Two master-passions cannot co-exist.”
“What a picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton, as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of a Voltaire chair, and placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her Aunt Mary’s snuggery.
A cold, misty rain was falling without; but the ample crimson curtains were drawn closely, so that no evidence of the inclemency of the weather was visible within to its two inmates. The cheerful, crackling fire threw over the chamber and its occupants “fitful gleams and red,” as drawn closely on the opposite sides of the fire-place they chatted cosily together.
“Yes, Aunt Mary, you have so much comfort, so much repose, that I can enter con amore into your feelings, as you thus sit so tranquilly in your well-lined, little nest, and take a bird’s-eye view of the bustling, plotting, never-resting world. But, dearest aunty, your darling little pony has just tired me sufficiently, so as to leave me in a state of quiescence, in which state one of your pleasant reminiscences of by-gone days would prove very acceptable. I hope, my dear aunty, you know how to take a slight hint, for I am awfully modest about asking favors.” And she crossed her little hands demurely on her lap, settled herself still more comfortably, and with an asking smile on her roguish, pretty face nodded her head in a very patronizing manner at her aunt, saying, “Commencez-donc, s’il vous plaît, ma bonne.”
“Well! my little chatterbox, is your tongue worn out at last, and you really wish to play the part of listener! But, what shall I tell you? Let us see! Florence Walton,” continued the old lady musingly, as she rubbed her spectacles with her silk apron. “Yes, yes, she is given to ridicule herself, and might one day suffer from it, as my poor Florence has done. Here, Co, count the stitches for the heel in this stocking for me, with your young eyes, and I will try to think over something about her.”
“You have seen Florence Walton here,” said Mrs. Jordan, as Cora handed her knitting back to her, “but you must forget her looks, if you wish to have before your mind’s eye the proud, beautiful girl of my narrative. A petted and spoiled child was Florence, when she and I were school-mates. An only child—beautiful, talented, and winning in her affectionate ways—with parents, who were the happy slaves to her slightest caprices, how could it be otherwise?”
“I remember, as though but yesterday, when she was ushered in among us school-girls by Madame Gaspard. As natural, we all sat silent and restrained before the new-comer, who, unused to school-discipline, and in all the freedom of her, but just-quitted, home-circle, was in the habit of giving speech to the first thoughts that presented themselves to mind, without caring for their fitness, and too proud to show respect for our opinions, like another school-girl among utter strangers would have done.
“Yes! I recollect it as freshly as yesterday, and see before me now the bright, fearless creature, as with an impatient toss of her glossy ringlets she said half-pettishly—‘Pleasant as my home, indeed! I wish I was there now, at any-rate, for I feel here as a cat must feel in a strange garret.’ And a smile parted her saucy lips, as we broke into hearty laughter at this compliment from the new girl.
“That quaint phrase of Florence Walton’s introduced her at once, and frolick and fun finished the evening. Many, and many were the scrapes that her wit and laughter-loving propensity has brought upon her, but through all her affairs beamed forth the evidence of a noble, generous, bold, but quick temper, impossible to daunt, but, like the generality of impulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting through the affections. I have seen Florence in after-years, for we were school-mates a long, long time, throw herself in a perfect abandonment of tears on her bed, after answering saucily and with light laughter, some friend whom she dearly prized—and yet, after remonstrances from me and advice for the future would reply—‘In vain, dear Mary, all your good advice, and so would be my promises of amendment, were I foolish enough to make them. I know, dear friend, my besetting sin—know it, and I assure you, I most deeply deplore my weakness, which would prevent me from making good any promise I might make you or myself for the future. As well ask the bird not to fly, or the fish not to swim, as to make me promise when irritated, not to use my only weapon—ay! sharper, I will admit, than a two-edged sword. Mary, it is my misfortune more than my fault. I have felt—keenly, bitterly felt—how wrong I am in acting thus. In casting from me by ridicule and foolish jests, friends whose affection I dearly prize. Oh! you cannot tell how I have struggled—how in my own heart-communings I have determined to be more guarded for the future. But the future was ever as the past. My sin is too strong, and I too weak.’
“Many such conversations have we held together and I, Cora, was a wicked sinner myself, then, and knew not God, nor the efficacy of prayer, therefore I could not tell the erring, but warm-hearted girl, to cast her burthen at the foot of the Cross; and that from the knowledge of her weakness would come her strength, for that He, the Mighty One, loved to help the weak ones, who come as suppliants to his throne. Ah! yes, we were wicked, and only thought of such things not being respectable, instead of their sinfulness!