Beulah - Page 82/348

"Only sixteen and a few months. Life is before me yet, an untrodden

plain. Who knows but this narrow path of duty may lead to a calm,

sweet resting-place for us both? I was thinking just now of that

passage from your favorite Wallenstein:"

"My soul's secure! In the night only, Friedland's stars can beam.' "The darkness has come down upon us, grandpa; let us wait patiently

for the uprising of stars. I am not afraid of the night."

There was silence for some moments; then the old man rose, and,

putting back the white locks which had fallen over his face, asked,

in a subdued tone: "When will you commence your work?"

"To-morrow, sir."

"God bless you, Clara, and give you strength, as he sees you have

need." He kissed her fondly, and withdrew to his own room. She sat

for some time looking vacantly at the mosaic of light and shade on

the floor before her, and striving to divest her mind of the

haunting thought that she was the victim of some unyielding

necessity, whose decree had gone forth, and might not be annulled.

In early childhood her home had been one of splendid affluence; but

reverses came, thick and fast, as misfortunes ever do, and, ere she

could realize the swift transition, penury claimed her family among

its crowding legions. Discouraged and embittered, her father made

the wine-cup the sepulcher of care, and in a few months found a

deeper and far more quiet grave. His mercantile embarrassments had

dragged his father-in-law to ruin; and, too aged to toil up the

steep again, the latter resigned himself to spending the remainder

of his days in obscurity, and perhaps want. To Clara's gifted mother

he looked for aid and comfort in the clouded evening of life, and

with unceasing energy she toiled to shield her father and her child

from actual labor. Thoroughly acquainted with music and drawing, her

days were spent in giving lessons in those branches which had been

acquired with reference to personal enjoyment alone, and the silent

hours of the night often passed in stitching the garments of those

who had flocked to her costly entertainments in days gone by. When

Clara was about thirteen years of age a distant relative, chancing

to see her, kindly proposed to contribute the sum requisite for

affording her every educational advantage. The offer was gratefully

accepted by the devoted mother, and Clara was placed at Madam St.

Cymon's, where more than ordinary attention could be bestowed on the

languages.

The noble woman whose heart had bled incessantly over the misery,

ruin, and degradation of her husband sank slowly under the

intolerable burden of sorrows, and a few weeks previous to the

evening of which I write folded her weary hands and went home to

rest. In the springtime of girlhood, Clara felt herself transformed

into a woman. Standing beside her mother's tomb, supporting her

grandmother's tottering form, she shuddered in anticipating the

dreary future that beckoned her on; and now, as if there were not

troubles enough already to disquiet her, the annual amount advanced

toward her school expenses was suddenly withdrawn. The cousin,

residing in a distant State, wrote that pecuniary troubles had

assailed him, and prevented all further assistance. In one more year

she would have finished the prescribed course and graduated

honorably; and, more than all, she would have obtained a diploma,

which might have been an "open sesame" to any post she aspired to.

Thus frustrated in her plans, she gladly accepted the position of

assistant teacher in the primary department, which, having become

vacant by the dismissal of the incumbent, madam kindly tendered her.

The salary was limited, of course; but nothing else presented

itself, and, quitting the desk, where she had so often pored over

her text-books, she prepared to grapple with the trials which

thickly beset the path of a young woman thrown upon her own

resources for maintenance. Clara was naturally amiable, unselfish,

and trusting. She was no intellectual prodigy, yet her mind was

clear and forcible, her judgment matured, and, above all, her pure

heart warm and loving. Notwithstanding the stern realities that

marked her path, there was a vein of romance in her nature which,

unfortunately, attained more than healthful development, and while

it often bore her into the Utopian realms of fancy, it was still

impotent to modify, in any degree, the social difficulties with

which she was forced to contend. Ah, there is a touching beauty in

the radiant up-look of a girl just crossing the limits of youth, and

commencing her journey through the checkered sphere of womanhood! It

is all dew-sparkle and morning glory to her ardent, buoyant spirit,

as she presses forward exulting in blissful anticipations. But the

withering heat of the conflict of life creeps on; the dewdrops

exhale, the garlands of hope, shattered and dead, strew the path,

and too often, ere noontide, the clear brow and sweet smile are

exchanged for the weary look of one longing for the evening rest,

the twilight, the night. Oh, may the good God give his sleep early

unto these many!