CHAPTER XVII.
MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.
"Well, daughter, I suppose that I must leave my retirement, for this winter at least," said Mr. Hamilton.
"So you promised, papa; I am looking forward to the season with great expectations. Mary Trevor is impatient for us to come early, she has so much in store for me. There are Mrs. Peyton, and Mrs. Rossiter, and Mrs. Starr, all waiting anxiously for us; they give such elegant parties, papa."
Mr. Hamilton looked with an expression of proud exultation upon his beautiful daughter, and anticipated the sensation that the advent of such a bright star would make in the world of fashion.
Madeline was full of eager anticipation, but not heartless; she really regretted the parting with Effie, and the loneliness which she knew the young girl would suffer during her absence; for Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda would both accompany the young heiress.
"I am sorry, Effie, to leave you; but the winter will soon pass; you will busy yourself with looking after the house, with your needle and your books; and write often, dear."
Effie sighed, as she almost whispered,
"Madeline, a great weight is on my heart; I find my eyes daily becoming more and more dim; if the outer world should all be dark to me, what a poor useless being I should be, and what a burden to my friends!"
"Don't imagine such an affliction, dear Effie; Dr. Jenks shall attend to your case at once; but do try to keep up your spirits. I have often thought, Effie, that we ought to try to do something for the people in the neighborhood; there are several families that we have been accustomed to help; I will appoint you my almoner. There are four old persons to be supplied with warm garments and coal for the winter; and three or four invalids that need weekly care. Nanny makes gruel or other comforts for Mary Swain the cripple, and it would be a pleasure to me to know that they are all attended to."
Effie brightened at the prospect of such work, for employment like this was the element of her nature.
"Take good care of my flowers, Effie, especially my rosebush, and when I come back, let me see some roses on your pale cheeks, dear."
"You will not forget me, dear friend, that I know," said Effie, folding her affectionately in her arms, and pressing a loving kiss upon her cheek, she whispered, "do not forget the Blessed Saviour, Madeline; you will be surrounded by a thousand temptations."
A tear glistened in Madeline's eye, but she dashed it aside, and said,
"Effie, don't be distressed about me; some of these days I will be just as good as you can wish, but I must have a peep at the gay world first."
"Some of these days, Madeline; how little do we know about the days appointed us."
The day of departure arrived; the trunks were all strapped; Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda seated in the carriage, and Madeline, folding her humble friend in her arms once more, took her seat by her father.
"Farewell, Effie, be bright and cheerful, dear; we shall soon be back again."
The young girl stood upon the piazza as long as she could see the carriage, and turning into the house with a sad heart, Effie sought and found the comfort that she needed, at the feet of her own dear Saviour.
Let us follow Madeline to the scene of her introduction into the gay world.
Established in an elegant suite of rooms in one of the most fashionable hotels in New York, Madeline and her aunt were busily occupied in giving orders for her winter outfit.
This was Aunt Matilda's element, and neither expense nor pains were spared on the wardrobe of the young lady.
Soon cards from the upper circles of the great metropolis multiplied in the card basket of our young novice.
All was pleasure and excitement, and weeks were occupied in returning these numerous visits, and attending to milliners, dressmakers, &c. Madeline's first appearance for the season was at the ball of Mrs. Rossiter, one of the leaders of fashion in New York.
Attired in the most exquisite taste, for the first time her mother's diamonds adorned her person.
When she entered the elegant room, leaning upon the arm of her father, all eyes were turned towards her, in whispers of admiration.
As she passed, "Beautiful!" "exquisite!" "charming!" greeted her everywhere.
"Let us be seated, papa," murmured Madeline, for the public gaze was oppressive.
She was the centre of attraction the whole evening, her hand sought for in every dance; truly, the young girl was completely bewildered and intoxicated.
And so, night after night, the ovation of flattery was laid at the feet of Madeline Hamilton.
Harry Castleton was among the most devoted of her admirers; but he was simply tolerated, for Madeline saw through the shallowness of his pretensions, and really pitied his contemptible folly.
"Well, papa, who do you think is the reigning star this winter?" said Helen Thornly.
"I do not know much about the gay world now, daughter, for I tired of it long ago; but I suppose every season has its own particular star, that shines a little while, to be eclipsed by another."
"Madeline Hamilton is the theme of every tongue; her beauty, her wealth, her accomplishments, have made her all the ton--the beaux are crazy to be found in her train, and the belles are dying of envy."
"Have you met her anywhere, Helen?"
"Yes, papa, at Mrs. Trevor's--she is splendid in her point lace and diamonds. I wish you could have seen her; and yet she does not seem vain. She always was an artless, impulsive girl; but I think New York will spoil her simplicity."
Roland listened to the remarks, and felt a deeper sinking of the heart, as he realized the ordeal through which Madeline was passing; but still, remembering all the past, and the power of first impressions, he could look upward, and trust that she would yet come out unscathed. Her world was entirely remote from his; they met but occasionally, and that in the street, but seldom at Mr. Thornly's.
The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time, but was she happy?
Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph. She had spent the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest parties of the season.
Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table, the most fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and strains of the most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere. Her triumph was complete.
Was Madeline happy? To have looked at her bright young face beaming with smiles, to have listened to her musical laugh, and sparkling repartee, to have watched her light and airy motions in the graceful waltz, one would have pronounced her the gayest of the gay.
But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton which could not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst for a better life, which could never be satisfied with this mere mirage in the pilgrimage of an immortal.
Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room, and seating herself, commences disrobing.
Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering ornaments and the faded flowers; leaning her head upon her hands, she weeps over the emptiness of her daily life.
Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little box in her writing-desk; reverently she turns over the leaves of an old book, revealing branches of withered seaweed; and in another corner of the desk, a cluster of common shells. The sight of these simple things opens the flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit.
Memory is busy--back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane School, the cemetery, the little cottage of the humble widow.
The present is fading--she had had a distant view of the glittering world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer and nearer had she approached the shining lake where she hoped to quench her thirst; but, stooping down to drink, she had found the world like the mirage in the burning sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat! O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish pleasures! O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who so wisely controlled the impetuosity of her high spirit, and tamed the wilfulness of her proud young heart.
She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had palled upon her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one approving, yea, even one kind reproving glance of the dark eye of Roland Bruce, she would have given all, and more than all that the world had ever given her.
She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart to think of better things.
She compares Roland's character with all that she had met in the gay world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his was pure and solid gold.
She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers, and almost resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering throng.
But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.
She believes the tale that Lavinia has so often told, and almost envied Helen Thornly the daily companionship of such a spirit as the one that had forgotten her.
"But I may cherish these dear mementoes yet," sighed Madeline; "they speak of such holy, blessed things, that even the sight of them refreshes me."
Placing them reverently in her desk, she commits herself to God's keeping, and retires to her rest.
The world was fast losing its hold upon Madeline; the power of early teaching was returning.
"Papa, shall we go home early in the season?" said Madeline; "I long for Woodcliff."
"Just as soon as you please, daughter; are you getting tired of the gayeties of New York?"
"I am sick of them, papa; I would rather spend one month at Woodcliff now, where I could ramble by the old sea-shore, sail in my own boat on the clear lake, or ride dear old Selim up and down the lanes, as I used to when a child."
Her father smiled, for he longed for the elegant retirement of his own home; but Aunt Matilda remonstrated.
"Surely, brother, you will not allow Madeline to be so foolish; she might, at least, spend the whole season here."
"She may do just as she pleases, Matilda," was the answer; "I am glad that she retains her love of domestic life, after all the gayety of this winter."
Aunt Matilda sought Mr. Hamilton's private ear.
"I hope that you will not listen to Madeline's folly, brother, after going to so much expense in bringing her out, and when so many of the very first in the land are ready to lay their fortunes at her feet, here you are marring her prospects for a mere whim."
"Really, Matilda, I did not bring Madeline to market, I am not so anxious to be rid of my daughter, and if she is more happy in domestic life than in the gay world, I am only too glad to encourage the feeling. She has seen just what the world is, and has sense enough to understand its hollowness."
* * * * * * * *
Roland is rising rapidly in his profession, still interested in his "Home for the News-boys," and esteemed by his kind and generous patron.
"Do you know, papa," said Helen, one day, "that Madeline is going home; here in the very midst of all her triumphs, she is longing for Woodcliff--so she says, but she always was a strange girl; I don't know what to think of her."
Roland felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart at this intelligence, for it seemed to say that Madeline was not spoiled by the gay world. How he longed to see her, and his wish was speedily gratified.
A carriage stopped at Mr. Thornly's door, which he recognized at once as Mr. Hamilton's--in the next minute, Madeline stepped out, and sent the carriage away. It was not a mere call, then, and he hoped to see her, ere she left New York.
She had come to spend a social evening with Helen, and Roland having the free entrance to the drawing-room at all times, sought his young friend.
"You are going to leave us, Miss Madeline," was his first salutation.
"Yes, I really long for Woodcliff; a peep at New York life has been sufficient."
A bright smile passed over Roland's face. "I was afraid, or rather I thought that you might have been intoxicated by its flattery."
"It is very empty, Mr. Bruce, all mirage and outside show; I want something better; point lace and diamonds, with glitter and show without sincerity, will not satisfy one that once longed for inward peace."
They are sitting apart from the rest, who were engaged in their own conversation.
Roland drew near to Madeline, and in a low tone, he whispered,
"Madeline, do you long for this better life now?"
She blushed deeply at the old familiar name, as she replied,
"Most intensely, Roland; the world has lost its charms for me."
Just then, Helen stepped up, and interrupted the conversation.
"Will you not persuade Madeline to sing?" said the young girl.
"If you will favor us first, Helen;" and Roland led her to the piano, and stood turning over the leaves for her, while she sang.
Was it the tenderness of a lover, or the mere interest of a friend that marked his manner towards Helen? inquired Madeline of her heart.
There was something in the glance of Helen that betrayed more than a common interest. But what meant Roland's whispered words? old affection? or mere brotherly regard for one whom he remembered as a mere wayward child?
After Helen, she took her seat at the piano, and song after song was called for.
With all the simplicity of childish days, she poured forth those strains of thrilling melody, once heard, never to be forgotten.
Roland shaded his eyes to hide the deep emotion which he could not control, when she warbled forth, "Ye banks and braes o' Bonny Doon," with the sweet pathos of her touching voice. He could not answer, even when she turned, and with the innocence of early days, said, in a low tone,
"That was your mother's favorite, Mr. Bruce."
He bowed, but could not reply.
The evening passed; Madeline spoke her farewells to the family.
Roland handed her to the carriage
"Remember me in your daily prayers, Roland."
"God bless you, Madeline, forever and ever; and I feel that he will with his choicest blessings."
"Helen is a sweet girl; I hope that you may be happy."
The carriage drove off--Roland retired to muse upon the evening, and the next day, Madeline was on her road to Woodcliff.
On the following day, a note was delivered to Roland with a check for one hundred dollars for the "Home for the News-boys."
Once more in sight of Woodcliff, Madeline's heart beat warmly towards every object around her dear home.
Effie was on the piazza to meet her, but Madeline was shocked to see the change in the dear girl.
"Oh! how welcome you are, Madeline! I have been so lonely; if it had not been for the poor people that you gave me to take care of, I should have been dreary enough; for Dr. Jenks will not allow me to use my eyes at all."
"I am so glad to be back at the dear old home, Effie."
"Why, you did not stay as long as you intended, Madeline."
"No, I begged papa to bring me home; I have seen enough of New York; I never was made for fashionable life, Effie."
"And you really have come back to us, Madeline, perfectly free, notwithstanding all the fortunes that have been laid at your feet."
"How did you hear all this, Effie?
"Miss Matilda used to write us such descriptions of your numerous conquests, that I often felt as if we had lost you altogether."
"You need never be afraid of such empty-headed fops as I have seen, Effie; I scarcely met a man of sense while I was away."
Madeline felt the need of some strong guiding hand in her present state of feeling; and, after she had been at home a few weeks, begged her father to allow her to visit Aunt Clara once more.
Mr. Hamilton felt as if he could scarcely spare her.
"I shall not stay long, papa; I do so want to see my dear aunt, and she has written for me so often."
"You may go, Madeline, if you will promise me to return in one month; no longer, my daughter; I want you near me, my dear child, for I am not so well as usual."
"Perhaps I had better stay, papa."
"No, Madeline, you can go; if I need you, I will send for you."
On the evening before her departure, she had visited the library, and turning over some familiar books, she came at last to her portfolio, that she had used when a school-girl. Listlessly looking through its contents, a card dropped out, on which was sketched what she was sure was a picture of herself, as she appeared on the evening when she had first met Roland.
It was a spirited little picture; but who had drawn it?
She hurried to Effie, and holding up the card, said,
"Do you know who sketched this?"
"I think it must have been Roland; for one evening when he was here, he was a long time in the library; and I know that he draws beautifully."
Looking on the back of the card, she saw the initials R.G.B., and soon the sweet memento was placed among Madeline's treasures.
Taking Hector as her companion, she sought the dearest spot around Woodcliff, and soon seated on the rock near the old flag-staff, memory wandered over the past.
The incident in the library had touched her deeply; but then that was simply a memory of childhood, and she had doubtless been forgotten since that time, or only remembered as an old friend; for had not Lavinia declared more than once that Roland was actually betrothed to Helen Thornly; for her own cousin had said so.
Ere she left the shore, she visited old Peter. He was living yet, and hastened to meet the young lady whom he had so often seen on the sea-shore.
"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and women, it seems; but a little while ago since you and Roland were skipping about here as happy children; now, you are a young lady, and Roland such a fine-looking young man! The last time he was down, he came to visit me in the old cabin--says he, 'Peter, you don't care for that little shoe that is up in the shelf?'"
"No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good while because the little girl dropped it here, and she was a bright child, and very good to Uncle Peter."
"Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline.
"Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it away--a queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up old shoes."
"Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired Madeline, with her old smile of mischief.
"Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my old shoes; for he only wanted that one, because it belonged to the little foot that used to run about here on the old beach."
This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland really did think as much of the little shoe as she did of the faded sea-weed that lay hidden in the desk.
"I suppose that he did _then_," thought she; "but that perhaps was before he knew Helen Thornly."
"Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young girl, before she left the cabin.
"Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco; mine is about gone, and it is hard enough to get it sometimes."
"You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day Madeline sent to the nearest store for a good supply for the old man.
"God bless her bright young face! she always had a warm heart, but a quick, high temper. I wonder how it is now; she'll come all right by-and-bye."
Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had done with the little shoe; but she guessed at last that it thrown away before this.