Chapter 13

THE LAST HOURS AT HOME.

To bid farewell to her mother and sisters, and the dear home of her childhood, Flora regarded as her greatest trial. As each succeeding day brought nearer the hour of separation, the prospect became more intensely painful, and fraught with a thousand melancholy anticipations, which haunted her even in sleep; and she often awoke sick and faint at heart with the tears she had shed in a dream.

"Oh that this dreadful parting were over!" she said to her friend Mary Parnell. "I can contemplate, with fortitude, the trials of the future; but there is something so dreary, so utterly hopeless, in this breaking up of kindred ties and home associations, that it paralyses exertion."

Mrs. W----, Flora's mother, was in the decline of life, and it was more than probable that the separation would be for ever. This Flora felt very grievously;--she loved her mother tenderly, and she could not bear to leave her. Mrs. W---- was greatly attached to her little grandchild; and, to mention the departure of the child, brought on a paroxysm of grief.

"Let Josey stay with me, Flora," said she, as she covered its dimpled hands with kisses. "Let me not lose you both in one day."

"What! part with my child--my only child! Dearest mother, it is impossible to grant your request. Whatever our future fortunes may be, she must share them with us. I could not bear up against the trials which await me with a divided heart."

"Consider the advantage it would be to the child."

"In the loss of both her parents?"

"In her exemption from hardship, and the education she would receive."

"I grant all that; yet Nature points out, that the interests of a child cannot safely be divided from those of its parents."

"You argue selfishly, Flora. You well know the child would be much better off with me."

"I speak from my heart--the heart of a mother, which cannot, without it belongs to a monster, plead against the welfare of its child. I know how dearly you love her--how painful it is for you to give her up; and that she would possess with you those comforts which, for her sake, we are about to resign. But, if we leave her behind, we part with her ever. She is too young to remember us; and, without knowing us, how could she love us?"

"She would be taught to love you."

"Her love would be of a very indefinite character. She would be told that she had a father and mother in a distant land, and be taught to mention us daily in her prayers. But where would be the faith, the endearing confidence, the holy love, with which a child, brought up under the parental roof, regards the authors of its being. The love which falls like dew from heaven upon the weary heart, which forms a balm for every sorrow, a solace for every care,--without its refreshing influence, what would the wealth of the world be to us?"

Flora's heart swelled, and her eyes filled with tears. The eloquence of an angel at that moment would have failed in persuading her to part with her child.

Never did these painful feelings press more heavily on Flora's mind, than when all was done in the way of preparation; when her work was all finished, her trunks all packed, her little bills in the town all paid, her faithful domestics discharged, and nothing remained of active employment to hinder her from perpetually brooding over the sad prospect before her.

She went to spend a last day at the old Hall, to bid farewell to the old familiar haunts, endeared to her from childhood.

"Flora, you must keep up your spirits," said her mother, kissing her tenderly; "nor let this parting weigh too heavily upon your heart. We shall all meet again."

"In heaven, I hope, Mother."

"Yes, and on earth."

"Oh, no; it is useless to hope for that. No, never again on earth."

"Always hope for the best, Flora; it is my plan. I have found it true wisdom. Put on your bonnet, and take a ramble through the garden and meadows; it will refresh you after so many harassing thoughts. Your favourite trees are in full leaf, the hawthorn hedges in blossom, and the nightingales sing every evening in the wood-lane. You cannot feel miserable among such sights and sounds of beauty in this lovely month of May, or you are not the same Flora I ever knew you."

"Ah, just the same faulty, impulsive, enthusiastic creature I ever was, dear mother. No change of circumstances will, I fear, change my nature; and the sight of these dear old haunts will only deepen the regret I feel at bidding them adieu."

Flora put on her bonnet, and went forth to take a last look of home.

The Hall was an old-fashioned house, large, rambling, picturesque, and cold. It had been built in the first year of good Queen Bess. The back part of the mansion appeared to have belonged to a period still more remote. The building was surrounded by fine gardens, and lawn-like meadows, and stood sheltered within a grove of noble old trees. It was beneath the shade of these trees, and reposing upon the velvet-like sward at their feet, that Flora had first indulged in those delicious reveries--those lovely, ideal visions of beauty and perfection--which cover with a tissue of morning beams all the rugged highways of life. Silent bosom friends were those dear old trees! Every noble sentiment of her soul,--every fault that threw its baneful shadow on the sunlight of her mind,--had been fostered, or grown upon her, in those pastoral solitudes. Those trees had witnessed a thousand bursts of passionate eloquence,--a thousand gushes of bitter, heart-humbling tears. To them had been revealed all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, which she could not confide to the sneering and unsympathising of her own sex. The solemn druidical groves were not more holy to their imaginative and mysterious worshippers, than were those old oaks to the young Flora.

Now the balmy breath of spring, as it gently heaved the tender green masses of brilliant foliage, seemed to utter a voice of thrilling lamentation,--a sad, soul-touching farewell.

"Home of my childhood! must I see you no more?" sobbed Flora. "Are you to become to-morrow a vision of the past? O that the glory of spring was not upon the earth! that I had to leave you amid winter's chilling gloom, and not in this lovely, blushing month of May! The emerald green of these meadows--the gay flush of these bright blossoms--the joyous song of these glad birds--breaks my heart!"

And the poor emigrant sank down amid the green grass, and, burying her face among the fragrant daisies, imprinted a passionate kiss upon the sod, which was never, in time or eternity, to form a resting-place for her again.

But a beam is in the dark cloud even for thee, poor Flora; thou heart-sick lover of nature. Time will reconcile thee to the change which now appears so dreadful. The human flowers destined to spring around thy hut in that far off wilderness, will gladden thy bosom in the strange land to which thy course now tends; and the image of God, in his glorious creation, will smile upon thee as graciously in the woods of Canada, as it now does, in thy English Paradise. Yes, the hour will come, when you shall exclaim with fervour,

"Thank God, I am the denizen of a free land; a land of beauty and progression. A land unpolluted by the groans of starving millions. A land which opens her fostering arms to receive and restore to his long lost birthright, the trampled and abused child of poverty: to bid him stand up a free inheritor of a free soil, who so long laboured for a scanty pittance of bread, as an ignorant and degraded slave, in the country to which you now cling with such passionate fondness, and leave with such heart-breaking regret."

When Flora returned from an extensive ramble through all her favourite walks, she was agreeably surprised to find her husband conversing with Mrs. W---- in the parlour. The unexpected sight of her husband, who had returned to cheer her some days sooner than the one he had named in his letters, soon restored Flora's spirits, and the sorrows of the future were forgotten in the joy of the present.

Lyndsay had a thousand little incidents and anecdotes to relate of his visit to the great metropolis; to which Flora was an eager and delighted listener. He told her that he had satisfactorily arranged all his pecuniary matters; and without sacrificing his half-pay, was able to take out about three hundred pounds sterling, which he thought, prudently managed, would enable him to make a tolerably comfortable settlement in Canada,--particularly, as he would not be obliged to purchase a farm, being entitled to a grant of four hundred acres of wild land.

He had engaged a passage in a fine vessel that was to sail from Leith, at the latter end of the week.

"I found, that in going from Scotland," said Lyndsay, "we could be as well accommodated for nearly half price; and it would give you the opportunity of seeing Edinburgh, and me the melancholy satisfaction of taking a last look at the land of my birth."

"One of the London steamers will call for us to-morrow morning, on her way to Scotland, and I must hire a boat to-night, and get our luggage prepared for a start. A short notice, dear Flora, to a sad but inevitable necessity, I thought better for a person of your temperament, than a long and tedious anticipation of evil. Now all is prepared for the voyage, delay is not only useless, but dangerous. So cheer up, darling, and be as happy and cheerful as you can. Let us spend the last night at home pleasantly together." He kissed Flora so affectionately, as he ceased speaking, that she not only promised obedience, but contrived to smile through her tears.

It was necessary for them to return instantly to the cottage, and Flora took leave of her mother, with a full heart. We will not dwell on such partings; they

"Wring the blood from out young hearts,"

as the poet has truly described them, making the snows of age descend upon the rose crowned brow of youth.

Sorrowfully Flora returned to her pretty little cottage, which presented a scene of bustle and confusion baffling description. Everything was out of place and turned upside down. Corded trunks and packages filled up the passages and doorways; and formed stumbling blocks for kind friends and curious neighbours, who crowded the house. Strange dogs forced their way in after their masters, and fought and yelped in undisturbed pugnacity. The baby cried, and no one was at leisure to pacify her, and a cheerless and uncomfortable spirit filled the once peaceful and happy home.

Old Captain Kitson was in his glory; hurrying here and there, ordering, superintending, and assisting the general confusion, without in the least degree helping on the work. He had taken upon himself the charge of hiring the boat which was to convey the emigrants on board the steamer; and he stood chaffering on the lawn for a couple of hours with the sailors, to whom she belonged, to induce them to take a shilling less than the sum proposed.

Tired with the altercation, and sorry for the honest tars, Lyndsay told the master of the boat to yield to the old Captain's terms, and he would make up the difference. The sailor answered with a knowing wink, and appeared reluctantly to consent to old Kitson's wishes.

"There, Mrs. Lyndsay, my dear, I told you these fellows would come to my terms rather than lose a good customer," cried the old man, rubbing his hands together in an ecstasy of self-gratulation. "Leave me to make a bargain; the rogues cannot cheat me with their damned impositions. The _Leaftenant_ is too soft with these chaps; I'm an old sailor--they can't come over me. I have made them take one _pound_ for the use of their craft, instead of _one and twenty_ shillings. 'Take care of the pence,' my dear, 'and the pounds will take care of themselves.' I found that out, long before poor Richard marked it down in his log."

Then sidling up to Flora, and putting his long nose into her face, he whispered in her ear,--

"Now, my dear gall, don't be offended with an old friend; but if you have any old coats or hats that _Leaftenant_ Lyndsay does not think worth packing up, I shall be very glad of them, for my Charles. Mrs. K. is an excellent hand at transmogrifying things, and in a large family such articles never come amiss."

Charles was the Captain's youngest son. A poor idiot, who, thirty years of age, had the appearance of an overgrown boy. The other members of the Captain's _large_ family were all married and settled prosperously in the world. Flora felt truly ashamed of the old man's meanness, but was glad to repay his trifling services in a way suggested by himself. The weather for the last three weeks had been unusually fine, but towards the evening of this memorable 30th of May, large masses of clouds began to rise in the north-west, and the sea changed its azure hue to a dull leaden grey. Old Kitson shook his head prophetically.

"There's a change of weather at hand, Mrs. Lyndsay; you may look out for squalls before six o'clock to-morrow. The wind shifts every minute, and there's an ugly swell rolling in upon the shore."

"Ah, I hope it will be fine," said Flora, looking anxiously up at the troubled sky; "it is so miserable to begin a long journey in the rain. Perhaps it will pass off during the night in a thunder-shower."

The old man whistled, shut one eye, and looked knowingly at the sea with the other.

"Women know about as much of the weather as your nurse does of handling a rope. Whew! but there's a gale coming; I'll down to the beach, and tell the lads to haul up the boats, and make all snug before it bursts," and away toddled the old man, full of the importance of his mission.

It was the last night at home--the last social meeting of kindred friends on this side the grave. Flora tried to appear cheerful, but the forced smile upon the tutored lips, rendered doubly painful the tears kept back in the swollen eyes; the vain effort of the sorrowful in heart to be gay. Alas! for the warm hearts, the generous friendships, the kindly greetings of dear Old England, when would they be hers again? Flora's friends at length took leave, and she was left with her husband alone.