CHAPTER XVI.—THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK.
And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,
Oh! never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn is this bleak wilderness below
Oh! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear?
To others do (the law is not severe)
What to thyself thou wishest to be done.
—Armstrong.
Nathan Gomer withdrew his hands from before his eyes.
A sharp spasm which had almost convulsed his frame had passed away, and he commenced his revelation.
He addressed himself to Wilton, rather than to his other auditors, and it soon became evident that his story possessed for the old man a most absorbing interest.
“I was separated from my family at a very early age,” he commenced, “being taken under the roof and tender care of a sister of my mother. My father was a wild, dissipated spendthrift, in perpetual pecuniary difficulties. My mother, a gentle, timid, tender creature, passed a life of incessant fright, care and distressing misery, after her union with him. She had been married to him some five years before I was born, and at that period she had reached the very climax of wretchedness with the miserable man to whom she was tied; a series of wild excesses drove him into an infuriated insanity, during a fearful paroxysm of which life was snatched from him. In my mother’s horror at this event, I was prematurely born. My mother never recovered the shock. Within two years of my father’s decease, she was placed in the same grave, and I was taken charge of by her sister.
“My boyhood was passed in comparative seclusion; for I was, from my earliest recollection, possessed of personal defects; and idle, thoughtless boys, when I appeared amongst them, found a delight in wounding my susceptibility, by jeering at me, mocking my stunted growth and my sallow visage. I was on that account kept as much within doors as possible, and was educated at home. I had kind instructors and an extensive library to consult, and naturally acquired a passion for reading, especially as legendary lore was rather an extensive element in the collection. I was, perhaps, the more urged to devote myself to books, because, by comparison, I became quite aware of my physical deficiencies, and because—with a kind motive—-my father’s terrible example was always held up in terrorem before me. So I became dull and thoughtful, and shunned society as much as it was possible for me to do, and I began to feel like Cain. Strangers met me with a smile of derision, or their lips were curled with scorn. I was bantered by my own kind; and was the scoff of the other sex. No wonder that I hated the human race; for it appeared to hate me. Even the servants of the house in which I lived made me the butt at which to level the shafts of their vulgar ridicule. How much of this I really deserved I do not now pretend to measure; but I hurled back the contumely I received with fierce; intemperate defiance. I spurned; and spat; and sneered; too; even though beneath that scornful rage my heart was breaking.
“I had nearly arrived at man’s estate; a dwarf still in stature, harbouring against the world the most rancorous animosity; when I became sensible that there was one gentle spirit who was out of the pale of my hate. Years before, a quiet, dove-like, mild girl was a frequent visitor at my aunt’s, and she was often invited when, in an irritated, turbulent mood, I wandered about threatening mischief to others as to myself. At first I repelled her, but somehow she discovered the way to soften my violence, and to lead my thoughts into a gentler train. As we grew up together, her influence over me increased, until her lightest wish became the law I implicitly obeyed. Her face and form were of faultless beauty, and her mind was not less perfect in purity and excellence. Her coming seemed to me as the opening of the gates of Paradise, in which I wandered with her—her going, as though I had been thrust back into darkness and gloom. In my most morose fits, her smiling eyes and soft words wooed me into placidity and to kinder thoughts of others. Her gentle touch unloosed my clenched hands, unlocked my hard-set teeth, and her appealing look toned down the bitterness of my heart against those who were, as it seemed to me, lashing me into fury.
“Lo! by chance I learned that she had been wooed and won by a youth of fairer proportions than myself, that tender words of affection had been poured into a not unwilling ear, and that she had promised to give her hand, with her heart in it, to him whose form and features had pleased her eye, and whose honied language had beguiled her of her love.
“I know not how to describe the overwhelming agony of my heart at the discovery. I brooded over it, nursed the most terrible schemes of vengeance on him who was thus about to rob me of the only being who had sympathised with me, had reasoned with me, and had brought me back from almost brute barbarism into the realms of a common humanity; who had extirpated many of my worst failings, and replaced them by implanting virtues resembling her own. I took the first opportunity of challenging her with the tale I had heard, and she at once, with blushing face, acknowledged its truth. Then, then, in frantic terms, I confessed the idolatry with which I worshipped her; then, by an involuntary exclamation, she revealed to me that she had done all for me in commiserating pity and nought in love. Oh! the intense torture of that admission!
“Our interview was long and agonising to me, and scarcely less painful to her—let me not further recur to it even at this moment, I——”
Nathan Gomer abruptly rose and paced the room, hiding his averted face in his handkerchief. Recovering himself by a strong effort he returned to his seat, and continued—
“I abruptly fled home and the neighbourhood; I never returned thither; I came to London, where I changed my name. A large legacy greeted my arrival. I hastened to secure it, and to commence to increase it by every art the usurer can employ. I hated my race; I knew no more certain way of feeding, ghoul-like, on their heart’s blood, than by lending money at usurious interest. Oh! but I have, like a miserable wretch that I was, gloated over the fearful agonies of a breaking heart, and in my dreary, solitary chamber I have yelled with triumphant delight over the mad despair of those I have helped to destruction.
“And so years went on. Gold showered on me from all sides. My aunt left her sole wealth to me; I converted her lands into coin, and lent it out. The proud bent like fawning spaniels at my feet—the humble knelt to me. The rich smiled and bowed to me. The high and the well-born sought—ugh! I might have surfeited myself with the ‘best society,’ yellow, ungainly dwarf though I happened to be.
“One night, alone in my dismal room, gloating over the feat of having that day planted my foot on a proud man’s neck, there suddenly came upon me the memory of the past. I was a boy again. She whom I had so loved in my youth, Flora Thorneley, stood before me; there, in her white girlish garb, bright, shining like a seraph, her soft, sad eyes bent upon me with a pitying expression, and her low, musical voice ringing in my ears—‘Thou hast broken thy promise,’ she said; ‘thou hast planted sorrow where thou mightest have sown joy; thou hast plunged into hopeless misery those whom thou mightest have lifted into happiness. Alas! alas!’ And then it seemed to me that I was alone and sightless.”
Wilton, with his hands compressed, had risen up as Gomer uttered the name, and he repeated—
“Flora Thorneley?”
“Even she whom you wedded!” exclaimed Nathan, with excitement; “even she. My first love and my last. Be seated, my story is drawing to a close.”
Wilton obeyed, but looked upon him with a gaze in which wonder, mystification and stupefaction were blended. A suggestion had presented itself to him which electrified him.
Nathan Gomer went on, regarded now by Flora and Mark with intense earnestness.
“I went down the following day to Harleydale,” he said, “and there learned the terrible circumstances which had driven you, Wilton, to leave there. I returned to London, and sought you out, but too late to be of the service I intended. I became your landlord, but not until she whom I sought had sunk into her grave. When this dreadful blow smote me, I registered a vow that I would strive to ensure the happiness of her children. I have striven to fulfil that vow, and I shall not cease in my efforts until it is accomplished, or my powers to act are stayed by the hand of the Inevitable.”
“You, then,” said Wilton, anxiously, “are not Nathan Gomer, but——”
“Allan Eliott Eglinton, claimant and heir-at-law to those estates which have been so long in Chancery, which, had you been just, might have been yours, but now must be mine. You now know, Wilton, who I am, and why I have spared neither time nor money to restore you to affluence. You, who beggared me of all I valued in the world—you, who so well remembered my services, and so liberally rewarded them.”
Wilton covered his eyes with his hands, and sank back in his chair with a groan.
Flora stole to the side of the dwarf, and knelt to him. She pointed to her father and then to heaven.
“Pardon him for her sake,” she said, in trembling accents.
He pressed her hands and raised her from her suppliant posture.
“For her dear sake,” he murmured, “all is forgiven.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Nathan Gomer said—
“Still there is something to clear up, Wilton. Be a man and attend to me, for the welfare of your children is now at stake. I have committed myself to the love-labour of securing their earthly happiness if within the compass of my power, and therefore I shall now proceed to renew the conversation which so abruptly parted us. I suggested that you should reward young Mr. Vivian with the hand of your daughter Flora, upon what I consider to be sound reasons. First, they love each other; that I expect, from past experience, you will admit is a strong element in producing happiness in wedded life. Secondly, Mr. Vivian possesses many admirable qualifications. He is high-spirited, honourable, generous, and capable of the most enduring attachment; he is brave, persevering, industrious; he is well educated, and in the event of reverses, can support his family by his remarkable skill; he has been—as far as resources go—so fortunate as to discover the will of Mr. Harper, which proved that very respectable and good man to have been infinitely richer than he had the credit of being. The provisions of the will leave a handsome stipend to the widow, a small income to the son—who, by the way, is on his death-bed, the results of excessive drinking—and the whole of the residue of his wealth to Mr. Henry Vivian. Now, Wilton, does your pride still step in between your daughter and her future happiness?”
Mr. Wilton held out his hand to Gomer.
“You have conquered me,” he said. “If Mr. Vivian is prepared to come forward to claim my daughter’s hand, I will no longer withhold my consent.”
“I am happy to hear it,” exclaimed Nathan, shaking his hand; adding, “and considering her narrow escape from frightful misery at the hands of an atrocious scoundrel who is likely henceforth to suffer for his misdeeds, I hardly expected you would withhold it. As for Mr. Vivian, we will soon ascertain his views on the matter.”
He rose and rang the bell. A servant appeared.
“Has Mr. Vivian arrived?” he inquired.
“He has this moment come,” returned the servant.
“Show him in,” said Nathan.
In another moment Hal made his appearance. Flora turned crimson and then pale, and then sank into a seat. Mark jumped up and shook him heartily by the hand.
“Now, Mr. Vivian,” exclaimed Nathan, with a chuckle and a grin, “I have paved the way for you, and if you still feel inclined to accept the hand of Miss Flora Wilton——”
“Accept, sir?” interrupted Hal, almost sharply.
“Well, sir,” grinned Nathan, “propose for the hand of Miss Wilton, sir, if you prefer that arrangement of expression, and propose at once.”
Hal quickly did this in language fervid and eloquent; and if language could be a test of sincerity, there was little reason for Flora to doubt the truth of his love.
Mr. Wilton, in reply, gave with nervous excitement of manner his consent, leaving the ratification of his promise to his daughter.
“She will refuse, decline, raise an obstacle!” exclaimed Nathan, vigorously; “if it is only to keep up the unities of the cross-purposes we have all been playing at.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Flora, hurriedly and loudly. At a burst of laughter from Mark and Nathan, she buried her blushing face in her hands.
Hal was suffered to remove them, and to press them to his lips.
“You accept him?” cried Gomer, chuckling. “Eh, Flora! that is the proper form of expression, is it not?”
“Oh, I am so happy—so very, very happy,” she murmured, looking fondly at Hal.
Then she suddenly ran up to her father and kissed him, as if with passionate gratitude. Presently she stole round to where Nathan Gomer sat, and bending over him timidly, pressed her lips to his forehead.
An expression of intense emotion passed over that strange man’s features, his eyes filled with glittering tears, and his lips moved rapidly.
A moment’s stillness.
He rose up and took Flora’s hand. He placed it in Hal’s, and with a voice whose tones became rich from depth of feeling, he said—
“Take her, Mr. Vivian; you are the choice of her young heart, as she is of yours; your future happiness is in the keeping of both. Be you faithful to the trust now reposed in you; be you true to the love you now bear her. You have won her, now wear her as the richest jewel heaven and fortune can bestow upon you. Be gentle to her and tender with her, for she is a flower that will droop and perish under a cold aspect; and be sure that, for all the loving tenderness you may plant around her coming life, you will reap an abundant harvest of pure, enduring, devoted affection.”
“Oh! that I were worthy of this treasure, so great, so sacred, now entrusted to my keeping,” ejaculated Hal, in a quivering, ardent voice, as he drew Flora to his breast. “Have only faith in me. I would die rather than be the occasion of one sad thought to her.”
“Amen!” responded Nathan Gomer. “Understand me, young Mr. Vivian, though I help to hand over this treasure to you, I do not resign my self-constituted guardianship. Oh, but I shall be a very dragon of watchfulness still.”
A merry laugh followed this sally.
Then everybody seemed to know what was coming next.
Mr. Wilton’s face grew serious and its muscles set; he had made one sacrifice—somehow he continued to think so. He felt really that he ought to be excused from making another—certainly they were not small ones.
However, Nathan Gomer set boldly to work, and introduced the subject by addressing Mark.
“Pray, sir, having been a witness to your sister’s happiness in catching a husband, have you no yearnings to take unto yourself a wife?”
“I have for some time had the most ardent desire, sir,” responded Mark, quickly. “I have selected a young lady, but my father objects to my choice.”
“On what ground, Wilton,” inquired Nathan, rather magisterially.
Wilton declined discussing the topic; wished it to be deferred to a future period, but Nathan would on no account accede to it.
“I came here to perfect my reconciliation, and to leave to-night, if possible, a happy man, and I am not in a temper to be easily rebuffed,” he said. “Give your reasons?”
Wilton knew but little of the girl, he said, but that she was not of a station or by birth fitted to be the wife of his son.
Gomer scouted the notion.
“‘Honour and shame from no condition rise,’” he exclaimed. “So says the poet; surely no man better than you should know it, Wilton; and, by the bye, if you and I were to trace our ancestors back, we should no doubt find one a cattle-stealer, and the other a delver of potatoes. Come, Wilton, supposing her origin—which I assume you are in no condition to prove—is what you assert it to be, mean and low. What have you to assert further against her. She is pretty, amiable, self-reliant, proud-spirited, generous, and sympathetic to a fault; she is pure in mind, in soul and act; she has struggled through the stern meshes of adversity with a brave heart; she has never sacrificed her sense of self respect under the most seductive temptation; and she never drew back from an additional burden to her daily trials if she could in so doing rescue from misery a fellow-being. What, Wilton, though she has toiled—and nobly toiled with her needle—have you not slaved with your burnisher? Come, Wilton, pride is but a hollow phantom, a bad companion, and a worse friend—it never purchased human happiness yet. Human worth is far more valuable than all the wealth of the Indies amassed in one heap. This girl has a large share of that worth, and would make your son a happy man, if not a rich one. What say you, Mr. Vivian.”
“Say, sir, that no praise can exaggerate her merits,” replied Hal, with enthusiasm. “With my beloved Flora for my wife, and Lotte Clinton for my sister, there would be no man more justly proud than I in all Christendom.”
“I should think not,” replied Gomer.
Mr. Wilton coughed.
“Give me time,” he said; “give me time. I will see her—I know nothing of her yet.”
“Oh! he wants more evidence,” cried Gomer, ringing the bell with smartness. “He shall have it.”
A servant entered, and ushered in a lady.
“Mrs. Riversdale!” cried Nathan Gomer, loudly.
All knew that Mr. Grahame’s daughter, Helen, stood before them.
It was not difficult to guess that Nathan had made careful arrangements before he came that day, with a view to accomplish certain desired results.
Mrs. Hugh Riversdale was received with quiet but respectful attention. The unhappy circumstances connected with her family were known to all, were commiserated, and had created sincere sympathy in the breasts of all present.
Nathan Gomer did not permit their thoughts to dwell upon what had passed, but at once, in a courteous manner, addressed her.
“You very kindly volunteered to testify to the worth of Miss Lotte Clinton,” he said, “when and wherever I might request you to do so?”
“Or I could have the opportunity of doing so,” interposed Helen, emphatically.
Nathan said to her instantly—
“I wish you would give Mr. Wilton your impressions concerning her.”
If ever Helen Grahame spoke fervently, earnestly, passionately, she did so now. Oh! she found words inexpressive to record the obligations she was under to Lotte, or her daily increasing sense of their value, which had no measure of requital. Her ardour of expression, her tears, her emotion in making her acknowledgments of Lotte’s uniform, unselfish acts of kindness overwhelmed Wilton. He could not reply to her. The tears stood in his eyes.
Then Flora knelt at his feet, and she said—
“She watched in your sickness and prostration over you with tender patience and amiable sweetness. She soothed your anxiety and your pain by her attention when you were awake, her mild, kind eyes rarely left you when you slept. You, yourself, have said that her face greeted you like a burst of sunshine. That it was radiant with a galaxy of glories, for it was cheerful, amiable, placid, gentle, good——”
Wilton sprang up and said, in a hoarse, husky voice—
“Why, Mark—Mark, my boy, Miss Clinton, your—your choice is—is—-”
“Your own little pet nurse,” replied Mark, with evident excitement.
Mr. Wilton sank down in his seat again.
“I see it all,” he said; “I understand her better now. Mark, my son, the last shred of false pride has been wrested from me. I see the precipice on which I have been standing, and I draw back in thankfulness. If any persuasions of mine can induce Miss Clinton now to accept you I will use them until they become entreaties. She shall be yours; and happy you will be with her, unless you yourself destroy the felicity her gentleness will weave around you.”
So far all was well; and now Mark explained to him how he had sought to induce her to become his wife, and how she refused him, because she would not create dissension in his family, even though a life of sorrow was entailed on her by her own refusal. And Helen explained how she had declined her husband’s offer of an independence for a reason which she would not explain, but which really was, that if Mr. Wilton found that her means were far better than he had anticipated, he might consent to receive her into his family. She felt that thus Mark’s solicitations would be renewed; and as she was too high-spirited to enter his family by such a side-wind, she believed it would occasion her less pain to remain, unsought, in her old condition, than to have again to refuse Mark’s entreaties to become his. Besides, she loved him so dearly that she was afraid of her own strength to continue to say nay.
When Wilton heard all these things about her, he felt at once overjoyed and grieved. Glad that his son had made such a choice, pained that he had so harshly interfered to prevent the union. But he determined, as far as possible, to repair his conduct; and he expressed his intention of doing so without delay, and that very evening he decided on the course he should pursue.
On the morning following that eventful evening; Lotte was seated alone; as usual at work, and as usual thinking about Mark and Harleydale, and many other matters connected with him and his family. She knew the family were in town; and she was in the act of wishing that she could get an opportunity of gazing on Mark—dear, dear Mark—unseen, when she was startled by a gentle tap at her room-door.
She ran lightly to it and opened it, and found herself face to face with Mr. Wilton.
She uttered an exclamation of surprise, and blushed like a rose; then turned as pale as marble. She, however, asked Mr. Wilton into the room, and placed a chair for him.
“So,” he said, as he seated himself, “you little runaway, I have found you at last, have I? Pray, what have you to say in extenuation of deserting a poor crippled invalid without one word at parting? Tell me, had I so wearied, tired, exhausted you, that you ran away, worn out, determined to be no more troubled with such a plaguy old fellow as I?”
“No, sir; indeed I do assure you, no,” returned Lotte, embarrassed; “but——”
“You would not for worlds undertake the same office again, eh?” said Wilton, eyeing her askance.
“Indeed, I would, sir, cheerfully,” she replied, trembling like an aspen; “but——” Again she hesitated. She was unconscious that he now knew who his nurse was, and she did not like disguising the truth, but how to reveal it? She saw no way.
“But, indeed!” repeated Wilton. “Now listen to me. I have proved your value. You made yourself essential to my comfort, and I am quite lost without you. I, therefore, come now to offer you a home with my family, you to be, as you have been, my pet, confidential attendant.”
Lotte listened to him with undisguised fright.
“Oh, no—no, sir, no—no,” she replied hurriedly; “it cannot possibly be.”
“No!” he echoed. “Why not?—explain.”
“Pray, pardon my not answering that question. Do not ask me, sir!” she exclaimed, appealingly. “I mean not my refusal offensively; but, in truth, sir, it cannot be.”
“Not in that capacity, perhaps,” he said, rising up, and speaking with grave earnestness; “but will you not come back as—as—as my daughter?”
“Sir!” exclaimed Lotte, clutching at the table in her deep emotion.
“As the wife of my son, Mark Wilton,” he replied, with energy, “and my beloved, esteemed daughter.” He caught her in his arms, and pressed her to his breast. “I know all now; I honour you, my child,” he said, warmly; “the details of your past history have been made known to me, and I blush when I think how nobly you, an unassisted helpless girl, have sustained your integrity, your virtuous truthfulness, your self-respect, against all temptations and assaults, against which I, more fortified to withstand them, have fallen back. I should, my child, now be proud of you as a friend—I shall be prouder still of you as a daughter; ever, ever glad of your sweet presence in my household, recording few happier days in my past history than that which sees you wedded to my son.”
Poor Lotte! all her trials and her griefs were nothing to this. They needed courage to meet and firmness to bear them. This announcement by Wilton was the very bursting of a white cloud of happiness, and she could only sob passionately on his shoulder, without uttering one word in reply.
As soon as the old man, who was much affected, could recover his voice, he summoned an individual who was waiting without with most feverish impatience.
Mark entered, and pronounced her name; and she lifted her weeping face from his father’s shoulder, and, with a faint effort at a smile, tendered him her hand.
That instalment was insufficient for his requirements. He relieved his father of his charge, took her in his own arms and folded them about her.
And he whispered softly in her ear—
“Will you refuse to be mine now, dearest, dearest Lotte?”
“Oh, Mark,” she murmured, “my heart is so full, I cannot speak to you!”
“What! not one little word, Lotte?” he urged. “And see, here is Flora; will you not greet her as your sister?”
And, in truth, there was Flora, who, in her turn, took possession of Lotte; and Nathan Gomer, who had no intention of being out of the way where happiness was going on.
And now the question was put formally to Lotte, that she might no more have misgivings about the nature of her reception in Wilton’s family, whether she would accept Mark for her husband?
Lotte murmured something about consulting her brother Charley.
Such a notion was at once promptly and generally ignored; and so she said, clearly and earnestly, that to wed Mark would be the happiest event which could happen to her in her whole life.
Of course she was borne off in triumph to Wilton’s mansion in the Regent’s Park, where, to her satisfaction, she found assembled to meet her Helen Riversdale, and her husband, and Eva Grahame, and her brother Charley.
After the first greetings were over, Nathan Gomer commenced an oration, in which imprimis he gave a rough sketch of the wealth he possessed. He then stated that he had exchanged with Wilton the Eglinton estates for Harleydale Hall and Manor, and which he now presented to Lotte as a dower, that she might still preserve her noble spirit unchanged, for she would not come to her husband empty handed. To Flora he presented the estate on which her mother had been born, and in her youth lived. To Hugh Riversdale he presented the mortgage-deeds of a large proportion of the late Mr. Grahame’s estates; and the remainder he handed to Charles Clinton as a gift to him and to his bride-elect, Eva—for that union had been all arranged through the instrumentality of Helen, who had suffered too much misery herself to attempt to entail it upon her young and loving sister. Steps were taken to release Malcolm Grahame; and, as it was clear he was not fit for anything, it was determined to provide him with an appointment in a Government office.
Little more now remains to be told. Colonel Mires having met the fate he richly deserved, Mr. Chewkle was visited with poetical justice—unromantic and un-poetical enough to him. Before his trial he sent for Nathan Gomer; and the little man, anxious to get possession of the forged deed, visited him. At the interview that ensued Mr. Chewkle gave him the key of his effects, and stated how he wished them bestowed. He expressed contrition for his guilt, and promised, if he had the chance, he would reform.
At his trial, he was found guilty; and, owing to Mr. Wilton’s recommendation to mercy, for that he had been tempted by a bribe to undertake the crime, he was let off with twenty years’ penal servitude.
The forged deed was obtained, destroyed; and Mr. Chewkle’s effects distributed as he wished, with certain additions to his poor relatives, who were thus benefited by his roguery, in a way they could never have expected.
The fate of Margaret Grahame would have been a sad one, but for the timely interposition of Hugh Riversdale.
As soon as Nathan Gomer’s and his own arrangements were completed, he sought out the Duke of St. Allborne; but it was not until after incessant efforts, assisted by skilful aid, that he was able to meet and confront him. Then his proceedings with him were summary. He gave to the Duke the alternative of making Margaret his duchess, or of meeting him in mortal combat. As the Duke saw that Hugh was resolved and vindictive, and as it seemed more than probable he might fall in the encounter, he accepted the alternative, and quietly made Margaret his wife; taking her at once abroad to spend the honeymoon, where he introduced her into society, preparatory to bringing her to London to occupy the station in which he had now placed her.
Lester Vane, as soon as he had recovered the effects of his leap, took the benefit of the Insolvent Act, and became a confirmed blackleg.
In due course the three weddings were celebrated; and there exists no evidence to prove other than that the six individuals united by the nearest and dearest tie were, by that ceremony, made the very happiest beings in the world, and that they continued to be so for the term of their natural lives.
Eustace Wilton, after all, became lord of Eglinton and beneath his roof dwelt, in honour and peace, Nathan Gomer—he would be addressed by no other name. Together they argued, discussed, and contended, and were as happy as any two old gentlemen in the wide world could wish to be.
As the main incidents in this tale are founded upon facts, it will hardly be considered unnecessary to draw attention to the moral it is intended to convey.
A path of rectitude is laid down in social life for all alike, rich or poor, to pursue. It is beset with snares and pitfalls; with inducements, seductions, and temptations to turn aside almost at every step.
To adhere, however, to the fixed principle of acting rightly in every situation in life demands no common powers. A peculiar strength of mind, a clearness of perception to distinguish the real from the unreal, correct, which is something more than common, sense, and even a course of instruction, are deemed little less than essential to achieve the difficult task of pursuing that path unswervingly.
“It is one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
Another thing to fall.”
When those who have been born in the lap of luxury, have been nurtured with tenderness, instructed with care, reared in plenty, surrounded by blessings, caressed with kindred’s holy affection, elevated above the incitements of want, and gifted with that knowledge of good and evil which is imparted by the cultivation of the mind and the aid of religion, yield to temptation, and fall away before seductive arts—what shall be said of her who, unaided by any of these advantages, passes through her path of fire uncharred? What is she among her human sisters, who, endowed alone with that fatal gift to the poor girl—fair looks, struggles with penury and starvation, toils from dawn far, far into the long night, with dim and weary eyelids, and aching fingers, endures the severest straits of destitution, arising from most scantily remunerated labour, yet faces her danger nobly—resists those fascinating temptations which are so terrible in their power to the beautiful but penniless of her sex—wrestles bravely with her narrowed means, and rising superior to all those allurements, which are aided by the urgings of grim want, preserves her purity and her self-respect unsullied, and her independence unabased?
What is she among women who, being driven by society itself—in its hunger on the one hand after wealth, and on the other after cheapness—into the very corner of desperation, comes from her crushing ordeal unbruised and undefiled?
Is she not a Flower of the Flock?
Oh! reader, look about you; there are many Lotte Clintons in the throes of mortal agony nearer to you than you suspect. If they are fainting under their burden, can you not afford them a little aid to surmount their miserable destitution, and lift them out of their despair?
Remember the dreadful alternative!