for it another.
"Does it not seem to you, mamma, as though I might be more useful in
London than I am here? I believe that poor dear Ada really likes me; I
have some influence with her, I believe: she seemed here to be turning
her mind more towards religion than she hitherto had done; but she has
no one now to speak to or consult on serious subjects. If I were with
her she would be induced for my sake to go to meetings which she would
not otherwise attend--it seems to me that it may really be my duty to go
to Ada at this time."
"It will be your pleasure, at least," said Mrs. Vernon, smiling; "and
your happiness is ever near to my heart. I can trust your principles,
my Flora; I believe that you will ever act in my absence as you would if
my eye were upon you. And the Almighty may, and I trust will, make you,
my love, a blessing to others, if you serve Him with a humble, devoted
heart and a single eye to His glory."
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*PLEASURES AND PAINS.*
A few days after the conversation recorded in our last chapter took
place, Flora, full of youthful hope and joy, sprang into the carriage
which was to convey her to the station, and waved again and again a fond
farewell to the beloved parent who watched her departure from the gate.
It was with mixed emotions that the gentle widow beheld disappearing
down the winding lane the carriage which held her dearest earthly
treasure, separated from her for the first time. Mrs. Vernon took
pleasure in her daughter's pleasure, and had, perhaps, secret pride in
the thought that her beauty, talents, and virtues, would now be more
widely known and appreciated. But there was pain also in parting; pain
with which the meek parent reproached herself--that Flora could be so
happy in parting! There was a secret fear, which Mrs. Vernon thought
want of faith, lest the different scenes into which she was entering
should, were it even in the slightest degree, change one who, in her
partial love, she thought could scarcely change for the better. Mrs.
Vernon also suffered from the cares and anxieties of life, which she now
must bear alone; for she was not one to complain, even to her most
intimate friends, of the secret trials of her home. The peevishness, the
selfishness, the heartlessness of Emma, the wayward passions of her
ill-taught children, the loss of the quiet repose of a well-ordered
dwelling, were a cross to Mrs. Vernon as well as to her daughter; if to
the latter it formed the most painful burden, it was because she
murmured, struggled, and chafed under its weight, while the widow bent
meekly under it, remembering the divine hand that had laid it upon her.
So, quietly and unostentatiously, never dreaming either of merit or
reward, the widow went through her round of daily duties, ordering her
household, teaching the children, caring for her guest, nursing the
infant, and never forgetting the poor. Emma's total indifference on the
subject of religion often grieved Mrs. Vernon; but trusting in God, and
not in herself, the simple Christian would not despair even of a heart
which seemed like the beaten highway, on which the good seed fell only
at once to be carried away. There was no use in lending religious works
to Emma; the volumes lay unopened beside her. She never considered
herself equal to the fatigue of attending service in the house of God.
Mr. Ward and his wife paid her more than one visit. The good man spoke,
as was his wont, out of the abundance of his heart; while Mrs. Vernon
listened meekly with her clasped hands resting on her knee. But even he
was chilled by the affected nod and meaningless smile with which the
daughter-in-law received his words of holy consolation; while his wife
felt uncomfortable under the dark eye which seemed scrutinizing every
article of her simple apparel.
Not every one bore as patiently as Mrs. Ward this scrutinizing survey of
dress from the fashionable and extravagantly-attired young widow. Miss
Butterfield, who had a character and a temper of her own, was irritated
by the close attention paid to her large poke-bonnet and rusty shawl.
She made some observations, more true than polite, about heads like
band-boxes in a milliner's shop, intended to hold nothing more weighty
than quilings and puffings; which brought an angry tinge to Emma's
sallow cheek, and made her bitterly comment, when the guest had
departed, upon the insufferable vulgarity of Mrs. Vernon's country
acquaintance.
"How can I win Emma's attention to anything serious?" such was Mrs.
Vernon's frequent thought, till one day the happy idea struck her mind
of reading to her Flora's manuscript hymns. "If any human writings can
interest her, these will," thought the simple-hearted mother. "She will
listen to them first for the sake of the authoress, and then their own
beauty must touch her heart;--I am sure that it always does mine!"
Emma could not, of course, refuse her assent to the proposal to read
aloud the verses of her sister. She declared that she would be charmed
to hear them, secretly hoping that the infliction might not be long, and
that her mother-in-law would not think it necessary to go through the
volume from beginning to end. Mrs. Vernon read with great
impressiveness and feeling; every touching sentiment, every graceful
idea, gained added beauty from her earnest expression. She was pleased
and gratified by the profound silence of her listener, and read on, and
on, warming with her subject, till in one favourite hymn, which
described the blessedness of living for eternity, her eyes filled, and
her heart overflowed, and she turned, as she wiped away a thankful tear,
to see if Emma shared her emotions. The widow lay fast asleep on the
sofa!
The only things to which Emma listened with real interest were portions
of Flora's letters from London. These, written to amuse her mother in
her seclusion, and full of lively descriptions given with freshness and
vigour by one to whom everything which she beheld was new, were, even to
a stranger, extremely entertaining. By Mrs. Vernon the arrival of the
post was looked forward to as bringing the one great treat of the day,
and never once was she disappointed of it. She feasted on the letters
of her daughter with unmingled delight; for she saw in them proofs of
the conscientious regard which Flora paid to her wishes, and of the
tender affection with which, in the midst of her amusements, her heart
clung to the parent whom she had left.
All the little circle of friends in the quiet village of Wingsdale
shared in Mrs. Vernon's enjoyment. They listened to accounts of the
first wondrous Crystal Palace, glittering like some fairy structure on
the trodden sward of Hyde Park; the "sermons in stones" preached from
the spoils of old Nineveh; descriptions of the treasures of art, all the
things beautiful, curious, and rare, upon which the eye of Flora had
rested delighted. They heard also personal descriptions of men with
whose names they were already familiar--how Shaftesbury had spoken, and
Guthrie had preached; whilst not least interesting to the hearts of her
rural subjects was a graphic account of our gracious Queen from the
enthusiastic pen of Flora.
But never had the young correspondent expressed herself in such glowing
terms of admiration and pleasure as in her description of Sir Amery
Legrange, whom she spoke of as one of the leading writers of the day.
She had been actually introduced to "the lion," had listened to the
wondrous flow of eloquence which made his conversation an intellectual
treat beyond any which she had ever known before. With his expansive
brow, eagle eye, most poetical cast of countenance, his were exactly the
face and form which a painter would wish to immortalize on canvas, as
representing the beau ideal of a genius; and Flora could not but imagine
that Sir Amery must have drawn himself in the hero of his famous
_chef-d'oeuvre_, "The Master-Mind."
"'The Master-Mind!'" lisped Emma from the sofa; "Oh! I have read
that--all the world has read it--it is a most charming work! I have it
somewhere in my boxes, I think."