CHAPTER XV.

STRIFE.

"Where are you going, Roland?" asked Effie, with an anxious face.

"I think to New York, sister."

"Have you any money, Roland?"

"But very little, sister, excepting in the bank of Heaven;" was the reply, and yet Roland smiled, it seemed so daring to set out on life's journey so penniless.

"I have five dollars, brother, you must take it; Miss Matilda gave it to me for some very fine work which I have just finished for Madeline;" and away ran Effie to bring her pocket-book, and attempted to empty its contents into Roland's hand.

Roland shrank from the gift. "I have fifteen dollars, Effie, that must do until I reach the great city."

"What do you expect to do, Roland?"

"I shall see when I reach New York."

"How shall I write to you? I shall be so anxious."

"I will write first, and let you know where I am."

"Give me your valise, brother," and Effie placed in it some sandwiches, which she had prepared with her own little hands.

With a hasty farewell, and a brother's warm kiss, Roland turned his face towards the great metropolis, brave, hopeful, trusting, still "Looking aloft." Oh! what need of the talisman now!

Sometimes a good-natured farmer would give him a lift on the road; and, at the end of one week, he found himself, weary and lonely, entering the great city. One dollar was all that was left in his pocket-book.

Rambling listlessly up Broadway, the multitude depressed him; for he felt himself friendless indeed, in this vast surging crowd.

Passing Trinity Church, he perceived it open, for it was the time of the evening service. The sound of the organ cheered his spirits, and, joining in the solemn service, for awhile he forgot his worldly cares, and worshipped the Unseen.

Perceiving a gentleman mounting the steeple, Roland followed, with the injunction from the sexton not to stay too long, for he should wish to close the church. The gentleman took a hasty glance, but soon descended, leaving Roland to his meditations.

What a busy, bustling crowd below! Did they, indeed, belong to the one great brotherhood of man? Each one pushing his own way, apparently so regardless of his neighbor's motions; some to happy, smiling homes; some to dens of poverty and misery; many to haunts of sin. And the streets so filled with carts, carriages, omnibuses, and cars, all threading their way so skilfully through the thronged thoroughfare.

The solitudes of the grand mountains was to be alone with God; the dreariness of this human crowd was oppressive, and here, away in the lofty steeple, near the clouds, far above the din and press of this great multitude of humanity, he felt that he could breathe once more.

Glancing over the vast city, the numerous steeples all around him reminded him that he was among Christians. "So many Christians!" thought Roland, "and not one knows me; but then every Sunday, in these houses dedicated to God, they pray for the fatherless and the homeless, and I am one."

So deeply was he engrossed in thought, and so soothing was the quiet of this retreat from the busy world, that Roland forgot how time was passing. The crowd diminished, evening shadows rendered objects below somewhat indistinct, and the fair moon appeared to light the heavens. Sailing majestically along, sometimes hidden by clouds, then emerging again into all her calm beauty, Roland could not but compare her course to the journey of God's dear children through this wilderness: sometimes obscured by sorrow, yet always coming forth again into the calm, clear sky of perfect peace.

Roland remembered that he had no place where to lay his weary limbs that night, and he repeated some of the promises.

"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."

The heavens seemed to smile upon him; he felt that he was God's own child, and repeated solemnly, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, _give us this day our daily bread_," his heart was comforted; and he descended the dark stair-case with the same feeling of security as if he had pressed the hand of his Heavenly Father guiding him safely along.

When he reached the church, he found it locked; he had stayed so long, the sexton had forgotten him, but he was not afraid--afraid in God's dear house, with the soft, sweet moon shining on him through the stained window-glass! Oh! no--there was a sense of sweet security pervading his heart, and, laying himself down in one of the cushioned pews, he slept the sleep of perfect security in the Father above.

Locked up until the time for the morning service, the sexton was both surprised and displeased at the sight of the tenant in rich Mr. Seldin's pew. Roland apologized, but the old man was surly, and hurried him out of the church.

He was hungry and thirsty, so the first thing that he sought was some food. Furnishing himself with some crackers and cheese, and refreshing himself with a drink of water, he commenced his first day's battle with life.

Up and down the long, crowded streets, in the stores, at the offices, along the wharves, he sought in vain for some employment. Hundreds of just such applications were refused daily. All asked the name of some friend, he had none to give but Dr. Kingsley. Some smiled at his answers when asked what he could do.

"He could keep books, copy law-papers, go errands, clean pavements, sweep out offices, any thing that would give him the means of an honest livelihood."

Night came, but without a shelter. It was late, and he was weary, so, turning into one of the market-houses, he had no other resource.

On one of the stalls lay a poor boy, pale and emaciated. Roland saw that he was sick, so placing his valise under his head, over which he had thrown some soft garment, he laid himself down to sleep by his brother's side. "He has more need than I," thought Roland, as he resigned the softer pillow to the poor boy. Presently a police-officer came along.

"What are you about here, you young rascals? Have you been out on a plundering job?"

Roland raised his head and said, "I do not think, sir, that you will find this poor boy to be a vagrant; and, as for myself, I am poor and homeless, that is all."

"New York is a bad place for a young chap like you to be in, without a home."

"I know it, sir; I have walked all day, searching for work, but have found none; can you tell me what to do?"

"I saw an advertisement for a boy in a printer's office, perhaps you may do; but I am afraid that you are too old."

"If you will be so good as to give me the direction, I will go in the morning, and see what success I shall have."

After eating sparingly of his little stock, Roland started to find the printer's office.

"We do not take boys without references; you are too old for us at any rate," and Roland was disappointed again. Roving about, he asked permission to saw wood, to clean pavements, and obtained a few such jobs; but his heart was sinking; the promises were fading, and, at the close of the third day, wearied and heart-sick, the same officer met Roland again in the same market-place.

"What! my boy, still roving about?" said the man.

"I have walked for three days, and all that I could find to do was to saw some wood, and to clean a few pavements. I have but a few cents left, where shall I turn?"

"Come home with me, I believe that you are an honest boy; you shall not sleep out in the street again."

And Richard Green took Roland with him to his comfortable little home.

"Here, wife, give this poor fellow a good supper and a comfortable bed, he has come to this great city without money or friends; we must do something for him."

Martha Green was a rough woman, with a kind, womanly heart; she had a son, about Roland's age, away at sea, and she wiped her eyes with her hard, wrinkled hand, as she asked,

"Have you a mother, my son?"

The question opened the flood-gates penned up in the poor youth's heart, and, manly as he was, weakened by suffering and hunger, he could not restrain the tears that would burst forth, as he replied,

"No, Mrs. Green, my mother is in heaven; I should be doubly grieved if I thought that she knew of the trials of these few hard days."

The good woman busied herself about the neat kitchen, and soon invited Roland to a warm and comfortable meal. A cup of warm coffee, some nicely cooked meat and potatoes, with home-made bread and butter, was a luxury which he had not seen for weeks; and when, at last, he lay down in the snug room on a clean bed, with everything around him so comfortable, language could not express the gratitude which filled his heart at the gracious answer to his prayer.

Cheered by the sympathy of these humble friends, Roland set out again with renewed hope.

Rambling about from street to street, his eye was at length attracted by a sign, which directed him to the "Noon-day Prayer Meeting."

Taking his seat among the worshippers, he was pleased to see Richard Green, his humble friend, among the company. He felt that God was there, and deeply, earnestly, did Roland pray for guidance.

"I was glad to see you there, Richard," said Roland.

"Why, you see, my son, I've been one of the roughs in my time; but, since I've been coming here, I find that there's something else to do in this world beside getting bread and meat. I see a great deal in my line to make me hate the ways of sin, for it always brings misery; so I've given up all my bad ways, and, by the help of God, I'm bound for Canaan."

They walked back again to the officer's home, and, picking up the paper, Roland perceived an advertisement--"Wanted, a boy to clean a lawyer's office, go errands, etc., with the privilege of reading law in the office."

After dinner, he called upon Mr. Dean. He was questioned closely as to his previous knowledge, his handwriting, etc. Roland showed his letter from Dr. Kingsley, speaking in the highest terms of his character and acquirements. Mr. Dean was a shrewd man, and soon made an engagement with Roland.

Grateful to his dear Heavenly Father, Roland passed a happy day, and wrote immediately to Effie, telling her of his good fortune, and giving her his direction.

Ere entering upon his labors, he walked down to the Battery. All was so refreshing--the quiet water so peaceful, its gentle murmurs calmed his fevered brow, and, "Looking aloft" once more with cheerful hope, he mused gratefully upon the past, hopefully upon the future.

"How I should like Madeline to know something of my good fortune," thought he; "but would I like her to know of my poverty? my misery? Would I like her to know that I had to sleep out two nights in the market-house, and then dependent for shelter on a police officer?"

Roland winced under these bitter thoughts.

"The gulf is wide, indeed--when she emerges into the gay world, she will forget the poor boy at Woodcliff."

The next morning, Roland entered upon his duties; they were endless--cleaning the office, making fires, running errands, copying law papers, early and late, left but little time for reading law; perhaps one hour a day was all that he could save from his unceasing toil.

Having considerable literary taste, he wrote frequently, after retiring at night, articles for the daily press.

They always seemed acceptable, and the Editor, who really delighted to encourage young genius, advertised, "If the person, writing over the signature of Randolph, will call at the office, he will hear something to his advantage."

Roland called--the Editor was interested.

"You must not write, my young friend, gratuitously. I will compensate you for your articles; send me a weekly contribution, and I will remunerate you."

Roland was surprised and grateful--not aware of his own merits, he had regarded these efforts simply as means of improvement, and had not dreamed of compensation.

He made the agreement with the Editor, and then, being questioned as to his present employment, his kind friend saw that he was overworked, and undervalued. In a week or two, the friendly editor sent for Roland again, and said,

"I have spoken to a distinguished lawyer of this city, who is fond of bringing out young men; he is interested in your story, and if you will wait a few minutes, he will call here."

In a short time, a gentleman, with a manly bearing, and a bright, quick glance, entered the office.

A short conversation with Roland completed the agreement, and, as he was only engaged temporarily at Mr. Dean's, it was soon announced that he must get another in his place, for in a week more he would leave for a more lucrative situation.

Roland soon found himself among people infinitely more refined, for Edgar and Helen Thornly were both attractive young persons.

Edgar had just returned from college; a gay young fellow, whose chief occupation in life was the pursuit of pleasure; and Helen, a lovely young girl, not long home from boarding-school.

Treated in all respects as an equal, he found the home circle at Mr. Thornly's peculiarly agreeable, and in return for these benefits, rendered at all times most faithful service to his generous employer.

Roland often felt concerned for the petted son of Mr. Thornly; for furnished constantly with a full purse, he had ample opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of the gay world, and was becoming very rapidly one of the fast young men of New York. It was true that he had a desk at his father's office, but it was seldom occupied for any length of time by the young man; for late hours at night made corresponding hours in the morning; and, in the afternoon, a drive with a fast horse generally closed the day.

Mr. Thornly occasionally remonstrated.

"Just wait a little, father; you know that I have been shut up so long at college, that it seems hard to go to work as soon us I come home. I will be a smart lawyer yet."

"Brother," said Helen, "whom do you think I met to-day in Broadway? my old school-friend, Madeline Hamilton; she is in New York, spending the Christmas vacation with Mary Trevor."

"Won't you invite her here, sister? I feel quite anxious to see your 'queen of beauty.'"

"You need not try to captivate Madeline; she is as proud as Juno, and so far, quite indifferent to beaux."

"She'll have plenty of admirers, sis, when she bursts upon the world with all her wealth and beauty."

Roland heard the announcement of her presence in New York with mingled feelings--she was a young lady now, how would she meet the old friend of his childish days?

"Roland, are you fond of music?" asked young Thornly.

"Extravagantly, but I have never heard any of the celebrated singers."

"We are going to the opera to-night; will you accompany us?"

Roland was a novice in the world of New York, and thinking only of the music, he consented, and accompanied the party.

Bewildered at first with the delicious music, he scarcely thought of the adjuncts; but the uncovered forms, the freedom of the actresses, the sentiments of the opera translated into English, shocked his sense of delicacy; and when he looked around at the crowds of fair young faces, looking and listening without a blush to much that was enacting before them, he felt convinced that this was no place for a Christian youth, and resolved accordingly.

Near them, was seated a party of young persons deeply interested in the performance. One especially attracted him--the deep blue eyes, the profusion of soft brown hair, the sweet expressive mouth, were certainly like those of his little friend; but in the tall, graceful girl before him, he scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses, when the silvery voice revealed fully Madeline Hamilton.

He had not seen her for four years, and the sparkling, bewitching child had merged into the lovely, blushing maiden of sixteen.

During one of the recesses between the acts she arose, and stood facing the party near her.

Roland caught her eye; she looked earnestly, then smiled, and, with a bow of high-bred courtesy, recognized her old friend.

Roland felt that Madeline was no longer a child; he returned her bow with equal politeness.

Next morning, at breakfast, Helen discussed with her father all her arrangements for an evening party the following week.

Roland made one of the company, and watched anxiously for each arrival, expecting every minute to see the friend of his childhood.

A ringing silvery laugh, as tripping feet passed up the staircase to deposit her wrappings, announced the presence of Madeline, the little Mad-cap of the sea-shore.

She entered--a simple girlish dress became the young maiden; for she remembered that she was yet a school-girl.

She bowed gracefully when introduced to the company--a bright blush and a smile acknowledged the acquaintance of Roland Bruce.

He advanced--"How are you, Miss Madeline? It has been a long time since I saw you. When did you arrive in New York?"

A casting down of the eyes, and the slightest quiver of a mischievous smile, crossed the bright young face.

"Last week, Mr. Bruce. I am spending my vacation with my friend, Miss Trevor."

"When do you expect to return?"

"In about ten days. One more year will complete my school-life."

"Then for the gay world, I suppose, Miss Madeline;" and Roland smiled somewhat sadly.

"Yes, that is our intention. We shall spend my first winter in New York."

"You have not forgotten the lessons at Woodcliff, I trust, Miss Madeline?"

Madeline turned her face away, and bending her eyes upon the ground, said,

"I must speak the truth; I fear, that those lessons have lost much of their power."

"Are you happy now as then, Miss Madeline?"

"Not when I stop to think; but I have not much time for that."

Listening seriously to Roland's earnest words, with eyes bent, and hands folded reverently as of yore, the Roland and Madeline of Maple Lane School stood once more revealed.

"Madeline, the piano is waiting for you," said Helen; and leading her young friend to the instrument, she interrupted the conversation.

Dashing off into one of the most beautiful of the many variations of fine old pieces, she ran through several brilliant compositions, until at the close of "Auld Lang Syne," she accompanied it with her charming voice, in all the melting tenderness of former days.

Roland was inexpressibly touched.

"She has not quite forgotten those early days," thought the youth.

* * * * * * *

Edgar Thornly gave his father much uneasiness, for his indolence increased, his nightly dissipations became more reckless--moreover, he seemed gloomy and abstracted.

One day, a gentleman called to pay Mr. Thornly a fee of two hundred dollars. He placed it in his desk, and put the key in his pocket. Roland and Edgar were both present. It was the duty of the former to lock the office every evening; but on this occasion Edgar tarried.

"Is it not time to lock the office?" said Roland.

"I suppose so," was the answer; but still he lingered.

At last Roland said,

"I have an engagement, Edgar, and must lock up."

"Can't I do it, Roland?"

"No, Edgar, your father directed me to see it locked always before I leave."

"You are mighty particular, Roland;" and, taking his hat, Edgar left the room.

Just before Roland closed the office finally, James, the waiter, entered the room to replenish the fire.

"Be quick, James, I have an engagement."

The man soon finished his work, and left the room. Roland locked the door, and took his departure, placing the key in his pocket.

The next morning, Mr. Thornly wanted the money; on opening the desk, the lock was picked, and the money gone--who could have taken it?

The waiter was called, and inquiries made of him.

"The last one I saw there was Mr. Bruce," said the man; "nobody has been there since."

Edgar testified the same.

"I saw it just before I left the room," said Roland. "I saw you put the money in the drawer, Mr. Thornly; I was the last person in the office; I locked the door and put the key in my pocket; when I looked for the key this morning it was gone, and when I went down to the office, it was already open."

"I was up first this morning," said the cook; "I was in the cellar under the office, I heard some one moving about in stocking feet; I thought it was very early, but I supposed it was Mr. Bruce, and did not go to see who was there."

Roland _could have told_ that he saw one of Edgar's embroidered slippers close by the office door, and that when he entered, the gas was left burning, and a knife, which he had often seen Edgar use, lying under the table.

Roland felt the perplexity of his situation; he knew that suspicion pointed towards him, but he could not clear himself without involving his employer's son.

Just as he felt himself so happily, so usefully employed, it was a hard thing to be cast again upon the world, and under such circumstances.

The breakfast was eaten in silence; the business of the day pursued in the same formal manner. Edgar avoided being alone with Roland, and the atmosphere of the whole house was stifling.

Before closing the office, Roland begged for a few minutes conversation with Mr. Thornly.

"I feel the terrible suspicion which rests upon me, Mr. Thornly; I cannot stay here, a suspected man; painful as the task is, I must go."

"It is doubtless so; but, Mr. Bruce, I have placed unlimited confidence in you, sir; I know not what to think."

"Your confidence has never been abused, sir; the day will come when my innocence shall be established; in the meanwhile, I can wait."

"What will you do, sir, without a reference?"

"I do not know; but you will not make the affair public? let me beg of you for many reasons not to do so."

"I promise you not to do so; but do not send any one to me until the affair is cleared up, I cannot recommend you; it is all a mystery."

"You are not going, Roland?" said Helen Thornly; "I can't bear to see you so insulted, so wronged."

"Thank you, Miss Helen; but you must see that circumstances around me are very dark--I can only declare my innocence, and leave it all for Providence to proclaim my honor."

"My father will be the loser, Roland; I have my own thoughts, and I will never rest until I find out the truth."

"It has been a pleasant home, Miss Helen, but I must leave it; my dear mother left me a precious motto on her death-bed, 'Looking aloft.' It has comforted me in many a weary hour; it is my refuge now."

"Packing up his clothes immediately, he took a respectful leave of all, thanking Mr. Thornly for all his kindness.

"It will be right some day, Mr. Thornly; I can trust and wait," were Roland's last words.

Out again upon the cold world, Roland deposited his clothes with his friend Richard Green, and, weary and sad, walked down to the Battery.

He had not paced the bank long, when Madeline, in company with several gay young friends, passed by; her careless, joyous laugh jarred upon his lacerated feelings, and her ceremonious salutation completed the depression of that weary day.

Could she have known the sorrow of that noble heart, would she have passed so coldly?

No--although the poison of a letter received that day, from Lavinia Raymond, rankled in her proud young heart.

Roland paced the bank until midnight--midnight around, and midnight within the tried young spirit; for faith could not grasp the promises at once, in that hour of anguish.