Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

"Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home again?"

"Monday; not before."

When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letter was found:—

"I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I have no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! our union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot any longer live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. I would have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as a slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done for me, to be with you always—at least so long as you could wish. If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before you, recognising myself as you know me, I would have stayed. I would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood—a proud yet humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by sympathy in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I know I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much has been required, and I am found—wanting! If even the most miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride and fondness.

"But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent to appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as such.

"Mother—in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generous love you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which you have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I am now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchful guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman—self-reliant and strong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to love and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you—to be all that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be. Duncan, you will not forget me?

"I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of your being—of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happy future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of encouragement to leave you—you will not need such from me. God bless and strengthen you in every good word and work—it shall be the constant hope of the sister who loves you. Mother, farewell!"

This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story opens—written in a perfect passion—yes, of grief, and of despair. The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was really strong to bear the resolution out.

After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. But their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for her.

He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women. When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people of his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritual physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it with martyr-like patience—that he never uttered a reproachful word to her through whom he bore it.

As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence, and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not among any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, at last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of duty, that "he was too high-church to marry,"—that he did not believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But the mother knew better than this—she knew a name that was never spoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to the heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she never dared ask him to give to her a daughter—to take unto himself a wife.

In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated.

A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, for it was on her son that the high honour was to be laid.

How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a man "acquainted with grief,"—you had known it by the resigned, submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his tranquil eyes. Duncan had toiled—he had born a burden!

A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being felt it who had not looked upon that man for years—not since the lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving, still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest flower—the glorious beauty!

And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he remembered how one would have looked on him that day, could she have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they should look upon her.

Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might be for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic) the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. When he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and read—could it have been with careless eyes?

"Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate and wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny. Come, to-night, and behold my triumph—at—the opera-house!

"Your sister,

ROSALIE."

Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed by it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had been strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was not now to stop, to question or to fear.

"Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement for you," he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the cathedral for afternoon service.

"Willingly, my son," was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to her word.

But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an obscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all her expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than the mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared upon the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which opens the first scene in–.

For years there had not been such a sensation created among the frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the effect was a complete triumph.

Mary Melville and her son gazed on the debutante—they had no word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude—and every note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart.

"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us—for you. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea, when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her place.

"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in that very hour ascended. "She is mine now, and no earthly consideration or power shall divide us."

And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield then, and she had fears for the future.

A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent in beauty, triumphing in hope;—again her marvellous voice was raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but glad and gay, angelic in its joy.

Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her—and a light was on that pale forehead—a smile on that calm face—a gladness in those eyes—such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of her care and love must have passed before she came into that presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled?

That night and the following day, there were many who sought admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what the noble woman sought; and because, ere she had risen in the morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world.

"Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have crowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met—met at last—you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood in God's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me? Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then—and thinking, too, that if this honor was in any way to be considered a reward, the needful part was wanting—you were not there! Yet you were there, you have written me; ah! but not Rosalie, my wife, the woman I loved better than all on earth—the acknowledged woman, her whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me consecrated—and I obeyed your call; I saw you when the people anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you read my heart at all, to-day, you knew how I had suffered—you saw that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in the thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of our past; that you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the path of duty with weariness?

"There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose between us—Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything to you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once recognised, which can make us happy yet. I trust you as in our younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies of this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise up, to condemn me. Let me come and plead with you, for I know not what I write."

The answer returned to this letter was as follows:—

"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in existence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it be insurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted your faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to know that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and beyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be but the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and a stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I am yours for ever."

Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother of the bishop gave the bride away!

THE LITTLE CHILDREN

IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from the quivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweet voice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the great metropolis, while old men and little children—youth in its hope, and manhood in its pride—came forth at their summons, setting a mighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whose sacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to us over the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full of exceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured its blessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song, pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds who kept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth and good-will to men."

A child came forth with his ragged garments, unwashed face and uncombed hair, from one of those haunts of darkness and misery which fill the city with crime and suffering. He was a little child, and yet there was none of its peace on his brow, or its light in his eye, as he looked up with a strange, wistful earnestness at the strip of blue sky that looked down with its serene heaven-smile between the frowning and dilapidated pile of buildings which rose on either side of the alley. The sunshine flitted like the soft-caressing fingers of a spirit over his forehead, and the voice of the bells fell upon his spirit with a strange, subduing influence; and the child kept on his way until the alley terminated in a broad, pleasant street, with its crowd of church-goers, and still the boy kept on, unmindful of dainty robe and silken vesture that waved and rustled by him.

He stood at last within the broad shadow of the sanctuary, while far above him rose the tall spire, with the sunbeams coiling like a heaven-halo around it, pointing to the golden battlements of the far-off city, within whose blessed precincts nothing "which defileth shall ever enter." The massive church doors swung slowly open as one and another entered, and the child looked eagerly up the long, mysterious mid-aisle, but the silken garments rustled past—there was no hand outstretched to lead the ragged and wretched little one within its walls, and no one paused to tell him of the Great Father, within whose sight the rich and poor are alike. But while he stood there, an angel with golden hair and gleaming wings bent over him, holding precious heart-seed, gathered from the white plains of the spirit-land, and as the child drew nearer the church steps, the angel followed.

Suddenly the little dapper sexton, with his broad smile and bustling gait, came out of the church. His eyes rested a moment upon the young wistful face and on the ragged garments, and then he beckoned to the child.

"Shall I take you in here, my boy?" asked a voice kinder and pleasanter than any which the child had ever heard; and as he timidly bowed his head, the sexton took the little soiled hand in his own, and they passed in, and the angel followed them.

Seated in one corner of the church, the child's eyes wandered over the frescoed walls, with the sunshine flitting like the fringe of a spirit's robe across it, and up the dim aisle to the great marble pulpit, with a kind of bewildered awe, for he had seen nothing of the like before, unless it might be in some dim, half-forgotten dream; but when the heavy doors swung together and the Sabbath hush gathered over the church, and the hallelujahs of the organ filled the house of the Lord and thrilled the heart of the child; he bowed his head and wept sweet tears—he could not tell whence was their coming. Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit—"O, Thou who lovest all men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich and the poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thy blessing," came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in his soul. Where was this Father? It did not seem true that He could love him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a one could be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for, and if all others were precious to this Great Father, he did not believe He would leave him out. If he could only find Him—no matter how long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he would keep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would go right in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched. There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be your child, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, and whisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "My child!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry, "Oh, if I could only find Him!"

Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choir floated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, into the silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it; while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, and comprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from the depths of his soul—"Where is the Father?"

The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged of most of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered—he could not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to the harsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, without having that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking, answered. But that little timid heart lacked courage, and he knew the words would die in his throat if he attempted to speak them, and so he must go away without knowing the way to the Father—but his feet dragged unwillingly along, and his eyes searched earnestly the figures that, unwitting of his want, passed swiftly before him.

"What is it you want to know, little boy?" The voice was very musical, and the smile on the lips of the child-questioner very winning. The chestnut-brown curls floated over her silken robe, and the soft blue eyes that looked into the boy's, wore that unearthly purity of expression which is not the portion of the children of this world.

The boy looked into that fair, childish face, and his heart took courage, while very eagerly from his lips came the words, "Where is the Great Father?"

"God is in heaven!" answered the little girl in solemn tones, while a sudden gravity gathered over her features.

From lips that burned with blasphemies, amid oaths from the vile, and revilings from the scoffer, had the boy first learned that name, and never before had it possessed aught of import for him. But now he knew it was the name of the Great Father that loved him, and again he asked very earnestly, "Where is the way to God in heaven? I am going to Him now."