THE EARLY DAWN.
"I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's farewell; and
Aunt Clara was but too happy to see her dear niece once more.
"I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New York, Madeline;
I really was afraid that you would be wholly intoxicated by its
temptations."
"I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all was mere
mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly starved in that
heartless round of folly."
"How did you spend your time, Madeline?"
"In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the opera, making
and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk, and scandalous remarks,
in listening to the flattery of a score of empty-headed fops, coming
home tired at night, sleeping late next morning, and longing for one
sight of nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion. Aunt
Clara, I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you
longing for something better."
Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss on the fair
young forehead, and said,
"There are fountains of living water, Madeline; these only can quench
the burning thirst of an immortal spirit."
"I must find them, dear Aunt Clara, for I am fainting for thirst."
Lucy Edmonds was happy again, for dearly did she love the
warm-hearted girl. Madeline's openness, her generous heart, her
plain bluntness, her perfect transparency of character, charmed her,
and contrasted with Lavinia's worldliness and vanity; it was really
refreshing to hear her sweet young voice, and see her moving about
again in her aunt's household.
This was an important era in the life of Madeline Hamilton, for a
great change was passing silently in her moral nature, and a peep
into her journal will reveal something of her inner life.
"New York. At length I have seen something of this bright world, of
which I have heard so much. Last night was my first appearance at
Mrs. Rossiter's ball. Dear papa spared no expense upon my dress; it
was exquisite--white silk with point lace, flowers, and my mother's
diamonds. I suppose that it was a beautiful vision that dawned upon
the world, for the language of flattery and admiration met me on
every side; and, must I say it? I was, for awhile, pleased with the
cup offered to my lips. Papa was gratified, Aunt Matilda in
ecstasies, and I, while in the midst of the gay scene, was
enchanted--all was so new, so beautiful, so grand.
"Why did I sigh when I entered my dressing-room, and shut out the
world? And yet I did sigh, and said to myself, 'Is this all? Empty
heart! what is it longing for? With everything this world can give,
but within, an aching void.'
"I have seen Roland, saw him at church, but he did not see me. How
calm! how devotional his whole manner! O, for the peace that he
enjoys!
"Mr. Grafton called a few days ago to see papa; all his talk was of
Roland. Roland's goodness! Roland's benevolence! Roland's talents!
It was a pleasant theme--and, when he told about the News-boys' Home,
which he had helped to establish, I felt so proud of him. I wonder
what made him think so much of the news-boys! could he have been once
as poor, as destitute as they? Mr. Grafton hinted it. Poor Roland!
what he must have suffered! But why should I feel proud of him? He
is Helen Thornly's betrothed; so the world thinks, so Mr. Grafton
supposes, and Lavinia Raymond declares.
* * * * * *
"At the opera, last night, the music was divine; but the bewildering
acting, the unchaste appearance of the women, the glitter and parade
of the audience,--was this what Roland would approve of?
"I lead two lives, one in the outside world, where all is show, and
giddy pleasure; another, an inner life, with every fibre of my nature
sending out its clasping tendrils to reach something substantial,
enduring, satisfying. Like the delicate air-plant fluttering in the
breeze, I stretch forward to grasp it, but it is gone. I have not
found it yet. Who would believe it, that sees Madeline Hamilton
surrounded by flatterers, intoxicated for the moment with the gay
blandishments of the world, smiling, waltzing, sparkling in
magnificence? Who would believe that, in the silence of the night,
she mourns, and weeps, and longs for something better.
"I have heard of that better part, that higher life, from Mrs. Bruce,
from Aunt Clara, from Roland. I have seen it in the calm
tranquillity of their daily life, in the blessed hopes of a
Christian's death.
* * * * * *
"Last night, I was at Mrs. Rossiter's ball; it was superb! but Oh!
how hollow! Even while receiving the hospitalities of their hostess,
how many heartless ones did I hear whispering disparaging remarks,
criticizing the entertainment, and prophesying the downfall of the
establishment. I am sick of this folly--would that I were back at
Woodcliff, among the green trees, the quiet lanes, the grand old
ocean, the solemn cemetery, with dear Effie, my good old Hector,
faithful Selim, my pets, my flowers; anything but this heartless,
empty show.
"O! what an hour I spent when I retired! I opened my desk, and there
lay the dear old sea-weed, given so long ago by my best friend, my
childish guide, my model boy--now such a noble man. I pressed them
to my burning lips; what would I give for one hour's heart communion,
such as we used to love in days that are gone. He could guide me, he
could strengthen me, but he is gone, he is another's now. Then I
prayed--yes, earnestly--fervently; and I resolved that this empty,
frothy, sinful life should end. It must be sinful; it cannot be
right that an accountable creature should spend the solemn days of
probation in such frivolity.
"Next morning, I told papa that we must go home--Aunt Matilda opposed
it--she does not understand me, but Roland does. I met him at Helen
Thornly's--something of the old tenderness in his manner; but still
there is a gulf between us which seems impassable. But I can cherish
the memory of all that he used to be, and all that he has taught me.
All that I know of goodness, and high and holy things, I have learned
from that beggar boy, as Harry Castleton has dared to call him, and
even now! I felt as if I could wither him with my scorn, and
certainly annihilated him with one of my haughtiest looks, for I have
not seen him since that day. Harry Castleton scorn Roland Bruce!
Roland in a cottage, struggling with poverty, as I have seen him,
with the grand and lofty spirit of the Gordons; and Harry Castleton,
rolling in wealth, the dweller in a palace, would be simply Roland
and Harry still.
* * * * * *
"At home again! How I ran about with my winter hood, and
water-proof, visiting the old familiar spots, and rejoicing in the
presence of my dumb pets. The dear old library--my harp and piano,
like faithful friends, seemed to welcome me again; the sweet Eolian
sounded out a loud pæan, for sharp March winds swept over its
strings, and it, too, seemed rejoicing.
"How shall I occupy my time? There is a great deal here to do. I
should like to do some good in the world, and live for something
beside myself.
"Could I not gather a little group of poor children, and teach them?
Could I not establish something like a parish school? There are so
many poor people around us, that only live a wild life,--children of
the fishermen. Effie could help me, and we would be so happy
together. Then, after awhile, we might perhaps have the services of
our own church; I could get a missionary to come here twice a-month
from Boston, and then we may have a church of our own; but I must see
Aunt Clara first, she can direct me.
* * * * * *
"I am with Aunt Clara again. There is rest in her very smile; the
soft silver hair lies so quietly around her mild face; the peace of
God breathes in every look and motion. She is so different from Aunt
Matilda--she draws me heavenward; Aunt Matilda drags me down.
"Poor aunty! what a pity that she has nothing but the things of this
world to lean upon! no wonder that she feels their insecurity. But,
dear Aunt Clara, so patient, so peaceful, so happy. I can pour out
my whole heart, I can tell her all my thoughts.
"She seems to anticipate all I have to say. How sweet the name of
Jesus sounds, uttered by her lips! She talks to me of his
tenderness, his fulness, his preciousness, until sometimes I feel,
'None but Jesus!'
"Then clouds come again--I lose my hope, and all is dark. But still
I trust that there is some progress in the inner life. I love my
Bible; the hour of prayer is precious; the house of God, my chief
joy. Nothing will draw me to the world again, I hope; and yet my
'heart is deceitful above all things,' as regards the things of God.
"Lavinia urges me to follow in her sinful, foolish ways; I will
not--I have refused her invitations repeatedly, and she tries the
power of ridicule. She does not know me, or she would not try the
weakness of such a weapon.
"I am too proud yet to yield to such a mode of opposition. Just let
me believe myself a Christian, and Lavinia's ridicule will only
excite my sorrow.
"The gay world has lost its charms for me, and I care not what
Lavinia and her friends may say. She has told me a great deal about
Helen Thornly, and has convinced me, that she is, indeed, the chosen
companion of Roland's future life--may they be happy! She says that
Roland always speaks of me with the affection of a brother, very
calmly, but never seems willing to talk about Helen.
"How much of my present state of feeling may arise from this loss of
my early friend. If so, how little is this weariness of the world to
be trusted! in other circumstances, the power of the world may all
return.
"I went to hear Mr. Endicott, Aunt Clara's pastor. What an earnest,
faithful sermon! What a picture of our sinful nature he drew! it is
all too true. And where is our help? 'Look unto me,' says the
Blessed Saviour; do I look unto him? if I did, would not peace visit
my bosom?
"Oh! for a living faith! Sometimes I feel as if I really had
exercised such trust, and then the merest trifle draws my heart away,
and my peace vanishes.
"Lavinia has such power to annoy me--she takes malicious pleasure in
bringing all the gossip that she can about Roland--why should I be so
disturbed? He is only my friend; I am mortified that I should allow
myself to dwell so much upon these circumstances. I had a letter
from Helen, yesterday--it was full of Roland--she says if I could
know all, I would value him as highly as she does.
"How little does she know of me! What can be the secret which she
cannot disclose? She says that it places him among the noblest and
the best of men. She writes as if she were on terms of close
intimacy with Roland; writes of mending his clothes, attending to his
room, helping him in his work among the News-boys. It is evident
that she loves Roland Bruce; and how can she do otherwise, living in
the house with him on such familiar terms? May they be happy
together! But it does seem strange that he can forget his old friend
so soon.
"A letter from papa; he is not well--he says that the parlor is so
melancholy, the harp so silent; he wishes me to return; I promised
him that I would; and nothing can keep me away.
"Aunt Clara is sorry to have me go so soon, but she thinks it is my
duty, and bids me depart. I am going, to-morrow--she prayed so
earnestly alone with me, that I might be kept from the temptations of
the world, and brought really to the feet of Jesus.
* * * * * * *
"I am at home again--papa looks so thin and pale; his spirits are
very low--Effie's eyes are no better; I am troubled about the dear
girl, more than she is about herself; she seems to live in the spirit
of a beautiful hymn.
'Sweet to lie passive in his hands,
And know no will but his.'
"I spent my first evening at the harp, playing for dear papa; he
seemed so happy to have me at home again--how fondly he hung over me
all the evening!
"What should I be without him? I cannot bear to think of such a time.
"He called me to his side before he retired, and opening a casket,
gave me such a beautiful set of emeralds; he is never tired of
lavishing gifts upon his darling child.
"To-day Effie was sitting near the window trying to knit a little;
she seemed sorely perplexed, frequently dropping her stitches, and
scarcely able to take them up again--Aunt Matilda observed her.
"'What are you worrying yourself for, Effie, with that knitting?'
"'I am so tired of doing nothing,' replied the dear girl, while large
tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Poor dear Effie! I fear that she is really losing her sight--so
patient! so resigned! so ready for the will of her Heavenly Father,
whatever that may be.
"Roland had heard of her sickness, and has been to see her--'He was
so kind,' Effie says; 'so gentle to his little sister.' She says
that he asked a great deal about me. I wonder if he has the little
shoe yet--how foolish all this is! I ought not to write such folly.
"I have a great deal of time unoccupied--ought I not to do something
for this neighborhood?
"But how shall I begin? In my walk, yesterday, I rambled among the
factory children; they seem very poor and ignorant; can I not do
something for them?
"Aunt Clara gave me some little books and tracts for just such
people; I think I will take some among them.
* * * * * * *
"I went this morning along the factory lane, with my little basket in
my hand; the children found that I had pretty books with pictures.
Soon they were running after me.
"'Lady, please give me a little book,' cried one little girl. 'Give
me one, lady,' 'and me,' 'and me,' sounded out a score of young
voices, all eager for a book, or a tract.
"The books were soon all gone, and I had the pleasure of seeing
several sit down by the road-side, eagerly examining the pictures,
while others ran in to show their mothers what they had got. I think
very few can read, for they only looked at the pictures.
"One little curly-headed girl, with bare feet and ragged clothes,
came pulling me by the dress.
"'Lady, please come and see my mammy; she is very sick.'
"I followed the child, and found her poor mother extended upon a bed
of sickness, with every appearance of want and misery. I questioned
her; she had been sick for two months; often in need of food; her two
children worked at the factory, and their scanty wages was all that
she had.
"'Oh, ma'am! the rich don't know the value of the broken pieces which
they throw away; but we know, ma'am.'
"I left her some money, and promised to remember poor Mrs.
Donnelly--she had set me to earnest thinking. Her grateful look
repaid me for that visit.
"In the next cottage was an old bed-ridden grandmother; in another a
cripple; and enough all around to convince me that Madeline Hamilton
must not spend an idle life around Woodcliff. Just to think that I
have lived so many years in elegance and ease, and all this misery at
my very doors. I thought of the parable of the steward, and his
Lord's return to reckon. It is true that a great deal was sent out
from Woodcliff among the neighboring poor, but it could not be said
of us generally, 'I was sick and ye visited me.' I must do
something--but how shall it be? I will ask Effie; she knows a great
deal about these people. Roland could tell me; his earnest, warm
heart, and strong good sense, would see the way at once. It will be
so pleasant to know that I am working in the same field with
Roland--he, for the misery of New York, and I, for that around
Woodcliff. These poor children have no time for school, and yet they
are so ignorant; can I teach them in any way? They might stop work
on Saturday; I would pay their mother their wages, and they could
come to me in the afternoon; they would thus lose no money, and gain
much knowledge. I will try, and Effie can help me to gather the
children.
* * * * * *
"I went yesterday--six little ones promised to come on Saturday.
Aunt Matilda is shocked with the idea of a Miss Hamilton becoming the
Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood.
"'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is ever uppermost with poor aunty.
"I have a room all my own, where I can do just what I please; my
pleasant sitting-room, where I can easily manage twelve little girls.
I will have some nice desks and benches made, and James can bring
them in every Saturday.
"Yesterday my little class came--they were all clean, but several
barefoot and ragged.
"They seemed quite bewildered by the pretty things around them. I
played a simple hymn, and tried to teach them to say it; but they
were struck dumb with amazement. I suppose that they had never seen
a piano before.
"I amused them then by telling them a story. Effie took them out in
the garden, and gave each a bunch of flowers. They looked so
pleased, poor little things! What a pity that I had not known before
how cheap a thing it is to make others happy, and that my garden
could brighten so many little faces; but I don't think that they were
so happy as I--my heart felt so warm, and tears of gratitude would
rise, when I remembered all God's goodness to me. There was a warm
glow of sunshine around Woodcliff on Saturday afternoon, and it shall
come again.
"Effie thinks we had a good beginning; the little ones promised to
come next Saturday.
"Aunt Matilda laughs at my new folly, as she terms it, saying, 'that
I will soon grow tired of it.'
"Papa says, 'I am glad that Madeline has thought of the children; it
will employ much of her time. I sometimes think that we spend a very
useless life here at Woodcliff.'
"Aunt Matilda replies, 'I am sure, Lewis, that you cannot expect me
to enter into any such plans. I am much too delicate with my nervous
temperament; it would drive me crazy to teach little children; and I
do think that Madeline Hamilton might find employment more worthy of
a young lady.'
"I have written to Helen to send me some shoes for children, and some
books, giving her a short account of what we are doing.
"Saturday came again--my six little girls were punctual; but it was a
rainy day, and they brought some mud.
"Aunt Matilda was very angry, and said harsh things. I replied
haughtily, and with one of my outbursts of temper.
"'Well, Madeline, if this is your piety, I want nothing to do with
it.'
"'I don't pretend to piety, aunt; I only want to do some good in the
world; and I think that you might help, instead of hinder me.'
"I was ashamed of myself, and deeply depressed for all that day--will
I ever learn to bridle my tongue?
"The little ones were glad to get their new shoes--I gave them their
first lessons; they were very dull, for they have never been taught
anything; and it was hard to keep their eyes from wandering about the
room, and out into the garden, for the glass doors of my sitting room
open directly on the garden, filled with beautiful flowers. A hymn
which they tried to sing, and a bunch of flowers for each, closed the
exercises."
* * * * * *
The school went on prosperously for several weeks; the numbers
increased to twelve; and Madeline was pleased to see some
improvement. Effie taught each one orally verses from the Bible, and
simple hymns, for she could not use her eyes at all.
Weekly the young girls visited the factory lane, and soon the poor
people learned to look for the visit with great delight.
The sick mother was tenderly cared for; the old grandmother provided
with what she needed; the cripple comforted by kind words, and gentle
ministrations; and Madeline felt the joy of knowing that she was
doing something towards lightening human misery. But Effie's eyes
were growing worse; it was deemed advisable to consult a New York
oculist; and Madeline was obliged to accompany the young girl.
The Saturday school was for awhile suspended, much to the
disappointment of the little ones, for they were very sorry to lose
their kind teachers.
Being alone, it was thought proper that they should take up their
abode in a private boarding-house, for Madeline could not burden her
friend Mary Trevor with the charge of Effie.
But little encouragement was given by the great oculist; and Madeline
was now convinced that her friend was doomed to a life of darkness.
Roland was not in New York when they first arrived, having gone to a
neighboring town on important business. Madeline was devoted in her
attendance upon Effie; reading to her, and in every way that
affection could invent, trying to turn her thoughts from herself.
Effie was, however, in habits of daily self-communion, schooling her
young heart to what she felt was coming. "God help me!" was her
constant cry; and when was that feeble prayer ever disregarded by the
dear Father in Heaven?