"AULD LANG SYNE."
Madeline's presence in New York is soon known among her friends;
numberless cards are left at her house, but as her errand is one
chiefly of business, she returns but few calls; a few exceptions,
however, are made; for she wishes Effie to have some cheerful society.
Occasionally, excursions are made around New York for the purpose of
amusing her young friend, for Madeline spares no pains to cheer her
drooping spirits.
Roland has returned; he has been absent on exceedingly annoying and
troublesome business, and somewhat to throw off care, takes a boat
for the bay.
It is a beautiful evening, and has invited a merry party of ladies
and gentlemen to take the same excursion.
Roland does not relish the companionship of the light-hearted, and
withdraws himself from their neighborhood; not far from where he
stands, he observes the form of a lady leaning over the side of the
boat; sometimes gazing dreamily upon the water, then upon the heavens
above; it looks like a familiar form.
He recognizes the face of Madeline, but avoids recognition, because
he wishes to watch her movements. She seems melancholy and
abstracted, and hums sadly a familiar air, one that he had taught
her; the dear old song of "Auld Lang Syne."
"Does she remember those happy times?" thought the young man, "and
surrounded as she is by so much to make her forget those early days;
does she still cherish the memory of her boyish friend?"
He observed her wipe a tear silently away, and as she turned to renew
her walk, Roland moved towards her, and she recognized the object of
her thoughts.
"Mr. Bruce!" "Miss Madeline!" were the hasty salutations, as each
extended a hand of welcome.
"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was Roland's first question.
"I am here with Effie, for advice with regard to her eyes."
"Is she with you to-night?"
"She is not, for she has but little heart for amusement; she insisted
on my coming, and I have left her in good company for the evening."
"You were musing, Miss Madeline," said Roland, in a lower voice, "and
singing that old Scotch song; did it recall former childish days?"
For a minute, Madeline did not reply; at last she said, "I shall
never forget those days; how often do I need just such a friend as I
had then."
"There is a friend, Madeline, 'that sticketh closer than a brother;'
have you found him yet?"
"I am trying, Roland, but there is much to hinder; my faith is very
weak; my heart very deceitful."
"Your Saviour knows that, Madeline; he is not only the 'author, but
the finisher of our faith;' if you have any, even as much as the
grain of mustard seed, it is of his planting; he only can make it
grow; do you look to him daily?" and Roland bent more closely to
Madeline, as they paced the deck together.
"I think I have that little grain; but my great infirmities of
character do so harass me; my quick impetuous temper make me feel so
unworthy. I have no one to strengthen me now as when I went to Maple
Lane School."
"Do the temptations of the world draw your heart away from better
things, Madeline?"
"I think not; I care for none of them; I want to be a Christian,
wholly; to live a better, higher, holier life."
"These are the teachings of the Holy Spirit, Madeline; God will
perfect his own work; only do not resist these influences, they are
sent from Heaven."
"Lately I wanted your advice so much; I want to do some good at
Woodcliff; but I did not know how to begin."
"I have heard, Madeline, about your little school; go on, my young
friend, God will guide and bless you."
"How did you hear, Roland?"
"Did you not write to Helen for books and shoes? she told me all
about it."
Madeline shrank away at the mention of Helen's name, for she feared
that she had been too communicative about herself, but it seemed so
like the old times, that she could not resist the opportunity of
opening her heart on this one subject.
"Does Helen take any interest in such things?" inquired Madeline.
"Yes, she does now," was the answer; "she is quite a help to me in my
'Home.' I wish that you could do something for us, Madeline."
"How can I work for you away off at Woodcliff?"
"Why, you have a very fertile imagination, and used to be famous at
story-telling--can't you manufacture something for the 'News-boys?'"
"I write stories, Roland! why, I never thought of such a thing--but
it would be a pleasant thing if I could so write for them, and work
for you."
"I want you to work for God, Madeline; you have bright talents, my
little friend;" and Roland seemed to have gone back to the days on
the sea-shore, and to forget that he was talking to a young lady, the
heiress of Woodcliff, instead of little Maddy of Maple Lane School.
Madeline smiled, for it made her very happy to feel that she could,
in any way, be a coworker with Roland, and she really felt as if she
could make the effort; it was worth trying.
"Must it be very religious, Roland?"
"It must be something to wake up the moral sense of these poor boys,
and to point them to a holy life."
"Oh! that is too much for me, Roland; I can, perhaps, write a little
story which may please them, and keep them from bad reading."
"Will you promise me to try, Madeline? send it on to me, and I will
correct it, and get it ready for the press."
Suddenly Madeline burst out into one of her old fits of laughing; her
own ringing, silvery laugh.
"I could not help it, Roland; it seems so strange to think of
Madeline Hamilton turning authoress."
"It does not seem strange to me; I always believed that you were born
for something very good, Madeline; now I want you to tell me all
about your little school, and the poor people around Woodcliff."
And Madeline entered into an animated description of all that had
been attempted; so artless, so naive was her account, so modest, and
yet so frank, that Roland felt as if he was seated once more by the
bright child of the sea-shore; but when he remembered that years had
passed since then, and that the broad gulf of wealth and rank forbade
the free, charming intercourse of those young days; he checked
expressions that would have arisen to his lips, and hushed the wild
beating of his heart, awakening to the sense of danger, that attended
such an interview as this.
"You promise to write the story, Madeline, remember."
"Yes, I promise anything,"----and she checked the remaining words
trembling on her lips,--"to you."
They forgot the passing of time in this sweet communion, until
Charles Davenport came up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her
arm, said, haughtily,
"Are you aware, Madeline, how long you have been absent from your
party?"
"Are you aware that you are interrupting my conversation with an old
friend?"
"An old friend, indeed! May I ask the name?"
"Mr. Bruce, Charles Davenport."
"How long since you resigned your post at college, sir?"
"What post, Mr. Davenport?"
"That which you held when I was a member of that college."
Roland did not answer--indignation was too strong; but Madeline did.
"I understand your insinuation, sir; how dare you insult Roland
Bruce? You cannot lower him; you have tried it too often, and
failed."
Poor Madeline! aware of the hot blood that was mounting to her face,
she covered it with her hands, and murmured,
"Begone, Charles Davenport; you make me forget that I am a woman; I
am so ashamed, what shall I do?" and she burst into tears of wounded
modesty.
Charles went off whistling.
"Quite a scene with that upstart fellow!"
Roland stood by Madeline, scarcely knowing what to say. He was aware
that her innate sense of propriety had been greatly outraged by the
words which in her impetuosity she had uttered; he stood silent for
one minute, then taking her hand, said,
"I understand your generous nature, Madeline; I thank you more than
words can express."
"I am humbled, mortified at my impetuosity; do not think me destitute
of modesty, Roland."
"You, Madeline! you know not what you are saying--be satisfied when I
say that if the expression of the deepest respect that ever filled
the heart of man can relieve your wounded pride, it is all your own."
"Thank you, Roland; I could not bear to lose your respect; let me
always deserve that."
Taking her hand, and placing it within his arm, he led her to her
party, saying,
"Good night, Miss Madeline; I shall see you and Effie to-morrow;" for
Roland felt that this heart-communion was becoming each moment more
dangerous.
"Who was that young man?" inquired Mary Trevor; "he is so
noble-looking, and what a bow! quite the air of a prince!"
"Poor and proud!" retorted Charles Davenport.
"He is an early friend of mine, Mary. His name is Bruce."
"O yes! he is in Mr. Thornly's office; I have met him there several
times; he is a young man of fine talents, and quite an admirer of
Helen Thornly; some say more."
Madeline did not reply, but there was something in her heart that
night, that made her feel very easy with regard to these rumors; at
all events, Roland has lost none of his interest in his youthful
friend, and Madeline dreamed about Woodcliff, and Maple Lane School,
about the sea-shore, Uncle Peter, and a little shoe.
Next morning, Roland called to see his sister, and was deeply pained
at the evidences manifest of the affliction hanging over his darling
Effie.
Folding her in his arms, he pressed upon her sweet face the warm
kisses of brotherly love.
"Would, darling, that I could shelter you from the woes of life; but
Effie, this is not our home; we are seeking a better one; and if for
a little while our Father sees fit to close my sister's eyes, I will
be eyes and everything else for her."
"I know it, Roland; I am trying to school my heart; I know what is
coming; each day the light becomes more dim; but the presence of my
Saviour is always with me; I can still, with the eyes of my soul,
'Look aloft.' I have so many blessings, Roland; a pleasant home,
good kind friends, a dear, dear brother, such a friend in Madeline,
and the hope of Heaven always so bright."
Roland smoothed the soft brown hair, kissed the pale forehead, and
lifting up his voice, prayed so fervently for the dear stricken lamb,
that Effie was comforted.
A few more days, and the young girls returned to Woodcliff, with the
sad certainty that nothing more could be done for Effie.
Roland saw them safely in the cars, and promised to write frequently
to his sister.
"Remember your promise," was his last charge to Madeline.
As soon as possible, she made preparations for her new effort;
carefully concealing from her father and aunt the nature of her
employment.
She was some time deciding whether her hero should be a good or a bad
boy; she tried both, but was dissatisfied. At last, she selected one
from the very lowest walks of life, and the deepest degradation,
raised by the power of Christian love to a post of useful, earnest
piety.
As her story progressed, she read each chapter to Effie, who was
delighted at the genius manifested by her model friend.
At length it was completed, and sent to Roland; nothing was heard of
it for some time. So humble was her sense of its demerits, that
Madeline looked daily for the return of her manuscript.
Finally, a letter came to Effie, announcing that all arrangements
were made, the book disposed of, and would be out in about two
months; but Roland asked what was to be done with the money for the
manuscript.
"I never thought of that," said the young girl; "but tell Roland,
Effie, to keep the money for the 'Home.'"
When at last the package came, and Madeline really looked upon one of
her own productions in print, she could not but smile at her
temerity; and when in addition to the book, were also some flattering
notices from the press, she was actually surprised.
Papa was in the library--Madeline knocked at the door with a
trembling hand; and when her father bade her enter, she stood
irresolute with the book in her hand, and a shy smile upon her face.
"What is the matter, daughter? you seem agitated."
"I have something to show you, papa."
"Well! what is it? I am ready."
"This little book, papa."
"Poh! poh! is that all? only a boy's book, Maddy."
"But I know that you'd like to read this one, papa."
"Well, to please my daughter, I'll read it some time; lay it on the
table."
"But, papa, I want you to read it now; look at the title-page."
"By Madeline." "Why, what does this mean?"
"It means, dear papa, that this is Mad-cap's book."
"Did you really write this, my child?"
"Yes, I did, papa; I hope it may do some good among the poor boys of
New York."
"What next, Maddy?" asked her father, with an amused expression of
countenance.
"I must be busy, and this is such pleasant work; you do not object,
do you, papa?"
"No, not exactly; but I should not like to have your name handed
around as an authoress; I have rather a horror of literary ladies in
general; they are so often odd, and I cannot abide an eccentric
woman."
"But, dear me, papa, these little unpretending stories are really
nothing; they never can make me famous; and really I do not wish for
anything but that they may do some good."
Papa read the little book with a feeling of secret pride, quite
surprised to see so much talent in his daughter Maddy. At the
tea-table, he alluded to the subject.
"Well, what would you think, Matilda, if I should introduce Madeline
to her aunt, as a young authoress?"
"Think, Lewis Hamilton! why I should say that you are both crazy.
First, a Lady Bountiful, bringing in all the ragged children of the
neighborhood, and now a writer of childish books. I am really
concerned; if she becomes a 'blue stocking,' I have no hope left; she
will grow to be a careless, slatternly woman, just like that Miss
Hodges, that used to go about the country with soiled face and hands,
carrying her great bag of manuscript under her skirts, fastened
around her waist, like saddle-bags. You have no idea, Lewis
Hamilton, how these pursuits ruin a woman--your indulgence carries
you much too far."
Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily at such a picture.
"Don't alarm yourself, Matilda; I don't think that Madeline will ever
reach notoriety like that."
"Why, aunty, I can't see how you could ever dream of such a thing;
you know bow I despise a sloven; if I thought that I could ever
become such a disgusting person, I would burn my papers at once, and
consign my poor little attempts to the oblivion which they may reach
in another way; but, dear aunt, really in earnest, I promise you to
wash my face and hands, and comb my hair at least once a day, and not
to disgrace my name."
Throwing her arms around Aunt Matilda's neck, she kissed her
affectionately, and said,
"Now confess, aunty, did not you think first, 'And what will Mrs.
Grundy say?' Is not that the truth?" And Maddy was victor as usual
of the whole ground; father, aunt, and all who had read her little
book.
"Write to your heart's content, Maddy, only avoid those follies which
are so often seen."
The little school prospered. Effie aided as far as her strength
allowed. Total blindness had spread its dark mantle over the dear
girl.
It was truly a mournful sight to behold the desolate orphan, groping
her way about the house, feeling by the banisters, and along the
walls; or sitting with folded hands, and meek submissive face,
generally in Madeline's sitting room.
Her health was evidently on the decline; a feebler step, failing
appetite, longings for the better land marked her approach to her
Father's house.
She had learned to knit very expertly, even without eyesight, and it
was with feelings of humble contentment that she could thus employ
her fingers, for many a nice pair of warm stockings were thus
provided for their little pupils. Seated in Madeline's favorite
room, she could smell the fragrance of the flowers, hear the warbling
of birds, and the sweet voice of her dear friend at her daily
practice. Her chapter in the Bible was read to her every morning, by
Madeline, who would then arrange her chair, get Effie's knitting, and
busy herself about her own employments.
"Will you get me a bunch of heather, Maddy? I want it near me; it
was my mother's flower, you know."
"Here it is, Effie;" and placing it in her hands, Madeline kissed the
sweet pale face, while the blind girl pressed it to her lips with
sweet memories of the departed.
"Is it a bright morning, Madeline?" asked the orphan.
"Bright as a May morning can be, Effie; the dew is yet on the sweet
flowers, and all is charming and refreshing."
"I can well afford to be contented with my present blindness,
Madeline; for I shall soon see the brighter scenes, and pluck the
flowers of Paradise; will you sing for me that sweet hymn,
'Thy will be done?'"
and as Madeline poured out the plaintive melody of that touching air,
Effie leaned back in her chair, with a sweet placid look of perfect
happiness.
"Madeline, it is a precious experience 'to know no will but his,'
willing to live, joyful to die; I would live for Roland, but die to
be with Jesus and my mother; by-the-bye, Madeline, to-morrow is the
day when we may expect my brother; did he not say on Thursday?"
"He did in his last letter to you, and he is a faithful promiser."
Seated in her accustomed place, Effie listens eagerly for every step,
for her remaining senses are made more acute by the loss of one; the
step on the gravelled walk, then on the piazza, the closing of the
front door, the firm tread along the hall, and the voice so beloved,
sends a glow of joy over the face of the blind girl, and rising, she
gropes her way hastily to the entry, where she is soon folded to the
bosom of her "dear, dear Roland."
He gazes sadly for one moment upon the sightless eyes, the pale
drooping form, and the hectic bloom on the thin face, and feels that
Effie is following their mother to the land of the blessed.
But Roland has a cheerful spirit, and nothing but strong comforting
words pass his lips when alone with his little sister. He tells her
of his plans, of his success in business, and his News-boys' Home, of
incidents connected with the history of several, and amusing accounts
of their first entrance upon civilized life.
"Would you believe it, Effie, that one poor little fellow did not
know the use of a staircase, and we found him groping up on his hands
and feet as he had been accustomed to do by the ladder of his gloomy
garret. There was a looking-glass in the matron's room, and the same
little fellow was pushing through, thinking it was another room."
Effie laughed at these stories, and thought her brother the most
entertaining company that she had ever met.
"Now, brother, tell me all about Madeline's book; did the boys like
it?"
"It was the very book for them; they are always asking for 'The Boy
in Earnest;' each one is to have a copy on Christmas morning."
Turning to Madeline, he continued,
"You must go on with your stories; the publisher was delighted, and
wants more from the same source. I have some matter which I can give
you, and you can weave it into the form of a tale for us--you see
that my advice was good, Madeline, although you were so afraid to
try."
"It is always right, Roland; you never advised me for anything but my
good, but you ought to hear Aunt Matilda make fun of these things;
she says that I shall forget to wash my face and hands after awhile;
do you think that there is really any danger of such a calamity?" and
Madeline smiled archly on her friend.
"Not if I may judge by present appearances;" was the reply, as Roland
gazed with an admiring look upon the perfect lady-like neatness of
hair, dress, and manner that always distinguished Madeline.
"I never could tell what you wear, but I think that your aunt need
not wish anything different."
Madeline blushed at the compliment so unusual from the lips of
Roland, and made a low mischievous courtesy, with the witchery of
former times.
"Thank you, kind sir, you had better take care, lest you make me
vain, instead of a 'blue stocking;' and one is as bad as the other."
"Pure motives, Madeline, will make all right; everything in its
proper place, but God over all."
A bright blush mantled the young face, and a light beamed from the
deep blue eyes, illumining the whole countenance, which Madeline did
not care to be wholly revealed, for she dropped the lids hastily,
lest the eyes should speak too much.
The Saturday school assembled before Roland returned to New York.
On a visit to Effie, he had the pleasure of being present at one of
these gatherings.
Madeline was much embarrassed, and could scarcely proceed with her
work in his presence.
Understanding her feelings, he said, kindly,
"Is there anything that I can do, Miss Madeline?"
"If you will make the opening prayer, I should be pleased. I use our
forms of prayer, but I would rather hear yours to-day."
Roland poured forth a simple, heart-felt, earnest prayer, remembering
all the members of that household, as well as the children kneeling
around them. Madeline had never heard him pray, and when he named
her as the young teacher of the little flock, she felt that more
earnestness marked those petitions, and deeply was she moved by the
glowing language of that solemn supplication.
He took Effie's class, and although apparently engrossed by the
employment of the hour, watched with deep emotion the humble,
affectionate manner with which Madeline performed her duty towards
her young pupils.
He did not wonder at their interest, when he glanced at the earnest
glow of her lovely countenance, nor at the reverence of the young
faces, when he listened to the simple instruction which she
endeavored to impart.
At the close, Madeline took her seat at the piano, and played one of
her childish hymns, in which they all joined; then the bunch of
flowers, as usual, was the kind dismissal.
"Please, ma'am, granny is very bad with the rheumatiz," said little
Betsy Smith; "she wants you to come and see her."
"I will come to-morrow, Betsy."
"And please, ma'am," said another, "daddy broke his leg last week;
won't you stop at our house?"
Madeline blushed as she saw the expression with which Roland regarded
her, as she answered the humble petitioners.
"God bless you, Miss Madeline, in your good work," said the young
man, as he warmly pressed her hand; "but this is a novel kind of
school in a young lady's sitting-room, in the midst of flowers and
music, and such teachers."
"Our accommodations are not suitable, we know; but we hope for
something better some of these days."
"The children will be sorry to move away from this," was the quick
reply.
"But we can teach so few in this room, and we might as well have
more."
Roland was more pleased than he could express with all that he had
seen, and when he took his departure, his last words were,
"God bless you, Miss Madeline, and do not forget another book."