“It was not strange, for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist.”
“What a picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton,
as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of a _Voltaire_ chair, and
placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her
Aunt Mary’s _snuggery_.
A cold, misty rain was falling without; but the ample crimson curtains
were drawn closely, so that no evidence of the inclemency of the weather
was visible within to its two inmates. The cheerful, crackling fire
threw over the chamber and its occupants “fitful gleams and red,” as
drawn closely on the opposite sides of the fire-place they chatted
cosily together.
“Yes, Aunt Mary, you have so much comfort, so much repose, that I can
enter _con amore_ into your feelings, as you thus sit so tranquilly in
your well-lined, little nest, and take a bird’s-eye view of the
bustling, plotting, never-resting world. But, dearest aunty, your
darling little pony has just tired me sufficiently, so as to leave me in
a state of quiescence, in which state one of your pleasant reminiscences
of by-gone days would prove very acceptable. I hope, my dear aunty, you
know how to take a slight hint, for I am awfully modest about asking
favors.” And she crossed her little hands demurely on her lap, settled
herself still more comfortably, and with an asking smile on her roguish,
pretty face nodded her head in a very patronizing manner at her aunt,
saying, “_Commencez-donc, s’il vous plaît, ma bonne_.”
“Well! my little chatterbox, is your tongue worn out at last, and you
really wish to play the part of listener! But, what shall I tell you?
Let us see! Florence Walton,” continued the old lady musingly, as she
rubbed her spectacles with her silk apron. “Yes, yes, she is given to
ridicule herself, and might _one_ day suffer from it, as my poor
Florence has done. Here, Co, count the stitches for the heel in this
stocking for me, with your young eyes, and I will try to think over
something about her.”
“You have seen Florence Walton here,” said Mrs. Jordan, as Cora handed
her knitting back to her, “but you must forget her looks, if you wish to
have before your mind’s eye the proud, beautiful girl of my narrative. A
petted and spoiled child was Florence, when she and I were school-mates.
An only child—beautiful, talented, and winning in her affectionate
ways—with parents, who were the happy _slaves_ to her slightest
caprices, how could it be otherwise?”
“I remember, as though but yesterday, when she was ushered in among us
school-girls by Madame Gaspard. As natural, we all sat silent and
restrained before the new-comer, who, unused to school-discipline, and
in all the freedom of her, but just-quitted, home-circle, was in the
habit of giving speech to the first thoughts that presented themselves
to mind, without caring for their fitness, and too proud to show respect
for our opinions, like another school-girl among utter strangers would
have done.
“Yes! I recollect it as freshly as yesterday, and see before me now the
bright, fearless creature, as with an impatient toss of her glossy
ringlets she said half-pettishly—‘Pleasant as my home, indeed! I wish I
was there now, at any-rate, for I feel here as a cat _must_ feel in a
strange garret.’ And a smile parted her saucy lips, as we broke into
hearty laughter at this _compliment_ from the new girl.
“That quaint phrase of Florence Walton’s introduced her at once, and
frolick and fun finished the evening. Many, and many were the scrapes
that her wit and laughter-loving propensity has brought upon her, but
through all her affairs beamed forth the evidence of a noble, generous,
bold, but quick temper, impossible to daunt, but, like the generality of
impulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting through the
affections. I have seen Florence in after-years, for we were
school-mates a long, long time, throw herself in a perfect abandonment
of tears on her bed, after answering saucily and with light laughter,
some friend whom she dearly prized—and yet, after remonstrances from me
and advice for the future would reply—‘In vain, dear Mary, all your
good advice, and so would be my promises of amendment, were I foolish
enough to make them. I know, dear friend, my besetting sin—know it, and
I assure you, I most deeply deplore my weakness, which would prevent me
from making good any promise I might make you or myself for the future.
As well ask the bird not to fly, or the fish not to swim, as to make me
promise when irritated, not to use my only weapon—ay! sharper, I will
admit, than a two-edged sword. Mary, it is my misfortune more than my
fault. I have felt—keenly, bitterly felt—how wrong I am in acting
thus. In casting from me by ridicule and foolish jests, friends whose
affection I dearly prize. Oh! you cannot tell how I have struggled—how
in my own heart-communings I have determined to be more guarded for the
future. But the future was ever as the _past_. My sin is too strong, and
I too weak.’
“Many such conversations have we held together and I, Cora, was a wicked
sinner myself, then, and knew not God, nor the efficacy of prayer,
therefore I could not tell the erring, but warm-hearted girl, to cast
her burthen at the foot of the Cross; and that from the knowledge of her
_weakness_ would come her _strength_, for that He, the Mighty One, loved
to help the weak ones, who come as suppliants to his throne. Ah! yes, we
were wicked, and only thought of such things not being _respectable_,
instead of their sinfulness!
“Time sped on, working his changes as he ever does, and our school-days
passed like our girlhood, never to return. Florence and I made every
promise of everlasting friendship when we parted; kept, too, I believe
as faithfully as if made in more mature years. The first letter I
received from her after we had both left for our homes, told me of the
death of her father, which was very sudden. The newspapers announced
shortly after this, the demise of her remaining parent, and my heart
clung still more fondly to her, poor thing, for she had no brothers or
sisters to sympathize with her in this sad bereavement. She was now
alone to struggle with the cold world, which made no allowance for her
faults of the head, but were visited upon her as crimes of a darker die.
“Years elapsed, and nothing more reached me of Florence. I married your
uncle, dear Cora, and spent many, many happy years with him _here_, in
my little nest as you term it, when death also came to tear him from me.
Then, too, with my sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl-friend,
Florence Walton. Wondering had she ever married—was she a mother, a
widow—and still above all came the wish that I could see her once
again. I had written to her frequently, but my letters were never
answered, and so I began to imagine that time had blotted out _my_ name
from ‘memory’s page,’ or that she had gone forth into the world under
some other cognomen, and that my letters had failed to reach her.
Somehow, I could never think her dead, there was too much life and
liveliness in my ideal of her, to join them together.
“Other thoughts began to have influence over me, when one day among
letters and papers, came one, bearing my name in her own hand-writing!
That old, familiar penmanship brought back, like some fondly remembered
strain of music, thoughts of childhood’s happy days, and my heart leaped
forth in love welcome to the writer ere I broke the envelope. How much
more were my feelings stirred within me, when the warm, passionate
nature of Florence beamed forth in every line. She proffered a visit to
me, telling me, that she too had known sorrow, deep, lasting—and when
she thought of my happiness, she could not bear to lay open the still
tender wound; but I had suffered, as she had very recently learned, and
could therefore without additional heart-pangs give my sympathy to a
friend, my own, old, wayward, school-friend.”
“How quickly did I respond, and urge her to come speedily, and she
came.”
“Yes, dear aunty,” said Cora, “I recollect her now. I was a tiny one, it
is true, but I remember well a lady, who dressed in mourning, and was
accustomed to walk evening after evening up and down the broad portico
with you, while I, too, would endeavor to keep pace with you, till tired
out I have thrown myself across the door-step and slept, unconsciously,
until you became aware of ‘my small existence,’ and gave me to Elsie, to
put in bed.”
“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s
conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any
one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all
that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little
skilled as a _raconteuse_, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea,
lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me,
‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes
before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one
being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I
think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted
pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the
idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by
recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in
Oblivion’s stream.’
“There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written
pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were
it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have
given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns;
for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do
not minister to me.”
“Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the
tea-waiter; for I am so famished with _curiosity_ to read these yellow
leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis not _comme il faut_, if
you will only hurry!”
My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp
raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported
by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table,
in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages
of