A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF FLORENCE WALTON.

———

BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART.

———

“It was not strange, for in the human breast

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!

“Time sped on, working his changes as he ever does, and our school-days passed like our girlhood, never to return. Florence and I made every promise of everlasting friendship when we parted; kept, too, I believe as faithfully as if made in more mature years. The first letter I received from her after we had both left for our homes, told me of the death of her father, which was very sudden. The newspapers announced shortly after this, the demise of her remaining parent, and my heart clung still more fondly to her, poor thing, for she had no brothers or sisters to sympathize with her in this sad bereavement. She was now alone to struggle with the cold world, which made no allowance for her faults of the head, but were visited upon her as crimes of a darker die.

“Years elapsed, and nothing more reached me of Florence. I married your uncle, dear Cora, and spent many, many happy years with him here, in my little nest as you term it, when death also came to tear him from me. Then, too, with my sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl-friend, Florence Walton. Wondering had she ever married—was she a mother, a widow—and still above all came the wish that I could see her once again. I had written to her frequently, but my letters were never answered, and so I began to imagine that time had blotted out my name from ‘memory’s page,’ or that she had gone forth into the world under some other cognomen, and that my letters had failed to reach her. Somehow, I could never think her dead, there was too much life and liveliness in my ideal of her, to join them together.

“Other thoughts began to have influence over me, when one day among letters and papers, came one, bearing my name in her own hand-writing! That old, familiar penmanship brought back, like some fondly remembered strain of music, thoughts of childhood’s happy days, and my heart leaped forth in love welcome to the writer ere I broke the envelope. How much more were my feelings stirred within me, when the warm, passionate nature of Florence beamed forth in every line. She proffered a visit to me, telling me, that she too had known sorrow, deep, lasting—and when she thought of my happiness, she could not bear to lay open the still tender wound; but I had suffered, as she had very recently learned, and could therefore without additional heart-pangs give my sympathy to a friend, my own, old, wayward, school-friend.”

“How quickly did I respond, and urge her to come speedily, and she came.”

“Yes, dear aunty,” said Cora, “I recollect her now. I was a tiny one, it is true, but I remember well a lady, who dressed in mourning, and was accustomed to walk evening after evening up and down the broad portico with you, while I, too, would endeavor to keep pace with you, till tired out I have thrown myself across the door-step and slept, unconsciously, until you became aware of ‘my small existence,’ and gave me to Elsie, to put in bed.”

“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little skilled as a raconteuse, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea, lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me, ‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in Oblivion’s stream.’

“There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns; for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do not minister to me.”

“Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the tea-waiter; for I am so famished with curiosity to read these yellow leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis not comme il faut, if you will only hurry!”

My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table, in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages of