Chapter III Confession
“Did you not admire the sermon?” said Flora to Ada, as, during the interval between services on Sunday, the two cousins strolled through the shrubbery.
“Mr. Ward was very earnest.”
“Was he not?—and so eloquent! he is a very delightful preacher! You don’t know how we missed him when he went away last winter for a few months. We had such a dreadful man, with a sepulchral voice, really, I know it was very wrong, but I could scarcely keep awake while he preached.” And the young lady went on describing the messenger of the gospel in much the same terms as Ada would have used in speaking of an actor whom she did not admire.
“But Mr. Ward is so different,” she said in conclusion. “I was quite delighted with his sermon; were not you?”
“To own the truth, it made me feel a little uncomfortable,” replied Ada.
“That is a compliment to the preacher’s power,” said Flora, with a smile. “I never heard him speak more forcibly than he did to-day on the parable of the sower.”
“And you were delighted with the sermon because all the last part of it belonged to yourself,—all the beautiful description of the good seed springing up.”
Flora gave a little deprecating “Oh!”
“While I was wondering which part applied to me—”
“And which did you fix upon?” said Flora; she was smiling, but Ada was grave.
“I am afraid,” said the young lady with a little sigh, “that I am most like the seed among the thorns.”
“Oh no, dear!” cried Flora, through whose mind the same reflection had been passing during the greater part of the sermon.
“I am not always thoughtless,” said Ada earnestly, “when I was a little girl how I used to cry over the story of the Young Cottager, and wish that I were like little Jane! and now often, on Sundays, when I hear a beautiful sermon like that of this morning, I feel like a different creature, really quite religious, and go to bed with such good resolutions; but then comes the morrow, and somehow I forget all about them till Sunday comes round again.”
Flora was silent, for she knew not what to reply.
“You are so good, so unselfish, so unworldly—so altogether unlike me!”
“My dear Ada, you are a sad flatterer!”
“But every one thinks the same: your mother, the clergyman, all who approach you see that you are an angel, only wanting the wings! When I heard you repeating the confession of sins so fervently beside me, I could not help saying to myself, I wonder what Flora has to confess; how, by any stretch of imagination, she can believe herself to be a ‘miserable sinner?’”
“Ada, we are all sinners.”
“Ah yes; I know that there is plenty of wickedness in the world, but then it is very unequally divided. Some have so little for their share that it is actually invisible—like yours! Now what I wish you to tell me is this, when you follow the clergyman in that part of the service, are you confessing the sins of your neighbours in general, or any of your own in particular?”
“You are jesting,” said Flora, looking embarrassed.
“No indeed, I am not jesting, I am in very sober earnest. I want to know with what you can possibly charge yourself when you pray for forgiveness so devoutly.”
“Do you wish the office of a father confessor?”
“Now, like a dear good child, just answer my question, or I shall think that you do not because you cannot.”
Flora hesitated;—strange to say, it was a subject on which she was little accustomed to reflect. Through habit she had repeated prayers aloud, and her voice had acquired an intonation which naturally gave an impression of fervour; but she had never thought of questioning her own heart as to the sincerity of her prayer, or the real existence of that earnest devotion which was expressed in her manner. As little had she dreamed of inquiring what particular sins lay on her conscience! the truth is, that the burden, if she had any, was so light, that she could scarcely be said to feel it. Ada, however, pressed for a reply; and afraid that her cousin might suspect her of self-righteousness if she remained silent, Flora, casting down her eyes, made answer—“I know that I sometimes neglect my duties and put them off to a more convenient time.”
“What duties, may I ask?”
“Such as visiting the sick poor.”
Ada threw up her hands in amazement. “Why, it seems to me there is nothing here but attending to the poor from morning till night—cutting out work for the school, carrying broth to old women, lecturing little boys, visiting, reading—”
“Ah! that is my mother’s doing more than mine.”
“My dear child, you do enough to constitute you a saint in any Romish calendar! If you have to repent of not doing more, what is to become of me who do nothing at all! Pray let us have some more tangible fault, if the microscope of your conscience is sufficiently strong to discover one in your conduct.”
“I am sometimes out of patience with the school children.”
“I should think so—though I never saw you impatient; but what can be so trying to the temper as teaching a batch of stupid rustics? You are only too good in having anything to say to the little dunces! Well, have you come to the end of your catalogue?”
Flora waited for some moments before she added, with a little sigh, “Sometimes I wish for things which I ought not to wish for.”
“There’s no harm in wishing,” said Ada quickly. “I wish for a thousand things every day: a harp, a diamond cross, a trip to Italy, a good horse—there is no end to my wishing, and it does nobody harm.”
“There sounds the bell for afternoon church,” said Flora, rather relieved by the interruption.
“I hope that you go in a very penitent frame!” cried Ada. The light words of the thoughtless girl did not grate on the ear of her companion as they ought to have done—as they would have done had Flora’s views been clearer, her knowledge greater, her self-examination more searching. Rather did they give a sensation of pleasure; for while Flora felt herself inferior to her cousin in knowledge of the world, and instinctively looked up to Ada in every matter of fashion, she was conscious of possessing a great superiority in whatever regarded the mind or the heart, and secretly compassionated the young London lady as worldly, frivolous, and ignorant of spiritual things. How far Ada deserved her cousin’s silent censure, I will not at present inquire; my subject is Flora herself—it is for such as Flora that my little book is written, for the thousands and tens of thousands who, in our peaceful, happy island, lead useful lives in the bosom of pious families, enjoying all the blessings of home. It is such whose patient consideration I would earnestly, affectionately entreat, as I endeavour to search a little deeper than the surface, which appears so fair, to see whether the ore which lies below is as precious as the landscape is lovely; whether—to change the metaphor—the seed of the Word has really fallen in honest and good ground, and is bringing forth a harvest of good works through the blessing shed on it from on high.
To prosecute our search, we must assume the power of looking more closely into the heart of Flora than she has ever looked herself, and to trace her actions to their source, as she never has dreamed of tracing them.
Flora was the beloved and only child of a devoted Christian. From her birth she had been the subject of many prayers, and religion had been instilled into her mind from the time when she could first lisp the name of the Saviour. Great had been the delight of her tender mother to see the first dawnings of religious perception in the mind of her child. Great was her pride, if one so meek could be proud, to mark the pleasure taken by Flora in her Bible; who can wonder if she did not closely analyze whether that pleasure arose from a desire to win her smile, or simple love of the truth! Flora was gifted by nature with a sweet and easy temper, and in the secluded life which she led there was seldom anything to ruffle it. She had also a warm affectionate heart, and as its tenderness was lavished upon her mother, duties toward her were regarded as delights—Flora pleased herself in pleasing her parent.
One of the strongest features in Flora’s character was the love of approbation; and carefully guarded as she ever had been from any influence that could injure her, this passion, often so dangerous, so fatal, ever wore the semblance of virtue. It was so charming to be loved and admired; to be praised by the clergyman, looked up to by the poor, considered as a model of piety and charity! Flora was little aware that, in her life of seclusion, love of variety, necessity for occupation, desire to find some object of interest, might suffice to lead her to the dwellings of the poor, without any higher motive. She would have been startled to have been told how much of vanity mingled with her benevolent zeal. She had a floating idea, just in itself, but injurious in its effect on her mind, that woman never looks so heavenly fair as when engaged in offices of mercy; she had a consciousness that her own delicate loveliness never showed to greater advantage than when contrasted with squalid poverty and sickly age; and when others compared her to a seraph or a sunbeam, the words which brought the soft colour to her cheek and the modest disclaimer to her lips, were by no means distasteful to her heart, nor were they altogether condemned by her secret judgment.
There was one other circumstance which further blinded Flora to her own imperfections. She had a refined and elegant taste, cultivated and improved by voluminous reading. Her natural love for the beautiful led her to enjoy with enthusiasm all that was perfect in nature or art. The rapture with which fine scenery inspired her, the sensation produced in her by sacred music or burst of eloquence from the pulpit, she mistook, as thousands have done, for proofs of a renewed and pious heart. Could she have doubted her own deeds of charity, she could not doubt her tears of devotion, though the sensibility which called them forth would have been equally excited by a well-acted tragedy.
Flora had a talent for poetry, and naturally chose for the usual theme of her verse the most sublime and glorious of subjects, and that which the circumstances of her education and position most constantly presented to her mind. She knew that her sweet hymns were read with delight by her mother, copied out in her handwriting, treasured in her memory, looked upon by the pious lady as evidences that her dearest hopes had been realized in her daughter. Flora’s poetry was regarded as the exposition of her mind. Alas! her writings were far more holy than their authoress! Thus a false opinion was formed of her character, aided in no small degree by the singular sweetness of a face upon which no rude passion had ever traced a line.
When the course of duty is down the current of inclination, the leafy branch floats smoothly along the stream. But that motion is not life; that progress is owing to no inherent power in the bough. The least impediment is sufficient to stop it—the smallest eddy to turn it aside!