SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.
Morning, noon, and night, was Madeline inventing some new scheme of
fun and frolic, never, however, neglecting her harp.
Mademoiselle generally managed to get about half of her lessons; Aunt
Matilda did not interfere, for Maddy had company, and could not be
expected to study much.
"You know, aunt, that it would be the height of impoliteness, and I
could not expect the girls to take lessons; to be sure, Lucy does, as
a matter of choice."
This was sufficient, and Madeline's all-powerful arguments prevailed.
Poor M'lle Fouladoux was often sorely tried, and Fanfan was her only
comfort.
Occupied with her young friends, Madeline knew but little of the
shadows gathering over her friends at the cottage.
It was all sunshine at Woodcliff; for thus far, Maddy's life had been
all a bright summer day; but it would have been quickly dimmed, if
the young heiress had known the sorrows that were threatening her
humble friends.
Mr. Hamilton had formerly lived in the South, and having freed the
servants who lived with him, he had brought his house-domestics to
his Northern home. They were strongly attached to their master's
family, and Madeline, especially, was their idol.
Nanny thought nothing could surpass her young mistress in beauty, or
grace, or smartness, and many a cup of flattery was administered by
this faithful, but foolish servant.
"Girls, I think that we shall have some rare sport this fall; Jim,
the coachman, is quite smitten with our Nanny; they shall have a
wedding, and I'll be mistress of the ceremonies. You ought to see
the darkies dance;" and Madeline mimicked to the life what she had
often seen in the kitchen.
"Will they be married here?" inquired Lavinia.
"Yes, indeed; they shall be married in our dining-room, and I'll
dress Nanny's head myself."
Madeline watched her opportunity, and questioned Nanny about the
affair.
"Lor' bless you, young missus, what put this ere in your head? Jim
is jest a perticelar friend."
"Yes, I know, Nanny; you need not try to deceive me," answered the
child.
"Well, Miss Maddy, what do you all think of Jim?"
"He's a clever fellow, Nanny, and we are all willing."
"Well, then, Miss, I mout as well tell; we are gwan to be married in
about a month."
"You shall have a nice wedding, Nanny; I'll give you your wedding
suit; you shall be married in the dining-room; get your bridesmaids
and groomsmen, and you shall have a grand time, Nanny."
Maddy was a busy little bee during the next month; the evening at
length arrived, and the guests assembled in the dining-room waiting
for the bride and groom. Maddy had been superintending the bride's
dress; but having completed that, with her cousins, joined the
company in the parlor. The minister stood waiting at the head of the
room. At length the bridesmaids and groomsmen appeared, then Nanny
and the groom. She was dressed in white, with low neck and short
sleeves, and her head encircled by a wreath of large red roses. The
ceremony proceeded. When about half through, Jim, supposing it
ended, turned to kiss his bride.
"Not yet," said the minister.
"Oh, well! so far, so good. Go on, Massa."
When the ceremony was ended, they took their seats among the
congratulations of their numerous colored friends, and with the
imitative quickness of their race, the manners of ladies and
gentlemen were most amusingly copied in Mr. Hamilton's dining room.
"Why, Miss Nanny, you're quite brilliance to-night," said one of the
groomsmen.
"Who are you calling Miss Nanny, Bill?" said the other groomsman,
tittering, "that is Miss Roberts now."
Nanny hung her head bashfully, and, looking up at Jim, said,
"That name sounds mighty quar."
About ten o'clock, a nice supper was announced in the servants'
sitting room, and it was really amusing to our young folks, to see
the airs with which the colored gentlemen handed out the belles to
the supper table.
"We're much obliged to you, Miss Madeline," said Jim, "for this
party, for we know that you got it up for us."
"I hope that you will make Nanny a good husband, Jim, for she is a
good girl. I won't let you be cross to her."
After supper, a number of songs enlivened the evening, and a serenade
at a late hour, in which four voices joined, wound up the affair.
Madeline had heard nothing of the Bruces for several weeks, excepting
by a few casual words in the Sunday-school room, for Lucy and she
still attended. On the following Sunday morning, Maddy thought that
Roland looked very sad, and Effie was not present.
"What is the matter, Roland?" asked the child.
"Oh, Madeline! dear mother is so sick; she seems to be growing weaker
every day."
"Don't get disheartened, Roland; you know what you have often said to
me, 'Look up for help.'"
"Yes, I know, Madeline; but the loss of my mother would be such a
great calamity, that I cannot always look up. Sometimes, I cannot
trust the promises; then I get so weak, I can scarcely hold up my
head."
"I am sorry, Roland. Is there anything that I can do for her?"
"Come and see her, Madeline, that would cheer her up."
"I have been detained by company, Roland, that is all the reason."
"Yes, I know that; we can't expect you to leave them often."
"I will come soon, Roland; I am so very sorry."
Madeline kept her word, but her high spirits were suddenly saddened,
when she saw the pale face and trembling hands of her kind friend.
Mrs. Bruce was sitting up endeavoring to sew, but the marks of
languor were so apparent, that a chill settled around Maddy's heart,
and she feared that Roland must soon lose this dear mother.
"You are not well, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, as she took her
friend's extended hand.
"No, my dear, flesh and heart are failing; but 'God is the strength
of my heart, and my portion for evermore.' While he is left, I am
perfectly at peace."
Madeline looked upon the placid face, and the sweet smile of trusting
faith that lit the features of her friend, and thought how precious
was that holy trust.
"I know now, Mrs. Bruce, what you mean by looking up; how happy you
must be."
"If I looked down upon myself, Maddy, with all my weakness and sin;
or if I looked upon my dear children, who may soon be left
motherless, my heart would sink; but when I look upward at the rest
in store for those who love God, and at the sure promises to the
children of the righteous, I can even rejoice in tribulation,
because, my dear, they work patience, experience, and hope."
Madeline glanced at Roland and Effie--the former was regarding his
mother with a look of loving reverence, as though he partook of her
lofty hope; but poor, delicate Effie sat with her head bowed upon her
hands, and the big tears rolling down her sweet face. Madeline drew
the weeping child towards her, and, passing her arm around her,
whispered,
"Don't cry so, Effie; your mother may get better, and we will always
be your friends."
"I know that, Madeline; but where shall I ever find another mother?"
Maddy returned with a saddened spirit, for with all her sanguine
nature, she could not but fear that deep sorrow was settling around
the cottage household. Not a day passed, without some little
delicacy from Woodcliff; sometimes by Madeline's own hand, or else
sent by a servant.
Lucy frequently accompanied her cousin in her visits, but Lavinia
never--she could not stoop to such a condescension.
In all her letters to her father, Maddy never forgot her humble
friends, and, in return, Mr. Hamilton directed that every comfort
should be supplied to the declining mother.
After a few weeks, Mrs. Bruce appeared to rally once more, and hope
revived the spirits of all who loved her. Madeline especially was
greatly elated, and was sure that her dear friend was recovering.
With the revival of her hopes, her high spirits rose again.
"Don't be alarmed, Roland, your mother will soon recover," and Maddy
yielded to the delusion with full confidence.
Roland was now called to bear a heavy burden, for the support of the
family fell chiefly upon him. Busy in their little garden, he toiled
with a cheerful spirit, and found his donkey and cart a great
treasure, for now he could go into market three times a week with the
produce of his little plot of ground. It pained him sorely to leave
school, but duty called, and the obedient spirit submitted. The
delicacies from the Hall kept his mother well supplied, and with the
strong faith of a Gordon, he could labor, wait, and even rejoice.
The boy of seventeen, under the discipline of trial, and the teaching
of a holy mother, seemed to have reached the maturity of riper years;
and Mrs. Bruce felt that she might lean upon him with affectionate
trust, as the instrument which God had chosen to cheer her declining
days.
Autumn was now rapidly closing around them, and Madeline, with her
elastic step and bird-like voice, frequently crossed the door-sill of
the cottage, always lighting it up with her bright, hopeful face, and
leaving behind her the sweet echoes of her own joyous nature.
Full of hope for her friends, her merry spirit kept the family all
alive at the Hall. Her young friends were to stay until Christmas,
and Madeline promised them great sport should there be snow enough
for a sleigh-ride.
Tony Willikins, her warm admirer at school, often stepped in at
Woodcliff to pay his respects, and having seen Mademoiselle at
church, and met her occasionally in her walks with Madeline, that
prankish little girl had contrived to bring about quite an intimacy
between the two. Many a bouquet that was sent for Madeline was
conveyed to Mademoiselle, with Tony's compliments; and Tony himself
was often chagrined, on seeing the French teacher innocently wearing
the flowers intended for the roguish child.
Tony had somehow learned a few French phrases, and, much to the
amusement of our young friends, he made a barbarous use of his slim
stock of language, not at all aware of his false pronunciation.
His salutation of "Maddymorthelle," always set our young friend in a
titter; and his persevering efforts taxed Mademoiselle's French
politeness to the utmost.
Poor Tony was a complete butt for Madeline and Lavinia, and many a
joke did they play upon the unconscious youth.
One afternoon, Tony paid them a visit in what he considered splendid
costume.
He had been told that small-clothes were to be the fashion that
winter, so, to be ahead of all others, had ordered a new suit of
clothes; and presented himself at Woodcliff in black tights, with
black silk stockings, pumps, silver knee and shoe buckles, and, to
crown all, a pair of blue glasses, which he had been told was
becoming; he wore also a fancy-colored guard ribbon, and a diamond
pin. Tony thought himself irresistible; and when Madeline entered
the parlor, and saw the ludicrous figure, it was next to impossible
to restrain her laughter.
At that moment, fortunately, Fanfan performed some of her amusing
pranks, which gave Maddy an opportunity of indulging her risible
faculties, and if Tony had not been such a weak youth, he might have
seen that the laugh continued much longer than Fanfan's oft-repeated
tricks could call forth.
"Mith Madeline, I want to thow you my new guard ribbonth," and Tony
opened a package which contained every imaginable color.
"Which do you think the prettieth, mith?"
"I like blue; that is my favorite color."
Immediately Tony changed his scarlet guard for a blue one; and, much
to the amusement of the young girls, he continued,
"Blue ith my color now."
"Won't you sing, Tony?" asked Madeline.
"Yeth, if Maddymorthelle will play for me. What shall I thing, mith?"
"'How can I leave thee!'" answered Madeline, with a merry twinkle.
"That is tho affecting, mith; I am afraid that I can't get through
it, but I'll try."
Mademoiselle took her seat at the piano, and Tony commenced with a
lisping, languishing tone to sing. Madeline was convulsed with
laughter; and Tony, who saw her handkerchief covering her face,
thought that she was deeply affected, and said,
"We had better not finith the thong, Maddymorthelle; it affecth Mith
Maddyth' nervth."
Madeline could stand no more; jumping up, she ran out of the room to
indulge her burst of laughter, which could no longer be restrained.
Lucy did not sympathize with the jokes played upon Tony, for his
weakness was his misfortune; and with her correct principles, she
could no more ridicule that, than she could a blind, deaf, or lame
man; but Madeline had not yet learned to ask about the right or wrong
of an action, the impulses of the moment yet ruled the child.
Sometimes, the thought would cross her mind, that it might not be
just right, but the love of fun prevailed over her light scruples.
* * * * *
The cold increased, and one morning, Madeline ran into Lavinia's
room, saying,
"Get up, Lavinia, here is a grand snow-storm! Now for our promised
ride."
They watched the progress of the storm anxiously; all day and night
it continued, and by the next morning, the sleighs began to fly
around the neighborhood.
At that moment, a sleigh stopped, and Tony, dismounting, invited the
young ladies to take a ride.
"I will call about four o'clock, and we will ride up to the White
Houth, take thupper, and return by moonlight."
Maddy ran to her aunt to obtain her consent, which was given on
condition that she should make one of the party.
Accordingly, at the appointed hour, furred, tippeted, and well
protected from the cold, our party set off in high glee.
"You can manage those spirited horses, I hope, Tony?" said Aunt
Matilda.
"Don't be afraid, ma'am; I have driven them many a mile, and never
had an acthident yet."
The ride was splendid, Madeline in wild spirits, and the whole party
affected by her merry sallies.
Arrived at the White House, Tony ordered a supper, and, after a
lively dance in one of the parlors, in which all joined but Lucy,
they sat down to a nice supper, and then started for home.
There was a number of sleighs on the road, all travelling at full
speed; Tony's animals were not to be passed. A large sleigh came
dashing by. Tony tried to check the wild animals, but all in
vain--on they rushed. Miss Matilda was in an agony of terror.
Utterly unable to manage them, they galloped on madly, till, bringing
up on a snow-bank, they upset the party on the road-side, and raced
furiously on, until overtaken by several men, who came to the rescue,
and, after some time, succeeded in quieting the excited horses.
Miss Matilda was in a state of dreadful alarm; Mademoiselle Fouladoux
deploring the condition of little Fanfan, who had accompanied the
party; Madeline laughing at the adventure; Lavinia provoked; and Lucy
quietly awaiting the return of Tony.
When the youth at length appeared, Mademoiselle threw up her hands,
exclaiming, piteously,
"Oh, Monsieur Willikins! take us home; ma pauvre Fanfan will take a
dreadful cold."
Tony wrapped the dog up in his foot muff, and proceeded home as
rapidly as they could go with safety.
"We have had a jolly time, Mademoiselle," exclaimed Madeline. "I
think the upset was the best part; none of us were hurt, and it was
only a good joke after all."
Little did Maddy know of the sorrow that was wringing the young
hearts at the cottage. Not having heard for several days, the next
morning Madeline started to see her friends. On entering the house,
no one was visible; all was quiet, and she proceeded up stairs to the
widow's chamber. Propped up with pillows, with a face as pale as the
white sheet, and laboring for breath, she beheld her humble friend.
Effie was sitting on one side of the bed, close to her mother, and
Roland was reading the Bible to his declining parent.
"'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in
me; in my Father's house are many mansions.'" He stopped for one
moment, but Madeline said, "Go on, Roland;" and, with his own rich
voice, he proceeded to repeat a Psalm, "'I will lift up mine eyes
unto the hills from whence cometh my help.'"
"My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth,"
responded the mother, with uplifted eyes and hands clasped over her
panting breast.
"Come here, Madeline, my dear child," said the fading Christian; "you
see that it will not be long before I shall go home, and be no more
seen; but remember what I tell you, that God is a sufficient refuge
in this hour of trial, and the Saviour of sinners my all in all!"
"Can you look up still, dear Mrs. Bruce?" asked Madeline, with deep
solemnity.
"Yes, my dear child; I know that he that keepeth Israel shall neither
slumber nor sleep. 'He will not suffer the sun to smite thee by day,
nor the moon by night,' that is the promise, Maddy, and I believe it
with all my heart; 'his rod and his staff they comfort me.'"
"You will get better yet, Mrs. Bruce, I am sure," answered the child,
"for I know that Roland and Effie pray for you, and God has promised
to answer prayer."
"Yes, he will answer us, when we ask with submission to his will; his
will now is made clear and plain, my days on earth are drawing
swiftly to a close. I am ready and willing to depart and be with
Jesus, which is far better than to stay here; but to leave my
darlings, Maddy, is a sore trial. You will not forget them, dear,
when I am gone."
"Forget your children! Never! I know none that I love so well; and
so long as I live, they will find me, little Madeline, their true
friend."
"Bless you! my dear child, for those kind words; they cheer my heart.
I look upon them as an answer to my prayer; for this morning there
was an hour of darkness, when I thought of them, especially of Effie;
but now I can keep my eyes fixed upon Heaven, and bid adieu forever
to earthly cares."
Effie was weeping bitterly, her mother turned her face towards her
and said,
"Do not distrust our Heavenly Father, my child; he will comfort and
sustain you; he has sent this dear little friend to us in our hour of
sorrow." Turning to Madeline, she continued, "Tell your father,
Maddy, that we shall never forget his kindness; for weeks your family
physician has been attending me, sent by your father; he has done all
that he can, but vain is the help of man."
Madeline was deeply impressed by the lesson of that solemn hour, for
she had never been so near the presence of death before. From that
hour, she spared no pains to administer to the comfort of her
precious friend.
Betty, the old cook, was a kind-hearted woman, and daily prepared
some little delicacy grateful to the invalid, which Madeline and Lucy
took with their own hands.
Deep was the sorrow settling down upon the heart of Roland Bruce; for
his mother was parent, friend, guide--his only earthly stay. When he
looked into the wilderness of life without his mother, it did indeed
seem a desolate, dreary waste. He sat looking upon the pale face
regarding him with such a look of unutterable love.
"Roland, come sit by me; I have much to say to you while I have
strength to speak."
He arose and seated himself close by his mother's side. "You are
seventeen now, my son, with almost the character of a man; and,
blessed be God! I believe that you are his dear child."
Roland took his mother's hand, and while tears rained over it, he
replied,
"To you, dear mother, under God, I owe all that I am. I can never
forget the lessons of wisdom, truth, trust in God, and heroic
endurance that you have taught me by examples from the Bible, from
the world, and especially from our own honored race."
"You must never forget your lineage, Roland; you are not descended
from those who derive their greatness from outward show, magnificent
adornment, or the pomp and equipage of courts. Your ancestors were
trained in the humble manse, in the lowly cottage, among the rude
mountains of Scotland, and their grandeur was moral only. They were
born in the days when to be a spiritual Christian was to hold life
very cheap--the spirit of those days has always distinguished our
race, for in every generation, there has been a witness for God among
the Gordons."
"I have never forgotten it, mother," answered Roland. "I think it is
that which makes me think so little of the pomp of this world. I
have never felt at all impressed by what I have seen at Woodcliff,
because I contrast it all with the humble tomb-stone in that Scottish
glen, and with all else that you have told me of the name of Gordon."
"I believe, my son, that God destines you for something good and
great. Roland, remember what I mean by great; not rich or grand in
earthly goods, or even in intellectual culture merely, but great in
deeds of benefit to your race; in order to reach that point, spare no
pains to obtain a good education."
"How shall I, mother? it is what I long for; but I have no money, no
means, no influence. I am all alone."
"Where there is a will, there is a way, Roland. I do not wish you to
have money or influential friends; I want you to have trust in God;
this is the motto I leave with you, my son, 'Looking aloft;' remember
it is your dying mother's motto; when discouraged, turn to that, and
I am sure that you will prosper."
"Oh, mother! how shall I live without you? your voice is like a
trumpet to me; it stirs the very depths of my soul; and when you
speak, it seems as if I could dare anything. I never shall forget my
feelings when you bade me read the inscription on the tomb-stone of
our martyred ancestors; my soul seemed to take a great leap, and
really to swell within my childish form. I felt as if I never could
be low, or mean, or grovelling after that, and so I feel to-day; but
what will it be when you are gone?" and Roland bowed his head and
wept.
She laid her hand upon his head and said: "When I am gone, Roland,
these memories will be with you, I know, 'to keep your soul from
blight.' I have perfect confidence that God will keep his promise to
me, and to you; he will guide you, I am sure; and though you may have
sore trials, he will sustain my Roland, and make him a blessing to
the world--too many twilight hours of consecration, too many seasons
of dedication has my Father witnessed when Roland's name was itself a
prayer, to allow one moment's doubt--not one of those sacred hours
will ever be forgotten by our covenant-keeping God."
"Ob, what I am losing in you, my mother!"
"It is God's will, my son; perhaps by cutting you loose from all
earthly dependence, he designs to cast you wholly upon himself--this
is the way that you are to learn the blessedness of 'looking aloft.'
Think what others have done who have risen from the humblest walks of
life, and do likewise; only let all be done for the glory of God, not
for your own exaltation, Roland. If it is ever in your power, I wish
you to visit your home in Scotland; you have an aunt and cousin
living there; there is some property also, and I think that it will
be to your advantage to seek out your relations. There is an old
friend of mine whom I should like you to see, Malcolm Graham; he
would be a valuable friend. Above all things, get a good education;
stop at no sacrifice; shrink from no labor."
Roland listened to his mother's words as though it were a voice from
Heaven, and to him it was; for the message of that hour guided all
his earthly destiny. He rose with reverence; his feelings were too
deep for utterance; pressing a kiss on either cheek, and on the calm
pale forehead, he left the room, and bowed by his bed-side, poured
out his young soul in fervent prayer.
"What has been done, by the blessing of God, shall be done again,"
said Roland to himself--"'looking aloft,' trusting in God, I can do
all things."
The resolution of that silent hour was sublime; it was known to none
but God; but doubtless a record was entered in the book of God's
remembrance which was never blotted out, never revoked; and the name
of Roland Bruce was seen by angels signed to that recorded
dedication, and sealed by the precious blood of the Redeemer.
From that day, the setting of life's sun to Mrs. Bruce was slow,
sure, but glorious.
"One more charge, Roland," said the mother, after an hour's converse;
"be faithful to Effie; I need scarcely tell you that; but she is a
delicate flower, and must be tenderly cherished, Roland; and after I
am gone, in my top drawer, tied with a black ribbon, you will see a
package; it is for you, Roland: I can trust you with your mother's
history."
Elsie Gibson had been absent for months from the neighborhood, but
one evening suddenly she appeared at the cottage. She seemed much
agitated on hearing how ill Mrs. Bruce was, and asked to see her.
Conducted to the dying chamber, and standing by the bedside, she took
the pale withered hand that lay upon the bed-clothes, and said:
"Mary Bruce, this is a solemn hour; I trust that you are at peace
with God."
"Blessed be my Saviour's name! I am; I have no fears for the future,
no anxiety for the present; death is swallowed up in victory."
"Is there any message that you would send to any of your Scotch
friends, Mary? I may go to Scotland ere long. Is there anything
upon your mind, Mary?"
"There is no one near, Elsie, is there?" anxiously inquired the
invalid.
"There is no one, Mary; we are all alone."
"If you ever see my brother or any of my relations, give my love, and
tell them how happy were my dying moments--and now, Elsie, you knew
my husband in former days--do you know that sometimes I have felt
that he was not dead. He was so singular, sometimes I thought he was
deranged; he became so gloomy in latter years, that I have thought
perhaps he is not dead; we never heard of it certainly, and then the
supplies which I received so long must have come from him."
"If he were alive, would you send him any message?"
"I should like to tell him that I freely forgive any unkindness which
he showed to me. He had sore trials to rend his heart, and so had I,
Elsie. If he is alive, and has forsaken his family, I forgive him
that too; because, if he is, I believe that it was done in an hour of
great depression, perhaps insanity."
Elsie listened earnestly to these words; a faint smile passed over
her face, as she replied:
"I ken something o' your story, Mary; it was a sad one; very much
like the song o' 'Auld Robin Gray;' but your sorrows are amaist owre,
Mary; and on the ither side, a' will be plain and clear."
A few more days, and the ministering angel called for the faithful
mother, and bore her peacefully, happily, over the swellings of
Jordan, to the bosom of the Redeemer whom she loved.
Roland stood in the presence of the dead with solemn, tender dignity;
for he felt that no common loss was his in parting with such a friend
and counsellor in life's trials and sorrows; but his hopes of reunion
were so strong, so bright, that time appeared but as a little span,
at the end of which he should again meet the spirit of that sainted
parent.
Effie was not so strong--poor, timid, loving child! It seemed to her
as if life would weep itself away in the first burst of anguish that
filled the chamber of the dead.
Aunt Matilda undertook the expenses of the widow's funeral, and the
family at the Hall joined the humble procession.
Elsie Gibson was a sincere mourner, and made many mysterious remarks
which none could explain.
About a week after the funeral, Roland and Effie bent their steps to
the village grave-yard. When they came in sight of the grave, what
was their surprise! to see Elsie and a man wrapped up in a heavy
cloak, in earnest conversation. He stood with his handkerchief to
his face, as though deeply affected; but as soon as Elsie perceived
the approach of the two, she hurried away with her mysterious
companion.
They were both surprised, and wondered who it could be thus
interested in their mother. They were paying their last visit ere
disposing of the furniture at the cottage.
Aunt Matilda had offered Effie a home, where she was to make herself
useful with her needle. Roland was preparing to obey his mother's
request of seeking an education. All was ready for his departure,
and Madeline sent for him to come up to the cemetery in the evening.
When reaching his mother's grave, there sat Madeline on the humble
mound, at the head of which was placed a simple head-stone of white
marble, with his mother's name and age inscribed, with the sweet
words, "Asleep in Jesus."
"Is this your work, Madeline?" asked the boy.
"Yes, Roland; it was the last thing that I could do for you; you have
been a faithful friend to me, and it is a small return."
"I cannot tell you, Madeline, how grateful I am for this act of
kindness; it was a trial to me to think that my mother must lie in
the grave without any sign to mark the place of her burial."
"When do you leave us, Roland?"
"Just as soon as my little stock at the cottage is disposed of; it is
of very little value, but after all our debts are paid, what is left
is for Effie, I can take care of myself. I shall be all alone in the
great world, Maddy, but it will be a comfort to know that you, my
little friend, will not forget me."
Madeline's eyes filled with tears. "That cannot be, Roland; all that
I know of anything that is good and holy began with you; when I first
knew you, I scarcely knew the difference between right and wrong."
"There is one thing I want you to promise, Maddy, and that is to read
your Bible morning and evening, praying for God to help you to
understand what you read."
"That is a small request, Roland, and I promise that I will let
nothing interfere with the duty."
"May our Father bless you, Maddy, and have you always in his holy
keeping. I shall never cease to pray for you."
"Where are you going, Roland?"
"To college, Maddy, where I hope to gain a classical education. My
mother charged me to strive for that, and with my eyes fixed upon
heaven, I hope to succeed."
"Have you any money, Roland?"
The boy smiled as he replied, "In the bank of Heaven, Maddy."
"What do you mean by that, Roland?"
"I mean that there are promises made to God's children--dear mother
has always told me that God's word can never fail--so his bank can
never break, Maddy."
"I shall miss you, Roland, when my naughty fits come. I shall want
you to show me how to conquer myself."
"You must not lean on any human arm; there is one strong arm, Maddy;
the one that conquered sin, Satan and death."
"That is Jesus, Roland. I wish that my faith in him was just like
yours."
"Pray, Maddy, that he would give you faith; he is the author and
finisher of our faith. Do you remember any of the little songs that
I have taught you, Maddy?"
"Yes, Roland, I remember them all; I shall get the music, and learn
them perfectly now."
"Let us sing together our last song, Maddy," and Roland's rich voice,
with Madeline's sweet, clear notes, joined in the dear old song,
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
In days o' lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my Jo,
For auld lang syne;
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne."
Maddy's voice trembled, and ere they reached the last verse she bowed
her head and wept.
Roland put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the likeness which
Madeline had brought from Boston for his mother.
"Here is the face of my kind little friend," said the boy, "I shall
often talk to it when far away."
"I have nothing but the sea-weed and the shells to look at, Roland;
but in my heart the memory of all the wise and precious things which
you have taught me."
"It is time for me to go now, Maddy. Good-bye; I am sure that we
shall meet again."
Madeline looked up with such a bright smile through her tears, and
said.
"Remember, Roland, what I have always said, that you will come back
to Woodcliff a great man; and I shall be so glad to see the upstarts
around us bowing down to Roland Gordon Bruce, the son of poor widow
Bruce. Good-bye, Roland; I shall never forget the lessons of Maple
Lane School, or the happy days that we have spent together." Giving
her hand to Roland, they exchanged a parting clasp, and Madeline
turned to leave the cemetery.
Roland sat down upon his mother's grave, and watched the childish
form until she was seen no more; then, bowing his head upon his
hands, he could no longer restrain the silent tears that would chase
each other down his cheeks.
"Thus fade my earthly friends," sighed the boy; "first my mother,
then Madeline, this precious little friend, then Effie, my darling
sister, next, and I shall be alone--a waif upon the wide, wide world;
but no, not a waif while God lives and my Saviour reigns, for,
blessed be his name! I can trust him still."
The little stock at the cottage was soon disposed of, and after all
their mother's debts were paid, nothing remained but a few dollars,
which Effie insisted Roland should take with him in his first
encounter with the world. Effie was comfortably settled at
Woodcliff, Roland stayed at old Peter's cabin a day or two, and Lucy
and Lavinia had returned to Boston.
"A letter from papa, dear aunt," exclaimed Maddy; "he is in New York,
and will be here to-night," and she was nearly wild with delight.
"Won't I surprise him with a morning serenade on my harp!" and she
had it brought into the room adjoining her father's, that she might
awake him in the morning with her music.
There was no more composure for Madeline during the whole of that
day--busy in her father's chamber, and in the library to see that all
was prepared for his comfort, adding, as the last touch, some sweet
flowers for both rooms. Madeline tried to settle herself to some
employment, but all in vain, until she uncovered her harp; practising
some of her best pieces, she spent the rest of the morning in
preparing for her serenade. Evening at length arrived, and with it
her dear father. Folded once more in his arms, Madeline was
perfectly happy for the moments following his arrival.
The evening was spent in showing the beautiful things that Mr.
Hamilton had brought for Madeline and her aunt; nor was Effie
forgotten by the kind man.
"Something will arrive to-morrow, Maddy, that I could not bring with
me, on account of its bulk; I know that it will please you best of
all."
Handsome dresses, laces, gloves, and jewelry were lavished upon the
idolized child.
Mr. Hamilton was a happy man, once more seated in the midst of his
family--fatigued, he retired early to rest; and, rising early in the
morning, stood at his window to enjoy the beauty of a magnificent
sunrise. While quietly looking upon the scene, he thought that he
heard the sound of very low, sweet music; for a moment, it ceased;
and he thought that he must have been mistaken; but again it swelled
out in deep rich chords of melody, accompanied by a charming
voice--it seemed very near, certainly in the next room. Opening the
door, what was his surprise to see Madeline, in her night-dress,
seated at a harp, performing most delightfully, and singing a song of
welcome for her father. He listened in delighted silence until the
close, then exclaimed,
"Why, my daughter! what does all this mean? How in the world did you
accomplish all this without my knowledge?"
"It was commenced in Boston, papa; and during your absence, I have
applied myself diligently, determined to surprise you."
"Well, truly! I think that the fairies must have been very busy,
Maddy, both with you and me."
"Why with you, dear papa? Have you been learning too, without my
knowledge?"
"You will know to-day what I mean, dear; but really, you could have
done nothing that could have pleased me better, than this pleasant
surprise."
Mr. Hamilton seemed to be very frequently at the front door, watching
evidently for an arrival; at length, Madeline's curiosity to know
what was coming, was about to be satisfied, for a wagon turned into
the avenue, bringing a very large and singularly-shaped packing-box.
It was brought into the house and soon opened, when, to Madeline's
surprise, an elegant French harp appeared.
Throwing her arms around her father's neck she exclaimed,
"Thank you, dear, dear, papa; this is just what I wanted! How in the
world did you know it?"
"Did I not tell you, Maddy, that the fairies must have been very
busy? But, candidly, I have always intended that you should study my
favorite instrument, and have brought you one of the finest that I
could obtain in Paris."
"Is it not delightful that I have been taking lessons, papa? Now I
can send away the old harp, and have my own."
For some weeks, Madeline was busily occupied with her beautiful
instrument; but Mr. Hamilton was obliged to yield at last to the
conviction, that he must part for a few years with his darling child,
if she was ever to be properly educated for the sphere in which she
was destined to move, for, under the weak guidance of Aunt Matilda,
that could never be.
As soon as he could obtain the co-operation of good Aunt Clara, a
suitable boarding-school was solicited, and, after due preparation,
Madeline was sent from home, to remain until her education should be
completed. It was a sore trial to both parent and child, and the
parting nearly overcame the resolution of the father, who could
scarcely endure the loneliness of Woodcliff without his darling.
Poor Effie would also be very lonely, but Aunt Matilda was really
kind at heart, and imposed nothing upon the young girl, but what she
was fully competent to perform.