CHAPTER XVIII.
THE EARLY DAWN.
"I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's farewell; and Aunt Clara was but too happy to see her dear niece once more.
"I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New York, Madeline; I really was afraid that you would be wholly intoxicated by its temptations."
"I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all was mere mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly starved in that heartless round of folly."
"How did you spend your time, Madeline?"
"In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the opera, making and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk, and scandalous remarks, in listening to the flattery of a score of empty-headed fops, coming home tired at night, sleeping late next morning, and longing for one sight of nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion. Aunt Clara, I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you longing for something better."
Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss on the fair young forehead, and said,
"There are fountains of living water, Madeline; these only can quench the burning thirst of an immortal spirit."
"I must find them, dear Aunt Clara, for I am fainting for thirst."
Lucy Edmonds was happy again, for dearly did she love the warm-hearted girl. Madeline's openness, her generous heart, her plain bluntness, her perfect transparency of character, charmed her, and contrasted with Lavinia's worldliness and vanity; it was really refreshing to hear her sweet young voice, and see her moving about again in her aunt's household.
This was an important era in the life of Madeline Hamilton, for a great change was passing silently in her moral nature, and a peep into her journal will reveal something of her inner life.
"New York. At length I have seen something of this bright world, of which I have heard so much. Last night was my first appearance at Mrs. Rossiter's ball. Dear papa spared no expense upon my dress; it was exquisite--white silk with point lace, flowers, and my mother's diamonds. I suppose that it was a beautiful vision that dawned upon the world, for the language of flattery and admiration met me on every side; and, must I say it? I was, for awhile, pleased with the cup offered to my lips. Papa was gratified, Aunt Matilda in ecstasies, and I, while in the midst of the gay scene, was enchanted--all was so new, so beautiful, so grand.
"Why did I sigh when I entered my dressing-room, and shut out the world? And yet I did sigh, and said to myself, 'Is this all? Empty heart! what is it longing for? With everything this world can give, but within, an aching void.'
"I have seen Roland, saw him at church, but he did not see me. How calm! how devotional his whole manner! O, for the peace that he enjoys!
"Mr. Grafton called a few days ago to see papa; all his talk was of Roland. Roland's goodness! Roland's benevolence! Roland's talents! It was a pleasant theme--and, when he told about the News-boys' Home, which he had helped to establish, I felt so proud of him. I wonder what made him think so much of the news-boys! could he have been once as poor, as destitute as they? Mr. Grafton hinted it. Poor Roland! what he must have suffered! But why should I feel proud of him? He is Helen Thornly's betrothed; so the world thinks, so Mr. Grafton supposes, and Lavinia Raymond declares.
* * * * * *
"At the opera, last night, the music was divine; but the bewildering acting, the unchaste appearance of the women, the glitter and parade of the audience,--was this what Roland would approve of?
"I lead two lives, one in the outside world, where all is show, and giddy pleasure; another, an inner life, with every fibre of my nature sending out its clasping tendrils to reach something substantial, enduring, satisfying. Like the delicate air-plant fluttering in the breeze, I stretch forward to grasp it, but it is gone. I have not found it yet. Who would believe it, that sees Madeline Hamilton surrounded by flatterers, intoxicated for the moment with the gay blandishments of the world, smiling, waltzing, sparkling in magnificence? Who would believe that, in the silence of the night, she mourns, and weeps, and longs for something better.
"I have heard of that better part, that higher life, from Mrs. Bruce, from Aunt Clara, from Roland. I have seen it in the calm tranquillity of their daily life, in the blessed hopes of a Christian's death.
* * * * * *
"Last night, I was at Mrs. Rossiter's ball; it was superb! but Oh! how hollow! Even while receiving the hospitalities of their hostess, how many heartless ones did I hear whispering disparaging remarks, criticizing the entertainment, and prophesying the downfall of the establishment. I am sick of this folly--would that I were back at Woodcliff, among the green trees, the quiet lanes, the grand old ocean, the solemn cemetery, with dear Effie, my good old Hector, faithful Selim, my pets, my flowers; anything but this heartless, empty show.
"O! what an hour I spent when I retired! I opened my desk, and there lay the dear old sea-weed, given so long ago by my best friend, my childish guide, my model boy--now such a noble man. I pressed them to my burning lips; what would I give for one hour's heart communion, such as we used to love in days that are gone. He could guide me, he could strengthen me, but he is gone, he is another's now. Then I prayed--yes, earnestly--fervently; and I resolved that this empty, frothy, sinful life should end. It must be sinful; it cannot be right that an accountable creature should spend the solemn days of probation in such frivolity.
"Next morning, I told papa that we must go home--Aunt Matilda opposed it--she does not understand me, but Roland does. I met him at Helen Thornly's--something of the old tenderness in his manner; but still there is a gulf between us which seems impassable. But I can cherish the memory of all that he used to be, and all that he has taught me. All that I know of goodness, and high and holy things, I have learned from that beggar boy, as Harry Castleton has dared to call him, and even now! I felt as if I could wither him with my scorn, and certainly annihilated him with one of my haughtiest looks, for I have not seen him since that day. Harry Castleton scorn Roland Bruce! Roland in a cottage, struggling with poverty, as I have seen him, with the grand and lofty spirit of the Gordons; and Harry Castleton, rolling in wealth, the dweller in a palace, would be simply Roland and Harry still.
* * * * * *
"At home again! How I ran about with my winter hood, and water-proof, visiting the old familiar spots, and rejoicing in the presence of my dumb pets. The dear old library--my harp and piano, like faithful friends, seemed to welcome me again; the sweet Eolian sounded out a loud pæan, for sharp March winds swept over its strings, and it, too, seemed rejoicing.
"How shall I occupy my time? There is a great deal here to do. I should like to do some good in the world, and live for something beside myself.
"Could I not gather a little group of poor children, and teach them? Could I not establish something like a parish school? There are so many poor people around us, that only live a wild life,--children of the fishermen. Effie could help me, and we would be so happy together. Then, after awhile, we might perhaps have the services of our own church; I could get a missionary to come here twice a-month from Boston, and then we may have a church of our own; but I must see Aunt Clara first, she can direct me.
* * * * * *
"I am with Aunt Clara again. There is rest in her very smile; the soft silver hair lies so quietly around her mild face; the peace of God breathes in every look and motion. She is so different from Aunt Matilda--she draws me heavenward; Aunt Matilda drags me down.
"Poor aunty! what a pity that she has nothing but the things of this world to lean upon! no wonder that she feels their insecurity. But, dear Aunt Clara, so patient, so peaceful, so happy. I can pour out my whole heart, I can tell her all my thoughts.
"She seems to anticipate all I have to say. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds, uttered by her lips! She talks to me of his tenderness, his fulness, his preciousness, until sometimes I feel, 'None but Jesus!'
"Then clouds come again--I lose my hope, and all is dark. But still I trust that there is some progress in the inner life. I love my Bible; the hour of prayer is precious; the house of God, my chief joy. Nothing will draw me to the world again, I hope; and yet my 'heart is deceitful above all things,' as regards the things of God.
"Lavinia urges me to follow in her sinful, foolish ways; I will not--I have refused her invitations repeatedly, and she tries the power of ridicule. She does not know me, or she would not try the weakness of such a weapon.
"I am too proud yet to yield to such a mode of opposition. Just let me believe myself a Christian, and Lavinia's ridicule will only excite my sorrow.
"The gay world has lost its charms for me, and I care not what Lavinia and her friends may say. She has told me a great deal about Helen Thornly, and has convinced me, that she is, indeed, the chosen companion of Roland's future life--may they be happy! She says that Roland always speaks of me with the affection of a brother, very calmly, but never seems willing to talk about Helen.
"How much of my present state of feeling may arise from this loss of my early friend. If so, how little is this weariness of the world to be trusted! in other circumstances, the power of the world may all return.
"I went to hear Mr. Endicott, Aunt Clara's pastor. What an earnest, faithful sermon! What a picture of our sinful nature he drew! it is all too true. And where is our help? 'Look unto me,' says the Blessed Saviour; do I look unto him? if I did, would not peace visit my bosom?
"Oh! for a living faith! Sometimes I feel as if I really had exercised such trust, and then the merest trifle draws my heart away, and my peace vanishes.
"Lavinia has such power to annoy me--she takes malicious pleasure in bringing all the gossip that she can about Roland--why should I be so disturbed? He is only my friend; I am mortified that I should allow myself to dwell so much upon these circumstances. I had a letter from Helen, yesterday--it was full of Roland--she says if I could know all, I would value him as highly as she does.
"How little does she know of me! What can be the secret which she cannot disclose? She says that it places him among the noblest and the best of men. She writes as if she were on terms of close intimacy with Roland; writes of mending his clothes, attending to his room, helping him in his work among the News-boys. It is evident that she loves Roland Bruce; and how can she do otherwise, living in the house with him on such familiar terms? May they be happy together! But it does seem strange that he can forget his old friend so soon.
"A letter from papa; he is not well--he says that the parlor is so melancholy, the harp so silent; he wishes me to return; I promised him that I would; and nothing can keep me away.
"Aunt Clara is sorry to have me go so soon, but she thinks it is my duty, and bids me depart. I am going, to-morrow--she prayed so earnestly alone with me, that I might be kept from the temptations of the world, and brought really to the feet of Jesus.
* * * * * * *
"I am at home again--papa looks so thin and pale; his spirits are very low--Effie's eyes are no better; I am troubled about the dear girl, more than she is about herself; she seems to live in the spirit of a beautiful hymn.
'Sweet to lie passive in his hands, And know no will but his.'
"I spent my first evening at the harp, playing for dear papa; he seemed so happy to have me at home again--how fondly he hung over me all the evening!
"What should I be without him? I cannot bear to think of such a time.
"He called me to his side before he retired, and opening a casket, gave me such a beautiful set of emeralds; he is never tired of lavishing gifts upon his darling child.
"To-day Effie was sitting near the window trying to knit a little; she seemed sorely perplexed, frequently dropping her stitches, and scarcely able to take them up again--Aunt Matilda observed her.
"'What are you worrying yourself for, Effie, with that knitting?'
"'I am so tired of doing nothing,' replied the dear girl, while large tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Poor dear Effie! I fear that she is really losing her sight--so patient! so resigned! so ready for the will of her Heavenly Father, whatever that may be.
"Roland had heard of her sickness, and has been to see her--'He was so kind,' Effie says; 'so gentle to his little sister.' She says that he asked a great deal about me. I wonder if he has the little shoe yet--how foolish all this is! I ought not to write such folly.
"I have a great deal of time unoccupied--ought I not to do something for this neighborhood?
"But how shall I begin? In my walk, yesterday, I rambled among the factory children; they seem very poor and ignorant; can I not do something for them?
"Aunt Clara gave me some little books and tracts for just such people; I think I will take some among them.
* * * * * * *
"I went this morning along the factory lane, with my little basket in my hand; the children found that I had pretty books with pictures. Soon they were running after me.
"'Lady, please give me a little book,' cried one little girl. 'Give me one, lady,' 'and me,' 'and me,' sounded out a score of young voices, all eager for a book, or a tract.
"The books were soon all gone, and I had the pleasure of seeing several sit down by the road-side, eagerly examining the pictures, while others ran in to show their mothers what they had got. I think very few can read, for they only looked at the pictures.
"One little curly-headed girl, with bare feet and ragged clothes, came pulling me by the dress.
"'Lady, please come and see my mammy; she is very sick.'
"I followed the child, and found her poor mother extended upon a bed of sickness, with every appearance of want and misery. I questioned her; she had been sick for two months; often in need of food; her two children worked at the factory, and their scanty wages was all that she had.
"'Oh, ma'am! the rich don't know the value of the broken pieces which they throw away; but we know, ma'am.'
"I left her some money, and promised to remember poor Mrs. Donnelly--she had set me to earnest thinking. Her grateful look repaid me for that visit.
"In the next cottage was an old bed-ridden grandmother; in another a cripple; and enough all around to convince me that Madeline Hamilton must not spend an idle life around Woodcliff. Just to think that I have lived so many years in elegance and ease, and all this misery at my very doors. I thought of the parable of the steward, and his Lord's return to reckon. It is true that a great deal was sent out from Woodcliff among the neighboring poor, but it could not be said of us generally, 'I was sick and ye visited me.' I must do something--but how shall it be? I will ask Effie; she knows a great deal about these people. Roland could tell me; his earnest, warm heart, and strong good sense, would see the way at once. It will be so pleasant to know that I am working in the same field with Roland--he, for the misery of New York, and I, for that around Woodcliff. These poor children have no time for school, and yet they are so ignorant; can I teach them in any way? They might stop work on Saturday; I would pay their mother their wages, and they could come to me in the afternoon; they would thus lose no money, and gain much knowledge. I will try, and Effie can help me to gather the children.
* * * * * *
"I went yesterday--six little ones promised to come on Saturday. Aunt Matilda is shocked with the idea of a Miss Hamilton becoming the Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood.
"'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is ever uppermost with poor aunty.
"I have a room all my own, where I can do just what I please; my pleasant sitting-room, where I can easily manage twelve little girls. I will have some nice desks and benches made, and James can bring them in every Saturday.
"Yesterday my little class came--they were all clean, but several barefoot and ragged.
"They seemed quite bewildered by the pretty things around them. I played a simple hymn, and tried to teach them to say it; but they were struck dumb with amazement. I suppose that they had never seen a piano before.
"I amused them then by telling them a story. Effie took them out in the garden, and gave each a bunch of flowers. They looked so pleased, poor little things! What a pity that I had not known before how cheap a thing it is to make others happy, and that my garden could brighten so many little faces; but I don't think that they were so happy as I--my heart felt so warm, and tears of gratitude would rise, when I remembered all God's goodness to me. There was a warm glow of sunshine around Woodcliff on Saturday afternoon, and it shall come again.
"Effie thinks we had a good beginning; the little ones promised to come next Saturday.
"Aunt Matilda laughs at my new folly, as she terms it, saying, 'that I will soon grow tired of it.'
"Papa says, 'I am glad that Madeline has thought of the children; it will employ much of her time. I sometimes think that we spend a very useless life here at Woodcliff.'
"Aunt Matilda replies, 'I am sure, Lewis, that you cannot expect me to enter into any such plans. I am much too delicate with my nervous temperament; it would drive me crazy to teach little children; and I do think that Madeline Hamilton might find employment more worthy of a young lady.'
"I have written to Helen to send me some shoes for children, and some books, giving her a short account of what we are doing.
"Saturday came again--my six little girls were punctual; but it was a rainy day, and they brought some mud.
"Aunt Matilda was very angry, and said harsh things. I replied haughtily, and with one of my outbursts of temper.
"'Well, Madeline, if this is your piety, I want nothing to do with it.'
"'I don't pretend to piety, aunt; I only want to do some good in the world; and I think that you might help, instead of hinder me.'
"I was ashamed of myself, and deeply depressed for all that day--will I ever learn to bridle my tongue?
"The little ones were glad to get their new shoes--I gave them their first lessons; they were very dull, for they have never been taught anything; and it was hard to keep their eyes from wandering about the room, and out into the garden, for the glass doors of my sitting room open directly on the garden, filled with beautiful flowers. A hymn which they tried to sing, and a bunch of flowers for each, closed the exercises."
* * * * * *
The school went on prosperously for several weeks; the numbers increased to twelve; and Madeline was pleased to see some improvement. Effie taught each one orally verses from the Bible, and simple hymns, for she could not use her eyes at all.
Weekly the young girls visited the factory lane, and soon the poor people learned to look for the visit with great delight.
The sick mother was tenderly cared for; the old grandmother provided with what she needed; the cripple comforted by kind words, and gentle ministrations; and Madeline felt the joy of knowing that she was doing something towards lightening human misery. But Effie's eyes were growing worse; it was deemed advisable to consult a New York oculist; and Madeline was obliged to accompany the young girl.
The Saturday school was for awhile suspended, much to the disappointment of the little ones, for they were very sorry to lose their kind teachers.
Being alone, it was thought proper that they should take up their abode in a private boarding-house, for Madeline could not burden her friend Mary Trevor with the charge of Effie.
But little encouragement was given by the great oculist; and Madeline was now convinced that her friend was doomed to a life of darkness.
Roland was not in New York when they first arrived, having gone to a neighboring town on important business. Madeline was devoted in her attendance upon Effie; reading to her, and in every way that affection could invent, trying to turn her thoughts from herself. Effie was, however, in habits of daily self-communion, schooling her young heart to what she felt was coming. "God help me!" was her constant cry; and when was that feeble prayer ever disregarded by the dear Father in Heaven?