A REVELATION.
“Florence!” Miss Harper stopped suddenly, and looked up in a bewildered
manner.
“Florence!” repeated the voice of Uncle John.
“Mr. Fleetwood!” She could only utter the kind old man’s name in a low,
choking voice.
“Where are you going, Florence?” he asked.
“Home,” was the answer.
“Has any thing happened at home? Is your aunt sick?”
“No, sir.”
“Are _you_ sick, Florence?”
“Yes, sir. Sick at heart!” was the reply of Florence, made with
quivering lips.
Uncle John turned, and walked beside Miss Harper, in the direction he
had found her going.
“There is something wrong, Florence,” said he. “Why have you left the
house of my niece so suddenly?”
“Mrs. Dainty has dispensed with my services.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Dainty does not wish me any longer to hold the place of governess
to her children,” said Florence.
Uncle John was silent for some moments. He then said,—
“How did this happen? Tell me every thing freely.”
Florence related what had passed between her and Mrs. Dainty at the
hurried interview preceding her departure from the house.
“You must go back again,” said Uncle John, after Florence had finished
her brief narrative.
“Impossible!” was her firm answer.
“Say not so, Florence.”
“Impossible, Mr. Fleetwood! Impossible! I am not strong enough to bear
all this insult and indignity. I can suffer pain, or even death; but my
spirit will not brook humiliation like this! Only for the children’s
sake have I remained up to this day.”
“And only for their sakes would I still have you remain,” said Uncle
John.
“But the door is shut against me; and I will never knock to have it
opened,” said the young girl, with an indignant spirit; “never! never!”
She repeated the words very firmly.
“The door must be opened for you, and without the preliminary of a
knock. Leave all that to me,” said Uncle John.
By this time they had reached a small house in a part of the city where
persons in moderate circumstances reside, and both paused at the door.
“Will you come in, Mr. Fleetwood?” said Miss Harper, speaking in a tone
of unusual familiarity. “Aunt Mary will, I know, be glad to see you.”
“Yes, I must go in, and have a little more talk with you, and a little
conference with good Aunt Mary.”
In the next moment they passed together into the house,—the manner
of Uncle John being that of a man who was entering a familiar place.
In the small, neatly-furnished sitting-room to which both proceeded
they found a plainly-dressed lady, somewhat advanced in years. She was
reading in a volume that seemed to have been taken up casually, as her
knitting-work was in her lap.
“How are you, Mrs. Elder?” said Uncle John, in the familiar voice of a
friend; and he took the old lady’s hand and shook it cordially.
“Right well, and right glad to see you, Mr. Fleetwood,” was the frank,
cheerful response, as she returned the hearty pressure of Uncle John’s
hand. “But to what cause am I indebted for this visit?” she added,
a slight shadow coming into her face as she looked more narrowly at
Florence.
“A providential one, doubtless,” said Mr. Fleetwood, smiling. “I
met your niece, just now, fleeing from the post of duty, and have
accompanied her hither, that I might hear the report she has to make of
herself.”
“A good report, I doubt not,” replied the old lady, throwing a kind but
serious glance upon the countenance of her niece.
“When the door is shut in your face, you can hardly be blamed for
leaving the threshold,” said Florence, with some bitterness in her
tones.
“Is it so bad as that, my child?” Mrs. Elder spoke with much
tenderness, which did not wholly conceal a flush of indignation.
“Just so bad.” Florence said this slowly, and with an emphasis on every
word. “Just so bad,” she repeated. “And yet Mr. Fleetwood wishes me to
return for the children’s sake.”
“And is not that a powerful motive?” said the old gentleman, speaking
before Mrs. Elder had time to reply. “For the children’s sake! For the
sake of those little ones whom the Lord, when upon the earth, took up
in his arms and blessed with a divine blessing,—who are so precious in
the eyes of Heaven that their angels do always behold the face of Our
Father. I urged, you see, Mrs. Elder, no light motive.”
The eyes and countenance of Florence both drooped to the floor, and she
remained sitting almost motionless.
“I must know all the facts in the case, Mr. Fleetwood, before I can say
a word touching the duty of my niece. What she sees to be right she has
the courage to do, and, if my eyes can aid her in seeing right, I will
gladly lend her their more experienced vision. Let me have the whole
story of this new trouble with Mrs. Dainty.”
In as few words as possible, Florence rehearsed what had passed between
her and Mrs. Dainty, giving to her auditors that lady’s emphatic and
insulting terms of dismissal.
Mrs. Elder remained gravely silent for some minutes after Florence
had ceased speaking; while Mr. Fleetwood waited patiently to get the
conclusion of her thoughts.
“I don’t see that it is possible for Florence to go back again,” said
the old lady, speaking as if that view of the case were clearly settled
in her mind.
“Extreme cases require extreme measures,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “I treat
my niece, for most of the time, as if she were partially demented. And
so she is; for vanity and love of the world have in a measure dethroned
her reason. She was my favorite when a little girl; and I remained
strongly attached to her as she grew up toward womanhood,—though
I could not be over-patient with the fashionable follies to which
she showed far too early an inclination. For some years I have been
altogether out of heart with her, and see no hope of her reformation,
except through virtue of some great calamity. But she has children, to
whom all my love is transferred,—children who may be trained to good or
warped to evil. I had almost come to despair of them, when a bright day
renewed old acquaintanceship, and I discovered in your excellent niece
all the qualities needed to save these children. How wisely, lovingly,
and unselfishly she has performed her task so far I need not repeat to
you, Mrs. Elder, for I have told you every word before. And now, do you
think I can give her up? No, no. She must return. But I will make the
way as easy for her as possible. All the rough places I cannot hope to
make even; but she has courage to walk, if she knows the voice of duty,
even where sharp stones are certain to cut her tender feet. Already
she has won her way into the hearts of the children, and has at this
moment more power over them for good than any living soul. This power
must not be lost.”
“Every child that is born,” said Aunt Mary, in a thoughtful tone,
“is precious in the eyes of God, and his love toward that child is
manifested in the best possible arrangement of things external to its
life, in order that these may awaken in its heart emotions of kindness,
mercy, and pity toward others. Such emotions, whenever excited, fix
themselves as permanent things in the young immortal, and remain there
like good seed that may be warmed into life and produce good fruit when
time has brought the age of rational freedom. It is by such remains of
good and true things in all their varieties, which are stored up in the
minds of children from the earliest days of infancy, up to manhood,
that our Divine Father is able to save us from the evil inclinations
we inherit, when we step forth, as men and women, self-reliant and
rationally responsible. To help in the work of storing up in the minds
of young children such ‘remains,’ as I have called them, is indeed a
heavenly work; and all who engage in it are co-workers with angels.”
“And to neglect such work,” said Mr. Fleetwood, “when it lies in our
way, and will be performed by no other hands if we refuse to do it,
involves no light responsibility. The perversion, corruption, and final
ruin of an immortal soul is a fearful thought.”
A deep sigh fluttered the bosom of Florence Harper; but she made no
remark.
“If a mother neglect her high duties in this regard,” said Mrs. Elder,
“can we say that another becomes responsible in her stead?”
Florence raised her head and listened with marked interest for Mr.
Fleetwood’s answer to this question. He reflected a moment, and then
made reply:—
“For the work God sets before us are we alone responsible. His love
for his children is so great that he is ever providing the means to
help them to a knowledge of the good that is needful to secure their
happiness. If those appointed by nature to do good to his little ones
neglect their high trust, he leads others to a knowledge of their
wants; and, if these pass by unmoved to kindness, he still offers the
heavenly work to other hands.”
The head of Florence again drooped, and again her bosom trembled with a
sigh.
“I do not ask Florence to return to our house to-day,” said Mr.
Fleetwood. “She must have a little time for rest and reflection, and I
must have a little time for observation and management at home. The
meaning of this hasty step on the part of my niece I do not comprehend.
Something lies behind it that I must make out clearly before acting.”
“I will see you in the morning, Florence,” added the old gentleman, on
rising to go. Then, taking her hand, he said, very earnestly, and with
slight emotion,—
“Ever regard me as your friend,—nay, more than a friend,—as a father.
Do not fear that I will advise you to any course of action in this
matter that I would not advise you to take were you indeed my own
child—as—as you might have been!”
The voice of the old man grew strangely veiled with feeling as he
uttered, in something of an absent way, the closing words of the last
sentence.
“Yes! yes! as you might have been, Florence!” repeated Mr. Fleetwood,
with sudden energy, catching at the hand of the young girl and pressing
it to his lips.
“Tell her all! yes, tell her all!” he added, turning to Mrs. Elder in a
hurried, excited manner. “Her presence moves me strangely, and memories
of the past are too strong for an old man’s feelings.”
Mr. Fleetwood left, abruptly, the apartment, passing into the street,
and so leaving the aunt and niece alone.
“Tell me all of what, Aunt Mary?” said Florence, coming to the side of
Mrs. Elder. Her face had become very pale.
“A simple story of thwarted love and undying affection,” replied Aunt
Mary, calmly. “Mr. Fleetwood loved your mother, and that love was only
in a measure returned. Your father won her heart more truly, and she
decided in his favor. They were married, and you are their only child.
If your mother had married Mr. Fleetwood, the current of her life might
have run smoother; but whether she would have been happier is not for
me to say. Mr. Fleetwood never would marry again; and it seems that his
love for your mother has been an undying passion. I will say no more
than this. But he is a man of great moral worth, noble sentiments, and
a true heart. His interest in you is not a passing whim or preference,
but has in it such deep regard as a wise and good father knows only for
his child. And so you may be very sure that he will advise you to no
course of action in regard to his niece and her children that he would
not advise for his own daughter. It was his love for these children
that led him to desire you for their governess,— you, whom he rightly
knew only through my representation of your character. I think you will
see it best to return to your post.”
“I can only go back through Mrs. Dainty’s invitation, and, I was going
to say, after her apology.”
“Withhold for the present that last condition,” said Aunt Mary. “I
doubt not, when the time comes, the way in which your feet should walk
will be made very plain.”