THE COTTAGE AND THE HALL.
There are sorer battles than those waged on the field of strife,
where the old and the new man contend in a human heart; and such had
Roland fought on the morning of this day. He thought that he had
conquered, and with a brave spirit and cheerful countenance, he
started for Woodcliff with the bundle of work which his mother had
completed. When he came in sight of the Hall his courage began to
fail, for on the porch were several of Madeline's young
acquaintances. Roland recognized Mary James, Minnie Scott, and Ella
Taylor, all schoolmates, but who had little to do with the Bruces.
"What ails me?" said Roland to himself; "is it possible that I am so
wanting in manliness, as to fear the ridicule of those silly girls?
Down at once with the feeling; poverty is nothing to be ashamed of;"
and Roland hastened on with a firm step and head erect.
"You seem to have a heavy load, Roland," said Mary James; "have you
garden truck in your basket?"
"No, Miss; I do not carry my vegetables around, we sell them in
market."
"Perhaps you are coming for old clothes, Roland; you look as if you
wanted some," remarked Minnie Scott.
"If you'll come round to our house, we can give you some," sneered
Mary James.
Poor Roland was sorely tried; his clothes were very shabby, for it
had been a long time since his mother had been able to buy him
any--patched pantaloons and worn-out shoes indicated his poverty.
His cheeks were crimson, and his eyes flashed indignation, but he
took no farther notice of the insulting remarks, or of the titter
which passed round among the girls.
"For shame, Mary!" exclaimed Madeline; "have you no feeling? Roland
is my friend, and shall be respected here."
By this time the boy had advanced to the piazza, and Madeline called
for Nanny to come and take the bundles which he had brought.
Madeline then invited him into the house, and with real delicacy of
feeling, made no farther allusion to the insolence of the children.
They entered the drawing-room where Aunt Matilda was seated.
"Aunty, this is my friend, Roland Bruce; he has brought the work
home."
She bowed stiffly. "Could you not have taken the boy into the
sitting-room, Madeline?"
"If those upstarts had not insulted him, perhaps I might have done
so; but, as it is, I prefer to bring him here."
Madeline was by this time fully roused. She could not endure that a
boy of Roland's character should be first insulted by her friends,
and then by her aunt. Turning to the latter, she said, "Will you
please, ma'am, to entertain the young ladies while I shall be engaged
with Roland?"
"Which are your guests, Maddy, this boy, or the young ladies who have
come to visit you?"
"Just now this is my guest, Aunt Matilda. There is no use of arguing
with me," and with a proud toss of her brown ringlets, she turned to
the boy who stood a silent listener.
"Come with me, Roland, I have many things to show you," and Madeline
led the way, while Roland followed, by no means abashed by the
magnificence which everywhere surrounded the young heiress--velvet
carpets, lace curtains, rich furniture, splendid paintings, &c., had
no effect upon the manly boy, who, with a proud step and dignified
carriage, followed his friend.
First she led him to the library. "I want you to look around,
Roland, at the books; here is where I like to come on stormy days,
when the wind is howling around. Many an hour I've spent in this
room."
Roland looked around delighted; he had never seen so many books
together before.
"Why, Madeline, I should never want any other friends. Here are
Cowper, and Milton, and Shakspeare, and our own Burns--and all these
books of history. You ought to be a very wise little girl."
"Yes, I know that, Roland; but I have not read the useful books; I
read novels, and fairy tales, and all kinds of poetry, and aunty says
they fill my head with nonsense. Would you like to read some of
these books, Roland? for I have only to say so to papa, and he would
lend them to please me."
"I could hardly ask such a thing, Madeline, but if he will, I promise
to take good care of them, and to keep them covered."
Out of the library into the conservatory, Madeline conducted her
friend. Here again Roland was delighted, for dearly did he love
flowers and all beautiful things.
"How happy you ought to be, Madeline, with such a world of beauty all
around you."
"Which of these flowers would you rather take home, Roland?" asked
the child.
His eye roved hastily around, and rested with a smile upon a simple
purple flower, as he said, "That little mountain heather."
"What! pass by these lovely roses, and take that little flower!"
"Yes, Madeline, I love it best; it is our own Scotch flower, and
grows all over our dark mountains."
"You shall have a plant to take home to your mother, Roland."
Next she led him up a long staircase and directed him to stand still
at the head of the first landing; leading him to the window, she
said, "Hark! Roland, do you hear any music?"
Roland stood entranced as he listened to the low, plaintive strains
that came swelling over the strings of an Eolian harp, and as the
breeze rose higher, louder, wilder, fuller swept the weird sounds
among the strings.
"How beautiful, Madeline!" exclaimed the boy.
"That's what I call the fairies' concert, Roland; on wild winter
nights you cannot imagine what that music is like--it puts me in mind
of Ossian's poetry."
Down the stair-case and out among her pets, next we find our little
girl.
"Here are my pet doves, Roland; Patty and Jim; they know me now, and
always begin to coo when I come near them. And here is my
canary--but I want you to see Bob," and out into the stable-yard
trotted Maddy and ran up to a donkey that stood nibbling away at some
grass. She patted him on the head, and Bob made a singular noise to
show his pleasure.
Roland attempted the same liberty, but in a minute, Master Bob kicked
up his hind legs, and set up a hideous bray.
Maddy laughed heartily, and said, "Bob don't like strangers, Roland;
but that's the most harm that he ever does."
"They are useful animals, Madeline. I have often thought that it
would be such a treasure if I had a cart and donkey; but that I
cannot get, for we are too poor."
Maddy smiled with a knowing look as she conducted her favorite back
into the drawing-room, and, finding the coast clear, she described
the pictures to Roland, and then sat down to the piano, and played
and sang sweetly,
"I remember, I remember
The house where I was born--
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away."
"I am much obliged to you, Maddy, for your kindness, but I really
must go now; I have kept you long enough from your friends," and
Roland took up his pot of heather to go home.
"Friends, indeed! Fudge upon such friends! They have no sense, and
I don't care for one of them."
Just then, Mademoiselle put her head into the drawing-room door.
"Oh! Mademoiselle Madeline, que fait vous? vous êtes trés impolie,
voila vos jeunes amis, et vous êtes ici avec ce pauvre garçon."
"Do not faint, Mademoiselle, I know what I am about."
"Que dira Mr. H.? Lui qui est si Monsieur. J'ai peur que tu ne
seras jamais une dame; vous êtes impolie, M'lle. Venez avec moi!"
Madeline burst out laughing, and whispered to Roland, "She is a poor
simple thing; I can't help laughing at her."
"Don't, Maddy; she is your teacher, and therefore ought to be
respected."
"That will do for good people like you; Roland, I can't be so good."
By this time they had left the piazza, and Madeline conducted Roland
out to the gate, passing Aunt Matilda and the young ladies in the
avenue. He raised his cap and bowed gracefully as he took his leave.
"Good evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long."
"Good evening, sir," replied the lady haughtily.
"Where in the world did he learn to make such a bow as that?" said
Mary James.
"He was born a gentleman," answered Madeline, "and if he were clad in
rags, he would carry the same manners everywhere."
"Don't talk such folly, Madeline," said her aunt; "Roland is well
enough, but he is not a gentleman, nor the son of a gentleman, and no
associate for Madeline Hamilton. You make a dunce of yourself, in
the way that you behave to these people."
"Perhaps so, aunty; but I shall never forget that I am a lady to
every one."
"You forgot it, Maddy, this afternoon, when you left your young
friends, to entertain that boy."
Madeline blushed as she replied, "They were so rude, aunty, that I
could do nothing else."
"Madeline has a remarkable taste," said Ella Taylor; "Roland and
Effie Bruce are her chief companions at school."
"I choose them for their worth, and because all the rest treat them
badly," answered Madeline.
"Well, we will not talk any more about it now," said Aunt Matilda;
"Maddy always has her own way, and there is no use of crossing her
while Lewis Hamilton is master."
* * * * * * *
"Papa, do you care much about my donkey?" said Maddy that evening to
her father.
"Why, Mad-cap, what makes you ask that question?"
"Because I am tired of riding about with Bob. It has been several
months since I drove him, papa, and I thought that we could put him
to such good use now."
"Why, what do you want to do with poor Bob, Maddy?"
"It would be such a nice little animal for Mrs. Bruce, papa. Here,
we only keep him for amusement, there, he would be so useful. They
have to borrow a crazy old cart, and a broken down horse every week
to go to market, and if they only had a little cart, Bob could take
their vegetables to market. Shan't I give him to Mrs. Bruce, papa?"
"Well, Mad-cap, I believe that you would give your head away if it
were loose; you may do what you please with poor Bob; but what about
the cart?"
"Why, papa, there's a little cart that he used to drag sometimes; we
don't use it now."
"Do what you choose, Maddy; it would be a good thing for the widow."
Maddy did not wait a second bidding. Accordingly, on the next Friday
afternoon, Bob was geared up to the little cart, and Maddy took her
seat, full of glee. He was a perfectly safe animal, and our little
girl had driven him many a time around the lanes of Woodcliff.
Madeline drew up to the door of the widow's cottage with a laughing
countenance.
"Come, Roland and Effie, I want to take you a ride this afternoon;
jump in; I want to see if you can drive Bob, Roland."
They were soon seated in the little cart. Bob was rather restive at
first, for he soon recognized the voice of a stranger; but with
Madeline's coaxing, they proceeded very well, and had a merry ride.
"Shall I drive you home, Madeline?" asked Roland, after Effie had
dismounted at the cottage-door.
"No, I believe not, Roland; Bob may as well stay here, for cart and
donkey are both yours."
"It cannot be, Miss Madeline; the gift is too costly."
"Miss Madeline! here comes Roland's pride again!" answered the child.
"Bob is of no use to us now; I am tired of driving him about, and
he's just the animal for you, Roland."
"What a good little friend your are, Maddy! You are just like some
kind fairy."
"What a good boy you are, Roland! You are just like some grown-up
friend; so you see we are about even after all. I can give you what
money can buy, and what will soon be gone; and you give me light,
knowledge, strength, goodness, Roland, and that money cannot buy; so
you see at last I can make it out that your gifts are better than
mine."
This was an invaluable gift to our young friend, for it enabled him
to go regularly to market without borrowing from his neighbors; and
it made Madeline very happy to see the sunshine which she had carried
to the cottage.
Effie was a gentle girl, and all that she could do to show her
gratitude, was to raise her soft blue eyes to Maddy's face with
speechless thanks, and to press her hand as they passed into the
cottage.
"May the good Lord bless you, Miss Madeline, for all your goodness,"
was the spoken gratitude of Mrs. Bruce.
"It is getting late now, good-bye; I hope that Bob won't be running
away to his old stable; give him plenty of cabbage or turnip-tops;"
and, with this injunction, away scampered the child, happier than she
had ever been in all her life before.
Maddy was nearly right when she said, "we are about even after all,"
for the influence brought to bear so unconsciously upon her by this
humble family, was of a character that could not well be measured.
It was a true remark which, in her simplicity, she had uttered, when
she said, "I believe in Roland." A word from him was of more avail
than aught else, in checking her impulsive actions.
On the next Sunday morning, as Roland and Effie were on their way to
the Sunday-school, whom should they see, smiling at them from the
carriage window, but Madeline, who was riding out with her Aunt
Matilda. Roland hoped that they were going to church; but he had
some doubts, for he had seldom heard the child speak about the house
of God.
In the evening they met at the cemetery, for it was a common thing
for Madeline to walk there on Sunday.
"Where were you going, this morning, Maddy?" inquired her friend.
"Aunty and I were taking a ride to see Mrs. Linden; she has not been
very well all the week, and she thought that a ride would do her
good."
"But, Maddy, don't you know that this is God's day, and that we are
commanded to keep it holy?"
"I have never been taught, Roland, to make much difference; papa
spends his Sunday mornings in the library; Aunt Matilda often has the
head-ache, and cannot go out, and then I run off down to the shore
with Hector, or else take the boat, and paddle about on the lake."
"God did not give us the day of rest for our own pleasure, Maddy; it
is the day when we ought to think especially of holy things, and
spend it in such a way as will do our souls good, and please our
Father in heaven."
"What do you do on Sunday, Roland?"
"We go to the Sunday-school, where we learn about our blessed
Saviour, and join in singing sweet praises to his holy name; then we
go to church; and when we come home, dear mother always contrives
something nicer for dinner than on other days, though remember,
Maddy, it is prepared the day before; then she explains the Bible to
us, and tells us some of those old Scotch stories, which we love to
hear, about the holy men who died for their religion. Sunday is such
a sweet day at our little cottage, we are all so close together then,
and we feel how blessed is the thought that we shall spend our
heavenly Sabbath together forever and ever."
"Oh, Roland! how different you are from us at Woodcliff. I get so
tired of running about; I get tired of reading; I have no one to
speak to, and we don't go to church more than once in every few
weeks. I run out in the kitchen and talk to our old cook, then I go
talk to my pets, then I run into the library and read a little, but
all the time, Roland, I want something that I cannot find."
"I wonder if your father would let you come to our Sunday-school?"
"I'll ask him, Roland; what do you do there?"
"We learn Bible lessons, hymns, and catechism; we have such kind,
excellent teachers; and once a month we have missionary meetings."
"I should think that it was very stupid to hear nothing all the time,
but solemn talk about death and judgment."
Roland smiled. "We hear of something else, Maddy; about the blessed
Saviour, the friend of sinners, and about that happy land where
Christians hope to go."
Maddy turned an earnest look upon Roland's face.
"How do you _know_, Roland, that all these things are true? How do
you _know_ that the Bible is really God's word? Papa has some books
in his library, by great men, who don't believe the Bible."
"The Bible not true, Maddy! I know but little of the reasons which
prove it to be God's own word; but it would take me hours to tell you
even what I know, there are so many things which prove it true. It
tells about so many things which were to happen hundreds of years
before they occurred, and they came exactly as the Bible said they
would. It told that there would be a flood, and the flood came; we
know that, not only from the Bible, but from other old histories, and
from the sayings of many ancient nations. Who could tell but God,
what was going to come to pass, Maddy?"
The child sat with a serious face turned towards Roland, as she
replied, "I cannot answer that, Roland."
"It has also foretold the fate of wicked nations, of Babylon, of
Jerusalem, of Sodom and Gomorrah; and just as it declared, has it
happened. It told of Jesus, when, where, and how he should be born;
and just so he came--and, Maddy, there is a voice in all our hearts,
that wants something better than we can have here, something that
will last forever. The good Father knows that, Maddy, for he put
within us that immortal soul that longs for immortal joys; and then
he sent us down from heaven these precious letters, which tell us of
just such a state beyond the grave. These letters were sent to God's
own servants at different times, and gathered together in the days of
King James, and made into the book which we call the Bible."
"I suppose, Roland, that the voice which you speak of, is that which
makes me sometimes feel so tired of everything, although I have so
much; yet I am always wanting something that I have not got."
"That's what you want, Maddy; a heart at peace with God, through
Jesus Christ our Lord."
Madeline wore a very serious face, as she turned to leave her
mother's grave, where she had been sitting; and, plucking a flower
from one of the plants, she said:
"Roland, I'll go with you to Sunday-school; I want to know more about
these good things."
"I am afraid that your father will not want you to go among the
people of our church, we are not of the same sect as he."
"Why, you know, Roland, I can coax him to anything; and though Aunt
Matilda is very bigoted in her notions, he won't mind what she says,
if I want to go."
Saturday evening came, and Maddy, mounting her father's lap, said,
"Papa, what would you give to know what I have in this paper?" (and
folding her hands tight over the package, she turned her beaming face
upon her father). "Before I open it, I want you to promise me
something--it is something very good, papa; just say I shall have it,
and then I'll show what I have for you."
Papa smiled upon his little daughter, as he said, "I should like to
know what it is before I promise."
"It is, indeed, papa, something very good--just say yes; that's a
dear, good papa."
"Very well, Maddy, I say yes--now open the paper."
Bending over her package, she opened just a small portion, and
holding it up before her father, said, with an arch expression on her
bright young face,
"Just peep a little, papa," (and then closing it again,) "now, as
soon as you give me two sweet kisses, you shall see what I have."
Papa was only too willing to grant the request, and Madeline,
trembling with delight, said,
"There, papa, see what little Mad-cap has made for you;" and, opening
wide her package, she produced a pair of beautiful slippers, which,
after months of labor, she had worked for her father. It was her
first piece of work, and quite a triumph of her skill.
"It is a sweet gift, Maddy; I shall be almost too proud of them to
wear them. Who would ever have thought of my wild little daughter's
working a pair of slippers?" and Mr. Hamilton kissed his darling
child again and again.
"I never should have thought of doing it, papa, but Mrs. Bruce told
me that I ought to do something for my kind father; and she showed me
how to work them. Come, papa, put out your foot, let's try them on;
why they fit beautifully; I am so glad!"
"And now, what does my little daughter want?"
"Why, papa, just let me go to Roland Bruce's Sunday-school. I get so
tired on Sunday. Half the time Aunt Matilda does not go to church,
and I have to wander about all day, tired of everything."
"Brother, will you let the child go there? They are not of our
church; she will learn all kinds of puritanic notions; I really think
she ought to be brought up in the religion of her parents."
"And so do I, Matilda, most emphatically; but if you do not attend to
that yourself, and she must either lounge about the house all day,
rove up the sea-shore, and among the lanes and woods, or go to
Sunday-school with the Bruces, where she can occupy her busy mind
with something good, I think the latter is to be preferred. You can
go, my daughter, if it promotes your happiness."
"She will have no associates of her own class, if you allow this
intimacy."
"She's only a child, Matilda; future years will regulate all that."
"We shall see, brother; I am afraid that you will repent of the step."
Maddy had gained the day; and on Sunday morning, off she trotted with
her friends, the Bruces, with great delight.
The exercises pleased her; fortunately, she was placed under the care
of a wise and excellent teacher; and Maddy spent the first Sunday
much to her satisfaction.
But with all these influences, she was still the same mischief-loving
child as ever. Old Betty, the cook, Nanny, her own maid in the
kitchen, Mademoiselle in the school-room, and Aunt Matilda in the
parlor, were all in turn the subjects of her practical jokes.
The first of April bad arrived, and her little brain was busy with
its plans. Early in the morning, Roland received a note in printed
letters, stating that if he would go down to the sea-shore in the
afternoon, and walk up to old Peter's cabin, then down to the rock,
he would find something hanging on the flag-staff to his advantage.
He had entirely forgotten that it was the first of April, and his
curiosity being awakened, he started off early in the afternoon, and
followed the directions given. When he reached the rock, hanging to
the flag-staff was a package directed to him, which he commenced
opening; after removing many envelopes, he found a short note,
directing him to take the donkey and go to the next town, stopping at
the post-office, where he would find further directions, and with the
injunction to be sure and not neglect the hint. Accordingly, he
went; when reaching there, he found a large and heavy package,
directed in the same manner. On opening it, it contained a brick,
very carefully covered in a number of newspapers, with directions to
go to the woods near Maple Lane school, and under the large oak-tree
by the door, he would find a spot marked by a board with R.G.B.
printed on it; on digging it up, he would find the object of his
search.
Roland followed the direction; and, after much digging, found a box
directed as the rest; on opening of which he drew out a small toy
bagpipe, with the direction, "For Roland when he visits the
Highlands." Just as he was examining the toy, out sprang Maddy, and
making a low courtesy, said--
"It is the first of April, Roland; I hope you are not very tired."
It was the first time that she had seen him displeased. He did not
smile, for his time was very precious, and he had wasted the whole
afternoon with Madeline's folly.
"I am sorry, Miss Madeline, that you saw fit to send me on such a
chase. It will do for rich people to waste their time--I have
something else to do."
"I was only in fun, Roland; I did not think that it would make you
angry."
"I never could bear to be laughed at, and then I had something very
particular to do for my mother. It was not kind to serve me such a
trick."
"I did not know that you were such a touchy boy, Roland. I don't
think that you need make such a fuss about a trifle."
"I can't help it; I never could take a joke. Good-bye," and Roland
mounted his donkey, and rode away without another word.
Poor little Maddy! she had not thought of such an end to her sport,
and her proud spirit was fully aroused. She knew that she had done
nothing very wrong, and felt really angry at Roland for his conduct.
She thought that it was foolish, and determined to make no further
apology. He might go with his Scotch pride for all that she cared;
and with one hand, she haughtily tossed her curls, but with the
other, wiped away tears that would fall in spite of her pride.
Roland had a battle to fight all the way home. He felt that he had
done wrong; he had betrayed unchristian tempers in the presence of
one whom he desired to benefit, had injured the cause of his Master,
and wounded the feelings of a kind little friend, who was only
enjoying, as she thought, a harmless piece of fun.
The old man was very strong that day in Roland's heart; and poor Bob
felt something of the inward strife, as the boy unconsciously urged
him forward with the hard heels of his boot. The new man whispered
other counsels--"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Roland Bruce;
you pretend to be a Christian, and to get so vexed at a piece of fun
from a frolicsome little girl, who is such a good friend to you."
Roland slackened his pace, and by the time that he had reached the
cottage door, the new man had prevailed.
"Where have you been, Roland?" asked his mother.
"Why, mother, this is the first of April, and Madeline has sent me on
a wild goose chase this whole afternoon. I was very angry at first,
and said some unkind things for which I am very sorry."
"I need not tell you what is your duty, Roland."
"No, dear mother; I will not lay my head upon my pillow to-night,
without clearing my conscience."
As soon as tea was over, he walked over to Woodcliff; and when near
the house, met his little friend walking with a serious step along
the lane. As soon as she saw Roland, she turned her head away, drew
up her form to its utmost height, and with a proud step attempted to
pass by. But Roland crossed her path, and taking off his cap said,
"Madeline, I could not go to my rest to-night, without asking your
pardon for my rudeness. I am very sensitive to ridicule, but I do
hope that you will forgive my hasty speech. I ought to have been
ashamed of myself for such conduct to you."
She turned her face towards the boy. Her eyes were swimming with
tears, but she extended her hand, and said,
"I do forgive you, Roland, but I cannot tell you how much you wounded
me, for I was only in fun; and then, Roland, I thought that
Christians never get angry."
"That is what grieved me so much, Madeline; that I, who try to teach
you, should have forgotten myself so far; it has taught me a good
lesson, and bade me to look up for help, for my strength is all
weakness when the tempter comes."
"Well, we are friends now, Roland; I could not bear to be angry with
you. I shall not forget this first of April, and know where to play
my tricks in future."