CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
By Mrs. E. PRENTISS.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
BOOKS FOR CHILDREN and YOUTH.
AUNT JANE'S HERO
* * * * *
THE
HOME AT GREYLOCK.
BY
MRS. E. PRENTISS,
AUTHOR OF "STEPPING HEAVENWARD;" "AUNT JANE'S HERO;"
"FLOWER OF THE FAMILY," ETC.
NEW YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY,
900 BROADWAY, COR. 20th STREET.
1876.
COPYRIGHT, 1876, BY
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY.
THE HOME AT GREYLOCK.
CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Grey had been the happy mother of seven children; they all lived
to grow up and marry, and to rise up and call her blessed, with the
exception of her youngest daughter, Maud. People said it was a wise
and kind thing on the part of Providence, that Maud was not one of
the marrying sort. Her mother needed one child to help her down the
declivity of life, and it was delightful to see them together. Some
who were not acquainted with them, and who only knew them by sight, at
church, contrived to see, out of the backs of their heads, that these
twain could not live without each other. Maud shared in this opinion to
the extent of firmly believing that she could not survive her mother.
She was a good, dutiful, devoted child, whose sunny temper made her
life like a song in the maternal ear.
"How good God is to me," was Mrs. Grey's frequent thought, "in giving
and in sparing to me this darling child! How strange and how sad it
would be to live alone in this large house! And Maud fits in to every
crack and crevice there is in me as very few girls could. And she
is so thoroughly and genially happy that it is not selfish in me to
rejoice that she does not care to fly out of the nest!"
They were always together; and in their walks, and talks, and readings,
in their visits to the sick and the poor, in their good-fellowship
and innocent sallies of humor, they were more like two sisters than
mother and daughter. So they went on their way, rejoicing, till Maud
had reached her nineteenth year, and then a stealthy step crossed the
threshold, and an inexorable hand seized upon this young life and
crushed it out.
But is this the way to put it? Is this the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, uttered in the fear of God and the love of
Christ? No! a thousand times, no! The event had its sad, its tearful,
its sorrowful side; every stricken mother-heart knows that to its core;
but it had another side. The life of a young, blooming, mortal frame
was brought, humanly speaking, to an untimely end; but the life of an
immortal soul went to expand in a congenial atmosphere, where it was
far more at home than it had ever been on earth, where all the problems
that had ever baffled it, and all the trials that had ever wearied it,
had their full explanation; with none to molest, to misunderstand, or
to grieve it; beyond temptation, suffering, and sin; in a word, to be
"forever with the Lord."
Is it, then, a lot to be desired to die young? Certainly not. We are
to desire to die young, or live to a useless old age that cumbers the
ground on which it totters, according to the Divine will, not according
to our own short-sightedness; and this is what Mrs. Grey thought and
felt when the strong, bright light of Maud's presence faded away from
her vision, and she could see her no longer, save by the eye of faith.
Perhaps some few misunderstood the patient, unselfish way in which this
bereavement was met, and thought the brave heart that endured such a
sorrow with no clamor, was made of steel. But those who really knew
this bereaved mother, knew the whole story. The life-long habit of
Gospel love to the neighbor, and of faith in God as One who could not
by any possibility make a mistake, came to her rescue. It was right
because He did it. And what if she was sorely wounded, was she the only
one lying mangled on the battle-field? With characteristic energy she
summoned her absent children home; with her own hands she threw open
the rooms they were to occupy; and when, during the next days, they
came from all directions, in twos, and threes, and fours, to gather
around and comfort her, they found cheerful fires blazing, the sweet
sunlight streaming in at the windows, and a smile upon her loving face.
Not one of her children was surprised; they all knew what mother was.
But some of the grandchildren were puzzled; why didn't grandmamma cry
more? Why was she so taken up with all their little interests? Why, she
even remembered that Julius was fond of oranges, and that Fergus liked
cream-cakes! But they had been educated into such faith in her that
they did not trouble their young heads with this problem; she was their
dear, bright, loving grandmamma, and that was enough.
In a few weeks the little crowd she had called about her disappeared,
and she was left alone, quite against their judgment. They all had
pleasant homes to offer her, and it seemed to them that the large house
they had once peopled would be fearfully lonely now. But she maintained
that, with her health and strength, it was better that she should have
a home and cares of her own, and a rallying point where they could meet
on festal days, as heretofore. So she gradually fell back into the old
routine, entering into every one's cares, and interests, and joys, and
sorrows, exactly as if she had been created for their special use and
comfort, going hither and thither on all sorts of busy commissions,
and appearing very much as usual, only a trifle sweeter and gentler.
One of her first deeds of kindness was gathering all Maud's clothing
together, and sending it to her young friends or needy maidens; and
so far from weeping over this task, she took delight in it, realizing
how much pleasure she was about to give, or how much service to
render. She even smiled at her own mistake, when she saw a very tall
young girl try to adapt herself to one of Maud's petite dresses, and
rectified it at once. But when it came to her child's favorite books
and pictures--the things her heart and soul had reveled in--it was very
different; she could not part with them. They had been separated very
little, so that she had not a single letter from her to treasure up;
but she found in the pocket of the last dress she wore a copy of an
evidently favorite hymn, together with a few texts of Scripture. She
gave away pearls, and diamonds, and lace that had been Maud's; but no
king was rich enough to buy that half-worn scrap of paper.
Maud had many schemes of benevolence which it was now a sacred pleasure
to carry out; and although when she now went forth on her errands of
mercy, she appeared to go alone rather than with her loving child's
companionship, she was not alone, and not unhappy; nay more, she
was happy. For when, without a frown, she gave her darling into the
Master's hand, He came and more than filled her place, giving the peace
that passes all understanding. Now this consciousness of the presence
of Christ in the soul is the one thing whose loss the Christian
believer, who has once enjoyed it, cannot do without. Husband and wife,
home, children, friends, reputation, may all go, and the heart still
have a song to sing; but let Him go, or even seem to go, and all the
beatitudes on earth are broken fountains that can hold no water. One
may find distraction in congenial employment, and comfort and joy in
home and friends; but real, abiding _happiness_, in its full sense, can
only be found in Him for whom the soul was created.
Maud's room, with its lovely adjoining boudoir, was left for a long
time unchanged. Her mother fed the canary and tended the plants she
had loved, exactly as if the child had gone on a short journey and was
soon to return. One or two books lay open, just as she had left them;
and the whole air of the apartments was kept just what it had been,
neat and orderly to precision, refined and tasteful to perfection.
Mrs. Grey thought she should always keep these two rooms sacred to the
memory of the bright, happy maiden who had made them what they were
with her own hands; no other head should touch the pillow on which that
fair one had once rested; no other eye should linger on the objects of
beauty gathered there--the dainty furniture, the pictures and vines on
the walls, the quaint hanging-baskets and brackets, and woodland and
sea-shore trophies. She could almost hear the tap of the little hammer
with which Maud used to go about nailing up this, that, and the other
pretty thing she had picked up, or bought, or invented, and her gay
song the while. But as time passed, there began to steal over her a
vague sentiment, which later became thought; she must keep the rest of
the house for the children and grandchildren; but was it right to shut
up those beautiful rooms for one who would never return to them? Could
not some other young girl come and nestle there, and enjoy what Maud no
longer needed? When she first consulted friends on the subject, they
all protested against it. Such experiments always proved failures, they
said. It would have to be an extraordinary girl to fill Maud's place,
etc., etc.
"But I never thought of filling Maud's place," she argued. "I was only
thinking of the happiness it may be in my power to give."
"I should think that among all your grandchildren, one, at least, might
be spared," some one suggested.
"But even if I were willing to break into a family circle in that way,
and I am not, this would not meet my plan. My grandchildren all have
happy homes, and need nothing better. But if I should light upon some
friendless girl, think how she would enjoy my dear Maud's forsaken
nest!"
"But you might find her uncongenial, even disagreeable."
A sweet, happy smile lighted up Mrs. Grey's face, as she replied:
"I should be doing her good, and trying to make her happy. And after
all I have gone through, sustained by the Divine hand, ought I to
doubt that if He sends me an uncongenial girl, He will give me grace
with which to bear with her?"
Some said this was faith, and all right. Others said that if people
went and thrust their heads into a bear's mouth they must expect them
to be bitten off, faith or no faith. Now some years before, Mrs. Grey
was feeling her way through the dark hall of a tenement-house in the
city of New York, when her steps were arrested by the sound of a girl's
voice, crying so bitterly that sympathetic tears rushed from her own
eyes.
"Oh! mother, mother, mother, _don't_!" groaned the voice in an agony.
"Oh! mother, mother!"
"Some brutal mother beating the poor child unmercifully," she thought,
and knocked imperatively at the nearest door.
The sound instantly ceased, but as no other response was made, she
opened the door and advanced, with a firm step, into the room. But she
started back, shocked at her intrusion, when she found herself face to
face with the weeping girl, who was at the bedside of an unconscious
woman, reclining on a bed which had been drawn near an open window.
If the agony of the girl had been impressive, the control she was now
exercising was not less so. She stood quietly, even coldly, confronting
her unexpected visitant, who shrank back embarrassed, hardly venturing
to utter a word. But the tender sympathy in her face did more than
words could have done.
"Madam, do you know anything about sickness?" demanded the girl.
"Yes, my poor child, a great deal. Do not, I beg of you, treat me as
a stranger; but tell me what it was you were entreating your mother
not to do. She does not look to me in a condition to do anything. She
appears to have fainted."
"I thought she was going to die; that was what I was begging her not to
do. Oh! if I knew she had only fainted!"
"Has she been long ill?" asked Mrs. Grey, while she laid aside her
cloak and proceeded to examine the prostrate form.
"Not to my knowledge, Madam. She was working, as usual, until twelve
o'clock last night; but this morning she did not get up. I spoke to
her, but she seemed confused, and kept growing paler and paler till I
was frightened, and dragged the bed up to the window to see if the air
would revive her. We had a doctor for her a month ago, and he said bad
air was like to kill us both."
While the girl was talking, Mrs. Grey had taken from a basket of
hospital supplies such restoratives and such refreshments as she
thought best, and in a short time had the pleasure of seeing her
patient aroused sufficiently to take the nourishment provided for her.
She had now time to take an astonished glance at the room in which she
sat. It was not only kept with nicety and care, but there were signs of
refinement. A palette with its brushes hung upon the wall; unfinished
bits of color were pinned here and there; two or three plants grew
thriftily on a shelf by a window, and the seats of several old chairs
showed that undeveloped, but artistic taste had had to do with seats
covered with woolen patchwork, beautifully put together.
By degrees Mrs. Grey gained the woman's story; it was commonplace
enough, but was not narrated in a commonplace way, for not only was her
tale adorned by a pretty foreign accent, but by sound common sense and
good feeling.
She had married, young, a poor artist, who found her in her Swiss home,
and was too eager to secure her to perfect himself in his profession.
Neither of their families approved of the match, and they had made a
foolish, runaway affair of it, coming to this country full of hope, but
without a friend in it.
"My mother hadn't any mother, or brothers, or sisters; and her father
wasn't her own father, and wasn't good to her."
Mrs. Grey looked the girl full in the face and smiled. "You think that
makes a difference?" she said.
"I do, Madam. My mother never did anything wrong in her life."
What a firm young head was set on those young shoulders! It is not easy
to describe, in words, the impression made by both mother and daughter.
"And how did you get on?" Mrs. Grey inquired, turning once more to Mrs.
Haydon.
"Well, Madam, we got the punishment our self-will deserved. We knew
no one in this country. My husband worked hard, but had no friend to
encourage him. He sold pictures enough to keep us alive and, at times,
comfortable. But we lived from hand to mouth, and if we had sickness,
things went very hard with us. Then he began to get disgusted with his
work. He would begin a picture that looked beautiful to me, but would
throw it aside unfinished. And it ended just as such stories always
end. He died, and I was left alone with my little ones to support
myself as best I could."
"You must have married _very_ young?"
"Madam, we were a boy and a girl, nothing more. The laws of my country
compel education. I was at school when this folly took place, and when
I was left a widow, my position was a very embarrassing one. I was
not capable of teaching because I had left school so young; and yet I
had come of a good family and been used to certain comforts. For a
time I supported myself by embroidery, but this life of confinement
and deprivation of sleep--for I had to work till midnight--injured my
health; and a physician, whom I consulted a few weeks ago, told me
that, what with over-work, poor food, want of exercise, and living in a
sphere so different from that in which I was born, I should soon break
down completely."
"What do you propose to do, then? Apply to your own or your husband's
family?"
"Madam, they return my letters unread. No! I have made up my mind, and
Margaret will make up hers when she sees that there is but one way
of saving her mother's life. It is a poor life, not worth saving in
itself; but it is everything to her. We have supported ourselves with
needlework up to the present time, and the work I finished last night
will bring in enough to give me a few days' rest, and we shall then go
out to service."
"To _service_!" cried Margaret. "My mother go out to service!"
"Yes, my child. The bad air and the midnight work are killing me. The
doctor says so. If we can get a situation in a gentleman's family, and
get good air and good food, we yet may be well and happy."
"And your other children?"
"They are all, Madam, safe with the Good Shepherd."
"I admire and respect your resolution, and wish more of my countrywomen
were of your mind. Thousands might lead useful, happy lives in our
homes, who now lead aimless and comfortless ones. Servitude is no
disgrace. I have formed friendships with women in my kitchen that
I expect to last a lifetime. Still, I wish I could find some more
suitable position for you. You would look for that of seamstress, I
suppose?"
"The doctor says I must use my needle no longer."
"Ah, I have it! One of my daughters wants a nursery governess. That
would be the very thing. You would take your meals with the children,
drive out with them, get excellent compensation, and be as happy as the
day is long. And to have a woman in her nursery who fears God, would be
most delightful to her."
Mrs. Haydon looked down, and was silent.
"You think you could not have Margaret with you, perhaps?" asked Mrs.
Grey, surprised. "But I could manage that, I think."
"Madam, have you a young daughter?" Mrs. Haydon somewhat abruptly
asked, in the pretty foreign accent that made everything she said
pleasing.
"Yes, and a very beloved one."
"Well, Madam, the position you so kindly propose would be everything
I could ask for myself, but no lady would allow a girl of Margaret's
age to associate, on equal terms, with her own children, nor live in
her house in idleness. This would bring her into contact with other
servants, who might be such persons as I should be willing to have her
associate with, and might not; probably not. But if I undertake general
housework, I have my kitchen all to myself, shall be free from the
mental strain of not knowing to-day how we are to live to-morrow, can
look after Margaret, and keep her out of harm's way. You see, Madam,
that my child's welfare ought to be my only thought. If she were older,
and steadier, and had fixed religious principle, it would be different.
But as it is, I will submit to anything rather than be separated from
her."
"But general housework is very hard; and you look so delicate. And you
would get very low wages."
"I am stronger than I look. Housework will come hard at first, after
so many years of sitting all day and half the night at needlework; but
I gain strength very fast by using what I have, and Margaret is very
handy, and will save me a great many steps."
"Still, you do not look like a woman born for a general housemaid."
"And I don't look like a woman born to be a lady," was the reply, with
a faint smile. "You see, Madam, that it is my own fault that I am in
this difficult position. A girl who makes a runaway match deserves to
suffer for it. But it would grieve me sorely to drag my poor child down
with me, and therefore I mean to educate her as well as I can, and try
to prepare her for some useful position in the world."
"But are you sure of getting situations together?" asked Mrs. Grey.
"Yes, Madam--quite sure. God has humbled my pride, which has long held
out against this method of support, and made me willing to live in any
honest way He suggests. And He will not forsake me now. He knows that
my Margaret is not at an age to face the world without her mother's
restraint and her mother's love."
"But," said Mrs. Grey, "you talk like an educated woman, and Margaret's
language is not such as one expects to find in a house like this."
"What education we have will make us all the better servants," was the
reply.
"I _hate_ to have you call yourself a servant!" Margaret broke forth,
impetuously.
"If it is a disgrace, it is one I deserve," was the reply. "I have
brought my trials on to myself."