It was the twilight of a dismal November day. The wind shrieked and
moaned drearily, and what had been a cold, penetrating rain, had, as the
darkness set in, frozen as it fell, and added to the general
cheerlessness. The streets were nearly deserted, and the few
pedestrians, whom business compelled to be abroad, hurried on swiftly to
their respective places of destination.
At the window of a dingy looking brick building, which bore on its
time-worn exterior its true character of that resort for friendless
poverty, "a cheap lodging house," sat Clemence Graystone, gazing
abstractedly into the gathering gloom of the night. The fair, patient
face was clouded with care, and somewhat of the darkness of the world
without, seemed to have settled upon her spirits.
"I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long, drear storm on its heavy wings,"
she said, at length, rising and gliding to the side of the couch upon
which a slight figure reclined, asked fondly,
"Mamma, what shall I read to you this evening? I feel strangely
depressed."
The gentle lady drew the sweet face down to her pillow, and smoothed the
bright hair with loving tenderness.
"My precious daughter," she whispered, "I know all the care and anxiety
that weighs down your young life. I can read it in your clear, truthful
eyes, that never yet showed the shadow of falsehood. God only knows, for
there is none other to hear or comfort me, my days and nights of anxious
solicitude for your welfare. What will become of you, when I am gone, my
darling? 'My soul faints within me.' I am truly 'of little faith.' Read
to me, dear, from the book beside me, and it will surely comfort me in
my desolation."
It was the sacred volume, that has so often solaced the grief and
despair of the weary and heavy-laden, and the tremulous voice repeated
the inspired words, with that pathos that can only come from those who
have suffered. A heavenly calm settled over the pale face of the
invalid.
"My child, be not weary of well-doing," she murmured, softly indeed.
"'Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' I was
thinking, as I lay here alone to-day, beset by doubts and fears, of a
passage in Baxter's 'Saints' Everlasting Rest.' The eloquent pastor of
Kidderminster, living in the midst of bodily pain and persecution, had
the true faith which is hardly attained in the midst of worldly
prosperity. It strengthens me to listen to his pious instructions. Can
you give me the words, dear?"
Clemence sought the book, and read this passage which her mother had
indicated:
"Why dost thou look so sadly on those withered limbs, or on that pining
body? Do not so far mistake thyself as to think its joys and thine are
all one; or that its prosperity and thine are all one; or that they must
needs stand or fall together. When it is rotting and consuming in the
grave, then shalt thou be a companion of the perfected spirits of the
just; and when those bones are scattered about the churchyard, then
shalt thou be praising God in rest. And, in the mean time, hast not thou
food of consolation which the flesh knoweth not of, and a joy which this
stranger meddleth not with? And do not think that, when thou art turned
out of this body, thou shalt have no habitation. Art thou afraid thou
shalt wander destitute of a resting place? Is it better resting in flesh
than in God? Dost thou think that those souls which are now with Christ,
do so much pity their rotten or dusty corpse, or lament that their
ancient habitation is ruined, and their once comely bodies turned into
earth? Oh, what a thing is strangeness and dis-acquaintance. It maketh
us afraid of our dearest friends, and to draw back from the place of our
only happiness!"
"Oh, there is comfort in words like that," said the widow, clasping her
thin hands. "When I think of the great souls who have lived and
suffered, it seems selfish and wicked to murmur at my afflictions. I
will try to be patient unto the end. Go to your rest, my love, and may
God's holy angels guard your slumbers!"
They were all in all to each other, this gentle invalid and her only
child. There is nothing that draws refined natures nearer to each other
in this world, than mutual suffering. And day after day the girl
struggled on with her burden, while the elder woman could only pray that
she might have strength given her from on high. There are other cases
like this on earth. The mother and daughter are but the type of a class
of earnest-hearted ones of whom few dream the worth. As another has
written, "there are many of these virtues in low places; some day they
will be on high. This life has a morrow."
* * * * *
There was a long, cold winter approaching. Clemence's mind was occupied
with the one question that is the burden of the poor in our
cities--"What shall we do in order to live through the inclement season,
which is so nearly at hand?" She could get no work of the kind for which
she was most fitted. She had in the old days, a feminine love for
needlework, and she thought, "Why not turn this to account? I might
manage to eke out a subsistence in that way."
* * * * *
She had gained one true friend in her adversity. Alicia Linden had
sought her out and managed to befriend her in various ways. She resolved
to consult her immediately.
"A good idea," said that energetic lady. "I will try and help you to
obtain employment."
This she did, keeping the name of the young girl from the circle of
ladies, whose patronage she solicited. It requires influence, even in
the humblest calling, to obtain plenty of work at good prices. Clemence
did not dream how much she was indebted to the kindness of the
masculine widow for the generous sums that came for her finely wrought
articles.
"You owe me no thanks, dear," Mrs. Linden would say, and, thinking
remorsefully of that little feminine gossip at the Crane mansion, would
redouble her efforts in the young girl's behalf. Mrs. Linden had a fear
which amounted to presentiment, that the aforementioned clique, of which
Mrs. Crane was the acknowledged leader, would learn, by some means, of
her new interest in Clemence Graystone. So great was her dread of such a
discovery, that she carefully avoided the society of those ladies, and
did not once venture into the neighborhood of her friends. How her
cherished secret became known to them she never knew, but, that it _had_
become known she soon learned, to her chagrin and utter discomfiture.
Clemence was seated, one clear, cold December day, in their little
parlor, busily at work upon a fancy article that one of her customers
had ordered for the approaching holiday season. She felt unusually
light-hearted. Mrs. Graystone had rallied from her illness sufficiently
to walk about the house, and was now visiting Mrs. Mann in her
apartments, that worthy lady having beguiled her into an afternoon's
visit, to give Clemence a better chance to finish her work.
Suddenly the cheerful little room was invaded by two ladies in sables
and velvet--none other than our old friends, Mesdames Brown and Crane.
Clemence recognized them at once. A pink flush settled upon her pale
face, but she rose with gentle dignity upon their entrance.
Eager for her triumph, however, Mrs. Crane did not give her time to
utter a word. "Well, I have found you at last," she exclaimed, panting
and out of breath. "I declare, young woman, if I'd have known what a
search I should have, I would not have ventured into this out of the way
place. Your's a seamstress, ain't you?"
"I am in the habit of taking in work of this description," said
Clemence, holding, for her inspection, the article she had been engaged
in completing at the moment she was interrupted.
"Yes, pretty well done. Just look at it closer, Mrs. Brown."
That lady now came forward and examined the work in a would-be critical
manner.
"Seems to me the stitches don't look as if they'd hold," she said,
ill-naturedly. "I discharged my last seamstress because she did not make
her work serviceable. I give good prices; I ain't one of them kind of
ladies what wants something for nothing. I never believe in oppressin'
the poor. I have plenty of means, (that was true, for the retired grocer
was as liberal as a prince.) If a person suits me, and keeps their
place, they will have my patronage; if not, I pay them off and show them
the door. My Melindy wants a new silk for a Christmas party, and as I am
very particularly interested in her doing herself credit on the
occasion, I want it made under my own supervision. You see, Mrs. Crane,
it is to be a very exclusive affair, for I heard that the Vaughns have
accepted invitations, and you know they belong to the very _creme de la
creme_. Wilfred Vaughn is a catch for any young lady. It won't be my
fault if Melindy isn't the belle of the evening, for I'm determined that
no expense shall be spared."
The lady's dear friend vouchsafed her only a spiteful glance in return
for this proof of confidence. She was thinking of her own beauteous
Lucinda, and mentally declared that _her_ daughter should outshine
Melinda Brown on that momentous occasion, if the worthy contractor had
to go into bankruptcy the next day.
"Now Miss," concluded Mrs. Brown, turning again to Clemence, "I want to
engage you to come to-morrow morning to work for me, and if you suit, I
may keep you for some time longer."
There was a look of quiet amusement upon Clemence's face, as she replied
politely:
"I should be happy to serve you, Madam, but my time is engaged until
after the holidays, and I never go out on account of an invalid parent,
whom I cannot leave."
"Oh!" jerked Mrs. Brown, bridling with offended dignity.
"Well, upon my word!" hissed Mrs. Crane, "such airs!"
"I am very glad, I am sure," pursued the former, "to find you so well
employed. You were recommended to me as a very worthy person in
destitute circumstances, and I supposed that to one in your _lowly
position_, work would be a charity. Had you possessed sufficient
humility, and a proper appreciation of my efforts, I might have taken
you under my patronage. No matter what you might have been once, Miss,
you are in the depths of poverty now, and it would be a good idea not
to be too independent, for you may want a friend. Don't come to _me_, if
you do, for I have done with you. My conscience is clear. This lady will
bear witness to my benevolent intentions, and I acquit myself of all
blame. I have discharged a disagreeable duty."
"Oh, the base ingratitude of this world!" wailed Mrs. Crane. "My dear
friend, is it not shocking?"
"It defies description," she ejaculated. "Let us depart. Good bye, young
woman, and remember, 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty
spirit before a fall.'"
"Just one minute too late!" cried Alicia Linden, sinking into a chair;
"I saw the precious pair just turn the corner. Don't cry, rosebud. I'll
pay them off yet. I can manage Mrs. Brown and the whole Crane clique.
They will be sorry for this insult."
"Indeed, I know I am foolish, dear Mrs. Linden," said Clemence, upon
whose face smiles struggled with tears like an April day. "If this _is_
poverty, it is at least honest poverty, of which I am not ashamed. I
will not allow them to disturb me. But, pray, not a word of this to
mamma."
The short winter days passed, and March came with its cold, blustering
winds, and severe changes of weather. Mrs. Graystone failed visibly. She
could no longer conceal from the fond eyes that watched her, that her
days were numbered.
Clemence's time was so completely taken up in nursing the invalid, that
she was obliged to abandon all other employment, and her income ceased
entirely. She knew not what to do. She was in debt to Mrs. Mann, without
the means of payment, and she knew that the kind woman could illy
sustain the burden. Mrs. Linden was her only friend, and she was a widow
of limited means.
Pondering deeply upon the subject, a thought struck her, which she
resolved to act upon immediately. First, having installed Mrs. Mann as
nurse in her place, she hastily donned hat and shawl, and hurried out
into the street. It was a cold, raw, disagreeable day. Little pools of
water, that had formed in the hollows of the sidewalks, were fast
freezing into ice, and the keen, cruel wind seemed to penetrate to the
very marrow of one's bones.
People, well wrapped in rich furs, strong-minded ladies bent on a
mission, portly gentlemen on their way to their counting rooms, and
troops of bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked school-girls, passed her on her way.
Two little pinched, hollow-eyed children came out of a red brick
building, which bore in large letters over the spacious doorway, "The
Orphan's Home," and walked beside her. A little eager voice fell on her
ear:
"I tell you, Marthy, they don't give you _nothin'_ to eat to the 'Home.'
And I'm _so_ hungry! Wouldn't it be nice if we could have all we wanted
to eat, just once? I dream every night that mamma comes to me, and
kisses and pets me as she used to. Perhaps if we are good and patient,
we may go to her some day."
"Poor little creatures," sighed Clemence. "What can I do to alleviate
their sorrows?"
She looked again at the wan, childish faces, then drew out her slender
portmonnaie. "The Lord will provide," she thought, as the time-worn
"Charity begins at home," rose to her lips, at sight of her scant supply
of means. "Come here, dears," she said, beckoning to them.
The little ones crept up to her with shy, downcast eyes. She went with
them into a confectioners, and filled their hands with crisp cakes and
steaming rolls, and watched them with a moisture in her eyes, as they
eagerly grasped at what was to them a royal feast.
"Never mind thanking me, children," she said, as they poured out a dozen
incoherent exclamations, to prove their gratitude. "Always remember
hereafter, when you feel unhappy, that 'God watches over you, and will
surely send some one to help you if you only try to do right.'"
She tried to encourage herself with this thought, as she resumed her
walk. It strengthened her to renewed effort. She paused before a store,
where the wealth of the earth seemed to be collected in the "gold and
silver and precious stones," that dazzled her eyes to look upon.
An elderly gentleman lounged behind the counter. She went directly up to
him, and asked, in a straightforward manner.
"How much will you give me for this ring?"
It was a solitaire diamond, and had been her mother's birthday gift. The
man looked at her keenly, and saw that she was not used to bargaining.
He read at a glance, the story of the delicate, mourning clad girl
before him.
"Fifty dollars." he answered, coolly.
"But it cost three times that sum," said Clemence, "and although I need
the money, I cannot sacrifice so valuable an article in that manner.
Besides its intrinsic value, it is very dear to me by association."
"Can't help that," said the man, coarsely, "its intrinsic value is all
that concerns me. If you don't wish to sell it, of course you can keep
it. Seeing, however, that its a pretty young lady, I'll make it
seventy-five."
"Could you not make it a hundred?" she asked, hesitatingly.
"Not a cent more than seventy-five," he said emphatically. He read the
despair in her face, and knew that whatever her emergency, it was so
great that she must come to his terms. "You see, young woman," he
condescended to explain, "you are not accustomed to this mode of
business, and you do not realize that when people want ready money they
must give a fair equivalent in order to get it. Times are hard, and a
dollar is a dollar now. Six weeks later I might give you the sum you
demand, but, to-day, it is quite impossible."
"Very well, give me the money," said Clemence, desperately; "I cannot
wait a day longer."
"Cruel, cruel!" she said, as she walked homeward. "It will not meet our
demands. Where is all this to end?" The keen March wind was kind to her
in one respect, it removed from her face all traces of emotion that
would have disturbed the invalid.
Rap, rap, rap, at the little third story room. "Come in," called
Clemence, listlessly. Mrs. Mann's cheery face looked in at the door.
"Something for Mrs. Graystone," she said, holding out a small package.
"It was left here a moment ago, by a tall gentleman so completely
muffled in furs that I could only get a glimpse of a pair of handsome
eyes. If you will not think me too curious, I should like to know what
it contains."
"Open it dear," said the mother languidly.
All uttered an exclamation, as a roll of bank bills fell to the floor.
There was a brief note, which ran as follows:
"MADAM--Please accept this in payment of a debt, due your late
husband by the writer."
That was all, and there was no signature.
"How strange," said the widow; "I knew but little of Mr. Graystone's
business affairs. It is providential."
"Just five hundred dollars," said Mrs. Mann; "Why, Clemence, it's a
fortune! Why don't you tell us how pleased you are? You do not say
anything."
It was true this sudden and unexpected relief, from an unknown source,
had bewildered the girl. She could hardly bring herself to realize that
her pecuniary troubles were at an end, for the time being, at least.
"I am very much pleased, Mrs. Mann," she said, brightening, "but give me
time to get accustomed to my sudden accession of wealth, pray!"
"I would give anything to get that sad look out of your face," said the
good woman, coming closer to the girl, and folding her in a motherly
embrace. "Go out for a walk, you have been in the house all day, and you
look pale and weary."
The long day drew to a close, and night came on dark and chill. The wind
wailed around the house mournfully, and as it drew towards midnight,
continued to rise still higher. The clock struck twelve.
There was an uneasy movement of the invalid tossing restlessly. Once she
made an effort to raise herself, and the thin hands wandered caressingly
over the bright hair of the young girl who slumbered peacefully beside
her.
"Poor darling," she said, "you are heavily burdened, but it will not be
for long. I feel the hour approaching."
A cold moisture settled upon her forehead, her breath came in labored
gasps.
"Mother," wailed Clemence, now fully aroused, kneeling beside her, and
chafing the cold hands. "Mother, speak to me?"
There was no response. The girl was alone with her dead.
"I declare, I am nearly distracted myself," said Mrs. Mann to Alicia
Linden some weeks after. "It would melt the heart of a stone to hear
that poor dear crying out in her delirium, 'what shall I do to obtain
this or that for the poor suffering mother?' That's always the burden of
her thoughts. It's perfectly dreadful. Mrs. Linden, do you think she
_can_ live?"
"I hope she may, with careful nursing," was the reply. "We will do all
we can, and leave the event with Providence."
It hardly seemed a kindness to Clemence, when they told her, after she
became conscious, of how near she had been to death, and that only the
kindest care had won her back to life.
"It would have been better to let me die," she said, thinking how little
now she had to live for.
"If God, in his wisdom, saw fit to restore you, Clemence, it was for
some wise purpose of his own," said her friend.
"I know it," she replied patiently; "but I have suffered so much that I
am weary of life. Remember, I am all alone in the world."
"No, not alone, dear," said the lady, "for now that you have no one
else, I intend to claim you. I love you already as a daughter, and I am
going to care for your future."
Clemence was too weak to do anything but yield, and when she was able to
ride out, Mrs. Linden took her to her own home. But although she
recovered sufficiently to walk about the house and garden, and to take
long rides into the country, yet her faithful nurse began to fear that
she would never be really well again.
"She needs a change," said the physician. "A journey would do her good."
So they packed up, and went off to the seaside. The bracing air did for
Clemence what the doctor's medicine had failed to accomplish. In spite
of the languid interest she took in everything, hope grew stronger each
day in the care of her watchful friend. And at last the roses came back
to her cheeks, and when they went back to the city, in the cool
September days, she was strong and well once more.
"Do you know, Clemence, it is six months since you have been under my
charge?" asked Mrs. Linden, as they sat sewing by the bright fire, that
the chilly fall day rendered agreeable.
"Is it possible?" was the startled reply. "How long I have been a burden
on your kindness! Alas! what changes have occurred within a short time."
"I know what you are thinking of now, child, and I did not wish to make
you melancholy by reminding you of the past."
"Oh, Madam," said the girl, "it is never absent from my thoughts. You
surely would not have me forget the great loss I have sustained?"
"No, Clemence," replied the elder, "that would be wrong, but I do not
want you to brood over it. Remember who sent this affliction. 'The Lord
gave and the Lord hath taken away.'"
"But she was all that I had to love," said Clemence; "what is life to me
now?"
"Don't talk like that, dear," said Mrs. Linden, gently, "the
unrestrained indulgence of grief is always wrong. Have you never thought
how selfish it was to wish your mother back again, as I have so often
heard you? God's ways are inscrutable. But though his children cannot
always see what is best for themselves, He never errs. Your mother was a
good woman, a faithful wife, and loving parent, but a life of
uninterrupted prosperity had left her a stranger to the peace that
cometh only from obedience to the will of Him who created us. It was in
the midst of adversity that she found the source of consolation. She
learned then how precious is the love the Father feels for the suffering
ones of earth. She was willing to go. Her only fears were for you. Can
you not have faith that the prayers she breathed for your welfare with
her dying lips, will be answered? You are young yet, and there is work
for you to do in the world. Interest yourself in some worthy object, and
you will be astonished at the change in your own feelings."
Clemence looked up with a new light dawning upon her face. These
thoughts were new to her.
"I am afraid I have been selfish," she said, coming and kneeling beside
her friend, and locking her slender fingers agitatedly. "It is very hard
always to do right. Believe, though, that I erred only in judgment, not
through intention. Help me to do better."
"Dear child," said the motherly woman, touched by the generous
confession, "we are none of us perfect. We can only _try_. I have said
this solely for your own good. You realize that, I am sure. My only wish
is to make you happy."
Clemence took up with her friend's advice. She found enough to occupy
her, for there is plenty to do in the world. It needs only the willing
heart. She became the instrument of much good, and many sick and
sorrowful learned to love the low-voiced girl who came among them in her
sable robes.
The winter passed quietly and uneventfully. Clemence went very little
into society. She had no desire for it. She was content to be forgotten,
and let those who were eager for the strife, crowd and jostle each
other for the empty honors, for which she did not care to put in a
claim. Not but that she had once been ambitious of distinction, and had
been told by loving friends that she possessed talents that it was wrong
to bury. There was no one to care now for her success or failure. It
mattered little how the years were passed. They would find her a lonely,
sorrowing woman, without home or friends. No one, be they never so
hopeful, could anticipate happiness in such a future. Clemence did not,
but she knew she should, in time, learn to be contented with her lot.
Others had been before her. Then, too, something whispered that it would
not be for long.
Mrs. Linden watched her anxiously, noting the troubled look on the
girl's face, and questioned her as to its cause.
"Don't yield to despondency," she would say. "You must go more into
society. Solitude is not good for you."
Obedient to her wish, Clemence afterwards accompanied her whenever she
went from home.
Thus passed the time until her twentieth birthday. She reviewed, sadly,
on that occasion, her past life, and formed her plans for the future.
The result of her cogitations was, that not long after, she left the
roof that had sheltered her since her bereavement, but to which she had
no real claim, and commenced upon a new life.
This was very much against her friend's wishes.
"What wild idea has taken possession of your visionary mind now?" she
queried. "Just when I thought you were quite contented to stay with me,
you start off to teach a score or more of ignorant little savages in
some obscure part of some obscure region, not yet blessed with the
telegraph or railroad."
"Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Clemence, laughing. "Don't,
please, raise any objections to my plan, kind friend; for I want to feel
that it has your sanction. Perhaps, if I get tired of teaching, I will
come back to you again."
"Very well," was the rejoinder, "in that case you may go, but I shall
expect to see you again very soon. You will die of home-sickness."