Part 5

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.*

One afternoon, Mrs. Vernon returned exceedingly wearied from a visit to a sick woman who resided at some distance. The walk was too long for her, and had her daughter been at home, she would not have been suffered to take it; for Flora, in the vigour of her youthful strength, appropriated to herself all the more distant visits. Certainly a feeling of regret crossed the mind of Mrs. Vernon, as she wearily ascended her own stair, and heard loud, angry sounds from above, that peace and seclusion were now hers no longer--that she could not have rest when she was tired, nor solitude when she was sad. But she struggled against the feeling as against a sin.

As Mrs. Vernon approached the door of Emma's sleeping apartment, it was evident that the sound came from thence, and that the angry voice was the widow's.

"Tiresome monkey! you have destroyed it entirely! my beautiful India muslin! Was ever mother tormented as I am? Ah, is that you?" continued Emma, as Mrs. Vernon crossed the entrance to her room. "Just come in here, do, and see what this insufferable child has been doing!"

Mrs. Vernon entered, and beheld Lyddie, the little culprit, in the centre of the apartment, fancifully arrayed in all the finery which she had pillaged from a large trunk of her mother's. A yellow satin dress, with the body turned in, was fastened by a red scarf round the waist of the child; and being, of course, much too long, swept the floor on every side with its gaudy folds. Long feathers, scarlet and white, were stuck in the girl's lank dark hair; while an India muslin shawl, which had been twisted into the form of a turban, appeared, with a grievous rent in the middle, in the hands of the irritated parent.

"Did you ever see anything like it? The vanity, the folly, the absurdity of the child! Here I find her parading before the glass, dressed up like a May-queen, and in all the best clothes which I used to wear in my happier days! Take them off!" she cried in a shriller tone to the child, who stood biting the ends of her fingers, in mingled sulkiness and fear. "Take them off, I say! and if ever you touch them again, you shall have a whipping--such a whipping as you will remember to the last day of your life! I am sure that no one," she continued, turning towards Mrs. Vernon, who was silently disrobing the culprit--"no one but a parent can tell the incessant anxiety, plague, and worry, caused by children! It is enough to drive us out of our senses!"

Mrs. Vernon saw in the expression of the countenances of both mother and child something far more saddening to her gentle spirit than the destruction of anything that gold could replace;--anger in the one, sullen defiance in the other; not maternal solicitude grieving over the folly of a daughter, but selfish vanity irritated at the loss of a bauble; not filial love distressed at the displeasure of a parent, but pride rising against the threat of punishment. Emma would permit the gravest faults of her children to pass unnoticed, until their consequences affected her own comfort, and then the most trivial excited in her anger as unreasonable as her former indifference had been culpable.

"I do not see that your English nurse manages the children any better than old Chloe. I always said, and I always will say, that it was a great pity to make any change," cried Emma fretfully, willing as usual to blame anybody and anything but herself.

"We can scarcely expect wonders to be worked in three days," replied Mrs. Vernon, as Lyddie, released from her cumbrous finery, made a hasty exit from the room, glad to escape from the presence of her mother. "To change old ways, and to introduce habits of order and obedience, must ever be a work of patience and time. And does it not appear to you, Emma," continued Mrs. Vernon, cautiously approaching dangerous ground, "that children insensibly imbibe more from watching the example of those who are with them, than from any direct instruction?"

"I do not comprehend what that has to do with the question," said Emma, stooping over the trunk to replace its contents.

"If our dear children see by our conduct how little we care for the petty vanities of this life, if they see that our minds are fixed upon nobler objects than the adorning of our poor perishing forms, they will learn to estimate at their true value such trifles as these"--Mrs. Vernon was handing the feathers to her daughter in-law--"and are not likely to fall into the childish folly into which our poor Lyddie has to-day been betrayed."

"Ah! here is 'The Master-Mind'" cried Emma, suddenly, diving into the lowest recess of her trunk, and bringing from thence two old soiled volumes. It is not impossible that a desire to change the subject of conversation had quickened her perceptions, and led her to make the discovery which turned it into a more agreeable channel. "This is the _novel_ which you are so impatient to read. Here are the first and third volumes; I think that the second must be lost; but doubtless it is all the same to you, you could never spare enough of your valuable time for the perusal of more than two."

Mrs. Vernon took the work, and laid it aside; she had not at that hour leisure for reading. But when the children had gone to rest, and their mother retired to her own room, when the day's duties had all been fulfilled, and the still summer night had closed in, Mrs. Vernon, in her own quiet apartment, opened the first volume of the work of Sir Amery.

She soon became strongly interested both in the characters and the plot. "The Master-Mind" had been written by a master's hand; the author's powers had not been over-rated. Sir Amery described his hero as one distinguished by birth, but yet more by exalted talents. He was generous, humane, chivalrous and constant, possessing every virtue but piety, every grace but the grace of God, every gift but "the one thing needful." Not that he was represented as one destitute of every sentiment of religion. He was made to revere with lofty devotion an almighty Creator, but not a righteous Judge; one so merciful that he could not punish, so lenient that he would not destroy. The hero was not a believer in revelation--his lofty mind could not bow to the mysterious truths which his reason could not grasp; but his scepticism was represented as candour, his pride as greatness of soul--he was placed in bright contrast to hard, narrow-minded bigots, who denounce sin because God hath condemned it, and fear hell because divine truth hath declared that its terrors await the impenitent.

Mrs. Vernon read on and on, and wondered as she read. She had seen very few novels in her life, and all appeared to her strange and new. Sometimes she was filled with admiration by a generous sentiment or a noble deed; then she was startled by some idea, veiled in sublime language and beautiful imagery, but which, as it appeared to her, was contrary to the simple truth of the Scriptures.

The close of the first volume left the hero deeply, passionately loving a fair and highly-principled girl, the daughter of parents who, under the garb of great sanctity, were drawn as worldly, heartless and unforgiving. He was resolved to win her under circumstances of difficulty which, to love less ardent and a spirit less firm, must have presented obstacles insuperable. Mrs. Vernon closed the book and glanced at her candle. It had burnt quite down to the socket. She rose and lighted another. Was it a strange fascination that made her sit down again, with her pale cheek and her heavy aching eyes, to resume her unwonted occupation? Was the interest of a mere novel so strong that it could render her careless of needful rest? It was that in the hero Mrs. Vernon was reading the character of the author--that she, almost unconsciously, connected the gentle heroine with her own fondly-loved child.

"I see the moral of the tale," said the widow to herself: "Virgilius, ennobled by his affection for a worthy object, enlightened by experience, and improved by trials, will find out the errors into which his fine mind has been led; he will become religious as well as moral, and all will end happily at last."

All did end happily in the novel, but not in the way which Mrs. Vernon expected. Hypocrisy was unmasked, bigotry disgraced, but infidelity triumphed in success! The brilliant winding-up of the work was almost a paraphrase of the celebrated line,

"He can't be wrong whose life is in the right;"--

as if any life _could be right_ in which the chief end of our existence, _the glory of God_, is disregarded! It is as though we should speak of the perfection of the ocean without water, or of the universe without the sun!

The dim light of morning was purpling the sky before the widow had finished the book. She sat for some moments with her brow resting upon her hand, and the open volume on her knee.

"Perhaps I have read until my mind is too much wearied to form a correct judgment," she murmured to herself. "Perhaps I have mistaken the meaning of the author, and have done him injustice. I am a weak, ignorant woman, not capable of appreciating all the beauties of this work; I will lean on a stronger mind than my own, ask the aid of a better judgment. I will take the books to Mr. Ward to-morrow, and see if he views the work in the same light as I do. And now I must go to my rest; I have done wrong to waste so many hours over a novel!"

But even in sleep the mind of the mother pursued the same theme; the scenes of the novel were repeated in her dreams, only the actors were Sir Amery and Flora. Mrs. Vernon arose unrefreshed and uneasy, and before many hours were over, she was on her way to the little vicarage, bearing with her "The Master-Mind."

"How foolish I am to take these anxious thoughts!"--such were the lady's reflections as she wearily toiled up the lane, which had never seemed so long before. "I have no reason to fear that Sir Amery is anything more to my child than an admired author, an agreeable acquaintance. He is above her in birth and position; flattered as he is by the world, why should I fancy that my simple moss-rose should attract the regard of one who is the idol of all the circles of fashion! It is a mother's weakness, a mother's vanity, which make me believe that all who see her must view her with eyes like my own! But oh! is she not my earthly all, and can it be wondered at that my heart should tremble at the most distant prospect of danger to one so beloved!"

*CHAPTER X.*

*RECALL.*

"Well, my dear Mrs. Vernon, this is a singular request, and one which I never anticipated from you," said the aged clergyman, with a smile, as, fixing his spectacles on his nose, he glanced at the title-page of the work which Mrs. Vernon had placed in his hand. When he raised his eyes, however, to the countenance of his friend, he was struck by its worn look and anxious expression--he felt that no light curiosity had led the widow lady to desire his opinion of a novel, and gravely and kindly he promised to give his attention to her request.

"To-day is Saturday, and I have much upon my hands," said the minister, whose desk was heaped with papers; "I shall not be able to look at the volumes at once, but my first leisure hours shall be given to their perusal, and you shall have my candid opinion upon their contents."

Often, very often, did the thoughts of Mrs. Vernon recur to "The Master-Mind" during that and the following day. She was distressed to find that even in the house of prayer she was haunted by the remembrance of the novel. On the Sabbath afternoon she was so unwell as to be confined to her room; not to remain there, however, in undisturbed peace, for again and again the door was burst open by Johnny, who clambered upon her bed to give her news of the chicken that had been nearly drowned, or to repeat to her a beautiful new verse which he had learned "just to please grandmamma." Mrs. Vernon's head throbbed so violently that she could scarcely raise it from the pillow to give the child a kind smile and a kind kiss. Once her eyes closed for a few minutes in sleep; when she opened them, Lyddie was standing beside her, looking on her with a strange, earnest gaze. The girl had brought a tangled bunch of wild-flowers, which she laid silently beside the suffering lady, and left the room with her orphan heart warmed by the sweet words of thanks with which her ill-timed little offering had been received.

Monday, as usual, brought no post; but on Tuesday came the envelope directed in Flora's well-known hand, which it was Johnny's delight to carry at full speed to his grandmother, demanding the postage of a kiss. Mrs. Vernon eagerly broke the seal, but the enclosure, for once, disappointed her; there were merely a few hurried lines, containing little more than an excuse for their own brevity. Flora, however, mentioned that she was to pass the Tuesday at Richmond; that she expected the excursion to be a delightful one; and that she trusted that the weather would be fine, as Sir Amery had ordered his boat.

Mrs. Vernon silently replaced the note in its cover, and after going through the usual routine of her household duties with a preoccupied mind, again sought the quiet dwelling of the vicar.

All there looked peaceful and cheerful--the thick shrubbery, the neat flower-beds with their border of box, the closely-mown lawn spreading its carpet of velvet beneath the shadow of sycamore trees. Mrs. Vernon passed on without noticing aught. The vicar's wife, she found, was making her round in the village, but the vicar himself was in his study. She entered it unannounced save by her gentle tap at the door, and was kindly welcomed by her friend.

"Mrs. Vernon, my dear lady, this is a warm morning for a walk, but glorious weather for the crops. Pray take a seat," he wheeled round for her his own arm-chair; "and let me release you from your bonnet and shawl. We shall detain you here a prisoner till the cool of the evening, and talk over your novel together," he added, with a smile, glancing at the book which lay open on the table.

"What do you think of it?" said Mrs. Vernon.

"I confess that I think very ill of it," replied the old clergyman, seating himself beside her. "It is well written, very cleverly written; but so much the worse for the reader. It is ill to plant flowers by the edge of the pitfall."

"And yet there are such beautiful passages, such noble sentiments--some parts seem calculated to do so much good--"

"My dear madam," said Mr. Ward earnestly, laying his hand on the volume, "there is no good here that will weigh against one tithe of the evil which such a work is calculated to produce in young and enthusiastic minds. It appears written to show that there are some men of natures so noble and hearts so pure, that they require no Saviour, no sacrifice for sin; men of intellect so large and exalted, that Revelation is by them unneeded, they can walk securely in the light of their own reason, and pity poor, weak, bigoted fools, who seek a guide in the Scriptures. If the Almighty had blessed me with children, most anxiously should I have endeavoured to guard them against the art which invests with strong interest such characters as that of the hero of this tale, that makes human pride appear at the root of all virtue, instead of being, as it is, at the root of all sin. My dear friend, believe me, this is a dangerous book, and its author is a dangerous man."

Mrs. Vernon made no reply, but drawing out Flora's last note, gave it in silence to the clergyman. He read it twice before he made any observation, his brow slightly contracting as he read; then returning it to Mrs. Vernon, he said, "I think that Flora has been long enough absent."

"It seems an age since she left me," said the mother, her eyes filling with tears. "I miss her more than I can express. But then she is so happy in London, and in a house full as ours is at present I cannot prevent little trials--"

"Believe me, dear lady, these trials are no evil; they are the gentle discipline by which our heavenly Father trains the hearts of such of His children as are spared the more terrible furnace of affliction. Send for your Flora home. Home is the sphere of her duties; it should also be that of her pleasures. She is too young to mingle unharmed in the society of such as Sir Amery Legrange."

Mrs. Vernon left the house of her friend; he could neither persuade her to wait till the heat of the day was abated, nor to partake of the simple refreshment which the vicarage could afford. The fierce rays of the noontide sun poured down upon her head, the road was dry and dusty, the birds had stilled their songs, all was silent save the drowsy hum of some summer insects, nature lay panting and breathless in the glaring heat. Mrs. Vernon was almost exhausted ere she reached her dwelling. The cottagers whom she had met on her way shook their heads when she had passed, and declared that the good lady had never looked like herself since dear Miss Flora went away!