Foundations; or, Castles in the air

Front matter

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Part I

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‘‘ For we are hasty huilders, incomplete ;

Our Master follows after, far more slow And far more sure than we, for frost, and heat, And winds that breathe, and waters in their floui. Work with Him silently'*

OR,

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

CHAPTER 1. HERE had been a shower in the af

1 ternoon, but towards sunset the clouds lifted, and a flood of golden light lit up the valley, changing into rosy hues as the sun crept nearer the mountain peaks, behind which it would so soon hide. Every moment, a new glory and power it seemed to catch, sending its rays far over towards the eastern horizon, where the rain clouds still lingered; kissing the falling drops into brightness, till the dark clouds were arched with rainbow promise. Then the sun, it was

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gone ; only the outline of mountain blue — only the soft and tender light in the western sky, changing all the time into more shadowy tints, were left. And the rainbow, its colors too, had gone out. The clouds were heav)?" and dark again.

A little group had gathered in the porch of the old stone farm-house, to watch the sunset. Simple country folk they were — a mother and her children ; but it is with their lives, chiefly, our story is interwoven ; for it is but a simple story — only the old tale that is lived over every day — of a mother’s love — patient and steadfast; of home leaving, and home coming — of sorrow anjd joy — of temptation and victory.

One by one the family separated, as the twilight faded, till only the mother and her son were left, standing alone in the dim light of the ending day. Long they were silent ; then the young man spoke (for Alfred Merwin was no longer a boy, the. day just past had filled out the number of nineteen years that had come and gone since his

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life began) : ‘‘ Do n’t be afraid to trust nxe, mother; I will strive to be all you want.” Man though he was, the tears choked his words, and the tall youth laid his head on his mother’s shoulder, weeping like a child. His mother did not reply for a little while, but gently she took his hand in hers, and mother and son sat down together on the old stone step and mingled their tears.

The step worn by so many passers — the footfall of little children — the tread of weary age — the bounding step of youth — the measured tread of sober middle age — the door-step of the homestead, it sings a low wordless undertone song, that, breathed into sound, would catch something of the pathos of the heart-touching words England’s poet uttered, when he tells :

“ The tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.”

Such different tears they were! * The mother’s fell like baptismal drops, for every

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tear found birth in a prayer. The son’s, from a restless, eager heart.

She was a simple woman, Mrs. Merwin. Her life experience did not stretch far beyond the confines of the village. Mountains to westward, river to eastward, they bounded all of event, all of personal knowledge, she possessed of the outside w orld. A country girl reared, among the hills, loving from childhood Herbert Merwin, the minister^’s son, with a trustful content in being loved by him. Her courtship days had been as free from excitement as the life behind them. No startling romance could she picture, only in her Bible there lay a faded leaf or two, beginning to be yellow with time now ; and sometimes of a quiet Sabbath afternoon she would tell ‘Hhe children” of her young days, and point, always with a smile, (unlike any other smile that ever shone on their mother’s face, even the very youngest of them knew,) to the path by the brook-side or the wood road, out toward the mountains, and her voice was very soft and gen-

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tie, when she said, It was there your father gathered this, that spring before we were married or, “ There we found these flowers, long years ago and the children held the faded flowers tenderly, while in the mother’s eyes a far-off look came. Sometimes, too, when the summer evenings were longest, all together they would go through the pasture meadow, beyond the belt of pines that divided the farm land from the road way, to a little enclosure, sheltered from the scorching rays of the sun in summer, and protected from the winter’s , storm by the overhanging boughs of the forest trees — hedged in by wild roses and clematis — planted with the dear old time” garden • flowers — snow drops and violets, that bloomed when winter began to woo the spring — lilacs and lilies, as the spring melted into summer; of summer blossoms there was no lack ; for the autumn, the late coming chrysanthemums, with their yellow and crimson flowers, and in the winter, when the flowers shut their eyes and went

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to sleep, the pure snow fell like a trailing cloud from heaven, and the sunlight stole, in flickering smiles, through the evergreen boughs, tracing promises on the white stone in golden letters, for there was a white stone there — a mound of earth — and beside it a little mound, such a very little mound, marked by no stone, only a cross, cut by the father’s hand, for he did not go home for a twelvemonth after the baby.

These were the household graves. And about that quiet place — about the flowers . in her Bible — a little dress — a tiny pair of shoes — a broken toy — a golden ringlet — a lock of dark hair — all of romance or poetry the world ever caught, as belonging to Mrs. Merwin’s life, lingered. And yet, her heart sang its own songs — some sweet — ^some sad. What heart does not ?

Her children knew her love — they knew her prayers were constant for them ; but as they grew out of childhood, something of reserve kept their mother often silent. It is wont to be thus with some women ;

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II when love is strongest, almost with a pain do they put it into sounding words. So the last night of Alfred’s stay at home had come, and still unspoken were the longings that filled his mother’s heart. No one, except perhaps Mary, the eldest daughter, guessed the struggle it had cost Mrs. Merwin to give her consent to the urgent letters, his father’s only brother, a wealthy merchant, had sent, offering Alfred a situation as clerk in his office. But the time came when the mother yielded ; to-morrow he was to go forth — to sail down the river, beyond the sheltering mountain-peaks — ^to begin life in the city. And there they sat together — that quiet woman and the young man.

Into her soul the whisper of the day’s storm — the glory of the sunset brightness, the significance of the eastern rainbow promise, stole, and, all unconsciously to herself, these mute interpreters of her heart’s thoughts gave power, and clothed with tender beauty the words she uttered ; and yet, though their influence shone

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through her language, its inspired earnestness was caught from the silent up-lifting of her soul heavenward. Words she said, of loving warning — tender words of entreaty, pointing to the only safety — the only succor in temptation — Christ — “ Who was tempted in all points, and, in that He suffered, being tempted. He is able to succor them that are tempted.”

Alfred hardly recognized his usually quiet mother, listening to the outpouring of her soul’s desire for him. After her words, they were silent again for a little while, till, in her wonted voice, Mrs. Merwin said, “ Now my boy, we will go in,” and she kissed his forehead, adding, “Are all your good-byes said, Alfred ?” So calm was her tone, no one could have detected the yearning heart it concealed. “ Yes, mother, all but one. I promised Mattie I would go round this evening. You will love Mattie, mother, for my sake;” and again Alfred’s voice was tremulous. “ For your sake and her own Alfred. Are you going now?”

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Yes, tell the girls I v/ill be home soon and, with one more kiss, the young man passed hastily down the garden walk, through the little gate, and up the lane, which was almost dark now. Standing in the door-way, his mother watched him, till the outline of his figure was lost in the twilight gloom. Then her head was bowed. But — only God knows a mother’s prayer.

When quite out of sight, Alfred paused and leaned against the stone wall which stretched along by the road-side. Over him came the words of his mother ; the echo of her voice still lingered so near to him. Strong resolves, earnest purposes, were struggling in his soul as he stood there.

He never forgot that evening — long years afterward, the thought of it would come to him, stirred into warmth and life by some apparently trivial thing. The sound of the crickets and the katydids — the sweet -odor of the pine woods — the cool, damp breath of the swamp lands he passed just before he came to Mattie’s home — his mother’s

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voice — the touch of her hand upon his forehead— thoughts of Mattie, too — trusting little Mattie, a young girl then. Strangely these memories blended in with the dull, heavy clouds, the rainbow and the sunset. Overlaid by much of pleasure — much of pain — disappointment and hope — feeble effort for the right, failure and weakness — never out of his heart did the memory of that twilight fade — never out of his life passed the knowledge of his mother’s love.

CHAPTER 11.

IT was quite dark when Alfred reached the red house at the end of the lane, and not till Mattie spoke, did he see her, leaning against the great elm-tree, down by the gate, almost hidden by the gloom. The far-spreading branches of the tree stretched over the porch, and when the wind was high, were swayed back and forth as far as the window in Mattie’s little room. This elm-tree was the pride of Mr. Wilson (Mattie’s father) ; he never tired telling its circumference and pointing out its beauties, always ending with the story, which the neighbors well knew, of how it was planti6

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ed years ago, by his grandfather, when the

town of H was a settlement of but

three or four houses. “No tree like the elm,’' he would add ; and then Mattie’s mother, a cheerful-tempered woman, ever claimed her say in favor of the forest trees — the pine, cedar and hemlock, liking them best, as she said, “ because they were so intimate and friendly, alwa)’S making one think of some great loving family.” When her husband shook his head she would ask him “ Avhat the roots meant, by twisting in and out so, one with the other — what the massive ever-green boughs meant by interlocking their out-spreading branches, if it were not love and friendship.” If he still looked incredulous, she would push her question further, and want to know why the “slender tops, so close against the sky” bent and touched one another, when the wind was nothing more than a breeze, if it were not their way of kissing! Though her argument was familiar, it always silenced Mr. Wilson, and made him say, “Well,

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well, little woman, you have got the best of me” — it always sent him off to his plow, or hay-field, whistling, and the tune was ever the same, “ Home, sweet Home.” All this was because in his heart there was a little picture — a tender little spot, from which the bright colors never faded. The memory of an autumn day, long ago by-gone— a cloudless day — a merry party starting for a chestnutting frolic, the golden sunshine up on the hills, and the softened light down in the pine woods, over toward Dominie Merwin’s house ; an awkward, overgrown young man ; a laughing, rosycheeked girl ; these were the memories that made his heart’s picture, and that had touched them with perpetual light ever since that day, because of a questioning voice which asked why the pine-trees grew so near together. Was it that they loved each other so well ?” And then — but what need of telling over again the old well-known story.

Something had wakened its echoes very loudly in Mr. Wilson’s heart as he stood in the doorway, for over his face came a broad smile as his wife called, “ Where is Mattie ? The child should not stay out so late ; the evenings are growing damp and chilly.” Then, comfort-loving woman as she was, she stirred the wood fire, already burning brightly, till it sent forth a more ruddy, sparkling blaze, listening meanwhile to her husband’s reply, Tut, tut, she’ll take no cold this night ; let the child stay.” When Mrs. Wilson joined him she saw the smile, for the fire lit up the door-way, and then the little woman put her hand on his arm and smiled too, right up into the honest, true hearted eyes, looking down into hers, and whispered, It is the chestnutting time of year, John.” Simple people though they were, they understood one another, for their hearts’ music was the same.

All this time Mattie was by the garden gate, at first, watching and wondering why Alfred delayed his coming, for, in that quiet country village, evening meant sundown, and he had promised he would come in the

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evening. Still he was not there, though the long shadows of the early twilight had lost themselves one in the other; though the glow in the sky had faded quite away, and the moon was just a silvery crescent thing of hope, not really light-giving yet. And then, Mattie was glad, for though her bright eyes could not fathom the darkness of the sheltered way, her listening ear caught the sound of Alfred’s approaching footsteps.

It is a difficult task to describe Mattie. No one would ever have called her beautiful, though a sweet charm was in her every look and motion, for nature had been very bountiful in her gifts to this young girl. All unlearned as she was in the finishing touches of city lif^ and boarding-school culture, her manners were not wanting in ease and grace — the sweetness of innocence — the calm simplicity of a pure true heart ; these were Mattie’s charms. And, just by way of parenthesis, that any reader may ^^skip,” without losing one thread of our story’pwill we copy the lines of Hood’s, which picture

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little Mattie, in * her young gladness, as first we knew her :

She stood high breast amid the corn,

Clasp’d by the golden light of morn.

Like the sweet-heart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

‘‘ On her cheek an autumn flush,

Deeply ripen’d, — such a blush In the midst of brown was born,

Like red poppies grown with corn.

“ Round her eyes her tresses fell.

Which were blackest none could tell.

But long lashes veil’d a light,

That had else been all too bright.

“ And her hat, with shady brim.

Made her tressy forehead dim ; —

Thus she stood amid the stooks.

Praising God with swee^st looks.”

Alfred was not the only one who detected “the charm of her presence.” His voice grew softer than its wonted tone as he replied to her greeting question, “ Did you see it, Alfred ?” “ See what, Mattie?” “Why, the sunset and the rainbow. I thought them sent for you.”

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Every one, who knows with familiarity the lives of “ country people,” and the subtle influence of nature on the opening heart and mind of those reared amid great natural grandeur and beauty, will recognize the undertone poetry which runs, like the tide of a river, through all after years of ' their lives, ebbing and flowing, something as their days come and go, affecting the internal and the eternal by the symbolism of external things.

Those who deal most in words, (whether they be uttered by the voice, or traced by the pen,) and who win the most abiding place in the hearts of men, are those who use them to make beautiful and vivid pictures* for us ; and is not the secret of Nature’s great power, because it is ever leading us to pictures, infinite in number and variety, among the “ mountains and plains of the earth, in the clouds and stars of the sky ?’ ’ Yet, these alone ^ are, like the winter tree, stretching leafless branches out into the air, waiting to be vivified into fresh green life

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by the upwelling sap, cold and desolate, till warmed into life by human fellowship, by thoughts of home, of loving fathers and mothers, of glad-hearted children, brave men and noble women, who have forgotten self in love and sacrifice. Even after the possession of these memories, as the tree is still waiting for the buds to unfold into leaf and blossom, ere its beauty is complete, the heart is waiting to be touched into lasting life by looking beyond the visible, beyond the images, bowing in spirit and in truth,” in worship of Christ, the revealed and selfrevealing God.

This mystical influence of Nature strongly pervaded Mattie’s inward life, giving coloring to the expression of her thoughts, as it did to Mrs. Merwin’s, though they were so very different, for Mattie was outspoken and joyful, like her mother, seeing everything in rosy hues, while Mrs. Merwin, even from girlhood, had looked through sober tints.

That evening hour was a fitting time for

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Alfred and Mattie to say farewell, such a tenderness was about everything ; the very dimness was holy and soothing ; no wonder their voices were low and gentle; and it was an easy thing for Mattie to tell the thoughts that stirred her young heart. They hardly knew how well they loved one another, for their love had grown with their years, and Alfred had made part of Mattie’s dreams, even from childhood, all along the way her girlhood had journeyed ; while to Alfredj however dazzling his hopes for the future, however aspiring his ambition, visions of Mattie’s gladness always were blended in with the sweetness of the coveted success. There was no need to put it into words, and Alfred was silent as he listened to Mattie’s eager prophecies for him. Yes, Alfred,” she exclaimed, I know it was sent as a sign for you, all the beautiful golden light over toward the sunset place, just like the crown of success that will come to you when life has crept on to the west. The rainbow, that was in the

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east, where you are now, it made my heart shiver, the clouds were so heavy and dark there. Do you think they meant the struggles you are to have in your young days?” And then, with the quick change of a nature, hopeful like Mattie’s, all the sadness was gone from her voice, as she added, ‘‘ But, the rainbow, it was made of the very brightest colors, and if that span your clouds, we will not mind the storms, will we, Alfred ?”

Thus they talked, just standing, as they were, on the threshold of life, building their castles for the future. But they built them in the air, those castles, made of such beautiful jewels, only so fragile, for they built with hopes and dreams.

Not till the village clock struck nine did the parting -time come, and then Mattie said, it was not to be a good-by, “ for up in the morning I will be, Alfred, down in the meadow-lot, where I can see you passing, and I will call out my good-by in the morning, not say it in the evening.”

Very kind were the farewell words of Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, and almost as though he had caught something of Alfred and Mattie’s talk, Farmer Wilson added to his hearty God bless you,” Remember, my lad, on the foundation on which you begin this new life will depend the future.” Walking home, Alfred thought for a minute of Mr. Wilson’s words, and their real meaning, “but the castle in the air” he and Mattie had been building, it was so much more tempting than the structure of hard labor and steady work, which he knew the farmer meant, he overlaid his advice with bright fancies, just as he had done his mother’s words, which pointed him, not to a castle, but to the Corner stoneC

Chapter III

A FLOOD of light from the windows in the' sitting-room shone out as Alfred approached the house. Mary had left the blinds open, because, as she said, it will look cheerful to Alfred when he comes home and, for the same reason, Joe (the man - of - all - work) lit the logs which had been drying all summer in the wide openhearted fire-place, apologizing, as he did so, for acting contrary to his oft - expressed opinion, “ that no one needed a fire in the sitting-room short of October,” by saying. Ye see Master Alfred likes the looks of a blaze, and after the rain I reckon a heating

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will do the old house good. Mrs. Merwin smiled and replied, Very well, Joe.”

Alfred stood for a minute or two outside, looking into the room, trying to persuade himself it was just to have a good glimpse of them all, and not heart-sinking at the thought of the morrow, which made him shrink from going in.

It was such a comfortable, cheerful room, and made so pleasant a picture, framed in by the window-casement, possessing, as it did, that peculiar charm which has stolen away so sadly from the great houses of the present day, perhaps, because the spirit of home ” is lost in wandering from room to room, sojourning a little while in one, then in another, while, in ‘^old-fashioned times,” its abiding-place was there in the sitting-room.

Never had home seemed dearer to Alfred than it did that night. There sat his mother, on her little low chair, busy with “ last stitches ” for him, he knew. Mary was kneeling down by his trunk, carefully lay-

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ing in piece after piece of the neatly-folded clothes. On the other end of the lounge lay Bertie’s books and cap, where he had tossed them on coming in from school. Little Bessie’s broken doll, tucked away snugly for the night, in the tiny bedstead he had made, was standing in the corner she always called hers. Gertrude was leaning over the table, with flushed face, and eager, trembling fingers, finishing a little sketch of the dear home, for ‘‘ Alfred,” that he might hang it in his new room, where, every morning,^ he could see it. The little drawing, to cultured eyes, would have looked rough enough, but the lack of perspective, the too heavy strokes here, the too light there, did not mar its beauty to those loving gazers. “ It must be good,” Mary said, “for even baby Bessie calls it ‘ our house,’ and old Margaret, when I showed it to her, exclaimed, ‘Why, do tell — that’s this ’er place. Miss Gertrude has put on to paper.’ ” As if to give more comfort to the scene. Rover, the dog, had crept

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in and stretched himself before the fire ; the kitchen door had been left open, and through it Alfred caught a glimpse of Joe busy shelling corn, and of old Margaret, going in and out of the store-room, “ setting the cakes to rise for Master Alfred’s breakfast,” he could almost hear her say. The home look of it overcame him ; the dreary sense of going away and ceasing to be in it all. It was this that made him push the hair from his forehead, draw himself up to his full height, and open the door hastily. His mother caught the action, and the look on his face, which he so resolutely tried to hide ; so did Mary ; but, with the ready tact of women, they seemed unobserving, and talked of surface subjects, while each one knew the deep underlying thoughts of the other. Has it cleared oft', Alfred ? Will it be a fine day to-morrow? Are the stars shining?” All these commonplace questions they asked. By and by Mrs. Merwin put away her sewing, and wandered about the room restlessly, shuts'

ting the blinds for the night, hanging up Bertie’s cap and laying away his schoolbooks. Meanwhile, Mary called Alfred to tell him where to find one thing and another, when he opened his trunk, saying,

Mother knows all about the tray, for she packed that,” “Yes, my son,” said Mrs. Merwin, joining them, “ here you will find your Sunday suit and some other little things you may need ;” and, spite her efforts, Mrs. Merwin’s voice grew tremulous. It was such a hard thing, this first going away from home. No wonder the pain of it would creep out, though they tried so bravely to seem cheerful. “ It is late, and we must be up early in the morning. Gertrude, call Joe and Margaret ; we will read now,” said Mrs. Merwin.

The Bible mark for that evening’s Scripture pointed to Luke, 15th chapter, but almost hastily, as though the spirit-meaning of the parable was shrouded in the visible picture of the son a prodigal, Mrs. Merwin turned the leaves backward, and read

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from Matthew 7th chapter, pausing, when she came to the 24th verse, to say, Do not forget, my children, as we build so will our future be;” then she finished the chapter, but ere closing the Bible she read the one verse, from Corinthians, — “ Other foundation can no man lay, than that which is laid — Christ.”

The girls wondered at her selection, but Alfred knew why his mother chose as she did.

With the shadow of the morrow’s parting heavy on their hearts, the good- night kisses were silently given by sisters and brother ; only the mother lingered for one more word alone with her son.

Ere the clock struck again, the lights which had shone with cheerful brightness from the windows of the old farm-house, had gone out, and unbroken darkness settled down over the valley, as it had done over the village an hour ago. Still, the gentle and sweet night-friend. Sleep, strangely delayed his coming, at least to those

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with whom our story has to do ; but if the old belief be true, that “ good thoughts ” are the whisper of the unseen band of ministering spirits, then very lovingly was Mrs. Merwin surrounded, for while she could not sleep, thoughts many and prayerful, filled her heart ; earnest pleadings that her children might indeed build on the Rock ; special pleadings for the one going from the shelter of home. , In answer to her prayer, came the comfort-promise, “ I will never leave thee nor forsake thee that was her foundation. The abiding presence of the Holy Spirit, it was the secret to that quiet woman of the grace sufficient,” of the “strength made perfect in weakness.”

Mary, in her little room across the hall, lay wide awake, too, thinking of Alfred and the future before him, planning for the time when he would return, with a thrill of pleasure which allayed the pain of his going away. Gertrude, the “dreamer” of the family, had her visions, also, of a bright

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some day and so7ne where, of which Alfred would be the hero.

Alfred’s night was restless and disturbed ; tired from the excitements of the day, he slept a dull heavy sleep at times, then waked suddenly, to fall into fitful slumber, broken by strange dreams. Once he thought himself climbing a rugged mountain p^th, striving to reach the rainbow, which arched its summit; but, ever as he neared the thing of bright color, it slipped beyond his reach, and swung away from him out into airy space. Then, he was falling from a great height, and Mattie’s voice was calling him ; unrefreshed he awoke again, and wished the morning would come.

Little Mattie, over in the red house, she could not sleep either. The talk with Alfred, and the near approach of parting from him (the first parting Mattie had ever known), kept her wakeful. Long she lay with wide-open eyes, looking at a little star, so far off, the dim radiance of which she caught through the window pane. She

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wondered so, what the stars really were ; they seemed such kind, mild little lights, surely they must be angels looking down, even though astronomers did make them out such wonderful orbs ; and then she wondered whether up there, in the beautiful ocean of blue, all day long glorying in the* sunlight, and at night not losing the golden brightness caught from its beams, the stars ever were sorry, ever felt lonely ; whether they were glad when the clouds came, and shut them all away from even looking down on the trouble of the world below. Then Mattie laughed at herself for such childish fancies, and began to think of other things (just as childish, had she but known).