Part 3

"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."

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."