"Yes; but then you know that she had not always belonged to the haut-ton; she was one of the 'nouveaux riches.'"
"In fine, Aunt Matilda, she was not a genuine lady, and never could be made one; whereas, Mr. Graham is one of nature's noblemen that I used to talk about when a little girl, and he never can be anything else; I have met with a few others just like him, dear aunt;" and Madeline smiled rather archly upon Aunt Matilda.
"She'll never be cured of her plebeian notions," said the lady, with u sigh, as she turned away, "and it all comes from associating with these Bruces."
Madeline smiled again as she took the arm of Mrs. Douglass, and commenced her walk upon the deck.
"I am afraid that we are going to hae a storm," said the latter; "the sky is vera threatening, and the wind sighs heavily, as if mischief were brewing."
"It must be a grand spectacle, Mrs. Douglass, to see the war of the elements; I think that I should like to be in a storm, if it were not too violent."
"What are the signs, Davie?" said Mrs. Douglass to a sailor standing near.
"We shall have squalls before morning, ma'am. Mother Cary's chickens are flying around, and the wind comes from a stormy point of the compass."
Aunt Matilda became nervous as she watched the dark clouds gathering from so many different quarters, and heard the growling of the distant thunder. The wind rose higher and higher, the waves swelled until they rolled and surged in heavy billows in the wake of the ship, which commenced pitching and tossing from side to side; the rain descended in torrents, and, through the speaking-trumpet, the loud tones of the captain giving his orders, and the running to and fro of the seamen, increased the fears of the ladies.
"What do you think of the storm, captain?" inquired Madeline.
"We shall have a fierce tempest, my dear young lady; but we have a good strong ship, don't be alarmed."
Aunt Matilda betook herself to the cabin, and, covering herself up in her berth, trembled with apprehension. Mrs. Douglass and Madeline committed themselves quietly to the care of their Father in Heaven, and Roland paced the deck, with his eye turned anxiously upon the warring elements, and ever and anon walking near the cabin door, hoping to see something of Madeline.
"Is that you, Miss Hamilton?" said the young man, as he thought he distinguished her standing at the cabin door, in the dim light below.
"Shall I come up, Mr. Bruce? it is very close in the cabin."
"Throw on a cloak and hood; I want you to see the storm."
Madeline joined Roland on deck, and, looking around, was awe-struck at the scene. The wind was whistling through the canvas, and the ship reeling to and fro like a drunken man, seeming, to Madeline's fears, almost unmanageable.
"Is there danger, Roland?" she asked, clinging closer to his protecting arm.
"There is always danger in a storm like this, and none are safe but those who are anchored on the Rock of Ages, Madeline," and Roland drew her closer to him, and threw his arm around her to keep her from falling.
"This is a grand spectacle, Roland; we never saw the ocean in such a ferment. How insignificant we seem! how powerless!"
"You remember, Madeline, the sublime verses from the Psalms of David, where he describes the life of the seaman? 'For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.'"
Madeline listened to the rich, deep voice repeating these beautiful words, until, calm and tranquil, she leaned upon that strong arm for security, knowing how he trusted in the Lord. But the hurricane increased, the rain beat fearfully around them, the waves rose mountain high, and, washing over the deck, compelled them to seek shelter below.
"Shall I come in, Madeline?" asked Roland, when he reached the cabin door.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Bruce! come in, don't leave as!" called out Aunt Matilda, who was suffering agonies. "We shall all be lost! oh, hear the wind, how it howls! And how the vessel rocks! Listen! listen, Mr. Bruce, to the crackling timbers! Can the vessel stand this storm?" and Aunt Matilda wrung her hands in despair.
"Be calm, my dear Miss Hamilton," was Roland's answer; "let us commit ourselves to God, there is safety no where else," and he knelt down in the midst of the anxious company, and, in earnest words of fervent trust, he called upon the God of the tempest, and still "Looking aloft," was calm.
Presently, the ship gave a heavy lurch, and rolled over on her side; all were thrown violently down on one side of the cabin, but she did not right again. Edmund Norris ran to the ladies' cabin, for he felt the fearful danger.
"We are going, Mr. Norris!" called Aunt Matilda; "we are sinking, I am sure! O; God, have mercy! have mercy!"
"Not yet, my dear madam. The captain has ordered the main-mast sawed away, and then we shall probably right again."
Roland, seated on the floor of the cabin, held Madeline in his arms. Not a word escaped her lips, for she was quietly reposing upon the promises of her Saviour.
"We are in great danger, Madeline; are you resting upon the Saviour, dearest?" and Roland bent down in agony over the pale face that lay upon his bosom.
"I know it, Roland, but perfect trust fills my heart; and if we go down in the deep water, it is with you, my dearest friend, and we shall enter Heaven together, and never go out again."
It was an hour when the ceremonies of life were all forgotten, and Roland pressed a warm kiss upon the cold forehead and the pale lips that were whispering these precious words. In another minute the ship righted, and the cheers of the sailors resounded throughout the ship.
"Let us thank God, Miss Hamilton," said Roland, as he turned to Aunt Matilda; "for I hope that the storm is subsiding," and he poured out, in their midst, an earnest thanksgiving for the deliverance which he trusted was near. Gradually the storm abated, and, towards morning, the waves sank to their ordinary bed, and the vessel went on her way. A temporary mast had to be erected, but, as they were nearing port, little anxiety was felt.
Madeline blushed when she next met Roland, for she feared that, in the hour of danger, she had betrayed too much; but the sweet remembrance of his whispered words had banished all remaining doubts, and now she knew that Lavinia's tales about Helen Thornly must all be false; for Roland and honor were to her but one name. Edmund Norris had witnessed the scene in the storm, and understood now the silence of his friend whenever he had mentioned the name of Madeline Hamilton.
They were now nearing port. In a few days, speeding up the bay, they were at home. Roland took lodgings for himself and aunt in New York, and Madeline prepared to return to Woodcliff.
"You will go with us, Roland," said Madeline; "we must look to you to aid us in the last said offices for dear papa," and the young man accompanied the party.
"You will come on to see us, Mrs. Douglass," was Madeline's last farewell.
It was a sad return; for, instead of the beloved father, nought remained but the sacred dust to be consigned to the silent grave. The servants gathered in reverence in the hall, as the family entered. Joy at their return was mingled with deep sorrow, for they had all loved kind Mr. Hamilton.
In two days, arrangements were made for the interment; and, in the midst of his own people, and the surrounding neighborhood, he was laid by the side of his departed wife, and the service that he had loved whispered its sublime consolations over his grave. Roland returned to New York, and resumed the active duties of his daily life.
Not long after Madeline's arrival, the old took, coming to her sitting-room, asked to see her for one moment.
"Miss Madeline, there was a strange woman here the other day, inquiring when you would be at home; she spoke some queer language, I don't think it was an Irish tongue, and she called herself Elsie."
"Did she say that she would come again, Betty?" inquired Madeline.
"Yes; I told her when you were expected, and she said that she would come soon. She was very tired and hungry, and I gave her a good supper; that was right, was it not, Miss Madeline?"
"Yes, Betty, do not turn any one away that wants something to eat from Woodcliff; we have a great deal to spare, and it is such a blessed thing to give."
In about a week, Mrs. Douglass came down to pay a visit. Aunt Matilda was polite, for she was too kind-hearted to be rude in her own home.
"Have you heard any thing from Mr. Bruce's father?" inquired Madeline.
"Nae, not yet; but I hae advertised in several papers, an' hope that I may get some tiding afore lang."
"It is strange that he should have left his family so suddenly, Mrs. Douglass."
"He was aye an odd mon, Miss Hamilton, prone to fits of melancholy, an' we often feared that he wud gang crazy."
After she had been a few days at Woodcliff, an old woman called to see her; in going to the hall, what was Mrs. Douglass' surprise to see Elsie Gibson! whom she immediately recognized.
"Is that ye, Elsie?" said the lady, grasping her hand.
"I'm owre glad to see yer face, ma'am; you were aye like yer brither Stephen."
"Can ye tell me ony thing aboot him, Elsie? I hae a fancy that he is still amang us; and I maun find him."
"It hae been a lang time syne he cam to this country, Mrs. Douglass, an' his family had na seen him for years."
"There is property in Scotland which canna be settled until we find the heir, Elsie, an' if ye ken ony thing aboot him, will ye na tell his sister?"
"His loss was published in the papers in America. Mrs. Douglass, an' that is a' that I can say, ma'am."
Elsie would say no more, and spent the rest of her time in making inquiries after her kindred in Scotland.
"Are ye na ganging home, Elsie?" continued Mrs. Douglass, "there is a comfortable hoose waiting for ye wi' your sister, and she is sair grieved that ye bide sae lang awa'."
"As soon as my wark is done in America, I will gang to my ain people, for I hae greeted sair for them; but my wark is na finished yet; fare ye weel, ma'am, I shall see ye ance mair," and Elsie took her departure.
Mrs. Douglass returned to New York, and still continued her advertisements, for it was all that she could do. After she had been there some months, a note reached her from a family in Newark, requesting her to call, as they could give her some information with regard to the person of whom she was in search.
Mr. and Mrs. Antrim were a Scotch couple living quietly outside of Newark, having resided for twenty years in America—Mrs. Antrim, a neat, elderly person, received Mrs. Douglass cordially.
"I saw your advertisement, madam, and it struck me that I might give you some information concerning your lost friend."
"It is my brother, madam, wha is subject to fits of derangement, an' wha I think is in America."
Mrs. Antrim described a mysterious man who had long lived in their neighborhood.
Mrs. Douglass listened with deep interest, for she was sure that she had found her brother.
"When was he here last, Mrs. Antrim?" she inquired.
"Last Monday, and said that he would come this week."
"Can ye accommodate me wi' board for a few weeks?"
"I think that we can; we are not in the habit of taking lodgers, but if it will be the means of bringing this poor man back to his family, I will do it cheerfully."
"I dread seeing him, Mrs. Antrim, for if he kens the face o' his sister, he will ne'er come again."
"We must be very cautious; do not address him, Mrs. Douglass, take no notice of him. I have a little grandson of whom he is very fond; he is the only one that can make him talk; we must watch for opportunities."
Mrs. Douglass provided herself with a pair of green spectacles, and a very plain Quaker dress, that completely metamorphosed her, for the bonnet so entirely hid her face, that her own relations would not have recognized her; this she was to wear whenever the strange visitor should appear.
In a few days, Mrs. Antrim came up to Mrs. Douglass' room.
"He is coming, you had better change your dress."
Mrs. Douglass did not appear until tea-time; she then quietly took her seat at the table, and had time to scrutinize the strange guest. Years had made great changes; the tall form was bent, the black hair was thin, and streaked with gray, the bright eye was dim and wandering, the once rich, dark complexion sallow, and the cheeks hollow and shrivelled; an uncertain flickering smile played around the lips once so stern and firm; but there was no mistaking Stephen Bruce—there was the marked finger, the same voice, and the remains of the same brother that had once sat by her side at her father's board. He talked but little, for he saw that there was a stranger present. The little grandson was at the table.
"Sit by me, George," said the man, as he drew the child next to him, and continued, "shall I gie him some o' these cakes, Mrs. Antrim?"
"Yes, Robert, but not many."
"Where hae ye been a' this week, my little mon? ye hae na' been to see auld Robert ance."
"I have been sick, Robert, and grandma would not let me go out."
The boy was about ten years did, the age that Roland was when his father had disappeared, and had the same dark eyes and hair. The man smoothed the dark hair as he said,
"He is just like ane I luve, Mrs. Antrim."
Mrs. Douglass could scarcely control her feelings, and finding that her food was almost choking her, she arose hastily, and left the room.
"Where has the strange woman gane, Mrs. Antrim? Did I frighten her awa'? What does she wear that bonnet for?"
"She has had weak eyes, and is not very well, Robert."
"I heard her speak aince, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I hae heard the voice afore; let me see," and he placed his finger upon his lip, as he continued, "I can na' remember, but I hae heard it somewhere."
He left soon after tea, and Mrs. Douglass, deeply agitated, declared that it was her lost brother.
"What do you want to do, Mrs. Douglass?"
"To tak' him hame wi' me to Scotland; our property can na' be settled until he gaes."
"I fear that you will have great trouble before you can do this."
Several visits were paid, but still no progress towards acquaintance; at last one day, he said suddenly to Mrs. Antrim,
"Is that a Quaker lady? She seems very quiet, not ane o' the clattering kind o' women. I hae twa books which I ken would please her,—the lives o' George Fox an' William Penn; I wonder if she would come up to my little cottage."
This was wonderful for Robert Duncan, but he seemed to regard the quiet lady with a sort of pity. Mrs. Antrim communicated the news to Mrs. Douglass, and with many charges to conceal her emotion, they walked up to the humble home. It had but two rooms, very plainly furnished—on one side of his sleeping-room hung a shelf of books.
"Will ye sit doon, ma'am?" said Robert to the Quaker lady, and bringing the volumes spoken of, he continued, "I thought that ye might like these books, ma'am; wud ye like to read them?"
Mrs. Douglass replied, in a low tone; "If thee will lend them to me, Robert."
He tried to look under her bonnet, as he said, "It is vera like her voice."
"Whose voice, Robert?" asked Mrs. Antrim
"It dinna matter, ma'am, it can na' be; for she is far awa'."
While they were looking over the other books, two pictures fell out from between the leaves of one. It was but a glance—but it was Mary Gordon's face, and Roland's when a lovely child. Mrs. Douglass was thrown off her guard; she seized the pictures.
"Where did ye get these, Robert Duncan?" and the man, alarmed, gathered up the pictures, and hurried off into the next room. Before they left the cottage, he came back, and with the suspicious glance of returning insanity, said,—
"What do ye ken aboot these pictures? hae ye e'er seen them before?" and before she could reply, Robert had rushed out of the cottage, into a woods near by, and as they returned home, they saw him peeping with a dark countenance at them from behind some trees.
"I fear that we shall not see him soon again," said Mrs. Antrim; "he will have one of his dark spells, and we must let him seek us now."
For weeks no tidings were heard of the poor man, and Mrs. Douglass began to fear that her mission was fruitless. It was some time before he appeared at church again, and bent on avoiding them, he went out at a side door, and they did not force themselves upon his notice.
For several weeks it was the same—Mrs. Antrim hoped, however, that the loneliness of the cottage would bring him to their fireside in search of his little friend George.
A salutation at the church-door, and a walk home with Mrs. Antrim, was the first encouraging sign; and the next afternoon, Robert was seen coming slowly up the garden path.
"I think you had better not appear, Mrs. Douglass, until he asks for you," said the hostess.
"I could na' stay awa' frae little George any mair, Mrs. Antrim; how fares the bairn?"
"He has been asking for you every day, Robert."
The poor man looked pleased, as he caressed the little fellow.
After a few more visits, he asked for Mrs. Douglass.
"Where is the Quaker lady, Mrs. Antrim?"
"She will be here directly, Robert," and Mrs. Douglass appeared without her bonnet; a simple cap alone covered her fine dark hair.
Robert looked long and earnestly at the face, as though he were studying the resemblance to some one whom he had known.
"Did ye always live in America, ma'am?" inquired he.
The question was unexpected.
"I hae been here for some time, Robert."
"Yer dialect is Scotch, ma'am; hae ye iver lived in Scotland?"
"That is my native land, Robert."
No more conversation passed at this time, and he took his leave.
Absent again for some weeks, they sent to inquire, and found that he was very sick.
"I will mak' a desperate trial, Mrs. Antrim; there hae been no progress yet in my mission; an' I maun try anither mode; let me gae this time to see him."
"You may go, Mrs. Douglass, and may God be with you."
Throwing off her Quaker dress, she assumed her former garb, and tremblingly proceeded to the cottage. Robert was very sick; confined entirely to his bed.
She entered, took off her bonnet, and advanced to the bedside.
"Stephen Bruce! my brother Stephen! dinna ye ken yer sister?"
The countenance of the sick man darkened, as he replied,
"Wha are ye that come to fash a puir sick mon by calling him by a wrang name?"
"Dinna ye ken yer ain sister Annie, Stephen?"
"My sister Annie is in Scotland," replied the man, thrown off his guard.
"She is by yer side, Stephen, yer ain loving, faithfu' sister; she has crossed the deep ocean to find ye, an' God be praised, she has na' come in vain."
"Why do ye seek me, Annie? I am but a puir wretched mon; ye canna' want sic a brother."
"Ye are sair distraught, Stephen; I cam to tak' ye hame, that ye may get yer ain, my brother."
"Nane wad want to see a mon that had forsaken wife an' bairns as I hae done, Annie."
"Just consent to gang wi' me, Stephen."
But no words could change the determination of Stephen Bruce; he listened moodily to all his sister's arguments; but all was in vain.
She took her departure, and her heart sank within her when she heard the bolts slide, fastening doors and windows against another entrance.
She sent each day to inquire; he was getting better; but no inducements could persuade him to open his door to the family at Mrs. Antrim's, not even to little George.
In a few days, the cottage was forsaken; and Stephen had vanished from the neighborhood. Thus the link so lately found was lost once more.
In vain Mrs. Douglass sought for tidings; there was no clue whatever to his movements.
"I hae no hope but in Elsie Gibson, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I shall see her soon."
Advertisements were again inserted in the newspaper; but still no news.
At length Elsie made her appearance.
"I hae found my brother, Elsie, an' lost him again; can ye tell me where he is?"
"I need na' be so secret noo, as ye ken that he lives; he has a strange dislike towards his kin, but I hope that we may ow'rcome it, for he is na sae bad as he was."
"Where is he, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Douglass.
"He is aboot tharty miles frae here, wi' an auld woman, who is kind to him."
"What led ye to this country, Elsie?"
"Ye ken the history o' my early days, Annie Douglass; and ye ken fu' well that Elsie ne'er forsakes the ane she luves, though Stephen luved anither. When the tidings o' his loss reached Scotland, I greeted sair for him wha lay buried in the deep sea; but when he appeared suddenly amang us, I saw that his puir mind was a' shattered, for he seemed dark an' gloomy, and could na' bear the sight o' Malcolm Graham. He was aye jealous o' that stricken mon; an' had the notion that Malcolm yet luved his wife wi' a fond an' tender luve. He hid himsel' frae his friends, got some o' his money secretly, bound me by a solemn oath to keep his secret, and then started again for America to watch his wife. I kenned that he was crazy; an' leaving a comfortable hame, where I had enow to live on weel, I cam' owre here; found puir Stephen separated frae his wife and bairns, an' wandering aboot wi'out a hame. I could na persuade him to gae back to his wife; but he employed me to see that their wants were weel supplied. I went out to sarvice, for I had nae ither way to live. At last, the money he had brought was gane; he had become so much warse that he could na' tell me how to write to Scotland; then cam' the dark days. I had to wark vera hard to find a hame for puir Stephen; the only thing that I am sorry for was that I agreed to stop the letters which Mary sent to Scotland, for he was beset wi' the notion that, in this way, she could hear frae Malcolm; an' he was niver at rest until I brought the letters, an' he destroyed them in my sight. Then he seemed a little better; for he felt that he had closed the door for aye between his pure an' holy wife an' the mon that she had luved sae truly. But Stephen luved her a' the time. I used to tak' him sometimes several lang mile just to get a glint o' Mary an' her bairns in her humble cottage. I led him to her grave, an' I saw him weep bitter tears owre the green sod, and owre the grave o' his daughter, Effie; an' I hoped that the warm tears wad wash awa' the cloud owre the puir brain; but it is there yet, Annie; an' I ken o' only ane ither way to lead him hame. I hae told him meikle aboot his son Roland; he luves that boy wi' a' a father's pride; if he could see him, he might prevail on him to gang back to Scotland. I hae helped to bear Stephen's sorrows, Annie, an' a' the pay I ask is just to see him happy; an' that is my mission here, Annie; when I see him wi' his ain people ance mair, an' his puir stricken heart at rest, then I shall gang hame again, an' spend the rest o' my life in preparing for my last journey."
Mrs. Douglass listened with many tears to this sad story, and agreed with Elsie in the fancy that Roland only could persuade his father to return.
She lost no time in writing; Roland came at once, and the three set out to find the heart-broken man.
Elsie entered first. "Stephen, I hae brought a friend, whom ye wad luve to see, an' wha wad luve to see ye."
"Wha is it, Elsie? wha can want to see sic a mon as I?"
"Yer son Roland; as soon as he heard where ye are, he left all, an' is here, langing to see his father."
"Elsie, how can he e'er forget the days o' poverty an' woe that I hae brought upon his mother?"
"He is a Christian, Stephen; he has forgiven a' the past, an' a' that he wants noo is to see his father, an' be a guid an' faithfu' son to him, as he was aye to his departed mother."
"Bring him in, Elsie; I maun see my boy."
Roland entered, and before he could prevent it, Stephen had crawled out of bed, and lay prostrate at the feet of his son.
Roland instantly raised him from the ground.
"Do not kneel to me, my father; I came to seek you as a loving, faithful son."
"I can na look upon yer face, yer young noble face, Roland, for I am na worthy o' sic a son."
"Dear father, let us forget the past; my mother would smile upon this reunion, and now your sorrows are all over; I will cherish and keep you as a true and loyal son."
Stephen Bruce could not resist the generous appeal, but lifting up his voice, the poor man wept; the fountains of the great deep of feeling were broken up, and stormed the bosom of the heart-broken penitent.
Elsie Gibson stood by—poor, faithful Elsie; her mission was accomplished; her woman's unselfish love was all repaid. She knelt by the side of the bed, and wept long and quietly, for hers were the tears of grateful, happy feeling. Roland beckoned to his aunt.
Stephen raised his head, the pale lips quivered, as he said, "come, sister Annie, we are a' as ane again;" and stretching out his arms, he folded in the embrace of a brother's love, the twin-sister of his early days. There was no more need to persuade Stephen to return to Scotland; his anxiety to secure to this honored son all his rights, made him eager to set sail, that he might, in some measure, atone for past neglect.
"You will return to America, my father, as soon as all is settled."
"Yes, my son, I can na' be parted ony mair; I maun look to ye, my boy, for the strong arm; for I am a puir broken doon auld mon, auld before my time;" and Stephen folded his son in his arms with feelings of deepest reverence and love. Elsie! poor faithful Elsie, stood in weeping silence.
"Fareweel, Elsie! guid an' faithfu' friend! ye hae been true through the darkest days, an' God will bless ye;" and Stephen laid his hand upon her head, as he said, "True an' faithfu' may we a' meet abuve." As soon as possible, arrangements were made to leave America; farewells exchanged; and Roland, hastening from the ship, could still glance upward, and say, "Looking aloft!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
HEARTS' EASE.
Foreign travel, association with Malcolm Graham, and abundant opportunity in Paris, London, and Scotland, for improvement, had done much for Roland. It was seen in his daily life, in his professional career, and in the polished grace always attendant upon a highly-cultivated mind, and a heart purified by holy principles.
Roland was henceforth among the leading members of the younger barristers of the great metropolis; for although but few could be found to adopt his principles of action, none failed to respect his character.
Mr. Thornly's patronage was generously extended to the young man, and the society met at his house was from among the choice families of the crowded city.
Edgar was still cheering his father's heart by the evident improvement in his moral character, and earnest devotion to study.
Mr. Thornly could never forget the debt of gratitude which he owed to Roland; and for Helen, alas! it had been a dangerous privilege to dwell in the house with Roland Bruce.
He is now a prosperous man—but does he forget the humble friends who had sheltered him in the days of his deep adversity? No—for no sooner had he returned to New York than he remembered Richard and Martha Green.
Prosperity warms and expands a noble heart, and only chills the sordid—and from the open purse of this child of Providence, many liberal donations found their way to the "News-Boys' Home." A valuable library now filled the book-case in the reading-room, and none knew the generous donor; but no boy spending his quiet evenings in useful reading could experience half of the delicious pleasure that Roland enjoyed, when sitting among them, hearing and answering their questions; remembering that his means had contributed the larger number to the shelves.
Roland's name often appeared in the public prints in connection with important law cases, and never without abundant praise; but remembering the source whence all came, he was not high-minded, but grateful; for it was God who gave him intellectual power and influence; the God who in one moment could lay his finger on that active brain, and produce universal chaos.
Entering the reading-room one evening, Roland perceived a stranger, evidently a gentleman, sitting at the table; he raised his head on Roland's entrance.
"Why, Stanley! is this you, my good fellow? Where did you come from?"
"I have been in New York some time, Roland, pursuing my studies; and seeing your name in the papers, I have been trying to trace your steps. I am interested in these good works, and coming to visit this institution, I found that you were among its laborers, and have waited to see you."
"It does me good, Stanley, to see your honest face once more."
"And I am no less glad to meet you, Roland," shaking him heartily by the hand; "I was a wild chap in those college days."
"Yes, Stanley; but you were a whole-hearted fellow, even when you were doing wrong."
"Those days are over, Roland,—what would you say if I were to tell you that I am now among the saints, though the very humblest of them all?"
"What would I say, Stanley? Is it really so? Give me your hand, your old honest grasp, and let me clasp it as a Christian brother. How was it, Stanley? Tell me all about the great change."
"It is told in a few words—the first sermon that I ever really heard, was preached at my sick-bed, by one who lived the Christian—it sank right down into my very soul; it spoke volumes to me; it haunted me night and day; for then I began to feel that I really was a miserable sinner. I tried to silence the voice, but it spoke deeper, louder. It followed me into the very dens of dissipated city life. God be praised that it did! I could obtain no rest. Suddenly, I gave up my evil ways, and my bad companions; and at a supper, where many of them were gathered, I publicly renounced them all—they were amazed; they tried the power of ridicule; but they knew Stanley, and soon left me to myself. I found peace in Jesus, and I am not ashamed, Roland, of the gospel of Christ—unworthy as I am, I am preparing to be an ambassador of him whom I once derided and persecuted."
For a moment Roland was silent. He remembered the earnest, fervent prayers, which he had poured out in behalf of Stanley; the answer had been long delayed, but it had come at last. They left the room arm in arm, Christian brothers. Roland was full of joyful anticipation, for he knew the earnest character of this young man, and believed that, like a second Paul, he would preach the everlasting gospel.
Introducing him into the family of Mr. Thornly, he was frequently in his society, and found what he had long desired, a fellow-laborer in his Master's cause.
Helen was interested in the bold young champion of truth, for she was herself becoming daily more devoted to the cause of the Redeemer, less assimilated to the spirit of the world. With her father's full consent, she took an open stand with the friends of Jesus, and from that day, her course was upward and onward in the Christian life.
Madeline occasionally visited New York on business, for she was still engaged in writing her little books—entirely separated from the gay world, not only by her mourning dress, but by deliberate choice, she was only found in the domestic circles of intimate friends. She was still annoyed by the public attentions of Henry Castleton, for personal vanity had made him blind to the positive aversion of his cousin Madeline.
Lavinia is now on a visit to New York, and is spending an evening at Helen Thornly's, in company with a few friends, among whom is Henry Castleton. The conversation turns upon a party where the two had met.
"Really!" said Lavinia, with a toss of her proud head, "go where you will, one must meet with the parvenues of society; did you observe that Miss Digby dressed out in her diamonds and point lace, for such a small social party?"
"Yes," replied Harry, "I could scarcely restrain a smile, when I was introduced to her; who is she, Miss Raymond?"
"She is the daughter of old Digby, the great confectioner; he has retired from business, and lives in grand style, with his carriages, and his town and country house; but you can see the vulgarity of the people, for who but a Digby would ever have thought of diamonds at such a party?"
"And who was that little Miss Austin? I mean the one dressed in simple white, seated in the corner?" asked Lavinia.
"I don't know," was Harry's reply, "but she was evidently a lady; so quiet! so refined! with such a low sweet voice, and dressed in such excellent taste—did you observe how much attention was paid to her?"
"Yes, I wonder who she is; the Browns, the Starrs, and the Carsons were very polite to her; and you know that they are really our first people; she must be somebody, for she had such a distinguished air."
Helen let them run on with their folly, and then quietly remarked with a meaning smile,
"Miss Austin is a governess in the family of the lady whom you were visiting; her father was a sea-captain, and her mother conducted a young ladies' school for many years; indeed, until her death; her daughter, who is highly accomplished, is obliged to earn her own living—she is a lady of great worth and intelligence, and, happily, is with a family who knows how to value such gifts."
Helen and Madeline were both amused at the disconcerted expression upon the faces of Harry and Lavinia.
"Really!" said the latter; "I never was more mistaken in all my life, for I took her for a lady of high rank."
"What are we coming to?" responded Harry, "when the daughters of confectioners and teachers can aspire to mingle with the best circles? I should not wonder if shoemakers and tailors would creep in. Indeed, I have met with one who was formerly a common boot-black in society where I visit; I am amazed at his presumption, for Roland Bruce was nothing more."
Madeline could restrain herself no longer—for although Helen tried to hold her down, she arose with dignity from her chair, while a crimson glow covered her whole face, and regardless of the presence of strangers, she said,
"And do you presume, Harry Castleton, to look down upon such persons as Miss Austin and Roland Bruce? you, with your empty head!" (and she tapped her pretty head with unconscious scorn,) "and they with their noble character, and brilliant powers of intellect—I am sorry for you, Harry, with such a pretty little figure! and such a paltry little soul! Will it ever grow beyond a pigmy's? Roland Bruce will shine among the great and good, when you are entirely forgotten."
Harry withered beneath her rebuke; and even Lavinia, whose lip curled in contempt, for the moment looked awe-struck.
Madeline stood with her back to the door, facing the glass; she was too much excited to look forward, or she would have seen the figure of Roland standing irresolute at the door, for he had heard all; and stood, not knowing whether to advance or retire.
It was a picture for an artist, as he appeared listening to the impassioned words bursting from the lips of Madeline Hamilton. Roland towering above all present in height, with his broad expansive brow, on which sat enthroned a lofty intellect, the signet of true nobility; his fine dark eye, and firm, but sweetly expressive, mouth, his cheek glowing with the feelings of the moment; and Madeline, in all her youthful grace and beauty, with cheek suffused, and burning eye, her hand extended towards Harry Castleton, who durst not raise his eyes to hers—the room was silent—suddenly Madeline raised her eyes, and in the mirror opposite she saw the figure of Roland standing behind her, and covering her blushing face with her hands, she sat down, overwhelmed with shame. Roland advanced, with great dignity, towards Helen Thornly.
"Will you favor us with some music, Miss Helen?"
She advanced, glad to break the painful silence.
Roland did not, for some minutes, approach Madeline; he understood her feelings, and spared her the pain of drawing any further notice towards the sorely mortified girl. When a suitable opportunity offered, he quietly took his seat by her side; he saw that she was suffering, for whenever she raised her eyes, they were moistened with tears, and her lips trembling with emotion.
"Do not distress yourself, Madeline," whispered the young man, "be calm if you can; if you cannot, I will lead you to the other room."
"Don't speak to me, Roland, I an ashamed of myself; such a burst of passion in this public place! I wish I were in my room; I am not fit to meet this provoking young man."
"I thank you for the generous defence; but another time, Madeline, I will say more to you about it."
"You despise me, Roland, I know that you do; for I despise myself."
"Despise that warm and generous heart, Madeline! Never! do not entertain the thought for one moment; but I must leave you now; we are too much observed. I will call to-morrow, if you will walk with me to the Battery."
Crossing to another part of the room, he found himself near Lavinia Raymond, and bowed politely.
"Miss Thornly sings well, does she not, Miss Raymond?"
Lavinia looked surprised, as though not acquainted with the gentleman, and made no answer.
"Her voice is very sweet, and she sings with much feeling," he continued.
Miss Raymond deliberately turned her back, murmuring, "Impertinent!" and crossed to the other side of the room.
Roland smiled, for Madeline's warm and generous defence had filled his heart with secret rapture, although he could have wished that it had not drawn upon her so much notice.
The evening passed unpleasantly, for Madeline's mortification and self-reproach were too deep to be easily forgotten; she had exposed herself in the presence of so many witnesses, had given way to an unchristian burst of temper, publicly wounded a cousin whom she should have tried to benefit, and, she was sure, must have lost the respect of Roland Bruce.
Roland's quiet dignity of manner had won for him golden opinions, and Harry had failed again in humbling the man whom he both feared and hated.
Lavinia was again disappointed; for the company generally had treated the one with marked distinction, the other with entire forgetfulness and contempt.
Late in the afternoon of the next day Roland called; Madeline was ready, but shy, reserved, abashed.
They walked almost in silence until they reached the Battery; then seating themselves under the shade, Roland addressed the mortified girl,
"What is the matter, Madeline? you seem so silent; are you displeased with me?"
"No; not with you, but with myself; I thought that I had learned to control my impulsive temper, Roland; but I find that I have made no progress. I own that I was all wrong yesterday, but I have done the same before; and on the first provocation, I am tempted, and overcome again."
"Your motive, Madeline, was noble; and, as Miss Austin was not present to defend herself, it was generous in you to be her champion."
Madeline looked her thanks to Roland, for she saw how he was trying to reconcile her to herself, and understood the delicacy with which he approached the subject.
"For myself, Madeline," and he spoke in lower tones, "you were always the same noble, frank, and generous friend; but you will allow me also the privilege of a friend; you know I have always laid a gentle rein upon your neck, Madeline; and you formerly yielded to the friendly check; may I still do the same?"
"Say all that you think, Roland, fully, freely, as you used to do; only don't excuse me."
"I wish that you would learn to restrain those open expressions of your feelings; they make you enemies, and they are not in accordance with the spirit of the Gospel."
"I know it, Roland; I am so glad that you do not praise me; I should not respect you if you did; but how am I to become meek and lowly? I, passionate! proud! wilful Madeline? I want to be humble, I long to be holy."
Roland took the little hand gently, kindly, as of old, and held it between his own; bending his eyes upon the ground, he repeated, "'Come, learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and you shall find rest unto your soul.'"
"How, Roland, can I learn of Jesus?"
"Sit at his feet every day, Madeline; study his holy character, pray for his blessed spirit; you have trusted him with the justification of the immortal soul; trust him also in the work of sanctification; he is the author of both; of the former by himself; of the latter by his spirit."
She bowed her head, and wept.
"O, Roland! sometimes I fear that I am not among the justified ones; if I were, would not the fruits be more manifest?"
"Have you any hope of Heaven apart from Jesus, Madeline?"
"No, Roland, 'Jesus only,'" and this she said with deepest feeling.
"That is faith, Madeline, and it is faith that justifies; this faith works godly sorrow for sin, earnest longing for holiness, deep humiliation; do you not experience these?"
Madeline looked up through her tears with such a smile of hope—
"Yes, Roland, ever since yesterday I have been in the dust, repenting of my sin, and longing, praying for holiness; and then I am so sorry for Harry Castleton; I wounded him so deeply, I behaved so shamefully."
Roland, looked upon the weeping girl, almost with the feelings of a parent towards a child; there certainly was compassionate tenderness in his face, and lowly reverence in that of Madeline, as he laid his hand in blessing upon the drooping head.
"I am going to ask Harry's pardon, Roland; I cannot be happy until I do; and then, by God's help, I will never be unkind to him again; he is not gifted like some others, and it was mean to reproach him with it; I know that he has always loved me, and I ought to be grateful; is it not strange that it makes me so angry, when it is not so with some others—I wonder why it is, Roland?" and the artless look with which she uttered these innocent words, caused a smile to pass over his face, for she was a child in some things yet.
"Is not this pleasant talk? just like 'Auld Lang Syne,' Roland, when you used to lecture little Mad-cap, and when she used to like the lectures so much better than other people's praises."
"Yes, it is too pleasant, Madeline; I wonder if you have cherished the mementoes of those childish days as I have? do you know this handkerchief, Madeline?" and Roland took out of his pocket a soiled cambric handkerchief, stained with blood.
She looked at him with great surprise.
"Why, where did you get that dirty handkerchief?"
"Don't you remember the first day that we met upon the shore, that you wiped my face with your handkerchief? I have kept it ever since, and would never have it washed; to-day I was looking among some old relics, and put it in my pocket, intending to place it again among my treasures."
Madeline blushed as she looked at the handkerchief, and smiling, she said,
"They were very happy days; what a merry child I was! so spoiled! so wilful! I wonder if I am any better now."
"You were a very charming child, Madeline, and I never can forget the little friend of the sea-shore. Here is another relic!" and he held up a lock of golden hair, which she had given him in those childish days.
"Were we not very happy, Roland? now I am so much older—we have both seen sorrow, you the most; and I too have tasted of the cup—and now it is so solemn to live, Roland, to have the charge of so much property, and to be responsible as a steward for all that God has given to me. Papa told me that I might choose my own guardian; I have no male relations, and no one but you—will you not take charge of my estate, Roland?"
"It is a great responsibility, but I cannot well decline it; I shall be but too happy if I can serve you."
"I want some one to teach me how to take care of it, and how to use it for the good of my fellow-creatures. I saw such a beautiful example in the Countess of N—— and her noble husband; they seemed just to live to do good to their own family, and the people all around them. I have commenced my little school again, and it is growing fast; I shall soon want a teacher; then I must have a reading-room for the factory-men, a missionary for the neighborhood, and, after a while, a dear little church of my own."
Roland listened to the young enthusiast with a glowing heart, for she was running on with a smiling face, and such an earnest, happy expression.
The tears were gone—April had passed, and smiling May fanned its breezes around the two, as they sat under those shady trees.
She was playing with a sprig of hearts'-ease while she was talking.
"What a sweet flower you have, Madeline!"
"Yes, it is one of my favorites; I have so many at Woodcliff."
"Won't you give it to me, Madeline?"
"What! my hearts'-ease, Roland! There, take it; I wish it were not so faded."
Placing it in a button-hole of his coat, he smiled as he said,
"That is an emblem of yourself, Madeline, or what you used to be—my own little hearts'-ease."
"Well, truly! Roland Bruce paying compliments! Take care, good sir; don't become a flatterer."
"I speak truth, Madeline; but let us talk a little more about this trust that you wish me to undertake—are you very careful about your accounts, Madeline? you should make a regular entry of every day's expenditure, calculate your income, put apart so much for your charities, and so much for your daily wants—but never run into debt."
Madeline began to smile.
"Well, good sir! it seems so funny for little Mad-cap to be sitting here listening to a lecture from her guardian, little Roland of the Maple Lane School—you are getting on pretty fast, I think, and it will not be long before we hear that eloquent speech that I have so often talked about."
Roland was suddenly depressed; for when he looked upon the young heiress of so large an estate, and himself, her guardian, he felt more than ever repelled from thoughts that would sometimes rise up in his heart with visions of domestic bliss.
There was so much of artless, tender interest in Madeline's manners, that often the thought would cause a thrill of rapture as hope whispered, "She loves me, this peerless child of Nature! this fresh, guileless young heart! But it cannot be—be silent, foolish heart! But it is a joy to guide, to counsel, to comfort, even to hear her voice," and gradually he sank into silence.
Madeline's spirits were gay—taking Roland's arm, they walked home quietly together.
It had been a happy hour! But Roland awoke as from a dream, when Madeline named her property; with that, came the incubus that always lay as a shadow between him and his darling's warm young heart. Chilled by its icy breath, he remained quiet.
"Why are you so silent, my good sir?" inquired Madeline; "it seems that you have left all your spirits at the Battery."
"I was looking some very painful thoughts right in the face, Madeline; there are some things that I must get accustomed to, but it is not an easy task."
"Can I help you, Roland?" and she turned a kindly look upon his troubled face.
"You, help me, Madeline! No—it is beyond your power," and he looked deeply pained.
"There is nothing, Roland, that I would not do, to lighten your cares, if I only knew what they were."
"Never mind, my good little friend, there is a refuge for every care; I have tried it very often, and it has never failed—no, not once."
By this time, they had reached the door of Madeline's stopping-place.
"Good evening, Madeline, God bless you!"
"I shall see you to-morrow, Roland—shall I not? I will then tell you all about Harry."
"Yes, I will see you,"—and Roland turned away to kiss the sweet little bunch of hearts'-ease, murmuring, "not for me! would that she were penniless;" while Madeline went up-stairs, humming a low, soft tune, as she whispered, "What a dear, kind guardian!" Would she have echoed Roland's wish, had she known this to be the only barrier between two pure young, loving hearts?
True to her sense of right, she sent a short note without delay to Harry Castleton, requesting the favor of an early call next morning.
Harry loved Madeline as much as his weak nature would allow him to love any one beside himself, and had borne much contempt from her even meekly; therefore, he obeyed the summons, wondering what change had come over his proud cousin.
"I sent for you, Harry, to apologize for my conduct; I am heartily ashamed of it—it was unwomanly, unchristian, and uncalled for. I hope, Cousin Harry, that you will forgive me; you know what a proud, high temper I have, and must attribute all that I said to that infirmity."
Harry looked amazed—he had never before seen Madeline so humble herself to any body, and he wondered what it really could mean.
"I was to blame too, Madeline; I know how my speeches provoke you, and I believe that I uttered them for that very purpose. I receive your apology freely, I hope that you will accept mine. I cannot help my feelings about Roland Bruce, for I do believe that it is he only that prevents your return of my warm affection."
Madeline bit her lip, for hasty words were coming again, but she restrained them, and replied,
"You are mistaken, Harry, I feel for you the interest of a cousin; nothing else could possibly be entertained; but you will never have to complain again of unkind conduct at my hands; I have been too deeply humbled. I do wish you well, cousin Harry; I would like to see you caring more for better things; then at least, you would have my respect."
"Madeline, if you had always been thus kind, I might have been a better man; your scorn has embittered me; but words like these soften my heart, and waken better feelings, even in vain and trifling Harry Castleton."
They spent an hour in friendly conversation, and Madeline was greatly relieved, when she parted amicably from her cousin.
A familiar step soon followed upon Harry's departure, and Madeline, with her own mischievous smile, said,—
"Now, Roland, have I not been a good girl? I made an humble apology to Harry, for all my naughty ways, and I think that my venerable guardian must be satisfied with his protégé."
Roland smiled, and answered,
"Follow out your own convictions of right at once, Madeline, as you have done in this case, and you will not go very far astray."
"I would have done the same willingly before all that room full, Roland, that they might have known how heartily ashamed I was?"
Roland looked upon this fascinating combination of innocent, frank child-nature with true earnest womanhood, and felt convinced that the world would never spoil this fresh young soul.
"You look very sad, to-day, good sir; has any thing happened to distress you?"
"Nothing now, Madeline; I have only had to tame down some wild, ungoverned fancies."
"Here are some of my papers ready for my sage guardian; when I get home, I will send the rest."
Roland winced again; for this bundle of parchment reminded him of the night's sore struggle—he could not now see Madeline with the mere regard of a true friend, for the silent hours of midnight communion had fully revealed the state of his heart.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SEAWEED.
The witcheries of the world were rapidly losing their power over Madeline Hamilton—but Nature, calm, beautiful, bright, became more dear, more elevating to her child—for had she not always been her nursing-mother even from earliest childish days?
There was perfect harmony between the fresh guileless nature and the green trees, the smiling sky, the deep blue ocean, and the sweet voices among which she rambled; and deeper, fuller than ever was the joy swelling in her young heart, when she could look upward and say, "My Father made them all."
From the deep fountains of her new nature gushed out streams of love, for all that God had made; for the more that she loved God, the truer, and more spiritual became her love for her fellow-men. Then the intimate relations between herself and Roland, the dear companionship, the old feelings of perfect trust and reverence, and the tender interest which enveloped her in such a mantle of protection, dwelt with her daily; and neither needed words to tell how truly they were one, nor with what unconscious, mysterious knowledge, they had read each other's hearts. Roland could not but feel "she loves me," and Madeline needed no language to make her understand how precious was the sacred bond which united their warm young hearts.
The little children that assembled around her still in her Saturday-school, and her class on Sunday, all felt the sweet attraction—the dwellers at the cottages, Aunt Matilda, and the people in the kitchen, all realized that a warmer glow of love kindled in the young face, and sweeter words were breathed from her lips.
Madeline was really living—for the heart had found objects on which to bestow its benevolence, and the feeling, day by day, was deepening, widening, as she felt truly "Jesus loves me, and I love him."
As the guardian of her worldly concerns, she received frequent letters from Roland, full of kind advice and strengthening words. He had laid down for her a plan which she was eager to carry out, and it was a pretty picture to see the young girl with her little basket of books, tracts, and domestic comforts, sallying forth daily among her humble dependents. Hours for devotion, household cares, for reading, music, for exercise, for benevolence, were systematically arranged, and as carefully carried out; and while Aunt Matilda was yawning over want of occupation, and imagining headaches, indigestion, and countless other evils, Madeline scarcely found time for her numerous duties. She was very happy; for even while she missed the smile of her dear father's approval, was she not blessed with the assurance of his unspeakable gain? and did she not hope to join him at last in the better world, to part no more forever?
Her cheek bloomed with brighter tints, her eye beamed with holier love, and her lips told tales of sweet inward peace and joy, drawn from the deep wells of salvation. She was learning some of Mozart's and Beethoven's finest music on her harp, and some sacred melodies for her voice; for she knew the style that pleased Roland, and was scarcely aware how all her occupations were mingled with the name of that precious friend. Sometimes, doubts and difficulties would obtrude themselves when reading the Scriptures, and then she would wish for her faithful guide.
"Get Mr. Bruce's room ready, Mary," said Madeline to the chambermaid; "he will here to-morrow," and she spent much of her time in preparations for the welcome visitor.
Aunt Matilda found that although her niece treated her with respect and affection, in the choice of her guardian she had exercised the liberty which her father had given her, and the good lady had quietly to submit. The respectful reverence with which Roland treated Madeline's aunt almost disarmed her opposition to this intimacy, and would have done so entirely, could she have divested herself of the fear that Roland might some day be more than guardian. After tea, Madeline led Roland to the drawing-room.
"I have learned some new music just for you, guardian," and she played some of her finest pieces with exquisite taste and execution.
"How can people like polkas and waltzes after such music as this?" said Roland; "it seems to speak so truly the language of the soul."
"I have some beautiful sacred melodies, and I want you to learn them to sing with me, guardian, your voice is so good."
It was amusing to see Madeline assume the office of teacher, and when he would make mistakes, with an arch expression around her mouth, to hear her say—
"What a dumb scholar! don't you see that you are singing the wrong note? I am so glad that there is something I can do better than you."
It was a laughing lesson, with Roland's blunders, and Madeline's pretended reproofs, and the pat of the little hand on his head when he succeeded.
"Don't be affronted, guardian, for I really do entertain a profound respect for you, though not much wholesome fear; that is rather out of my sphere, good sir."
After sundry trials, they succeeded admirably, and Madeline's sweet treble, with Roland's rich tenor voice, made truly delightful music.
"That's a good boy, Roland! you shall have a treat for your performance," and Madeline ordered a tête-a-tête supper before retiring, with just such viands as Roland liked.
"Shall I see you to-morrow in the library, Madeline?" was Roland's request, as he bade "good-night."
"Yes, at nine o'clock; I shall be occupied until that time."
A full hour was spent in transacting some business attendant upon his office, and, at the close, Madeline, with a sweet, serious face, seated herself on a lower seat by the side of her guardian.
"I have wanted you lately, Roland, I have been so troubled when reading the Scriptures; I don't know what can be the matter, but my mind has been so disturbed by doubts and difficulties, that they have clouded my peace, and perplexed me so much."
"Are they connected with your duties, Madeline?"
"No, Roland; they are about deep, inscrutable mysteries that I cannot understand," and Madeline, from a full heart, poured out all her tale of doubts and trials into the ears of one ever ready and able to counsel and aid her trembling steps.
On Sunday morning, Roland accompanied Madeline, opened the services of the Sunday-school, and aided in teaching; in the afternoon, by the side of his young friend, and using the same book, he joined in the beautiful service which she loved, for he had outlived the prejudices of his childhood, and had learned to love goodness and truth wherever he saw it, or under whatever garb, and could now easily make allowances for the deep aversion of those days of persecution to the rigid ritualism which laid such heavy burdens upon the consciences of Christian men.
While he remained at Woodcliff, one hour each morning was spent in studying the word of God, and his clear explanations greatly aided the young believer.
"This is a pleasant evening, Madeline; shall we walk down to the shore? I must see the dear spot before I return to New York."
"Wait a minute, Roland, I must get my hood and scarf; it is a little damp. Old Peter will be glad to see us, and I have something for him."
"So have I," answered Roland. "He must be growing very old, for he was an aged man when we first came to Woodcliff, and that is seventeen years ago; I am now twenty-six."
"And I twenty-one; and yet, Roland, I do not feel more than sixteen; I enjoy life as much as then, and I have just the same faith in goodness as I had at that age."
They soon found themselves at the dear trysting place, and, seated on the rock, they gazed in silence upon the grand old ocean. Madeline was the first to speak.
"Does it seem possible, Roland, that eleven years have passed since you stood there," pointing to a spot near them, "defending the poor little things who had lost their diamonds?"
"And yet, Madeline, if we measure time by events, what a long life mine would seem! So full of trial, of blessing, and of stirring incident! What finger-posts of Providence have marked my way!"
"How strange are its wondrous dealings, Roland! I ran down to the shore that evening with my dog Hector, just for a merry race and a wild romp with my good old playmate, and I found you—then a poor, threadbare boy, with a grand and noble soul—be still, Roland" (for he was about to speak), "I felt what was hidden under your worn-out jacket, child that I was; and I found such a friend! eternity only will reveal what you have been to wild, impulsive Madeline;" turning, with her young face all glowing, she added, "I fought your battles then, Roland, and I have done so ever since, for my childish instincts read truly."
"There are some scenes, Madeline, written upon the tablets of memory with a diamond pen, and that afternoon was one; the face of the bright child, with her generous impulses and her scorn of meanness, the stained handkerchief, and the tender touch of the dimpled hand have been with me ever since; to this have been added the bright, wild, untamed intellect that interested me in Maple Lane School, the docile pupil coming to me with such winning grace. I see the folded hands and downcast eyes even now; the mischievous little sprite that loved bewitching pranks; the gay young girl who, amid all the blandishments of wealth, still nobly cheering my way; the riper woman, with her noble heart, at last bowing at the foot of the cross, and pouring out its love on all around her. These, Madeline, have been with me always—cheering, blessing, soothing."
"All this, Roland, under the leading hand of a wondrous Providence, you have done; sometimes I was led away, but for what a short period! These early lessons are never forgotten; and even in England, where I was surrounded by so much more to tempt, my heart, true as the needle to the pole, turned back with all its freshness to those early memories and their teachings."
Roland sat in silence for a moment, his heart filled with unutterable love—could it be duty to throw from him this gem of priceless worth, this young, warm, guileless woman's heart? and yet as a flash darted through his brain, the thought that would obtrude—as her guardian, acquainted with the extent of her possessions, might he not be thought selfish, mercenary?
"And now you see, good sir, you are my grave and reverend guardian, and must know all about your ward," and Madeline flashed upon him one of her arch glances of mischief; "if a young lady has offers of marriage, I suppose that she ought to tell her guardian—is not that so?" and she continued, smiling, "and always ask his advice about such matters, for I have something of the kind to tell now."
Roland dropped his eyes, and moved away from the young lady, lest she should see his emotion, and replied seriously, "I shall always be interested in whatever concerns you, Madeline, and will advise here, as elsewhere, truly, faithfully."
"Well! to begin—Harry Castleton is one of my devoted—he has offered himself three times, and has as often been refused; for you know, guardian, that I could never love him, but I am going to treat him better; I have made a good beginning; what do you think of him for Madeline?"
"Think, Madeline! I should never cease to mourn over such a union—it could never be."
"Amen!" said Madeline, archly; "and then there was Mr. Livingston, of New York, that all the belles were dying for; a man of wealth, rank, fashion, and intelligence; not caring much for the gay world—what do you think of him?"
"Did you love him, Madeline?"
"No—not exactly; and I used to think it was very strange! he was so handsome and attractive! but what do you say about him?"
"I could not approve of him either."
"Why, guardian! you are grim, and hard to please—well! then there was Tony Willikins; poor Tony! when I was a wild young thing, I took a ride with Tony, and he asked me about his future establishment; about his house, his carriage, his grounds, his furniture; and I gave my opinion—well, to be sure! he built just such a house, ordered just such a carriage, and then came, and asked me to live in his house, and ride in his carriage. I almost laughed in his face; and when I refused, he said that I had encouraged him, because I described the house, and recommended the carriage; I did not think that he was quite such a dunce, but I really felt sorry for Tony; I did not mean any harm—now, guardian, what do you think of Tony Willikins?"
Roland smiled at the story, and replied,
"I should object no more to this poor fellow with weak intellect, and affectionate heart, than I would to a rich brainless fop, without a heart."
"When I went to England," and Madeline's face assumed a more serious, tender expression, "I was introduced to the family of the Earl of N——; it was all that a Christian family ought to be, and there I spent some of the happiest hours of my life. I was domesticated in that household for many weeks, and became much attached to Lady Alice, the eldest daughter. Lord N——, the eldest son, was a bright example of a young English noble; refined, intelligent, pious, and of an extremely prepossessing appearance; we were associated daily; Roland, he learned to love me with all the depth and tenderness of a true, manly nature. I never knew an hour of deeper sorrow, than when compelled to say to that outburst of a warm affection, 'only friendship can I return;' now, guardian, what would you think of him?"
They were sitting very near the edge of the shore, and as the waves washed up the sea-weed, Roland took up a bunch, and handing it to Madeline, said,
"You remember these flowers of the ocean—how often have I gathered them for you?"
"Remember them!" and Madeline opened a small pocket-book, from which she took a few faded weeds, "Ah! how often have these memorials spoken to me, Roland; once I placed them by the side of the splendid bouquet, that Lord N—— used to send me daily—and oh! the difference."