"Mamma," said Flora one morning to her parent, as they sat together at breakfast, a meal which was never graced by the presence of the widow, who kept her own room till noonday--"Mamma, I do not think that we can endure all this much longer. It is impossible to please Emma, whatever we do: let her set up house for herself, and manage as she may!"
Mrs. Vernon looked very grave, and it was some moments before she replied. "I think, Flora, that you can scarcely have reflected on what would be the result of such an attempt. You can scarcely have failed to observe how careless poor Emma is of money, how unable she is to manage a household, or to keep account of its expenses. She would certainly involve herself inextricably in debt, while the consequences to the unhappy orphans must be such as would deeply distress us both."
"They could scarcely be worse than they are," said Flora, bitterly; "wild, ignorant, unmanageable little creatures. I have attempted several times to teach Lyddie, but she has always darted away like a little wild colt; while Master Johnny, the other day, threw the spelling-book out of the window. Their footprints are over all my borders, their fingers cannot be kept off my flowers; Lyddie strewed the walks yesterday with apple-blossoms, while Emmie managed to get hold of my paint-box, and has not only mixed all the colours together, but has left traces of them on a dozen of our books."
"It is very trying; it quite distresses me, my Flora, to see the annoyance and discomfort which you suffer. Night after night I lie awake, turning over in my mind by what means I can prevent the inconvenience from falling upon my child. But no path seems to open before me. Emma is as unfit to keep house for herself as her own Lyddie would be; and I feel--I am sure that you feel--that, as long as we have a home, the orphan grandchildren of your beloved father should never be denied its shelter!"
Flora pressed her mother's hand fondly to her lips, "Oh, mamma! you are so good!" she exclaimed; "and what a return do you meet! I do believe that if we were to give up our house altogether, or only to remain in it as servants, slaving from morning till night, and denying ourselves common comforts that Emma might enjoy every luxury, she would take it quite as a matter of course, think that everything was as it should be, and feel not one spark of gratitude towards us, whatever our sacrifices might cost us!"
There was much truth in Flora's remark. In a mind mean and selfish as the widow's, gratitude has rarely a place. Alas! that in the world it should be a virtue so rare! Not that I would for a moment swell with my voice that cry so common, yet often so unjust, which indiscriminately charges the poor with ingratitude towards their benefactors. Far from it; in this virtue, as in many others, I believe that the comparatively rich may often learn a lesson from the poor. There are perhaps few in the world who have no opportunity of exercising gratitude, few who lie under no obligations either for substantial services, or for kindly attentions; watchful care in infancy, help in difficulty, generous hospitality, or some other of the thousand acts of benevolence and friendship which so sweeten the cup of human life. Yes, the many are laid under obligations, but the few have the candour to acknowledge them; the many are helped, benefited, and cheered--the few gratefully remember the benefactor. The lepers in the gospel are still types of human nature. Ten were cleansed, but where are the nine? Reader! pause a moment; ask your own heart, do you treasure up the remembrance of benefits--do you carefully keep up the warm glow which perhaps kindled in your heart when you first received them? Or has the cold wave of time chilled the generous warmth of your feelings--or, worse still, did that warmth never exist? From such observations as I have been enabled to make, it seems to me to be almost a general rule that the most truly generous are also the most grateful--that those who most readily do acts of kindness, most thankfully acknowledge them from others.
Nor let us think want of gratitude a light sin, or one which we may safely overlook. The same proud, thankless spirit which leads us to forget our obligations to man, is at the root of our unbelief, our indifference, our coldness towards Him who is the giver of all good. We receive our blessings as rights; we think little of the mercy which bestowed them, or we should scarcely dare to murmur and repine when the smallest is taken away from us. When Flora accused her sister-in-law of ingratitude, she little thought how well the charge might have been retorted on herself. Had she not been loaded with mercies--granted health, strength, all the comforts of life, opportunity of benefiting others, and power of pleasing--the love of her friends, the deep tenderness of a mother--and, above all, innumerable spiritual blessings, the means of grace, and the hope of glory!
And yet, with all this, the heart which the world deemed so pure, the heart whose depths she had never yet fathomed, was now filled with a bitter, almost a rebellious spirit. Flora had worked--was well pleased to work for God, but it must be in her own way; she could make sacrifices for religion, but the choice of the sacrifice must be her own. It was as though the soldier who for years had glittered on parade, and performed the routine of daily duty with faultless regularity in time of peace, had started back when the war-trumpet sounded, had turned from the sterner obligations before him, and murmured because he was called upon at last to "endure hardness," and to face trial in a holy cause.
Flora was still ready to sit by the sick, to visit the dying, and to teach in the school; she was still willing to give freely to the poor, looking for a plenteous reward hereafter, and receiving in the present the interest of human gratitude, admiration, and love. But she was not ready to be "kind to the unthankful and the evil," to "let patience have its perfect work," to strive to reclaim wilful and unruly children, with the prospect of awakening the jealousy of their parent, but never of rousing her to a sense of obligation. Flora's religion was not "the love of Christ" which "constraineth," therefore in the time of trial it failed her.
Consideration for her mother usually restrained Flora from making audible complaints, though she had not sufficient command over herself to abstain from them altogether; but she indemnified herself for her forbearance by writing to Ada full and circumstantial details of all her petty miseries, with a by no means flattering description of the family from Barbadoes. It was a letter which Flora would not willingly have seen in the hands of her revered pastor; she would never have addressed it to her mother; she had some doubts, after having finished it, whether it would be well to post it. But it was really a clever and amusing letter; it eased her heart to write it; she was glad to have some way of giving vent to the pent-up flood of bitterness which was beginning to overflow its bounds.