Chapter XIV The visit
More than two years had now elapsed since the day when, in the little church of Wingsdale, Flora had plighted her troth to him whom she so deeply loved, while many a fervent prayer arose for her happiness from the poor whom she had tended, the young whom she had taught. The interval between her engagement and her marriage had been one of brightness to Flora. A mountain’s weight seemed to have been removed from her spirits, and with the elasticity which youth and hope give, they had more than rebounded to their former elevation. Again she had smiles and kind words for all, and she appeared resolved by her winning sweetness of manner to deepen the regrets of the village at losing its “sunshine.” Mrs. Vernon had stifled her own misgivings, that she might cast no shadow on the bliss of the young bride; and no one could have told from her outward manner how heavy lay the heart within. Even Emma had shaken off a little of her languor, roused to something like interest by the excitement of a wedding. Her children had brought their little offerings, prepared in mysterious secrecy with the assistance of their grandmother, who was to them teacher, companion, and confidant; and Flora’s surprise and thanks on receiving their presents almost realized their juvenile expectations.
More than two years had rolled their course since that exciting, joyous day, when a cab drove up to the door of a large house in Cavendish Square, and a lady stepped out and rang the bell. She was attired in habiliments which once had been handsome, but which had decidedly seen their best days; the rich silk dress had been dyed, the shawl was faded, the sable boa showed tokens of age, and neat fingers had repaired the Lisle lace veil which gave grace to the bonnet of straw. In the staid manner and somewhat care-worn face, where certain lines were traced across the brow which was smooth some two years ago, we mark a change beyond that which time would have made in our old acquaintance Ada.
“Ada! oh, how delighted I am to see you! What an age it is since we met!” cried Flora, as the visitor was ushered into the elegant apartment of Lady Legrange, and the cousins exchanged an affectionate embrace.
Has Flora also been altered by the plain gold ring, which often works wonders as strange as those wrought by an enchanter?
Flora is lovely as ever, her beauty enhanced by a womanly dignity which beseems the baronet’s wife. But she too has lost the joyous brightness which rested on her gentle countenance when Ada first visited Wingsdale. An expression of thought, almost of melancholy, is there; and she certainly looked far happier in her gipsy bonnet, seated on the gnarled roots of the old oak, than she does now in her spacious mansion, robed in velvet and surrounded by luxury.
“I could not resist the temptation of coming to see you!” cried Ada, sitting with Flora’s hand clasped in her own, and surveying her with a look of affectionate interest.
“I hope that you have brought your twins to London with you?” said Flora.
“Oh, the little cherubs! how I should delight to show them to you! But we left them in Wiltshire; it is a serious matter to travel with two infants not a year old.”
“Then I am afraid that your stay in London will be but short,” observed Lady Legrange, “with two such powerful magnets drawing you away.”
“Only two!” laughed Ada; “you forget my husband’s children,—a whole scale of magnets, from five feet five to three feet nothing! I thought that I should never have managed to get away at all! But the Major was obliged to come to town to fit out his middy, and I took such a longing to revisit my old haunts, look at old faces, hear the sounds of carriage wheels, and knocks at the door, and street cries, and hurdy-gurdies again, that, like a dutiful mamma, I must see Jack off myself, and pay a flying visit to dear smoky London.”
“I can scarcely fancy you the staid, sober mother of such a large family!” exclaimed Flora.
“Very odd—isn’t it? reversing the order of nature; instead of the quiet spinning caterpillar turning into the gay butterfly, the butterfly doffing its silken wings and beginning to crawl through the routine of daily duties, a prisoner to its cabbage-leaf. Only imagine me, Flora, mending stockings, shaping out pinafores, bandaging cut fingers and broken heads, scolding tradespeople, keeping servants in order, paying bills, and dancing babies till my arms ache!”
“I should think the last a very delightful occupation,” said Flora, suppressing a sigh.
“None but a mother can tell how delightful,” replied Ada; “but I do not take so kindly to all my domestic employments. I never yet took pleasure in solving the problem how far a shilling would go, nor finding out how it is that boys are always wanting new shoes, and how elbows and knees are perpetually running a race as to which should first run through the clothes. I believe that children have found out the secret of perpetual motion, to the great discomfort of those who have to look after little rogues!”
“But children make a house so cheerful,” said Flora, abstractedly.
“And now, my dear child—ah! you see that I can’t get over my old way of talking to you yet—do give me your last news from Wingsdale. You know that I’m such a shocking correspondent that I know as little of what passes in the world beyond Salisbury Plain as if I were a denizen of the moon.”
“Poor old Mrs. Ward, my mother tells me, is now a confirmed invalid, and unable to leave her bed.”
“And your sweet mother herself?”
“She never mentions her own health; her letters are full of the children.”
“Ah! the whity-brown legion of little horrors, who like a swarm of hornets literally drove you out of Laurel Bank, and compelled you to take refuge in Grosvenor Square! I suppose that they have been undergoing the process of taming, at which my aunt is so famous, and that Johnny now does not scratch out any one’s eyes, and that Lyddie may be trusted in a store-room full of treacle and sugar. I should think your mother a first-rate hand at bringing up children, judging from the charming specimen before me!”
Flora neither smiled nor blushed at the flattery now.
“But tell me how they all appeared when you were last at Laurel Bank.”
Then, indeed, the colour rose to Flora’s pale cheek, and it was with an appearance of some embarrassment that she replied, “I have not been there since you were there, on the day of my marriage.”
Ada suppressed the exclamation of astonishment that was upon her tongue, for she saw that its utterance would give pain.
“My dear husband has been so much engaged—of course I could not leave him—it is so difficult sometimes to make arrangements—but I hope soon—” Flora stopped short, for her lips were not accustomed to utter an absolute untruth.
“How your mother must be longing to see you! I should not have thought that she could have lived so long without you!”
“Words cannot express how I long to see her!” exclaimed Flora, with tears in her eyes.
“I think that it might be managed in some way. If you could not visit Wingsdale, she might come to London—”
Flora looked so uneasy at the proposition that Ada changed the conversation in pure good nature, wondering much in her mind what could have occurred to separate a parent so much beloved from so dutiful a daughter.
“I hope that you have not given up your pen, Flora; that you don’t think that your talented husband the author does enough in that line for you both?”
“Oh, I write a little sometimes,” said Flora, in a tone of indifference.
“I never read anything so pretty as your hymns. Do you know, Flora,” Ada added more gravely, “that I have often thought over the verses which you wrote during my first visit to Wingsdale, after we heard that solemn sermon from Mr. Ward on the subject of the sower and his seed!”
“I had almost forgotten them,” said Flora.
“And the sermon too?”
“Well—I have heard so many since.”
“Ah! that is the thing, you have lived in such an atmosphere of piety.”
“Oh, don’t speak so!” cried Flora hurriedly.
“It does seem to me,” observed Ada, folding her hands, “that it is a great deal more difficult for some people than for others to lead a religious life. Look how differently you were brought up from what I was; is there any wonder that we are so different now? I had been taught to think of nothing but gaiety, and shining in the world, and making a sensation, and all that sort of thing; I lived in a perpetual round of amusements: so pleasure was my danger then, and I fancied that when the time for pleasure was past, my difficulties would vanish, and that I should grow serious as I grew old. Well, I follow your example, and marry, and am taken completely from the world; but I am plunged into a little bustling world of my own, and I have so much to think of, so much to do, that I have really no time for religion. Instead of the pleasures, come the cares of this life.”
“Cast your cares upon Him, for He careth for you,” faintly murmured Lady Legrange.
“Ah, Flora, you were never like any one else; I always feel better when I am near you.” Flora’s brow contracted a little, as if she were in pain, and she turned her head away from the speaker.
“I wish that I could always have you beside me,” continued Ada; “it would be such a comfort to have your wise, calm advice!”
“It is so much easier to give advice than to take it home to ourselves,” said Flora, with something like a sigh.
The ladies then conversed for some time together on topics of general interest. Flora really enjoyed seeing her old companion, and would gladly have invited both Ada and her husband to her house, to remain there during their stay in London; but she did not venture even to ask them to dinner. Sir Amery, she knew, would have had no objection to the society of the lively Ada; but the Major, a simple, blunt man, with more kindness in his heart than polish in his manners, did not suit the refined taste of the baronet, and must “be kept at a proper distance.” All that Flora could do was by the cordiality of her own manner to endeavour to smooth away from the mind of her cousin any sense of unkindness, or even of ingratitude, which might arise from no invitation being given; and Ada left the house satisfied that Flora was not changed, though with a rising doubt as to whether she were happy.