CHAPTER XI.
A NEW CREATURE.
Almost eighteen months after Florence had left us, came that bright andbeautiful winter's morning which I described to you at the commencementof this book. You may remember that on that morning I accompaniedHarriet and Mary to Mr. Dickinson's to hear a play, which was to formpart of their Christmas entertainments, and that on returning home, Ifound Mr. Arnott's carriage waiting for me. The driver brought a letterfrom Florence, begging me to come as soon as possible to her sick andsorrowing mother. The letter was short, and did not tell me what was thecause of Mrs. Arnott's distress. I immediately packed a trunk, andsending Harriet home with Mary, prepared for my journey. It was oneo'clock, however, before, with my utmost haste, I could set out, and theroads were so filled up with the snow of the previous night, that wetravelled slowly, and I had gone little more than half way when theshort winter's day was over. I therefore stopped all night at the samelittle inn where I had dined when going to Mr. Arnott's with Harriet andMary. The next morning I was again on the road so early that I arrivedat Mr. Arnott's before breakfast,--indeed, before any of the family,except Florence, was up. She did not expect me so early, and I enteredthe house so quietly, that I stood in the parlor with her before sheknew that I had arrived.
No one who had seen the face of Florence, as her eye rested on me, couldhave doubted her delight at seeing me; yet, surprised and delighted asshe was, she made no exclamation, but coming close to me, put her armsaround me, and kissing me repeatedly, said, in a very low voice, almosta whisper, "How kind you were, Aunt Kitty, to come so quickly! We didnot think you could be here before this evening."
In the same low tone I answered, "Your letter made me too anxious toadmit of any unnecessary delay. But how is your mother now?"
"She will be better, I am sure, when she sees you, for I think it isagitation which has made mamma ill. She slept but little last night, andis asleep now, which makes me try to keep every thing quiet."
While Florence was speaking, she was helping me to take off my cloak andbonnet. Then drawing a large rocking-chair before the fire, she seatedme in it, and kneeling down by me, loosened the lacings of the moccasinswhich I had worn over my shoes in travelling, and took them off. Beforeshe rose, she rested her head for a moment affectionately on myshoulder, and said, "Aunt Kitty, I am very, very glad to see you again."
Florence was greatly changed in appearance as well as in manners, sincewe parted. She had left me, a child, looking even younger than Harriet,though, in reality, two years older; but a year and a half had passed,and she had grown so rapidly, that, though not yet thirteen, she mighteasily have passed for fourteen or fifteen. Her face, too, had changed.Florence had always been spoken of as a pretty child. I suppose she wasso, for she had a fair, smooth skin, very dark, glossy, and curlinghair, and fine eyes; yet her face never particularly pleased me, andeven those who talked of her beauty, did not seem to care much aboutlooking at her. But now there was a sweet thoughtfulness andpeacefulness in her countenance, which made me turn my eyes again andagain on her with increasing love. Not that I loved her for beingbeautiful, but for the serious and gentle spirit, which I was sure hadgiven the expression, of which I have spoken, to her countenance,--whichwould have given the same expression to the plainest features, and whichI would advise all my little readers to cultivate, if they are desirousof beauty--that beauty which all admire most, and which nothing, noteven old age or disease, can destroy.
But these changes in appearance were by no means the most importantwhich I already saw in Florence. In every word and action I saw that shewas thinking more of others than of herself. I have told you how quietlyshe received me, never forgetting, in her surprise at my unexpectedappearance, that a loud exclamation from her might awaken and agitateher mother, while for my comfort she seemed equally considerate. Myreaders will, perhaps, think that these things were little worthy ofnotice, and gave slight proof of any great change of character inFlorence--slight assurance that she had conquered her selfishness. Butin this they are mistaken. It is precisely in these little things whichoccur daily, hourly, in the life of each of us, that a generous natureshows itself most truly. A very selfish person may, on some rareoccasion, make a great display of generosity,--may even be excited intodoing a really generous action, but it is only the generous in heart whocan be generous daily, hourly, in little as in great things, withoutexcitement and without effort. Some of my young friends may have beenaccustomed to think themselves very generous, yet to keep theirgenerosity, as fine ladies keep their diamonds, only to be exhibited ongreat occasions. Let me assure them that if it is not shown, too, ineveryday life--in thoughtfulness of the feelings of others, readiness toyield their own gratifications for the advantage of others--it is notrue diamond of generosity, but only some worthless imitation. Others,perhaps, have wished that they had opportunities of showing how generousthey are. Let them now learn that they have such opportunities everyday--every hour. Whenever your parents call on you to do what is notagreeable to your inclinations, and you obey them cheerfully,pleasantly, instead of showing by your ill-humor that you only do notdisobey because you dare not, you are sacrificing your own inclinationsto promote their pleasure, and in so doing you are generous. Wheneveryou give up the plays you like best, the walks you most admire, andchoose those which you know will give the greatest pleasure to yourcompanions, you are generous. You will now be able to judge foryourselves of the alteration in Florence's character, from her conductunder the circumstances I am about to relate to you, and I need not,therefore, trouble you again with such long explanations.
Soon after my arrival, Florence left the parlor, saying she would go tothe kitchen and tell them to bring up our breakfast, as she did not liketo ring the bell, which was very loud. She returned in a few minutes,followed by a servant with the breakfast tray. As we seated ourselves attable, I inquired for Mr. Arnott.
"He is asleep still," said Florence. "He told me last night to call himbefore breakfast, so I went to his room just now to do it; but I knew hehad been up a great deal with mamma last night, and he seemed to sleepso sweetly, that I just said, 'Papa,' very softly, and as he did notstir for that, I came out as quietly as I could."
"So if I had not been here you would have breakfasted alone."
"No--I should have waited for papa--it is so much pleasanter tobreakfast with him."
An early ride is a great quickener of the appetite. I was consequentlysomewhat longer than usual at the breakfast table, and before I hadrisen, Mr. Arnott appeared. After welcoming me very cordially, he kissedFlorence, saying, however, as he did so, "You deserve to lose your kissfor not calling me this morning. You should never break a promise,Florence, however trifling it may seem to you."
"I kept my promise, papa, and called you. Indeed I did," she added, asMr. Arnott shook his head, "though I acknowledge I did it very softly."
"Ah, Florence! we are told of people who, only seeming to keep theirpromises, are said 'to keep the word of promise to the ear;' but you didnot even keep yours to the ear, at least not to my ear, for I heardnothing of your call."
"But you believe I did call you, papa," said Florence, earnestly.
"Certainly, my daughter, I believe what you tell me, but I would haveyou remember that promises should be kept in the sense in which they aremade, and that, though it should be at some inconvenience to ourselves."
"I will remember it, papa, but it was _your_ inconvenience I wasthinking of, when I did not awake you," said Florence, smiling.
"I do not doubt that," said her father.
While Mr. Arnott and I were conversing, Florence was called out of theparlor, and as soon as the door closed on her, he interrupted someobservation he was making on the state of the roads, to say, "I am trulyobliged to you for coming so quickly, for it is necessary that I shouldleave home immediately on very important business, which I will morefully explain to you before I go; yet I have not been willing even toannounce my intention of going, till my poor wife could
have the supportof your presence."
When Florence returned, Mr. Arnott asked, "Where is Rover, that he doesnot come to share my breakfast this morning?"
"Why, is my old friend Rover still alive?" said I; "I wonder he has notbeen here to welcome me."
"He would have been, I dare say, Aunt Kitty, for Rover never forgets hisfriends, but he is three miles away from here now," and in spite ofFlorence's efforts to speak carelessly, her voice trembled.
"Three miles away from here! What do you mean, Florence?" said Mr.Arnott.
"Just what I said, papa. Edward Morton lives three miles away, does henot? Rover belongs to him now."
Florence spoke very fast, and turned her face away from her father, sothat he did not see, as I did, that her lip was quivering, and her eyeswere full of tears.
"Why, Florence, I am surprised at you. I would not have believed itpossible that you could part with Rover to any one. I thought you lovedhim almost as well as he loved you."
Mr. Arnott spoke almost angrily at this proof, as he thought it, of wantof kindness in his daughter for her old playfellow. Florence, unablelonger to control herself, burst into tears, and sobbing, said, "So Ido, papa, love Rover just as well as he loves me, and yet I do not feelsorry he is gone, for nurse said he kept mamma awake at night barkingunder her window; and you know we could not keep him out of her room inthe day, and when she was nervous and in pain, I saw it worried her tohave him there."
Mr. Arnott's eyes glistened as he drew his daughter to him, and kissedand soothed her. I remembered the scene with Rover and the ball duringmy last visit to Mrs. Arnott, and, I dare say, my readers will rememberit too. After a while Mr. Arnott said, "Well, Florence, it was veryright in you to think of your mother's comfort, and I suppose I mustreconcile myself to parting with Rover for a time--but only _for atime_, Florence; when your mother gets well, Edward, I doubt not, willgive him back to you."
"Perhaps he would, papa, but--" Florence hesitated, looked in herfather's face, colored, and looked down again.
"But what, Florence? Surely you would like to have Rover back."
"To be sure I would, papa, but I thought a great deal about it before Igave Rover away, and I chose Edward Morton to give him to, because Iknew he would love Rover and take good care of him; and do you think,papa, it would be right, after Edward gets to love him almost as well asI do, to ask him to give him up?"
"No, my daughter, it would not be right. You have thought very justly."
I could not help adding, "And very generously too."
Florence colored with pleasure at our approbation; but Mrs. Arnott'sbell rang, and she left us at once to inform her mother of my arrival.