MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.
"Well, daughter, I suppose that I must leave my retirement, for this
winter at least," said Mr. Hamilton.
"So you promised, papa; I am looking forward to the season with great
expectations. Mary Trevor is impatient for us to come early, she has
so much in store for me. There are Mrs. Peyton, and Mrs. Rossiter,
and Mrs. Starr, all waiting anxiously for us; they give such elegant
parties, papa."
Mr. Hamilton looked with an expression of proud exultation upon his
beautiful daughter, and anticipated the sensation that the advent of
such a bright star would make in the world of fashion.
Madeline was full of eager anticipation, but not heartless; she
really regretted the parting with Effie, and the loneliness which she
knew the young girl would suffer during her absence; for Mr. Hamilton
and Aunt Matilda would both accompany the young heiress.
"I am sorry, Effie, to leave you; but the winter will soon pass; you
will busy yourself with looking after the house, with your needle and
your books; and write often, dear."
Effie sighed, as she almost whispered,
"Madeline, a great weight is on my heart; I find my eyes daily
becoming more and more dim; if the outer world should all be dark to
me, what a poor useless being I should be, and what a burden to my
friends!"
"Don't imagine such an affliction, dear Effie; Dr. Jenks shall attend
to your case at once; but do try to keep up your spirits. I have
often thought, Effie, that we ought to try to do something for the
people in the neighborhood; there are several families that we have
been accustomed to help; I will appoint you my almoner. There are
four old persons to be supplied with warm garments and coal for the
winter; and three or four invalids that need weekly care. Nanny
makes gruel or other comforts for Mary Swain the cripple, and it
would be a pleasure to me to know that they are all attended to."
Effie brightened at the prospect of such work, for employment like
this was the element of her nature.
"Take good care of my flowers, Effie, especially my rosebush, and
when I come back, let me see some roses on your pale cheeks, dear."
"You will not forget me, dear friend, that I know," said Effie,
folding her affectionately in her arms, and pressing a loving kiss
upon her cheek, she whispered, "do not forget the Blessed Saviour,
Madeline; you will be surrounded by a thousand temptations."
A tear glistened in Madeline's eye, but she dashed it aside, and said,
"Effie, don't be distressed about me; some of these days I will be
just as good as you can wish, but I must have a peep at the gay world
first."
"Some of these days, Madeline; how little do we know about the days
appointed us."
The day of departure arrived; the trunks were all strapped; Mr.
Hamilton and Aunt Matilda seated in the carriage, and Madeline,
folding her humble friend in her arms once more, took her seat by her
father.
"Farewell, Effie, be bright and cheerful, dear; we shall soon be back
again."
The young girl stood upon the piazza as long as she could see the
carriage, and turning into the house with a sad heart, Effie sought
and found the comfort that she needed, at the feet of her own dear
Saviour.
Let us follow Madeline to the scene of her introduction into the gay
world.
Established in an elegant suite of rooms in one of the most
fashionable hotels in New York, Madeline and her aunt were busily
occupied in giving orders for her winter outfit.
This was Aunt Matilda's element, and neither expense nor pains were
spared on the wardrobe of the young lady.
Soon cards from the upper circles of the great metropolis multiplied
in the card basket of our young novice.
All was pleasure and excitement, and weeks were occupied in returning
these numerous visits, and attending to milliners, dressmakers, &c.
Madeline's first appearance for the season was at the ball of Mrs.
Rossiter, one of the leaders of fashion in New York.
Attired in the most exquisite taste, for the first time her mother's
diamonds adorned her person.
When she entered the elegant room, leaning upon the arm of her
father, all eyes were turned towards her, in whispers of admiration.
As she passed, "Beautiful!" "exquisite!" "charming!" greeted her
everywhere.
"Let us be seated, papa," murmured Madeline, for the public gaze was
oppressive.
She was the centre of attraction the whole evening, her hand sought
for in every dance; truly, the young girl was completely bewildered
and intoxicated.
And so, night after night, the ovation of flattery was laid at the
feet of Madeline Hamilton.
Harry Castleton was among the most devoted of her admirers; but he
was simply tolerated, for Madeline saw through the shallowness of his
pretensions, and really pitied his contemptible folly.
"Well, papa, who do you think is the reigning star this winter?" said
Helen Thornly.
"I do not know much about the gay world now, daughter, for I tired of
it long ago; but I suppose every season has its own particular star,
that shines a little while, to be eclipsed by another."
"Madeline Hamilton is the theme of every tongue; her beauty, her
wealth, her accomplishments, have made her all the ton--the beaux are
crazy to be found in her train, and the belles are dying of envy."
"Have you met her anywhere, Helen?"
"Yes, papa, at Mrs. Trevor's--she is splendid in her point lace and
diamonds. I wish you could have seen her; and yet she does not seem
vain. She always was an artless, impulsive girl; but I think New
York will spoil her simplicity."
Roland listened to the remarks, and felt a deeper sinking of the
heart, as he realized the ordeal through which Madeline was passing;
but still, remembering all the past, and the power of first
impressions, he could look upward, and trust that she would yet come
out unscathed. Her world was entirely remote from his; they met but
occasionally, and that in the street, but seldom at Mr. Thornly's.
The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time, but was
she happy?
Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph. She had spent
the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest parties of the season.
Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table, the most
fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and strains of the
most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere. Her triumph was
complete.
Was Madeline happy? To have looked at her bright young face beaming
with smiles, to have listened to her musical laugh, and sparkling
repartee, to have watched her light and airy motions in the graceful
waltz, one would have pronounced her the gayest of the gay.
But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton which could
not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst for a better life,
which could never be satisfied with this mere mirage in the
pilgrimage of an immortal.
Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room, and seating
herself, commences disrobing.
Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering ornaments
and the faded flowers; leaning her head upon her hands, she weeps
over the emptiness of her daily life.
Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little box in her
writing-desk; reverently she turns over the leaves of an old book,
revealing branches of withered seaweed; and in another corner of the
desk, a cluster of common shells. The sight of these simple things
opens the flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her
burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit.
Memory is busy--back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane School, the
cemetery, the little cottage of the humble widow.
The present is fading--she had had a distant view of the glittering
world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer and nearer had she
approached the shining lake where she hoped to quench her thirst;
but, stooping down to drink, she had found the world like the mirage
in the burning sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat!
O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish pleasures!
O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who so wisely controlled
the impetuosity of her high spirit, and tamed the wilfulness of her
proud young heart.
She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had palled upon
her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one approving, yea, even one
kind reproving glance of the dark eye of Roland Bruce, she would have
given all, and more than all that the world had ever given her.
She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart to think of
better things.
She compares Roland's character with all that she had met in the gay
world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his was pure and solid gold.
She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers, and almost
resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering throng.
But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.
She believes the tale that Lavinia has so often told, and almost
envied Helen Thornly the daily companionship of such a spirit as the
one that had forgotten her.
"But I may cherish these dear mementoes yet," sighed Madeline; "they
speak of such holy, blessed things, that even the sight of them
refreshes me."
Placing them reverently in her desk, she commits herself to God's
keeping, and retires to her rest.
The world was fast losing its hold upon Madeline; the power of early
teaching was returning.
"Papa, shall we go home early in the season?" said Madeline; "I long
for Woodcliff."
"Just as soon as you please, daughter; are you getting tired of the
gayeties of New York?"
"I am sick of them, papa; I would rather spend one month at Woodcliff
now, where I could ramble by the old sea-shore, sail in my own boat
on the clear lake, or ride dear old Selim up and down the lanes, as I
used to when a child."
Her father smiled, for he longed for the elegant retirement of his
own home; but Aunt Matilda remonstrated.
"Surely, brother, you will not allow Madeline to be so foolish; she
might, at least, spend the whole season here."
"She may do just as she pleases, Matilda," was the answer; "I am glad
that she retains her love of domestic life, after all the gayety of
this winter."
Aunt Matilda sought Mr. Hamilton's private ear.
"I hope that you will not listen to Madeline's folly, brother, after
going to so much expense in bringing her out, and when so many of the
very first in the land are ready to lay their fortunes at her feet,
here you are marring her prospects for a mere whim."
"Really, Matilda, I did not bring Madeline to market, I am not so
anxious to be rid of my daughter, and if she is more happy in
domestic life than in the gay world, I am only too glad to encourage
the feeling. She has seen just what the world is, and has sense
enough to understand its hollowness."
* * * * * * * *
Roland is rising rapidly in his profession, still interested in his
"Home for the News-boys," and esteemed by his kind and generous
patron.
"Do you know, papa," said Helen, one day, "that Madeline is going
home; here in the very midst of all her triumphs, she is longing for
Woodcliff--so she says, but she always was a strange girl; I don't
know what to think of her."
Roland felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart at this
intelligence, for it seemed to say that Madeline was not spoiled by
the gay world. How he longed to see her, and his wish was speedily
gratified.
A carriage stopped at Mr. Thornly's door, which he recognized at once
as Mr. Hamilton's--in the next minute, Madeline stepped out, and sent
the carriage away. It was not a mere call, then, and he hoped to see
her, ere she left New York.
She had come to spend a social evening with Helen, and Roland having
the free entrance to the drawing-room at all times, sought his young
friend.
"You are going to leave us, Miss Madeline," was his first salutation.
"Yes, I really long for Woodcliff; a peep at New York life has been
sufficient."
A bright smile passed over Roland's face. "I was afraid, or rather I
thought that you might have been intoxicated by its flattery."
"It is very empty, Mr. Bruce, all mirage and outside show; I want
something better; point lace and diamonds, with glitter and show
without sincerity, will not satisfy one that once longed for inward
peace."
They are sitting apart from the rest, who were engaged in their own
conversation.
Roland drew near to Madeline, and in a low tone, he whispered,
"Madeline, do you long for this better life now?"
She blushed deeply at the old familiar name, as she replied,
"Most intensely, Roland; the world has lost its charms for me."
Just then, Helen stepped up, and interrupted the conversation.
"Will you not persuade Madeline to sing?" said the young girl.
"If you will favor us first, Helen;" and Roland led her to the piano,
and stood turning over the leaves for her, while she sang.
Was it the tenderness of a lover, or the mere interest of a friend
that marked his manner towards Helen? inquired Madeline of her heart.
There was something in the glance of Helen that betrayed more than a
common interest. But what meant Roland's whispered words? old
affection? or mere brotherly regard for one whom he remembered as a
mere wayward child?
After Helen, she took her seat at the piano, and song after song was
called for.
With all the simplicity of childish days, she poured forth those
strains of thrilling melody, once heard, never to be forgotten.
Roland shaded his eyes to hide the deep emotion which he could not
control, when she warbled forth, "Ye banks and braes o' Bonny Doon,"
with the sweet pathos of her touching voice. He could not answer,
even when she turned, and with the innocence of early days, said, in
a low tone,
"That was your mother's favorite, Mr. Bruce."
He bowed, but could not reply.
The evening passed; Madeline spoke her farewells to the family.
Roland handed her to the carriage
"Remember me in your daily prayers, Roland."
"God bless you, Madeline, forever and ever; and I feel that he will
with his choicest blessings."
"Helen is a sweet girl; I hope that you may be happy."
The carriage drove off--Roland retired to muse upon the evening, and
the next day, Madeline was on her road to Woodcliff.
On the following day, a note was delivered to Roland with a check for
one hundred dollars for the "Home for the News-boys."
Once more in sight of Woodcliff, Madeline's heart beat warmly towards
every object around her dear home.
Effie was on the piazza to meet her, but Madeline was shocked to see
the change in the dear girl.
"Oh! how welcome you are, Madeline! I have been so lonely; if it had
not been for the poor people that you gave me to take care of, I
should have been dreary enough; for Dr. Jenks will not allow me to
use my eyes at all."
"I am so glad to be back at the dear old home, Effie."
"Why, you did not stay as long as you intended, Madeline."
"No, I begged papa to bring me home; I have seen enough of New York;
I never was made for fashionable life, Effie."
"And you really have come back to us, Madeline, perfectly free,
notwithstanding all the fortunes that have been laid at your feet."
"How did you hear all this, Effie?
"Miss Matilda used to write us such descriptions of your numerous
conquests, that I often felt as if we had lost you altogether."
"You need never be afraid of such empty-headed fops as I have seen,
Effie; I scarcely met a man of sense while I was away."
Madeline felt the need of some strong guiding hand in her present
state of feeling; and, after she had been at home a few weeks, begged
her father to allow her to visit Aunt Clara once more.
Mr. Hamilton felt as if he could scarcely spare her.
"I shall not stay long, papa; I do so want to see my dear aunt, and
she has written for me so often."
"You may go, Madeline, if you will promise me to return in one month;
no longer, my daughter; I want you near me, my dear child, for I am
not so well as usual."
"Perhaps I had better stay, papa."
"No, Madeline, you can go; if I need you, I will send for you."
On the evening before her departure, she had visited the library, and
turning over some familiar books, she came at last to her portfolio,
that she had used when a school-girl. Listlessly looking through its
contents, a card dropped out, on which was sketched what she was sure
was a picture of herself, as she appeared on the evening when she had
first met Roland.
It was a spirited little picture; but who had drawn it?
She hurried to Effie, and holding up the card, said,
"Do you know who sketched this?"
"I think it must have been Roland; for one evening when he was here,
he was a long time in the library; and I know that he draws
beautifully."
Looking on the back of the card, she saw the initials R.G.B., and
soon the sweet memento was placed among Madeline's treasures.
Taking Hector as her companion, she sought the dearest spot around
Woodcliff, and soon seated on the rock near the old flag-staff,
memory wandered over the past.
The incident in the library had touched her deeply; but then that was
simply a memory of childhood, and she had doubtless been forgotten
since that time, or only remembered as an old friend; for had not
Lavinia declared more than once that Roland was actually betrothed to
Helen Thornly; for her own cousin had said so.
Ere she left the shore, she visited old Peter. He was living yet,
and hastened to meet the young lady whom he had so often seen on the
sea-shore.
"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and women, it seems;
but a little while ago since you and Roland were skipping about here
as happy children; now, you are a young lady, and Roland such a
fine-looking young man! The last time he was down, he came to visit
me in the old cabin--says he, 'Peter, you don't care for that little
shoe that is up in the shelf?'"
"No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good while because
the little girl dropped it here, and she was a bright child, and very
good to Uncle Peter."
"Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline.
"Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it away--a
queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up old shoes."
"Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired Madeline, with
her old smile of mischief.
"Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my old shoes; for
he only wanted that one, because it belonged to the little foot that
used to run about here on the old beach."
This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland really did think
as much of the little shoe as she did of the faded sea-weed that lay
hidden in the desk.
"I suppose that he did _then_," thought she; "but that perhaps was
before he knew Helen Thornly."
"Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young girl, before she
left the cabin.
"Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco; mine is
about gone, and it is hard enough to get it sometimes."
"You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day Madeline sent to
the nearest store for a good supply for the old man.
"God bless her bright young face! she always had a warm heart, but a
quick, high temper. I wonder how it is now; she'll come all right
by-and-bye."
Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had done with the
little shoe; but she guessed at last that it thrown away before this.