THE LAST HOURS AT HOME.
To bid farewell to her mother and sisters, and the dear home of her
childhood, Flora regarded as her greatest trial. As each succeeding day
brought nearer the hour of separation, the prospect became more
intensely painful, and fraught with a thousand melancholy anticipations,
which haunted her even in sleep; and she often awoke sick and faint at
heart with the tears she had shed in a dream.
"Oh that this dreadful parting were over!" she said to her friend Mary
Parnell. "I can contemplate, with fortitude, the trials of the future;
but there is something so dreary, so utterly hopeless, in this breaking
up of kindred ties and home associations, that it paralyses exertion."
Mrs. W----, Flora's mother, was in the decline of life, and it was more
than probable that the separation would be for ever. This Flora felt
very grievously;--she loved her mother tenderly, and she could not bear
to leave her. Mrs. W---- was greatly attached to her little grandchild;
and, to mention the departure of the child, brought on a paroxysm of
grief.
"Let Josey stay with me, Flora," said she, as she covered its dimpled
hands with kisses. "Let me not lose you both in one day."
"What! part with my child--my only child! Dearest mother, it is
impossible to grant your request. Whatever our future fortunes may be,
she must share them with us. I could not bear up against the trials
which await me with a divided heart."
"Consider the advantage it would be to the child."
"In the loss of both her parents?"
"In her exemption from hardship, and the education she would receive."
"I grant all that; yet Nature points out, that the interests of a child
cannot safely be divided from those of its parents."
"You argue selfishly, Flora. You well know the child would be much
better off with me."
"I speak from my heart--the heart of a mother, which cannot, without it
belongs to a monster, plead against the welfare of its child. I know how
dearly you love her--how painful it is for you to give her up; and that
she would possess with you those comforts which, for her sake, we are
about to resign. But, if we leave her behind, we part with her ever. She
is too young to remember us; and, without knowing us, how could she love
us?"
"She would be taught to love you."
"Her love would be of a very indefinite character. She would be told
that she had a father and mother in a distant land, and be taught to
mention us daily in her prayers. But where would be the faith, the
endearing confidence, the holy love, with which a child, brought up
under the parental roof, regards the authors of its being. The love
which falls like dew from heaven upon the weary heart, which forms a
balm for every sorrow, a solace for every care,--without its refreshing
influence, what would the wealth of the world be to us?"
Flora's heart swelled, and her eyes filled with tears. The eloquence of
an angel at that moment would have failed in persuading her to part with
her child.
Never did these painful feelings press more heavily on Flora's mind,
than when all was done in the way of preparation; when her work was all
finished, her trunks all packed, her little bills in the town all paid,
her faithful domestics discharged, and nothing remained of active
employment to hinder her from perpetually brooding over the sad prospect
before her.
She went to spend a last day at the old Hall, to bid farewell to the old
familiar haunts, endeared to her from childhood.
"Flora, you must keep up your spirits," said her mother, kissing her
tenderly; "nor let this parting weigh too heavily upon your heart. We
shall all meet again."
"In heaven, I hope, Mother."
"Yes, and on earth."
"Oh, no; it is useless to hope for that. No, never again on earth."
"Always hope for the best, Flora; it is my plan. I have found it true
wisdom. Put on your bonnet, and take a ramble through the garden and
meadows; it will refresh you after so many harassing thoughts. Your
favourite trees are in full leaf, the hawthorn hedges in blossom, and
the nightingales sing every evening in the wood-lane. You cannot feel
miserable among such sights and sounds of beauty in this lovely month of
May, or you are not the same Flora I ever knew you."
"Ah, just the same faulty, impulsive, enthusiastic creature I ever was,
dear mother. No change of circumstances will, I fear, change my nature;
and the sight of these dear old haunts will only deepen the regret I
feel at bidding them adieu."
Flora put on her bonnet, and went forth to take a last look of home.
The Hall was an old-fashioned house, large, rambling, picturesque, and
cold. It had been built in the first year of good Queen Bess. The back
part of the mansion appeared to have belonged to a period still more
remote. The building was surrounded by fine gardens, and lawn-like
meadows, and stood sheltered within a grove of noble old trees. It was
beneath the shade of these trees, and reposing upon the velvet-like
sward at their feet, that Flora had first indulged in those delicious
reveries--those lovely, ideal visions of beauty and perfection--which
cover with a tissue of morning beams all the rugged highways of life.
Silent bosom friends were those dear old trees! Every noble sentiment of
her soul,--every fault that threw its baneful shadow on the sunlight of
her mind,--had been fostered, or grown upon her, in those pastoral
solitudes. Those trees had witnessed a thousand bursts of passionate
eloquence,--a thousand gushes of bitter, heart-humbling tears. To them
had been revealed all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, which
she could not confide to the sneering and unsympathising of her own sex.
The solemn druidical groves were not more holy to their imaginative and
mysterious worshippers, than were those old oaks to the young Flora.
Now the balmy breath of spring, as it gently heaved the tender green
masses of brilliant foliage, seemed to utter a voice of thrilling
lamentation,--a sad, soul-touching farewell.
"Home of my childhood! must I see you no more?" sobbed Flora. "Are you
to become to-morrow a vision of the past? O that the glory of spring was
not upon the earth! that I had to leave you amid winter's chilling
gloom, and not in this lovely, blushing month of May! The emerald green
of these meadows--the gay flush of these bright blossoms--the joyous
song of these glad birds--breaks my heart!"
And the poor emigrant sank down amid the green grass, and, burying her
face among the fragrant daisies, imprinted a passionate kiss upon the
sod, which was never, in time or eternity, to form a resting-place for
her again.
But a beam is in the dark cloud even for thee, poor Flora; thou
heart-sick lover of nature. Time will reconcile thee to the change which
now appears so dreadful. The human flowers destined to spring around thy
hut in that far off wilderness, will gladden thy bosom in the strange
land to which thy course now tends; and the image of God, in his
glorious creation, will smile upon thee as graciously in the woods of
Canada, as it now does, in thy English Paradise. Yes, the hour will
come, when you shall exclaim with fervour,
"Thank God, I am the denizen of a free land; a land of beauty and
progression. A land unpolluted by the groans of starving millions. A
land which opens her fostering arms to receive and restore to his long
lost birthright, the trampled and abused child of poverty: to bid him
stand up a free inheritor of a free soil, who so long laboured for a
scanty pittance of bread, as an ignorant and degraded slave, in the
country to which you now cling with such passionate fondness, and leave
with such heart-breaking regret."
When Flora returned from an extensive ramble through all her favourite
walks, she was agreeably surprised to find her husband conversing with
Mrs. W---- in the parlour. The unexpected sight of her husband, who had
returned to cheer her some days sooner than the one he had named in his
letters, soon restored Flora's spirits, and the sorrows of the future
were forgotten in the joy of the present.
Lyndsay had a thousand little incidents and anecdotes to relate of his
visit to the great metropolis; to which Flora was an eager and delighted
listener. He told her that he had satisfactorily arranged all his
pecuniary matters; and without sacrificing his half-pay, was able to
take out about three hundred pounds sterling, which he thought,
prudently managed, would enable him to make a tolerably comfortable
settlement in Canada,--particularly, as he would not be obliged to
purchase a farm, being entitled to a grant of four hundred acres of wild
land.
He had engaged a passage in a fine vessel that was to sail from Leith,
at the latter end of the week.
"I found, that in going from Scotland," said Lyndsay, "we could be as
well accommodated for nearly half price; and it would give you the
opportunity of seeing Edinburgh, and me the melancholy satisfaction of
taking a last look at the land of my birth."
"One of the London steamers will call for us to-morrow morning, on her
way to Scotland, and I must hire a boat to-night, and get our luggage
prepared for a start. A short notice, dear Flora, to a sad but
inevitable necessity, I thought better for a person of your temperament,
than a long and tedious anticipation of evil. Now all is prepared for
the voyage, delay is not only useless, but dangerous. So cheer up,
darling, and be as happy and cheerful as you can. Let us spend the last
night at home pleasantly together." He kissed Flora so affectionately,
as he ceased speaking, that she not only promised obedience, but
contrived to smile through her tears.
It was necessary for them to return instantly to the cottage, and Flora
took leave of her mother, with a full heart. We will not dwell on such
partings; they
"Wring the blood from out young hearts,"
as the poet has truly described them, making the snows of age
descend upon the rose crowned brow of youth.
Sorrowfully Flora returned to her pretty little cottage, which presented
a scene of bustle and confusion baffling description. Everything was out
of place and turned upside down. Corded trunks and packages filled up
the passages and doorways; and formed stumbling blocks for kind friends
and curious neighbours, who crowded the house. Strange dogs forced their
way in after their masters, and fought and yelped in undisturbed
pugnacity. The baby cried, and no one was at leisure to pacify her, and
a cheerless and uncomfortable spirit filled the once peaceful and happy
home.
Old Captain Kitson was in his glory; hurrying here and there, ordering,
superintending, and assisting the general confusion, without in the
least degree helping on the work. He had taken upon himself the charge
of hiring the boat which was to convey the emigrants on board the
steamer; and he stood chaffering on the lawn for a couple of hours with
the sailors, to whom she belonged, to induce them to take a shilling
less than the sum proposed.
Tired with the altercation, and sorry for the honest tars, Lyndsay told
the master of the boat to yield to the old Captain's terms, and he would
make up the difference. The sailor answered with a knowing wink, and
appeared reluctantly to consent to old Kitson's wishes.
"There, Mrs. Lyndsay, my dear, I told you these fellows would come to my
terms rather than lose a good customer," cried the old man, rubbing his
hands together in an ecstasy of self-gratulation. "Leave me to make a
bargain; the rogues cannot cheat me with their damned impositions. The
_Leaftenant_ is too soft with these chaps; I'm an old sailor--they can't
come over me. I have made them take one _pound_ for the use of their
craft, instead of _one and twenty_ shillings. 'Take care of the pence,'
my dear, 'and the pounds will take care of themselves.' I found that
out, long before poor Richard marked it down in his log."
Then sidling up to Flora, and putting his long nose into her face, he
whispered in her ear,--
"Now, my dear gall, don't be offended with an old friend; but if you
have any old coats or hats that _Leaftenant_ Lyndsay does not think
worth packing up, I shall be very glad of them, for my Charles. Mrs. K.
is an excellent hand at transmogrifying things, and in a large family
such articles never come amiss."
Charles was the Captain's youngest son. A poor idiot, who, thirty years
of age, had the appearance of an overgrown boy. The other members of the
Captain's _large_ family were all married and settled prosperously in
the world. Flora felt truly ashamed of the old man's meanness, but was
glad to repay his trifling services in a way suggested by himself. The
weather for the last three weeks had been unusually fine, but towards
the evening of this memorable 30th of May, large masses of clouds began
to rise in the north-west, and the sea changed its azure hue to a dull
leaden grey. Old Kitson shook his head prophetically.
"There's a change of weather at hand, Mrs. Lyndsay; you may look out for
squalls before six o'clock to-morrow. The wind shifts every minute, and
there's an ugly swell rolling in upon the shore."
"Ah, I hope it will be fine," said Flora, looking anxiously up at the
troubled sky; "it is so miserable to begin a long journey in the rain.
Perhaps it will pass off during the night in a thunder-shower."
The old man whistled, shut one eye, and looked knowingly at the sea with
the other.
"Women know about as much of the weather as your nurse does of handling
a rope. Whew! but there's a gale coming; I'll down to the beach, and
tell the lads to haul up the boats, and make all snug before it bursts,"
and away toddled the old man, full of the importance of his mission.
It was the last night at home--the last social meeting of kindred
friends on this side the grave. Flora tried to appear cheerful, but the
forced smile upon the tutored lips, rendered doubly painful the tears
kept back in the swollen eyes; the vain effort of the sorrowful in heart
to be gay. Alas! for the warm hearts, the generous friendships, the
kindly greetings of dear Old England, when would they be hers again?
Flora's friends at length took leave, and she was left with her husband
alone.