she had never read, nor even heard of the book. She was pleased,
however, that her child should have met one of the literary celebrities
of London, and had thus added another to the pleasant recollections
which she would carry with her from the metropolis.
The next morning's post brought a description of a _fete_ at the
Botanical Gardens; and this sentence occurred in Flora's letter: "We met
our brilliant author just as we were entering the gardens, and he
remained the whole time with our party. He has certainly wonderful
powers of conversation; just such as might be expected from a writer
whose pen seems dipped in the colours of the rainbow, and brightens
whatever it touches. When he speaks, we can do nothing but listen."
"I think, Emma," said Mrs. Vernon, "that you mentioned that you had a
copy of 'The Master-Mind' beside you. I should be obliged, if you would
allow me to read it."
"Oh, certainly, when I can lay hands upon it; but all my luggage is
still one mass of confusion, and whatever I want is certain to be at the
very bottom of the very last box into which I should think of looking
for it. But you really wish to see 'The Master-Mind?' Well," added the
lady, with an affected laugh, "I should as soon have dreamed of Mr.
Ward's dancing a polka, as of your sitting quietly down to a novel!"
Emma's promise to look for the work was speedily forgotten by herself,
nor did more than one reminder induce her to take this slight trouble
for one to whom she owed the comfort of a home.
Flora's subsequent letters contained scarcely any mention of Sir Amery.
She occasionally quoted his opinion, or mentioned a brilliant remark
made by him on some subject of general interest; but it was merely from
such passing allusions that her mother gathered that Flora was not
unfrequently in the society of the literary "lion."
Mrs. Vernon had much to occupy her thoughts--much to engage her anxious
attention. She was now patiently listening to the frivolous complaints
of the hypochondriac widow; then quitting her to stand by the death-bed
of a young school-girl--hear her last faint breathings of
devotion--receive her last message of affection to Flora. The next hour
would find Mrs. Vernon seated amongst the children, enduring their rough
play and noisy glee, and ministering to their amusement as patiently as
she had done to the wants of the suffering and the dying. But the wear
upon her spirits and the strain upon her energies were too much for the
strength of Mrs. Vernon. There was no one to watch her faded cheek, her
weary step, her languid eye; no one, at least in her own home, to think
for her, care for her--attend to the comforts of one who ever attended
to the comforts of others. She might have been ill, she might have been
dying, and Emma, absorbed in her own selfish cares, would never have
observed that anything ailed her. Mrs. Vernon missed Flora each day
more and more--longed more and more to hear her light step on the stair,
her sweet song from the garden--to look again into those soft and loving
eyes which were wont to rest on her so tenderly, so fondly. But Mrs.
Vernon would not abridge a visit which afforded so much enjoyment to her
daughter; she would not, even by the slightest allusion to her own
failing health and spirits, throw a shadow over that enjoyment. She was
content if Flora was happy; and if she herself needed comfort and
strength, was not the source of all comfort and strength ever open to
the Christian!
*CHAPTER IX.*
*THE NOVEL.*
One afternoon, Mrs. Vernon returned exceedingly wearied from a visit to
a sick woman who resided at some distance. The walk was too long for
her, and had her daughter been at home, she would not have been suffered
to take it; for Flora, in the vigour of her youthful strength,
appropriated to herself all the more distant visits. Certainly a
feeling of regret crossed the mind of Mrs. Vernon, as she wearily
ascended her own stair, and heard loud, angry sounds from above, that
peace and seclusion were now hers no longer--that she could not have
rest when she was tired, nor solitude when she was sad. But she
struggled against the feeling as against a sin.
As Mrs. Vernon approached the door of Emma's sleeping apartment, it was
evident that the sound came from thence, and that the angry voice was
the widow's.
"Tiresome monkey! you have destroyed it entirely! my beautiful India
muslin! Was ever mother tormented as I am? Ah, is that you?" continued
Emma, as Mrs. Vernon crossed the entrance to her room. "Just come in
here, do, and see what this insufferable child has been doing!"
Mrs. Vernon entered, and beheld Lyddie, the little culprit, in the
centre of the apartment, fancifully arrayed in all the finery which she
had pillaged from a large trunk of her mother's. A yellow satin dress,
with the body turned in, was fastened by a red scarf round the waist of
the child; and being, of course, much too long, swept the floor on every
side with its gaudy folds. Long feathers, scarlet and white, were stuck
in the girl's lank dark hair; while an India muslin shawl, which had
been twisted into the form of a turban, appeared, with a grievous rent
in the middle, in the hands of the irritated parent.
"Did you ever see anything like it? The vanity, the folly, the
absurdity of the child! Here I find her parading before the glass,
dressed up like a May-queen, and in all the best clothes which I used to
wear in my happier days! Take them off!" she cried in a shriller tone
to the child, who stood biting the ends of her fingers, in mingled
sulkiness and fear. "Take them off, I say! and if ever you touch them
again, you shall have a whipping--such a whipping as you will remember
to the last day of your life! I am sure that no one," she continued,
turning towards Mrs. Vernon, who was silently disrobing the culprit--"no
one but a parent can tell the incessant anxiety, plague, and worry,
caused by children! It is enough to drive us out of our senses!"
Mrs. Vernon saw in the expression of the countenances of both mother and
child something far more saddening to her gentle spirit than the
destruction of anything that gold could replace;--anger in the one,
sullen defiance in the other; not maternal solicitude grieving over the
folly of a daughter, but selfish vanity irritated at the loss of a
bauble; not filial love distressed at the displeasure of a parent, but
pride rising against the threat of punishment. Emma would permit the
gravest faults of her children to pass unnoticed, until their
consequences affected her own comfort, and then the most trivial excited
in her anger as unreasonable as her former indifference had been
culpable.
"I do not see that your English nurse manages the children any better
than old Chloe. I always said, and I always will say, that it was a
great pity to make any change," cried Emma fretfully, willing as usual
to blame anybody and anything but herself.
"We can scarcely expect wonders to be worked in three days," replied
Mrs. Vernon, as Lyddie, released from her cumbrous finery, made a hasty
exit from the room, glad to escape from the presence of her mother. "To
change old ways, and to introduce habits of order and obedience, must
ever be a work of patience and time. And does it not appear to you,
Emma," continued Mrs. Vernon, cautiously approaching dangerous ground,
"that children insensibly imbibe more from watching the example of those
who are with them, than from any direct instruction?"
"I do not comprehend what that has to do with the question," said Emma,
stooping over the trunk to replace its contents.
"If our dear children see by our conduct how little we care for the
petty vanities of this life, if they see that our minds are fixed upon
nobler objects than the adorning of our poor perishing forms, they will
learn to estimate at their true value such trifles as these"--Mrs.
Vernon was handing the feathers to her daughter in-law--"and are not
likely to fall into the childish folly into which our poor Lyddie has
to-day been betrayed."
"Ah! here is 'The Master-Mind'" cried Emma, suddenly, diving into the
lowest recess of her trunk, and bringing from thence two old soiled
volumes. It is not impossible that a desire to change the subject of
conversation had quickened her perceptions, and led her to make the
discovery which turned it into a more agreeable channel. "This is the
_novel_ which you are so impatient to read. Here are the first and
third volumes; I think that the second must be lost; but doubtless it is
all the same to you, you could never spare enough of your valuable time
for the perusal of more than two."
Mrs. Vernon took the work, and laid it aside; she had not at that hour
leisure for reading. But when the children had gone to rest, and their
mother retired to her own room, when the day's duties had all been
fulfilled, and the still summer night had closed in, Mrs. Vernon, in her
own quiet apartment, opened the first volume of the work of Sir Amery.
She soon became strongly interested both in the characters and the plot.
"The Master-Mind" had been written by a master's hand; the author's
powers had not been over-rated. Sir Amery described his hero as one
distinguished by birth, but yet more by exalted talents. He was
generous, humane, chivalrous and constant, possessing every virtue but
piety, every grace but the grace of God, every gift but "the one thing
needful." Not that he was represented as one destitute of every
sentiment of religion. He was made to revere with lofty devotion an
almighty Creator, but not a righteous Judge; one so merciful that he
could not punish, so lenient that he would not destroy. The hero was
not a believer in revelation--his lofty mind could not bow to the
mysterious truths which his reason could not grasp; but his scepticism
was represented as candour, his pride as greatness of soul--he was
placed in bright contrast to hard, narrow-minded bigots, who denounce
sin because God hath condemned it, and fear hell because divine truth
hath declared that its terrors await the impenitent.
Mrs. Vernon read on and on, and wondered as she read. She had seen very
few novels in her life, and all appeared to her strange and new.
Sometimes she was filled with admiration by a generous sentiment or a
noble deed; then she was startled by some idea, veiled in sublime
language and beautiful imagery, but which, as it appeared to her, was
contrary to the simple truth of the Scriptures.
The close of the first volume left the hero deeply, passionately loving
a fair and highly-principled girl, the daughter of parents who, under
the garb of great sanctity, were drawn as worldly, heartless and
unforgiving. He was resolved to win her under circumstances of
difficulty which, to love less ardent and a spirit less firm, must have
presented obstacles insuperable. Mrs. Vernon closed the book and
glanced at her candle. It had burnt quite down to the socket. She rose
and lighted another. Was it a strange fascination that made her sit
down again, with her pale cheek and her heavy aching eyes, to resume her
unwonted occupation? Was the interest of a mere novel so strong that it
could render her careless of needful rest? It was that in the hero Mrs.
Vernon was reading the character of the author--that she, almost
unconsciously, connected the gentle heroine with her own fondly-loved
child.
"I see the moral of the tale," said the widow to herself: "Virgilius,
ennobled by his affection for a worthy object, enlightened by
experience, and improved by trials, will find out the errors into which
his fine mind has been led; he will become religious as well as moral,
and all will end happily at last."
All did end happily in the novel, but not in the way which Mrs. Vernon
expected. Hypocrisy was unmasked, bigotry disgraced, but infidelity
triumphed in success! The brilliant winding-up of the work was almost a
paraphrase of the celebrated line,
"He can't be wrong whose life is in the right;"--
as if any life _could be right_ in which the chief end of our existence,
_the glory of God_, is disregarded! It is as though we should speak of
the perfection of the ocean without water, or of the universe without
the sun!
The dim light of morning was purpling the sky before the widow had
finished the book. She sat for some moments with her brow resting upon
her hand, and the open volume on her knee.
"Perhaps I have read until my mind is too much wearied to form a correct
judgment," she murmured to herself. "Perhaps I have mistaken the
meaning of the author, and have done him injustice. I am a weak,
ignorant woman, not capable of appreciating all the beauties of this
work; I will lean on a stronger mind than my own, ask the aid of a
better judgment. I will take the books to Mr. Ward to-morrow, and see if
he views the work in the same light as I do. And now I must go to my
rest; I have done wrong to waste so many hours over a novel!"
But even in sleep the mind of the mother pursued the same theme; the
scenes of the novel were repeated in her dreams, only the actors were
Sir Amery and Flora. Mrs. Vernon arose unrefreshed and uneasy, and
before many hours were over, she was on her way to the little vicarage,
bearing with her "The Master-Mind."
"How foolish I am to take these anxious thoughts!"--such were the lady's
reflections as she wearily toiled up the lane, which had never seemed so
long before. "I have no reason to fear that Sir Amery is anything more
to my child than an admired author, an agreeable acquaintance. He is
above her in birth and position; flattered as he is by the world, why
should I fancy that my simple moss-rose should attract the regard of one
who is the idol of all the circles of fashion! It is a mother's
weakness, a mother's vanity, which make me believe that all who see her
must view her with eyes like my own! But oh! is she not my earthly all,
and can it be wondered at that my heart should tremble at the most
distant prospect of danger to one so beloved!"
*CHAPTER X.*
*RECALL.*
"Well, my dear Mrs. Vernon, this is a singular request, and one which I
never anticipated from you," said the aged clergyman, with a smile, as,
fixing his spectacles on his nose, he glanced at the title-page of the
work which Mrs. Vernon had placed in his hand. When he raised his eyes,
however, to the countenance of his friend, he was struck by its worn
look and anxious expression--he felt that no light curiosity had led the
widow lady to desire his opinion of a novel, and gravely and kindly he
promised to give his attention to her request.
"To-day is Saturday, and I have much upon my hands," said the minister,
whose desk was heaped with papers; "I shall not be able to look at the
volumes at once, but my first leisure hours shall be given to their
perusal, and you shall have my candid opinion upon their contents."
Often, very often, did the thoughts of Mrs. Vernon recur to "The
Master-Mind" during that and the following day. She was distressed to
find that even in the house of prayer she was haunted by the remembrance
of the novel. On the Sabbath afternoon she was so unwell as to be
confined to her room; not to remain there, however, in undisturbed
peace, for again and again the door was burst open by Johnny, who
clambered upon her bed to give her news of the chicken that had been
nearly drowned, or to repeat to her a beautiful new verse which he had
learned "just to please grandmamma." Mrs. Vernon's head throbbed so
violently that she could scarcely raise it from the pillow to give the
child a kind smile and a kind kiss. Once her eyes closed for a few
minutes in sleep; when she opened them, Lyddie was standing beside her,
looking on her with a strange, earnest gaze. The girl had brought a
tangled bunch of wild-flowers, which she laid silently beside the
suffering lady, and left the room with her orphan heart warmed by the
sweet words of thanks with which her ill-timed little offering had been
received.
Monday, as usual, brought no post; but on Tuesday came the envelope
directed in Flora's well-known hand, which it was Johnny's delight to
carry at full speed to his grandmother, demanding the postage of a kiss.
Mrs. Vernon eagerly broke the seal, but the enclosure, for once,
disappointed her; there were merely a few hurried lines, containing
little more than an excuse for their own brevity. Flora, however,
mentioned that she was to pass the Tuesday at Richmond; that she
expected the excursion to be a delightful one; and that she trusted that
the weather would be fine, as Sir Amery had ordered his boat.
Mrs. Vernon silently replaced the note in its cover, and after going
through the usual routine of her household duties with a preoccupied
mind, again sought the quiet dwelling of the vicar.
All there looked peaceful and cheerful--the thick shrubbery, the neat
flower-beds with their border of box, the closely-mown lawn spreading
its carpet of velvet beneath the shadow of sycamore trees. Mrs. Vernon
passed on without noticing aught. The vicar's wife, she found, was
making her round in the village, but the vicar himself was in his study.
She entered it unannounced save by her gentle tap at the door, and was
kindly welcomed by her friend.
"Mrs. Vernon, my dear lady, this is a warm morning for a walk, but
glorious weather for the crops. Pray take a seat," he wheeled round for
her his own arm-chair; "and let me release you from your bonnet and
shawl. We shall detain you here a prisoner till the cool of the
evening, and talk over your novel together," he added, with a smile,
glancing at the book which lay open on the table.
"What do you think of it?" said Mrs. Vernon.
"I confess that I think very ill of it," replied the old clergyman,
seating himself beside her. "It is well written, very cleverly written;
but so much the worse for the reader. It is ill to plant flowers by the
edge of the pitfall."
"And yet there are such beautiful passages, such noble sentiments--some
parts seem calculated to do so much good--"
"My dear madam," said Mr. Ward earnestly, laying his hand on the volume,
"there is no good here that will weigh against one tithe of the evil
which such a work is calculated to produce in young and enthusiastic
minds. It appears written to show that there are some men of natures so
noble and hearts so pure, that they require no Saviour, no sacrifice for
sin; men of intellect so large and exalted, that Revelation is by them
unneeded, they can walk securely in the light of their own reason, and
pity poor, weak, bigoted fools, who seek a guide in the Scriptures. If
the Almighty had blessed me with children, most anxiously should I have
endeavoured to guard them against the art which invests with strong
interest such characters as that of the hero of this tale, that makes
human pride appear at the root of all virtue, instead of being, as it
is, at the root of all sin. My dear friend, believe me, this is a
dangerous book, and its author is a dangerous man."
Mrs. Vernon made no reply, but drawing out Flora's last note, gave it in
silence to the clergyman. He read it twice before he made any
observation, his brow slightly contracting as he read; then returning it
to Mrs. Vernon, he said, "I think that Flora has been long enough
absent."
"It seems an age since she left me," said the mother, her eyes filling
with tears. "I miss her more than I can express. But then she is so
happy in London, and in a house full as ours is at present I cannot
prevent little trials--"
"Believe me, dear lady, these trials are no evil; they are the gentle
discipline by which our heavenly Father trains the hearts of such of His
children as are spared the more terrible furnace of affliction. Send for
your Flora home. Home is the sphere of her duties; it should also be
that of her pleasures. She is too young to mingle unharmed in the
society of such as Sir Amery Legrange."
Mrs. Vernon left the house of her friend; he could neither persuade her
to wait till the heat of the day was abated, nor to partake of the
simple refreshment which the vicarage could afford. The fierce rays of
the noontide sun poured down upon her head, the road was dry and dusty,
the birds had stilled their songs, all was silent save the drowsy hum of
some summer insects, nature lay panting and breathless in the glaring
heat. Mrs. Vernon was almost exhausted ere she reached her dwelling.
The cottagers whom she had met on her way shook their heads when she had
passed, and declared that the good lady had never looked like herself
since dear Miss Flora went away!
Mrs. Vernon opened her desk and wrote to her daughter. The letter was a
short one, but full of tenderness, rather hinting at than openly telling
of the feeble state of her own health, and her longing desire to have
her child beside her again.
Flora received that note the next morning; in the evening, just as the
first tremulous star appeared in the darkening sky, Flora's step was on
the threshold of her home.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*DOUBTS.*
"Sweeter, lovelier, dearer than ever!" thought Mrs. Vernon, as she
pressed her daughter closer and closer in her fond embrace. When the
flush of excitement at the first meeting had passed away, the eye of
affection observed that Flora had become paler and thinner, that there
was a thoughtful, preoccupied expression on her gentle brow, as though
her mind were wandering far away; but there was deeper feeling in those
soft blue eyes, more beaming sweetness in that smile, than even her
mother had ever seen before.
Flora retired early to her room, pleading the fatigue of her journey.
She had scarcely been able to give even the semblance of attention to
the multifarious questions of Emma on the amusements and fashions of
London, and had answered them almost at random; but when she found
herself in her own apartment, the door closed, and only Mrs. Vernon
beside her, she threw herself again on her mother's bosom, buried her
glowing face on her parent's neck, and, trembling with joyful emotion,
uttered, in scarcely articulate accents, "Mother, dear mother, he has
spoken!"
[Illustration: She threw herself on her mother's bosom.]
"Sir Amery Legrange!" faltered Mrs. Vernon.
"I must tell you all," continued Flora, without raising her head. "It
was yesterday--only yesterday--at Richmond. I did not know--I had
scarcely dreamed--oh, mother!" she exclaimed suddenly, bursting into
tears of delight, "I never never believed it possible to be so--" the
bright, sparkling drops told the rest.
Mrs. Vernon grew very cold. There was a sinking at her heart and a
rising in her throat, which made her for the moment unable to speak.
"And he will be a son to you, mother, the most tender and dutiful of
sons! He will never separate us--he is so generous--so good!"
"And is he"--said Mrs. Vernon, speaking slowly, as if fearful to break
by one word the spell of happiness thrown around her daughter--"is he
one who holds the same blessed faith in which your dear father lived and
died?"
Flora was silent for a short space. "He does act, I believe--indeed, I
know--he does not in all things hold the same opinions as those which I
have been taught; he is too candid, too honourable to make false
professions; he--he does not view everything in the same light which you
do; but his character, his life are beyond reproach; his actions prove
that his creed cannot be far wrong! It is from you, mother, that I have
learned to value deeds far more than words. Was it not our Saviour
himself who said, '_By their fruits ye shall know them?_'"
"He did so, my child; and where the fruits of the Spirit are found,
there we may be sure that a blessing abides. But the first fruit is
love, supreme love towards God, the love of the redeemed for their
Redeemer, of pardoned sinners for their Saviour: where this is wanting,
what cause have we to hope that the soul has been 'born again' unto
God?"
Flora raised her head: her cheek was painfully flushed, and the tears of
joy which had glistened on her lashes were followed by bitter drops, as
she exclaimed, "Some one has been prejudicing you against him; some one
has been maligning him, mother!"
"It is himself, then," replied Mrs. Vernon, calmly; "I have been reading
'The Master-Mind.'"
"And do you not think it beautiful--sublime--the transcript of a noble
heart, an exalted mind?"
"Not the heart of one converted--not the mind of a Christian!"