Woman's friendship : a story of domestic life

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Chapter 1

FRIENDSHIP DEMANDS EQUALITY OF STATION. — TRUE AFFECTION ^ DEVOID OF SELFISHNESS.

Beware, dear Florence ; I fear this warm attachment must end in disappointment, fully as I can sympathise in its present happiness,’ was the warning address of Mrs. Leslie to an animated girl, who, on the receipt of a note and its rapid perusal, had bounded towards her mother with an exclamation of irrepressible joy.

''Disappointment, dearest mother? How can that be?” ^ was her eager reply.

"Because friendship, even more than love, demands equality — 01 station. Friends cannot be to each other what they ought to be, if the rank of one party be among the nobles of the land, that of the other lowly as your own.”

And so I told her, dear mother ; at least so my manner must have said, for she once called me a silly girl to be so terrified at rank, and asked me if I fancied, because ' Lady ’ was prefixed to her name, it raised up an impassable barrier between Ida Villiers and Florence Leslie. I loved her from that moment.”

No doubt, ’ replied her^ mother, smiling. " Yet my ^ Florence, I wish the first friendship your warm heart had ^ mrmed had been with some other than its present object.

: know how often I have longed for you to find a

^lend of your own sex, and nearly of your own age, on whom

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to expend some of those ever-gushing affections you lavish so warmly on me and Minie — ’’

And my father and Walter, do I not love them?’' laughingly interrupted Florence, kneeling down to caress her mother, as she spoke.

Nay, if I must enumerate all whom Florence loves, I believe we must add Minie s kitten and Walter’s greyhound, and all the mute animals which come to her for protection and care,” rejoined Mrs. Leslie in the same tone ; ^^but nevertheless, I have longed for you to find a friend, because I feel you stand almost alone.”

Alone, mother ! with you and Minie ? How can you speak so ? Have I ever wished or sought another ? ”

No, love ; but that is no reason why your mother should not wish it for you. Minie is a pet, a plaything for us all, younger in looks and manner than thirteen years may justify, and no companion for your present pursuits and opening pleasures.”

But are not you ? ”

I cannot be to you all I wish, my warm-hearted girl, or all your fancy pictures me,” replied Mrs. Leslie, with difficulty suppressing emotion; confined as I am, almost continually, to a sofa or bed ; often incapacitated from the smallest exertion, even from hearing the gay laughter of my children ; my sufferings are aggravated by the painful thought, that now you need female companionship and sympathy more than ever, I cannot give them. A few years ago you were still a child, and your natural light-heartedness bore you up against all that might seem melancholy in your home. But within the last year I have observed that my sufferings have too often infected you with more sadness than they inflict upon me ; and continually to watch with me, and to bear with me, and think for me, this is no task for you, my Florence.”

‘‘It is so precious even in its sorrow, that I would not resign it for anything that other friends might offer, dearest mother. It is only the last two years I have been conscious of all I owe to you, and all you endure, and all the trouble and sadness my wilfulness must often have occasioned you. And if I have seemed more thoughtful and serious, it is because I have only now begun to think and feel.”^

“ And for that very reason, my child, I have wished you to find some friend, whose affection and personal character might

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sometimes give you more cheerful matters of meditation, and a happy change of scene. You are only too prone to think and feel, and might become morbidly sensitive before either of us had imagined the danger. I know, too, that there is an age when the young require more than their natural relatives whom to respect and love ; they fancy it no credit to be loved merely in their domestic circle ; they need an interchange of sentiment and pursuit, and all their innocent recreations and graver duties acquire double zest from being shared by another. Sympathy is the magic charm of life ; and a friend will both give it and feel it, and never shrink from speaking truth, however painful, kindly indeed, but faithfully, and will infuse and receive strength by the mutual confidence of high and religious principle. Trust me, there are such friends, my Florence, friends that will cling to each other through weal and through woe, who will never permit coldness or distrust to creep in, and dull their truth : aye, and who will stand by, protecting and comforting, should sorrow or even sin be the lot of the one, and that of the other be happiness complete.’’

Mrs. Leslie ceased, her voice becoming almost inaudible from emotion or exhaustion. Florence imagined the latter cause, for there was a deep flush on her mother’s usually pallid cheek which alarmed and pained her, and throwing her arms around her neck she begged her not to talk too much, dearly as she loved to hear her, adding, somewhat mournfully, You have indeed pictured true friendship, mother, and that which I yearn for. Lady Ida may be all this to me, but I am too lowly in station and in merit to be such to her ; though I do feel I could go to the world’s end to make her happier than she is. Oh, mother, if you did but know her as I do.”

Without that pleasure, my dear child, I have seen enough of her to know that, were her rank less high, I could not wish a dearer, truer friend for Florence. A character like yours, almost too clinging, too affectionate, needs the support of firmness and self-control, qualities I have never seen possessed in a more powerful degTee than by Lady Ida. But remember, my Florence, it is not only the disparity of rank which must eventually separate you. Lady Ida is about to leave England to reside in Italy for an indefinite time.”

‘‘And with my whole heart I wish she could set off directly, lonely as I should feel,” exclaimed Florence, eagerly.

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doubt you do; for there never was any selfishness in true affection, be it friendship or love. Yet still I wish there had been no occasion for this self-renunciation, and that your first friendship had not been with one from whom you will so soon be called upon to part.’’

But I would not lose the pleasure of the present to escape the pain of the future. You know, dear mother, I always say I feel that pleasure and pain are twins ; I never feel one without the other, and I should be a poor miserable being, without a particle of spirit or animation, if I were to give up the joy of the one feeling for fear of the suffering of the other.”

There was an indefinable expression of sadness on the countenance of Mrs. Leslie as her mild eye rested on the beaming features of her child. It was an expression which others might often have remarked, but when observed by Florence, she believed it natural to those beloved features, marking perhaps greater suffering of body than usual, and in consequence calling forth increased tenderness on her part.

It is too late to wish the present pleasure recalled, my child ; continue to love Lady Ida, only remember there must be a cloud in your horizon of joy, that this intimacy cannot last, even if she return to England. Your respective stations cannot permit the confidence of perfect friendship, and my Florence has too much of her mother’s pride to seek to be a humble friend.”

‘‘I could never be such to Lady Ida,” replied Florence, ^^for she would cease to love me, or at least to feel the same interest in me, if I were. No, mother, no; I am not ashamed to stand in a lower grade than hers. I shall never become one of those despicable characters, who, attempting to rise above, sink lower than their natural station, and thus expose themselves to laughter and contempt.”

CHAPTER 11.

THE LESLIE FAMILY. — A MYSTERY. — LOVE OF COUNTRY AFFECTED BY ASSOCIATIONS.

The family, of whom the animated speaker of the preceding chapter formed so engaging a part, consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie and their three children. They had resided for several years in the lovely little village of Babbicombe, situated on the south coast of Devonshire. Occasional visits had indeed been made to the metropolis, and other parts of England; but their home was Devonshire, and there had the affections of Florence taken root, with all the enthusiasm of her nature. London she abhorred ; she fancied its denizens were cold and heartless, and her mind had not yet received the magic touch which could awaken it to those treasures of art and science which the emporium of England’s glory so richly contains. As yet, the music of the birds and streams, and the deeper bass and varied tones of Ocean, were sweeter harmonies than the rarest talent of the capital. The opening flowers, the diversified scene of hill and dale, the groups of village children, of sturdy peasants and rustic girls, amid the fields and orchards, presented to her fancy lovelier pictures and more perfect forms than the finest galleries of art.

The feelings and mysteries of her own loving heart and simple mind presented enough variety ; she needed not change of society to develop her intuitive perception of character. Reading with avidity all that she could obtain — history, poetry, romance, all that could delineate nature according to the responses of her own heart — she needed no other recreation. The gentle counsels of Mrs. Leslie preserved her from all that mawkish sentiment and undue prominence of romance which in some dispositions might have resulted from such indiscriminate reading at an age so early. But Florence Leslie woman’s friendship.

was no heroine, to take a volume of Byron or Moore, and wander alone amid the rocks, and fells, and woods of Babbicombe, and weep in secret, imagining herself to be some lovelorn damsel, and pining for all the fascinating heroes of whom she read. That she was often seen tripping lightly, on an early summer morning, or a cool fresh evening, down the hill to a favourite cleft in a rock almost hidden by luxuriant brushwood which covered it, and within hearing of the sonorous voice of old Ocean, and seen too with a book in her hand, we pretend not to deny. But look not aghast, ye votaries of Byron and Moore, that volume was generally one of Felicia Hemans, or Mary Howitt ; or, if of deeper lore, Wordsworth, Coleridge, the stirring scenes of Scott, or the domestic pictures of Edgeworth, Mitford, or Austin. Florence was not yet old enough, or perchance wise enough, to appreciate the true poetic beauties of Lord Byron’s thrilling lays, or the sweeter, softer music of Moore. She was as yet only sensible of that which pleased her fancy and touched her heart ; and, therefore, to these poets her gentle spirit echoed no reply.

But Florence was not so wedded to her books, and shrubs, and flowers as to eschew those pleasures which might perhaps appear somewhat irrelevant to such a quiet life. No one loved a ball so well, no one was so lightly gay in all festivity and mirth. The morning hour might see her in tears over a favourite book, the evening find her the life and centre of a happy group of children, laughing, dancing like the youngest there.

Such she was at the age of fifteen ; seventeen years found this internal and external happiness somewhat clouded. She became more awake to outward things ; to the consciousness of and S3nnpathy with the sufferings of a mother whom she loved with no common love. For the last five years, Mrs. Leslie had been labouring under an incurable disease, which not only always debilitated her frame, producing a languor and depression under which many a mind would have sunk, but exposed her at intervals to the most excruciating suffering, which she would yet bear so uncomplainingly, so heroically, that very often the damp drops on her brow, or a fainting fit, would be the first sign that she was enduring pain. A sudden and violent disease would have alarmed, and thus excited the attention even of a child ; but Mrs. Leslie’s complaint had crept on so silently and unexpectedly, her languor and weakness woman’s friendship.

were so successfully combated, that it was not strange that Florence should have failed to observe them at first, and that when she did so, the fact should have dashed her glowing visions with a saddening shade. She felt the pleasures of gaiety were alloyed, for she could never join in them with her mother.

True, the yearning for something more to love was not strong enough to affect her happiness ; for when by Mrs. Leslie’s side, listening to her loved counsels, or caressing her young and joyous sister Mary (or Minie, as she was always called), she felt it not. It was only when taking a ramble too long for Minie, or joining in the pleasures of evening society, for which Minie was too young, and which were for Mrs. Leslie too painful an exertion, that she was conscious she might be happier still.

There was an ardent longing in Florence Leslie’s heart from her earliest years, which most people imagined but romantic folly engendered by indiscriminate reading, and a consequent love of adventure, but which (strange to say) always appeared to cause Mrs. Leslie some uneasiness. All that concerned Italy, from the driest history, the deepest antiquarian research, to the lightest poem, were pored over with a pertinacity, a constancy, which no one but Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, perhaps, could comprehend. Rogers’s poem she committed to memory page after page, simply for recreation ; and she learned to draw, chiefly in order to copy every print of Italy, modern or ancient, which came before her.

What would I not give to have some claim on that lovely land !” she said one day, when only twelve years old. It is so foolish merely to love. Now, if I had by some strange chance been born there, I might love Italy as much as I pleased. By the way, papa, where was I born ? I have asked mamma several times, and there seems a fatality attending her answer, for I do not know yet.”

Mr. Leslie’s face was shaded by his hand, and it was twilight, or Florence must have discovered that his countenance was slightly troubled ; but he answered quietly, If you so much wish to forswear poor old England as your birthplace, my dear child, you have my permission so to do. For, in truth, if to be born in a country makes you a child of the soil, you are Italian, having first seen the light about twenty miles from the fair town whose name you bear.’* woman's friendship.

Italian ! really, truly, Italian ! Oh ! you dear, good father, to tell me so. Now may I love it as much as I please. Italy, dear, beautiful Italy ! I am your own child ! Mamma, naughty mamma!’’ she continued, bounding to Mrs. Leslie, as she entered the room, ^'why did you never tell me I was Italian? I must go and tell Walter and nurse and away she flew, utterly unconscious of the agitation her words had produced in Mrs. Leslie, who, as the door closed behind her, sank on a chair by her husband’s side, faintly exclaiming —

Edward, dearest Edward ! what have you told her ?”

^‘Nothing, dearest, trust me, nothing that can in any way disturb her serenity or happiness, or excite the least suspicion in herself or others, inimical to her present or future peace. I did but tell her she was born in Italy, which, did she ever mingle with my family, she would find many to confirm ; and you know it is but the truth, dearest wife.”

Mrs. Leslie breathed more freely.

I am very weak and very foolish,” she said, after a pause ;

but the slightest reference to her birth utterly unnerves me. Dearest Edward, there come to me at times such horrible forebodings, as if we had scarcely done right to act as we have done ; and yet it was my own request, my first weighty boon, and not granted by you without a painful struggle ; if there be fault — if evil come of it — I have brought it on myself.”

Do not speak thus, my noble Mary,” was her husband’s instant reply, pressing her as he spoke to his bosom. What fault can there be in acting as you did ? What evil can come from it to dash your noble deed with woe ?”

If she should ever learn,” faintly murmured Mrs. Leslie, ^‘ever know the truth ?”

It is not likely she ever will, nor can there be any need she should. Loved, cherished, aye, and dutiful and affectionate as she is, God grant that she may never leave our home till she quits it for a happier one.”

Amen 1 ” fervently responded Mrs. Leslie ; and what further might have passed between them was checked by the re-entrance of their child.

As Florence outgrew the period of childhood, and merged into opening womanhood, there was something in the intense blackness of her large, lustrous eye, the glossy tresses of her long, jet-black hair, the rich complexion, which, though woman’s friendship.

refined, and rendered peculiarly delicate from the effects of an English climate, was certainly more brunette than blonde, that seemed in truth to mark her of more southern origin than her mother and little sister, between whom and herself there was no affinity of feature whatever. Minie was a lovely English child, exquisitely fair, with deep blue eyes, and clustering curls of gold, and a voice that, even at twelve years old, was something so extraordinary in its compass, its flexibility, that many a professor might have envied her the gift.

Florence was no regular beauty, but very graceful, with a modest and winning manner, and an ever-varying expression of feature, which rendered her a most lovable creature. Flattery, Florence instinctively abhorred ; but if any one told her her eyes and complexion were more Italian than English, she would be as innocently delighted as a child with a new toy.

The other child of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie was a delicate boy, two years the junior of Florence, between whom and himself many an animated discussion was wont to take place, on what they termed the respective merits of their respective countries. On one of these occasions, Florence met the glance of her mother, full of that sorrowful meaning which she had only lately learned to remark, and she hastened towards her to cover her with caresses, and ask if she could do anything to alleviate her pain.

'‘Mamma does not like to hear you abuse old England,” was Walter’s laughing rejoinder, as her mother assured her she w'as not suffering.

" I did not abuse it ; I love it, Walter ; but I love Italy more, and mamma loves it too.”

" Not better than England, Florence ; not so well : look at her eyes.”

Florence did look, and seemed disappointed ; Mrs. Leslie smiled.

" I have passed many happy, but more sorrowful, days in Italy, my dear children ; and, as we generally love a country from association, I candidly own it would give me more pain than pleasure to visit those classic shores again.”

" There ! ” exclaimed Walter, triumphantly.

" It is not likely I shall ever have the happiness of seeing them ; so let me love on, at least,” rejoined Florence, in a sorrowful tone.

Chapter III. Effects Of Fashionable Training. — The Story Opens

Among the many visitors to the mild and beautiful seaport of Torquay was the family of Lord Melford, a nobleman with whom Mr. Leslie, during his casual visits *to the metropolis, had become acquainted, from having done him some essential service in the way of business. The climate of Devonshire having been recommended for the health of one of his daughters, two successive winters found the family comfortably domiciled in a noble residence near the town, acknowledged to be second only to Tor Abbey in importance, both for interior arrangements and exterior beauty ; its picturesque localities possessing all the varied charms of hill and dale, wood and water, peculiar to Devonshire.

Lady Melford and her daughters made it a point to return Mr. Leslie s services by attentions to that gentleman’s family. Florence was not a being to be passed unnoticed. Her animation, her grace, her cultivated mind and intuitive refinement, were acknowledged even by those accustomed to the most fashionable society ; and, consequently, she was invited to St. John’s, made much of by the Misses Melford, dignified by the title of the Honourable Emily Melford’s 'intimate friend,” caressed by the Viscountess herself, and though not yet out,” admitted to all their domestic festivities.

Still Florence retained her independent spirit, her love of her own more humble home, untinged by a wish to exchange her unpretending sphere for that of her noble friends. Notwithstanding that she became an object of envy to many a

WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP.

young lady in the vicinity, who thought her pretensions to the notice of Lady Melford were quite as good as Miss 'Leslie's, not one in the whole neighbourhood could be found to say that this distinction had changed one tittle of her character. She was heard to declare that it was worth while to mix with grandeur and be petted by strangers a little while, as it only made her feel how much dearer was her home, how much more precious the love of its inmates than they had ever seemed before.

Though the refinement of high rank and well-cultivated minds, mingled with lighter accomplishments, rendered the Honourable Misses Melford far more congenial companions to our young heroine than any she had yet met with, there was still something wanting; the mystery of sympathy, that curious power which links us with kindred minds, which bids us feel, long before the lights and shadows of character can be distinguished, that we have met with the rich blessing of a heart which can understand us, and on which our own may lean. A fashionable education, and, in the two elder, the gaieties of four or five London seasons, had been productive of their natural consequences, coldness and heartlessness, which could not assimilate with the ardent temperament of Florence. She knew not their extent, for they were always kind to her, and she did not feel any restraint before them ; but she intuitively felt that all her high aspirations, her exalted feelings had better not be spoken, for they would not be understood ; even Emily Melford, though but just eighteen, had not passed through the ordeal of fashionable training entirely unscathed ; perhaps, too, nature was as much in fault as education, for she was naturally cold, though so independent in thought and action, as often to startle Florence.

The first winter, St. John's had only been honoured by the presence of Lady Melford and her daughters, occasionally varied by visits from the Viscount, and the Honourable Frederick and Alfred Melford, true specimens of joke-loving, amusement-seeking, young men of fashion, whose gaiety and good feeling excited the mirth and ready enjoyment of Florence, but nothing more. The second winter brought an addition to the family. Emily had alluded to a cousin, her mother’s niece, the Lady Ida Villiers, eight years her senior, and spoken so rapturously of her exceeding grace and beauty, and richly-gifted mind, that Florence thought these all-

WOMANS FRIENDSHIP.

sufficient food for fancy ; but tlie tale connected with Lady Ida was such as to interest much colder hearts than hers.

She had lost her father seven years previously ; her mother some time before ; and Lady Ida, the last of an ancient line, was left under the guardianship of Lord Melford, until the age of twenty-four, when full liberty became her own. The title of her father, the ancient earldom of Edgemere, had indeed gone to a distant branch, but his possessions, with little diminution, passed to his daughter, leaving her, in consequence, a wealthy heiress. She had certainly charms enough, both of person and mind, to remove all idea that she could be sought merely for fortune ; but whatever the cause, the richest and proudest bowed before her, acknowledged her surpassing loveliness, and besought, in all the varieties of passion, the honour of her hand. But the heart of the Lady Ida Villiers had appeared to be as cold as ice ; her majesty of demeanour had never descended to encouragement, in even the passing courtesy of the moment. All were rejected, some with winning kindness, some with contemptuous scorn, according as her quick and penetrative mind discovered the true feeling or worldly-seeldng pretence of her respective suitors. In vain her guardians expostulated, and Lord Melford, remembering he was an uncle also, took upon himself to threaten. The young lady was inexorable, and, at length, the truth was discovered. The heart which had appeared impregnable, had, in fact, been carried by storm already ; and Lady Ida scrupled neither to deny nor to- conceal it, for its love was returned ; she knew this in spite of the hopelessness with which it was accompanied.

Edmund St. Maur was the youngest branch of the noble family whose name he bore. There was a chance of the' barony becoming his, but a chance far too remote for speculation. Moreover, he and his widowed mother were poor; poor, at least, for the sphere in which their relationship to rank imperatively called them to move ; and Edmund was of that delicate frame and constitution, which are too often attendant on studious habits and reflective minds. The late Lord Edgemere had known the worth of both mother and son, and had cherished and encouraged the intimacy between them and his child. Whether he ever thought of danger arising from it, or really would not have objected to the union of woman’s friendship.

IS

Lady Ida with the poor but high-minded Edmund St. Maur, could never be ascertained, as he died before Ida herself wasaware of the engaged state of her affections ; and St. Maur, whatever might have been his private feelings, knew his position too well to think of their betrayal.

Lady Ida had not, however, been a year an orphan, before the faded form and pallid cheek of Edmund startled her into perfect consciousness as to the state of her own heart ; and with all the refinement and delicacy of a high and pure mind,, she recalled all that had ever passed between them, all thatshe knew of his character, and felt that gold, despicable gold, had caused this change. His too sensitive mind imagined that fortune had for ever divided them, that he dared not aspire to her hand. She knew his pride, and felt that did she not advance more forward than was, perhaps, quite consistent with maidenly propriety, not only her own happiness but his would be sacrificed for ever. Her first measures were sufficiently unsuccessful to rob her own cheek of its glow, her own form of its roundness ; the more kind, the more gracious her manner, nay, the more she thought to draw him to her side, the more he shunned her.

But how did she ever discover his sentiments ? how ever conquer his pride ? ” was Florence Leslie’s ardent exclamation, aware of the sequel, yet not imagining how these difficulties could be overcome ; and Emily Melford, as eager to speak as her companion to listen, continued —

'' Simply, because he chanced to have a mother in whom he could confide a tale of love. It was easy for Lady Helen to penetrate Ida’s secret, and the betrayal of Edmund’s sentiments of course followed. Once assured that she was beloved, neither her own maiden modesty nor natural pride could be in aught impugned. All reserve was at an end ; they understood each other, and never were three happier persons, I believe, than Ida and Edmund, and not least. Lady Helen.”

She must have been happy, for it was greatly her doing,” observed Florence. '^But why are they not married yet? why only engaged ? ”

For a very weighty reason ; Ida had to bear the brunt of all sorts of persecution — my honourable family at their head ; every one who could claim the most distant relationship chose to declare she should not so throw herself away, that it was worse than folly ; she was wedding herself not alone with

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poverty, but with death, for every one must see Edmund St. Maur had not five years more to live/’

How cruel ! ” indignantly exclaimed Florence.

Cruel, in truth ; and not content with this, invectives nearly approaching to insult were thrown at her by all, not excepting my own family.”