Chapter I: Part 1

*FLORA*

BY

A. L. O. E.

(Charlotte Maria Tucker)

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD.
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT
THE PRESS OF THE PUBLISHERS.

*CONTENTS.*

I. Town and country
II. The village
III. Confession
IV. The rajah's dream
V. Secret influences
VI. The nursery
VII. The touchstone
VIII. Pleasures and pains
IX. The novel
X. Recall
XI. Doubts
XII. Decision
XIII. The mother's trial
XIV. The visit
XV. The wife
XVI. Rising clouds
XVII. Darkening clouds
XVIII. The dark journey
XIX. Conclusion

*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.*

"How are you feeling to-day?" said Flora . . . Frontispiece

Slowly, very slowly, she descended from the carriage

She threw herself on her mother's bosom

"Flora, my love, has anything occurred to distress you?" said the baronet

*FLORA; OR, SELF-DECEPTION.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*TOWN AND COUNTRY.*

"Well, there certainly is a charm in the country!" exclaimed Ada Murray, as, with the assistance of the hand of her companion, she sprang lightly down from a stile on the soft daisy-spangled grass beneath.

"The charm of _novelty_, I suppose," replied Flora.

"Well, I am afraid that I must plead guilty to knowing very little more of rural life than I have gathered from, 'Let me Wander not Unseen.' Ever since I came down here I have been looking out for the shepherds telling tales 'under the hawthorn,' and the village maidens dancing to the sound of the rebeck; but no livelier piece of gaiety can I hear of than a feast to the school-children in a field! I suppose that you could not have archery here?" she added, suddenly, as the thought crossed her mind.

"Oh yes; we have an old bow and some arrows at home, that belonged to my brother."

"Oh, that's not what I mean," replied Ada, laughing; "bows and arrows do not make an archery-meeting, they are a mere excuse for drawing people together. But you don't seem to have any neighbours?"

"How can you say so?" cried Flora, playfully, pointing to a village on their right, nestling amidst elm-trees, above which the spire of a little church gleamed in the evening sun.

"You will not understand me, you malicious little thing! You don't call visiting old women and sickly children, and questioning a prim class of tidy girls in a school-room, seeing anything of society? Have you no neighbours in your own rank of life within ten miles round?"

"Not many," replied Flora; "but a few. There's the clergyman--you have seen him--good old Mr. Ward--"

"Oh yes, I have seen him,--the bald-headed little man, with such a benevolent look and patronising smile, that I quite expected him to pat me on the head and say, 'There's a good little dear!'"

"Naughty little dear, I should say," laughed Flora. "Oh, he is such a kind old friend, and preaches so beautifully, I don't know what we should do without him. We have known him and his dear old lady so long--he was a school-fellow of my dear father. Then there's Captain Lepine--"

"A captain! that sounds more lively. Is he an agreeable individual?"

"Yes; he takes care of my garden, and brings me cuttings of his roses. He's an invalid--"

"Interesting of course."

"And he lost a leg in battle--"

"I hope that he does not stump about on a wooden one; one could hardly stand that, even in a romance. I suppose that he was wounded at Sobraon, or some of those Indian battles with unpronounceable names?"

"No; he was wounded at Navarino."

"Navarino!" exclaimed Ada, with affected horror; "then he must be a century old at the least! Does no one live in this place under eighty years of age?"

"Yes; the doctor and his wife, and half-a-dozen little ones, the eldest not out of the school-room."

"And nobody besides?"

"Mrs. Lacy, the widow of a banker, who occupies the white house which you observe yonder; but she does not see a great deal of society."

"I should think not," observed Ada, drily. "It is a case of 'the Spanish fleet thou canst not see, for it is not in sight.'"

"And she is often ill--"

"With ennui, no doubt."

"Ah! and I was forgetting old Miss Butterfield; we passed her just as we turned into the fields."

"Almost bent into a hoop, like an old witch, and dressed after the fashion of our great-grandmothers. If she had only sported a red cloak in addition to her poke-bonnet, I should have gone and asked her to tell my fortune!"

"Fie! fie! how can you talk so?" cried Flora.

"Well, well, my good coz," exclaimed Ada, as she threw herself down on the roots of a gnarled oak, which, green with moss, offered a tempting seat; "I can only say that I consider you buried alive here--quite buried alive!" she repeated with emphasis, plucking a daisy and pulling it to pieces; "and you so charming and fair, I am always fancying how Eddis would paint you, or whether you have not sat to him already, you are so like one of his soft, saintly beauties!"

"Don't be so absurd," said Flora, colouring.

"Ah! that was all that was wanting, a little heightened blush on the pale white rose," cried Ada, looking with real admiration, perhaps not unmixed with envy, at the fair delicate features before her; for the gipsy hat which Flora wore had fallen back on her shoulders, and as the breeze played amongst her auburn tresses, and the shadow of the young leaves fell on her gentle brow, she looked one whom to behold was to love.

"Come, come," said Flora, willing to change the conversation, which embarrassed her at the time, though, sooth to say, she found her mind frequently recurring to it afterwards, and with no disagreeable sensation; "if you think that to live here is so dreadful, how is it that you can submit for a whole fortnight to be 'buried alive' in the country?"

"Well, my dear, I must not take credit for too sublime heroism. The London season had hardly commenced, not a single dance was in view. I think that the melody of all your nightingales, and the perfume of your flowers, would hardly have tempted me away after Easter."

"And what are the delights which you prize so much?" inquired Flora, with some little curiosity. "You know that I have never spent two days together from my home, that I know nothing of what passes in the world, that though I was born in London, I was so young when we left Golden Square--"

"Golden Square! my dear, never mention such a place, nobody lives in Golden Square."

Flora coloured again, and felt uncomfortable, she scarcely knew why.

"You asked me," continued Ada, "what are the delights of town. It is hard to describe them, they are so utterly different from any which you experience here. Bustle and noise, incessant rattling of carriages and thundering raps at the door, late breakfasts--perhaps in bed--dinner at the hour of your supper; and when you, innocent dear, are retiring to rest, the maid is placing the flowers in my hair, and I am off in a flutter of muslin or tulle, to mount step by step a crowded staircase, and enter some room where it is impossible to move, and barely possible to breathe!"

"And this night after night?" inquired Flora.

"Yes, night after night; that is to say, unless the season is a dull one."

"And do you not feel knocked up in the morning?"

"Well, not inclined for a long country walk through fields garnished with stiles, nor for teaching stupid children in a school, nor for listening to a very sober, sensible book, such as that to which my dear good aunt is treating us; but just inclined to rest on a sofa with a diverting novel in my hand, to chat to amusing visitors, or to fill up the time till dinner with a concert or a botanical fete."

"Ah! these are what I should enjoy," cried Flora; "I am so fond of music and of flowers."

"Dear simplicity, do you imagine that any one goes to a concert to listen, or to a garden to look at the flowers? You go to talk, and to see your friends, and quiz the company, and--kill time!"

"And do you never grow weary?" asked Flora,

"Weary; yes, half tired to death, quite ennuyee; but then the only way to restore one's jaded spirits is to plunge deeper into gaiety; the excitement, and the bustle, and the diversion, become quite a necessity at last."

"It reminds me--but I'll not say of what it reminds me."

"Not say? but you must, and shall. What does it remind you of, little philosopher?"

"The craving which some very vulgar people, to whom I should never dream of comparing my friends, have for another kind of stimulant."

"It is a sort of intoxication, you mean," said Ada, gaily. "I will not deny it; a very pleasant sort of intoxication. I wish that you would come to Grosvenor Square and try it."

Flora gently shook her head.

"What! you are afraid of being contaminated by my evil example, I suppose! You look on gaiety as a dangerous glass of champagne; and have all here taken the pledge not to go beyond a cup of the very weakest green tea?"

"It is not that," said Flora, looking diverted.

"Then I shall carry you off with me--I positively shall; you shall be the belle of the London season; your time shall be crammed so full with engagements, balls, operas, concerts, fetes, that you will scarcely know day from night!"

"I do not think that my mother would approve of that."

"Well, then, you shall go to no place of which your mother, and Mr. Ward, and the whole clerical body from bishop to curate, would not approve. We'll take you to Exeter Hall, and the Museum, and the Royal Institution, panoramas, cycloramas, dioramas! Oh! there is no place like London for opening the mind. A green bud of rusticity expands at once into a full-blown rose there."

"May there not be such things as over-blown roses?"

"No fear; I'll answer for you, coz, if you'll only go back with me to London. Say that you will--only say that you will," and Ada placed her arm caressingly around Flora.

"I really cannot, at present," replied her cousin, "though I should very much enjoy paying you a visit. But it would be impossible for me to quit home just now, when we are expecting my sister-in-law from Barbadoes--"

"Ah! yes; the widow of your half-brother," said Ada. "John married a Creole lady, did he not, rather against the wishes of your poor father?"

Flora bowed her head in assent.

"Then your sister-in-law is a perfect stranger to you?"

"Quite; and as she dislikes her pen, and never answers a letter, we have not even the knowledge of each other which one gains from correspondence."

"I think I heard that there were children," said Ada.

"Yes; four poor dear little orphans."

"And all coming to your home?"

"My mother will welcome them all."

"Ahem! I wish you joy of your West Indian importation. My aunt must have been remarkably fond of her step-son!"

"On the contrary," replied Flora, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, though the birds that twittered on the branches above them were the only living creatures near--"poor John was never anything but a trial to mamma. He behaved very ill to her indeed, at the time when poor dear papa's affairs were settled; he wrote in so insolent a manner; he cost my precious mother such bitter tears when she had been already suffering so much, that no one but an angel, as she is, would ever have forgotten or forgiven his conduct. You do not know how I felt it," continued Flora, her colour rising at the recollection; "I could have better borne unkindness to myself, but insolence to my widowed mother was not to be endured! Yet, no sooner did we hear that John had died, leaving his family poorly provided for, than the heart and home of my mother were opened at once; no feeling was left in her bosom but generous sympathy and compassion; and I believe that she will receive the widow as warmly and tenderly as if she were her own cherished child."

"That _is_ Christianity!" exclaimed Ada. "Ah! if profession and practice thus always went hand in hand--if 'good people,' as they are called, were always really good, they would win a great deal more respect from the world than they do now, and have a great deal more influence in it besides! But what I can't bear is, when people talk as though they believed themselves to be saints and all the rest of the world sinners, and look as though they thought it wicked to smile or raise their voice above a whisper; and when you come really to know them, when you can glance a little behind the curtain, they are as selfish, and avaricious, and mean, and spiteful, as the veriest worldling in creation! This is what disgusts one, and inclines one to set down great profession at once as hypocrisy!"

"My mother says that it is more by our lives than by our lips that we should show what we are, and to whom we belong," was Flora's quiet reply.

*CHAPTER II.*

*THE VILLAGE.*

"Now, charming as I find this mossy seat, and the waving boughs, and the lights and shadows, and the beautiful view before me, and, above all, the lovely companion beside me, it strikes my unpoetical mind," said Ada, "that if we sit longer here, we may find rheumatism added to other country delights."

Flora sprang up at once from her seat. "I quite forgot that you were not a country lass like myself," she said; "as it must be almost tea-time now, perhaps we had better return home."

"Dinner at one, tea at six--how deliciously old-fashioned and rural!"

"Would you object to return by the village? I wished to inquire for poor old Mrs. Arkwright?"

"Object! I am only too much delighted to go where there is anything stirring, be it only a baker's cart!"

"I think that some day, Ada, I must introduce you to some of my favourite poor people."

"I must get up a little appropriate small-talk first," laughed her cousin. "I should feel almost as much out of my element in a cottage as one of your plough-boys would do in a ball-room. I could neither speak of amusements, nor fashions, nor pictures, nor parties; I cannot imagine what one would say after the first 'Good morning' and the usual observations on the weather."

"Oh! how diverting it would be," cried Flora, with sudden animation, "to set you to teach a class at the school!"

"I'd make it a dancing-class at once, and substitute graceful courtesies for the little short bob which always reminds me of Jack in the box; and the little boys should learn to make elegant bows, instead of pulling down their own heads by tugging at the fore-locks!"

"You would not be so hard upon the simple salutations of our little rustics, Ada, had you seen our village in the old time, when a bob or a bow was an unheard-of piece of politeness."

"It is a very pretty village," said Ada, as the picturesque row of white cottages opened on their view; the latticed windows glowing bright in the sun's setting rays, the small neat gardens gay with many a flower; while in the foreground the church, of simple but graceful architecture, raised its glittering spire towards heaven.

"It was a very different place twelve years ago," said Flora, "when my dear parents first came to reside here. There was not a church then within four miles, and the people here lived in a state of almost heathen darkness. The cottages were miserable hovels, I have heard, and seemed purposely contrived to keep out sun and air, and admit the snow and the rain. Half of the children had never been baptized, and ran about bare-foot and bare-headed, as dirty and as ignorant as the very pigs with which they associated! The only thriving establishments were the ale-houses, and the character of the place was altogether so bad that it was really dangerous to be out after dark."

"And what worked such a wonderful change?"

"Oh, everything was gradually done, by patience and untiring zeal and benevolence. My dear father expended much money, and more time, in improving the dwellings of the poor, combating prejudices, inviting the lazy to exertion, raising a spirit of order. My mother exerted herself amongst the women. They regarded her with suspicion at first, and were very jealous of interference. They seemed to consider it as their privilege to be ragged and dirty. But nothing could withstand the power of her gentleness and kindness. The first great step was gathering some of the children to a little class in our own house."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ada, "and could your mother really endure to have a set of ragged, bare-footed little wretches, with unwashed faces and uncombed hair, in her house?"

"She not only endured them, but she loved them; and soon, very soon, they were neither ragged nor untidy. A smile and a word from mamma accomplished more than a long lecture from another would have done. As the children learned to read, they carried Bibles and little religious publications into their parents' miserable homes: gradually a taste for reading was produced, and my father took care that it should be gratified by useful and improving works. All this time my parents were making every effort to collect subscriptions for building and endowing a church--regular schools followed, until at length our poor village became the dear, peaceful, happy little place that you behold it now."

"Well," cried Ada, "it must have given your parents a great deal of pleasure to see all the good that they had done."

"You do admit then," said Flora, archly, "that even the country may have its pleasures?"

"Yes; but only think at what a price the pleasure was purchased! Only think of the misery of being imprisoned in a place quite out of the world, with no society at all; your only occupation--picking your way into dirty hovels through rivers of mud, tumbling over ragged urchins, lecturing poachers and sheep-stealers, coaxing and coddling sick old women, and then returning home to write begging-letters for subscriptions to friends who are sure to have 'so many calls' that they wish you at Nova Zembla for adding another!"

Ada interrupted herself as a sweet golden-haired little boy lifted the latch of the gate of a tiny garden, and timidly, as if abashed by the presence of a stranger, offered a bunch of violets to Flora. She received them as graciously as though they had been a chaplet of pearls, and her words of thanks made the face of the child radiant with joy.

"Quite a chivalrous attention," said Ada, as they moved on.

"Oh, my children love me, and often bring me their little offerings. On my birth-day our myrtle was quite covered with their garlands of early spring flowers."

She now stopped at the door of a cottage and knocked. A feeble "Come in" sounded from the interior, and she entered, followed by Ada, who gathered together the folds of her silk dress, afraid to let them come in contact with the walls of the lowly dwelling. But her own luxurious home could not have presented a picture of more perfect cleanliness and neatness than that humble abode; there was nothing to shock even the refined taste of a lady of fashion.

An aged woman, in a snowy cap, was seated in an arm-chair beside a small fire; while a woman who had been engaged in ironing, paused in her occupation to drop a humble courtesy to Flora.

"How are you feeling to-day?" said Flora, in a tone of gentlest sympathy, approaching the invalid, and laying her soft fingers on the thin wrinkled hand that feebly grasped the arm of the chair.

"All the better for a sight of your sweet face--blessings on it! But I'm going--going fast! I shall soon be in my home. God be praised for His mercies!"

Ada sat down on the wooden three-legged stool which the washerwoman, after wiping it with her apron, placed for her accommodation, and listened silently and wonderingly to the dialogue between the aged woman and her visitor. There was no forced conversation, no difficulty in finding themes for discourse. Their subjects were the highest, the most solemn, the most interesting which can occupy the minds of immortals. Mrs. Arkwright was near the grave, and she knew it. She was calmly standing on the brink of the Jordan awaiting the signal from the Lord whom she had loved, and leaning upon the staff of His promise, "_When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee_."

Ada had ever connected the idea of death with terror and gloom. The struggle, the darkness, the parting from everything once prized, the hatchment, the hearse with its black nodding plumes, the cold desolation of the grave,--such were the images brought to her mind by the word; and she had turned from them with repugnance and horror. But here she beheld death in a totally different aspect, as a freedom from sorrow, a commencement of bliss, a reunion with all most beloved, a summons to the presence of an adored Redeemer, a welcome to the home of a Father!

Ada had imagined that those of her own class only entered the cottages of the poor to convey help to the needy, or instruction to the ignorant; but she beheld here that the rich in visiting the poor may receive as well as impart, that she whose mind is cultivated and refined may well sit as a learner beside the lowly saint whose only knowledge is the knowledge of the Saviour. Flora listened more than she spoke. For some time the feeble voice of the dying woman alone broke the stillness of the place, till, at her earnest request that the young lady would let her hear once more--for the last time--her favourite hymn for the departing, in accents which trembled with emotion Flora sang the following verses:--

HYMN FOR THE DYING.

The day of life is closing,
Its last faint beams have fled;
Yet faith, on Christ reposing,
Can death's cold waters tread!
The dark sea spreads before me,
Upon the brink I stand,
Oh, guide me, Lord of glory!
To heaven's blissful strand!
To Thee, Lord, I flee;
My trust is in Thee.
O death! where is thy sting? O grave! thy victory?

No longer here detain me;
I hear my Saviour's voice,
I feel His arm sustain me,
I triumph and rejoice!
The Lord will bless for ever
Those who His love have known
Nor life nor death can sever
The Saviour from His own!
Victorious and free
His people shall be.
O death! where is thy sting? O grave! thy victory?

After receiving the solemn, fervent blessing of the sufferer, Flora quitted the cottage, followed by her companion. Ada felt that she had been standing on holy ground; she was awed for the moment, sobered by the scene of which she had been a witness. Did she envy her cousin that dying blessing?

At the gate of Mrs. Arkwright's little garden they were met by the silver-haired clergyman, evidently on his way to visit the suffering member of his flock.

"Just where I should have expected to meet our Flora," he said, with a beaming expression on his benevolent face.

He courteously greeted Ada, to whom he had before been introduced, and expressed his hope that her visit to the country would be a prolonged one.

"Oh no! I leave Laurel Bank at the end of next week; and I wish," Ada added, laying her hand on her cousin's arm, "to carry away Flora with me."

"Carry away our Flora," cried the old clergyman, shaking his head; "would you rob our poor village of its sunshine?"

Flora and Ada walked on some way in silence. "I wonder," thought the latter, "who would miss me were I to go to New Zealand to-morrow! Would there be one smile the less amid my gay companions? would I leave a blank in the brilliant assemblies which I have frequented so long? should I be more regretted than one of the flowers which deck the ball-room for a night, to be thrown aside withered and faded in the morning? After all, I am not certain whether Flora's life is not happier than mine; at least I suspect that it will be pleasanter to look back upon when youth and all its follies are past!"

*CHAPTER III.*

*CONFESSION.*

"Did you not admire the sermon?" said Flora to Ada, as, during the interval between services on Sunday, the two cousins strolled through the shrubbery.

"Mr. Ward was very earnest."

"Was he not?--and so eloquent! he is a very delightful preacher! You don't know how we missed him when he went away last winter for a few months. We had such a dreadful man, with a sepulchral voice, really, I know it was very wrong, but I could scarcely keep awake while he preached." And the young lady went on describing the messenger of the gospel in much the same terms as Ada would have used in speaking of an actor whom she did not admire.

"But Mr. Ward is so different," she said in conclusion. "I was quite delighted with his sermon; were not you?"

"To own the truth, it made me feel a little uncomfortable," replied Ada.

"That is a compliment to the preacher's power," said Flora, with a smile. "I never heard him speak more forcibly than he did to-day on the parable of the sower."

"And you were delighted with the sermon because all the last part of it belonged to yourself,--all the beautiful description of the good seed springing up."

Flora gave a little deprecating "Oh!"

"While I was wondering which part applied to me--"

"And which did you fix upon?" said Flora; she was smiling, but Ada was grave.

"I am afraid," said the young lady with a little sigh, "that I am most like the seed among the thorns."

"Oh no, dear!" cried Flora, through whose mind the same reflection had been passing during the greater part of the sermon.

"I am not always thoughtless," said Ada earnestly, "when I was a little girl how I used to cry over the story of the Young Cottager, and wish that I were like little Jane! and now often, on Sundays, when I hear a beautiful sermon like that of this morning, I feel like a different creature, really quite religious, and go to bed with such good resolutions; but then comes the morrow, and somehow I forget all about them till Sunday comes round again."

Flora was silent, for she knew not what to reply.

"You are so good, so unselfish, so unworldly--so altogether unlike me!"

"My dear Ada, you are a sad flatterer!"

"But every one thinks the same: your mother, the clergyman, all who approach you see that you are an angel, only wanting the wings! When I heard you repeating the confession of sins so fervently beside me, I could not help saying to myself, I wonder what Flora has to confess; how, by any stretch of imagination, she can believe herself to be a 'miserable sinner?'"

"Ada, we are all sinners."

"Ah yes; I know that there is plenty of wickedness in the world, but then it is very unequally divided. Some have so little for their share that it is actually invisible--like yours! Now what I wish you to tell me is this, when you follow the clergyman in that part of the service, are you confessing the sins of your neighbours in general, or any of your own in particular?"

"You are jesting," said Flora, looking embarrassed.

"No indeed, I am not jesting, I am in very sober earnest. I want to know with what you can possibly charge yourself when you pray for forgiveness so devoutly."

"Do you wish the office of a father confessor?"

"Now, like a dear good child, just answer my question, or I shall think that you do not because you cannot."

Flora hesitated;--strange to say, it was a subject on which she was little accustomed to reflect. Through habit she had repeated prayers aloud, and her voice had acquired an intonation which naturally gave an impression of fervour; but she had never thought of questioning her own heart as to the sincerity of her prayer, or the real existence of that earnest devotion which was expressed in her manner. As little had she dreamed of inquiring what particular sins lay on her conscience! the truth is, that the burden, if she had any, was so light, that she could scarcely be said to feel it. Ada, however, pressed for a reply; and afraid that her cousin might suspect her of self-righteousness if she remained silent, Flora, casting down her eyes, made answer--"I know that I sometimes neglect my duties and put them off to a more convenient time."

"What duties, may I ask?"

"Such as visiting the sick poor."

Ada threw up her hands in amazement. "Why, it seems to me there is nothing here but attending to the poor from morning till night--cutting out work for the school, carrying broth to old women, lecturing little boys, visiting, reading--"

"Ah! that is my mother's doing more than mine."

"My dear child, you do enough to constitute you a saint in any Romish calendar! If you have to repent of not doing more, what is to become of me who do nothing at all! Pray let us have some more tangible fault, if the microscope of your conscience is sufficiently strong to discover one in your conduct."

"I am sometimes out of patience with the school children."

"I should think so--though I never saw you impatient; but what can be so trying to the temper as teaching a batch of stupid rustics? You are only too good in having anything to say to the little dunces! Well, have you come to the end of your catalogue?"

Flora waited for some moments before she added, with a little sigh, "Sometimes I wish for things which I ought not to wish for."

"There's no harm in wishing," said Ada quickly. "I wish for a thousand things every day: a harp, a diamond cross, a trip to Italy, a good horse--there is no end to my wishing, and it does nobody harm."

"There sounds the bell for afternoon church," said Flora, rather relieved by the interruption.

"I hope that you go in a very penitent frame!" cried Ada. The light words of the thoughtless girl did not grate on the ear of her companion as they ought to have done--as they would have done had Flora's views been clearer, her knowledge greater, her self-examination more searching. Rather did they give a sensation of pleasure; for while Flora felt herself inferior to her cousin in knowledge of the world, and instinctively looked up to Ada in every matter of fashion, she was conscious of possessing a great superiority in whatever regarded the mind or the heart, and secretly compassionated the young London lady as worldly, frivolous, and ignorant of spiritual things. How far Ada deserved her cousin's silent censure, I will not at present inquire; my subject is Flora herself--it is for such as Flora that my little book is written, for the thousands and tens of thousands who, in our peaceful, happy island, lead useful lives in the bosom of pious families, enjoying all the blessings of home. It is such whose patient consideration I would earnestly, affectionately entreat, as I endeavour to search a little deeper than the surface, which appears so fair, to see whether the ore which lies below is as precious as the landscape is lovely; whether--to change the metaphor--the seed of the Word has really fallen in honest and good ground, and is bringing forth a harvest of good works through the blessing shed on it from on high.

To prosecute our search, we must assume the power of looking more closely into the heart of Flora than she has ever looked herself, and to trace her actions to their source, as she never has dreamed of tracing them.

Flora was the beloved and only child of a devoted Christian. From her birth she had been the subject of many prayers, and religion had been instilled into her mind from the time when she could first lisp the name of the Saviour. Great had been the delight of her tender mother to see the first dawnings of religious perception in the mind of her child. Great was her pride, if one so meek could be proud, to mark the pleasure taken by Flora in her Bible; who can wonder if she did not closely analyze whether that pleasure arose from a desire to win her smile, or simple love of the truth! Flora was gifted by nature with a sweet and easy temper, and in the secluded life which she led there was seldom anything to ruffle it. She had also a warm affectionate heart, and as its tenderness was lavished upon her mother, duties toward her were regarded as delights--Flora pleased herself in pleasing her parent.

One of the strongest features in Flora's character was the love of approbation; and carefully guarded as she ever had been from any influence that could injure her, this passion, often so dangerous, so fatal, ever wore the semblance of virtue. It was so charming to be loved and admired; to be praised by the clergyman, looked up to by the poor, considered as a model of piety and charity! Flora was little aware that, in her life of seclusion, love of variety, necessity for occupation, desire to find some object of interest, might suffice to lead her to the dwellings of the poor, without any higher motive. She would have been startled to have been told how much of vanity mingled with her benevolent zeal. She had a floating idea, just in itself, but injurious in its effect on her mind, that woman never looks so heavenly fair as when engaged in offices of mercy; she had a consciousness that her own delicate loveliness never showed to greater advantage than when contrasted with squalid poverty and sickly age; and when others compared her to a seraph or a sunbeam, the words which brought the soft colour to her cheek and the modest disclaimer to her lips, were by no means distasteful to her heart, nor were they altogether condemned by her secret judgment.

There was one other circumstance which further blinded Flora to her own imperfections. She had a refined and elegant taste, cultivated and improved by voluminous reading. Her natural love for the beautiful led her to enjoy with enthusiasm all that was perfect in nature or art. The rapture with which fine scenery inspired her, the sensation produced in her by sacred music or burst of eloquence from the pulpit, she mistook, as thousands have done, for proofs of a renewed and pious heart. Could she have doubted her own deeds of charity, she could not doubt her tears of devotion, though the sensibility which called them forth would have been equally excited by a well-acted tragedy.

Flora had a talent for poetry, and naturally chose for the usual theme of her verse the most sublime and glorious of subjects, and that which the circumstances of her education and position most constantly presented to her mind. She knew that her sweet hymns were read with delight by her mother, copied out in her handwriting, treasured in her memory, looked upon by the pious lady as evidences that her dearest hopes had been realized in her daughter. Flora's poetry was regarded as the exposition of her mind. Alas! her writings were far more holy than their authoress! Thus a false opinion was formed of her character, aided in no small degree by the singular sweetness of a face upon which no rude passion had ever traced a line.

When the course of duty is down the current of inclination, the leafy branch floats smoothly along the stream. _But that motion is not life;_ that progress is owing to no inherent power in the bough. The least impediment is sufficient to stop it--the smallest eddy to turn it aside!

*CHAPTER IV.*

*THE RAJAH'S DREAM.*

"I made such a discovery!" exclaimed Ada, with a look of triumph, as she entered the drawing-room one morning. "Ah, Flora! demure, sensible, philosophical Flora--you who listen to Alison with such profound attention, and whose brain is a silent library of solid and intellectual literature, I have found you out at last!"

"What do you mean?" asked Flora, gaily, while gentle Mrs. Vernon looked up with an expression of inquiry.

"You don't read novels! Oh no; you are too wise! But who keeps Eastern tales in her boudoir, quietly hidden behind a vase of Innocent flowers, to feast upon when nobody sees her?" And Ada displayed a book, in singular binding, which she had carried off from the room of her cousin.

"Oh, I have not had time to read it yet! It is a book which Mr. Ward lent me."

"Mr. Ward! Now, that is too good! Who would have dreamed of Mr. Ward's patronizing a new edition of the Arabian Nights?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Vernon, "I have no doubt that any book lent by our excellent clergyman will be very improving."

"Oh, I'm so glad that you think, so, for this looks amusing besides! I propose that for one day--you know that this is my last day at Laurel Bank--we substitute it for Alison."

"As you please," said Mrs. Vernon, taking the quaint volume from the hand of her niece, and turning over some of the pages. "This appears to be a kind of Eastern fable."

"Then I'll have the story, and Flora shall have the moral, and we'll both be suited exactly."

In a few minutes the young ladies were seated, Ada at her embroidery, Flora at her drawing, when Mrs. Vernon, who was usually the reader, commenced the following tale:--

THE RAJAH'S DREAM.

Mighty was the Rajah Futtey Sing, and great were the deeds which he had done. His granaries overflowed with corn, and his coffers with gold; the hungry were fed by his beneficence, and the needy supplied by his wealth. He was like a magnificent banyan-tree, whose branches having stooped to the earth, there take root, and extending on all sides, the tree becomes as a forest. Beneath it the beasts of the field take shelter; the bright-winged birds roost on its boughs; the sunshine rests brightly upon it; it stands glorious and beautiful to the eye of man.

The Rajah lay reclined on cushions in his lordly dwelling. The calm of evening was over earth; the red orb of the sun had almost touched the horizon; he seemed glancing, ere he departed, on the world which his beams had clothed with brightness and beauty; and a calm was upon the soul of the Rajah--a joy was within his heart. He said to himself, where he lay--"I have been a blessing in my generation; I have gone on my course like the sun, and the world has been the brighter for my smile. I have benefited man, and I have glorified the Supreme. I have fasted long and I have prayed much; I have wasted my flesh by abstinence, and spent the long night in devotion. And now, am I not holy? May I not stand upright before my Creator? Are not my hands stainless? Is not my heart clean? Who can lay anything to my charge?"

A Brahmin in his white robes now entered, and bent reverently before the Rajah.

"Friend of the needy!" said he, "thy will hath been obeyed! In nine different parts of thy spacious domains, nine wells, dug deep into the heart of the earth, now offer their waters to the pilgrim, plenteous as thy liberality, clear as thy nature."

"It is well!" cried the Rajah. "Let their number be trebled! Let the travellers from the north, from the east, from the west, bless the name of Rajah Futtey Sing."

Another Brahmin approached, and made obeisance.

"Hope of the friendless!" said he, "behold, at thy command three hundred indigent and sick, the leper and the blind, wait at thy gate for the accustomed alms bestowed by thy princely bounty!"

"It is well!" cried the Rajah. "Let their numbers be thrice three hundred! Let no poor man stand hungry at my gate. To supply the wants of the needy shall my fields grow yellow with golden maize, and the rice-plant lift its head above the spreading waters; and let those who come to me in rags retire in fair white garments such as are worn by my servants!"

A third Brahmin entered, and bowed his head before the Rajah.

"Mirror of piety!" said he, "the foundation of the great temple has been laid which thou wilt raise to the honour of the Deity. Stones are being hewn in the distant quarry; yellow brass is brought from afar; an edifice is rising from the earth which will be lofty as thy devotion, firm as thy power!"

"Leave the stones in the quarry, and hew me white marble!" cried the Rajah; "lay aside the brass, and supply its place with beaten gold. No mean sacrifice will I offer to the Creator; he shall look upon my gifts and be satisfied, and future generations shall witness the vastness of my liberality and of my devotion!"

And all who heard exclaimed, "Praise to the Rajah! Praise to the pious and the holy! High is his place in this life; higher shall be his place in the next! His offerings shall be accepted on high; his prayers and his fasting shall bring great reward! Wisdom is on his lips and virtue in his heart. He stands faultless before God and man!"

The red sun had sunk beneath the plain, and darkness spread her sable wings over earth. There was silence where the axe and hammer had rung, in the spot where the temple was rising; the poor had departed satisfied from the gate, and no pilgrim bending to drink of the wells dug by Futtey Sing disturbed the image of the quiet stars that were reflected in their motionless depths.

Sleep came to the Rajah with the night; and as his eye closed to the world around, the eye of his mind opened to the world of dreams.

Behold, he dreamed that his temple was completed, and that it was fairer to look upon than ever before was temple erected by man. Its marble dome and cupolas were white as snow from the summit of the Himalaya. It was encrusted with precious jewels in every form which could charm the eye. There the diamond glittered like a petrified dewdrop; there shone the ruby, and the sapphire blue as the Nerbuddah; and wreaths of pearls of magnificent size twined round the lofty pillars of gold!

In this temple stood the Rajah in his dream; and his heart was lifted up with pride. He looked above, around, below him, and all was beautiful and glorious. "Am I not holy?" he repeated to himself. "Shall I not rejoice in my works?"

He wondered in his dream to behold a bright ray, more intense than any which the sun ever shed, stream down from an opening in the dome; and down this ray, as down a path of glory, descended a being who would have been too bright to be looked upon, had her form not been shrouded in a wide veil, which encircled her like a silver cloud. The Rajah trembled as the unearthly visitant descended to his side.

"Who art thou," he cried, "that comest as from above? and wherefore do I behold thee?"

"I am Truth," replied a sweet but solemn voice from the veil, for the face of the bright one was not seen. "It is my office to open the eyes of the blind, to draw aside the curtain of delusion, to dispel the mirage upon the desert, to waken mortals from the dreams of their fancy. Hast thou, O Futtey Sing, courage to follow me--courage to explore, with me for thy guide, this Temple of the Human Heart?--for what we now survey is thine own."

The Rajah paused in his dream; a strange feeling of awe was on his soul.

"Dost thou fear," pursued Truth, "to know thyself?"

"I fear not," replied the Rajah. "He who knows not himself knows nothing. I shrink not even from thy searching eye! I have fasted long, have prayed much, I have freely given to the poor; my hands are stainless, my heart is clean; I am holy in the sight of all men!"

"But in the sight of God what art thou?" exclaimed Truth. "Ye see not the motes in the air, though numerous as the leaves of the forest, till the glowing ray reveal them to the eye. The river seems to flow stainless and clear, till the wondrous microscope displays to the view a hundred loathsome reptiles enclosed in every drop that glitters beneath the sun! But if thou fearest not to know that which it most concerns thee to know, follow me, and thine eyes shall be opened!"

She led him to the lofty entrance of the temple, from whence they could gaze into the fair garden which surrounded it.

"We will not now speak of thy sins," said Truth; "perhaps thou deemest that thou art defiled by none. But show me first, O Rajah! thy virtues, that, if they merit the favour of the Deity, I may join my praises to those of all men."

Then the heart of Futtey Sing revived, for the topic of his virtues was ever sweet to him; and even if his life could be proved to be not quite free from sins, his merits, he felt assured, would far outweigh them.

So in his dream he beheld before him three fair and lofty trees, bending beneath the weight of the fruit which loaded their branches. The eye of the Rajah brightened as he gazed on them, and, turning to Truth, he exclaimed: "Lo! these are the trees of love to God and love to man, and thou knowest that they are mine! Behold how they are loaded with fruit, so that the boughs bend down to the earth! There is the first, that bears _deeds of beneficence_, rosy as the clouds at sunrise. The second bears _deeds of justice_, in ripe clusters of shining gold. The third bears _deeds of self-denial_, resting like snow-flakes on the dark leaves." And as he spake, again he seemed to hear the voices of men blending in loud chorus together,--"Praise to the Rajah! praise to the holy and the pious! High as is his place in this life, higher shall be his place in the next Wisdom is on his lips, and virtue in his heart; he stands faultless before God and man!"

"When I passed by the trees of love to God and love to man"--such was the reply of Truth--"I looked, and beheld they were barren: they bare neither blossom nor fruit. Whence, then, are these clusters, red, yellow, and white? Are they indeed fruits which grow on the trees, or have they been placed there to charm and to deceive? Has the sap of life swelled them, the sweet juices filled? Approach, O Rajah! the tree upon which hang the rosy clusters; for methinks it is the _love of praise_ that has placed on it seeming _deeds of beneficence_!"

She approached it without motion of foot or of wing, gliding towards it like a cloud impelled by breezes; and even thus, in his dream, did Futtey Sing appear carried on beside her. She stretched out her hand towards the fair and stately tree, and even as she stretched it, down fell the rosy shower of fruit like hail, reddening the ground on which they lay. Not one remained fixed upon the branches!

"They grew not upon the holy tree," cried the bright one; "_love of praise_ had but fastened them on, and the waxen fastening melted at the approach of Truth! Thy alms were not given from love to God; thy alms were not given from love to man; they were done to be seen, they were done to be praised, and surely thou hast had thy reward! Fool, fool! dost thou claim merit for this? Lo! the dust of earth hath defiled thy _deeds of beneficence_!"

Futtey Sing heaved a sigh of bitter disappointment; he had deceived others, but himself had been most deceived.

Then, irresistibly impelled by Truth, the Rajah approached the fair and stately tree upon which hung the golden clusters. Truth stretched forth her hand, and, even as she stretched it, down fell the yellow shower of fruit like hail, gilding the ground on which they lay. Not one remained fixed upon the branches.

"They grew not on the holy tree," cried the bright one; "_interest_ had but fastened them on, and the waxen fastenings melted at the approach of Truth! Well has it been said by the wise--'_Man judges of our motives by our actions, God judges of our actions by our motives_!' Thou knewest that the strength of thy throne was justice; and therefore, O Rajah, wert thou just! Surely thou hast had thy reward! Fool, fool! dost thou claim merit for this? Lo! the dust of earth hath defiled thy _deeds of justice_!"

And Futtey Sing sighed more heavily than before; he had deceived others, but himself had been most deceived.

So in his dream the Rajah approached the third tree, the fair and stately tree upon which hung the milk-white clusters, the _deeds of self-denial_! Truth stretched forth her hand, and, even as she stretched it, down fell the snowy shower of fruit like hail, whitening the ground on which they lay. Not one remained on the branches!

"They grew not on the holy tree," cried the bright one; "_pride_ had but fastened them on, and the waxen fastenings melted at the approach of Truth! Thou didst feel exalted in thine own eyes by thy humiliations, thy fastings and thy oblations raised thee in thine own sight above the level of common men. Surely thou hast had thy reward! Fool, fool! dost thou claim merit for this? Lo! the dust of the earth hath defied thy deeds of _self-denial_!"

Then Futtey Sing groaned aloud; he had deceived others, but himself had been most deceived.

"What see I yonder," said Truth, "on the marble before the porch of thy temple? Every bird of goodly plumage appears to be there, with wings of emerald and sapphire, and necks of changing hues, like the varied colours of the opal Tell me, O Futtey Sing! what are these?"

Again the spirit of the Rajah revived--again his heart throbbed with a feeling of pride, as he gave answer in his dream: "These are the thousands of prayers which I have uttered, at morn, at noon, and at the hour of sunset. Have I not worn the marble with my knees? nay, have I not stolen the hours from sleep, and with the voice of my supplication pierced the dull air of night! These, my prayers, like birds of strong wing, shall rise above the clouds, appear for me before the eternal throne, and draw down a blessing from on high!"

"Yea," replied Truth, "the Supreme loves to receive the prayers of his people. The faintest sigh from a true, humble heart, mounts far beyond the twinkling stars. But wherefore rest thine upon the ground? Will they not take flight at our approach? Are their goodly wings so clogged that they cannot rise?"

And Futtey Sing trembled as they drew nigh to the porch of his temple; and the light which gleamed through the silvery veil of Truth fell on the types of his prayers. Lo! death had breathed on the birds whose plumage looked so bright from afar! Stiff and cold, with ruffled feathers, they lay on the marble! A few, but a few, with some feeble show of life, fluttered their pinions and rose for a little way from earth, then sank down again as though these pinions were of lead! And many others were already corrupted by decay, so that the Rajah shrank from the touch of them as from pollution!

"Are these, then, thy merits!" exclaimed Truth; "thy lifeless prayers that rise not to Heaven--the prayers which thou fearest to examine! Here is the form, but where is the life--the outside show, but the spirit is wanting! Thou hast never uttered one real and acceptable prayer, for the first petition that can rise as on an eagle's wing from guilty man to his Creator is the petition for mercy--the first cry that brings down a blessing is the cry, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'"

The Rajah bowed his head and was silent

"Let us return into the Temple of the Heart," said Truth. "But a small portion of it can be seen by thee: it has deep recesses, which can never be explored but by the eye of Omniscience; yet mayst thou learn something by the quest."