A child of the covenant

CHAPTER I. Thus outwardly and visibly

We seal thee for His own;

And may the brow that wears His cross Hereafter share His crown.

— Bean Alford.

“ Of such is the Kingdom of God.”

I N a darkened room in an unpretentious house in Harlem, a young mother lay dying. Outside, in the hall, two gentlemen were talking in low, earnest tones.

“Do you think the excitement would be too much for her, doctor?”

It was the younger man who spoke in a slow voice, pathetic in the intensity of pain which the effort seemed to cause him.

“No; nothing can harm her now. It might delay the end.”

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“ Then you will come with me?”

Dr. Thornton laid a kindly hand upon the young minister’s shoulder, indicative of assent.

John Martyn opened the door of the sick room softly; not so softly, however, but that the listening ears of the dying woman heard the sound, and her dark blue eyes lost their listless look in the eagerness of the gaze she fixed upon her husband.

“It is all right, darling,” he said, understanding the mute appeal. u Dr. Thornton has consented.”

“ Right away?” he asked, bending low to catch the faint whisper. u Yes, it shall be done immediately, as soon as nurse brings her in.”

Here a white-haired lady, who had been sitting motionless by the other side of the bed, arose and went into an adjoining room.

u I am so glad, John,” the faint voice continued. u I shall feel happier to leave her now; she will grow up to be a comfort to you. Oh, John! it is hard to leave you and my baby.”

The young man’s face grew pale with emotion as the plaintive tones ceased.

“I would give my life for yours, darling! It

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is hard. Oil ! it is past understanding, that you should be taken from me now, and from the little one.”

He rose and walked the floor with tightly clasped hands.

“John!”

He came to the bedside instantly, for her faintest whisper would have reached him, absorbed as he was in his great grief.

“ John, I didn’t mean to make it harder for you; I want to tell you that all the happiness I ever had was through your love. Think what I might have been if you had not taught me, helped me to be a Christian. Poor Addie, if she, too, could be saved! But your mother will take care of our little one; she will teach her. Oh! John, (and the breath cpe in quick gasps now) you don’t think that my sins will be visited on my child? I could not bear that she should suffer as I have done.”

“The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin, and doubt is swallowed up in the victory of faith; darling, you must not talk any more, you must save your strength.”

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“Tell them to come now, please,” she said beseechingly.

He arose and opened the door which his mother had passed through.

“ Come,” he said briefly, passing on to where the infant lay in the nurse’s arms. The white christening robes hung in spotless folds about the tiny form, and the blue eyes were fastened upon the young father with a strange, intent look, unusual in the very young child. The father put on his surplice, and Prayer Book in hand, again entered the dimly lighted room. Dr. Thornton stood by the window awaiting them ; the nurse came in carrying the little one, who, as if conscious of the necessity for quiet, uttered no cry, but kept its gaze still fastened upon the white-robed minister.

* “ Stand closer, please,” and the grandmother

motioned to the nurse to bring the child nearer that the mother might see her baby more clearly in the dim light.

All through the beautiful baptismal service, the dark eyes of the mother were riveted upon the child, and no sound but the minister’s voice broke the stillness.

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“Marion,” the man’s voice trembled as that beloved name, the name of the mother, came from his lips, “ Marion, c I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. We do sign her with the sign of the cross in token that hereafter she shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified.’ ” The words rang out more clearly now, as the father pledged for the faith of his child. The curtain had been partially drawn up to admit the evening light, and the sun breaking for a moment through the clouded sky, illumined the quiet room with its warm spring rays. As the last words of the service ended, the mother’s eyes closed as if in prayer, the pale face grew paler yet, and the end drew near. It seemed as if the tired spirit had but waited for the witnessing of that covenant seal. Dr. Thornton motioned the nurse aside, and stood watching the ebbing of that young life away. Only one month a mother — long enough to bear the pain and not know the joy of motherhood ! The young husband knelt beside the bed and clasped one of the thin white hands in his own as if to stay the oncoming death-angel. The dark curls lay tan-

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gled upon the pillow, and the long lashes swept the pale cheeks ; one moment the beautiful eyes opened and rested on the watching face — “John — Marion — God loves you,” and the spirit returned to God who gave it.

Some three years later, Dr. Thornton, riding on the elevated railway down to the business part of the city, saw a clergyman get on at one of the stations, and take a seat opposite.

u Why, Martyn, I hardly knew you ! It’s been a long time since we met, and living in the same city, too. Life is such a rush now-a-days a man can scarcely have a quiet moment to seek out old friends. I’ve thought of you often since you left us ; the little mission has grown rapidly, but we miss your guiding hand and earnest heart.”

u Thank you, doctor,” was the quiet reply. “I haven’t been back to the old home for some months; somehow, a city parson finds his handsfull with parish guilds, parish houses, Sunday schools and all the other duties of a large church, I, too, miss the old friends^ the cordial handshakes, and the informal visits of those days of my mission work,” and Mr. Martyn’s eyes sad-

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dened as his thoughts went back to the first year of his married life in Harlem suburbs. All this time Dr. Thornton’s keen glance had been upon his friend’s face, noting the change that had come upon the buoyant nature, the vigorous frame, of four years back.

“Martyn, you are working too hard; aren’t you going to take a rest this summer? Go to the mountains or the seaside for a month or so, anywhere out of this crowded city. There are times in every man’s life when a change of air and surroundings is imperative.”

“ It seems to me that you don’t follow your own prescriptions, doctor; I never hear of your taking a rest,” replied Mr. Martyn, smiling for the first time in the interview.

“I do, though; every now and then I run off to the country and spend a day or two; but mine is a different case. Seriously, my friend, I can’t bear to see you so run down.”

“ I intend to take my little girl up the Hudson tomorrow to spend the summer months with her grandmother, at the old homestead; and perhaps I’ll stay a week or so, too, to recuperate. This hot weather pulls a man down terribly; but there

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is so nfuch to be clone, I cannot leave for long.”

“Your congregation can certainly spare you, for most of them will be away themselves the greater part of the summer.”

“ 1 The poor you have always with you,’ ” was the gentle reply.

“Ah! I see, up to your old ways still, going about among all those dark, fever-laden tenement houses, enough to ruin a constitution like yours. But good-bye, I must get out here. I would like to see you oftener.”

“ CanT you dine with me at one? early hours on account of my little housekeeper, you know.”

“ If I can get back in time, I will; I want to see my godchild and have another chat with you.”

“I shall be delighted to have you. Well expect you, Marion and I. Good-bye, till we meet again.”

After the doctor’s departure, the Rev. John Martyn sat with his paper before him, but he did not read. His clear, gray eyes looked musingly out upon the tops of the houses as the train rushed on its way.

“ He will be a good friend to her when I am gone. Poor little girl, motherless, and soon to

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be fatherless. I feel that I cannot hold out much longer. So much unfinished work, so many hungry souls, and so little physical strength. I must rouse all my energies for the sake of my work, and for my child’s sake . 11

Mechanically he transacted the business which had called him down town, and returned homeward some two hours later. His steps quickened as he neared his home, and a smile lighted up his face as he heard the patter of little feet within the hall, and a child’s merry voice calling to him.

“ Sure, sir, she saw you at the window upstairs, and nothing would do but I must bring her down to open the door for you,” was Bridget’s comment, as the father entered.

“ My papa!” cried the gleeful voice, and in an instant the little lass was seated upon her father’s shoulder and on the way to the study on the second floor. A handsomely furnished parlor and suite of rooms were down stairs; but here, the master’s simplicity of taste showed itself. The walls lined with well-filled bookcases, a few engravings, pictures of college friends and professors, a comfortable sofa, an escritoire, a center table, and some easy chairs, made up the furnish-

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ings of this favorite room. Folding doors separated the study and bed-room, and just beyond was the nursery.

“ See pitty wowers, papa! the lady dave ’em to me; she told B widget to put ’em in wawerfor me dis morning.”

“Very pretty, darling.”

The curly head rested on his shoulder now, but only for a moment; presently a mischievous look came into the blue eyes, as Marion rubbed her tiny face against her father’s. Hers was a beautiful face, the dark curls framing its infant fairness, the rosy mouth dimpled in smiles; in repose, the child looked like one of Raphael’s cherubs. Now, it was a very human baby-face that looked up into the protecting one above it.

“Papa bwing Marion som’fin’P” she asked, diving into the nearest pocket.

“What did papa bring you? Look here,” drawing out a little paner bag.

“ Choc’late dw T ops,” and the little maiden hastened to slide down to the floor with her treasures.

“ Not so fast, Dot, you haven’t kissed your papa for them. Won’t you love me? ”

Two dimpled arms went around his neck (one

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hand still holding fast the candy bag), and the baby lips were pressed close to his in tender caress.

“ There, pet, you may eat your chocolates now.”

u One for papa , 11 said the little voice, “one for B widget,” — “ and one for the dear doctor when he comes,” put in her father, sinking down intc^ the big arm-chair. u Des, one for the doctor,” continued the baby, “and one, free, six, for Mawun,” she concluded, looking up roguishly into her father’s face.

Now that the excitement of his home-coming was passed, the old pallor returned to his face, and unconsciously one hand was pressed upon his aching head.

Instinctively the little one felt the change. “ Papa’s tick,” she said softly, gathering up the candy and putting it back into the bag; then she approached the chair and put a timid hand upon his arm, “ Dod loves ’oo, papa.”

The tears filled the father’s eyes; he had himself taught the child to say over and over again those last words of the young mother, but their full meaning dawned upon him more clearly now than it had ever before.

“ God bless you, Marion, you are papa’s com-

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fort. Yes, God loves us both,” and he folded her in a close embrace.

“ I fear he cannot live long. How sad it seems, and a strange Providence, that one of the most useful as well as the most gifted of our young clergy should be taken in his prime. I’m glad I persuaded him to go away; there is a possible chance that he may recover. That beautiful child! I can see that she is the most powerful lever to keep him in this world. Overworked brain, a tired-out mind and body; these seem the usual results of our present theological training. There’s a grave defect somewhere, and it is a disastrous outlook for the Church. It was probably a mistake for so young a man to take a large city church; too heavy responsibility; but I couldn’t blame him for leaving us when his home was all broken up; he thought the hard work would keep him from grief, I suppose. Unusual, too, for a man to grieve as he has done. Well, he’s one among a thousand; the good he’s done, too, in these four years, ’t would be hard to tell.”

Thus mused Dr. Thornton on his return to

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Harlem Heights, after dining with the Rev. John Marty n of New York City.

The next day found Mr. Martyn, little Marion, and Bridget, the nurse, on the steamer Albany, going up the Hudson River. It was a lovely day in the latter part of June, a recent rain had cooled the air and made the country on either shore beautiful in its freshness.

The father, lying back in one of the luxurious chairs by the open window of the saloon, watched the little one at play upon the deck, guarded by the faithful Bridget. Above them in the summer sky floated fleecy clouds, their shadowy reflections softening the brightness of the waters through which the steamer glided rapidly.

A quaint, lovely town is Newburg-on-the-Hudson, with its busy street along the river side, from which the one street car line runs up the steep hill to the villas on its summit. Ivy-covered churches on the corners of the shady street, aristocratic-looking houses set back in the midst of green lawns and flowering shrubbery, give a refined atmosphere to the place; withal it has a dreamy look, as if here, too, might be found a “ Sleepy Hollow, v where life could be softly

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dreamed away. Across the river is another town of about equal size, nestled upon the hillside, and far down as the eye can reach, winds the happy river, with its smooth bays and swift-flowing shallows. Travellers often stop at Newburg to visit the chief attraction of the place — Washington’s headquarters — where, in a low, square house, set in the middle of well-kept grounds, the great general for some time made his home.

In one of the most old-fashioned of the aristocratic houses lived John Martyn’s mother. It was the old homestead, unchanged since the days of his boyhood, to which he was now bringing his motherless girl. Mrs. Martyn, in her soft, black silk dress, the white muslin cap set daintily upon her smooth, white hair, stood at the open door.

u Welcome, John, welcome to home and rest. Ah, darling, kiss grandmother again. How are you, Bridget? Come in all of you.”

The quiet, soothing tones were just the antidote for weariness, and the tired man felt he was indeed home again. He put one arm around his mother’s tall, trim figure, and together they

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entered the sitting-room, the nurse and child following.

In an upper room in this same house there lived, day after day, apart from the outer world and ignorant of its doings, the one only daughter. A bright child, a brilliant young girl just leaving school, her mind had suddenly given way. The physicians said it was over-study when the body was not strong enough to bear the strain. All remedies were tried in vain, and at last the case was pronounced hopeless. The mother took her daughter home, and the untiring devotion and love she gave this idolized child made the blighted life in some sense a happy one.

The girl, now grown to maturer age, would never be mature in mind. Her books, piano, and every comfort, even luxury, were hers. Sometimes snatches of wild songs were heard within those quiet walls, or gay tunes would be played by the fingers that had not forgotten their former skill, or there would be recitations of poems, sometimes sad, sometimes merry, but always pathetic in their in coherency.

Except for the patient mother and one faithful attendant, no one ever entered those two rooms

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where that strange life had been led for many weary years.

It was this which had prevented the mother’s staying with her son after his wife’s death; and John would not be separated from his child, so, save for a few short visits exchanged, the mother and son had seen very little of each other during the past four years. With aching heart she noticed the slow step, the tired look in the frank, grave eyes that used to be tilled with a merry light. Yes, he had come home to die, and he knew it, though others did not.

All day long he roamed about the old town, or wandered in the garden among the flowers, but always the dark-haired child was by his side, her tiny hand clasped in his and her merry prattle soothing him as nothing else could do.

He was not afraid of death: lie had stood too often by the bedside of the dying. The prayers, the words of comfort he had spoken to others returned to him now fraught with deeper meaning. No, God had not forsaken him; it was only for the child he feared. Left alone, as she must one day be, would her feet stray from the path of peace?

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“ Father,” he prayed, u Thou art her father, too. She is Thine; bring her at last to Thine eternal home.”

Little Marion had no fears of the unknown future; and in those long summer days she was indeed the “light of the house.”

Every day some bright child-speech brought smiles to the lips of those older ones, who tried to hide all cares from sight of those wondering baby eyes, that, in spite of their merriment, seemed always to be intently watching the father’s face, as though they would reflect his every thought.

He stayed on through the summer; indeed, he was not able to return, and his congregation gave him leave of absence “until he should be well again.”

“Well again !” yes, there was one day when he was indeed “well,” but in his Father’s home; not in the noisy city, or with multitudes hanging upon his eloquent words, would he ever be “ well again.” Heart trouble and over-worked brain, the physician said, caused his death.

Among his papers was a packet directed to his mother; it had been written some months previous and contained minute directions about the

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care of his child. The interest of his life-insurance — five thousand dollars, — was to be used for her support and education; he knew his mother’s slender income was already taxed to its utmost, but her love was limitless, he also knew. To Bridget he left the interest of one thousand dollars, provided she would stay with Marion until the latter was ten years old; at the end of that time the woman was at liberty to draw the principal if she wished.

This was all the means at his disposal, except his books and some personal property which were intrusted to his mother’s care, a single locket, a daguerreotype, and the wedding ring being reserved for “ his little girl.”

One other request he made — that Marion should remain under his mother’s care so long as the latter lived.

And little Marion was left an orphan at threeand-a-half years of age.

CHAPTER 1 1.

Alone in the world, what can be its fate ?

The Fatherless are the care of God.

— Lord Lytton .

B WIDGET, where is my papa ?”

It was the morning after the funeral. The little girl had been kept in ignorance of the last sad rites, lest they might too greatly excite her mind with a sense of bereavement which she could not understand ; so Bridget had taken her to a neighbor’s for the day, answering the child’s questions as best she could, by telling her that her papa had gone away for a little while.

But now, on the third day, Marion’s first words upon waking were the repetition of the question Bridget dreaded to hear.

The little white-robed figure sitting upright on the tiny cot, the pleading blue eyes, the quivering baby lips, were more than the faithful nurse could stand. Gathering Marion in her arms, she

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rocked backwards and forwards in speechless grief — grief for the master from whom she had never received aught but kindness. The tears flowed freely, until presently, looking at the child, she saw large drops in the blue eyes, and felt sobs shaking the little frame.

u There, darling, we won’t cry any more ; and Bridget will tell you something. Papa was sick, pet, and he’s gone away to heaven to get well again.”

“Will Dod make papa well again, and bring him back to Mawion ?”

“How can I iver tell the choild?” said the woman under her breath. “ Sure, and yer father’ll never be sick any more, and some day he’ll send for his pet to come to him.”

“ Des,” answered Marion, with a smile of child-like faith, “ papa'll turn for me, may be he’ll turn to-mower,”

And as the days passed into weeks it was “ to-morrow ” still, always the same thought that the baby lips uttered in connection with her father’s absence — “Papa’s turnin’ home to-mower.”

Gradually, as new impressions were planted upon the child-mind, as it opened more and more

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to the reception of ideas, her father become a memory to her, and this memory, though it necessarily faded as the years went on, never quite passed into oblivion; it could always be recalled by an effort of the will.

The grandmother found her hands full, with the care of John’s child, and that other child who could never cease to be first in all her thoughts. It seemed a pity, the world said, that the one of her children who could have best aided her declining years, should have been taken, and the other left; the one, a bright star among the sons of men ; the other, a woman whose blighted life was named but with a sigh of pity, or a look of fear. Yet the mother shared not the world’s verdict; for her, that solitary life absorbed all other interest in its own.

John’s marriage, she had never approved. It was a linking with unbelievers, and would bring no good, she had said ; for that other Marion was one who had stood apart from her family, in that she had not shared their infidelity. Beautiful had been her faith, when once she had taken her stand as “a member of Christ;” and it was John who had first found the struggling soul,

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and helped it to the light. Of this the mother knew but little, for she, like her son, was a person of few words, but of unswerving devotion to duty, wherever it might call her ; it was duty that called her to that dying bedside, ’twas duty now that called her to consider this child her own.

Her stern nature could but soften toward the lovely child; but she tolerated Bridget solely on John’s account, because of her reverence for his dying request. And Bridget, divided between her love for Marion, and her fear of Mrs. Martyn's displeasure, was constantly crossing herself at sight of that stern countenance, and of those keen eyes that were upon her at every turn.

Morning and evening, the grandmother came to the nursery door, and at her knee the dark-haired child lisped her prayers, and always afterwards clasped her dimpled arms around the grandmothers’s neck, with a good-morning or good-night kiss, as the case might be. As yet she had not learned the necessity for repression of affection; and hers was a nature lovable, yet with a certain mixture of playful alertness which the grandmother sometimes mistook for wilfulness.

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But most of all she dreaded the grave, questioning humor that often followed her gayer moods.

“Drandma, does Dod love ’oo?” Marion asked one day, coming up to that lady’s side, after an unusual frolic with the gray kitten in the nursery.

a I trust so, Marion,” was the reply.

Marion’s questioning eyes became wistful in their intense gaze.

“Drandma, won’t you smile at me and kitty, like Dod does up in heaven?” and then she was off again, as merry as ever in her play, leaving the grandmother puzzling over the strange words and quaint ways of John’s child, whom she loved more than she dared show, for fear it would wean her from that other love which needed even greater sacrifices than of old.

Perhaps the child would have been very lonely without Bridget to w T alk or play with her, out in the bright sunshine when the weather was good, or amuse her in-doors when it stormed; but perhaps, too, it might have been better, had Bridget not been there to take a place in Marion’s heart that the grandmother would otherwise have filled, had the child been more dependent upon her.

On the same street was the Rectory, where a

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happy family gathered within the home-like walls; next to them was the Doctor’s residence; and on the corner, the stone church, with its ivy hangings. At both houses Marion was a welcome visitor. There was a companionable disposition about the child which made her presence agreeable to both children and grown people.

No more gleeful laugh than hers rang out upon the lawns where the little ones played under the trees; yet she had been known to sit for an hour quietly listening to the conversation of older people, her bright eyes looking at the speaker as if she understood the meaning of his words; or again, she would chatter by the hour when with Bridget or some one she knew well.

“A remarkable child she is,” said Mrs. Wilton to her husband one day, “such a sweet baby face, and such cunning ways, yet so old-fashioned at times.”

“We must have her with the children as often as possible; her father was a shining light among the clergy. He is terribly missed from the ranks,” and the Rev. Paul Wilton looked out of the parlor window on the group outside.

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“She doesn’t look much like her father, does she?”

“Not at all, except for her chestnut curls and white forehead. As well as I remember, she resembles the mother whom I saw but once, shortly after the marriage. A very fair face hers was, and eyes just like the child’s. Not a doll-face by any means, rather the reverse; character in every line.”

It was a curious thing that the man who was recalling the picture of Marion’s mother should himself be one of those persons who, while they harp much upon “force of character,” possess a limited supply of that desirable quality.

A passably handsome face, almost expressionless in repose, but occasionally lighted by enthusiasm, was the Rev. Paul Wilton’s. He was a man learned in the letter of the law, rigid in his observance of the same, yet lacking the spiritual fire which might have rendered his life beautiful, his ministry a harvesting of souls. Yet he had a large church, a wealthy and aristocratic congregation who were pleased with his elegantly written, well-delivered sermons; he, too, was content, though not lacking in ambition for the future.

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Marion was now five years old, a large, finely proportioned child, but not rosy cheeked like the rector’s sturdy boys; hers was a clear white skin with only a shadow of coloring to relieve its paleness; all the color of her face seemed concentrated in her eyes.

One afternoon Bridget took her little charge to their favorite place in Newberg, the grounds around the old house where Washington had his headquarters, which place commanded a fine view of the river and the surrounding hills.