THE TRUE FRIEND.
Flora Lyndsay was aroused from the passionate indulgence of grief by two
arms being passed softly around her neck, and some one pulling her head
gently back upon their shoulder, and kissing her forehead.
"Flora," whispered a sweet, gentle woman's voice; "Dear Flora. I am come
home at last. What, no word of welcome? No kiss for Mary? In tears, too.
What is the matter? Are you ill? Is the baby ill? No--she at least is
sleeping sweetly, and looks full of rosy health. Do speak, and tell me
the meaning of all this!"
Flora was in the arms of her friend before she had ceased speaking. "A
thousand welcomes! dear Mary. You are the very person I most wished just
now to see. The very sight of you is an antidote to grief. 'A remedy
for sore eyes,' as the Irish say. You have been too long away. When did
you arrive?"
"By the mail--about an hour ago."
"And your dear sister--?"
"Is gone to a happier home," said Mary Parnell, in a faltering voice;
and glancing down at her black dress, she continued, "she died happy--so
happy, dear Flora, and now--she is happier still. But, we will not speak
of her just now, Flora; I cannot bear it. Time, which reconciles us to
every change, will teach me resignation to the Divine will. But ah! 'tis
a sore trial to part with the cherished friend and companion of our
early years. We were most attached sisters. Our hearts were one--and
now--"
There was a pause. Both friends wept. Mary first regained her composure.
"How is Lyndsay? Has he finished writing his book?"
"The book is finished, and accepted by Mr. Bentley."
"That is good, excellent news; and the darling baby?"
"Little Dormouse. There she lies at the end of the sofa, covered by my
shawl. She has been sleeping ever since breakfast. I think she only
wakes up to amuse papa. But she is beginning to stretch herself, and
here comes the head-nurse himself."
"Our dear Mary, returned!" cried Lyndsay, entering the room. "It seems
an age since you left us."
"It has been a melancholy separation to me," said Mary. "This parting I
hope will be the last. My father has consented to come and live with my
brother; and now that dear Emily is gone, I shall have no inducement to
leave home, so you will have me all to yourselves, whenever I can steal
an hour from my domestic duties; and we shall once more be so happy
together."
Lyndsay looked at Flora, but neither spoke. Mary saw in a moment that
there was some hidden meaning in that quick, intelligent glance; and she
turned anxiously from one to the other.
"What mischief have you been plotting, during my absence?" cried the
affectionate girl, taking a hand of each. "Some mystery is here--I read
it in your eyes. I come to you striving to drown the remembrance of my
own heavy sorrow, that we might enjoy a happy meeting: I find Flora in
tears, and you, Lyndsay, looking grave and melancholy. What does it all
mean?"
"Has not Flora told you?"
"Told me what?"
"That we are about to start for Canada."
"Alas! no. This is sad news--worse than I expected. But are you really
determined upon going?"
"Our preparations are almost completed."
"Worse and worse. I hoped it might be only the whim of the moment--a
castle, not of the air, but of the woods--and as easily demolished."
"Let us draw back," said Flora. "Lyndsay, dearest; the trial is too
great."
"It is too late now, Flora. Depend upon it, love, that God has ordered
it, and that we act in conformity to the Divine will, and that all is
for the best."
"If such is your belief, my dear friend," said Miss Parnell, "far be it
from me to persuade you to stay. God orders all things for good. The
present moment is the prophet of the future. It must decide your fate."
"I have not acted hastily in this matter," returned Lyndsay. "I have
pondered over it long and anxiously, and I feel that my decision is
right. The grief poor Flora feels at parting with her friends, is the
greatest drawback. I thought that she possessed more strength of
endurance. As for me, I have passed through the ordeal before, when I
left Scotland for the Cape of Good Hope; and I now look upon myself as a
citizen of the world. I know that Flora will submit cheerfully to the
change, when once we lose sight of the British shores."
"This then means the cause of Flora's tears?"
"Not exactly," said Flora, laughing. "That odious Mrs. Ready has been
here, tormenting me with impertinent questions."
"Flora, I'm ashamed of you," said Lyndsay, "for suffering yourself to be
annoyed by that stupid woman."
"And worse than that, dear John, I got into a passion, and affronted
her."
"And what did _Mrs. Grundy_ say?"
"Ah! it's fine fun for you. But if you had been baited by her for a
couple of hours, as I was, you could not have stood it much better than
I did. Why, she had the impudence to insist upon my acting in direct
opposition to your wishes; and all but insinuated that I was a fool not
to take her advice."
"A very serious offence, indeed," said Lyndsay, laughing. "Instigating
my wife to an act of open rebellion. But I am sure you will not profit
by her example."
"Indeed, no! She's the very last woman in the world I should wish to
imitate. Still I feel angry with myself for letting my temper get the
better of prudence."
"What a pity, Flora, that you did not fight it out. I would back my good
wife against twenty Mrs. Grundys."
"She would scratch my eyes out, and then write a horrid sonnet to
celebrate the catastrophe."
"Nobody would read it."
"Ah, but she would read it to everybody, and bore the whole town with
her lamentations."
"Let her go, Flora. I am tired of _Mrs. Grundy_."
"Indeed, I was glad enough to get rid of her, which reconciles me to the
disagreeable manner in which I offended her."
"Let us talk of your Canadian plans," said Mary. "When do you go?"
"In three weeks," said Lyndsay.
"So soon! The time is too short to prepare one to part with friends so
dear. If it were not for my poor old father, I would go with you."
"What a blessing it would be!" said Lyndsay.
"Oh! do go, dear Mary," cried Flora, quite transported at the thought;
and flinging her arms about her friend's neck. "It would make us so
happy."
"It is impossible!" said the dear Mary, with a sigh. "I spoke without
thinking. My heart will follow you across the Atlantic; but duty keeps
me here. I will not, however, waste the time still left to us in useless
regrets. Love is better shown by deeds than words. I can work for you,
and cheer you, during the last days of your sojourn in your native land.
Employment, I have always found, by my own experience, is the best
remedy for aching hearts."