CHAPTER XXV.

PARTING FROM ENGLISH FRIENDS.

The noble park and green lanes of Parkhurst, with all its elevating joys, were soon to be exchanged for private lodgings in a crowded city; and Madeline's spirits sank as she contemplated a return to London with her beloved parent; for she could no longer blind herself to the fact that day by day he was fading from her sight.

Standing alone, on the evening before her departure on the verandah, where she had spent so many happy hours, she was indulging in mournful reveries; she should probably see this beautiful park, this happy home, these charming scenes no more.

While musing thus, Lord N---- passed under the verandah.

"May I come up, Miss Hamilton?"

"If you wish, my Lord; I am alone, and would be glad to see you."

The step of the young man was not gay and joyous as on other days, and Madeline perceived that he wore a serious, saddened countenance.

"You leave us, to-morrow, Miss Hamilton; may I ask a place in your remembrance?"

"I shall never forget the pleasant hours at Parkhurst, Lord N----, or the dear friends that I have made in this happy home."

He was silent for one moment, and then with deeper feeling said,

"But may I not ask a particular place in your remembrance, a nearer, dearer than a passing acquaintance, that will be forgotten in a day?"

"I do number you, my lord, among my most valued friends; and I shall never forget you personally."

"Ah, Madeline! the memory will not be to you what it will ever be to me--the one green spot in life, which I shall cherish so fondly."

She bowed her head, and was silent; for painful emotions were stirring in her heart, and tears were crowding beneath the drooping eyelids.

"Madeline, we may not meet again; I cannot let you leave us without asking, is there any hope that I may obtain the rich love of your noble, fresh young heart?"

She turned a frank look upon the young man, while her eyes swam in tears, as she replied,

"I cannot deceive you, Lord N----; my deepest respect and warmest friendship are yours, but my love I cannot give."

"Why, Madeline? does another possess that which I would make any earthly sacrifice to obtain?"

"That is a delicate question, Lord N----; my hand is free, but my heart has long been" (and she blushed as she uttered the words) "interested in another. I never knew until to-day how much, how deeply. This is a painful confession, but due to you, my lord; for had it not been so, I could not have been insensible to worth like yours."

He bowed over the fair young hand extended in friendship, and replied--

"May you be happy, Madeline! happy in love as pure, as devoted as mine. I will not say that my heart is broken; that is the language of a silly, brainless man; nor will I say that my hopes are crushed, for God our Father rules on earth, as well as in Heaven, and his will is not what I had hoped. I submit, I trust, with patience, and by-and-bye, I doubt not, will see the reasons why I have been disappointed in my first affection."

"He will guide you, I doubt not, my lord, in all the events of life; and one so benevolent, so useful, so noble as you, cannot be unhappy; for there is too much in this wicked world for Christians to do, to spend their lives in vain regrets."

"We are one in Christian hope, Madeline, and that is a comfort; one in all schemes of good for our fellow-men."

"Will you pray for me, Lord N----? Sore trials are before me, and I need a Saviour's grace to sustain me in what is surely coming."

"You are before me morning and evening, Madeline; and, though separated by the wide ocean, I shall remember you whenever I bend the knee to my Father in Heaven."

"We shall be friends, Lord N----," continued Madeline, as she extended her hand.

"Yes, Madeline; after a while, true and faithful friends. I shall rejoice when you are happy, and be sad when you are afflicted."

They were not aware of the passage of time until Lady Alice was heard calling, "Madeline, where are you? Papa and mamma sent me to look for you. Come to the drawing-room, we must have some music to-night," and she ran hastily up to the verandah, and drew away her young friend, saying--

"Brother, I think you are very selfish; we want Madeline to-night, as it is her last evening at Parkhurst."

Lord N---- did not answer, and Madeline followed Lady Alice, deeply pained at the disappointment which she knew would fill all that family circle.

She took her seat at the harp, but begged to be excused from singing, for she could scarcely trust her voice to speak.

Lord N---- seated himself at a distant window, shading his eyes with his hand. Lady Alice stood by her side, and Madeline played in her most touching style many of her beautiful pieces.

"Some of your sacred music, Miss Hamilton," said the earl, "for that suits the tone of our feelings," and she played some exquisite variations from the hymn, "I would not live alway."

Every heart was full; silence reigned among them.

"Now, one hymn of hope, Madeline," said the countess, and all the group joined in the sweet words--

"How firm a foundation! ye saints of the Lord!"

and, supported by the others, she too poured forth her wondrous notes in strains of melody, while the rich chords of the harp accompanied the choir of voices.

They parted sadly that night, and the next morning early, left with feelings of deepest sorrow the sweet shelter of Parkhurst Manor.

"We shall see you in London, Madeline," said Lady Alice, "for you will need us, dear."

A great change awaited our young friend; quiet lodgings and the rooms of an invalid were exchanged for the spacious accommodations and elegant ease of the home they had left. Aunt Matilda was sadly discontented, and shrewdly suspected what had taken place at Parkhurst.

"Madeline, I have a right to know; I am sure that Lord N---- loves you deeply. Have you rejected him? Are you such a blind, silly girl?"

"Do not ask me, aunt; surely I have a right to some privacy of thought and action."

"You cannot deny it; you have rejected one of the first offers in Great Britain, and you are just a fool, and nothing else, Madeline Hamilton!"

"Would you have me give my hand without my heart, Aunt Matilda?"

"A fiddlestick for a heart, Madeline, when a coronet was laid at your feet, to turn away--I know what for; I am so ashamed for you, that I cannot utter all I think. Now I am sure that you love that beggar-boy; for nothing else could make you reject such a splendid match as the son of an English earl."

"Spare me, dear aunt, and let us talk of something else; when dear papa is so ill we have enough to think about."

She could not forgive her niece, and seldom exchanged any thing but the merest words necessary for daily duties--cold, constrained, often harsh. She took the first opportunity to acquaint Mr. Hamilton with the facts of the case. He was both surprised and grieved, for he had seen with pleasure the growing attachment of the young nobleman.

"Madeline, how is it that you rejected Lord N----? Few young ladies would turn away from such an offer. I had hoped that his goodness and mental worth, not to speak of his lovely family, would have certainly won your heart."

"Do not let us talk about it, dear papa, I do not love Lord N---- as I should a husband; he is a dear friend, but nothing more."

"I cannot account for it, Madeline, unless your heart is previously occupied; if so, should you not tell your father?"

"I am bound to no one, dear papa; just let me wait upon you, and administer to your comfort, that is all I ask."

"Remember what I have said, Madeline; it would have made me very happy if you could have accepted this young man, not on account of his noble birth, or wealth, but just for his modest, manly piety and worth. But in this matter you must choose for yourself, and God will bless my daughter."

After a consultation of eminent physicians, the painful alternative was proposed to Mr. Hamilton. When they had gone, he sent for his daughter. "Madeline, you remember that I told you in all things we must trust in God; you have now great occasion for that holy confidence. I have never told you until now the nature of my disease. It has been a long and painful process that has brought me to the crisis; an operation is necessary, my child;" observing Madeline's pallid face, he continued, "do not be alarmed; all is in the hands of a wise and gracious God. It may be successful, or I may sink under the operation; but nothing else can be done, and we must prepare our minds; it will be speedily over, there will be no very long suspense. Be the end what it may, I trust that I am prepared; my hopes are all upon the 'Rock of Ages.'"

"When will it take place, papa?" asked the trembling girl.

"In about ten days," was the answer; "and now, darling, we will talk no more about it; to-morrow will be Sunday; you must go to church, Madeline, and have prayers offered for me; Aunt Matilda will stay with me."

It was a season of sweet and holy refreshment to the young pilgrim, for she needed the heavenly manna for her weary, anxious spirit. Passing out of church, what was her surprise to see Roland, the friend of her youth, standing at the door in company with two gentlemen; the one elderly, of noble presence, and the other a young gentleman, of whom she had no remembrance. Roland advanced, extended his hand, and said--

"How is it that you are here alone, Miss Hamilton?"

"My father is very ill; my aunt is staying with him, and he sent me to have prayers offered for him. I need them, oh, how much! remember me, Mr. Bruce."

Madeline was pale and worn, and Roland was touched by the expression of deep sorrow upon her fair young face. He took the little hand as in days of yore, and said, in low tones--

"Do you dream, Miss Hamilton, that I can ever forget you at a throne of grace? You are always remembered there and everywhere."

Roland then hastily introduced his friends, but Uncle Malcolm had recognized the young lady that he had once met before in a carriage. A glance at the earnest gaze of Roland, and at the downcast blush of Madeline, caused a smile to flit across the face of the good man, as he remembered the days of his youth, and the sweet blushes of Mary Gordon in the first days of their innocent, unhappy love.

"Where are you staying, Mr. Bruce?" asked the young lady; "I may need your presence ere long."

Roland gave his address, and they parted.

"Well, Roland Bruce!" said Edmund, "of all the sly fellows that I have ever met, you exceed--here have I been prating to you of Madeline Hamilton's beauty, and behold, she is an old acquaintance!"

Roland smiled, as he replied, "Yes, I knew her in America, ever since she was ten years old; and I am therefore somewhat acquainted with the young lady."

"And why, then, do you not visit your old friend?"

Roland's countenance fell, and drawing himself proudly up, he replied, "We will change the subject, if you please, Edmund."

When Madeline returned, she sought her father's room.

"Papa, I met Roland Bruce, to-day, at church; he seemed so concerned to hear that you were sick."

"What is he doing in London, Madeline?"

"He is in attendance upon a young man whose studies he is directing."

"I should like to see him, Madeline; he is a noble fellow, and has been a kind friend to my little girl; I do not think that he was very well treated by your aunt; but as eternity approaches, my daughter, the distinctions of life melt away. I did not want to dismiss him from our house--send for him to-morrow, and tell him to bring his friend, Mr. Graham, with him."

On the morrow, a few lines summoned him to the sick room, but without Mr. Graham. Shocked at the change in Mr. Hamilton, he took his withered band, and seating himself by his side, he said, "These are hours of weakness, dear sir, and need a strong support."

"They are, Roland; I feel flesh and heart failing, but I can say God is now the strength of my heart--your dear patient sister was the little messenger that brought the first whispers of the Spirit, Roland; I never forgot her dying words."

For a minute, the brother was silent; but seizing the pale hand, and pressing it warmly, he replied,

"Oh! Mr. Hamilton. What joyful news! my little Effie! was she, indeed, the messenger to you? wonderful are the ways of God!"

"Yes, Roland, and I have always wanted to tell all that those words have done for me. I felt that her faith was real; from that day, I have been reading my Bible with earnest prayer, and it has revealed to me a Saviour, all-sufficient for the darkest hour, all-merciful to the greatest sinner--will you pray with me, Roland?" and the young man bowed down by the side of Madeline, at her father's bed-side, and poured out an earnest, heartfelt prayer.

"There will soon be a painful trial, Roland; will you be with us when the day arrives?"

"I promise, Mr. Hamilton;" and Roland retired.

He was frequent in his visits to the sick-room, introducing, also, Uncle Malcolm, whose strong, fervent faith, and Scriptural wisdom, was an unspeakable blessing to the suffering man.

"To-morrow is the day, Roland; bring your friend;" and Mr. Hamilton pressed the strong hand of his young friend.

What was Roland's surprise, to see Madeline pale, composed, and steadfast, by the side of her parent's bed, awaiting the physicians.

"Can you bear this trial, Miss Hamilton?" was Roland's whispered inquiry.

"I cannot leave my father; who else should sustain him but his own daughter? I have prayed for strength; it is mine, Roland;" for in the deep feelings of the moment, she dropped the ceremonious title which she had used of late.

The surgeons arrived--instruments were prepared; the sufferer calm and tranquil; Madeline heroic as a loving woman should be; Roland, full of sympathy for her; Malcolm strong, tranquil, prayerful.

"My daughter, is it not too much?" whispered her father.

"For you, my father? can anything be too much? I can bear all;" and she kissed the dear face with steadfast lips.

Close by her father's side, with restoratives in her hand, she remained throughout the whole painful trial; cold, and pale as marble.

Roland stood near her, and Malcolm on the other side, with eyes closed, and heart uplifted to God in prayer.

"It is all over," said the principal surgeon.

"How?" whispered Madeline, to Roland.

"Safe, Madeline! It has been successful."

The tension had been too much; the strong heart of love gave way to the woman's weakness; the reaction was too great; and Roland, perceiving her falling, lifted her tenderly in his arms--the first time that he had pressed her form so closely since the days of childhood; imprinting one warm, pure, and tender kiss upon the sweet, pale face, he laid her quietly upon the couch in the next room. Aunt Matilda was there in anxious suspense.

"Is it over, Mr. Bruce?" asked the lady.

"All is well, madam, thus far, but Miss Hamilton needs your care;" and he bathed the face of the unconscious girl with the cologne that he had brought from the next room.

"I will perform these offices, sir; you are not needed here,"--and dismissing him haughtily from the room, she proceeded to loosen the clothes, and apply restoratives. The fainting was deep and long, and hastily she called a physician from the next room.

Yielding to remedies, in a few more minutes, some gasping words, and a heaving of the chest, indicated returning consciousness.

The eyes unclosed--"How is my father, sir?"

"Quite composed," was the reply; "he needs perfect quiet; do not see him just yet; there must be no emotion; when you are entirely restored, you can attend him."

"When can you pronounce him out of danger?"

"We cannot tell for twelve hours what will be the result."

Madeline lay quiet for another hour, her lips moving constantly in prayer; at length she arose. "I am better, aunt; give me a glass of wine; I must return."

"I am afraid, my dear child, that it is too much."

"No, aunt, I cannot stay here--see! I can walk firmly; I am perfectly restored;" and she passed quietly into the next room. Stooping over her father, she pressed one long, loving kiss upon his dear face.

"Do not speak; I shall not leave you, dear papa, again."

Malcolm watched with deep interest the strong love that filled the heart of Madeline; and coming to her side, he said,

"My dear young lady, is your strength equal to this great demand? I am ready to stay, and Roland will aid me."

She smiled as she replied,

"But you are not his daughter, his Madeline."

Mr. Hamilton slept apparently in perfect peace. Madeline watched him with untiring patience and hope. Whenever he stirred, she was directed to administer, in small doses, the stimulants that were ordered by the surgeons.

"What is the danger?" inquired Madeline; "he seems so quiet."

"The want of reaction; sinking of the vital powers, my dear young lady."

"Is there any reaction yet?" asked she, with a trembling voice.

"None whatever," replied the surgeon, as he sat holding the pulse--"but it may come yet; there is a great difference in constitution."

Mr. Hamilton was evidently in a state of insensibility, which Madeline mistook for sleep.

"You had better administer the wine, my dear," was the surgeon's direction.

"Will it not disturb his sleep, sir?"

"Not at all, my dear child."

And Madeline from time to time offered a tea-spoonful of wine to the exhausted man, only a part of which he appeared to swallow.

Hours rolled on--Roland saw the quiet agony of the devoted daughter, as no symptoms for the better appeared.

"Shall I take your place, Madeline, for a few minutes?" whispered Roland, as he beckoned to Mr. Graham to lead her to an open window; and while she stood there, leaning upon the shoulder of this good man, Roland continued watching, and dripping the wine drop by drop.

Mr. Graham whispered--"Luik unto the Rock that is higher than we, dear Miss Hamilton," for he saw what was approaching. "There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother; trust him, my dear young friend;" and while she leaned so confidingly upon the strong man, he whispered earnest words of fervent prayer for the dear father stretched upon that bed of languishing, and for her so soon to be bereaved, that she was comforted and strengthened. "Take me back to my father's side, Mr. Graham. I must not leave him."

The twelve hours had passed--no signs of returning consciousness had yet appeared.

The surgeon beckoned to Malcolm Graham to come into the next room.

"It is all over, sir--there is scarcely any pulse--he may recover consciousness, but he is passing away. God help the daughter; you must prepare her."

Madeline had seen the signal. "Let me go, Roland; I must know the worst;" and hastily she followed Mr. Graham. He was standing by the side of the mantel-piece, with his head bowed upon his hands, and strong emotion was shaking his frame. He perceived Madeline. Taking her by the hand, he led her kindly to the couch--they were alone. Placing his fatherly arm around her, he said with a caressing voice, "Lean on me, my child;" and he tenderly smoothed the soft brown hair, that lay dishevelled around her face.

"God is trying ye, my dear; ye hae lately given yoursel' to him; ye and yer dear father. He is going to tak' him first; can ye say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken awa', blessed be the name o' the Lord?'"

Her head sank lower, lower; she had fainted--Malcolm laid her down tenderly as a woman, and knelt by her side, administering restoratives, chafing the cold hands, and lifting up his heart in prayer.

She opened her eyes--a sweet, sorrowful smile passed over her face, as she whispered, "It is a hard trial, but the Lord's will be done; my father is a Christian, and I can say now, he is thine; take him, dear Lord, to thyself; but O, Mr. Graham! this human heart! How lonely will it be! My father was parent, mother, brother, friend!"

"Comfort will come, my dear child, if ye are ane o' the Saviour's fold; he is afflicted when ye are sad, has borne all yer sorrows, carried all yer griefs."

"Now, let us return, Mr. Graham," and Madeline took her place again by her father's side.

A few more silent hours passed--about midnight, there was some motion visible in the form that lay there so deathly still. Slowly he unclosed his eyes, and raising his hand, said,

"Where is my daughter, my Madeline?"

"She is here, dear papa," was the quick response.

"Kiss me, darling; I am in the midst of the dark valley, just passing over, Madeline; but 'his rod and his staff, they comfort me.'"

She stooped over the dear parent; he folded her fondly to his heart; then held her off; looked at her one minute with unutterable love; then pressed upon her cheek the cold kisses of lips that were chilled in death.

"You have been a comfort to me always, Maddy; you will meet me, darling, in the better world; be true to your dear Saviour, Madeline."

"Do you suffer, dear papa?" was the affectionate, anxious question.

"Not at all; perfect peace! perfect peace! God be praised!" and in another minute, the spirit of Lewis Hamilton had departed to its rest.

"Tak' her, Roland," said Mr. Graham, as he saw the drooping form of the afflicted daughter. Tenderly he led her to the adjoining room, and whispered words of Christian sympathy and love, in her hour of sore trial. Aunt Matilda had remained in the room with her brother, until the last moment, and had then sought her own room.

"O, Roland! you know what I have lost," said the poor girl.

"Yes, Madeline, but think of his everlasting gain;" and Roland sat with Madeline's dear hand clasped in his, as in the days of yore.

* * * * * * *

Lady Alice had heard of the bereavement, and accompanied by her brother, she sought the house of the mourner, at the earliest period after the funeral was over. Roland was there, and Lord N---- needed none to tell him of the deep love that dwelt in the heart of Roland Bruce for the orphan girl. But there was something in the humble, deferential manner of the young man, which led Lord N---- to wonder if he were really an accepted suitor.

And for Roland himself--when the first hours of sorrow had passed, and all were trying to return to their accustomed pursuits, more than ever did he feel the vast difference between himself, the poor young lawyer, just launching upon the theatre of life, and the rich young heiress of Woodcliff, the idol even in noble circles.

What could Madeline ever be to him, but the sweet child that he had trained, the young girl that he had watched so carefully, and the noble woman whom now he reverenced? He was allowed access to the house, because Aunt Matilda had now no authority over Madeline, and independent as she always was, she would not allow dictation here; but only as a friend he came, and Madeline felt that it was so. Once more she sought the house of God, where she had been accustomed to worship. Clad in deep mourning, she took her seat among the worshippers, and listened to the Gospel message, with a full and trusting heart.

It was a communion season, and as she bowed around the chancel, she did not perceive, until she was returning to her seat, that Lord N----, Roland, and Mr. Graham had all knelt at the same table. It was a very sweet and soothing thought that here they could all hold blessed communion with their common Saviour; and though Uncle Malcolm and Roland were of different sects from herself, they were all one in Christ Jesus, "one faith, one hope, one baptism."

Lady Alice was about to return to Parkhurst; but ere she went, she came to bid farewell to Madeline, who was soon to return to America.

"I am sorry, dear, that you cannot be my sister, but I shall always love you; it is a great disappointment to us all, but especially to my dear Alfred. I have brought you our likenesses, Madeline, with our hair woven on the back; you can cherish us as friends, dear."

"You do not blame me, Lady Alice, I hope; I esteem your brother more than any one that I have met in England; and for yourself, dear friend, I shall love you always, just as if you were my sister--you will promise to write frequently, will you not? I have something for you, Alice," and Madeline brought out a lovely miniature, a perfect likeness of herself.

"Thank you, Madeline; I never saw any thing more beautifully painted--now, farewell! be sure to write often; but be assured that I do not blame you; for as I am sure that you must love another, I have nothing more to say; nothing else could prevent you from loving my dear brother."

And thus they parted, these two young girls who had learned to love each other so well.

Lord N---- came also ere he left the city.

"I may call you Madeline, may I not? for I am trying to school myself to look upon you as a dear friend; I could not let you go without a farewell, sad though it may be."

"I am glad to see you, my lord, and hope to hear of your welfare through your dear sister."

"I think that I have seen my rival, Madeline, in the young man that I have met here; and I do not wonder; that noble brow, on which sits enthroned the lofty intellect, the only signet of true nobility, and that manly form, I could not but admire, while I dare not, as a Christian, envy."

"You are mistaken, Lord N----; Mr. Bruce is but my friend."

"He will be more, Madeline, before many years; and may God bless you both, I shall ever pray. Farewell! dear Madeline, for I may say that in parting," and he wrung the fair hand, on which he printed a warm farewell kiss, and was gone.