CHAPTER XII.
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.
Matters of business are never, I think, very interesting to youngpersons. I will not, therefore, attempt to give you a very particularaccount of the circumstances from which Mr. Arnott's presentperplexities and his wife's sorrowful anticipations arose. All that isnecessary for you to know, is soon told.
Mr. Arnott had some years before placed in the hands of a merchant, whowas an old and valued friend, a large sum of money to be employed forhim--so large a sum that, if lost, he would be no longer a wealthy man.His pleasant home must then be given up, and his wife and daughter bedeprived of many of those comforts to which they had been accustomed,and which delicate health made almost necessary to Mrs. Arnott's life.This merchant, who had resided in Montreal, had lately died verysuddenly. Not long before his death, some changes had taken place in hisbusiness which made new arrangements necessary to secure Mr. Arnott fromloss. He had urged Mr. Arnott's coming to Montreal, as an interviewbetween them was very desirable before the completion of thesearrangements. But Mr. Arnott had very imprudently delayed going, tillthe death of his friend had made the evil past remedy. The letter whichannounced his death, mentioned also, that he had left no will--at leastnone had yet been found--and that his nephew would therefore inherit hisproperty. Mr. Arnott knew this nephew, and thought him to be a veryavaricious, and not very honorable man, and was sure that he would takeevery advantage of what he now felt to be his own culpable negligence.You will easily see how important it was, under such circumstances, thatMr. Arnott should go as soon as possible, and examine for himself,whether there yet remained any means of making good his claims.
When he spoke of his intended departure, Mrs. Arnott turned pale, and Isaw that she was much agitated, but she tried both to look and to speakcheerfully. Florence, to whom it was quite a new thought, could not socommand herself. She looked from her father to her mother, said in anaccent of the utmost surprise, "Go away, papa?" and burst into tears.
Mr. Arnott rose, and with an agitated countenance left the room. Mrs.Arnott knew that her husband had much at present to disturb him, muchwhich would make any unhappiness in her or Florence peculiarly painfulto him. He was parting from them for a long and dangerous winter'sjourney--he left her in feeble health--knew not how long he might bedetained from home, or whether he should ever return to this place as toa home. As soon as he went out, she turned to Florence, and while herown voice trembled with emotion, said, "My daughter, we must not let ourregret make us selfish. Remember, your father is the greatest sufferer.He must not only endure the pain of parting, but he goes to meet greatdifficulty and perplexity of mind, and perhaps much hardship. Let us doour best not to add to his distress by ours. To leave us cheerful andwell, will do much to keep him so." Florence tried to subdue her sobs,but for some time very unsuccessfully. "Go to your own room, my love,"said the tender mother, as she drew Florence to her and kissed hercheek, "go to your own room, and come back to us when you can come witha happy face. It is not an easy effort, Florence, but you can make it, Iam sure, for your father's sake."
Florence went to her room, and when, in about an hour, she returned tous, it was with a cheerful face, and all her usual animation of manner;and though I often saw the tears rush to her eyes when her father'sabsence was named, I never again saw them fall. Even when he went, intheir parting interview, she tried to look and speak cheerfully; and,though some tears would not be restrained, it was not till he was out ofsight and hearing, that she gave full vent to her sorrow.
Mr. Arnott left us early in January. The weather, during the whole ofthis month, was very cold and stormy, and the bleak, cheerless daysseemed drearier than ever after his departure. Mrs. Arnott's health,too, continued delicate, and yet I felt that she really little neededme, for she could not have a more careful nurse, a more tendercomforter, than she found in the young Florence.
The last week in January brought letters from Mr. Arnott. He had justarrived in Montreal when he wrote. Of course he could say nothing ofbusiness, but he was safe and well, and Mrs. Arnott felt that her worstapprehensions were relieved. She had tried to be cheerful before, shewas now cheerful without trying.
February opened with mild, delightful weather. Florence went out onemorning for a walk, but she soon came back with a bounding step, abright color, and a countenance animated and joyous. "Oh, mamma!" sheexclaimed, "it is a most delightful day, just such a day as you used toenjoy so much at the South. I almost thought I could smell the jessamineand orange flowers."
"Why, Florence," said Mrs. Arnott, "you almost tempt me to go out too,"and she looked wistfully from the windows.
"And why not, dear mamma, why should you not go too? It could not hurtyou--do you think it could?--to take a drive in this bright, sunshinyday. I dare say, Aunt Kitty would enjoy it, too," turning to me.
Mrs. Arnott smiled; "Not such a drive as I should have strength for,Florence. I could not go more than a mile or two, and that must be inthe close carriage. No, no, it would be a very dull drive for both ofyou.
"Dull, mamma, a dull drive with you, the first time you were able to goout after being so long sick? I am sure Aunt Kitty does not think so--doyou, Aunt Kitty?"
"No, my dear; and, I think, if you will order the carriage, that yourmother will be persuaded to try it."
Florence was off like an arrow. Every thing was so soon prepared for ourexcursion, that Mrs. Arnott had no time to change her mind. Our drivewas a very quiet one, yet Mrs. Arnott enjoyed keenly the change, themotion, and the little air which she ventured to admit. To see herenjoyment was very pleasant to me, and put Florence into the gayestspirits. We went about two miles, and were again approaching home, whenwe saw a handsome open sleigh coming towards us, driven by a gentleman,and almost filled with young people of Florence's age. The bells drewMrs. Arnott's attention.
"Who are those, Florence? Can you see at this distance?"
"It looks like Mr. Morton's sleigh, mamma," said Florence, coloring."But I did not think they would come this way," she added.
"Come this way!--to go where, my child? Do you know where they aregoing, Florence?"
"Yes, mamma, they are going--at least they were going to M., to see someanimals that were to be exhibited there to-day."
"And which you have talked so much of, and wished so much to see. Ithink it was scarcely kind in Clara and Edward not to ask you to go withthem."
"Oh, mamma! they did ask me."
"And why did you not go, Florence?"
"I meant to go, mamma--that is, I meant to ask you this morning if Imight go, but I thought--that is--when you talked of coming, I liked somuch better to come with you that I gave it up."
"_That is_," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling, "you thought I would enjoy mydrive more if you were with me, and you thought very truly, but youshould not have broken your promise, Florence, without some apology,even for such a reason."
"It was not a positive promise, mamma, and you know it would not takethem out of their way at all to stop for me, and I did leave a note forClara, to tell her why I did not go. But what can bring them this way, Iwonder?"
The sleigh was now quite near, and the gentleman driver, who proved tobe Mr. Morton himself, the father of Edward and Clara, making a sign toour coachman to stop, drew up alongside of our carriage. Giving thereins to Edward, Mr. Morton sprang out, and opening the door of thecarriage, shook his finger playfully at Florence, saying, "So, younglady, this is your good manners, is it?--to tell not only young ladiesand gentlemen, but an old man like me, that you like your mother'scompany better than ours, with all the lions, and elephants, andgiraffes to boot. But we have caught you at last;--I may take her, may Inot, Mrs. Arnott?"
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling at his playfulness.
"How kind it was of you, Mr. Morton, to come so much out of your way forme!"
"Kind, was it?--I understand your wheedling ways; but come along, MissFlorence, you are my prisoner now," and snatching up the laughingFlorence, he bore
her in triumph to the sleigh. After seating her there,and seeing that she was carefully wrapped up, he turned back to thecarriage with more grave inquiries after Mrs. Arnott's health, andassurances that he would take good care of Florence.
"I am very much obliged to you for coming for her," said Mrs. Arnott,"for this exhibition is one which she has long wished to see, and Ishould have been grieved had she lost it."
"As to my coming for her, I could not well help myself," said thegood-humored Mr. Morton, with a laugh. Then turning to me, he added,"Our friend Florence never thinks of herself, so we feel obliged tothink a great deal of her, and the grave looks and grumbling tones withwhich the announcement that she would not go with us was received,showed me that the only chance I had of making our little party a partyof pleasure, was to overtake and capture her. You were easily tracked byyour wheels, for nobody else seems willing to lose the little sleighingwhich this fine weather will probably leave us; but, fine as it is, Iam keeping you out too long in it," seeing Mrs. Arnott draw her cloakmore closely around her, "so good-by."
Hastily mounting his sleigh, he drove rapidly off, many a hearty laughand gay voice mingling their music with the merry bells.
Another letter from Mr. Arnott came about this time, written cheerfully,hopefully, though he had not yet made even an effort to accomplish theobjects of his journey. This delay was occasioned by the absence of alawyer, who had always been employed by his deceased friend, Mr.Atwater, and from whom Mr. Arnott hoped to receive important informationand advice. He had been absent when Mr. Atwater died, and no one knewenough of his movements to be quite certain when he would return, yetMr. Arnott determined to wait his arrival as patiently as he could, andto do nothing till he saw him. He would probably be detained but a shorttime after seeing him.
From the day this letter arrived, Florence began to prepare for herfather's return, and to cast many an eager glance up the road with thehope of seeing him. But even her father's return was not the mostinteresting subject of thought to Florence just now. She knew theapprehensions of her parents, the change of circumstances which possiblyawaited them. For herself, this change of circumstances was not at alldreaded; for, though Florence loved her home, and would be sorry toleave it, she thought it would be almost as pleasant to live in abeautiful little cottage, covered over with roses and woodbine, with apretty flower-garden before the door; and to raise chickens, and makebutter and cheese for the market, seemed to her delightful employments.Pleasant as this picture was, and it was the only one which povertypresented to her, Florence saw that her father and mother did not regardit with quite such agreeable feelings as herself, and for their sakesshe began to think how it might be avoided.
Mr. Arnott had always been a great lover of music, and to this part ofFlorence's education great attention had been paid, yet I had neverheard her play so frequently as now. Had she not been afraid of wearyingher mother, she would, I think, scarce ever have left her piano. Shesuddenly stopped, one morning, when I was the only person in the roomwith her, in the midst of a piece of music, and turning quickly to me,said, "Aunt Kitty, do you not think I play very well?"
I was amazed, for Florence had never seemed to me a vain child. I lookedat her--she met my eye, and did not seem in the least confused.
"Yes, Florence, I think you do play very well."
"As well as Miss Delany?" she again asked. This was a young lady who wasa teacher of music, and whom I had once heard play at Mr. Arnott's.
Still more amazed, I replied, "I am not, perhaps, a fair judge of MissDelany's powers, as I heard her play but once, but I think you do."
"Oh! I am so glad you think so," said Florence, springing from her seat,"for then I can give music lessons too, and make something for papa andmamma, if he should lose that money. Do you not think I may, AuntKitty?"
"Yes, my dear Florence, I do not doubt you can, if it become necessary,which I hope it will not--but what put such an idea into your head?"
"I have had a great many ideas in my head about making money, since Iheard papa talking of this business; but I believe what made me think ofthis, was Lucy Dermot's coming here last week. Lucy's mother, you know,Aunt Kitty, is very poor, and I remembered hearing Miss Delany say once,that Lucy had the finest voice and quickest ear for music of any childshe had ever known, and that she thought it a great pity they could notbe cultivated, for then she might support both her mother and herselfhandsomely. So I said to myself, mine have been cultivated, and if theyare not so good as Lucy's, I may do something for papa and mamma withthem."
Mrs. Arnott came in, and nothing more was said on the subject, but I nowunderstood Florence's devotion to her music, and the pleasant expressionwhich her countenance wore when she was practising. It was her generousmotive which gave a charm to what would otherwise have been verytiresome.