BEATITUDES.
A mariner on the broad, mysterious ocean is sailing homeward; he has
encountered many fearful storms, laid by wearily in exhausting calms,
and steered safely amid rocks and shoals, with the blessed haven
still in sight of faith's eyeglass. He is nearing home; chart and
compass awaken a thrill of hope and love, as they point so surely to
the same familiar outline of approaching land. A small speck, as of
a distant star, is gleaming on him through the atmosphere; sometimes
very faint, then brighter, clearer, fuller, until the beacon of the
light-house, with the steady brilliancy of a small, well-defined orb,
speaks to his heart the one sweet word of "Home."
He speeds on swiftly, steadily, with canvas spread to the breeze, and
finds himself anchored at last in quiet waters, waiting for the pilot
to take him into port. The vessel lies peacefully upon the rippling
waves, the air is scarcely moving, the sails flap lazily, and the
scream of the sea-bird is exchanged for the softer melodies of birds
nearer land, as they fly low with their song of welcome. The sails
are now taken in, and the sailors are singing songs of home; the air
is full of music, for the murmurs of the gentle waves, the light
spray dashing slowly against the sides of the vessel, whose rocking
lullaby is scarcely perceptible--all murmur harmonious notes to the
hearts of the weary, home-sick mariners; the captain, assured that
"all's well," goes below to dream of home, of clasping arms, warm
kisses, and words of holy love. They have reached the latitude of a
seaman's blessedness, "near home." Thus far, too, has Roland sailed
upon the voyage of life; his bark has ridden safely through storm and
calm, through rock and shoal, with the beacon light of faith and hope
always shining bright above him, and looking thus steadily aloft, he,
too, has reached the quiet waters of the "Beatitudes." He reads much
in that sweet chapter of "the sermon on the mount," and, from the
depths of a blissful experience, feels what Jesus means when he
pronounces the word "blessed" upon the children of his love.
"_Blessed_ are the poor in spirit, for theirs _is_ the kingdom of
heaven."
The poor before God--has he not realized the blessedness of that
kingdom, which is joy, and peace, and love in the Holy Ghost? He
loves to dwell separately on these beatitudes; as the miser lingers
over the "unrighteous mammon," so Roland muses over his heavenly
treasures, fearful lest one should fade away from the grasp of faith.
"Blessed are the meek," says our dear Lord, "for they shall inherit
the earth."
The meek--those contented with their earthly lot, only anxious for
the favor of God--they shall truly inherit the earth now with their
spirit of contentment, and hereafter, in the days of millennial
glory, when the saints shall truly possess the renovated earth--and
with his spiritual growth hath not the Master blessed Roland in
basket and in store? and even if he had not, would not the spirit of
humble piety be to him a richer boon than the wealth of the Indies?
He has reached these quiet waters, and dwells among the regions of
the "Beatitudes." Is not Roland happy? and may not all who thus cast
themselves upon the good providence of God, while steadily pursuing
duty, be equally blessed? Jesus' words have meaning; let us prove
their power.
Roland is the same active, energetic, earnest man, rising daily in
public estimation, while seeking only the favor of God. Days of
deeper trial may yet come, but God in his wisdom chooses their time.
While walking in the footsteps of Daniel, nought is needed but the
discipline of Daniel.
"Do you know, Roland, that they are talking of you for the
Legislature?"
The question was addressed to him by Edmund Norris, who was greatly
interested in his friend's success.
"Nonsense, Edmund!" was the reply; "I should never please the
politicians. I am no party man, and would never stoop to the tricks
of men in office."
"There is really a chance for you, Roland, and I don't see why
corrupt men are to be allowed always to rule the land. I think
high-minded, honorable men are greatly to blame for not taking more
interest in public affairs; they could do much towards purifying our
halls of legislature, as well as our courts of justice."
"I have plenty to do here in my private walk, Edmund, and can thus
exercise a silent influence among my fellow-men."
In a few days, Roland found that all was not merely Edmund's talk,
for a party of gentlemen waited upon him to see if he would allow his
name to be used in the next election. He listened quietly to their
propositions.
"What do you expect, gentlemen, of your representative?"
"That he would by all measures advance the prosperity of his State."
Roland smiled, saying--
"According to the views of a certain party."
"Certainly; he is bound to represent those who send him."
"Then I suppose that he is expected to attend to many little matters
of private interest; that is frequently attended with much trouble.
What will he receive for such offices?"
"He may pocket many a cool five hundred in this way, if he is only
accommodating."
"Supposing that his judgment and conscience should both be opposed to
the views of his constituents on some points, what would be expected?"
"That he would waive such inconvenient things in the way of politics,
and always consult the interest of his party."
"Then you expect him, in a free country, to give up his own
independence. Is that so, gentlemen?"
"Of course--he cannot be a public man, and preserve that. The
independence of a politician is only read in the Constitution of the
land; it has no real existence--he has sold it."
"Then, farewell, gentlemen--I am a foreigner by birth, but an
American by choice. I revere the men who framed our Constitution,
and am willing to be guided by its noble teachings. I cannot consent
to your proposition of making it a dead letter in my case, nor can I
surrender the inestimable rights of manhood. I thank God for my
conscience, and my judgment; I will not hoodwink the one, nor act
against the dictates of the other. I am a _freeman_. If ever I fill
a public station, it will be as an independent man, to advance the
right, the just, the true only. I am not your man; I would be of no
earthly use to individuals--the 'cool five hundred' cannot buy me."
"We are sorry, Mr. Bruce," replied the speaker; "with your talents,
you could reach any post of honor that you choose; but with your
romantic notions, you are throwing away a golden opportunity."
"This would be no post of honor to me, gentlemen; there are others
more private, more influential, that involve no sacrifice of
principle; I have chosen such, and have the sweet approval of my
conscience; I cannot barter that for any earthly good," and he laid
his hand impressively upon his heart.
"We honor your integrity, but it will not do in a world like
ours--good-morning, sir."
"Good-morning, gentlemen--God is wiser than man, and by his laws will
I be governed."
Edmund was disappointed at the result of this interview.
"And so you rejected the offers that I spoke of, Roland; I think that
you carry your high-flown notions too far--you might easily have
accepted such a position, and not have compromised your principles in
the least."
"We differ in sentiment, Edmund; and the day will come, when you will
agree with me--experience is a great teacher."
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." This
beatitude spoke volumes to Roland that night, as he sank to quiet
slumbers; for peace soon follows sacrifice.
In the exercise of Christian principles, Roland was a happy,
prosperous man, for wealth smiled upon him in the daily increase of
his practice; and though he occupied no place of public trust, he was
much more honored in the omission than in the gift.
* * * * * *
Madeline is now in New York, whither she has been called on important
business.
"Shall we take a sail this evening?" asked Roland.
"Nothing would be more pleasant; let us go early, and return by
moonlight."
The sail on the quiet waters of the bay was one of those periods of
heart communion which are among the purest joys of earthly
intercourse.
The world shut out; the low whispers of this evening hour, as they
sat apart, indicated the deep feelings of each young heart.
They sat watching the passing vessels, some sailing out, others
coming in from the sea; craft of all kinds and sizes gliding by them
so gently, all containing pilgrims on the waters of life.
"Roland, do you ever think how much these little boats resemble the
voyagers of mortality?"
"Yes, Madeline, all bound to the ocean of eternity; we are sailing
with them, dearest--it seems very sweet and peaceful--what a sad
thought that so many may be speeding on the voyage which ends in a
fearful wreck at last!"
"How blessed are we, dear Roland, to feel that our little barks are
guided by a gracious hand! for we know who steers them on so safely."
"Do you realize the presence of that precious Saviour, Madeline? I
have been lately studying the sermon on the mount; have you ever
thought, dear, of the full meaning of the Saviour's word, 'blessed?'"
"And I have been reading in the same, dear Roland; and think that I
am learning, slowly, the meaning of those precious 'beatitudes'--as I
bend at my daily devotions, and read the holy book; as I walk among
my poor dependents in the green lanes at Woodcliff, or worship in the
school-room of Maple Lane, I feel the murmured benediction, and know
now what Jesus means, when he says those precious words, 'blessed'
are they who exercise these holy emotions."
Roland sat in silence for a few moments, and then continued,
"Our little barks are now in quiet waters, dearest--why should they
be any longer separated? or rather when shall we occupy the same
vessel, and sail together on the same stream?" and Roland took the
little hand within his own, and listened for the answer.
She smiled archly, as she replied,
"Our present life is very happy, Roland; the married people say that
these are the happiest days--why then should we wish to bring them to
a close so soon?"
"Do you really think so, Madeline?" said Roland, as she turned away
to hide her blushes, "do you believe any such thing? don't you know
that we would both be happier were our destinies united? and then,
dearest, remember, that I have no home,--a parlor and two rooms are
not home, Madeline. I brought you here this afternoon just to ask,
how much longer must I go alone?"
"It is a shame to tease you, Roland, but the old feeling of mischief
is very tempting--now, I suppose, that you want to bring my liberty
to an end; to put aside the lover, with his sweet whispered words,
and to begin the husband, with his tones of authority. 'Madam, I
wish it so,' and 'Madam, you must not do this,' and 'Madam, you must
not do that;' is it not so, Roland?"
He understood the little artifice, by which she evaded an answer, and
smiled again, as he replied,
"You are afraid of no such thing, Madeline; you know your power, and
the deep love that fills my heart; do not trifle when I want a
serious answer."
She laid her little hand quietly within the grasp of the strong, firm
man, and said,
"Take me, Roland, I am yours for life--through weal and woe, in
sickness and in health, until death us do part."
The moment of levity had passed.
"When shall I call you mine?"
"In two months from to-day, Roland; will that suffice, dearest?"
"Why should it be two months? I cannot understand what you ladies
have to do--what is the use of such an extensive wardrobe? It is
just as easily made up afterwards. I could be ready in a day,
Madeline."
"And you really would deprive me, Roland, of a young bride's
pleasure--it is such a joy to prepare a wedding trousseau!"
"You don't think so, Madeline, for I know no one who cares so little
for the fripperies of dress as you--now what is the reason for delay?"
"To be serious then, Roland; Aunt Matilda has some peculiar notions
about these matters; and since I have not pleased her altogether in
my choice, I think it is due to her to consult her wishes in this one
thing--she would never hear to any thing else, I know."
"Well, then! be it so--two months from to-day; that is the decision."
The spirit of mischief returned.
"Don't you pity the poor thing, with the proud spirit, giving herself
away to such a grand Mogul, with all his strict notions of right and
wrong? I am afraid that she will beat her wings against the bars of
her cage."
"Do you really fear the bonds of matrimony, Madeline?"
"With you, dearest? no--you may lead me where you will; for I know
that it will always be in paths of holiness and love."
"Here then is the token of our union!" and Roland placed upon her
finger the ring of betrothal, and then kissed the dear hand that lay
so confidingly clasped in his.
"Now, Madeline, I have something to show you; it is too dark to read
it now, but I can tell you what it is. I want you only--Madeline,
without her dowry; she only is the object of my love. I have drawn
up this document, in which all your estate is secured to yourself
forever; so that I can be wholly cleared from any suspicions of
sordid motives--your wealth has always been a drawback, and long
withheld me from seeking your hand."
"And do you think, Roland Bruce, that I would marry a man whom I
could not trust with everything that is mine? What! separate
interests between man and wife! are we not one, Roland? one in love,
in hope, in pursuits, one in the hopes of a better world; and shall
we not be one in all things pertaining to this mortal life? No,
Roland--what is mine, is yours--yours to direct, to manage, to
control--we are one in all things, Roland, I will hear to nothing
else; I do not want to read that paper; I am blushing while I think
of it."
Roland was silent a moment, from the depth of his emotions.
"Your confidence shall never be abused, my own precious Madeline; we
will try to use these gifts as stewards for our Master, and I feel
assured that he will bless us."
The return home was full of sweet reflections; for amid the music
that swelled, and then died away from passing pleasure boats, there
came a voice over the quiet waters, which pronounced them "blessed,"
and they heard its blissful whispers.
We will leave them to this hour that comes but once in mortal life;
and will not anticipate the discipline that must purge away the
remaining dross of imperfect human character, until presented
faultless before the throne of God.
* * * * * * *
Aunt Matilda resigns herself to the necessity of such a marriage, and
busies herself in the preparations, for she is determined that there
shall be a grand wedding at Woodcliff. There is much to do, for the
young pair are to sail for Europe immediately after their marriage.
Lavinia Raymond is shocked at such a degradation, and declares that
neither she nor her mother will countenance such a sacrifice by their
presence; Harry Castleton and Charles Davenport are disgusted when
they hear of their new cousin, and several young ladies around
Woodcliff utterly surprised.
"It may do for Madeline Hamilton to take such a step, she can afford
it," said Lizzie Belton; "but for any of us, we should lose caste at
once."
The wedding day arrived. It was a bright and beautiful morning in
the month of May. Madeline arose early, and sat quietly at her
chamber window looking out upon the beauteous prospect;--all creation
smiled; so felt the young girl--the birds carolled their sweetest
songs around the window; flowers bloomed everywhere in rich
abundance; the sky was clear, for but a few fleecy clouds floated
over the landscape.
"This is my wedding day," whispered Madeline, "would that my dear
father were here to bless his daughter; but he is in a better land,
where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage."
She bowed her head, and prayed in solemn silence for herself, and for
him who was henceforth to be her partner in the journey of life; and
after the sweet hour of communion with God, descended to the
breakfast room; the only marks of emotion visible, the blushing
cheek, quivering lip, and dewy eyes. George Stanley and Helen
Thornly, with Edmund Norris and Lucy Edmunds, acted as groomsmen and
bridesmaids.
We need not say that the bride was lovely, nor the groom imposing in
his appearance--a full flowing dress of white satin, and a cloud of
exquisite lace, through which gleamed diamonds and orange blossoms,
enveloped the fair bride.
The Bishop of the diocese officiated; for as yet, there was no
minister settled in the neighborhood. It was no empty ceremony of
mere show for Madeline--she would have prefered a more quiet
wedding--but almost unconscious of the presence of so many, she took
her solemn vow before God. A sweet smile of happiness played around
her mouth, bright rose-tints shone through the bridal veil, and the
eyes, when raised to her husband's face, expressed pure and holy
confidence, with perfect love. Roland's deportment was calm,
dignified, reverential--he looked upon the fair being at his side, as
one committed to his love by God himself, and deeply solemn were the
vows made on that day, before the marriage altar.
Madeline's first glance was for Roland's father, who was standing
near.
"Bring him here, Roland." She took the pale hand, and presented her
cheek to him, saying,
"Love me, dear father, you have a daughter now;" and Stephen Bruce
looked down upon the fair face and smiled sadly, as he replied,
"Be happy, my dear children, happier than I hae been."
George Stanley was to be ordained in the autumn; and the married pair
looked on quietly, pleased on seeing so many indications of an
incipient attachment between the young man and their friend Helen.
"Would it not be pleasant, Roland," said the young wife, "to have
them near us, George for our minister, and Helen for the pastor's
wife?"
"I suppose, dear, that we are for marrying all good people; but
seriously, I do believe that my friend George is deeply interested in
our little Helen."
Laying aside her wedding-dress, they met at the supper table as a
social family party; and after tea, Madeline ringing a bell, summoned
the household to the library.
Roland took his place at the table as head of the family, and with a
serious, manly voice, addressed a few words to those present; then
reverently read a chapter in the Bible, making a few serious
remarks,--Madeline led the singing with the accompaniment of a parlor
organ, and Roland closed the service by an earnest, fervent prayer.
Returning to the drawing-room, Madeline excused herself a moment, and
leading her husband to the landing at the head of the stairs, she
said,--
"I want to hear what the Eolian says on our wedding-day, Roland--how
soft! how peaceful are its murmurs, dear!"
"Yes, Madeline--the air itself is very soothing, and then our
feelings of calm and tranquil blessedness are reproduced on the sweet
harp."
"I am a little more fanciful than you, dear--I must believe in the
ministry of angels; you know, Roland, that we are told that they are
ministering spirits, and that they encamp around the dwellings of the
righteous. I believe, dear, in your prayer to-night, that you
invoked their presence; it is a sweet fancy that they may breathe
upon these chords of unearthly music."
"If so, Madeline, they are discoursing charmingly to-night--for I can
imagine nothing in this weird music, with its mysterious strains, but
sounds of peace, and joy, and love."
The only drawback to their happiness was the thought of leaving old
Mr. Bruce behind them; but a knowledge of his sorrows had interested
Aunt Matilda, and her kind heart led her to promise to take good care
of the old gentleman.
He seemed quite pleased with the idea of living in the country;
Roland left a number of charges with him, and it was a grateful
thought that he could be useful to his son.
Susan Grant was appointed teacher of Madeline's little school; and
old Mr. Bruce spent his evenings generally at the reading-rooms,
acting as librarian.
Accompanied by Stanley and Helen, they reached New York; taking leave
of them, they sailed in the first steamer for Liverpool; and, after a
quick passage across the ocean, reached their destined port.
Hurrying on, they found themselves in the great metropolis of
England; the Earl of N---- was out of town; anxious to see her
friends, Madeline made no stay in London, but proceeded directly to
Parkhurst.
Their journey was through a charming country, at a most lovely season
of the year, when spring flowers were abundant; the hawthorn hedges
in full bloom; and all nature rejoicing in the fresh green of a
spring-time in England.
Madeline's emotions were rather embarrassing as she drew near to
Parkhurst; and when the porter at the lodge opened the gate, and she
found herself really driving up the avenue, her emotion was visible.
Roland smiled as he read the speaking face; and taking her hand, he
said,
"Madeline, you are trembling."
"Yes, Roland; I am thinking of the last evening I spent here; it is
nearly three years ago, and I dare say that it is all forgotten; but
these scenes revive the memory most powerfully."
Arriving at the manor-house, their names were sent up; and, in
another minute, the Lady Alice came running in to greet her beloved
friend.
"Welcome, dearest Madeline! I have been so sure that you would
come;" and she embraced the young bride with the warmth of old
friendship.
"My husband, Lady Alice;" and Roland bowed to the noble lady, with
all the grace of courtly ease.
"You are welcome to Parkhurst, Mr. Bruce, for Madeline's sake."
"How came you here, Lady Alice! I supposed that you were married ere
this."
"I have been a wife, Madeline, six weeks, and am now making a visit
to my mother; you will see Lord Elmore at dinner;" ringing the bell,
she called a servant, directing him to show the visitors to the room
which she pointed out.
Madeline ran to the window to look out upon the familiar objects; the
same gentle deer, the cawing of the dear old rooks, the bloom of the
same sweet flowers, and the deep shade of the same old trees, just
seemed as if she had left them but yesterday.
"Is it not charming, Roland?" said the young wife, "and then, when
you see the dear family, you will not wonder that I call this happy
home another Eden."
Descending to the drawing-room, the countess was there ready to
receive them.
"And so, Madeline, my love, you come to us as a bride," was the warm
salutation, as she kissed the blushing cheek, and then turned
gracefully to greet her husband.
"You have obtained a prize, my dear sir; I hope that you will cherish
her tenderly."
Roland bowed over the fair hand, as he replied,
"I believe, my lady, that I know her value."
The hour for dinner arrived; the earl gave them a hearty welcome; and
Lord Frederic, who was now a fine young man, received them with all
due courtesy.
"Where is Lord N----?" thought Madeline, but she did not ask.
"My brother is out riding with Lady Lucy; we expect them every
minute," said his sister; "and now, Madeline, let me introduce you to
my husband, Lord Elmore;" and a pleasant-looking young man, with a
quiet face of goodness, bowed in return to the smile of Madeline.
In a short time, Lord N---- entered, with the Lady Lucy leaning upon
his arm; he was taken by surprise, blushed slightly, but advancing to
Madeline, he said,
"Lady Lucy, allow me to introduce you to our friend, Mrs. Bruce,
formerly Miss Hamilton, of whom you have heard me so often speak."
The young lady, with a very sweet smile and blush, extended her hand
to the married pair.
Seated at the table, the conversation became general. Lord N---- was
polite, kind, friendly to Madeline; but it was plain that the gentle
Lady Lucy engrossed all the more tender attentions.
"How long since you were married, Mrs. Bruce?" asked Lord N----.
"About five weeks, my lord; we left Woodcliff immediately, and are on
our way to Scotland."
"You will pay us a visit, dear Madeline," said the Lady Alice, "ere
you go further; I shall hear no denials."
Madeline looked towards her husband.
"Can we spare the time, Mr. Bruce?"
"I think so; we are not to be hurried in our movements."
After dinner, Lord N---- uncovered the harp; and leading Madeline
forward, said,
"I have heard no such strains as you produced ever since you left us,
Mrs. Bruce; you will favor us this evening."
"Most gladly, my lord; have you any choice?"
"None at all; all your music is charming."
Lady Lucy sat near the harp, for she was enraptured with the
performer, and no less with the sweet strains produced by Madeline's
dainty fingers, as they wandered so gracefully among the harp-strings.
"I wish that I could play as you do, Mrs. Bruce; Lord N---- is so
passionately fond of music; I am trying to learn, and hope that I
shall succeed."
"Do you understand the piano, Lady Lucy?"
"I think that I do."
"Then there will only be the difficulty of learning how to manage the
instrument, which will require diligent practice: will you not play a
piece?"
With unaffected ease, she took her seat, and played with much taste a
simple little air, and turning around, artlessly, to Madeline, said,
"Do you think it worth while for me to learn?"
"Indeed I do," was the quick reply; "you have taste, correctness of
touch, and will soon acquire skill."
"We will come to the harp to-morrow morning alone," said the young
lady, "and see what we can do; perhaps you will point out my errors."
"Certainly, my dear lady; I shall be but too happy to render you any
aid."
Lord N---- was pleased with the social chat, and when he had the
opportunity, said to Madeline,
"Is she not charming? so artless! and yet so intelligent and good!"
"She seems to be a lovely person, Lord N----; may I congratulate you
in the possession of such a heart?"
"You may, Mrs. Bruce; she will soon be mine."
Next morning, the young ladies met in the drawing room, and Madeline
took great pleasure in directing the hour's practice; and as long as
she stayed at Parkhurst, the Lady Lucy availed herself of the
generous aid of the youthful visitor; mutually pleased with each
other, these were happy hours.
A visit to Elmore Hall completed their stay in England. Leaving her
pleasant friends, Madeline enjoyed the fine country through which
they passed on their way to Scotland.
Stopping in their journey wherever there were spots of historical
interest, or beautiful scenery, their northern tour occupied some
weeks. Madeline's naive and enthusiastic expressions of delight were
fully appreciated by the fine taste of her husband.
* * * * * * *
"Whom hae we here?" said Uncle Malcolm, as he heard the wheels of a
carriage driving up to the door.
"They are travellers frae a distance, uncle," said Annot Lindsay,
"for they hae a large number o' trunks."
Malcolm could think of but one such party, and hurrying out, the
beaming faces of the young pair greeted him from the carriage window.
In a moment Roland was pressed to his heart, and Madeline most
affectionately welcomed to the Highland Hall.
"How lang hae ye been in England, Roland?" inquired Mr. Graham.
"About three months."
"And did na let us know, Roland! How is that?"
"We wanted to surprise you, my good sir; and then we had a great deal
to see, and we knew that you would hurry us on to Scotland; but we
are going to pay you the longest visit."
Uncle Malcolm took Madeline's hand.
"May the dear Lord bless ye, my sweet young leddy! ye hae made a
noble choice, an' I doubt na will be a happy wife."
"The wife of Roland Bruce must be blessed, Uncle Malcolm; I have
known him for more than eleven years, and always loved him even from
a child."
Madeline looked around her with wondering eyes, for all was so
different from the calm features of English landscape. High
mountains, clothed with dark, rich foliage, and the rough lineaments
of the Scottish Highlands, so totally unlike the picturesque country
through which she had so lately passed. But it had great
charms--even the novelty made it attractive. Then this Highland home
of a Scotch gentleman was so comfortable; such a warm glow of welcome
shone upon her everywhere, that the young heart was full of
happiness, and the bright face dimpled with rosy smiles.
And Annot Lindsay was so piquante! so fresh! so guileless! Her airy
little figure, soft blue eyes, and profusion of light ringlets
shading her sweet young face, were not her only charms. The warm
heart that beat under her blue boddice, and the musical voice that
greeted Madeline with such a simple, earnest welcome, gained the
heart of the young bride at once; for soon after supper, the two were
seated side by side, on the soft sofa of the family room, quite at
home; Annot holding Madeline's hand, and looking on her face with
evident admiration.
"Madeline, I luve ye," whispered the young girl, as she drew closer
to her, and leaned her pretty head upon her shoulder--"wunna ye be my
sister, Madeline? for I ne'er had ane."
She returned the caress of the lovely girl.
"That is just my case, Annot, and I can easily adopt you as my little
sister; for I shall not return to America without you."
"What will Uncle Malcolm say to that?"
"Oh! I am wonderful at coaxing; ask Roland about that."
While this episode was acting upon the sofa, Uncle Malcolm had raised
the piano.
"It has been tuned on purpose for ye, dear; now, sister Lindsay, I am
going to gie ye a treat;" and the good man led Madeline to the
instrument.
"Scotch music first," said the host.
"I know a great deal, Uncle Malcolm, for I learned it to please
Roland."
And Madeline threw out her whole soul that night, and poured forth
such strains of melody as melted every heart--even old Lion drew
closer to the instrument, looking wistfully in the face of the
performer.
Then came several fine sacred pieces, which particularly accorded
with the tastes of the family at Graham Hall.
After evening worship, Mrs. Lindsay led her guests to their room, for
she perceived that they were wearied with their journey.
"You have made great improvements, Mrs. Lindsay," said Roland, as he
looked around.
"Yes--Malcolm wad hae everything renewed; he went to London himsel',
so that a' should be right."
"He has made this a charming room, indeed," said Roland; "one would
scarcely wish to leave it."
"That is just what we should like, Roland, but we canna wish for sic'
happiness; guid night,"--and she kissed the cheek of the young wife,
and departed.
In the freedom of the country, the three young people ran about with
the gay spirits of childhood, searching out the fine points of
picturesque views, and bringing in every variety of novel plant.
Roland often laughed at Madeline's blunders, who, being unacquainted
with Scotch vegetation, frequently gathered weeds for flowers.
The purple tints of the Scotch heather met them everywhere, and
Madeline could easily understand why it was so dear to Mrs. Bruce;
for was it not almost the carpet of the Scotch highlands? Many were
the pleasant excursions which Uncle Malcolm devised for their
amusement--a visit to the old manse, and another to the kirk, where
Madeline stood in silence with Roland, amidst the memories of his
childhood.
"We must see Jennie," said her husband; and the old woman, who now
lived at the manse, was summoned to the parlor.
"An' this is yer bonny bride, Roland! may she aye be a blessed wife!
she's a bright young bird! wad na yer mither hae luved her weel?"
"I am glad to see you at the manse, Jennie."
"Yes, Roland--but the dear ones that made its sunshine, hae a' gane;
an' a' that I can do is to remember."
"You will meet them again, Jennie."
"Yes, i' the land that's far awa', hinney--when this puir body hae
done wi' cares an' toils, we shall a' rejoice together."
"Here is something for you, Jennie; a warm winter dress; we
remembered you on our way."
"And I too," said the young wife, as she unrolled a soft tartan cloak.
Jennie dropped a courtesy, as she said,
"These are just what I wanted--it wad hae' been a lang time ere I
could hae' bought the like; thank ye kindly, my bonny bairns."
They turned to go--"Stay, Roland; I hae yer mither's hymn-book; I
found it i' the auld kirk, an' I kenned that nae body wad luve it
half sae weel."
Roland took the precious relic, and bade farewell.
"God bless ye, my bairns; an' bring ye hame to the blessed kingdom;"
were the parting words of old Jennie.
* * * * * * *
Alone they stood around the grave of Lilian Gordon; and Madeline,
amid the deep solitude of the solemn scenery with nought but the
murmurs of the rustling winds, and the gurgling of mountain brooks to
disturb the silence, could sympathize with the emotions so often
described by Roland, on that sacred spot.
"Here were kindled the first feelings of ancestral pride, Roland;"
said the young wife.
"Yes, Madeline, I can say with the poet Cowper,
"'My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise--
The son of parents passed into the skies.'"
"Here, too, was kindled your dislike of the Church of England."
"That is true--and can you wonder? I was but a child, then, with all
the strong feelings of a Scotch education--I knew nothing of the
noble specimens of piety, learning, and the true catholic spirit
which distinguish the Church of England in modern days; I doubt if
you could find a persecuting Laud now."
"It makes me so happy, my husband, to hear you express such
sentiments; for I should be very sorry to find a gulf between us, on
such a subject."
"But, really, Madeline, in spite of all these old grievances, I do
prefer, in many things, the church of your love--it suits my spirit;
the solemn order of its ritual, the fervent tone of its devotion,
baptized by the Spirit of God, breathed throughout these sacred
offices, seem to me so much more worthy of the solemnity of public
worship offered to the Deity, than the rude irreverent speech which
shocks a devotional, humble spirit; the trouble is just here--people
are tempted to rest in forms, and where there is not a spirit of
heartfelt piety, these may degenerate into mere lip-service."
"Yes, Roland, that is true--but do not all persons who lead public
exercises have their own forms almost stereotyped? and our choice
must, sometimes, not always be, between crude, irreverent, tedious
prayers, and the wisdom, piety, and experience, of some of the purest
spirits of the Reformation. I could close my eyes, sometimes, and
say who was praying, if I did not know the voice, I am sure. What a
blessing it is that we can both stand on such a broad platform, as to
embrace all who love our Lord Jesus Christ, in sincerity and
truth--my heart turns instinctively to all such with a warm throb,
and wherever I see the lovely features of the Master, I am conscious
of a love above all this earthly scaffolding."
"There was much in the spirit of the old Covenanters to admire and
revere, Madeline; their heroic endurance and patience placed them by
the side of the noblest martyrs; and many of them will, doubtless, be
very near the throne of our dear Lord in that day, when he gathers in
his own elect."
"For that I love their memory, Roland; but there was much in the
spirit of their great leader, Oliver Cromwell, that did not seem to
me to accord with the spirit of Christ."
"He lived in days so different from ours that we can scarcely realize
what qualities such times could call forth."
They were seated by the side of Lilian's grave, and, with hands
clasped, they sang
"Blest is the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above."
After a few moments of delicious silence, Roland looked upward
towards the distant hills.
"It is growing late, dear; we must not keep our good friends
waiting;" and reluctantly they turned away from the hallowed spot.
* * * * * * *
Time sped too rapidly; for the intercourse of the congenial spirits
which dwelt at Graham Hall was just such as completely represented
the idea of domestic happiness. Riding about with Uncle Malcolm,
interested in his various schemes of business or benevolence, Roland
was content; and Mrs. Lindsay, Madeline, and Annot formed a happy
trio around the domestic fireside.
The simplicity of the young wife endeared her tenderly to good Mrs.
Lindsay; for while she daily gave Annot her music lesson, she left no
opportunity of gathering from Mrs. Lindsay's experience practical
knowledge for her own housekeeping. With her clean, white apron, she
was often seen by the side of that good lady, when making any of her
nice dishes, or putting up the various comforts for winter use. Many
a time did Roland peep in on these occasions, smiling at the pretty
figure, with sleeves rolled up, and dainty fingers busily at work
with the pastry and cakes, the pickles or jellies of good Mrs.
Lindsay.
Sometimes he would run in, and whisper some words which would cover
Madeline's face with blushes, and she would reply,
"Send him away, Mrs. Lindsay; he is growing to be such a flatterer;
he'll make me vain and foolish."
She gathered thus a number of valuable recipes from the kind hostess,
and looked upon her visit to Graham Hall as the most useful of all
since she had left home.
"A letter from Edmund!" said Roland, one morning, at the
breakfast-table; "he says that he envies us this visit, for he never
was so happy, in all his life, as when at Graham Hall; there's
something here about our little Annot that I know she'd like to
hear;" and Roland glanced mischievously at the blushing face of the
young girl.
"I dinna care onything about it, Roland; it's just a shame to tease
me sae;" and Annot ran away from the table in a hurry to attend to
some business that she remembered suddenly.
When Roland had a private opportunity, he whispered in her ear,
"Edmund wonders if sweet Annot Lindsay remembers the pleasant walks
and rides, the quiet evenings, and mossy bunks round Graham Hall; he
can never forget them, he says, for the linnet that sang those pretty
Scotch songs so sweetly is ever haunting his path."
Annot listened with downcast face, for she was conscious of
remembering them quite as tenderly.
"Do you know, Annot, that I have obtained Uncle Malcolm's consent to
spare you just one year? you are going with us to Woodcliff; he
consents, because he thinks that the journey will be of great use to
you, Annot; he wishes you to be one year with my Madeline."
"Am I really going!" and she clapped her little hands with delight.
"I shall be sae happy;" then speedily changing countenance, "but what
will Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother do without me? I fear that they
will be sae lonesome."
A farewell visit to Aunt Douglass and Elsie Gibson closed their
sojourn in Scotland.
Pleasant things must have an end. After a few weeks of busy
preparation, Annot was ready; and the hitherto happy party were very
silent around the breakfast-table, where they met for the last time.
The parting hour had arrived; trunks all ready, the farewell blessing
given, and the last adieux silently exchanged from full hearts and
weeping eyes.
Annot threw herself upon the bosom of her mother, then of dear Uncle
Malcolm, with a burst of feeling; and was placed silently in the
carriage by the side of Madeline, who folded the young girl in her
arms, and said,
"Be comforted, Annot; you are going with those who love you dearly."
"I ken it a', Madeline; but I am leaving the dearest far behind."
As they passed the familiar scenes of her daily life she still looked
out with weeping eyes.
"Farewell, dear Scotland! how bonnie her dark-brown hills appear to
me!"
A short voyage brought the party to America, and, without delay, to
Woodcliff.
"There, Annot, is our dear, dear home!" said Madeline, as they drove
up the avenue of noble elms.
"It is a lovely spot, dear! but how different from Scotland!"
Aunt Matilda, Mr. Bruce, and the servants were all in waiting; for
the long absence of six months had prepared the way for a warm
welcome. Aunt Matilda could never tire of looking at her dear niece,
and Mr. Bruce hung upon the arm of his son with the same old
reverential love, his voice trembling with joyful emotion.
"I hae missed ye day and night, Roland, but I hae done a' that ye
told me, an' a' is just as ye wish it."
The novelty of the scenes around her revived Annot's spirits, and she
was soon the merry little sunbeam of the house. Aunt Matilda was
delighted with the Highland lassie, and was never better pleased than
when she could draw her away from all the rest, and hear her tales
about Scottish life, and scenery, and people; the old superstitions
had their charm for her, and many a time Madeline enjoyed a quiet
laugh at the expense of Aunt Matilda. As soon as Edmund heard of the
arrival, he hastened to Woodcliff; but what was his surprise to see
Annot Lindsay in America! She was no longer the pretty, innocent
child of fifteen, with her sweet voice and winning ways, but a lovely
girl of eighteen, with the simplicity of a child and the deeper
nature of a woman. She had grown wonderfully, but was still a little
Highland maiden; the same soft eyes and ever-changing color, the same
graceful form and tripping step, the same luxuriant flow of golden
ringlets and tender, bewildering voice. He was completely taken by
surprise. He could not call her Annot now--this young and charming
woman.
"Miss Lindsay, I am delighted to see you again; this is indeed an
unexpected pleasure," and Edmund touched respectfully the hand so
bashfully extended, and, as soon as possible, Annot sought the
shelter of a quiet corner, where she thought herself secure from
observation. But not so. Edmund was soon again by her side, and
would take no denial when begging for some of her sweet Scotch songs.
She was an artless little thing, and, without farther persuasion,
took her seat at the piano, and revived the old memories with her
sweet voice, now so much fuller, deeper, richer than three years ago.
"I ken some mair music, Mr. Norris," and Annot proceeded to sing some
of her more fashionable music.
"Let us keep to the old songs, Miss Lindsay; they are the sweetest by
far."
"What are you about now, Edmund?" said Roland.
"I am in business just to please my mother; but I despise mercantile
concerns; I shall never be a successful merchant."
"We shall see you often now, Edmund, I suppose," said Roland, archly
emphasizing the word now.
"I think that is very likely," dryly answered Edmund, with a
significant smile.