CHAPTER XXX.
FELLOW-HEIRS OF THE GRACE OF LIFE
"This is a trial," said Roland; "business calls me to New York, and it will never do for me to be running down daily to Woodcliff; I should be half of my time on the road. In the busy season, I shall have to content myself coming every other day, unless we take boarding in the city."
"Do you desire it, Roland? your wishes shall guide me, although I should be sorry to leave dear Woodcliff; life is so very different in that gay metropolis."
"I think that we had better remain here; we will go to the city for a few weeks in the winter, that Annot may see some of the lions that we have to show her."
Still the child of Providence, Roland rose step by step, until we find him occupying posts of honor and trust, a self-made man, such as thrive best in America. Life was very charming at Woodcliff; but Madeline felt that it was time to furnish her young charge with some useful pursuits, so one morning after breakfast she summoned her to her sitting-room.
"Well, Annot, now you have run about like a wild bird for a few weeks, suppose that we arrange some plans for improvement, dear; that is what Uncle Malcolm wishes, you know."
"An' that is just what I desire, Madeline."
"I have written to one of the best teachers of music in Boston, and, as it is but a few hours' ride, he can come twice a week to give you lessons, and you will have abundant time for practice; then I am going to ask your help in the Sunday-school, and will give you ten families among the factory people to visit."
"Thank ye, dear Madeline; I hae always led a busy life, and I wad na be happy in a state o' idleness."
The neighborhood around Woodcliff was rapidly increasing; the factories had brought many new families, both of the working classes and their employers; and the healthy, pleasant climate, the vicinity of the sea, and the beauties of fine scenery, had attracted also many summer residents, who were building picturesque cottages all around in the pleasant lanes, on the hill-tops, and some nearer to the sea-shore, where there was now a prospect of good bathing. Consequently, the Sunday-school and the congregation rapidly multiplied. Madeline began to think that it was time to think about her favorite plan in earnest; there must really be a church at Woodcliff.
It was a very happy household that dwelt beneath its roof; but there must be something to disturb its quiet, for, to Madeline's surprise, Lavinia wrote to say that Lucy and she were coming on a visit to Woodcliff. A slight shade of annoyance passed over the face of the young lady as she wondered what would bring Lavinia, after her conduct at the time of her marriage; but Madeline was a Christian and a lady, and sent an acknowledgment of the letter, with the information that a room was ready for their reception. They arrived—Lavinia, the same vain and frivolous girl; Lucy, the same gentle, pious friend. A handsome wardrobe, with every variety of fashionable folly, was intended to impress Annot Lindsay, but it failed signally; for it simply excited her wonder, and offended her pure and lady-like taste. Remarks were never made upon the subject except by Lavinia herself, and Annot generally contrived to introduce some more profitable conversation.
We will sit down with the family at a breakfast scene. Always attired with the neat simplicity of a lady, Madeline had not yet learned to appear before her husband with dishevelled hair, untidy costume, or any neglect of ladylike habits; and yet she was busier now than when Aunt Matilda expressed the fear that such might be the case; for, in her leisure moments, she still scribbled privately for the news-boys; but she had learned to live by system, thanks to the master of the family.
"Roland, will you want the horses to-day?" asked the wife.
"I think not; do you wish to ride, Madeline?"
"Yes; I have a visit to pay; I have never returned Mrs. De Coursey's call."
"I think that I shall have to refuse my wife the use of the horses to-day."
Madeline changed countenance—to be refused! and before Aunt Matilda and Lavinia, it was really too bad. She began to tap her little foot under the table, and to play impatiently with her spoon.
"Why can I not have the horses, if you are not going to use them, Roland?"
"I do not wish my wife to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. De Coursey; she is not a proper associate for a pure-minded lady."
"Why, what is the matter with Mrs. De Coursey? for my part, I think that she is charming; so sweet in her manners, so generous in her charities!"
"Have you ever seen her ride with her husband, Madeline?"
"I cannot say that I have," was the reply.
"Have you not seen her riding repeatedly with that infamous George Sinclair, Madeline?"
"I think I have, but he is her cousin; is he not?"
"Perhaps so; but in the absence of her husband, she is much too free with gentlemen generally."
"And so you really refuse me the horses, Roland?"
"Do not let us talk about it now, my love; after breakfast, I will explain my reasons more fully."
Roland looked deeply pained, Madeline angry and mortified, Lavinia Raymond contemptuous, and Aunt Matilda utterly surprised. It was the first ripple on the matrimonial surface.
The meal passed in silence—husband and wife were thoroughly uncomfortable. After Madeline had washed her silver and glass, as was her custom, she proceeded, with a dejected step, to her favorite room.
Roland followed—she was sitting in silence before her secretary, leaning her head on her hand, while she could not conceal the tears that were stealing through her fingers.
"My dearest wife," said the young man, "have I pained you?" and he seated himself by her, winding his arm around her waist, and kissing away the tears, as they fell drop by drop from her eyes.
She did not answer; conscience was busily at work, for she felt that she had been wrong.
"Can you not trust me, love? would I refuse you any thing which I know was for your real good? but when the honor of my pure and noble wife is concerned, then I must be the husband, Madeline. Do you know that Mrs. De Coursey is not visited, even in New York, by any of the really pure and good?"
"I did not know it, Roland, but I wish that you had refused me when alone; it was so mortifying to be treated just like a——child!" and she sobbed out the latter word, and threw herself upon his bosom; "and then to see the look of triumph and contempt in Lavinia's face, and surprise and pain on Aunt Matilda's."
"What need you care, my love, for the opinions of the world, if you only know that you are right? It is right to avoid the society of the impure, and it is right to be guided by your husband—is it not, dear?"
Madeline turned her eyes full upon Roland's noble face, so full of sorrow, and tender feeling. He had fully conquered; and she wound her arms around his neck, as she whispered,
"Forgive me, dear Roland, you are always right—this is just some of the leaven of my old hateful pride."
"And you the same sweet, ingenuous wife—do you think that I will ever allow any thing to approach you, Madeline, that can even breathe upon your reputation, or your happiness? now, darling—be comforted;" and he kissed again and again the half-smiling, tearful face.
Madeline began to laugh, a little hysterically, at first, but at last the showers passed away, and she was herself again.
Opening her secretary, she took out a draft of a church, which she had brought from England, a copy of the pretty Gothic building at Parkhurst.
"I want to ask your advice, Roland, about this church; you won't refuse me dear, will you?"
"It is very pretty, Madeline; but I think that we must have something added that is a little more useful."
"O, yes! it wants a Sunday-school—we cannot have that in a building like this, without spoiling the proportions."
"We can have a building by itself of the same style, and then, you know, that there must be a parsonage."
"Yes, that is fixed—no church without a house for the minister; I think the time has come to set about building—but it will cost a great deal of money."
"I will give a thousand, Madeline, out of my own means—I mean from my practice."
"Can we not give two thousand, Roland?"
"I think so, but we must be careful, dear, not to go beyond our ability, though our means are abundant; now, darling, come sit by me a moment," and Roland drew the young wife by his side upon the sofa, while he said softly,
"Do you not sometimes regret your loss of liberty, Madeline? just tell me, darling, truly."
"Never, Roland, in the depths of my heart—there may he ripples of the old pride disturbing the surface of my happiness; but the quiet ocean of love cannot be ruffled by these little passing winds," and she kissed her husband fondly; then rising said, "wait a minute, I must get my bonnet and mantle, for I have some purchases to make to-day."
Returning soon, every trace of sadness had vanished, and with the old arch look of mischief in her face, she entered saying, with a mock reverence of profound obeisance,
"'Most potent, grave and reverend signior!
My very noble and approved good master,'
If I have in aught offended your lordship,
I most humbly beg your gracious pardon—
The very head and front of my offending is in this;
That wilful woman like, I, like a fractious child,
Have sought to have my way, and not my lord's.
But now I lay down the weapons of my rebellion,
And Desdemona-like, bow to my lord Othello,
And say just love me well, my lord, and I am happy."
and as she concluded, placing her hand gracefully upon her heart, she made another mocking obeisance; the long, drooping eyelashes hiding the gleams of mischief that lurked in ambush. While she spoke these words with such a winning grace, Roland looked and listened with admiring gaze. It was the bewitching child of the sea-shore, and the wild woods yet, that stood before him, with her bright look of mischief gleaming from her deep blue eyes, and dimpling her expressive mouth. He kissed the glowing cheek with fondest love, as he replied,
"Well done! my love, where did you get that fine speech?"
"An imitation of Shakspeare, my lord; I was just seized with a fit of mischief, and thought that I would be sweet Desdemona—have I succeeded, Roland?"
"Admirably—now, what have you to ask, my darling? I know that there must be something behind this pretty acting."
"Why, just this—to show that we are all right again, just take me this morning to the store, and this evening to the hill above Glendale; I want to show you a fine site for our church."
"My plans were all different for to-day; but you must carry me where you please, Desdemona."
"That's noble, my lord Othello; now as soon as you can get the carriage, I am ready."
In a little while the carriage drove up, and Lavinia was utterly surprised to see Madeline, with beaming eyes and glowing cheek, handed in by her husband.
Kissing her hand to those on the piazza, she drove off in high spirits, and Lavinia said,
"Madeline lets that man lead her just where he pleases; I am astonished that a girl of her spirit should be so tame—refuse her own horses! I should like to see the man that could do that by me."
"It is mutual leading, Lavinia," replied Lucy. "I never saw a more perfect union."
They rode happily along, their intercourse the dearer for the gentle agitation that had disturbed it—but let young married persons beware that they stir not these ripples too often, for they may raise tempests at last.
Lengthening their ride, they remained away for two hours, and Madeline was happy in having her husband at home all day. After an early tea, another pleasant ride to Glendale, closed the day.
Arrived at the spot, Madeline led her husband to the top of a hill, commanding a fine view of the whole country. On the brow of this eminence stood a grove of fine old forest trees, that looked as if they had grown there on purpose to shade the pretty church; on the slope of the hill, facing the south, was an extensive lawn descending gradually to a babbling stream, bordered on either side by wild shrubbery, and fine old trees, dipping their branches into the winding creek; pretty vines hung in graceful festoons among the branches, forming charming resting-places for the strollers on the banks of this rural stream.
To the left was one broad rolling hill, rising in gentle swells, until it was lost in the distant outlines of misty blue hills.
This one eminence was partly covered with fine forest trees, crowning it to the very top; and on the slopes at the foot of the hill were pretty rural cottages, surrounded by shade trees, cultivated fields, and thick clumps of woods. From one broad opening, peeps out the dearest little miniature home, so like a bird's nest of love; as far as eye could reach, for miles the country was one beautiful garden of gentle hills and dales, and extensive woodlands; adding the picturesque feature of a dark stone bridge over a neighboring stream. The whole landscape was dotted with fine farms, gentlemen's country-seats, and quiet rural homes; and bounding this whole charming picture, on every side, were ranges of low hills, fading away in the distance in tints of misty blue.
Viewed at sunset, it was a picture never to be forgotten—the whole landscape was flooded in a halo of glory; the deep crimson of the setting sun illumined the sky, and hung his veil of splendor over every hill; gradually it changed to deeper hues, then to rich purple and gold, tinging the trees with the reflected glow of sunlight; slowly the hues faded, until the landscape was enveloped in the sombre drapery of solemn evening.
"What a place for thought and study, Roland! This must be the site for our church; we will call it Calvary; it shall be Gothic, with a Sunday-school, and parsonage to correspond; we must have a good minister; I have set my heart on George Stanley, he has been just ordained; write to him, Roland; he might as well come down at once; and if he becomes interested, he can help us to collect the funds, for it will cost a large sum of money. The house must be Glendale Parsonage, and I think Helen will be the lady; don't you, Roland?"
"I have no doubt of it; they are constantly engaged in the same good works, and seem just suited to each other; he so strong and self-reliant, she so gentle and dependent."
Madeline had passed a happy day; and, on their return, Lavinia and Lucy were walking on the piazza. There was something so tender in the manner of the young husband, as he lifted her from the carriage, and so confiding in the deep blue eyes of the wife, that Lavinia was full of wonder.
"I wonder how long the honeymoon will last," said Lavinia, as she observed the perfect reconciliation of the married pair.
"I think for life, Lavinia," was Lucy's reply; "there are depths of love and earnest piety in both characters; and such links are not easily broken."
"For my part, I don't believe in such romantic notions, Lucy; give me a handsome house and carriage, plenty of servants, and a long purse of money, with a comfortable, easy husband, who will let me take my path, and he choose his, and that is all that I care for."
Madeline and her husband, seated in the library, were looking over some accounts connected with their charities; and, after an hour devoted to business, she took her seat on a low ottoman at Roland's feet; and leaning her head upon his knee, occasionally she looked up in his face, with the true love of a wife shining in her expressive eyes, while he laid his hand caressingly upon the soft brown hair.
"We are very happy, Roland," said the young wife, "and sometimes when I read of the discipline of God's children, I tremble lest it should be necessary to visit our nest of love."
"We must never forget, my wife, that we are but pilgrims, seeking another, that is, a heavenly country; let our great object be to glorify God, to love him supremely, and then we can trust him with all our future. Looking aloft! dear, always, through joy and through sorrow, that is the way to happiness and peace."
"How different, Roland, is the bond that unites us, from the cold and selfish world! no wonder that there are so many wretched marriages, when so few are founded upon the holy principles of the Gospel. Ah, how many, when days of indifference and neglect overtake them, sigh for a love that never existed!"
"If people would only study the epistles of the disciple whom Jesus loved, and form their heart unions from such high and holy sources, how different would be the loves and friendships of poor humanity!"
And thus holy was the heart communion of this true union.
"Do not forget, Roland, to write to Stanley to-morrow, and bring him down with you next week to see the field of labor; it will be such a privilege to have a church of our own."
"Now, dear, it is time for worship;" and Roland rang the bell which summoned his family to the library.
While he reverently read and expounded the Holy Scriptures, all listened with deep seriousness; Madeline always conducted the singing; and guests and servants felt the value of that banner of security thus daily spread over the family circle at Woodcliff. Even Lavinia was obliged, much against her will, to pay the homage of deep respect to the character of Roland Bruce.
The Eolian discoursed sweet music on that calm evening, as, arm in arm, Roland and Madeline stood near the open window.
Edmund's visits to Woodcliff were much more frequent; a piece of music for Annot, an hour's private talk with Roland, or a book for Madeline, all served as so many pleas for weekly visits; until, at last, Edmund was always expected on Saturday night, to return with Roland, on Monday, to the city.
Tired of the frivolity of fashionable life, his heart turned with delight to the home-circle of his friend, and he often wondered if he should ever be blessed with such a happy household.
Annot had learned to listen for his footstep, and to blush when his hand was upon the door-knob; always ready with some new music, or a plate of especially choice fruit. Edmund gradually found that the lovely Scotch lassie was necessary to his happiness; and the heads of the family did not discourage the intimacy, for Roland knew his worth; had watched his progress, and saw the gleams of spiritual life as they developed themselves in his young protégé.
Therefore, when Edmund invited Annot to a walk on the piazza, to a ramble on the sea-shore, or by the placid lake, to an evening ride in the quiet lanes, there was no opposition; it rather pleased both husband and wife to see the dawn of a virtuous attachment, so elevating to the character of a young man.
Lavinia brought her visit to a close, for the tranquil pleasures and useful pursuits at Woodcliff did not suit the worldly tastes of her vitiated heart.
Stanley and Helen accompanied Roland on his next Saturday's return.
A long talk in the library between Roland and his friend about the parish seemed to have ended harmoniously; for after an early tea, the four took a ride to Glendale, for it was but a mile from Woodcliff.
Stanley was enraptured with the beautiful view from the hill-top, and Helen more quietly enjoyed the scene.
"There, Mr. Stanley, will be a part of your parish," said Madeline, as she pointed to the numerous pleasant homes scattered in all directions from one to five or six miles distant; "many of these people go nowhere to church, and if we should plant one in their midst, I doubt not that we could soon raise a prosperous congregation; the good Bishop of our Diocese is very anxious for such an effort, for his family have a summer-cottage here; we have already about one hundred in regular attendance, and large numbers of summer residents could worship with us—we have a prosperous Sunday-school with twelve teachers, and a Parish school under the care of an excellent young person, Susan Grant."
Stanley listened with deep interest
"The call seems inviting, Mrs. Bruce, and nothing would please me more than a home amidst just such a people; what do you say, Helen?"
At this direct and sudden appeal she blushed deeply—for, as yet, only surmise had connected the two names.
"I think that it would suit you exactly, Mr. Stanley; this quiet, shady hill, looks so inviting to thought and study."
Madeline could not resist the temptation as she whispered,
"And you, dear Helen, for the pastor's good little wife."
The sweet face was suffused with blushes, as she replied,
"Would you advise it, Madeline?"
"By all means, my dear girl; Stanley is the very companion for you, my little lily."
This was all side-talk, while the gentlemen were engaged in conversation of a more practical character.
The end of the conference was that Stanley should enter at once upon his labors, and that active measures should be taken without delay towards the erection of a church. He preached on Sunday to quite a large congregation; and the manly, earnest character of his sermon, so full of the unction of a pure gospel, made a deep impression; Roland heard many saying as they left the school-room,
"I wish that we could have him for our minister."
Stanley soon came among them as their own pastor, and until his own home was ready he took up his abode at Woodcliff. The church was quickly planned, an architect and builders upon the spot, and under the energetic perseverance of Roland and Stanley, it went forward rapidly.
Daily did the character of Stephen Bruce's piety deepen; his mind would probably never regain its tone, for it had been shattered too long and powerfully for perfect restoration. He was very busy in riding daily to the church; for although of another sect, he was interested in all of Roland's plans, and reported daily progress, with all the simple-hearted pleasure of a child.
Susan Grant, the little girl for whom Roland stood as the youthful champion, was now an excellent young woman, and had charge of the parish school, while Philip acted as librarian for the reading-room; and the affectionate daughter had actually lightened her dear mother's cares, and brightened her happy home, not, however, by gathering diamonds, but by scattering seeds of knowledge. November was now approaching, and Madeline remembered her promise to Annot, that she should visit the city for a few weeks; accordingly, the three took up their abode at one of the best hotels. Visiting all the celebrated places in and around New York, Annot was pleased for awhile, but her chief delight was in the happy evenings that she and Edmund could now spend together.
At the end of six weeks, Annot came to Madeline with a pleading look upon her face—"Shall we return to Woodcliff, dear?"
"I am glad to hear you make the request, Annot, for I must be there by Christmas; and so you have seen enough of this great city, my dear, and love the quiet of the country yet?"
"Luve it, Madeline! I dinna ken how I could e'er be happy in a great city. Sic a bustle, an' sic a round o' folly, I ne'er could endure."
"And what, then, will you and Edmund do? You know his business is in New York."
Annot hung her pretty head, and blushed as she replied,
"There is nae positive bond between us, Madeline."
"Not that of devoted hearts, Annot?"
"I did na say that exactly; but it wud na be right to make an engagement o' that sort without Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother's consent."
"Have you ever written to them, dear, upon the subject?"
"Oh, yes, Madeline! I ne'er hae ony secrets frae them; they want us baith to wait until Edmund sees Uncle Malcolm. I hae been here noo quite a year. I canna gae hame alone. In the spring, Mrs. Norris, Jessie, an' Edmund, are all going to Europe, an' I shall accompany them."
"You have every prospect of happiness with Edmund Norris, but I don't know what Uncle Malcolm will say about parting with his darling niece."
"Is it na strange, Madeline, that I could feel willing to leave dear Uncle Malcolm, the guid friend o' a lifetime, an' my precious mother, who has luved me sae fondly, to come awa' wi' a stranger, that I hae only kenned intimately for one year? and yet I am willing; I could go ony where wi' Edmund, to the north or south pole. Does it na seem amaist a shame, Madeline, to say sae?" and Annot blushed rosy red, as she hung her head down bashfully.
"I know all about that, Annot—it is not strange, dear, for does not the Bible say, that a 'man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh?' and it is just the same with the wife; so don't distress yourself, little dear; it is the ordering of our Father."
Christmas Eve at Woodcliff—what a bright, happy time! The parlors, library, dining and sitting rooms, are all dressed with evergreens, winter flowers and vases, in which the Scotch heather lifts its pretty purple flowers among brighter blossoms; and a table with a large white cover stands in the middle of the library, which has been most carefully locked for the last week.
In the back parlor stands a Christmas tree (on the top of which rests the Christmas angel), hung with numberless little gifts, and decorated with red holly berries, lady-apples, colored glass globes, and a profusion of variegated wax candles.
On a small table are spread piles of fancy covered books.
This has been the work of Madeline and Annot since their return from New York; interesting several families in the neighborhood, they have gathered together a large quantity of presents for the children of the Sunday-school.
They are determined to have a happy Christmas at Woodcliff. Early in the evening, the rooms are lit, and the ladies dressed. Madeline, in Roland's favorite brown silk, with lace collar, and sleeves, with no ornaments save a branch of ivy leaves and scarlet berries in her hair, and a handsome carbuncle set, that her husband had presented—Annot, in a pale blue dress, with a delicate lace frill around the neck and sleeves, and a few white camelias in her golden ringlets, that hung so gracefully around her shoulders.
Standing in eager expectation near the window, they listened for the approach of their guests.
"I hear the carriage," said Madeline, for it had been sent to the station to bring the expected company.
Hastening out to the piazza, she welcomed her friends; Roland had brought out Edmund, with his mother and sister, and Helen Thornly.
"Well, this is beautiful, indeed!" said Roland, as he glanced around at the preparations. "I think we Scotch people lose a great deal in not making more of this joyous season; but really, Madeline, have not the fairies been at work?"
"No, dear, neither fairies nor angels have had anything to do with it, not even Santa Claus; human hands planned all."
"I know better, darling," whispered Roland; "a household angel has gathered these lovely flowers, and lit up this bright festival; my household angel, Madeline."
The ladies were soon disrobed, and ready to join the cheerful party in the dining-room, where a genuine Christmas dinner was prepared. After they had done full justice to the viands, Roland exclaimed, smiling,
"And what is to be done with this Christmas tree? are we going back to the days of childhood, Madeline?"
"You'll see after a while," was the arch reply, as the folding doors were closed between the rooms.
In a few minutes, the tramp of little feet on the piazza, and the buzz of children's voices, announced an arrival—ere they entered, the children, under the guidance of Philip and Susan Grant, sang a sweet Christmas carol.
They were then admitted into the front parlor, and strange to behold were the large staring eyes, and open mouths of the wondering children, who had never seen such grandeur before!
A sweet Christmas hymn, sung by ladies' voices, was heard in the room beyond, and when the door suddenly opened, and the sight of the splendid tree, illuminated from top to bottom, burst upon them, they could no longer restrain their expressions of delight. The girls clapped their hands, and the boys stamped their feet, as they exclaimed,
"Oh! goody gracious! I never saw anything like that!"
"Just see the heap of apples!" said one little girl.
"Just look at that pretty doll!" said another.
"Look at them ere glass things! I wonder what they are."
"There's a gun!" said a boy.
"And there's a top!" said another; "and such a heap of things!"
"And there's a whole pile of books!" said another.
"Look at the bags of sugar-plums!" said a fat little urchin. "Hurrah for the sugar-plums!" and the little fellow turned a summerset, and rolled over and over on the floor.
After considerable trouble, they were all reduced to order, and Roland held a hat, and gave each child a card with a number on it. Madeline took her stand by the tree; one by one she took down the gifts, and, calling out the number, each happy child came forward to receive the present. Each child had also a bag of sugar-plums and a book to take home, and a large slice of Christmas cake for present enjoyment.
"Now, dear children," said Madeline, "we sent for you this morning to wish you all a happy Christmas. This is the dear Saviour's birthday, when he came down to make children happy. He gave a Christmas gift to all, and that was himself. Now, because he was so full of love, the people who love Jesus want to do something like him, and so they give presents to their friends to show their love; each little gift that you have in your hands, my little ones, is a gift of love. Now, if any of you have a sick brother or sister, or little friend, who could not come to-day, don't eat all your sugar-plums or cake, but save some for them to show that you love them. The night that Jesus was born, the angels sang in the clouds over the plains of Judea; now let us sing our Christmas hymn," and Annot played, while Madeline led the singing, in which all joined.
"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around," &c.
It was a happy company that hurried home that night through the sharp, frosty air, to tell about the wonderful tree, and the beautiful things at Woodcliff.
Which was the happier? the little children, as they went home with their pretty gifts, or the young mistress of Woodcliff, who hung the Christmas tree to make them happy?
"And now for Blue Beard's room," said Madeline, as she led the way to the library and unlocked the door.
A bell summoned the household; and as she uncovered the table with a bright, beaming face, Roland looked upon his young wife, and felt that he was indeed a proud and happy man.
"Now first, my lord and master, as a true and loyal wife," and Madeline spread out a beautiful wrapper made by her own hands, and, putting it on her husband, said—"Why it fits beautifully! it suits the library exactly; and here's a pair of the prettiest slippers, worked by Annot, and a cap and scarf for winter nights in the cars, by Aunt Matilda. Now aren't you a rich man, sir? make your prettiest bow to the lady of the house, sir."
As Roland obeyed the command in the most graceful manner, he whispered words that made Madeline's cheeks glow with innocent pleasure.
"A rich man, dearest! I do not envy the richest man in Christendom, Madeline."
"What did he say, Madeline?" said Edmund; "there must be none but public speeches to-night."
"Just a little sweet flattery, Edmund; let me enjoy it," and she threw her head slightly back, smiling archly on the speaker.
Mr. Bruce was particularly pleased with his nice wrapper from Madeline, and beautiful Bible with fine large print, and gold spectacles, from Roland; Aunt Matilda with her handsome breastpin from Madeline, and pretty watch from Roland.
"Here's my offering, Madeline," said her husband, as he opened a small case, and produced an elegant watch and chatelaines; "your old watch is not so good as formerly, dear, and I have got the very best that New York could afford."
Madeline looked a world of thanks. Lastly, came the servants, who, one by one, advanced to receive their gifts from the hands of their beloved young mistress.
Aunt Matilda was rapidly losing her prejudices against Roland; but, not willing to allow herself conquered, she attributed her change of manner to the conviction that he really was of gentle birth at last. Without her consent, he was gaining daily complete ascendency even over her pride, yet she often wondered whether he were not more than he pretended. One evening, seated together in the familiarity of family intercourse, Aunt Matilda turned suddenly to Roland, and said—
"Are you sure, Roland, that you are not distantly connected with the ancient Bruce? I have often thought you must be; for you certainly could not have got your carriage and manners from the common classes. Bruce and Gordon are grand names; I think that you must have had noble relatives in some of the branches."
Roland smiled, as he replied—
"Can you not believe, Aunt Matilda, that God can choose a vessel of common clay, and, by his grace, endow it with high qualities, if he pleases? or must all your ideal great men be of the purest porcelain?"
"I cannot help thinking, Roland, that there must have been some porcelain among them, even though you may not know it, or care for it if you do."
"All I can boast, Aunt Matilda, in the way of pedigree, is that my ancestors, as far back as I can trace them, were a hardy race of plain Scotch farmers, shepherds, and mountaineers, among whom were always found faithful, earnest ministers of the Lord Jesus; their greatness consisting only in heroic deeds of calm and patient endurance in the cause of truth and holiness."
Madeline smiled archly, as she asked—
"Aunty, what great deeds have the noble Hamiltons ever achieved? I have never heard of any. I believe their grandeur consisted wholly in their birth, in spending lives of idleness, and wasting their fortunes—which, I believe, drove my grandfather to this country a poor man—and in passing away from the world without recording one of their names among those who wrought heroic deeds or benefited the human family. Is it not so, aunty?"
Aunt Matilda was silent for a moment, but, with a mortified expression, said, at last—
"You must allow that there is something in noble birth, Madeline."
"Not apart from goodness, aunty; for I have set up my husband against all such pretensions."
"Well, you need not be telling everybody about Roland's birth, anyhow."
"I certainly shall take no pains to conceal it, Aunt Matilda; I am too proud of Roland Bruce himself."
"And so am I, Madeline; but I am not going to tell everybody about his early days."
"Conquered at last!" said Madeline, laughing heartily, as Aunt Matilda left the room.
"She cannot let go her prejudices, Madeline; but she is a very kind-hearted aunt to both of us."
In the early spring, Annot returned to Scotland in company with the Norrises; she was sorely missed at Woodcliff, but warmly welcomed by Uncle Malcolm and Mrs. Lindsay, who could not but realize that she was greatly improved by her sojourn with Madeline. It was a sore trial to the good man to resign his beloved niece to any one, especially to one living in a foreign land; but, true to his noble character, seeking the happiness of those he loved, he said—
"Take her Edmund, she is yours; but ye maun leave her with us a year ere ye claim her hand, and visit us as often as ye can."
"I know the sacrifice, dear Mr. Graham, but you need not fear to trust your darling to me; we are all in all to each other, and, I trust, humbly desire to live for a better world."
"I canna separate young hearts, Edmund; I know the pang, and can ne'er inflict it on another."
A pleasant visit of a few months, daily increased Uncle Malcolm's respect for Edmund Norris, and he felt before he left Graham Hall, that in him he had found another dear son.
"I do not think that I shall always lead a city life, dear sir; our tastes are for the country, and as soon as it can be possible, that shall be our permanent home."
"Would that it could be in Scotland, Edmund; I should be so happy to have ye with me."
"That is a subject for future thought, dear sir; my mother's wishes must be consulted."
The young pair bade farewell with the sweet hope of meeting again; but O, how long! for one whole year! and what might not happen? How many hearts have asked the same sad question?
CHAPTER XXXI.
REUNION.
The church is finished—old Mr. Bruce is delighted, for he fancies that he has had much to do with its completion.
Stanley is settled as the pastor, and ministers with great acceptance. The day has arrived for its opening, the ringing of the bell summons the worshippers from all quarters; and Madeline, with her bright and happy face, has taken charge of the choir, and sweet is the music which from grateful hearts rolls through the solemn edifice.
At the close of the first Sabbath evening, the family of Woodcliff are gathered in the drawing-room.
"How many do you number among your communicants, Stanley?" asked Roland.
"About eighty," was the reply.
"You may record me as another, Stanley, for as the head of a family, there must be no division in that important matter; and I can be very happy in worshipping with you, my dear friend, in your own solemn and holy forms of worship."
"Thank you, dear Roland," said the wife, "this is so pleasant to have you with me as a fellow-communicant; we have been for a long time fellow-pilgrims, but this outward union is peculiarly gratifying."
"You must make some allowances, dear, for my still liking a good old-fashioned doctrinal sermon, even if it is pretty long; and therefore, father and I must go once a day to the church of our ancestors, for that is all that I have to remind me of good old Scotland."
"Certainly, dear Roland, and I shall go with you; good Mr. Stewart and I have always been the very best of friends; he is on excellent terms with our own pastor, for he is one of God's dear people, and I love him as such."
Madeline is very happy, for she is busy in fitting up the pretty parsonage of Glendale; as soon as the finishing touch shall be given, Helen will take her place there, as the pastor's gentle wife.
Early in the autumn, the preparations were completed, and Stanley has brought his bride to the pleasant home.
"What a beautiful study!" said Helen, as she looked around at the neat furniture; "such a complete table for a minister! such a pretty book-case! and so well filled! such a comfortable lounge! and cosy rocking-chair! I really think, husband, that I shall often bring my work here, when you are not too much occupied."
"You will be welcome any day after twelve o'clock, Helen; for I must be alone until then. I have a system to live by. In the afternoon we shall ride out to visit my people, for I must make you acquainted with the humblest."
"What a happy work is ours, dear husband! laboring together for that blessed kingdom which is to prevail upon the earth, and at last to sit down at the marriage-supper of the Lamb."
At the appointed time, Edmund brought home his young Scottish bride, and settled in New York for the winter, spending their summers near Woodcliff; Annot retaining her connection with the church of her fathers, but often worshipping at Calvary, with the friends that she loved so well.
* * * * * * *
Ten years have passed—their rolling cycles bringing the changing seasons—spring, with its fresh young buds of life, summer with its ripening fruits, autumn with its fading glories ready to drop into the lap of winter; nursed tenderly through the night of nature, until the children of another spring proclaim their joyous advent, by the swelling buds, the winged songsters, the smiling skies, the music of babbling brooks, and balmy breath of the resurrection season.
This, without the walls of Woodcliff—within also, there is growth, harmony with the visible works of the Divine renovator. The little seed planted so long ago by feeble boyish hands has germinated; often seeming almost lifeless; hidden from the light and the sun, but not from the great husbandman, who has watched its mysterious life. First the little sprout, then the delicate leaflets so tender and faintly green, then the stronger plant. Thus hath it been with the spiritual world at Woodcliff—the Divine workman invisible, the work so silent, yet so powerful!
"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit."
The changing culture appointed each day, each hour, each minute, on to the very latest breath of mortal life, by the great husbandman of immortal fruits.
Under the eye of the glorious three, the silent, wondrous work is going on. The Father, planning the scheme of man's redemption; the Son, executing it by sacrifice of himself; the Spirit, with his powerful breath vivifying the sleeping germs.
And then the glorious harvest, when the reapers come to gather in the sheaves! O, blessed day of jubilee, when Jesus comes! There has been but little of the discipline of sorrow thus far in the life of Madeline. That refining process was deemed best for Roland in his early days—now, a long season of sunshine hath succeeded, and the deeper incisions of grafting and pruning are reserved for future years.
Blessed are they who wait in patience on the hand of the wise and loving cultivator!
Ten years have passed over husband and wife, each year deepening and purifying their love.
Each anniversary of her wedding day, Madeline has learned to look under her pillow for some sweet token of affection. A faithful likeness of himself, finely set, a handsome pin with his mother and sister's hair, a rich diamond ring, with united initials engraved within the circlet, and various other dear mementoes, have marked each returning wedding day.
Three lovely children are added to the domestic circle; Malcolm Graham, a boy of seven, Mary Gordon, a child of five, and Lilian, a sweet prattler of three years, fill the halls of Woodcliff with their merry voices. One lovely boy, their little Lewis, sleeps in the quiet cemetery, and the infant spirit has formed another tie to beckon the parents heavenward.
Another anniversary morning has arrived, and the pictures of her household darlings greet Madeline on her first awaking.
"This is indeed a treasure!" said the happy wife, "how perfect is the likeness! you could have given me nothing that can please me better! and now, dear, here is my own little keep-sake for this happy day," and Madeline produced a beautiful miniature of herself, in the bloom of her ripe womanhood.
"Ten years, Madeline, have passed, and I can say truly 'how much the wife is dearer than the bride,'" and Roland fondly kissed the sweet lips, and calm, pure forehead, of the one he loved so well.
Stephen Bruce grows cheerful in the society of his grand-children, and seems to be renewing his youth among these dear prattlers; his piety is becoming more and more simple-hearted, more like that of a little child.
Roland is daily growing more influential; and notwithstanding his high principles of integrity, after a few years, there is found virtue enough to send him to the Senate of the United States, and Aunt Matilda is becoming quite reconciled that Madeline should be the wife of a Senator.
At Washington in winter, Madeline is too truly a mother to leave her children at Woodcliff, and too faithful, as a wife, to part from her husband; consequently, the house is left under the care of a housekeeper, and the family-circle take up their abode at the capital.
Madeline's attractions draw around her a number of admirers, who are anxious to bring her into their circle as a new star; but devoted to her calling as wife and mother, she simply returns the calls of the leaders of fashion, and resolutely avoids the frivolity of the giddy world. Aunt Matilda is sadly chagrined, for she had anticipated Madeline's triumphs with great exultation.
"I cannot consent, dear aunt, to such a life," replied the wife to her remonstrances; "if I were running this round of folly, what would become of my household darlings?" and steadily, she pursued the quiet tenor of her beautiful life. Occasionally, she accepted invitations to dinner-parties, always being there the centre of attraction.
One pleasure she felt that she must indulge in, for whenever she knew that her husband was to speak in Congress, Madeline was always one of the most attentive listeners to his eloquence, ever on the side of the right, the true the good.
"What were you musing about this morning, Madeline?" said her husband; "I saw you in the gallery surrounded by so many ladies, all busily engaged in conversation, and you in such a deep brown study."
She smiled as he replied, "I was thinking, Roland, about my childish days; and was seated in memory by the lake at Woodcliff, when tired of playing with my gold-fish, I used to amuse myself by throwing in pebbles, and watching the little circles, as they widened in their course, until I could trace them no longer. I thought, Roland, of the boy on the shore at Woodcliff; I saw you just as you stood that day when first I met you; I traced all your course, comparing it to the little pebble thrown carelessly into the lake, drawing one circle of influence round the spoiled child at Woodcliff, then beyond, at college, another round Norris and Stanley, then around Helen Thornly, another around my dear father through your own sister Effie, then a broader, wider circle, embracing the poor, neglected news-boys of New York, and encircling Woodcliff; and now a broader still around the country that you serve, until I am lost in wonder, and can trace it no farther; truly human influence is a wonderful agent, and we ought both to exclaim 'What hath God wrought!'"
"How little did we know, dear wife, of the power of my mother's blessed words, when she bade me 'Look aloft;' I listened to them, then, as simply comforting; I have learned since how they have guided my path as a beacon light, to beckon me onward."
A servant entered, interrupting the conversation.
"Mr. Bruce, a gentleman wishes to see you," and Roland entering the parlor, is greeted by the fast friend of his college days, Dr. Kingsley.
"How are you, my son?" said the good man, as he heartily shook Roland's hand.
"I came to congratulate you on your success to-day, for I was in the Senate Chamber and heard your speech; I cannot tell how my old heart swelled with pride as I listened, and remembered you, Roland, as one of my sons. I always knew that you would leave your mark upon the world, and do honor to your Alma Mater."
"I can never cease to thank you, Dr. Kingsley; for had you turned me away, I had no other resource."
"And then, Roland, the world would have lost a noble laborer in the cause of all that is good and true."
"You will not reject other poor aspirants, my good friend, for there are many struggling spirits who need just such a hand as yours to guide, and such a heart to sympathize."
Introducing his old friend to Madeline, an hour's pleasant intercourse closed the interview, with a cordial invitation to the good man to visit them at Woodcliff.
"Congress will adjourn to-morrow night," said Roland.
"Then for dear Woodcliff," answered Madeline; "are you not glad, father?" turning to old Mr. Bruce.
"Yes, indeed, there is sae much that needs my care, an' I am tired o' this noisy, bustling place; but I am glad that I came; for I canna be separated frae the bonnie darlings."
Immediately on the close of the session, they turned their faces homeward, and a joyful party met once more around the domestic fireside. The winter curtains were yet up, for it was cold and cheerless out of doors, and a warm fire and cheerful supper greeted them, with Stanley and his wife ready to welcome them home again. The next morning, Roland came in from the library with the delightful news, that Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Lindsay were coming to pay a visit to America.
"The best room shall be prepared for dear Uncle Malcolm," said Madeline, and she busied herself in making ready for the good old friend.
"They will be here in three weeks, at the farthest," said Roland, "and we must have a nice lounge, and rocking-chair put in his room, plenty of books, and a secretary; for Uncle Malcolm could not be happy without his usual pursuits."
Annot was sent for, with her husband, and two sweet children, little Roland and Anna, the one five, the other three years old.
"I can scarcely wait," said the anxious daughter, "for it is seven years since I hae seen my mother."
One evening Roland arrived from New York with the news that the steamer was below.
"They will be here to-morrow or next day," was the answer to Annot's anxious questions.
Merry as a kitten, she was never tired of telling her little ones that Grandma and Uncle Malcolm were coming.
Old Mr. Bruce and his grandchildren were playing on the front lawn—little Malcolm driving his sister Lilian in a small carriage; and grandfather amusing himself by keeping close to their side, to keep them from danger.
Suddenly, Mary cried out,
"There comes the carriage!" and the little girls ran rapidly into the house with the news; while Malcolm, holding his grandfather's hand, stood in anxious expectation of the arrival.
The carriage stops—Annot is folded in the arms of her dear mother, and Uncle Malcolm grasps warmly the extended hands of Roland and Madeline.
"Welcome a thousand times to Woodcliff, dear uncle!" exclaims Roland; and Stephen Bruce also advances with a timid step, but placid smile, to greet the new comers.
"What little boy is this?" asks the good man, as he lays his hand on the head of Roland's son, standing by anxious to be noticed by the stranger.
"This is Malcolm Graham," answered the happy father.
Mr. Graham changed countenance, and whispered,
"How came this, Roland? I aye thought it strange that ye did na name him Stephen."
"My father named the boy himself."
Uncle Malcolm smiled gratefully at this token of entire forgetfulness of the painful past, and lifting the dear child in his arms, kissed him fondly, as he laid the hand of blessing on his dark brown hair.
While Madeline is presenting her other darlings, Annot's eyes are moistened with happy tears, as she leads little Roland and Anna up to their grandma and uncle, who pronounce them "darling pets," and the proud young mother is full of innocent delight.
Changes have taken place in all the party—ten years have added many silver hairs to Malcolm Graham's noble head, but to him they are indeed a crown of glory.
Mrs. Lindsay is stouter and more matronly—Madeline has exchanged the bewitching charms of young girlhood for the ripe beauty of a queenly woman, retaining still the brightness and vivacity of early youth, and the arch expression of her lovely face.
Roland is a noble man of thirty-seven, with a fine, commanding figure, the same dark eagle eye, and sweet expressive smile of benevolence.
Annot is no more the lovely child, with her wealth of golden ringlets falling round her face and shoulders; but the blooming wife in the first flush of sweet young womanhood.
Seated between the two, Uncle Malcolm takes the hand of each, saying,
"Here are baith my daughters! well, ye are making Uncle Malcolm an auld mon, wi' yer bairns skipping around me; but I hope that my heart will ne'er grow old."
"You will never grow old in feeling, uncle," said Madeline; "and we are so happy to have you with us; but you must be tired; come, Annot, let us show Uncle his room."
Each taking an arm, they led him to his pleasant chamber; Annot retiring with her mother, and Madeline busying herself about Uncle Malcolm.
"Here is a warm winter wrapper, and a pair of chamber slippers; I knew that you would like them, uncle."
The old gentleman sat down in his comfortable chair; and, looking around on all the arrangements of his room, with the bright fire lighting up the whole, said,
"Well, Madeline! this is comfort! ye will spoil the auld mon among ye."
"No danger, dear uncle," as she kissed the calm forehead; "we can never do too much for you, for are you not my husband's dearest, warmest friend?"
Sweet was the incense of gratitude and praise that ascended from the family altar that night, as Uncle Malcolm led the devotions, and Madeline conducted the singing of the hymn.
The next morning, after breakfast, Uncle Malcolm called Roland aside, and said,
"Tak' me to the spot most sacred in America;" and, alone, they proceeded, with solemn step, to the cemetery.
Standing at the foot of his mother's grave, the strong man stood for some minutes in silence, reading the inscription on the humble tomb-stone; then Uncle Malcolm, overpowered by the floods of sad and touching memories, lifted up his voice, and wept aloud. Roland stood with his arm around the old man, and whispered,
"We must not mourn for her, dear uncle, a blessed spirit around the throne."
"I dinna, Roland; but I could na but feel how happy I should hae made her; how I wad hae sheltered her frae the rough world; for while I was enjoying a' that wealth could gie, my puir Mary was suffering years o' penury an' toil."
"It is past, dear uncle; through all her trials she enjoyed the peace of God, which passeth all understanding; and there is the blessed hope of reunion; do you not think that we shall know each other in the better land?"
"I do, my son, confidently hope to meet that blessed spirit, purified an' full o' holy love, where there shall be nae mair parting; while I live, Roland, I shall luve her memory," (and he took out of his pocket-book once more the lock of golden hair,) "that must be buried wi' me, Roland."
None asked where Uncle Malcolm had been, for the serious and tender expression that dwelt upon his face, and softened the tones of his voice throughout the day, spoke volumes.
Interested in all the benevolent schemes around Woodcliff, Malcolm rode out with Roland; and, with a full heart, listened to the account of all their plans for good. On Sunday he attended the church at Glendale; and as he listened to the Christian statesman, seated so humbly before his large class of young men, he could not but bless God for the grace which had so faithfully directed the footsteps of this good steward of his Master's gifts.
As he watched the earnest look, the respectful reverence, the deep interest of the youth who surrounded Roland, he rejoiced in the inward conviction that none of this good seed would fall to the ground unblessed; and many a tale of sacred influence and private benevolence reached the ears of Uncle Malcolm in his private visits among the people of Woodcliff, for Roland was not one to blazon his own good deeds.
"We hae had a blessed day!" said the good man, at the close of a Sabbath-day at Woodcliff; "what a holy privilege we hae enjoyed in worshipping a common Saviour!" for they had attended on the services of each church, and had heard faithful discourses from both ministers.
"Stanley seems a maist devoted mon," said Uncle Malcolm, "how meikle o' Christ there is in his sermons!"
"Yes, that is the secret of his success; while he does not neglect nor undervalue the scaffolding of the Christian church, the whole power of his ministry is to lead sinners to build their hopes upon the corner-stone, Christ Jesus our Lord."
"It seems to me, Roland, when the heart is filled with luve to the Master, an' a sense o' the danger o' immortal souls, men canna spend their time in preaching sae meikle on these minor things. I hae felt, syne I hae been amang ye, perfect communion o' spirit, for I hae heard naught but Jesus, an' him crucified."
"I have often thought, dear uncle, how sweet is this communion of saints! How blessed is the feeling that every Sunday so many pilgrims are worshipping the dear Redeemer in the great cathedrals of vast cities, and the lowly temples of the village lanes of good old England; the solemn worship of its ancient church mingles with that of its American child, throughout the length and breadth of this vast country; while the prayers and hymns of Christians mingle daily from the hills of Scotland, and the green island of the shamrock. All over the world the songs of pilgrims, on their heavenward march, roll up to Heaven; and, dear uncle, when you are in Scotland, we can still commune in spirit; you, in your fathers' venerable church, and we in the one we love."
"'Tis a vera holy bond, Roland, an' wae be to the Christian who can allow bigotry or intolerance to chill sic holy worship."
"Let us never forget, dear uncle, the tie of Christian brotherhood as the dearest and purest of all earthly bonds."
"I could na bear to think o' parting, my son, if I did na realize this sacred bond o' union."
Many such hours of hallowed intercourse were spent between these two noble spirits, so elevated above the common masses of humanity.
Little Malcolm is a child of promise; and the parents are teaching diligently the first great lesson of obedience to their children; not a day passes without its lessons: "Line upon line, precept upon precept," looking upward for God's blessing, both parents train their dear children in paths of obedience, truth and love. Little Mary is a gentle, loving child; but Lilian is a repetition of Madeline, happily under the controlling influence of wise and loving guidance. Aunt Clara is daily ripening for the skies.
Lavinia, the same vain, frivolous devotee of fashion, no longer young, still unmarried, is rapidly becoming that most unhappy of all miserable beings, a censorious and disappointed old maid.
The declining years of Stephen Bruce are calm and tranquil; surrounded by a family who encircle him with tender, affectionate reverence, his latter days are his best; and he is passing on to "the rest that remaineth," full of calm unshaken trust in his Saviour. Stanley has gathered round him a devoted flock; and Helen is the happy wife of a tender husband, the mother of a lovely family, the helper of her husband's labors; sharing in his cares and sorrows, as well as in his joys.
Glendale is a blessed sanctuary, and Calvary Church the centre of a holy influence in the midst of the homes of Woodcliff.
Harry and Charles have not learned wisdom yet, for their youth was one of folly, and they are reaping the fruits, in advancing years, of uselessness and discontent; affections withered, intellects wasting, time flying, and their Lord coming for his reckoning—such is the life of thousands—who can bear to read their everlasting destiny? "Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness."
Uncle Malcolm's visit is drawing to an end, and he seeks an occasion of private conference with Edmund.
"My son, I feel as if I canna gae hame wi'out ye and Annot; I am growing auld, Edmund, an' the cares o' life begin to weigh heavily upon me; why na move yer family to Scotland?"
"It would be just the life that I should love, Uncle Malcolm; for years I have longed for the country. I am not calculated for commercial pursuits, and I know that Annot would only be too happy to be once more in her dear old home; there is but one difficulty—my mother would so mourn over the separation."
"I hae enow to occupy us baith, Edmund; an' there are sae mony openings for usefu'ness, I am sure that we should be happy together. Then I am anxious that Annot's bairns should be trained in Scotland, for their inheritance will be there."
Edmund spoke to Annot on the subject.
"Can it be, dear Edmund? I hae sae langed for a return to my ain land, an' I agree perfectly wi' Uncle Malcolm that Scotland is the hame for our bairns."
Mrs. Lindsay most earnestly added her influence, and Mrs. Norris, convinced that it was for Edmund's worldly prosperity, finally consented. American friends were pained to miss the dear faces of Annot's family from among their circle, but both Roland and Madeline saw that it was right.
Uncle Malcolm had learned to love his little namesake, and, on the evening before their departure, took the child into his own room, and, after warm, affectionate counsels, prayed with the dear boy for God's blessing on his childhood and his youth. Going to his secretary, he brought out a handsome rosewood writing-desk, completely furnished.
"This, my boy, is frae Uncle Malcolm; as soon as ye are auld enow, I hope that ye will mak guid use o' it. Ye will find i' the stable, too, a dear little pony that I hae bought for my namesake to ride; he is quite safe, an' papa will teach ye how to ride; ye maun ca' him Selim, after mamma's pony."
"Thank you, dear good Uncle Malcolm; I'll try to be a good boy, and then you won't be sorry for these gifts," and the boy kissed the good old man again and again.
Going down stairs, he called the little girls to his side.
"Noo, Mary, what do ye think that Uncle Malcolm has for his bonnie lassie?"
"I know just what I want, uncle."
"What is it, my bairn? dinna be afraid to tell."
"I want a pretty baby-house, uncle, for Lilian and me."
Uncle Malcolm smiled pleasantly, and, taking the hands of the little girls, led them into the library, and there was the sweetest baby-house, entirely furnished with such a handsome outfit, and, seated on chairs in another part of the room, two beautiful dolls from Aunt Lindsay. They were quite beside themselves; Mary in quiet wonder, and Lilian skipping about the room in ecstasy.
"Noo, mamma, I hae only ane request to mak, an' that is, should these little lassies quarrel aboot these gifts, please deprive them o' their use for ane whole month; but I hope that they will na be sae naughty."
Both the children thanked good Uncle Malcolm, and, kissing each other, made faithful promises not to dispute about the pretty gifts. The day of parting had arrived; always painful, but doubly so now, as it removed a dear family from the midst of this circle of friends, with but little prospect of meeting again on this side of the better land.
"God bless ye! my ain dear children," said Uncle Malcolm, as he laid his hand upon the heads of Roland and Madeline; "let us aye remember the precious words o' our departed saint, 'Looking aloft,'" and tears trembled in the eyes of the good man as he tenderly repeated the blessed words.
The carriage drove off with a tearful company, and Roland, kissing the lips and encircling the wife with his sustaining arm, led her in to the library.
"This is life, dear Madeline; there must be partings here. Reunion, lasting and eternal, must be beyond this mortal shore."
Life still rolls on at Woodcliff. Roland and Madeline have not yet reached the perfection of existence; but, as far as mortals can, theirs is truly living—living that life on earth which shall be perfected hereafter in the kingdom that is coming.
'Tis true that these are the creations of fiction—ideal man and woman—but let none say that such can never dwell in mortal flesh. Christ came to make such. There is not one trait exhibited here, but is commanded in the Gospel, and from which can be drawn grace to form just such characters upon the earth. Such monuments of grace have walked the earth like angels, and such there will be again; for there is a time coming, when the world will be filled with such lively stones, in the glorious temple that shall hereafter be erected on the earth. Why should not she who writes, and they who read, seek to be one of these highly-polished living stones?
'Tis true that to mortal vision, this blessed kingdom does not seem very near; for throughout the world are sounds of war, and tumult, and confusion; man slaying his brother man on many fields of combat, and the sweet dove of peace and love far, far away; but there are yet some left on earth in whose bosoms dwell, by bright anticipations, the spirit of the millennium; above this strife and tumult, dwelling in a world of their own, with folded hands, uplifted eyes, and hearts whose pulsations are one eternal prayer. Precious witnesses for the kingdom of peace, and love, and holiness, yet to come! To come! Blessed be God! to come! And this little pilgrim band whom we have followed so long, still "Looking aloft," and seeing Him who is invisible, may confidently look for that everlasting glorious kingdom.
"Looking aloft!" blessed talisman against the spirit of worldliness, selfishness, and strife of every kind! "Looking aloft!" It inspired Noah when sheltered safely in the ark, calm and happy amidst the overwhelming deluge of wrath. It calmed the trusting heart of holy Daniel in the den of lions, stilling their angry growls, and closing their bloodthirsty jaws. It sustained David in the hour of his darkest trials, and, centuries ago, inspired those sublime Psalms of holy confidence which multitudes still sing in their pilgrimage as they are marching home. It wakened the songs of triumph in the prison of Paul and Silas, and cheered the great apostle beneath the uplifted axe of the bloody Nero.
It lit up smiles of joy and peace upon the faces of that holy band of martyrs who were stoned, sawn asunder, and burned at the fiery stake, when even woman's earnest eye and childhood's tender glance were turned calmly upward to the glorious Saviour; and from the stake and the block the martyr's gaze of faith pierced the heavens, as, "Looking aloft," they saw Him who is invisible.
Blessed talisman! sufficient for those dark and stormy days, it is enough for all life's woes, and cares, and sorrows. It hath sustained Roland Bruce in the days of poverty, trial, and bereavement; and hath brought him into the quiet waters of usefulness, peace, and love, with "the promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come" all fulfilled. Hand in hand with the chosen partner of his joys and sorrows, we bid them both farewell; with the certainty that such a union will be peaceful and blessed while they tread life's changing scenes, and, in the world to come, will be crowned by blissful, eternal reunion, so long as their motto, beaming from the pole-star of hope, remains "LOOKING ALOFT."
THE END.
[Transcriber's note: there are several instances of Madeline taking off, or putting on, her "flat". It's unknown if a flat is a type of hat, or if it's a typographical error for "hat". All instances have been left as printed.]