Flora Lyndsay Volume I Part 14

Flora was delighted with the project, but on writing about it to her husband, she found him unwilling to take out a feeble old woman, who was very likely to die on the voyage; and Flora, with reluctance, declined the good woman's offer.

It happened very unfortunately for Flora, that her mother had in her employment a girl, whose pretty feminine face and easy pliable manners, had rendered her a great favourite in the family. Whenever Flora visited the Hall, Hannah had taken charge of the baby, on whom she lavished the most endearing epithets and caresses.

This girl had formed an imprudent intimacy with a farm servant in the neighbourhood, which had ended in her seduction. Her situation rendered marriage a matter of necessity. In this arrangement of the matter, it required both parties should agree; and the man, who doubtless knew more of the girl's real character than her benevolent mistress, flatly refused to make her his wife. Hannah, in an agony of rage and contrition, had confided her situation to her mistress; and implored her not to turn her from her doors, or she would end her misery in self-destruction.

"She had no home," she said, "in the wide world-and she dared not return to her aunt, who was the only friend she had; and who, under existing circ.u.mstances, she well knew, would never afford her the shelter of her roof."

Simple as this girl appeared, she knew well how to act her part; and so won upon the compa.s.sion of Mrs. W--, that she was determined, if possible, to save her from ruin. Finding that Mrs. Lyndsay had failed in obtaining a servant, she applied to her on Hannah's behalf, and requested, as a favour, that she would take the forlorn creature with her to Canada.

Flora at first rejected the proposal in disgust: in spite of Mrs. W--'s high recommendation, there was something about the woman she did not like; and much as she was inclined to pity her, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of making her the companion of her voyage. She could not convince herself that Hannah was worthy of the sympathy manifested on her behalf. A certain fawning, servility of manner, led her to imagine that she was deceitful; and she was reluctant to entail upon herself the trouble and responsibility which must arise from her situation, and the scandal it might involve. But her objections were borne down by Mrs. W--'s earnest entreaties, to save, if possible, a fellow creature from ruin.

The false notions formed by most persons in England of the state of society in Canada, made Mrs. W-- reject, as mere bugbears, all Flora's fears as to the future consequences which might arise from her taking such a hazardous step. What had she to fear from ill-natured gossip in a barbarous country, so thinly peopled, that settlers seldom resided within a day's journey of each other. If the girl was wise enough to keep her own secret, who would take the trouble to find it out? Children were a blessing in such a wilderness; and Hannah's child, brought up in the family, would be very little additional expense and trouble, and might prove a most attached and grateful servant, forming a lasting tie of mutual benefit between the mother and her benefactress. The mother was an excellent worker, and, until this misfortune happened, a good and faithful girl. She was _weak_, to be sure; but then (what a fatal mistake) the more easily managed. Mrs. W--was certain that Flora would find her a perfect treasure.

All this sounded very plausible in theory, and savoured of romance.

Flora found it in the end a dismal reality. She consented to receive the girl as her servant, who was overjoyed at the change in her prospects; declaring that she never could do enough for Mrs. Lyndsay, for s.n.a.t.c.hing her from a life of disgrace and infamy. And so little Josey was provided with a nurse, and Flora with a servant.

CHAPTER XII.

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 antic.i.p.ations, 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 fort.i.tude, the trials of the future; but there is something so dreary, so utterly hopeless, in this breaking up of kindred ties and home a.s.sociations, 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 hara.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sionate 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 s.e.x.

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 ma.s.ses 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 gra.s.s, and, burying her face among the fragrant daisies, imprinted a pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 ent.i.tled to a grant of four hundred acres of wild land.

He had engaged a pa.s.sage 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 antic.i.p.ation 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,"