A LADY sat alone in her own apartment one clear evening, when the
silver stars were out, and the moon shone pure as the spirit of
peace upon the rebellious earth. How lovely was every outward thing!
How beautiful is God's creation! The window curtains were drawn
close, and the only light in the cheerful room, was given by a
night-lamp that was burning on the mantel-piece. The occupant, who
perhaps had numbered about thirty-five years, was sitting by a small
table in the centre of the room, her head leaning upon one slender
hand; the other lay upon the open page of a book in which she had
endeavoured to interest herself. But the effort had been vain; other
and stronger feelings had overpowered her; there was an expression
of suffering upon the gentle face, over which the tears rained
heavily. For a brief moment she raised her soft blue eyes upward
with an appealing look, then sunk her head upon the table before
her, murmuring,
"Father! forgive me! it is good for me. Give me strength to bear
everything. Pour thy love into my heart, for I am desolate--if I
could but be useful to one human being--if I could make one person
happier, I should be content. But no! I am desolate--desolate. Whose
heart clings to mine with the strong tendrils of affection? Who ever
turns to me for a smile? Oh! this world is so cold--so cold!"
And that sensitive being wept passionately, and pressed her hand
upon her bosom as if to still its own yearnings.
Mary Clinton had met with many sorrows; she was the youngest of a
large family; she had been the caressed darling in her early days,
for her sweetness won every heart to love. She had dwelt in the warm
breath of affection, it was her usual sunshine, and she gave it no
thought while it blessed her; a cold word or look was an unfamiliar
thing. A most glad-hearted being she was once! But death came in a
terrible form, folded her loved ones in his icy arms and bore them
to another world. A kind father, a tender mother, a brother and
sister, were laid in the grave, in one short month, by the cholera.
One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he was
a wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendid
house, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, the
bereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations,
hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormant
through grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there,
became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinating
manners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy of
her. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a weary
heart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. She
was an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelier
through sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearest
relative, called her North again, and when our story opens she was
in the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved her
deeply, yet she felt like an alien--his wife had not welcomed her as
a sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, her
eldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing into
womanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered and
caressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had no
dream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her young
heart's love to the desolate stranger.
The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leaned
her head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding step
of Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened,
almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied with
the enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on to
her chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seat
at the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back the
curtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow.
Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift of
her brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dress
of delicate white she wore. "Ah!" she sighed, "I am robed for a
scene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath this
boddice! How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness in
the crowd is so sad a feeling." At that moment the door of her room
opened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright and
careless.
"Oh! Aunt Mary," she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp my
necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my
fingers. There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe I
never will be good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, as
if the idea was charming. "When did you leave the parlours, Aunt
Mary? I never missed you at all. Father said you left early, when I
met him just now on the stairs."
"I did leave early," replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel like
being entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment."
"Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!"
"I read very little," was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark was
made on her loneliness.
"It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being
alone. I like company so much," said Alice, looking in her quiet
face. "But I must go," she added; she paused a moment, then pressed
an affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft
"good night." Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her
to her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice she
kissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had gone
forth before she was aware of it. Alice stood still before her a
moment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression as
they dwelt upon the countenance before her. Something like sadness
passed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as she
repeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!" With a slow step she left
the apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that of
her aunt. Circumstances around her and the society with which she
mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only the
brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our
being. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine
meditation on the world within--or the great world without. The
earth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy
herself. Like many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol of
her beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs.
Clinton was not one to perform a mother's duty faithfully in
instilling right views of life into her daughter's mind. Thus, with
a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on her
way like a light-winged butterfly, her soul's pure wells of tender
thought unknown to her. How many millions pass through a whole long
life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being still
unlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught to live for, but
the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine,
compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in the
spirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when
smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon,
when turned away from his face!
With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest.
"I can love others, if I am not beloved," she murmured, and the dove
of peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was,
"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Tears of earnest humility
had washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely
being. How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face,
in her pure dreams!
A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling,
damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" she
exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe I
have got the _blues_ for once in my life. I don't know what to do
with myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the
window, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother has
a headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely asked
me if I would not let her remain alone. She says I always want to
sing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can't
ding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement. I don't
want to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable--now,
Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can't you relieve
me, for I am really miserable, if I don't look so!" Alice broke into
a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart as
usual.
"If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weather
so much," remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile. "You are not in a
mood to enjoy a book just now, so what _will_ you do, my dear?"
"Mend stockings, or turn my room upside down, and then arrange it
neatly," said Alice in a speculative tone. "There is nothing in the
house to interest me; there is Patty in the kitchen, I have just
been paying her a visit. She is as busy as a bee, and as happy as a
queen. I believe poor people are happier than the rich, in such
weather as this, at least."
"Because they are useful, Alice; go busy yourself about some
physical labour for an hour or two, then come back to me, and I
predict your face will be as sunshiny as ever. I am in earnest--you
need not look so incredulous!"
"What shall I do?" asked the young girl laughing. "I don't know how
to do a single thing in domestic matters. Mother says I shall never
work. It would spoil my fairy fingers, I presume, a terrible
consequence!"
"But seriously Alice, you are not so entirely incapable of doing
anything, are you?"
"I am positively, but I can learn if I choose. I believe I will
sweep my room and put it in order, as a beginning. That will be
something new: now I will try my best!" Alice sprang from her chair,
and tripped from the apartment quite pleased with the idea. A smile
broke over Miss Clinton's features, after her niece had left her
alone. "How easily Alice might be trained to better things, by love
and gentleness," she said half aloud. "Oh! if she would only love
me, and turn to me fondly. How I would delight to breathe a genial
prayer over the buds of promise in her youthful heart, and fan them
to warmer life." More than an hour flew by, as Mary Clinton sat in
thought, devising plans to awaken her favourite to a true sense of
her duties--to a knowledge of her capabilities for happiness and
usefulness. We may be useful with a heart full of sadness; but we
can rarely taste of happiness, unless we are desirous to benefit
some one besides ourselves. A quietness came over the lonely one as
she mused--a spirit of beautiful repose; for she forgot all thoughts
of her own enjoyment, in caring for another.
"You are quite a physician, Aunt Mary, to a mind diseased,"
exclaimed Alice, breaking her revery as she came in with a smiling
face, after the performance of her unaccustomed labour. "I am quite
in tune again now. I believe there is a little philosophy in being
busy occasionally, after all."
"There is really," replied Miss Clinton, raising her deep blue eyes
to Alice's face, with their pleasant expression; "and there is also
philosophy in recreation--in abandoning yourself for a time to
innocent gayety. An hour of enjoyment is refreshing and beneficial."
"Why, Aunt Mary!" said Alice in some surprise, "I had no idea that
you thought so. You are always so industrious and quiet, I imagined
you disapproved of the merriment of ordinary people. When we have a
large company you almost always retire early. Why do you do so,
aunt, may I ask you?"
Mary Clinton was silent a moment, then she said gently, "When I
think I can add to the ease or enjoyment of any person present, I
take pleasure in staying; but when I feel that I am rather a
restraint than otherwise, I retire--to weep. You are yet young and
beautiful, my child, for you have never known such feelings. I am
too selfish, or I would not be sad so often; it is right that I
should pass through such a school of discipline. I hope it has
already made me better." The look of resignation that beamed from
Miss Clinton's tearful eyes, caused a chord in Alice's heart to
tremble with a strange blending of love, sweetness, and sorrow.
"_You_ should be happy, if any one should, dear aunt," she said in a
low voice, and she partly averted her head, to conceal the tears
that started down her cheek. "I am happy so often," she resumed,
turning around and seating herself upon an ottoman at her aunt's
feet. "You deserve so much more than I--to be as good as you are,
Aunt Mary, I would almost change situations, for then I should be
sure of going to heaven."
"You can be just as sure in your own position, as in that of any
other person. But, dear child, the more deeply we scan our hearts,
the more we see there to conquer, in order that we may become fit
companions for the angels."
Alice remained thoughtful for some moments, then she folded her
hands over Aunt Mary's lap, and lifted her eyes to the loving face
that bent over her. "Be my guardian angel," she prayed tearfully,
"your love is so pure; a gentleness comes over me, when I am with
you. All tumultuous feelings sink down to repose. I have not known
you, Aunt Mary; you have shown me to-day how lovely goodness is. I
can feel it in your presence. Oh! to possess it! I fear it will be
long years before I grow so gentle in my spirit--so unselfish--so
like a child of Heaven!"
"Hush, hush!" was Mary Clinton's gentle interruption. "You do not
know me yet, Alice. Perhaps I appear far better than I am."
Alice smiled, and laying her arm around Aunt Mary's neck, drew down
her face, and kissed her affectionately, whispering, "You will be my
guide, I ask no better."
"Thank you, thank you," broke from Aunt Mary's lips; she pressed
Alice's cheek with the ardent haste of love and gratitude; then
yielding to the emotions that thrilled her heart, she burst into
tears, and wept with a joy she had long been a stranger to. She felt
that her life would no longer be useless, if she could live for
Alice, and lift up to God her heart. How beautiful in its freshness,
is the early day when the light of a good resolve breaks like a halo
over the soul, and by its power, seeks to win it from its selfish
idols! Earnest and strong is the hopefulness that bids us labour
trustingly to become all we yearn to be--all we may be. How
tremblingly Mary Clinton leaned upon her Saviour! experience had
taught her the weakness of her fluttering heart; sorrow was
familiar, yet she prayed not to shrink from it. How clear and
vigorous was the mind of Alice--how shadowless was her unerring path
to be--how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that rose
up in her soul! How rich was the light that beamed from her steady
eye--how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips!
How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength! She
was a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that that
same truth was the power to which she must bow every rebellious
thing within her. Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in her
heart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything it
seemed her duty to do. The unexplored world within opened to her
gaze, and threw a glory upon creation. Infinitely priceless in her
eyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord had
kindled the undying lamp of life.
One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamber
of her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in a
subdued voice as she took her hand, "I am inexpressibly sad
to-night, Aunt Mary. There is no very particular reason why I should
feel so; no one can soothe me but you. Put your arms around me, Aunt
Mary, and talk to me--give me some strength to go forward in the way
I have chosen. I almost despair--I have no good influence, no moral
courage. Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to become
better, and I shall sink back into my former state. If all who are
my friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on with
the stream. But I am in the midst of peril--I never knew until
to-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friends
when they merit it. If I were despised, or neglected, I could more
easily fix my thoughts on heaven. I dread so to hurt the feelings of
any one."
"What do you refer to, dear?" inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly.
"My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have been
spending the evening with me. You know how gay and witty they are.
In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage of
Scripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistibly
ludicrous manner. I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could not
restrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought. But in a
moment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect for
Theodore had lessened. I had no right to rebuke him, even if I had
the moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement. I turned away
from him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and I
felt a sort of inward repugnance to him. But that was not the end;
several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing.
"'There are subjects which are not fit food for merriment;' I said
once in an embarrassed manner. 'If I do wrong, it is not
deliberately done.' Theodore was silent a moment, and he looked at
me as if he hardly knew how to understand me--then smiling, he
turned the conversation, and was as gay as ever. When they had taken
their leave, I entered the parlour again, and threw myself in a seat
by the open window. I turned the blind, and looked out after them.
Eleanor had caught the fringe of her mantilla in the railing of the
area. I was about to speak with her on the little accident, when
Theodore laughed, and said to his sister, 'Alice is as fond of
taking characters, as an actress. She attempted to reprove me, for
the very thing she had laughed at a little while before. Rather
inconsistent in our favourite, Nelly, don't you think so?' Eleanor
laughed, and said good-naturedly, 'Alice is impulsive, she don't
measure what she says, before it comes out.'
"I rose, and left the window. I felt sad, and peculiarly discomposed
and dissatisfied with myself. I knew that I had tried to do right in
some degree, and it grated on my feelings that my effort should be
called 'a taking of character.' Oh! if I could only live with good
people altogether, who would bear with me, and trust my motives! You
have my story, Aunt Mary, it amounts to nothing, but I am so sad."
"Life is made up of trifles," said Miss Clinton. "Few circumstances
are so trivial that we may not draw a lesson from them. Do not feel
sad, Alice, because you are misunderstood. Do not repine on account
of your position; no one could fill it but yourself, or you would
not be placed in it. Be resigned to meet those who call out
unpleasant feelings; they teach you better your own nature than ever
the angels could. They bring forth what is evil in you, that it may
be conquered. Do not understand me to mean that you should ever seek
those who may harm you. But a day can hardly pass over our heads,
that we do not meet with persons who ruffle that harmony of soul we
so labour after. It is keenly felt when one is as young in a better
life as you are. You need strength, and then you will be calm and
even. Time, patience, combating, prayer, good-will to man, must
bring your soul to order, then you will bear upon the spirits of
others with a still, purifying power which will soothe and soften
like far-off music. You have it in your power to do much good; your
Creator has blessed you with that inexpressible sympathy which may
glide gently into another human heart and open its secret springs
almost unconsciously to the possessor. I have watched you, child of
my love, and perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. There
are many latent germs within your being; Oh! Alice, pray God to
expand them to heavenly life. Bear on--and live for something worthy
a creature God has made." Mary Clinton paused in an unusual emotion;
her cheek glowed deeply, and the burning softness of her eyes
chained Alice's look as with a spell, to their angel expression. The
heart of the young girl throbbed almost to bursting, with the world
of undeveloped feeling that rushed over her. It was a moment which
many have experienced--a moment which breaks over the young for the
first time with such a thrill--she realized that God had gifted her
with power--with a soul that might and _must_ have its influence.
Bowing her head upon Aunt Mary's knee, she wept; and a flood of joy,
humility, and thanksgiving came over her, as she more deeply
dedicated herself to the holy Lord, and laid her gifts upon His
altar. Aunt Mary's words sunk peacefully into her soul, and a clear
light irradiated it and filled it with a calmness that made all
things right. With a look of irrepressible tenderness, and a voice
full of low music, Alice said to Aunt Mary, as she rose to retire,
"You have charmed away every discordant note that was touched
to-night, dear aunt. How unaccountable are our sudden changes of
mood! You have now thrown over me your own spirit of peaceful repose
and contentment. Good-night, and think you!"
"Well, I am content, entirely content," soliloquized Mary Clinton,
when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "To
try to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon my
own soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as to
murmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest--a sunshine is breaking
over the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone." With feelings
much changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clinton
sought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon the
night and stillness of the heavens--so boundless and so pure. The
moon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, upon
the edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me,"
she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soul
bright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, ever
bringing to my bosom--peace."
About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a large
company assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment to
Alice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved from
one spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, Aunt
Mary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayed
that the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merry
girl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocent
mirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would never
subdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke out
with a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it,
that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess to
perfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, and
bring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful home
thus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every body
feel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stood
alone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behind
her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing
somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of pain
passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned
round, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuse
me, but _such_ trifling pains me." The young gentlemen both appeared
mortified. "Pardon me! Alice," exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I will
try to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that it
pained you so much--a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly.
"No, no! Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then it
will be permanent. Much obliged for the compliment"--Alice bowed
with assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playful
smile, "but I have no faith in these pretty speeches. Remember, now,
I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit your
word if you do not; so you see your position, don't you?" Thus
saying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them.
"I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all," remarked Temple's
companion. "What is the use of jesting on such subjects? We never
feel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to the
displeasure of those who respect these things. I pass my word to
give it up, if you will, Temple."
"Agreed!" was Theodore's brief answer. Without saying how mingled
the motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsake
the habit, they _did_ forsake it permanently. Aunt Mary's lonely
life was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam--and that sunbeam was the
soul of Alice, which she had turned to the light. For that cherished
being Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there would
have been a joy in the sacrifice. Strongly and nobly were their
hearts knit together--beautiful is the devotedness of holy,
unselfish love! Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened to
each other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in the
inward soul--such revelations are for moments when the yearning
heart will not be hushed to calmness. But "there is a moonlight in
human life," and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour which
whispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with a
prayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in the
dust. Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were open
as the day to each other. They travelled along life's pathway with
earnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fell
upon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above. And sorrows
came too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul its
rarest wealth--its deepest sympathies with all things good and
heavenly. It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolation
from the heart of Mary Clinton--she turned away from _self_, and
devoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another. Is there
one human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not do
likewise? Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of his
children so poor, as to be without an influence. The humblest
effort, if it is all that _can_ be made, is as full of greatness at
the core, as the most ostentatious display.