without the slightest means either of gratifying her taste.
‘I have in my library many choice books, to which you are welcome at any
time when you will call at Greystone Hall,’ the stranger said at last.
‘Greystone Hall!’ gasped Maggie, the little red spots coming out all
over her neck and face—‘Greystone Hall!—then you must be——’
‘Judge Thornton, and your friend hereafter,’ answered the gentleman,
offering his hand and bidding her good-by.
There are moments which leave their impress upon one’s lifetime,
changing instantaneously, as it were, our thoughts and feelings, and
such an one had come to Maggie Lee, who was roused from a deep reverie
by the shrill voice of her aunt, exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ve been on a
Tom-fool’s errand once in my life. Here I’ve waited in that hot depot
over two trains, and heard at the last minute that Mrs. Thornton and her
son came up last night, and I hain’t seen them after all. It’s too bad.’
Very quiet Maggie told of the judge’s call, repeating all the
particulars of the interview; then stealing away to her chamber, she
thought again, wondering where and what she would be three years from
that day.
* * * * *
A year had passed away, and Graham Thornton, grown weary of his duties,
has resigned the office of judge, and turned schoolteacher, so the
gossipping villagers say, and with some degree of truth, for regularly
each day Maggie Lee and Ben go up to Greystone Hall, where they recite
their lessons to its owner, though always in the presence of its lady
mistress, who has taken a strange fancy to Maggie Lee, and whose white
hands have more than once rested caressingly on the dark, glossy hair of
the young girl. To a casual observer, the Maggie of sixteen is little
changed from the Maggie of fifteen years; but to him, her teacher, she
is not the same, for while in some respects she is more a woman and less
a child, in everything pertaining to himself she is far more a child
than when first he met her one short year ago. Then there was about her
a certain self-reliance, which is now all gone, and he who has looked so
often into the thoughts and feelings of the childish heart knows he can
sway her at his will.
‘But ’tis only a girlish friendship she feels for him,’ he says; ‘only a
brotherly interest he entertains for her;’ and so day after day she
comes to his library, and on a low stool, her accustomed seat at his
side, she drinks in new inspirations with which to feed that girlish
friendship, while he, gazing down into her soft, brown, dreamy eyes,
feels more and more how necessary to his happiness is her daily presence
there. And if sometimes the man of the world asks himself ‘where all
this will end?’ his conscience is quieted by the answer that Maggie Lee
merely feels toward him as she would any person who had done her a like
favour. So all through the bright summer days and through the hazy
autumn time, Maggie dreams on, perfectly happy, though she knows not
why, for never yet has a thought of love for him entered her soul. She
only knows that he to her is the dearest, best of friends, and Greystone
Hall the loveliest spot on earth, but the wish that she might ever be
its mistress has never been conceived.
With the coming of the holidays the lessons were suspended for a time,
for there was to be company at the hall, and its master would need all
his leisure.
‘I shall miss you so much,’ he said to Maggie, as he walked with her
across the fields which led to her humble home. ‘I shall miss you, but
the claims of society must be met, and these ladies have long talked of
visiting us.’
‘Are they young and handsome?’ Maggie asked involuntarily.
‘Only one—Miss Helen Deane is accounted a beauty. She is an heiress,
too, and the best match in all the city of L——,’ answered Mr. Thornton,
more to himself than Maggie, who at the mention of Helen Deane felt a
cold shadow folding itself around her heart.
Alas poor Maggie Lee. The world has long since selected the proud Helen
as the future bride of Graham Thornton, who, as he walks slowly back
across the snow-clad field, tramples upon the delicate footprints you
have made, and wishes it were thus easy to blot out from his heart all
memory of you! Poor, poor Maggie Lee, Helen Deane is beautiful, far more
beautiful than you, and when in her robes of purple velvet, with her
locks of golden hair shading her soft eyes of blue, she flits like a
sunbeam through the spacious rooms of Greystone Hall, waking their
echoes with her voice of the richest melody, what marvel if Graham
Thornton does pay her homage, and reserves all thoughts of you for the
midnight hour, when the hall is still and Helen’s voice no longer heard?
He is but a man—a man, too, of the world, and so, though you, Maggie
Lee, are very dear to him, he does not think it possible that he can
raise you to his rank—make you the honoured mistress of his home, and
still lower himself not an iota from the station he has ever filled. And
though his mother loves you, too, ’tis not with a mother’s love, and
should children ever climb her knee calling her son their sire, she
would deem you a governess befitting such as they, and nothing more. But
all this Maggie does not know, and when the visiting is over and Helen
Deane is gone, she goes back to her old place and sits again at the feet
of Graham Thornton, never wondering why he looks so oft into her eyes of
brown, trying to read there that he has not wronged her.
* * * * *
Another year has passed, and with the light of the full moon shining
down upon him, Graham Thornton walks again with Maggie Lee across the
fields where now the summer grass is growing. The footprints in last
winter’s snow have passed away just as the light will go out from
Maggie’s heart when Graham Thornton shall have told the story he has
come with her to tell. With quivering lips and bloodless cheek she
listened while he told her indifferently, as if it were a piece of news
she had probably heard before, that when the next full moon should shine
on Greystone Hall, Helen Deane would be there—his bride!
‘This, of course, will effectually break up our pleasant meetings,’ he
continued, looking everywhere save in Maggie’s face. ‘And this I
regret—but my books are still at your disposal. You will like Helen, I
think, and will call on her of course.’
They had reached the little gate, and, taking Maggie’s hand, he would
have detained her for a few more parting words, but she broke away, and
in reply to his last question, hurriedly answered, ‘Yes, yes.’
The next moment he was alone—alone in the bright moonlight. The door was
shut. There was a barrier between himself and Maggie Lee, a barrier his
own hands had built, and never again, so long as he lived, would Graham
Thornton’s conscience be at rest. Amid all the pomp of her bridal day—at
the hour when, resplendent with beauty, Helen stood by his side at the
holy altar, breathed the vows which made his forever—amid the gay
festivities which followed, and noisy mirth which for days pervaded his
home, there was ever a still, small voice which whispered to him of the
great wrong he had done to Maggie Lee, who never again was seen at
Greystone Hall.
Much the elder Mrs. Thornton marvelled at her absence, and once when her
carriage was rolling past the door of the little store, she bade her
coachman stop, while she herself went in to ask if her favourite was
ill. Miss Olivia’s early call at Greystone Hall had never been returned
and now she bowed coldly and treated her visitor with marked reserve,
until she learned why she had come, then, indeed, her manner changed,
but she could not tell her how, on the night when Graham Thornton had
cruelly torn the veil from Maggie’s heart, leaving it crushed and
broken, she had found her long after midnight out in the tall, damp
grass, where, in the wild abandonment of grief she had thrown herself;
nor how, in a calmer moment she had told her sad story, exonerating him
from wrong, and blaming only herself for not having learned sooner how
much she loved one so far above her, so she simply answered, ‘Yes, she
took a violent cold and has been sick for weeks. Her mother died of
consumption; I’m afraid Maggie will follow.’
‘Poor girl, to die so young,’ sighed Mrs. Thornton, as she returned to
her carriage and was driven back to Greystone Hall, where, in a recess
of the window Graham sat, his arm around his wife, and his fingers
playing with the curls of her golden hair.
But the hand dropped nervously at his side when his mother startled him
with the news that ‘Maggie Lee was dying.’ Very wonderingly the large
blue eyes of Helen followed him, as, feigning sudden faintness, he fled
out into the open air, which, laden through it was with the perfume of
the summer flowers, had yet no power to quiet the voice within which
told him that if Maggie died, he alone was guilty of her death. ‘But
whatever I can do to atone for my error shall be done,’ he thought at
last, and until the cold November wind had blasted the last bud, the
choicest fruit and flowers which grew at Greystone Hall daily found
entrance to the chamber of the sick girl, who would sometimes push them
away, as if there still lingered among them the atmosphere they had
breathed.
‘They remind me so much of the past that I can not endure them in my
presence,’ she said one day, when her aunt brought her a beautiful
bouquet, composed of her favourite flowers, and the hot tears rained
over the white, wasted face, as she ordered them from the room.
Much she questioned both her aunt and Bennie of her rival, whose beauty
was the theme of the whole village, and once, when told that she was
passing, she hastened to the window, but her cheek grew whiter still,
and her hands clasped each other involuntarily as she saw by the side of
the fair Helen the form of Graham Thornton. They both were looking
towards her window, and as Helen met the burning gaze, she exclaimed,
‘Oh, Graham, it is terrible. It makes me faint,’ and shudderingly she
drew nearer to her husband, who, to his dying hour, never forgot the
wild, dark eyes which looked down so reproachfully upon him that
memorable wintry day.
* * * * *
Three years have passed away since the time when first we met with
Maggie Lee—three years which seemed so long to her then, and which have
brought her so much pain. She has watched the snow and ice as they
melted from off the hill-side. She has seen the grass spring up by the
open door—has heard the robin singing in the old oak tree—has felt the
summer air upon her cheek. She has reached her eighteenth birthday, and
ere another sun shall rise will indeed be free.
‘Oh, I cannot see her die,’ cried poor little Ben, when he saw the
pallor stealing over her face, and running out into the yard he threw
himself upon the grass, sobbing bitterly, ‘My sister, oh, my sister.’
‘Is she worse?’ said the voice of Graham Thornton.
He was passing in the street and had heard the wailing cry. Ben knew
that in some way Judge Thornton was connected with his grief, but he
answered respectfully, ‘She is dying. Oh, Maggie, Maggie. What shall I
do without her?’
‘You shall live with me,’ answered Mr. Thornton.
’Twas a sudden impulse, and thinking the assurance that her brother
should be thus provided for would be a comfort to the dying girl, he
glided noiselessly into the sick room. But she did not know him, and
falling on his knees by her side, he wept like a little child. ‘She was
sleeping,’ they said, at last, and lifting up his head, he looked upon
her as she slept, while a fear, undefined and terrible, crept over him,
she lay so still and motionless. At length rising to his feet, he bent
him down so low that his lips touched hers, and then, without a word, he
went out from her presence, for he knew that Maggie Lee was dead!
The next day, at sunset they buried her in the valley where the mound
could always be seen from the window of Graham Thornton’s room, and, as
with folded arms and aching heart he stood by, while they lowered the
coffin to its resting-place, he felt glad that it was so. ‘It will make
me a better man,’ he thought, ‘for when evil passions rise, and I am
tempted to do wrong, I have only to look across the fields towards the
little grave which but for me would not have been made so soon, and I
shall be strengthened to do what is right.’
Slowly and sadly he walked away, going back to his home, where, in a
luxuriously furnished chamber, on a couch whose silken hangings swept
the floor, lay his wife, and near her his infant daughter, that day four
weeks of age. As yet she had no name, and when the night had closed upon
them, and it was dark within the room, Graham Thornton drew his chair to
the side of his wife, and in low, subdued tones, told her of the fair
young girl that day buried from his sight. Helen was his wife, a gentle,
faithful wife, and he could not tell her how much he had loved Maggie
Lee, and that but for his foolish pride she would perhaps at that moment
have been where Helen was, instead of sleeping in her early grave. No,
he could not tell her this, but he told her Maggie had been very dear to
him, and that he feared it was for the love of him that she had died. ‘I
wronged her, Nellie, darling,’ he said, smoothing the golden tresses
which lay upon the pillow. ‘I broke her heart, and now that she is gone
I would honour her memory by calling our first-born daughter Maggie Lee.
’Tis a beautiful name,’ he continued, ‘and you will not refuse my
request.’
There was much of pride in Helen Thornton’s nature, and she did refuse,
for days and even weeks; but when she saw the shadows deepened on the
brow of her husband, who would stand for hours looking out through the
open window towards the valley where slept the village dead, and when
the mother, in pity of her son, joined also in the request, she yielded;
and, as if the sacrifice were accepted and the atonement good, the first
smile which ever dimpled the infant’s cheek, played on its mouth, as
with its large, strange, bright eyes fixed upon its father’s face, it
was baptized ‘Maggie Lee.’
* * * * *
Four years of sunshine and storm have fallen upon Maggie’s grave, where
now a costly marble stands, while the handsome iron fence and the
well-kept grounds within show that some hand of love is often busy
there. In a distant city Ben is striving to overcome his old dislike for
books, and seeking to make himself what he knows his sister would wish
him to be. At home, the little store has been neatly fitted up, and Miss
Olivia sits all the day long in her pleasant parlour, feeling sure that
the faithful clerk behind the counter will discharge his duties well.
Greystone Hall is beautiful as ever, with its handsome rooms, its
extensive grounds, its winding walks, its bubbling fountains and its
wealth of flowers, but there is a shadow over all—a plague-spot which
has eaten into the heart of Graham Thornton, and woven many a thread of
silver among his raven locks. It has bent the stately form of his lady
mother, and his once gay-hearted wife wanders with a strange unrest from
room to room, watching over the uncertain footsteps of their only child,
whose large, dark eyes, so much like those which, four long years ago
flashed down on Helen their scrutinizing gaze, are darkened forever, for
little Maggie Lee is blind!
They are getting somewhat accustomed to it now—accustomed to calling her
their ‘poor, blind bird,’ but the blow was crushing when first it came,
and on the grave in the valley, Graham Thornton more than once laid his
forehead in the dust, and cried, ‘My punishment is greater than I can
bear.’
But He ‘who doeth all things well,’ has in a measure healed the wound,
throwing so much of sunshine and of joy around her, who never saw the
glorious light of day, that with every morning’s dawn and every
evening’s shade, the fond parents bless their little blind girl, and
angel of their home.
THE END.
THE ANSWERED PRAYER.
All day long the canary bird had sung unheeded in his gilded cage by the
door, and the robin had carolled unheard by his nest in the tall maple
tree, while the soft summer air and the golden rays of the warm June sun
entered unnoticed through the open windows of the richly furnished
rooms, where a pale young mother kept her tireless watch by the bedside
of her only child, a beautiful boy, three summers old. For many days he
had hovered between life and death, while she, his mother, had hung over
him with speechless agony, terrible to behold in one so young, so fair
as she. He was her all, the only happiness she knew, for poor Lina
Hastings was an unloving wife, who never yet had felt a thrill of joy at
the sound of her husband’s voice, and when occasionally his broad hand
rested fondly upon her flowing curls, while he whispered in her ear how
dear she was to him, his words awoke no answering chord of love.
How came she then his wife—and the mistress of his princely home? Alas!
wealth was then the god which Lina Moore worshipped, and when Ralph
Hastings, with his uncouth form and hundreds of thousands asked her to
be his wife, she stifled the better feelings of her nature which
prompted her to tell him No, and with a gleam of pride in her deep blue
eyes, and a deeper glow upon her cheek, she one day passed from the
bright sunshine of heaven into the sombre gloom of the gray old church,
whence she came forth Lina Hastings, shuddering even as she heard that
name, and shrinking involuntarily from the caresses which the newly made
husband bestowed upon her. And so the love she withheld from him was
given to the child who now lay motionless and white as the costly linen
on which his golden curls were streaming.
All day she had watched him, for they told her that if he lived until
the sun setting, there was hope, and as the hours wore on and the long
shadows, stretching to the eastward, betokened the approach of night,
oh, how intense became the anxiety in her bosom. Fainter and softer grew
the sunlight on the floor, and whiter grew the face of the sleeping boy.
’Twas the shadow of death, they said, and with a bitter wail of woe,
Lina fell upon her knees, and as if she would compel the God of Heaven
to hear her, she shrieked, ‘Spare my child. Let him live, and I will
bear whatsoever else of evil thou shalt send upon me. Afflict me in any
other way and I can bear it, but spare to me my child.’
In mercy or in wrath, Lina Hastings’ prayer was answered. The pulse grew
stronger beneath her touch—the breath came faster through the parted
lips—a faint moisture was perceptible beneath the yellow curls, and when
the sun was set the soft eyes of Eddie Hastings unclosed, and turned
with a look of recognition upon his mother, who, clasping him in her
arms, wept for joy, but returned no word or thought of gratitude toward
him who had been thus merciful to her.
* * * * *
In a small brown cottage in a distant part of the same village, another
mother was watching beside her first-born, only son. They had been
friends in their girlhood, she and Lina Hastings. Together they had
conned the same hard tasks—together they had built their playhouse
beneath the same old chestnut tree—together, hand in hand, had they
wandered over the rocky hills and through the shady woods of New
England, and at the same altar had they plighted their marriage vows,
the one to the man she loved, the other to the man she tolerated for the
sake of his surroundings. From this point their path diverged, Lina
moving in the sphere to which her husband’s wealth had raised her, while
Mabel Parkham one sad morning awoke from her sweet dream of bliss to
find herself wedded to a drunkard! Only they who like her have
experienced a similar awakening, can know the bitterness of that hour,
and yet methinks she was happier than the haughty Lina, for her love was
no idle passion, and though weal and woe she clung to her husband,
living oft on the remembrance of what he had been, and the hope of what
he might be again, and when her little Willie was first laid upon her
bosom, and she felt her husband’s tears upon her cheek, as he promised
to reform for her sake and her, his son’s, she would not have exchanged
her lot with that of the proudest in the land. That vow, alas, was ere
long broken, and then, though she wept bitterly over his fall, she felt
that she was not desolate, for there was music in her Willie’s voice and
sunshine in his presence.
But now he was dying, he was leaving her forever, and she thought of the
long, dark days when she should look for him in vain; she staggered
beneath the heavy blow, and in tones as heart broken as those which had
fallen from Lina Hastings’ lips, she prayed, ‘If it be possible let this
cup pass from me,’ adding, ‘Not my will, oh God, but thine be done.’
‘I will do all things well,’ seemed whispered in her ear, and thus
comforted she nerved herself to meet the worst. All the day she watched
by her child, chafing his little hands, smoothing his scanty pillow
beneath his head, bathing his burning forehead, and forcing down her
bitter tears when in his disturbed sleep he would beg of his father to
‘bring him an orange—a nice yellow orange—he was so dry.’
Alas, that father was where the song of the inebriate rose high on the
summer air, and he heard not the pleadings of his son. ’Twas a dreary,
desolate room where Willie Parkham lay, and when the sun went down and
the night shadows fell, it seemed darker, drearier still. On the rude
table by the window a candle dimly burned, but as the hours sped on it
flickered awhile in its socket, then for an instant flashed up,
illuminating the strangely beautiful face of the sleeping boy, and went
out.
An hour later, and Willie awoke. Feeling for his mother’s hand, he said,
‘Tell me true, do drunkards go to heaven?’
‘There is for them no promise,’ was the wretched mother’s answer.
‘Then I shall never see pa again. Tell him good-by, good-by forever.’
The next time he spoke it was to ask his mother to come near to him,
that he might see her face once more. She did so, bending low and
stifling her own great agony, lest it should add one pang to his dying
hour.
‘I cannot see you,’ he whispered, ‘it is so dark—so dark.’
Oh, what would not that mother have given then for one of the lights
which gleamed from the windows of the stately mansion where Eddie
Hastings was watched by careful attendants. But it could not be, and
when at last the silvery moon-beams came struggling through the open
window and fell upon the white brow of the little boy they did not rouse
him, for a far more glorious light had dawned upon his immortal
vision—even the light of the Everlasting.
* * * * *
In her tasteful boudoir sat Lina Hastings, and at her side, on a silken
lounge, lay Eddie, calmly sleeping. The crisis was past—she knew he
would live, and her cup of happiness was full. Suddenly the morning
stillness was broken by the sound of a tolling bell. ’Twas the same
which, but for God’s mercy, would at that moment, perhaps, have tolled
for her boy, and Lina involuntarily shuddered as she listened to the
strokes, which, at first, were far between. Then they came faster, and
as Lina counted five, she said aloud, ‘’Twas a child but two years older
than Eddie.’
Later in the day it came to her that the bereaved one was her early
friend, whom now she seldom met. Once Lina would have flown to Mabel’s
side, and poured into her ear words of comfort, but her heart had grown
hard and selfish, and so she only said, ‘Poor Mabel, she never was as
fortunate as I’—and her eyes glanced proudly around the
elegantly-furnished room, falling at last upon Eddie, whom she clasped
to her bosom passionately, but without thought of Him who had decreed
that not then should she be written childless.
* * * * *
The humble funeral was over. The soft, green turf had been broken, and
the bright June flowers had fallen beneath the old sexton’s spade as he
dug the little grave where Willie Parkham was laid to rest. In the
drunkard’s home there was again darkness and a silence which would never
be broken by the prattle of the childish voice. Sobered, repentant, and
heartbroken, the wretched father laid his head in the lap of his
faithful wife, beseeching of her to pray that the vow that morning
breathed by Willie’s coffin and renewed by Willie’s grave might be kept
unbroken. And she did pray, poor Mabel. With her arms around the neck of
the weeping man, she asked that this, her great bereavement, might be
sanctified to the salvation of her erring husband.