A GARDEN FLOWER, OR A BANIAN-TREE.
In August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the Nobles' ranch in Santa
Barbara, in the hope that the old scenes and old friends might soothe
her, and give her strength to take up the burden of life with something
of her former sunshiny spirit.
Edgar was a junior now, back at his work, sunburned and strong from his
summer's outing. He had seen Polly twice after his return to San
Francisco; but the first meeting was an utter failure, and the second
nearly as trying. Neither of them could speak of the subject that
absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage enough to begin other
topics of conversation. The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the
girl now, it brought to mind so much that was dear, so much that was
past and gone.
In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long drives with Margery and
Philip, the quiet chats with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in
strength; but the old "spring," vitality, and enthusiasm had vanished
for the time, and the little circle of friends marveled at this Polly
without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her dancing dimples, her
extravagances of speech.
Once a week, at least, Dr. George would steal an hour or two, and
saddle his horse to take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through the
cañons, or on the beach.
His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these rides did her much good. He
sympathized and understood and helped, even when he chided, and Polly
sometimes forgot her own troubles in wondering whether Dr. George had
not suffered and overcome a good many of his own.
"You make one great error, my child," he once said, in response to one
of Polly's outbursts of grief; "and it is an error young people very
naturally fall into. You think that no one was ever chastened as you
are. You say, with Jeremiah, 'No prophet is afflicted like unto this
prophet!' Now you are simply bearing your own share of the world's
trouble. How can you hope to escape the universal lot? There are
dozens of people within sight of this height of land who have borne as
much, and must bear as much again. I know this must seem a hard
philosophy, and I should not preach it to any but a stout little spirit
like yours, my Polly. These things come to all of us; they are stern
facts; they are here, and they must be borne; but it makes all the
difference in the world how we bear them. We can clench our fists,
close our lips tightly, and say, 'Since I must, I can;' or we can look
up and say cheerfully, 'I will!' The first method is philosophical and
strong enough, but there is no sweetness in it. If you have this
burden to carry, make it as light, not as heavy, as you can; if you
have this grief to endure, you want at least to come out of it sweeter
and stronger than ever before. It seems a pity to let it go for
nothing. In the largest sense of the word, you can live for your
mother now as truly as you did in the old times; you know very well how
she would have had you live."
Polly felt a sense of shame steal over her as she looked at Dr.
George's sweet, strong smile and resolute mouth, and she said, with the
hint of a new note in her voice:--
"I see, and I will try; but how does one ever learn to live without
loving,--I mean the kind of loving I had in my life? I know I can live
for my mother in the largest sense of the word, but to me all the
comfort and sweetness seems to tuck itself under the word in its
'little' sense. I shall have to go on developing and developing until
I am almost developed to death, and go on growing and growing in grace
until I am ready to be caught up in a chariot of fire, before I can
love my mother 'in the largest sense of the word.' I want to cuddle my
head on her shoulder, that's what I want. Oh, Dr. George, how does one
contrive to be good when one is not happy? How can one walk in the
right path when there does n't seem to be any brightness to go by?"
"My dear little girl," and Dr. George looked soberly out on the ocean,
dull and lifeless under the gray October sky, "when the sun of one's
happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides
one's footsteps by that!"
"If only I were not a rich heiress," said Polly next morning, "I dare
say I should be better off; for then I simply could n't have gone to
bed for two or three months, and idled about like this for another.
But there seems to be no end to my money. Edgar paid all the bills in
San Francisco, and saved twenty out of our precious three hundred and
twelve dollars. Then Mrs. Greenwood's rent-money has been accumulating
four months, while I have been visiting you and Mrs. Bird; and the
Greenwoods are willing to pay sixty dollars a month for the house
still, even though times are dull; so I am hopelessly wealthy,--but on
the whole I am very glad. The old desire to do something, and be
something, seems to have faded out of my life with all the other
beautiful things. I think I shall go to a girls' college and study, or
find some other way of getting through the hateful, endless years that
stretch out ahead! Why, I am only a little past seventeen, and I may
live to be ninety! I do not see how I can ever stand this sort of
thing for seventy-three years!"
Mrs. Noble smiled in spite of herself. "Just apply yourself to getting
through this year, Polly dear, and let the other seventy-two take care
of themselves. They will bring their own cares and joys and
responsibilities and problems, little as you realize it now. This
year, grievous as it seems, will fade by and by, until you can look
back at it with resignation and without tears."
"I don't want it to fade!" cried Polly passionately. "I never want to
look back at it without tears! I want to be faithful always; I want
never to forget, and never to feel less sorrow than I do this minute!"
"Take that blue-covered Emerson on the table, Polly; open it at the
essay on 'Compensation,' and read the page marked with the orange leaf."
The tears were streaming down Polly's cheeks, but she opened the book,
and read with a faltering voice:--
"We cannot part with our f--fr--friends. We cannot let our angels go.
[Sob.] We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come
in. . . . We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or
re-create that beautiful yesterday. [Sob.] We linger in the ruins of
the old tent where once we had shelter. . . . We cannot again find
aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. [Sob.] But we sit and weep in
vain. We cannot stay amid the ruins. The voice of the Almighty saith,
'Up and onward for evermore!' . . . The sure years reveal the deep
remedial force that underlies all sorrow. . . . The man or woman who
would have remained a sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots
and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the
neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding
shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men."
[Illustration: "She opened the book and read."]
"Do you see, Polly?"
"Yes, I see; but oh, I was so happy being a garden flower with the
sunshine on my head, and I can't seem to care the least little bit for
being a banian-tree!"
"Well," said Mrs. Noble, smiling through her own tears, "I fear that
God will never insist on your 'yielding shade and fruit to wide
neighborhoods of men' unless you desire it. Not all sunny garden
flowers become banian-trees by the falling of the walls. Some of them
are crushed beneath the ruins, and never send any more color or
fragrance into the world."
"The garden flower had happiness before the walls fell," said Polly.
"It is happiness I want."
"The banian-tree had blessedness after the walls fell, and it is
blessedness I want; but then, I am forty-seven, and you are seventeen!"
sighed Mrs. Noble, as they walked through the orange orchard to the
house.