OUT IN THE LIGHT.
It is a bright and beautiful day--Madeline looks tenderly upon the
drooping invalid reclining upon the couch in her pleasant
sitting-room.
"Will you walk this morning, Effie? the air is so pure and fresh, it
will revive you."
She raised her languid head for one moment, and replied,
"I cannot to-day, dear, I am too weak; come read to me some of the
precious Saviour's words; they will comfort me."
Madeline selected some passages from the fourteenth chapter of John,
those which have cheered so many weary pilgrims on their journey
homeward.
"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would
have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
"'Many mansions,' dear Madeline, and one is mine, purchased by a
Saviour's blood, ensured to me by his unfailing truth."
Madeline's eyes filled, and her voice trembled as she continued.
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and
receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."
"'I will come again,' Maddy; listen to those words; Jesus will come
again, and where he is, I shall be also; with Jesus, dearest; with my
mother in Paradise; out in the light; no more blindness, no more
darkness, but perfect bliss; this is my hope."
Madeline took up the next verse.
"And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know."
"Yes, blessed be God! I know the way; I have known it so long; my
mother led my infant steps in that holy way, and I cannot remember
when I did not love my Saviour. O, what cause have I to praise my
God! While so many are living in sin, dancing merrily in the way to
death, his grace has saved me, Maddy; if I had been like others, rich
and healthy, I might have been just as thoughtless, just as vain."
Madeline continued until she came to the verse, "Jesus saith unto
him, I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto
the Father but by me."
"He does not leave us, dear, to grope in darkness, when he says,
'Come unto me;' he leads the way himself; he is the truth; he guides
us into all truth; he is the life, Maddy, the life of the immortal
soul; through him we have pardon, access to God, and the hope of
eternal life sure and stedfast; poor, weak, trembling thing that I
am, I can cast my little anchor within the vail, and feel it on a
rock. I know that this faith must be divine, for I am such a
fearful, timid being, afraid of so many things around me, and yet not
afraid to meet a pure and holy God in judgment; this faith must be
all his work, Maddy."
With a heart full of sympathy, Madeline continued until she reached
the thirteenth verse.
"And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the
Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in my
name, I will do it."
"'If ye shall ask anything in my name;' think of the promise,
Madeline, 'I will do it.' I have believed my Saviour, and I have
asked eternal life for you, and my Saviour will, yes dear, he is
hearing my prayer, and Roland's too--how often have we prayed
together for you."
Madeline's head drooped for one moment, and she could scarcely
proceed; but she answered,
"Do you really believe, Effie, that I shall ever be a Christian? that
I, proud, self-willed Madeline, shall ever be like the meek and lowly
Saviour?"
"Yes, dear, if you, like Mary, will sit daily at his feet, he will
teach you; he will make you like himself; and then, Maddy, after all
the cares and sorrows of this mortal life are ended, we shall be
forever with him."
"Does it ever grieve you to think of leaving this world, Effie?"
asked her friend.
"When I think of Roland all alone," and her lips quivered, "then my
heart is sad, for he has none but me; but you'll be kind to him,
Madeline; you will not forget Effie's brother."
"There is Helen Thornly, Effie; while he has her, he will not be
desolate."
"What do you mean, Madeline? Helen is only a kind friend to Roland,
nothing more; she helps him in his missionary work, and that brings
them much together; there is nobody in the wide world that Roland
values as he does you, Maddy; next to me, you are his other sister."
"Did he ever tell you so, Effie?"
"Why no, not exactly; but I know Roland; he can never forget the
kindness of his little sea-shore friend, or the sweet intercourse of
childish days; he has too much gratitude for that. But Maddy, there
is one thing I should like--when I am gone, you can write no more
letters for poor blind Effie; how he will miss them! If you would
only continue to write to him kind, friendly letters, he would not
miss me then quite so much."
Dear innocent little Effie!
Madeline blushed even in the presence of the blind girl, at such a
proposition.
"That cannot be, Effie; it would be highly improper for a young lady
to be writing letters to a gentleman."
"Pardon me, Madeline, I forgot the difference; I see it cannot be
expected; it would be presumptuous in Roland; but still it would be
so pleasant; and I don't see why you cannot; just letters of advice,
Maddy."
"I advise Roland! why Effie, that would be singular indeed, when
nearly all my life he has been my counsellor."
"This is a strange world, Maddy. I know that you would like to
write; and just because people are so foolish, you have to be led by
their notions; Roland is only like a brother, and I can't see any
harm in it at all."
"Dear papa would not approve of such a correspondence, Effie; and
besides, Roland has never asked it himself."
"Some of these days, Madeline, you will be thinking of marriage, or
some one will think of it for you; I hope that you will ask Roland's
counsel, then; I know that he would not like you to marry any one who
is not a Christian."
"Why, Effie, you need not trouble yourself about the matter; I am
very happy at Woodcliff; I don't know any one that could tempt me
away from my father; in fact, I don't think about it at all. Harry
Castleton has troubled me sometimes with his offers, but really, I
scarcely give it a thought, and least of all with him."
But Madeline smiled at the idea of asking Roland's advice upon such a
subject.
"Now, Maddy, sing me one of our sweet hymns."
"What shall it be, dear?"
"'How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord;' that is one of my
favorites."
And Madeline sang the beautiful words with touching pathos.
Effie was not able to sit up all that day, but continued in the same
happy, tranquil state of mind.
Time wore away--gradually Effie's strength declined.
One day, being a little stronger, she called Madeline to her side,
and said,
"Bring me the box, dear, which you will find in my upper drawer," and
accordingly Madeline obeyed.
"I have none but you, Miss Matilda, and Roland, Maddy, and I want to
distribute my few trifling keepsakes, before I am too weak. My
Bible, my breastpin, with my mother's hair, and my little desk, are
for Roland; my mourning ring, the gift of Miss Matilda, and the
likeness, which you remember we had taken in New York, are both for
you; my hymn-book, my knitting-bag and caba, are for Miss Matilda. I
bought a little book for each of the servants, when I was in New
York; write my name in each. You may do what you please with my
clothes; I think, however, it would be well to distribute them among
our little scholars--now I have nothing more to do with earth, but
just to wait my Father's will; when he is ready, he will send for me."
There was a picture of the Believer's Vision on the wall opposite to
where Effie reposed, and as she lay there with folded hands, and
sweet expression of perfect peace, Madeline had learned to associate
the two, and ever after, would that touching picture speak of Effie.
"Madeline, I promised Roland that I would send for him when the
change was near; I think that it will not be many days before I shall
be out in the blessed light of Heaven. I asked the Doctor,
yesterday, and he told me, Maddy, that it might be a very short time,
or a few days, at farthest; will you send for Roland? This is
Thursday, and he could be spared better on Saturday and Sunday."
Madeline sent a few hasty lines, and on Saturday afternoon he
arrived, pale and sad, for he understood the message.
"You will stay with me, Roland, until all is over?" was the request
of the dying girl.
"I have made all my arrangements, and will not leave you, darling."
"I want to see Mr. Hamilton alone, Roland; I have something to say to
him; will you tell him, dear?"
Madeline's father had learned to love the gentle blind girl, and when
he entered, and saw the gray shadows of death upon her countenance,
he could scarcely control his feelings.
"I am going to leave you, Mr. Hamilton, and I want to thank you for
all your kindness to poor blind Effie; I shall not be blind much
longer, for I am going out of the darkness into the blessed light of
Heaven; but I want to tell you, that weak and timid as I am, I am not
afraid to die; my trust is in Jesus, and he never leaves me, nor
forsakes me. I love you, Mr. Hamilton, because you are Madeline's
father, and I want you to be just as happy as I am--warnings have
come to you, my good, kind friend, for these many months, and I want
you to promise me, dying Effie, that you will seek the Saviour, ere
it is forever too late."
Mr. Hamilton bowed his head upon his hands, and replied,
"I often feel, Effie, as if my days would not be very many in this
world, for I am much worse than Madeline dreams of. I have not your
blessed hope, my dear child, but I know that yours is real, is
divine, and I promise you, Effie, to seek your Saviour; does that
make you happy?" and Mr. Hamilton stooped down to kiss the pale cheek
of the child.
"Happy! yes, Mr. Hamilton, I should be perfectly happy, if I could
hope to meet you all up there," and she pointed upward, while a look
of seraphic blessedness dwelt upon her face. "Now, send Miss
Matilda."
Miss Matilda had avoided being alone with Effie, for she was afraid
of death.
Thoughts of the dark grave, the judgment and eternity, were all that
she ever associated with the subject.
She entered the room, and took her seat by the couch.
"You are not so very ill, Effie; I have seen persons weaker than you
recover." Effie smiled, as she replied, "I have no fears of death,
Miss Matilda; my Saviour has taken them all away; I have no desire to
live, but for Roland's sake; but I sent for you to tell you how
blessed is the Christian's state. My trust is all in my Saviour; and
he will not prove untrue to his word. You have been very good to
poor orphan Effie, and I want to see you happy. I know you are not
happy now--no one can be who does not love God best of all; you will
not be offended at me, Miss Matilda, for I shall soon be gone; but I
want you to seek the Saviour."
"I am a member of the church, Effie; I don't know what you mean,
exactly."
"I mean, dear Miss Matilda, that I want you to have real heart faith
in Jesus; faith that makes you love him, trust him, follow him as
your best friend."
"Effie, I do believe in him, but not as you do."
"That is what I mean, Miss Matilda; I don't mean just to be a member
of the church, and no more; that is not all; I want you to be a
member of Christ himself, and that is by faith."
"'Tis like Heaven below,
My Redeemer to know,
The angels can do nothing more,
Than to sit at his feet
And the story repeat,
And the dear friend of sinners adore."
Miss Matilda sat bathed in tears, for she had a warm affectionate
heart, and could not but love the little lamb who was pleading so
sweetly the cause of her Master.
She took the pale and withered hand, and replied, "Effie, there is
something about this, different from all that I have ever seen; death
always seemed so terrible to me."
"It is only terrible where sin is not pardoned; 'the sting of death
is sin.' Jesus has borne it all for me, and to me there is no sting,
nor any fear of the grave, because he has lain there, and blessed it,
Miss Matilda."
"Would that I had such a trust as this," and she kissed the dear
child, and left the room. Sweet was the communion between Effie and
her brother. Roland's strong faith, and scriptural knowledge made
him a most valuable treasure to the feeble girl, for as the dying
hour approached, she had some experience of the conflict between the
soul and body, and some slight cloud of darkness in her hour of
weakness; but Roland sat by her, watching each change, praying,
soothing, repeating words of Scripture, and the hour of temptation
passed.
"Out in the light, dear brother; so soon at home with Jesus. Read
from the Revelations, Roland;" and in a deep, rich voice, he read,
"'And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of God and the
Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him: And they shall
see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there
shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of
the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign
forever and ever.'"
"'And there shall be no night there,' Roland, 'but one eternal,
glorious day;' come, Madeline, one more kiss, one more, Roland," and
Effie clasped her dying arms around both as she whispered, "Love the
Saviour, love Roland as I have loved him, Madeline, love each other,
and we shall meet in Heaven."
They arose from that cold embrace, and as Effie lay back upon her
pillow, softly, gently the sweet spirit departed; and when Madeline
saw that she had gone, forgetting all ceremony, she took Roland's
arm, and led him out into the garden, for Effie had departed in
Madeline's sitting-room. He walked mechanically to an arbor, with
Madeline by his side. One burst of manly grief rent his bosom, for
dearly had he loved his gentle sister, and he felt now that he was
indeed alone. Almost unconscious of the act, she leaned her head
upon Roland's shoulder, and whispered,
"Not alone, Roland; I will take Effie's place."
"You cannot, you cannot, Madeline; not Effie's," and ere he was
aware, he passed his arm around her waist, but as instantly released
her, as he continued pacing up and down the arbor; "you cannot be my
sister, Madeline; I must be gone from here, and then I shall indeed
be all alone."
Madeline scarcely knew what to think of his conduct; if it was
intended as a casting off her sisterly love, she was indeed mistaken
in him; but that she could not believe--what then could he mean?
What was Roland's surprise in the evening of Effie's death to be
called out to see a woman in the entry, and who should present
herself but Elsie Gibson! They had not seen her for many months.
"Weel, Roland, ye hae lost anither--what ailed the puir bairn?"
"Consumption at last, Elsie, and she had been blind for months before
she died."
"She is at rest, Roland--but may I see her remains?"
"Certainly, Elsie," and the brother took the old woman into the room
where Effie lay.
"Will ye gi' me a lock o' her hair, Roland? I had a lock o' your
mother's, and I want this for the same person."
"For whom, Elsie?" was the quick reply.
"For ane that has a right, Roland, ye'll ken some day," and Elsie was
allowed to cut a lock of fair hair, and folding it carefully in
paper, she placed it in her pocket.
Roland remained until the day of interment; and accompanied by the
members of Mr. Hamilton's family, and the children whom she had
taught, he laid the dear remains by the side of her mother, to await
the morning of the resurrection.
Nothing further detained him at Woodcliff; indeed, he seemed anxious
to be gone.
"Thank you, Miss Madeline, for all your kindness and devotion to my
darling sister," was his last farewell.
"Shall I see you again, Mr. Bruce?" was Madeline's inquiry, for she
felt an inward conviction that Effie's death had removed the last tie
that bound him to Woodcliff.
"I may, perhaps, come down to see about the grave, Miss Madeline, but
the world has claims upon me, and I must fulfil them;" then suddenly
changing from his cold, constrained manner, to one of deep feeling,
he seized Madeline's hand, and pressing upon it one long, fond kiss,
he said,--
"Forgive me, Madeline; it is the first, the last that I shall ever
press upon that hand. I have had my warning, and I shall never
intrude; but you must not forget me, I could not bear it; farewell!
farewell!" and ere the astonished girl could reply, he was gone--out
of the door, down the avenue--out of sight!
What could it all mean! sometimes so cold, then so impassioned! How
could she account for the conduct so strange! She was not aware that
Aunt Matilda had discovered that it was owing to Roland's influence
that her niece had attempted authorship; nor did she know how much
alarmed her aunt had been at the apparent intimacy between Roland and
herself: she had witnessed also the scene in the arbor on the day of
Effie's death, and resolved to break up the intercourse, if possible;
accordingly, on the evening after the funeral, Roland was seated
alone in the parlor, when Miss Hamilton entered.
"We shall miss your dear sister, Mr. Bruce, for she was a sweet,
gentle girl, and we all loved her, and I suppose that it will be a
long while ere we shall see you again; for as Effie is gone, there is
no longer any thing to draw you to Woodcliff. If circumstances are
somewhat different, it would give me great pleasure to invite you
freely to our house, but you know that we must have some regard for
the opinions of the world, and as Madeline is now a young lady, it
would be the height of imprudence to encourage such an ill-assorted
intimacy."
Roland's face flushed crimson--all the fire of his naturally proud
temper was aroused; he bit his lips, and remained silent for one
minute, then taking his hat, he simply said,--
"Good-evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long; I
understand the gulf between Miss Madeline and myself perfectly, you
have no reason to fear. I am quite as proud as you."
It was after this interview, that he had taken leave of Madeline.
She was distressed, but could not understand what all this seeming
inconsistency of conduct meant.
"Brother, I have been really concerned at the intimacy between
Madeline and this young man," was the remark of Miss Matilda to Mr.
Hamilton. "I have found out the reason why she wrote that book; she
would never have thought of such a thing, if it had not been for
Roland Bruce; he put it into her head, and forsooth! she must puzzle
her brains to publish this book; there is nothing that he has ever
hinted, that she has not done; and I actually believe that Madeline
may some day so far forget the dignity of her family, as to stoop to
such a man as that."
"I have some fears myself, Matilda, for I observed with how much
deference Madeline listened to all his remarks, and what deep
sympathy she manifested with his grief; and I do not wonder, for he
is a most remarkable young man."
"Well, I have put an end to it, brother, without your help. I just
hinted to him that as Effie was gone, there would now be nothing to
call him to Woodcliff; you should have seen the crimson blush
mantling his whole face, and the proud bearing of the youth, as he
replied, 'that he should intrude no more.'"
"Does Madeline know any thing about it, Matilda?"
"She does not, for I fear to rouse her spirit."
"And I, too," was her father's reply; "I do not believe that she
would tolerate this if she knew it."
"She shall never be any the wiser, and Roland is too proud to tell
her; he walked out of the parlor like a prince."
Madeline had another source of disquietude--her father's health
seemed rapidly declining, and his spirits very low; so much so, that
his physician ordered him to Europe, and rapid preparations were to
be made, in order that they might leave America in the early autumn.
Mr. Hamilton observed Madeline's great depression, for since Effie's
death, he had seldom seen her smile; the old joyousness had vanished
from her face, and the elasticity from her step. She was very lonely
without her dear young friend, and the hours spent in her
sitting-room so much alone, were not calculated to raise her spirits.
Her walks were equally lonely; still she rambled to the sea-shore,
and old Peter's cabin. In a short time, she had placed a simple
marble slab at the head of Effie's grave, and planted some flowers
that she had loved around the sacred spot.
One evening she bent her footsteps to the old man's cabin.
"I am glad to see you, Miss Madeline, for Master Roland was here last
Monday, and left this little note if you should call;" and he handed
her a small slip of paper, on which was written, "A thousand thanks
for the sweet memento over my sister's grave; I know whose hand
placed it there; the one whose friendship has never failed us, and
who never can be forgotten. I hear that you are going to Europe; may
God preserve and bless you with his guiding band and sustaining
grace, prays now and always, Roland."
Madeline read the little note with tears.
"When was he here, Uncle Peter?" was her first question.
"On Monday last; he came to see about his sister's grave, but found
everything done before he got here. You ought to have seen him, Miss
Madeline, when he came back from the grave; he sat down there,"
pointing to a broken chair, "and covering his face with his hands, he
sobbed and wept so bitterly. When a man cries so hard, I know there
must be some great sorrow."
"What else did he say, Uncle Peter?"
"He asked about you, Miss Madeline,--how you were, when you were
here, how you looked, and if you ever spoke of him. He then asked
about Mr. Hamilton. I told him how sick he was; he seemed so very
sorry, but he did not say one word about Miss Matilda. I asked him
if he was not going up to the Hall; but he said, 'No, Effie was gone,
and there was nothing to call him there now.' Then he asked when you
were going to Europe. I said, 'in about two weeks;' is that correct?"
"Yes, Uncle Peter, if we can get ready for the steamer. Was that all
he said?"
"Yes, that was all; and then he went away, and I was so sorry, for he
seemed so sad and lonely."
Madeline returned with a bowed head to her home; it was as she had
expected. Roland could not come to the Hall, now that Effie was gone.
It was a comfort, however, to visit the old man, and Madeline's calls
were frequent.
One evening, strolling quietly along, her thoughts were dwelling
sadly on the past, and with dread to the future; she had reached the
spot where she sat on the day that she had first met Roland. For one
minute she stood, and wiped away a silent tear. Then walking on,
with her eyes bent upon the beach, she was conscious of nothing
around her, until she reached the old man's cabin. What was her
surprise upon entering to see Roland!
He arose with a constrained manner, and said,
"Miss Madeline, I heard that you were going to Europe, and I felt
that I must bid you farewell. I have been here once before, but
without success--when do you sail?"
"In about a week, Mr. Bruce," was the answer.
"Can I speak to you alone, Miss Hamilton?" and Roland offered his
arm, and led her to the old rock, where they had so often sat in the
careless days of childhood.
"You are going to cross the wide ocean, Miss Madeline; will be
introduced into new scenes, and will be exposed to the blandishments
of the gay metropolis of England--do not forget your immortality; do
not forget your early friend. I know that they will try to banish me
from your memory; but Madeline, by all the tenderness of childhood's
days, remember, if not me, remember all that I have told you--you
cannot know the loneliness which I have suffered ever since Effie's
death, and I cannot bear to think that you can ever forget me. I ask
only your friendship, your prayers."
Madeline's voice trembled as she asked,
"Why is it that you come no more to Woodcliff? we should be so glad
to see you."
Roland smiled bitterly, as he replied,
"Perhaps so, Madeline; but I have good reasons; you may know them
some day. When you go to England, among the rest of your visits, do
not forget the benevolent institutions; get all the information that
you can; and when you return to America, you will be better prepared
to follow out your plans for good; we shall have the pleasure then of
knowing that although separated, we are co-workers for the same great
end."
They continued in such conversation for some time longer; at length
the shadows of evening warned them that it was time to part.
"Farewell, Madeline!" and Roland seized the little hand extended so
frankly, pressing it tenderly between both of his own.
"Farewell, Roland; be assured that I shall never forget you, and when
I say this, I mean all that I say--God bless you, Roland, forever and
ever; he will bring you back to Woodcliff to bless its people. I
have never lost that faith, Roland."
At the end of the lane which led to the shore, they parted; and as
Madeline walked slowly up the road that led to the gate of her own
home, turning back, she still saw Roland gazing after her, and waving
his hand, as she vanished up the avenue.