To explain why the command appeared such a hard one to the young maiden—why the very name of Cora called up bitter remembrances to her mind—it is needful that I should let the reader know something of the previous history of Isa Gritton.
Like her cousin Edith, Isa had early lost her mother, and had been the only daughter in her father’s home; but otherwise there had been little resemblance between the early childhood of the two. Edith, a crippled, suffering invalid, had been the unmurmuring victim of nursery oppression; and in her splendid mansion had had more to endure than many of the children of the poor. Isa, on the contrary, fondly tended by a devoted nurse, herself strong, vigorous, and full of spirits, had found her childhood flow pleasantly past, like a stream dimpling in sunshine and bordered with flowers. Isa had scarcely known what it was to feel weary, sick, or sad. Her father called her his little lark, made only to sing and to soar. She was beloved by all who knew the bright, playful child, and her affectionate nature disposed her to love all in return. The religion which was carefully instilled into Isa partook of the joyful character of her mind. Isa was troubled by no doubts and few fears. The thoughts of heaven and bliss which were suggested to her, were congenial to the spirit of the child. Isa looked forward to the joys of Paradise without letting imagination dwell either on the dark valley or “the narrow stream.” Her idea of death was simply a peaceful removal to a yet brighter and happier home.
There were some spiritual dangers attending this existence of ease and joy. The very sweetness of Isa’s disposition dimmed her perception of inward corruption. If she was tempted to make an idol of self, it was an idol so fair that she scarcely recognized it as one. Sometimes, indeed, Isa’s conscience would accuse her of vanity as she lingered before her mirror, surveying with girlish pleasure the smiling image within it, or recalled words of fond admiration, or committed some little extravagance in regard to dress, for Isa at that time had a weakness for dress. But the accusation was made in a whisper so soft, that it scarcely disturbed her serenity. It affected her conduct, however; for on the day when Isa first received a regular allowance of her own, she made on her knees a resolution which never was broken—not to spend money on the adornment of her person without devoting an equal sum to the relief of the poor. Thus early the love of God combated the love of the world; a bridle was placed upon vanity, which was still but a bridle of flowers; for Isa felt as much pleasure in helping the poor as in wearing a new robe, or in clasping the jewelled bracelet round her soft white arm.
Isa’s brightness of spirit did not pass away with childhood; it rather increased, as the bud expands into the perfect flower. But in life’s school Providence has appointed various teachers, and few of God’s children pass many years upon earth without coming under the discipline of disappointment, bereavement, and care. Isa was to know all three. The first came to her when the blooming girl felt herself at the very summit of earthly bliss, when a halo of happiness was thrown around every object near her. Isa believed herself to be the most blest of women in being beloved by Lionel Madden. Young and inexperienced as she was, Isa’s fancy invested her hero with every noble and sterling quality; she believed all that she desired, and the bright bubbles blown by hope glittered with all the prismatic tints of the rainbow. The bubble suddenly broke! Lionel became cold, alienated, shortly after the arrival of his sister, who seemed to have taken an instinctive dislike to Isa. What had been said against her Isa never exactly knew; but whatever poisoned shaft had destroyed her hopes, she knew that it came from the quiver of Cora. What marvel if bitter, resentful feelings arose towards the author of her deep, though hidden, anguish? As Isa’s gaiety was suddenly changed into gloom, so her kindly loving nature for awhile seemed altered into one sternly vindictive. Like Satan intruding in a paradise of peace, and blighting its flowers by his presence, hatred, and even a lurking desire for vengeance, suddenly arose in a soul which had previously appeared to be formed only for happiness and love.
CHANGED AFFECTION.
But had Cora really injured Isa? Nay; the malicious enemy had done more to shield the young maiden from misfortune than her most tender friend could have done. Cruel may be the hand which tears to pieces the half-formed nest which a bird is building on a hedge by the wayside, but it is well for the bird if it be thus constrained to choose a higher and safer bough. Lionel was unworthy of the affection of a faithful, confiding young heart. It was well for Isa that her bubble was broken, that her cherished hopes were scattered to the winds. She did not think so, she could not feel so; even Lionel’s very worldly marriage, which took place a few months afterwards, did not fully open her eyes to this truth. Isa deemed all that was unworthy in the conduct of young Madden the result of the influence of his sister; and regarded Cora not only as her own evil genius, but that of the man whom she had loved. Startled and alarmed by the fierce passions which, for the first time, struggled for the possession of her heart, Isa looked upon Cora as the cause not only of misery, but of sin also. Isa’s self-knowledge was deepened by trial, but it was a self-knowledge that mortified and pained her. She found that she was far from what she had hoped to become, from what the world believed her to be; she was no calm angel soaring above earth and its trials, but a weak tempted woman, who found it hard not to murmur, and almost impossible truly to forgive.
And yet Cora had been but an instrument in a higher Hand, and to Isa an instrument for good. We may praise God in another world even more for the malice of our bitter enemies, than for the tender love of our friends. Jacob’s paternal affection would have shielded his best-beloved son from every touch of misfortune; but it was the hatred of Joseph’s brethren, the malice of his false accuser, that led him—through the pit and the prison—to exaltation and to honour. Satan himself became, through God’s over-ruling goodness, an instrument of blessing to Job; his cruel assaults led to deeper experience in the man whom he sought to destroy, more close communion with God, and doubtless more exalted blessedness hereafter. No enemy, human or infernal, has power to do us aught but good, except by leading us into sin. Could we realize this, our wounded hearts might find it less difficult to forgive the wrongs which are “blessings in disguise.”