“Good-bye, Isa dearest, we shall often—very often meet,” were the parting words of Edith that night.
Wrapped up warmly for protection from the cold air, Isa descended the steps beneath the lofty portico of the Castle, and entered the luxurious carriage which her uncle had placed at her command. As she sank on the soft cushions, a dreary, aching sensation came over her heart; she felt as if she were leaving brightness, happiness, beauty behind her, and going to an abode of trial—almost privation—which she could hardly regard as a home.
“It is wrong, very wrong in me to feel thus,” Isa murmured to herself. “If visits to the Castle make me discontented, the fewer they are the better; but it seems to me that my only happy time now will be the time spent with Edith. I have nothing at the Castle to wear my spirits, or chafe my temper, my cousin is so sweet, my uncle so kind,—when under their roof I seem to be able to shut out disappointment and care. Ah! that word disappointment, it reminds me of the cottage-lecture which I heard this evening. Are the Midianites in possession of my heart? Are my crosses—what I have deemed crosses—rather burdens laid upon me by enemies, under whose yoke I should never have stooped?”
As the carriage rolled on through the darkness, Isa pursued the train of her reflections. Disappointment, Discontent, Dissension, Distrust, the Midianites in the soul—was she now harbouring them in her own? Isa could not bear to let her mind dwell long upon the first; even now, after the lapse of years, when she had had too good cause to believe that the idol which she had raised in her heart had been of clay, Isa dare hardly own to herself that Lionel had been unworthy of her love, and that his love had not been enduring, because it had contained no element of immortality. Shrinking from close self-examination on a subject so tender, Isa passed on to that of Discontent; painfully aware as she was that that spirit was struggling within her breast, that she was tempted to regard her present lot with emotions of bitterness amounting almost to rebellion.
“Saints have been content in poverty, serene in suffering, joyful in tribulation,—they have made even dungeon-walls echo to their hymns of praise,” thought Isa, “and here am I, with youth, health, competence, kind friends, blessings unnumbered and undeserved,—here am I, cast down, irritable, murmuring, and depressed, because I dwell in a house which does not suit my taste, but which is a thousand times more comfortable than those inhabited by most of my poor fellow-creatures. I am annoyed at a little petulance from an invalid brother, while many, better than myself, have to endure harshness amounting to cruelty, hatred, persecution, and scorn. How have I merited that my trials should be so much lighter than theirs? Have I any cause to murmur? have I any right to complain? Is it well that I should compare my lot with that of the few, instead of that of the many, and give place to ungrateful discontent instead of thanking God that He has bestowed upon me so much more than my due? Why should my thoughts dwell on Edith’s happiness instead of on the misery that I see yet nearer to me in the squalid homes of Wildwaste? I must go more amongst the poor; yes, in so doing I shall not only obey God’s command, but find weapons against the intrusion of sinful discontent.
“Dissension! I can scarcely say that there is that in my home, though there is, I fear, but little of true affection; and words of impatience and looks of coldness make life’s road seem very rough!” The simile was probably suggested to Isa’s mind by the jolting motion of the carriage, for the smooth gravel drive through the baronet’s grounds was now exchanged for the rough road across the common, which was seldom traversed except by the carts, which had left deep ruts in the boggy soil. “But what was the cause of that intensely bitter feeling which arose to-day—which always arises in my mind at the bare mention of Cora Madden? Why should the remembrance of her be sufficient to drive away the holiest and happiest thoughts? Surely the Midianites are within, hatred, malice—nay, I almost fear the spirit of revenge! I sometimes feel such an intense—such an unholy longing for retribution to come upon that woman, that she should taste some of the bitterness of the cup of misery which she has caused me to drink! And are such longings consistent with Christianity? do they not arise from the influence of the spirit of evil? While such emotions are harboured in my heart, can there ever be peace within? God help me, for my strength is as weakness against such a Midianite as this!
“And Distrust”—here Isa’s meditations were suddenly brought to a close by her arrival at Wildwaste Lodge. The loud, authoritative knock which broke in such an unusual manner the stillness which had pervaded that dull tenement brought Lottie Stone running in haste to the door. She was a shy, black-eyed little maiden, who looked up in timid awe at Sir Digby’s tall footman in his splendid livery, but greeted her young mistress with a smile of rustic simplicity.
“Has your master gone to rest yet?” asked Isa.
“Not yet; he’s a-waiting for you in the study.”