church of Wingsdale, Flora had plighted her troth to him whom she so
deeply loved, while many a fervent prayer arose for her happiness from
the poor whom she had tended, the young whom she had taught. The
interval between her engagement and her marriage had been one of
brightness to Flora. A mountain's weight seemed to have been removed
from her spirits, and with the elasticity which youth and hope give,
they had more than rebounded to their former elevation. Again she had
smiles and kind words for all, and she appeared resolved by her winning
sweetness of manner to deepen the regrets of the village at losing its
"sunshine." Mrs. Vernon had stifled her own misgivings, that she might
cast no shadow on the bliss of the young bride; and no one could have
told from her outward manner how heavy lay the heart within. Even Emma
had shaken off a little of her languor, roused to something like
interest by the excitement of a wedding. Her children had brought their
little offerings, prepared in mysterious secrecy with the assistance of
their grandmother, who was to them teacher, companion, and confidant;
and Flora's surprise and thanks on receiving their presents almost
realized their juvenile expectations.
More than two years had rolled their course since that exciting, joyous
day, when a cab drove up to the door of a large house in Cavendish
Square, and a lady stepped out and rang the bell. She was attired in
habiliments which once had been handsome, but which had decidedly seen
their best days; the rich silk dress had been dyed, the shawl was faded,
the sable boa showed tokens of age, and neat fingers had repaired the
Lisle lace veil which gave grace to the bonnet of straw. In the staid
manner and somewhat care-worn face, where certain lines were traced
across the brow which was smooth some two years ago, we mark a change
beyond that which time would have made in our old acquaintance Ada.
"Ada! oh, how delighted I am to see you! What an age it is since we
met!" cried Flora, as the visitor was ushered into the elegant apartment
of Lady Legrange, and the cousins exchanged an affectionate embrace.
Has Flora also been altered by the plain gold ring, which often works
wonders as strange as those wrought by an enchanter?
Flora is lovely as ever, her beauty enhanced by a womanly dignity which
beseems the baronet's wife. But she too has lost the joyous brightness
which rested on her gentle countenance when Ada first visited Wingsdale.
An expression of thought, almost of melancholy, is there; and she
certainly looked far happier in her gipsy bonnet, seated on the gnarled
roots of the old oak, than she does now in her spacious mansion, robed
in velvet and surrounded by luxury.
"I could not resist the temptation of coming to see you!" cried Ada,
sitting with Flora's hand clasped in her own, and surveying her with a
look of affectionate interest.
"I hope that you have brought your twins to London with you?" said
Flora.
"Oh, the little cherubs! how I should delight to show them to you! But
we left them in Wiltshire; it is a serious matter to travel with two
infants not a year old."
"Then I am afraid that your stay in London will be but short," observed
Lady Legrange, "with two such powerful magnets drawing you away."
"Only two!" laughed Ada; "you forget my husband's children,--a whole
scale of magnets, from five feet five to three feet nothing! I thought
that I should never have managed to get away at all! But the Major was
obliged to come to town to fit out his middy, and I took such a longing
to revisit my old haunts, look at old faces, hear the sounds of carriage
wheels, and knocks at the door, and street cries, and hurdy-gurdies
again, that, like a dutiful mamma, I must see Jack off myself, and pay a
flying visit to dear smoky London."
"I can scarcely fancy you the staid, sober mother of such a large
family!" exclaimed Flora.
"Very odd--isn't it? reversing the order of nature; instead of the quiet
spinning caterpillar turning into the gay butterfly, the butterfly
doffing its silken wings and beginning to crawl through the routine of
daily duties, a prisoner to its cabbage-leaf. Only imagine me, Flora,
mending stockings, shaping out pinafores, bandaging cut fingers and
broken heads, scolding tradespeople, keeping servants in order, paying
bills, and dancing babies till my arms ache!"
"I should think the last a very delightful occupation," said Flora,
suppressing a sigh.
"None but a mother can tell how delightful," replied Ada; "but I do not
take so kindly to all my domestic employments. I never yet took
pleasure in solving the problem how far a shilling would go, nor finding
out how it is that boys are always wanting new shoes, and how elbows and
knees are perpetually running a race as to which should first run
through the clothes. I believe that children have found out the secret
of perpetual motion, to the great discomfort of those who have to look
after little rogues!"
"But children make a house so cheerful," said Flora, abstractedly.
"And now, my dear child--ah! you see that I can't get over my old way of
talking to you yet--do give me your last news from Wingsdale. You know
that I'm such a shocking correspondent that I know as little of what
passes in the world beyond Salisbury Plain as if I were a denizen of the
moon."
"Poor old Mrs. Ward, my mother tells me, is now a confirmed invalid, and
unable to leave her bed."
"And your sweet mother herself?"
"She never mentions her own health; her letters are full of the
children."
"Ah! the whity-brown legion of little horrors, who like a swarm of
hornets literally drove you out of Laurel Bank, and compelled you to
take refuge in Grosvenor Square! I suppose that they have been
undergoing the process of taming, at which my aunt is so famous, and
that Johnny now does not scratch out any one's eyes, and that Lyddie may
be trusted in a store-room full of treacle and sugar. I should think
your mother a first-rate hand at bringing up children, judging from the
charming specimen before me!"
Flora neither smiled nor blushed at the flattery now.
"But tell me how they all appeared when you were last at Laurel Bank."
Then, indeed, the colour rose to Flora's pale cheek, and it was with an
appearance of some embarrassment that she replied, "I have not been
there since you were there, on the day of my marriage."
Ada suppressed the exclamation of astonishment that was upon her tongue,
for she saw that its utterance would give pain.
"My dear husband has been so much engaged--of course I could not leave
him--it is so difficult sometimes to make arrangements--but I hope
soon--" Flora stopped short, for her lips were not accustomed to utter
an absolute untruth.
"How your mother must be longing to see you! I should not have thought
that she could have lived so long without you!"
"Words cannot express how I long to see her!" exclaimed Flora, with
tears in her eyes.
"I think that it might be managed in some way. If you could not visit
Wingsdale, she might come to London--"
Flora looked so uneasy at the proposition that Ada changed the
conversation in pure good nature, wondering much in her mind what could
have occurred to separate a parent so much beloved from so dutiful a
daughter.
"I hope that you have not given up your pen, Flora; that you don't think
that your talented husband the author does enough in that line for you
both?"
"Oh, I write a little sometimes," said Flora, in a tone of indifference.
"I never read anything so pretty as your hymns. Do you know, Flora," Ada
added more gravely, "that I have often thought over the verses which you
wrote during my first visit to Wingsdale, after we heard that solemn
sermon from Mr. Ward on the subject of the sower and his seed!"
"I had almost forgotten them," said Flora.
"And the sermon too?"
"Well--I have heard so many since."
"Ah! that is the thing, you have lived in such an atmosphere of piety."
"Oh, don't speak so!" cried Flora hurriedly.
"It does seem to me," observed Ada, folding her hands, "that it is a
great deal more difficult for some people than for others to lead a
religious life. Look how differently you were brought up from what I
was; is there any wonder that we are so different now? I had been
taught to think of nothing but gaiety, and shining in the world, and
making a sensation, and all that sort of thing; I lived in a perpetual
round of amusements: so pleasure was my danger then, and I fancied that
when the time for pleasure was past, my difficulties would vanish, and
that I should grow serious as I grew old. Well, I follow your example,
and marry, and am taken completely from the world; but I am plunged into
a little bustling world of my own, and I have so much to think of, so
much to do, that I have really no time for religion. Instead of the
pleasures, come the cares of this life."
"Cast your cares upon Him, for He careth for you," faintly murmured Lady
Legrange.
"Ah, Flora, you were never like any one else; I always feel better when
I am near you." Flora's brow contracted a little, as if she were in
pain, and she turned her head away from the speaker.
"I wish that I could always have you beside me," continued Ada; "it
would be such a comfort to have your wise, calm advice!"
"It is so much easier to give advice than to take it home to ourselves,"
said Flora, with something like a sigh.
The ladies then conversed for some time together on topics of general
interest. Flora really enjoyed seeing her old companion, and would
gladly have invited both Ada and her husband to her house, to remain
there during their stay in London; but she did not venture even to ask
them to dinner. Sir Amery, she knew, would have had no objection to the
society of the lively Ada; but the Major, a simple, blunt man, with more
kindness in his heart than polish in his manners, did not suit the
refined taste of the baronet, and must "be kept at a proper distance."
All that Flora could do was by the cordiality of her own manner to
endeavour to smooth away from the mind of her cousin any sense of
unkindness, or even of ingratitude, which might arise from no invitation
being given; and Ada left the house satisfied that Flora was not
changed, though with a rising doubt as to whether she were happy.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE WIFE.*
And was Flora happy in her new life? She had much to render her so,
according to the opinion of the world. She had made what would be
called a brilliant marriage; she was united to one who loved her, and
whom she passionately loved; she was surrounded by all that could please
the eye or charm the taste; she had leisure for every graceful
occupation; she was not weighed down by a multiplicity of home-cares;
she had a life of ease, it might be deemed of enjoyment: and yet, with
all this, Flora was not happy. The sunshine of her existence seemed to
have passed away.
Let us examine more closely into the causes of the melancholy which
often rested like a cloud on her soul.
In the first place, Flora was childless; and this, to a loving spirit
like hers, was no light trial. She would have given all the grandeur of
her home, all the jewels which glittered in her hair, all the beautiful
things which met her eye wherever she turned it, to feel little arms
clasping her neck, to hear infant lips lisp the sweet name of mother!
Flora had never yet, amidst all the outward forms of religion, acquired
that which is the very essence of it, submission to the will of the
Almighty. Her own will had never been brought into the quiet subjection
which is the result of confidence in God's wisdom and love, and which is
the source of true peace and joy. Like the Israelites in the
wilderness, she "murmured," not with her lips, but in the depths of her
heart.
And Flora pined for her mother; she longed again to rest her weary head
on a parent's bosom, and to be blessed with a parent's counsels. She
could not conceal from herself that her marriage had separated her from
the home of her childhood. It was not so much, perhaps, that Sir Amery
could never quite forgive Mrs. Vernon's opposition to his marriage, as
that he feared her influence over his wife. Flora had, he thought, too
many narrow prejudices, acquired in her puritanical home: he had no wish
to see them strengthened. He had no wish to have a praying, sermonizing
wife who would see sin in what he thought harmless, and who would always
be attempting to convert him to her own peculiar views of religion. He
had put down, sometimes with a jest, sometimes even with a frown, the
few feeble attempts made by Flora soon after their marriage to win him
to pay more attention to the outward observances of religion. The Lord
did not bless these attempts--they resulted in failure and
disappointment; and Flora bitterly recalled her mother's words, that it
is as impossible for one human being to change the heart of another, as
it would be to bring water from the stony rock, or to call up fire from
the ocean.
Flora's deep love for her husband, even though returned, was no source
of unmingled happiness. She could not rest in calm confidence upon the
hope that all was well with him whom she deemed the most gifted and the
most attractive of men. Blinded as she was by her admiring affection,
Flora had yet many a secret misgiving and pang, when she heard words
pass the lips of her husband which confirmed the opinion of her mother.
She was ever struggling to persuade herself that the path which he
pursued could not be far wrong; that it was her education which had
narrowed her own mind; that he whose intellect soared to such a height
must see more clearly and widely than others. But it is difficult to
overthrow at once the fabric of opinion which has gradually been forming
from infancy; most difficult when that fabric is founded on truth, and
has the strong though secret support of conscience!
And there was one source of pain which Flora never owned to others,
never even acknowledged to her own heart. She prized the affection of
her husband beyond all earthly--alas! above all heavenly things; it was
her pride, her delight, her treasure: but how could she trust to links
which God had not rivetted? was not her treasure one which might take
wings to itself and flee away? Who could insure that the love which
beauty had awakened would not be perishable as that beauty? It had not
that firmness which arises from steady principle, that element of
immortality which religion alone can give. Flora was painfully aware
that many, and amongst them members of Sir Amery's own family, had
deemed his marriage far below the expectations which such a man might
have formed. Was it quite impossible that the same thought might
sometimes cross the mind of her husband! There was no sweet babe, no
dear pledge of mutual affection, to bind the baronet's heart to the
mother of his child.
Flora's strength was not sufficient to enable her to share all the
amusements of her husband, nor had she enough of mental vigour to enter
into all his pursuits. He shone as a star in many places where his
gentle wife was never seen. Many a lonely evening she passed, while at
some festive board a brilliant circle was listening delighted to his
ever-flowing fountain of wit. Might Sir Amery not sometimes find her
society dull, her conversation insipid, after that to which he had been
accustomed? would her love suffice to make him happy? could he be
contented alone with her? Flora knew that the baronet had not married
her "_in the Lord_," that his affection for her was not from the Lord;
her whole felicity rested upon an earthly support--it might be
shaken--it might bend--it might give way!
Even when accompanying her husband to scenes of festivity, neither his
loved presence nor the pleasures around her always chased from the mind
of Lady Legrange this phantom of undefined fear. But that which above
all things oppressed the young wife with a sorrow for which the world
has no remedy, was her consciousness of alienation from her God. What
matter how fair be the surrounding landscape, if the heaven above be of
dull leaden hue, if the sun be blotted from the sky? As regarded the
most important of all subjects, the heart of Flora was cold and hard;
and she knew it. No one can for long worship an earthly idol without
feeling the withering effect. Sir Amery stood between his wife and her
God. Flora was careful as ever to observe the forms of religion, when
she could do so without displeasing her husband; her seat was not vacant
in the pew, nor her name absent from the charity list: but her piety was
like a petrified leaf--it could deceive even her own heart no longer.
All that remained of her religion seemed a vague sense of fear, the fear
of a slave for an offended master, who has the power, perhaps the will,
to chastise. Sometimes Flora doubted whether she had ever been a
Christian at all--whether from childhood she had not played a
hypocrite's part, and whether she were not playing it still. She no
longer thought of heaven as a blissful home, and even when bitterness of
soul made her weary of life, she felt a shrinking from the thought of
death.
And can we wonder that Flora was not happy--that pleasures failed to
amuse her, even conjugal affection to bless? Had she rested with
cheerful content, in that state of coldness, alienation, and wandering
from God, it had been a sign, indeed, that religion had utterly perished
in her soul--that her mother's prayers, and teaching, and example, had
all been in vain.
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*RISING CLOUDS.*
"Flora, my love, has anything occurred to distress you?" said the
baronet, as he entered the breakfast room one morning in his embroidered
dressing-gown and slippers, with the newspaper in his hand.
[Illustration: "Flora, my love, has anything occurred to distress you?"
said the baronet.]
Flora looked anxious and unhappy, her eye rested upon an open letter
which she had received by the early post.
"I have heard from Mr. Ward, dearest," she replied; "he gives me tidings
which have made me very uneasy. Scarlet fever, of a malignant kind, has
been raging lately in Wingsdale, and I grieve to say that two of my
brother's children are ill with it now, and it is feared that the baby
is sickening."
The baronet coughed slightly, stirred the fire, and sat down to sip his
chocolate.
"My poor mother!" faltered Flora; "Mr. Ward writes that she is far from
strong; the nursing will be so heavy upon her."
"Have not the children a mother?" said Sir Amery, abruptly.
"Emma has taken such alarm at the idea of infection, that she has
actually hurried away, and engaged a room at a hotel in a town about ten
miles distant from Wingsdale!"
The baronet elevated his handsome brows with an expression of contempt.
"I fear," continued Flora, with emotion, "that the anxiety and fatigue
will quite break down the health of my mother. She will watch the
children day and night, as she watched me in my fever." The voice of
the daughter trembled as she added, "Oh, Amery! she needs me to help
her; dearest, will you not spare me to her now?
"You!" exclaimed her husband in a loud tone of surprise, pushing back
his chair from the table; "what could have put such an insane thought
into your mind? Do you think that I would suffer you to go into the
midst of infection--to take the place of an unfeeling woman--to act as
nurse to a set of mulattoes--to risk your precious life for those whom
their own mother has deserted?"
"My mother will never desert them," said Flora; "it is to assist her--"
"We will send a nurse down from London to assist her; let that set your
mind at rest," replied Sir Amery. Then he added, as his stern features
relaxed into a smile, "It is easier to find an efficient substitute for
you, Flora, in the sick-room at Laurel Bank, than at Lady Montague's
soiree to-night."
"The ball!--oh!" exclaimed Flora, leaning back on her chair, "I have not
the heart to go to it!"
"No heart is required," said the baronet, laughing; "we do not look for
such commodities at balls."
Flora was ever submissive and obedient to her husband. She saw that it
was his will that she should accompany him to the party, and she went,
though with a joyless spirit. Decked out in jewels and costly array,
and leaning on the arm of him who attracted every eye, the fair young
wife might have appeared an object of envy to the proudest dame in the
glittering throng. But there was a fount of sadness in her bosom, which
mingled with and imbittered every pleasure. The music had to her a
mournful tone; the gay dancers flitted before her like images in a
dream; she felt it hard to wear a smile on the lips when the heart was
depressed with care. Flora was glad to choose a quiet corner for
herself, where it would be unnecessary to enter into conversation, where
she might remain unnoticed and unknown.
She was seated beside some ladies who were strangers to her, and Sir
Amery conversing with friends of his own in another apartment, Flora
felt herself alone in a crowd, solitary in the midst of society. Her
thoughts wandered back to her mother's home--she was treading, in fancy,
well-known paths, seeing long absent faces, listening to the sound of
the church bells which had once made sweet music to her ear; and,
absorbed in her own recollections, had been at first inattentive to the
conversation of the ladies beside her, till her ear was caught by the
sound of the name which was to her dear beyond all others.
"And that is Sir Amery!" exclaimed one, leaning forward to catch a
glimpse of him through the open folding-doors; "what a princely form!
what a noble countenance! He looks like the statue of an old Greek
demigod warmed into life!"
The wife felt a glow of pleasure at the words, and turned with interest
towards the speaker.
"Did you not say that he was married?" said the companion of the lady
who had spoken.
"Oh, yes; he married some time ago; made quite a mistake, if report be
true--the usual fate of geniuses; he threw himself away on some insipid
little rustic, who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend her!"
Flora had heard enough; she rose and left her seat, and made her way
with difficulty through the crowd to another part of the ball-room.
But even here she was destined again to find her gifted husband the
topic of conversation. An elderly gentleman was talking with a young
man, who appeared to be eagerly arguing some point with him.
"But you must allow that he has very great power--"
"Just as I allow that the boa-constrictor has very great power," replied
the senior, laughing. "This man envelops truth in the mighty folds of
his genius, and squeezes the very life and shape out of it. I believe
that writers like Sir Amery do a world of mischief, especially amongst
young men. I, for one, will not join this worship of an author whose
great merit seems to be, that he can mix up poison so skilfully that the
victims take it for a wholesome medicine."
Flora, trembling, made her way into the adjoining room, and again was at
the side of her husband, bearing in her bosom a sting which lay and
rankled there for many a day.
The next morning brought another letter from Mr. Ward--Mrs. Vernon not
writing herself, lest her epistles should convey contagion. Flora
learned that the youngest child had taken the fever, and that Johnny was
not expected to live. Mrs. Vernon had sat up with him the whole of the
preceding night, and had never quitted the sick-room. Flora's only
comfort was in the thought that the experienced nurse, whom without
delay she had procured from an hospital, would relieve her mother to a
certain degree; and she wrote a long tender letter to Mrs. Vernon,
secretly wishing that she herself could take the place of her epistle.
Then followed two days of silence, weary, anxious days to Flora, whose
absence of mind and restless longing for news called forth an impatient
remark from Sir Amery. Submissive and fearful of displeasing, Flora sat
quietly listening to his comments on a new work, even when she at last
heard the double rap at the door; and she held the unopened letter in
her hand, though it bore the postmark of Wingsdale, till her husband had
concluded the brilliant review, of which his auditor had not
comprehended one sentence.
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Flora, as she glanced at the first lines, "all
the children are likely to recover!"
"Did you feel any apprehensions on their account?" said the baronet
drily; "empty casks always float, the full ones are those that are in
danger of sinking."