Chapter XII Decision
Before sunset on the following day, while yet the bright orb darted his beams, like glittering lances, through openings in the foliage, and the jasmine blossoms trembled in the breeze and scattered their silver stars on the ground, an elastic step trod the path which led to the door of Laurel Bank—a tall graceful form ascended the steps; and the children in the garden wonderingly gazed from a distance on the lordly stranger who came, an unwonted visitor, to their home.
How fast throbbed one trembling heart at the sight of that form, the sound of that footstep! Flora had spent an exciting and agitating day. She had been for hours alone with her mother, those fatal volumes before them which they had perused with such different feelings. Flora had listened, argued, and wept, her judgment half convinced, but her heart altogether unpersuaded. Sir Amery was still the hero of her fancy, the idol of her affection. His very imperfections, like broken rocks in wild scenery, were to her invested with a charm which made the virtues of others appear tame. If he had errors, she thought, they were the errors of a noble mind, the wanderings of a glorious river, pursuing its bright course at its own free pleasure, not confined to one long, dull, straight line, like a canal made by measure and rule.
“And oh, my mother!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “think of the privilege, the blessing, of helping to draw such a noble spirit nearer to religion and to God!—of winning him to love what I love—to serve whom I serve! How can I, weak and helpless as I am, so benefit my fellow-creatures as by employing such influence as Providence has given me over the heart of one of the most gifted of men, to lead him to devote his high powers to the cause of piety and virtue? Does not this appear to be the special work which God has appointed me to do? is it not for this that I have been given favour in the eyes of one so far above me in all things? I have heard Mr. Ward preach upon providential calls, doors of usefulness opened to God’s servants, opportunities offered which it is sin to neglect: is not a door now opened to me, an opportunity granted of serving the Lord in a wider sphere than I could ever hope to occupy here?”
“My child, your feelings and not your judgment now speak. A plain commandment of the Almighty is before you—‘Be not unequally yoked with unbelievers.’ Do you believe that in breaking the law of your God you can expect his blessing, that blessing without which it were as impossible for one being to change the heart of another, as it would be to bring waters from the stony rock or call up fire from the ocean?”
“But,” pleaded Flora through her tears, “did not the apostle write that ‘the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife; for what knowest thou, O wife! whether thou shalt save thy husband?’ is not such a blessed hope as this held out to encourage feeble women like me?”
“It was held out to such as were themselves converted after marriage, to such as had already formed the tie which bound them to unbelievers, before the grace of God was shed abroad in their own hearts. Can you mention a single verse in the Bible that encourages us to do evil that good may come, to break God’s law that we may aid others to keep it?”
Flora looked down and sighed heavily.
“Oh, my daughter! while you hopefully regard the effect which your influence may have upon the man whom you love, you forget the influence which he will assuredly exercise over yourself. You trust that you will be the means of drawing him nearer to the Lord—you overlook the danger that he will draw your own heart away. When we wilfully throw ourselves into temptation, what assurance can we have that the Almighty will preserve us from its effects? Who dare say, ‘I will stand fast in the Lord,’ when, through our tenderest affections, our closest ties, the danger presses on our souls?”
Little did Sir Amery dream of the cloud that was rising to darken the sky which was so bright before him! Little did he dream of the conflict which awaited him, as with an exulting heart he approached the home of his beloved! He knew that her heart was his own; and from her family, judging by his knowledge of the world, he deemed that he could have nothing to fear. He was conscious of high talent, and of that strange, undefined power over the feelings and passions of others which is exercised but by few, and which makes its possessor take a lofty position in society even when not, as was the case with himself, entitled to such by birth. Sir Amery knew that he might contract a brilliant alliance—that, in the object of his choice, rank, wealth, and beauty, might unite, and that the proudest families in the land would deem connection with him an honour. He knew all this; and when he who had been the observed of all observers—admired, envied, courted—he whose fame had spread into distant lands, whose works were quoted in foreign tongues—when he turned from the glittering circles of fashion to choose for his bride a simple maiden, who possessed neither rank nor riches, he felt that the world might regard his disinterested attachment as romantic folly. But for the world’s opinions on the subject he cared little; he was almost satiated with its applause, and he was content, and more than content, to stoop from his pinnacle of fame, to rest on one gentle, loving heart, that he could make entirely his own, and mould according to his will.
Had the idea been suggested to Sir Amery that his suit for the hand of Flora would meet with opposition in her home, he would have smiled at it as something more improbable than the wildest flights of his fancy; but the thought that such opposition might be dangerous, nay, successful—that his hopes might be blighted, his happiness marred, and that by an instrument so feeble as the conscientious scruples of a merchant’s widow—such thought would have been at once dismissed from his mind as beyond the bounds of possibility. When, therefore, the anxious, trembling mother, received him with an emotion of which he at first misinterpreted the cause—when, by an effort which sent back the blood to her heart, she told him of her doubts, of her fears, shrinking from meeting the bright eye which rested so keenly upon her—the first sentiment awakened in his breast was one of surprise, succeeded by something akin to indignation. Was he to be called upon to explain his views, to give an account of his opinions! Were the depths of his mind to be sounded by the feeble thread of a woman’s judgment! What was it to her what he thought or believed—it was not to be expected that she should understand him! Why was theology dragged in at all, where the question was between heart and heart! “Such matters might suit,” as he observed, with a sarcastic smile, “the discussion of grave doctors at convocation, but could scarcely occupy now the attention of him whose mind was absorbed by but one object—the deep, passionate love which he bore towards her in whom all his hopes of happiness centred!”
Sir Amery had at first suspected Mrs. Vernon of throwing frivolous difficulties in the way, in order to enhance the value of the prize which he sought, and to prevent the baronet from feeling that the merchant’s daughter was too easily won. Flora’s silent anguish, however, and her mother’s quiet decision, soon undeceived him on this point. He saw that the danger was real, the opposition which he encountered, sincere. He then changed his position altogether; and dropping the calm, almost sarcastic manner in which he had at first replied to Mrs. Vernon, he burst into a strain of fervid, glowing eloquence, pouring forth those impassioned words which excite the feelings and confound the judgment. He pleaded his own cause as those only can plead whose more than life is at stake.
To Flora, such words were irresistible. If doubts or scruples had been raised in her mind, they were swept in a moment away, as the rushing cataract, dashing from a height, whirls along the autumn leaves that have dropped on its surface! But as easily could that roaring cataract break the arch of the rainbow that glistens at its foot, as the torrent of eloquence to which she listened warp the settled judgment of the parent. She needed not to be persuaded that Sir Amery loved—she believed Flora to be worthy of the warmest affection which ever glowed in the heart of man; but no sentence which he uttered altered her conviction that he was one who, however gifted with earthly wisdom, was yet a stranger to the knowledge which alone can make man wise unto salvation.
Sir Amery read in the expression of her sad eye that, as far as regarded Mrs. Vernon, all that he had spoken had been uttered in vain. Repressing the fierce resentment which swelled in his breast, he addressed himself more exclusively to Flora, whose tears were her only reply. Mrs. Vernon saw that the love of her only child for one whom, some few weeks before, she had met as a stranger, was overcoming even that affection which had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength; she felt herself the only barrier between her daughter and a danger to which Flora was blind, and she dreaded lest that barrier might be passed. Her nerves overstrained, her feelings wounded, her fears for the moment overmastering her faith, Mrs. Vernon sank back on her chair, the paleness of death overspread her face, a feint sigh burst from her whitening lips!
The sight of her mother in this state roused all that deep affection which Flora had ever borne towards her parent. In a moment she was at her side, supporting her drooping head, covering the pallid brow with her tears.
“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed forth, “look not thus. I will do anything—everything that you will! Leave me, leave me, Sir Amery!” she continued, in tones of passionate grief; “I never can—I never will—marry without the consent of my mother!”
“You do not bid me despair?” exclaimed Sir Amery, grasping the unresisting hand which trembled in his. “Flora, you do not bid me despair?”
“Go—go. Perhaps a time may come—perhaps—only leave me—for pity’s sake, leave me!”
“You shall be obeyed,” replied Sir Amery, pressing her hand fervently to his lips; “Flora, my heart’s life, you shall be obeyed. But notwithstanding all the obstacles which narrow-minded bigotry would raise up between us, did all the powers of earth combine to separate those whose hearts are united, love like mine should trample down those obstacles, and, in defiance of the opposition of the world, you should be mine: yes, Flora, idol of my soul! you shall be mine!”
He was gone!—gone with burning words on his lips, passionate, indignant emotions in his heart: he was gone, and left desolation behind him!