Alicia Linden walked slowly homeward, musing thoughtfully: "This is a
strange world," she soliloquized. "Let philosophers air their utopian
theories about its containing the elements of universal happiness. I
know that human nature, as it is now constituted, is too selfish and
mean to arrive at a state of absolute perfection. Truly, 'men are a
little breed.' 'But, in the future, when that which is whispered in
secret shall be proclaimed upon the housetops,' all our griefs and
wrongs shall be recompensed. Oh, weary women, syllabling brokenly His
precious promises, patient, untiring watcher, whose tired feet have
grown weary of the 'burden and heat of the day,' wait 'God's time!'
Listen to the words that have come down through the dim and forgotten
centuries--a message of 'peace and glad tidings.' 'In my Father's house
there are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you.' Teach us the
lesson of patience, oh Father above! 'Tis a wearisome struggle. This is
a sin-fallen world, and want and misery abound upon every hand. Is it
true, as another has declared--'Every sin is an edict of Divinity; every
pain is a precept of destiny; wisdom is as full in what man calls good
and evil, as God is full in infinitude?'"
Well, God sees, and over all is the loving care of "our Father who art
in Heaven."
And sometimes, when human sympathy is denied us--when the eyes, that
should only beam with pity and affection, turn coldly away, Nature,
bountiful mother, stretches out her arms lovingly, and wooes us to her
with an irresistible, but nameless charm. She cradles the tired head
upon her bosom, presses cool kisses upon weary, drooping eyelids, and
broods over the slumberer with loving vigils. Under her tender
ministrations our dreams are blessed visions of the "green pastures and
the still waters," and the "shining ones" waiting "beyond the river."
The smiling Spring day faded slowly. Evening came on apace. Under the
moonlit sky a fair-browed girl kept loving vigil. It was sweet Clemence
Graystone. There was a troubled look in the calm eyes. Life's battle had
but just began. They were all alone now. Death had entered their little
circle and robbed them of their dear one. The loving husband and kind
father, who had toiled for them, working day after day, and often far
into the night, to surround his cherished darlings with the elegancies
to which they had been accustomed, had been suddenly taken away, and
"their house was left unto them desolate." They had not even time to
mourn, for, after they had buried their dead out of their sight, the man
of business came and told them in brief, unsympathetic tones that they
must leave the home that had so long sheltered them, for the wealth that
had purchased and made it beautiful, was their's no longer. They were
penniless. It was a cruel blow. Mrs. Graystone sank helplessly under
it, and the delicately reared daughter had all the burden thrown upon
her young shoulders. And nobly did she bear it. Clemence Graystone, with
her bright, radiant face, had seemed to her fond father like a sunbeam
gilding that stately home, and warming into living beauty what else
would have been only cold magnificence. To her mother, deprived of every
other earthly comfort, she became a ministering angel. She forgot her
own trials: she did not mourn that she had lost the privileges of
society to which their former wealth entitled them: and her beautiful
lips curled in contempt, as one by one, those who had once professed the
warmest friendship, passed her with a cool nod or haughty stare.
Clemence had learned now how to value these summer friends, who
scattered at the first breath of adversity, and she tried bravely to
keep back the tears that _would_ come at the sight of her loved home in
the possession of strangers. She had something else to do now, must be
something else beside a "dreamer of vain dreams," and must work to
procure food for them both.
Yes, it had come to that. In America, where fortunes are made or lost in
a day, the millionaire may have his wealth suddenly swept from him, and
one of humble position as suddenly attain to affluence. An unlooked for
turn in the tide of affairs, a seeming caprice of the fickle goddess
Fortune, who saw fit to frown where she had always smiled, and Grosvenor
Graystone was a ruined man. The shock was too much for him, and he died
of grief and despair. It was nothing new, there are hundreds of such
cases every day. People commented, some pityingly, and others
exultingly, as we have seen. "Poor things!" was echoed dolefully, and
then each went his or her way, and the gentle lady and fair-browed girl
were left to their fate. It was this--to work if they could get it, if
not, beg or starve. Nobody was interested in their fate. Henceforth they
must be all in all to each other. Their slender stock of money soon
dwindled away. Clemence turned to the one alternative, work. She must
get employment, but where, or how? She had no one to turn to for advice.
Pride forbade her asking help of those who had known them in the days of
their prosperity, and who should have come forward at once with offers
of assistance. There was no one in the great, wide city to give her even
a word of encouragement. She must rely solely upon her own judgment.
What _could_ she do? She might go out as a governess. She ran over in
her mind her list of accomplishments. She had a good knowledge of music,
could draw and paint creditably, was able to converse fluently in
French, Spanish and Italian, besides possessing a thorough English
education. The girl thought, naturally enough, for one of her
inexperience, that she might earn enough for their support by teaching.
At least, she resolved to make the effort, for something must be done
immediately. Her beloved mother was in need of comforts that she could
not supply from their scanty purse. Clemence could not bear to see her
suffer thus, and, after pondering long and deeply upon the subject, she
resolved upon, what was for her, a very bold venture.
Dressing herself modestly and tastefully, she started out in the warm
sunshine of a bright spring day, with the design of applying for the
position of governess at some of the elegant private residences which
graced the fine avenues of the great city where so many like herself
toiled and suffered. She walked slowly along, with a throbbing heart,
and tears that she could not repress filling her eyes; but she
remembered her mother waiting at home, and the thought nerved her.
Hastily opening the gate nearest at hand, she ran up the steps and rang
the bell without giving herself time for thought. A stolid looking
servant came to the door, who eyed her suspiciously, and did not seem
disposed to admit her. However, on her decided request to see the lady
of the house, she was shown a seat in the hall, and left to her
reflections. A moment after, there was the rustle of silken robes, the
sparkle of brilliant jewels, and a cold voice said ominously--
"You wished to speak with me, I believe."
Clemence modestly stated her errand.
"A governess? No, I do not wish to employ any such person," replied the
lady, standing and looking as if no more was to be said; and Clemence
could only give a little deprecating bow, and turn away.
She determined, though, not to give up with one effort, for she had
expected rebuffs, and mustering her courage for another trial, and
hoping better success, she rang at the next bell.
This time she was admitted at once, and announced "a lady to see you,
mum," to an elderly lady in black satin and gold spectacles, who was
surrounded by several blooming daughters and a young gentleman
stretched lazily upon the sofa. Clemence again made known her errand.
"N-no," said the lady, hesitatingly, "I guess we don't want a
governess."
"Yes we do, ma, for Julia," spoke up one of the young ladies, "the
Burleighs have got one, and I'm bound they shan't go ahead of us. If
they can afford one, we can. Besides, it sounds more aristocratic."
"But your father will never allow it," replied mamma, anxiously, "he
said only this morning that we must retrench."
"Retrench," responded the amiable daughter, scornfully, "don't preach
economy to me. You know you can wheedle him out of anything, if you want
to. Its only your stinginess. Besides, I want some assistance in my
music. You play, of course?" (turning abruptly to Clemence, who had been
an astonished listener to this dialogue,) "will you give me a specimen
of your style?"
Clemence obeyed this request that, savored more of a command, at once,
and sat down tremblingly to the piano. Music with her was almost a
passion. Indeed, in the old happy days, she had been often told that her
voice and execution would win her both fame and wealth if she were to
make her appearance before the public. But the fond father had said "God
forbid! I could not lie quietly in my grave with my little home nestling
the property of strangers." Clemence had not touched the keys of a piano
since her own, a highly valued gift from the lost one, had been taken
from her. She felt nearly overcome by the memories that came crowding
upon her, but the cold eyes of strangers were upon her, and pride came
to her aid. She began the prelude to a song that required great artistic
skill and expression. Her listeners sat in silence, while her very soul
floated away on the waves of melody. When she had finished, there was
astonishment depicted on every face.
"Good enough for the stage; might make a fortune with that pretty face,"
came from the sofa where the representative of masculine humanity
reclined.
"Harry, my son!" mildly remonstrated the mother.
"Where were you last employed, Miss--what may I call your name?"
Clemence supplied the missing cognomen, and replied truthfully, that
this was her first attempt to obtain such a position.
"You have references, of course?"
She looked aghast. Inexperienced Clemence! The thought had not, until
this moment, occurred to her. She hesitated. There were many who knew
her well as the only daughter of Grosvenor Graystone, who could not
remember the widow's daughter. There was no one whom she could think of
in her bewilderment to refer to as a friend, none of her former haughty
friends who would not think it an unpardonable liberty.
A stranger, with no references. That settled the question at once. The
mother of young daughters could not be too careful in regard to the
character of the persons she employed around them. A knowledge of their
pedigree was an absolute necessity. The idea of an adventuress stealing
into the household, and perhaps laying snares to entrap the son and
heir, could not be thought of for a moment.
Clemence found herself again upon the side-walk, with cheeks burning
with indignation, and eyes that glittered with excitement. She walked on
rapidly for the space of one or two blocks, and as her feelings became
calmer, resolved to make one final effort. She felt strong in the
conscious power of innocence and rectitude, feeling sure that, being in
the pathway of duty, she would ultimately succeed.
Acting upon this resolution, she soon found herself seated in an
elegantly furnished apartment, where she had been shown by an obsequious
waiter. Having some time to wait, she fell into a reverie from which the
voice of a gentlemen aroused her by inquiring in a dignified manner in
what way he could serve her.
Clemence again went through with her explanations, blushing and
stammering awkwardly enough, as the penetrating eyes fastened themselves
curiously and inquisitively upon her face.
"Ah!" he speculated, when she had finished, "this is really interesting.
It is not often that I am blessed with a fair visitor in my bachelor
apartments. I do not need a governess, having, thank heaven, no such
useless appendage as a troop of noisy children, but I do stand in need
of some beautiful lady, like yourself, for a companion to cheer my
loneliness. I can promise you a permanent position, with 'all the
comforts of a home,' a salary of your own choosing, and 'no questions
asked,' as the newspapers say."
"How dare you, sir?" said Clemence, in lofty scorn, as she moved towards
the door, which was opened for her amid profuse apologies, none of which
she deigned to notice.
"And _this_ is trying to earn an honest living," murmured the girl, as
she found herself for the third time alone upon the pavement. "It sounds
very pretty and praiseworthy to read and talk about, but I have learned
to-day that it means insult and contempt from the coarse and vulgar, and
cold suspicion from those who, from their professions, should stretch
out a helping hand in the spirit of Christian love and charity."
Oh! my poor, lost sisters, who have gone before, and whose feet have
stumbled and faltered in the thorny way! He who pitied the fallen woman
of old, will remember all your prayers and tears and remorseful agony.
And in that "last great day," they who have led your inexperienced
footsteps into the path that leads to the gulf of vice and misery, will
suffer the vengeance of an outraged God.
This life is but a fleeting dream, of happiness to some, misery to
others, but there is a home beyond, and for the faithful, a "crown of
glory which fadeth not away." For we know that there is an inheritance
for those who persevere.
Thoughts like these filled Clemence's mind as she walked towards home
disheartened. She had cause for trouble. She knew that their scanty
means must soon fail entirely, if employment was not obtained, and this
was the result of her first trial. She was tired, too, being
unaccustomed to exercise, and her feet ached from contact with the
rough pavement. An empty car passed her, but she had given her last cent
to a beggar a few hours before. She thought of the hundreds she had
lavished without a thought upon the different objects of charity, and
sighed at the contrast. Now she must deny herself for the privilege of
bestowing the smallest gift. But she remembered too, that story of the
widow's mite, which was accounted more than the rich man's profusion.
She took comfort in the thought that the same loving care was over her,
and whispered softly one of her favorite texts, "I will put my trust in
Him, and He will never leave nor forsake me." The pure, sweet face was
like that of a glorified saint. An old woman hobbling by, bent and gray
with age, crossed herself devoutly, and muttered a blessing on the fair
young head; and a man, old and hardened in crime, caught her words, and
remembering the love-lit eyes that had bent over him in childhood,
breathed out the remorseful prayer, "God pity me, a ruined soul!"
"You are late, darling," said a low voice anxiously, as Clemence ran up
to the room in a fourth-rate lodging house, which was now their only
home.
"Yes, mamma," said the girl, fondly, assuming a cheerfulness which she
did not feel, "the day was such a pleasant one, I walked on farther than
I had at first intended. You must try and get strong enough to enjoy
this beautiful spring weather with me. But you are tired, and must not
be kept longer waiting for tea, and to accomplish that weighty object,
we must first consult our good friend Mrs. Mann, her services being
absolutely indispensable."
"And here she is for once, when she is wanted," said that good lady in
hearty tones. "I am glad you are home again, for your mother was getting
anxious about you, and making herself sick with fretting. Dear! dear!
Miss Clemence, this is a world of changes! It makes my heart ache to see
you now, having to bother your pretty head with ways and means, when you
are fit to live like a princess in a fairy tale."
"Well, perhaps I may some day. Who knows, Mrs. Mann, what may happen?
The prince that is always appearing to disconsolate damsels, just at the
right moment, to rescue them from a cruel fate, may chance along in this
direction, and then we will all be happy together. Willie shall have
that bran new suit that he has been talking about so long, to wear to
Sunday School, and Fanny a wonderful picture book, and the baby lots of
goodies, and we will live together, and you shall be housekeeper, and
allow no one but yourself to make mamma's tea."
"Hear the dear, generous creature," said Mrs. Mann, standing in
breathless admiration. "If she had her way, everybody would be happy as
the day is long. That girl has a work to do, Mrs. Graystone, or the Lord
would never have implanted such a strong, brave, noble spirit in such a
frail, delicate body."
"Oh, Mrs. Mann," said the widow, "what should I do without her? My only
one, my brave, beautiful Clemence! She is my all of earth, the one being
who makes me cling to life and desire it. God has been good to me in my
affliction, and sent me a blessed comforter."
"I never met but one girl who could at all compare with our Clemence,"
said Mrs. Mann. "I will tell you about her, so that you may see that
others, too, have been through the 'deep waters.' Lilias May was a
genuine heroine. Her father was a clergyman of limited means, with a
large family of children to support. Lilias was the oldest, and had been
educated liberally, the more useful branches not being overlooked, while
the accomplishments received their due share of attention. She was
possessed of rare personal beauty, and was the cherished idol of her
parents. When she reached the age of nineteen, her father was suddenly
taken away, leaving a helpless family. Overwhelmed by grief and despair,
Mrs. May was utterly incapable of exertion. It was then that the noble
qualities of Lilias came to be known and appreciated. She took upon
herself the management of the entire household, and investigated the
affairs of her deceased parent. Finding that there was absolutely
nothing left for their maintenance she looked around for some means of
obtaining a livelihood. Mr. May had been the only son of a wealthy but
irascible old gentleman, who never forgave him for marrying the poor
girl whom he loved, in preference to the heiress chosen for him by his
family. He took revenge by leaving his immense wealth to his daughter.
Leonora May, an imperious beauty, was totally unlike her brother, and
inherited the strong will and haughty pride of her father. She could
never overlook the fault of her handsome, talented brother, of whom she
had been extremely proud, burying himself in a country village. After
her own brilliant marriage, all communication ceased between them. Upon
his death, however, she came forward with offensive condescension,
offering to adopt Lilias into her family, and, as she was childless,
make her the heiress of her vast wealth. To many this would have been a
temptation too great to be resisted; and, to say the least, it was a
pleasant picture which was held up alluringly before the young girl. But
she scorned the proposal. She refused to be raised to a position to
which those she loved could not attain, for her aunt had expressly
stipulated that, having once accepted her protection, her family should
be nothing more to her. Having thus declined the tempting offer, Lilias
began her search for work, in which she was successful beyond her hopes.
A former friend of her father's, wishing a teacher for his daughters,
engaged her services at once. He also assisted her brother, a youth of
seventeen, to secure a place in the counting-room of a friend; and took
another, still younger, into his own office. So that Lilias had the
satisfaction of knowing they were all provided for; the church, over
which her father had presided, having, meanwhile, presented the widow of
their esteemed pastor with the house in which they lived, and a generous
sum of money."
"And is that all, Mrs. Mann?" asked Clemence, in disappointed tones, as
the good woman paused in her narration; "have you nothing further to
tell us about this wonderful Lilias May?"
"Oh," she laughed, patting the girl's cheek caressingly, "I see what you
are after, and I will tell you the rest. The best part of the story is
yet to come. Lilias May's beauty of person and character made such an
impression upon the family who employed her, that they prevailed upon
her to remain with them always, for she married the gentleman's oldest
son. It seemed too, that her Aunt Leonora only admired her the more for
her courageous spirit, and when she died soon after, left Lilias all of
her money, to do just as she pleased with."
"But here is the tea steeped until it is nearly spoiled, and I am afraid
Mrs. Graystone is tired of waiting," said Mrs. Mann, hurrying out of the
room, "on hospitable thought intent."
Soon the little, plain, unpretending room took on that air of home
comfort that is seldom seen in statelier dwellings.
After all, happiness is comparative, and the poor man in his cottage,
with good health and a clear conscience, has as good a chance for
arriving at the goal which restless mortals ever strive to attain, as
the rich man who cannot be one moment free from the cares that wealth is
always sure to bring with it.