"Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
Ev'n while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow."
HEMANS.
Florence Hamilton had but attained her fourth year when she was left
the only solace of her widowed father. Even after the lapse of long
years, faint, yet sweet recollections of her lost parent stole, in
saddened hours, over her spirit, and often, in dreams, a face of
angelic beauty hovered around, and smiled upon her.
Unfortunately, Florence proved totally unlike her sainted mother, both
in personal appearance and cast of character. Mr. Hamilton was a
cold, proud man of the world; one who, having lived from his birth in
affluence, regarded with a haughty eye all who, without the advantages
of rank or wealth, strove to attain a position equal to his own.
Intelligence, nobility of soul, unsullied character, weighed not an
atom against the counterpoise of birth and family. He enjoyed in youth
advantages rare for the unsettled times in which he lived; he tasted
all that France and Italy could offer; and returned _blasé_ at
twenty-seven to his home in one of the Southern States. Attracted by
the brilliant fortune of an orphan heiress, he won and married her;
but love, such as her pure, gentle spirit sought, dwelt not in his
stern, selfish heart. All of affection he had to bestow was lavished
on his only sister, who had married during his absence.
His angel wife drooped in the sterile soil to which she was
transplanted, and, when Florence was about four years old, sunk into a
quiet grave.
Perhaps when he stood with his infant daughter beside the newly-raised
mound, and missed the gentle being who had endeavored so strenuously
to make his home happy, and to win for herself a place in his heart,
one tear might have moistened the cold, searching eyes that for
years had known no such softening tendency. "Perhaps," I say; but to
conjecture of thee, oh Man! is fruitless indeed.
As well as such a nature could, he loved his child, and considered
himself extremely magnanimous in casting aside all thought of a second
marriage, and devoting his leisure moments to the formation of her
character, and direction of her education.
Florence inherited her father's haughty temperament without his sordid
selfishness, and what may seem incompatible with the former, a glowing
imagination in connection with fine mental powers. To all but Mr.
Hamilton she appeared as cold and impenetrable as himself; but the
flashing eye and curling lip with which she listened to a tale of
injustice, or viewed a dishonorable act, indicated a nature truly
noble. Two master passions ruled her heart--love for her parent, and
fondness for books. Idolized by the household, it was not strange that
she soon learned to consider herself the most important member of it.
Mr. Hamilton found that it was essential for the proper regulation
of his establishment that some lady should preside over its various
departments, and accordingly invited the maiden sister of his late
wife to make his house her home, and take charge of his numerous
domestics.
Of his daughter he said nothing. Aunt Lizzy, as she was called, was an
amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently intellectual to superintend
Florry's education. That little individual looked at first with
distrustful eyes on one who, she supposed, might abridge her numerous
privileges; but the affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt
removed all fear, and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which
had characterized her solitude.
One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her father entered
the library, where she sat intently reading, and said,
"Florence, come here, I have something to tell you."
"Something to tell me! I hope it is pleasant;" and she laid her hand
on his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face.
"You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not long ago? Well,
she has lost her mother too, and is coming to live with us." As he
spoke, his voice faltered, and his proud curling lip quivered, yet
he gave no other evidence of the deepest grief he had known for many
years.
"She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try to make her
contented." With these words he was leaving the room, but Florence
said,
"Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep in my room,
with me?"
"She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it,
can occupy the same room."
The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly
down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.
At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned
forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate's face. A slight form, clad
in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.
Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of welcome,
said,
"Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will love each other,
and be happy, good little girls." Mary looked almost fearfully at
her proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face
touched Florry's heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and
kissed her. The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.
"Florence, why don't you take Mary to her room?"
"Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?"
"Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather." And taking her basket from
her hand, Florry led the way.
Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin.
Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she
buried her face in her hands and burst again into tears.
Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,
"It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have
been crying."
"Oh! I can't help it, indeed I can't," sobbed the little mourner, "he
is so much like my dear, darling mother;" and she stifled a cry of
agony.
"Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?"
"Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost thought it was
mother."
A tear rolled over Florry's cheek, and she slowly replied, "I wish I
knew somebody that looked like my mother." In that hour was forged the
chain which bound them through life, and made them one in interest.
Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted home. If her
uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart desired, she did not
complain, for she was treated like her cousin, and found in the strong
love of Florence an antidote for every care. Mary was about sixteen,
and Florence a few months younger, at the time our story opens, and
had been placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good
masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen them there,
and, hoping the reader will pardon this digression, return to Florry's
letter.