Chapter II: Part 2

Then reluctantly, yet drawn on by invisible power, Futtey Sing re-entered through the porch of the temple.

The place seemed strangely changed, as places do change in dreams. The gold on the pillars was dim, the silver was tarnished and blackened; where jewels had shone there were spots, and spots upon the pavement of marble.

"What are these spots?" cried the Rajah; "I behold them wherever I turn my eye, staining the wall, specking the floor, numerous as a flight of locusts, which darken the earth as with a cloud!"

"These are the evil words of thy lips," replied Truth; "every day has added to the number, and well mayst thou compare them to locusts, whose myriads blacken the plain. Thou hast deemed that a word once spoken hath passed away from thee for ever, because thou seest not its shape on the air, nor its shadow on the ground; but every one is remembered and recorded. Each hasty word of anger has fallen like a red drop, not to be washed away; every word of profanity or pride like a black drop, whose stain lies deep on the soul; nay, every idle and foolish word hath left its mark--and who, O Futtey Sing! shall number them?"

Then the Rajah started and trembled. "What are these unclean birds," he cried, "that swoop round my head, filling the air with the rustle of their flight; and these winged reptiles and creeping ones that cross my path, unsightly and loathsome to behold?"

"These are the evil thoughts that have haunted thy heart ever since thy mind opened to knowledge--thoughts of pride, thoughts of covetousness, of malice, envy, and impurity. Thou didst think them gone for ever, like the track of a vessel through the waves, or of a vulture through the air; but they live in the sight of the Omniscient, before whom the past and the future form but one infinite present."

I hen Futtey Sing wrung his hands in despair. "Who then can say, I have made my heart clean?" he exclaimed; "where is the being who is faultless before God? In vain shall we seek for the righteous upon earth; there is none who is holy, none!" And from the dome above, and from the earth beneath, a hollow echo repeated "_None!_"

"Behold here!" cried Truth, and she touched the wan, and the face of the marble was changed to glass, and a wide mirror appeared before them. "If thou wouldst know more, look into this, and see some of thy sins of _omission_!"

Then the mirror became crowded with figures; and though his eyes ached as he gazed, the Rajah could not choose but look. Fast scene succeeded to scene, and each shot a pang through his heart. He saw evils that he had winked at--duties that he had overlooked--the proud oppressing the weak--the hand of the magistrate closing on the bribe--the quiet, uncomplaining poor left to suffer neglected, while idle mendicants absorbed the stream of charity which should have flowed to bless them! Futtey Sing often had dwelt with complacence on the good which he had done: he started to behold how much he had left undone. He groaned and hid his face in his hands.

"Thou hast beheld some of thy sins of _omission_," cried Truth; "shall I now show thee the sins which thou hast committed?"

"No, no!" exclaimed the Rajah; "I have seen enough, and too much! I have seen enough to humble me in dust and ashes--to make me know myself blind, wretched, and guilty! Why," he continued, bitterly, "why hast thou come to break my peace--to poison my happiness in the very temple which I have erected to the Deity? Mean and polluted it may be, but still it hath been raised to his honour."

"Is God then enthroned in this temple?" replied Truth. "It cannot be, or the presence of divine purity would have purified even it. Self-deceiver! thou standest now in the centre of the temple--thou standest at the foot of the shrine; lift up thine eyes and behold the object of thy worship--behold the Idol which thou hast adored all thy days!"

Futtey Sing glanced up; the pedestal was lofty--on image of clay was on the summit. He saw the idol, and he knew it; he saw the effigy of himself, dressed in the robes of his pride, and he fell on his face with a cry.

"To exalt self have thy good deeds been performed--to exalt self has been the motive of thy actions--to exalt self has been the object of thy life! And will the Supreme see His rightful throne in the heart given to another? Will not His lightning strike down the idol?"

It seemed as though the words shook the earth beneath their feet; it shuddered, it reeled, it heaved. It seemed as though the words awakened the thunders above their heads; they rolled, they burst, they roared in the sky. The walls trembled, rent, fell with a fearful crash, as if to bury the sinner beneath their ruins; while a vivid flash of forked lightning darted from the heavens, struck the idol of Self, and laid it prostrate in the dust.

"Save me! I perish! I perish!" exclaimed the Rajah; and with that cry of terror he awoke.

*CHAPTER V.*

*SECRET INFLUENCES.*

Mrs. Vernon closed the book. Various comments were made on the story. The question was discussed whether it were really a translation from an Eastern composition, or the work of a Christian author, who had chosen to adopt the peculiarities of the Oriental style. Flora was decidedly of the latter opinion, and showed so well the grounds upon which her judgment was formed, that she completely won over her opponent, Ada, and closed the discussion in triumph.

Was, then, Flora's position so entirely different from that of the self-righteous Rajah that his story afforded her nothing more than a field for intellectual exercise?

It was with Flora as it is with many that have been brought up in what is called "the religious world." She had heard so much, read so much, talked so much, on spiritual subjects, that she had acquired a certain amount of theological knowledge, which not only supplied the place of deep heart-devotion, but blinded her to her own want of it. Flora never for one moment during her life had felt her soul in danger, or doubted that she was walking in the narrow path which her widowed mother so faithfully trod. The warnings which she heard in sermons she constantly applied to others. She read serious works rather as a critic than as one anxiously gleaning from them lessons for the conduct of her own life. Flora earnestly upheld the doctrine of justification by faith; she owned that through the merits of the Saviour alone a sinner could find pardon from God. But in the depths of her heart; unknown to herself, there was a secret lurking feeling that her own virtue, her benevolence, her gentleness, her filial obedience, her early piety, deserved the favour of the Almighty. She did not believe that her slight short-comings merited any severe condemnation. She was unconsciously going to the marriage-supper of the King's Son in the garment of her own righteousness. The seed of the Word, received with so much joy, had fallen on stony ground; it lacked depth of earth; the leaves were fair to the eye, but the root of humility was wanting.

On the following day Ada took her departure. Her visit was not without its effect, both on herself and her cousin; for it is a solemn consideration that two beings can seldom mix in close and familiar intercourse without exercising some degree of influence on each other for evil or for good.

What she had seen and heard at Laurel Bank had rendered Ada in some degree discontented with herself. She had seen something of the beauty of a life of holiness and benevolence--at least so it appeared to her mind; and it sickened her to contrast with it her own course of selfishness and frivolity. Not, perhaps, that the impression was a very deep one, or that Ada had the slightest present intention of following the example which she admired; but she had a vague hope that a day might come, perhaps when the spring-time of youth should be over, when she too might be of some use in the world, and live for some object more noble than to flutter through a round of gaiety amidst those whose friendship would be as lightly lost as it had been lightly given.

The effect of Ada's visit was very different upon Flora. It had not humbled, but rather confirmed her in her false estimate of her own character. At the same time it had awakened within her bosom a secret discontent at her own quiet lot, a yearning for the more brilliant and exciting scenes which her cousin loved to describe. Flora began to think--though she breathed the thought to no one--that living in the complete seclusion in which the will of Providence had placed her, was in truth a serious disadvantage. She cared less for the beauties of her garden, spent more time at her toilette, and as she looked at the lovely reflection in her mirror, she turned over in her mind, as a miser might his treasures, the flattering words of admiration which she had heard from the lips of Ada. Her school children seemed to her duller than usual; her thoughts wandered greatly at prayers; the conversation of the poor old lame captain grew insufferably tedious; and when Miss Butterfield paid one of her long, tiresome visits, Flora took care not to appear at all, but left her mother to entertain the old lady. As Eve, amidst all the charms of Eden, looked longingly at the one forbidden tree, so Flora, surrounded by blessings, inwardly repined at the decrees of Providence, yearning for the one thing denied to her--denied to her by divine wisdom and love!

Mrs. Vernon had less leisure to observe any change in her beloved daughter, from being much occupied in making preparations for the reception of the family from Barbadoes. She studiously regarded Flora's comfort in all her arrangements, while she quite neglected her own: but it was impossible to receive so large an addition to her limited household without making some changes which necessarily somewhat affected the convenience of her daughter. Flora felt the petty sacrifices which she was compelled to make, more than can be readily imagined by those who, from having been members of large families, have been accustomed from childhood to submit to them. She had been the object of her mother's almost undivided attention and care, and had grown a little selfish without being aware of it.

Nevertheless, Flora had a gentle, kindly heart. The situation of her sister-in-law touched her compassion; she felt for the young widow, bowed down by the double trial of poverty and bereavement, quitting her native land to come amongst those who were strangers to her. She was sure that she would love the dear helpless little orphans; and she spoke so sweetly on the subject, seemed to make so light of difficulties, was so ready to give herself to the congenial task of comforting the afflicted, that never had her mother more fervently thanked Heaven for such a child, or visitors left the house more impressed with the idea that Flora was the impersonification of every Christian virtue, as she was of every feminine charm!

At length dawned the long-expected day of the arrival. In a place so retired as the village of Wingsdale, comparatively trifling occurrences rose to the rank of important events. Flora, who was imaginative and poetical, had drawn in her mind so touching, a picture of the pale widow and her golden-haired cherubs, had rehearsed to herself so often the scene of the meeting, that she had worked herself into a state of eager impatience. Unable to settle steadily to anything, she fluttered from room to room, now altering the arrangement of the flowers with which she had adorned the widow's pretty boudoir, now bringing some elegant trifle of her own to add to the beauty of the effect. She pulled up the blind, that the view might be seen; then drew it down again hastily, lest the glare from without should fall painfully on the eye of sorrow. She had amused herself for several evenings by preparing a pretty book of pictures for the children, and had pleased herself by collecting little toys, with which she doubted not to find a speedy road to their hearts.

At last, in the quiet village, appeared the unexpected apparition of a post-chaise and four--an equipage which had never been seen there since the county member came to canvass in Wingsdale. All the little rustics ran eagerly to look at the unusual sight, and the cottagers stood in their doorways as the vehicle rolled past in a cloud of dust, with a quantity of luggage piled on the top, box upon box, the whole heap surmounted by a parrot cage with its screaming tenant. But what most excited the wonder of the rustics was the negro who sat upon the box. The children stared with open eyes and mouths at his black face, curly woollen hair, and thick lips, which, parted in a merry, self-satisfied grin, displayed two rows of shining white teeth.

Through the village, sweeping past the church, up the shady lane, dashed the post-chaise! The gate of Mrs. Vernon's little shrubbery stood open, and along the narrow drive rolled the dusty wheels, the horses' hoofs tearing up the carefully smoothed gravel, which even the doctor had always respected, tying up his black nag at the gate. At the sound of the arrival of the vehicle, Mrs. Vernon and Flora hastened to the entrance, their faces expressive of the welcome which their lips eagerly pronounced. The carriage-door was opened by Flora, too impatient to wait till the grinning negro tumbled down from the box: she stretched out her hands to receive some infant treasure from the crowded chaise, and a cage with a squirrel, followed by a bundle of shawls and a broken bonnet-box, were hastily thrust into them. Before she could disencumber herself of the luggage, three of the children had been handed, or rather tumbled, out of the carriage--thin, sickly-looking creatures, wrapped up in gaudy scarfs, which strangely contrasted with their faded black ribbons and dresses, and complexions which varied in shades from whity-brown to dingy-yellow. While Mrs. Vernon stooped to kiss and welcome the little strangers, the youngest of whom, from some cause unknown, was crying as if her heart would break, Flora pressed forward to assist the widow to alight. Instead of the lady, a very fat negress, very gaudily attired, with gilt bracelets on her wrists and beads in her ears, holding a screaming baby in her arms, slowly shoved her stout person through the doorway, and heavily descended to the ground.

"My dear sister!" exclaimed Flora, in a tone of sympathy, again pressing to the carriage, and leaning forward into it to greet the afflicted widow.

A very languid voice answered from within, "Just see, do, that they are careful in taking down the parrot."

It was a chill to the feelings of Flora, and her first glance of her sister-in-law was little calculated to re-warm them into interest. Emma Vernon might once have been pretty, at least something in her air conveyed the idea that she had--and perhaps still considered herself to be so; but she had a sallow, withered look on her face, an affected expression in her sleepy black eyes, a languid listlessness in her manner, which to Flora were almost repulsive. Coldness and indifference seemed conveyed in the very touch of her thin fingers, and the cheek which, half hidden by a profusion of black curls, she turned to receive Flora's kiss. Slowly, very slowly, she descended from the carriage, leaning heavily on Mrs. Vernon and her daughter, and moving as though she were scarcely equal to the effort of placing one foot before the other. With many a pause, and many a sigh, she reached the lovely little boudoir which Mrs. Vernon, at considerable personal inconvenience, had appropriated to her use.

Emma sank on the sofa, and in an affected voice exclaimed, "Take away those flowers--I can't bear them!--take them away or I shall faint!"

Flora hastened to remove the beautiful bouquet, while Mrs. Vernon offered a scent-bottle to the languishing lady.

"I hope, dear Emma, that country quiet will soon restore you," she said soothingly.

"Do open the window--there's not a breath of air--this room is so small!" lisped the newly arrived.

"How strange it is," thought Flora, "that she neither asks nor thinks about her children! Nothing but her own comfort seems to occupy her mind, and it does not appear very easy to please her. I will go and look after her little ones."

Flora was followed into the passage by her mother, who looked a little troubled and anxious.

"My dear child," said Mrs. Vernon, laying her hand on Flora's arm, "what are we to make of the negro? I never calculated on Emma's bringing a man-servant with her."

"I'm sure I don't know, mamma. It was very inconsiderate in her, I think. But everything seems so strange and confusing and uncomfortable, I am afraid--" she stopped in her sentence.

"We must make the best of everything, my love. Just go and see that the poor dear children are comfortable in their nursery."

Flora obeyed without reply.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*THE NURSERY.*

As Flora approached the nursery, its vicinity was sufficiently indicated by the sound of loud, passionate crying, and then that of several sharp slaps; which made her quicken her steps, lest the black nurse, whose looks she distrusted, should be maltreating any of the children. The first glance at the interior of the room, however, showed her that the fat old negress was not the giver, but the recipient of the blows! Before her was a little boy in a furious tempest of passion, kicking, striking, and roaring, while Flora's pretty book of pictures lay in a hundred fragments at his feet!

"Oh! Massa Johnny, Massa Johnny!" exclaimed old Chloe in an expostulating tone, as he struck her again and again with the ferocity of a little tiger. Flora sprang forward and caught his hand, but only turned his passion upon herself. The child clutched at her flowing locks, and it was not without difficulty and pain that she extricated her hair from his grasp. He then flung himself down on the floor, and rolled on it in impotent passion.

"What can be the meaning of all this?" exclaimed Flora, surprised and ruffled by the unexpected attack.

"Oh! Massa Johnny, he only want to pull de swing 'uns off de clock; he very angry cause he cannot get em."

"I am afraid that Johnny is a very naughty boy," said Flora, smoothing down her disordered tresses, and looking down with the reverse of admiration on the dark little savage before her.

"Oh! Massa Johnny, he have great speerit, he have mighty great speerit!" was the nonchalant reply, as the negress slowly rose from her seat to attend to the baby, who had been sleeping in a cradle, but who, awakened by the noise, now swelled it with his fretful cry.

"I'm sure, if one doesn't want a dozen hands atween them all!" pursued the old woman, trying to hush the child; "there's Miss Lyddie now, there's no knowing where she's agone--I've not set eyes on her this half-hour!"

"Not know where she is!" said Flora, glancing round anxiously. Emmie, the youngest child but one, was quietly amusing herself in a corner, breaking off the legs of the wooden animals belonging to an ark which Mrs. Vernon had provided for her amusement. But no trace of Miss Lyddie was to be seen. Flora hurried from the room to search for the little truant.

It was not long before she found her in the dining-room, close to a small press in which various preserves and other little dainties were kept. Lyddie was several years older than the other children, and tall for her age; her lank over-grown form, untidy hair, awkward carriage and sickly face, conveying to the mind the idea that she was like some idle weed, which had sprung up uncared-for and untended, She started slightly on seeing Flora, and hastily closed the door of the press, which had stood a little ajar.

"O Lyddie!" exclaimed Flora, "it is very wrong indeed to take sweets without asking leave!"

"I didn't!" said the child, shrinking back from her touch, and eyeing her with a furtive glance.

"Look there!" cried Flora, pointing very gravely to some unmistakable crimson stains on the dress and hands of the girl. "It is still worse to tell an untruth about it."

The girl pouted, and put two fingers into her mouth.

"O Lyddie! has no one taught you who sees our actions, and--" Flora was commencing a gentle, but very serious reproof, when it was suddenly cut short by her auditor darting from the room.

"What dreadful children!" said poor Flora to herself; "they seem more unmanageable, more uncared for, both as regards their physical and moral condition, than the poorest cottager in the village! We must speak seriously to their mother about them; it is impossible to let them go on in this way."

To speak to Mrs. John Vernon was not at that moment practicable, as she had gone to sleep on the sofa, and was on no account to be disturbed. The dinner, which had been delayed for some hours for her arrival, was thus again indefinitely postponed, as both Mrs. Vernon and her daughter thought it more courteous to take their meal with their guest, instead of sharing that prepared for the children. Flora felt irritated and tired, and very little disposed to look at the bright side of affairs. The noisy voices of the children seemed never to be silent. They penetrated every part of the house; no room appeared safe from the intrusion of unwelcome little guests: for a spirit of active curiosity was a characteristic of Lyddie, and Johnny was prosecuting a search for his negro Sambo, which carried him to places where he was unlikely, as well as those where he was likely to find him.

At length Emma awoke from her siesta, but Mrs. Vernon found that her politeness towards the lady had been carried to an unnecessary extent. Emma declined joining the family at table; she preferred having her dinner carried to her in her boudoir. Flora, desirous to please her new guest, herself took the refreshment to her, and had the mortification to find that it consisted of the only thing, as Emma declared with a sickly smile, that really she could not touch; while, when pressed to say what she fancied, she named something which it was difficult, if not impossible to procure!

Flora dined alone with her mother. This was a relief, for she was weary, and out of spirits and out of patience. She resolved not to trouble her mother more than she could possibly help with her own annoyances and perplexities, for Mrs. Vernon looked harassed and anxious already. When the lady had gone to superintend the sleeping arrangements of the children, Flora sought the boudoir of her sister-in-law, having previously rehearsed many times in her mind the conversation which she thought might take place between them, and having studied how she could tell painful truths in the most gentle and least irritating way.

The widow was still reclining on the sofa, her cap put aside on account of the heat, a fan and scent-bottle beside her; and she received Flora with the languid, affected smile, which to that young lady was peculiarly unpleasing.

"I hope that you have now recovered a little from your fatigue," said Flora, seating herself beside Emma.

The only reply was a languid sigh, accompanied by a slight elevation of the eyebrows, and then a closing of the eyes.

Flora paused for awhile, and played with the clasp of her bracelet, before she ventured to say, "Emma, there was one thing which I wished to ask you--have you perfect confidence in your black nurse?"

The lady opened her eyes. "Oh! she's the best creature in the world!" Here the scent-bottle was in requisition.

"You know, of course, whether she is a Christian?"

"Well--oh! why"--(each word was drawled forth as though to speak were too fatiguing)--"yes; she has a crucifix and beads; she is a Christian, I am sure of it."

"And is it possible--" Flora felt herself beginning to warm with her subject, but with an effort of self-control she commanded herself, and proceeded in the same gentle tones as those in which she had commenced.

"Do you think it desirable to trust her so entirely with the children? I viewed a little scene in the nursery to-day which gave me an idea that Johnny's temper requires more judicious management."

Emma looked so utterly indifferent, that Flora gave her a more lively description of the little scene, and of her own unpleasant part in it, than she had intended to have done.

"Poor dear! he has so much spirit!" was the only observation of the mother.

"But I have more painful things to tell you," said Flora, feeling utterly provoked; and without further reserve, she gave an account of Lyddie's conduct at the press, which would greatly have distressed a tender and conscientious parent, but which only elicited the words "Poor dear!" uttered in a more sleepy tone than before.

"But, Emma, this must not be!" exclaimed Flora, with kindling indignation; "these poor unhappy orphans are not to be left to acquire habits of dishonesty and untruth--"

She stopped suddenly, for she knew that she had said too much; she saw it in the malignant expression which lighted for a moment the sleepy black eye, she felt it in the quick throbbing of her own heart. Glad was Flora that her mother's entrance gave her an excuse for quitting the room. She sought her own in a very bitter spirit.

"Mamma," said Flora to Mrs. Vernon, when they were both retiring to rest, "I fear that we shall have a dreadful time with this family! There will be no more comfort in the house. Those miserable, neglected children will be the torments of our lives!"

"We must have patience with them, my love; they will not be neglected here."

"But Emma will hang as a drag-chain on all our efforts to improve them. She seems to regard nothing upon earth but her own comfort and convenience, and listens with that odious smile to things which should make a mother blush for very shame!"

"My love--" expostulated Mrs. Vernon.

"I do not like that woman, mother, and I am certain that I never shall. She looks so heartless, and silly, and affected!"

"We must not be hard upon her, my Flora; her own education has probably been neglected. You have had a day of fatigue and excitement, and it re-acts on your own spirits, my dear. Go and rest now, you need it; all may seem more sunshiny in the morning."

Flora sought rest, but that night she was not destined to find it. In the room next to hers was the baby, and hour after hour his wailing cry sounded in her ears, driving away sleep; thrice she started up and hastened to see if nothing could be done to soothe him. As morning dawned the babe fell asleep, and so did the exhausted Flora, to dream of the house being attacked by a legion of negroes, till she was awakened at an earlier hour than usual by the sound of a furious quarrel between Johnny and Lyddie.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*THE TOUCHSTONE.*

And so passed day after day, each appearing to Flora more unendurable than the last. She at first sought refuge in her favourite woody haunts, and there reading some pleasant book, or throwing her own thoughts into verse, she enjoyed brief but delicious respite from the cares and vexations of her home. But a season of rainy weather cut off even this source of enjoyment, and she was imprisoned in the house with four noisy, quarrelsome children, and a companion whom she disliked and despised.

Mrs. John Vernon was a very weak woman, and had all the infirmities and follies naturally attendant on characters of such a stamp. She was, of course, passionately fond of dress--a fondness which even the necessity for wearing mourning did not subdue. Flora could scarcely disguise her contempt when she saw how completely the thoughts and time of this vain, silly woman, were engrossed by the cares of the toilette; how she squandered money, which she would perhaps have to borrow, In decking out her person in all the extravagance of fashion. "As if," Flora thought to herself, "all the silks and lace in the world could ever give the shadow of beauty to that insipid, affected face!"

Emma was unpunctual in the extreme; and this, to one accustomed to the clock-work regularity of a small, well-ordered household, was a defect of no small magnitude. It interfered with the comfort of every one, and sorely tried the patience of Flora.

The widow was also absurdly fanciful about her own health. She was afraid of exertion, afraid of cold; and, by some unfortunate contrariety, her opinion on the subject of the weather never seemed to coincide with that of those around her. When Mrs. Vernon felt chilly, Emma was certain to be longing for open windows and air; if Flora found the room oppressively warm, Emma languidly suggested a fire. The widow loved to draw upon herself the attention of all who approached her; she would rather have been disliked than unnoticed; she must attract the observation, occupy the thoughts of all, or she felt herself wronged and neglected.

Gently did Mrs. Vernon bear with the infirmities of one whom it was difficult to love, impossible to respect. Gradually and quietly she made suggestions on the management of Emma's family, or the arrangement of her pecuniary affairs. But tenderly as every hint was given, it was received either with irritation or peevish distress; and when, at length, detected instances of dishonesty on the part of both Sambo and the nurse induced Mrs. Vernon gently, but firmly, to urge the necessity for dismissing them both, her words occasioned a burst of passionate tears, succeeded by a long fit of depression.

"Mamma," said Flora one morning to her parent, as they sat together at breakfast, a meal which was never graced by the presence of the widow, who kept her own room till noonday--"Mamma, I do not think that we can endure all this much longer. It is impossible to please Emma, whatever we do: let her set up house for herself, and manage as she may!"

Mrs. Vernon looked very grave, and it was some moments before she replied. "I think, Flora, that you can scarcely have reflected on what would be the result of such an attempt. You can scarcely have failed to observe how careless poor Emma is of money, how unable she is to manage a household, or to keep account of its expenses. She would certainly involve herself inextricably in debt, while the consequences to the unhappy orphans must be such as would deeply distress us both."

"They could scarcely be worse than they are," said Flora, bitterly; "wild, ignorant, unmanageable little creatures. I have attempted several times to teach Lyddie, but she has always darted away like a little wild colt; while Master Johnny, the other day, threw the spelling-book out of the window. Their footprints are over all my borders, their fingers cannot be kept off my flowers; Lyddie strewed the walks yesterday with apple-blossoms, while Emmie managed to get hold of my paint-box, and has not only mixed all the colours together, but has left traces of them on a dozen of our books."

"It is very trying; it quite distresses me, my Flora, to see the annoyance and discomfort which you suffer. Night after night I lie awake, turning over in my mind by what means I can prevent the inconvenience from falling upon my child. But no path seems to open before me. Emma is as unfit to keep house for herself as her own Lyddie would be; and I feel--I am sure that you feel--that, as long as we have a home, the orphan grandchildren of your beloved father should never be denied its shelter!"

Flora pressed her mother's hand fondly to her lips, "Oh, mamma! you are so good!" she exclaimed; "and what a return do you meet! I do believe that if we were to give up our house altogether, or only to remain in it as servants, slaving from morning till night, and denying ourselves common comforts that Emma might enjoy every luxury, she would take it quite as a matter of course, think that everything was as it should be, and feel not one spark of gratitude towards us, whatever our sacrifices might cost us!"

There was much truth in Flora's remark. In a mind mean and selfish as the widow's, gratitude has rarely a place. Alas! that in the world it should be a virtue so rare! Not that I would for a moment swell with my voice that cry so common, yet often so unjust, which indiscriminately charges the poor with ingratitude towards their benefactors. Far from it; in this virtue, as in many others, I believe that the comparatively rich may often learn a lesson from the poor. There are perhaps few in the world who have no opportunity of exercising gratitude, few who lie under no obligations either for substantial services, or for kindly attentions; watchful care in infancy, help in difficulty, generous hospitality, or some other of the thousand acts of benevolence and friendship which so sweeten the cup of human life. Yes, the many are laid under obligations, but the few have the candour to acknowledge them; the many are helped, benefited, and cheered--the few gratefully remember the benefactor. The lepers in the gospel are still types of human nature. _Ten were cleansed, but where are the nine_? Reader! pause a moment; ask your own heart, do you treasure up the remembrance of benefits--do you carefully keep up the warm glow which perhaps kindled in your heart when you first received them? Or has the cold wave of time chilled the generous warmth of your feelings--or, worse still, did that warmth never exist? From such observations as I have been enabled to make, it seems to me to be almost a general rule that the most truly generous are also the most grateful--that those who most readily do acts of kindness, most thankfully acknowledge them from others.

Nor let us think want of gratitude a light sin, or one which we may safely overlook. The same proud, thankless spirit which leads us to forget our obligations to man, is at the root of our unbelief, our indifference, our coldness towards Him who is the giver of all good. We receive our blessings as rights; we think little of the mercy which bestowed them, or we should scarcely dare to murmur and repine when the smallest is taken away from us. When Flora accused her sister-in-law of ingratitude, she little thought how well the charge might have been retorted on herself. Had she not been loaded with mercies--granted health, strength, all the comforts of life, opportunity of benefiting others, and power of pleasing--the love of her friends, the deep tenderness of a mother--and, above all, innumerable spiritual blessings, the means of grace, and the hope of glory!

And yet, with all this, the heart which the world deemed so pure, the heart whose depths she had never yet fathomed, was now filled with a bitter, almost a rebellious spirit. Flora had worked--was well pleased to work for God, but it must be in her own way; she could make sacrifices for religion, but the choice of the sacrifice must be her own. It was as though the soldier who for years had glittered on parade, and performed the routine of daily duty with faultless regularity in time of peace, had started back when the war-trumpet sounded, had turned from the sterner obligations before him, and murmured because he was called upon at last to "endure hardness," and to face trial in a holy cause.

Flora was still ready to sit by the sick, to visit the dying, and to teach in the school; she was still willing to give freely to the poor, looking for a plenteous reward hereafter, and receiving in the present the interest of human gratitude, admiration, and love. But she was not ready to be "_kind to the unthankful and the evil_," to "_let patience have its perfect work_," to strive to reclaim wilful and unruly children, with the prospect of awakening the jealousy of their parent, but never of rousing her to a sense of obligation. Flora's religion was not "the love of Christ" which "_constraineth_," therefore in the time of trial it failed her.

Consideration for her mother usually restrained Flora from making audible complaints, though she had not sufficient command over herself to abstain from them altogether; but she indemnified herself for her forbearance by writing to Ada full and circumstantial details of all her petty miseries, with a by no means flattering description of the family from Barbadoes. It was a letter which Flora would not willingly have seen in the hands of her revered pastor; she would never have addressed it to her mother; she had some doubts, after having finished it, whether it would be well to post it. But it was really a clever and amusing letter; it eased her heart to write it; she was glad to have some way of giving vent to the pent-up flood of bitterness which was beginning to overflow its bounds.

The letter brought a speedy reply, containing an affectionate and urgent invitation to Flora to join her cousin in London, giving a glowing description of the amusements which she would enjoy, while a P.S. entreated her not to delay her visit, lest she should lose all the May-meetings in Exeter Hall, which Ada was "sure that to one so good would be a greater pleasure than all the rest."

Flora uttered an involuntary exclamation of delight as she perused the letter of her cousin. It was as though a caged bird had suddenly seen the door of his prison open, and the way free to liberty and to sunshine. She was full of impatience to show Ada's epistle to her mother, and could scarcely endure the delay occasioned by Mrs. Vernon's having to examine into the cause of a furious dispute between Johnny and his elder sister, and then to administer gentle advice and reproof to each of the little offenders. The interruption appeared to Flora so vexatious and petty--she would willingly have ended it at once by sending both the children away to the most distant part of the house, to settle their disputes by themselves; but her mother calculated more truly the importance of whatever regards the training of immortal beings.

At length, however, Johnny and Lyddie were dismissed, having been, after much trouble, induced to exchange the kiss of forgiveness; and the door had scarcely closed behind them, when Flora placed the letter in the hand of her mother. Eagerly she watched the expression of Mrs. Vernon's countenance as she read it. The lady perused it to the end before she uttered a word, and then she glanced up with a smile.

"What do you say to this, Flora?"

"Oh, mamma--it is just as you like--just as you think best--but--"

"This invitation seems to meet a difficulty which has pressed heavily on my mind. I have grieved to feel how trying to you has been the change in our family arrangements. You have grown thinner and paler; your spirits have left you; for the first time in my life it has pained me to look at my child, It is better, perhaps, that you should be absent from home till we bring matters into a somewhat better train."

"It seems almost like deserting you, mamma; and yet--I do not think that I can help you much--I have not the least influence with the children."

Why was it that even Flora knew that her absence at this time would be actually a relief to her mother? How was it that she had proved a burden rather than a helper? She had never put the question fairly to her own heart, and was very glad to substitute for it another.

"Does it not seem to you, mamma, as though I might be more useful in London than I am here? I believe that poor dear Ada really likes me; I have some influence with her, I believe: she seemed here to be turning her mind more towards religion than she hitherto had done; but she has no one now to speak to or consult on serious subjects. If I were with her she would be induced for my sake to go to meetings which she would not otherwise attend--it seems to me that it may really be my duty to go to Ada at this time."

"It will be your pleasure, at least," said Mrs. Vernon, smiling; "and your happiness is ever near to my heart. I can trust your principles, my Flora; I believe that you will ever act in my absence as you would if my eye were upon you. And the Almighty may, and I trust will, make you, my love, a blessing to others, if you serve Him with a humble, devoted heart and a single eye to His glory."

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*PLEASURES AND PAINS.*

A few days after the conversation recorded in our last chapter took place, Flora, full of youthful hope and joy, sprang into the carriage which was to convey her to the station, and waved again and again a fond farewell to the beloved parent who watched her departure from the gate.

It was with mixed emotions that the gentle widow beheld disappearing down the winding lane the carriage which held her dearest earthly treasure, separated from her for the first time. Mrs. Vernon took pleasure in her daughter's pleasure, and had, perhaps, secret pride in the thought that her beauty, talents, and virtues, would now be more widely known and appreciated. But there was pain also in parting; pain with which the meek parent reproached herself--that Flora could be so happy in parting! There was a secret fear, which Mrs. Vernon thought want of faith, lest the different scenes into which she was entering should, were it even in the slightest degree, change one who, in her partial love, she thought could scarcely change for the better. Mrs. Vernon also suffered from the cares and anxieties of life, which she now must bear alone; for she was not one to complain, even to her most intimate friends, of the secret trials of her home. The peevishness, the selfishness, the heartlessness of Emma, the wayward passions of her ill-taught children, the loss of the quiet repose of a well-ordered dwelling, were a cross to Mrs. Vernon as well as to her daughter; if to the latter it formed the most painful burden, it was because she murmured, struggled, and chafed under its weight, while the widow bent meekly under it, remembering the divine hand that had laid it upon her.

So, quietly and unostentatiously, never dreaming either of merit or reward, the widow went through her round of daily duties, ordering her household, teaching the children, caring for her guest, nursing the infant, and never forgetting the poor. Emma's total indifference on the subject of religion often grieved Mrs. Vernon; but trusting in God, and not in herself, the simple Christian would not despair even of a heart which seemed like the beaten highway, on which the good seed fell only at once to be carried away. There was no use in lending religious works to Emma; the volumes lay unopened beside her. She never considered herself equal to the fatigue of attending service in the house of God. Mr. Ward and his wife paid her more than one visit. The good man spoke, as was his wont, out of the abundance of his heart; while Mrs. Vernon listened meekly with her clasped hands resting on her knee. But even he was chilled by the affected nod and meaningless smile with which the daughter-in-law received his words of holy consolation; while his wife felt uncomfortable under the dark eye which seemed scrutinizing every article of her simple apparel.

Not every one bore as patiently as Mrs. Ward this scrutinizing survey of dress from the fashionable and extravagantly-attired young widow. Miss Butterfield, who had a character and a temper of her own, was irritated by the close attention paid to her large poke-bonnet and rusty shawl. She made some observations, more true than polite, about heads like band-boxes in a milliner's shop, intended to hold nothing more weighty than quilings and puffings; which brought an angry tinge to Emma's sallow cheek, and made her bitterly comment, when the guest had departed, upon the insufferable vulgarity of Mrs. Vernon's country acquaintance.

"How can I win Emma's attention to anything serious?" such was Mrs. Vernon's frequent thought, till one day the happy idea struck her mind of reading to her Flora's manuscript hymns. "If any human writings can interest her, these will," thought the simple-hearted mother. "She will listen to them first for the sake of the authoress, and then their own beauty must touch her heart;--I am sure that it always does mine!"

Emma could not, of course, refuse her assent to the proposal to read aloud the verses of her sister. She declared that she would be charmed to hear them, secretly hoping that the infliction might not be long, and that her mother-in-law would not think it necessary to go through the volume from beginning to end. Mrs. Vernon read with great impressiveness and feeling; every touching sentiment, every graceful idea, gained added beauty from her earnest expression. She was pleased and gratified by the profound silence of her listener, and read on, and on, warming with her subject, till in one favourite hymn, which described the blessedness of living for eternity, her eyes filled, and her heart overflowed, and she turned, as she wiped away a thankful tear, to see if Emma shared her emotions. The widow lay fast asleep on the sofa!

The only things to which Emma listened with real interest were portions of Flora's letters from London. These, written to amuse her mother in her seclusion, and full of lively descriptions given with freshness and vigour by one to whom everything which she beheld was new, were, even to a stranger, extremely entertaining. By Mrs. Vernon the arrival of the post was looked forward to as bringing the one great treat of the day, and never once was she disappointed of it. She feasted on the letters of her daughter with unmingled delight; for she saw in them proofs of the conscientious regard which Flora paid to her wishes, and of the tender affection with which, in the midst of her amusements, her heart clung to the parent whom she had left.

All the little circle of friends in the quiet village of Wingsdale shared in Mrs. Vernon's enjoyment. They listened to accounts of the first wondrous Crystal Palace, glittering like some fairy structure on the trodden sward of Hyde Park; the "sermons in stones" preached from the spoils of old Nineveh; descriptions of the treasures of art, all the things beautiful, curious, and rare, upon which the eye of Flora had rested delighted. They heard also personal descriptions of men with whose names they were already familiar--how Shaftesbury had spoken, and Guthrie had preached; whilst not least interesting to the hearts of her rural subjects was a graphic account of our gracious Queen from the enthusiastic pen of Flora.

But never had the young correspondent expressed herself in such glowing terms of admiration and pleasure as in her description of Sir Amery Legrange, whom she spoke of as one of the leading writers of the day. She had been actually introduced to "the lion," had listened to the wondrous flow of eloquence which made his conversation an intellectual treat beyond any which she had ever known before. With his expansive brow, eagle eye, most poetical cast of countenance, his were exactly the face and form which a painter would wish to immortalize on canvas, as representing the beau ideal of a genius; and Flora could not but imagine that Sir Amery must have drawn himself in the hero of his famous _chef-d'oeuvre_, "The Master-Mind."

"'The Master-Mind!'" lisped Emma from the sofa; "Oh! I have read that--all the world has read it--it is a most charming work! I have it somewhere in my boxes, I think."

Mrs. Vernon was content to be classed with those not of the world, for she had never read, nor even heard of the book. She was pleased, however, that her child should have met one of the literary celebrities of London, and had thus added another to the pleasant recollections which she would carry with her from the metropolis.

The next morning's post brought a description of a _fete_ at the Botanical Gardens; and this sentence occurred in Flora's letter: "We met our brilliant author just as we were entering the gardens, and he remained the whole time with our party. He has certainly wonderful powers of conversation; just such as might be expected from a writer whose pen seems dipped in the colours of the rainbow, and brightens whatever it touches. When he speaks, we can do nothing but listen."

"I think, Emma," said Mrs. Vernon, "that you mentioned that you had a copy of 'The Master-Mind' beside you. I should be obliged, if you would allow me to read it."

"Oh, certainly, when I can lay hands upon it; but all my luggage is still one mass of confusion, and whatever I want is certain to be at the very bottom of the very last box into which I should think of looking for it. But you really wish to see 'The Master-Mind?' Well," added the lady, with an affected laugh, "I should as soon have dreamed of Mr. Ward's dancing a polka, as of your sitting quietly down to a novel!"

Emma's promise to look for the work was speedily forgotten by herself, nor did more than one reminder induce her to take this slight trouble for one to whom she owed the comfort of a home.

Flora's subsequent letters contained scarcely any mention of Sir Amery. She occasionally quoted his opinion, or mentioned a brilliant remark made by him on some subject of general interest; but it was merely from such passing allusions that her mother gathered that Flora was not unfrequently in the society of the literary "lion."

Mrs. Vernon had much to occupy her thoughts--much to engage her anxious attention. She was now patiently listening to the frivolous complaints of the hypochondriac widow; then quitting her to stand by the death-bed of a young school-girl--hear her last faint breathings of devotion--receive her last message of affection to Flora. The next hour would find Mrs. Vernon seated amongst the children, enduring their rough play and noisy glee, and ministering to their amusement as patiently as she had done to the wants of the suffering and the dying. But the wear upon her spirits and the strain upon her energies were too much for the strength of Mrs. Vernon. There was no one to watch her faded cheek, her weary step, her languid eye; no one, at least in her own home, to think for her, care for her--attend to the comforts of one who ever attended to the comforts of others. She might have been ill, she might have been dying, and Emma, absorbed in her own selfish cares, would never have observed that anything ailed her. Mrs. Vernon missed Flora each day more and more--longed more and more to hear her light step on the stair, her sweet song from the garden--to look again into those soft and loving eyes which were wont to rest on her so tenderly, so fondly. But Mrs. Vernon would not abridge a visit which afforded so much enjoyment to her daughter; she would not, even by the slightest allusion to her own failing health and spirits, throw a shadow over that enjoyment. She was content if Flora was happy; and if she herself needed comfort and strength, was not the source of all comfort and strength ever open to the Christian!

*CHAPTER IX.*

*THE NOVEL.*