THE LAST, BUT NOT THE END.
It was the second spring, and Molly and Walter sat again in the
twilighted garden. Walter had just come home from his day’s work; he had
been plowing. He was a broad-shouldered, lean, powerful, handsome
fellow, with a rather slow step, but soldierly carriage. His hands were
brown and mighty, and took a little more washing than before.
“My father does not seem quite himself!” he said to Molly.
“He has been a little depressed for a day or two,” she answered.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there, Molly?”
“No, nothing. It is only his spirits. They have never been good once
your mother died. He declares himself the happiest man in the county,
now you are at home with us.”
Walter was up early the next morning, and again at his work. A new-born
wind blew on his face, and sent the blood singing through his veins. If
we could hear all finest sounds, we might, perhaps, gather not only the
mood, but the character of a man, by listening to the music or the
discord the river of his blood was making, as through countless channels
it irrigated lungs and brain: Walter’s that morning must have been
weaving lovely harmonies! It was a fresh spring wind, the breath of the
world reviving from its winter-swoon. His father had managed to pay his
debts; his hopes were high, his imagination active; his horses were
pulling strong; the plow was going free, turning over the furrow smooth
and clean; he was one of the powers of nature at work for the harvest of
the year; he was in obedient consent with the will that makes the world
and all its summers and winters! He was a thinking, choosing, willing
part of the living whole, its vital fountain issuing from the heart of
the Father of men! Work lay all about him, and he was doing the work!
And Molly was at home, singing about hers! At night, when the sun was
set, and his day’s work done, he would go home to her and his father, to
his room and his books and his writing!
But as he labored, his thought this day was most of his father: he was
trying to _make_ something to cheer him. The eyes of the old man never
lost their love, but when he forgot to smile, Molly looked grave, and
Walter felt that a cloud was over the sun. They were a true family: when
one member suffered, all the members suffered with it.
So throughout the morning, as his horses pulled, and the earth opened,
and the plow folded the furrow back, Walter thought, and made, and
remembered: he had a gift for remembering completions, and forgetting
the chips and rejected rubbish of the process. In the evening he carried
borne with him these verses:
How shall he sing who hath no song?
He laugh who hath no mirth?
Will strongest can not wake a song!
It is no use to strive or long
To sing with them that have a song,
And mirthless laugh with mirth!
Though sad, he must confront the wrong,
And for the right face any throng,
Waiting, with patience sweet and strong,
Until God’s glory fills the earth;
Then shall he sing who had no song,
He laugh who had no mirth!
Yea, if like barren rock thou sit
Upon a land of dearth,
Round which but phantom waters flit,
Of visionary birth--
Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long;
There comes a sea to drown the wrong,
His glory shall o’erwhelm the earth,
And thou, no more a scathed rock,
Shall start alive with gladsome shock,
Shalt a hand-clapping billow be,
And shout with the eternal sea!
To righteousness and love belong
The dance, the jubilance, the song!
For, lo, the right hath quelled the wrong,
And truth hath stilled the lying tongue!
For, lo, the glad God fills the earth.
And Love sits down by every hearth!
Now must thou sing because of song,
Now laugh because of mirth!
Molly read the verses, and rose to run with them to her father. But
Walter caught and held her.
“Remember, Molly,” he said, “I wrote it for my father; it is not my own
feeling at the moment. For me, God _has_ sent a wave of his glory over
the earth; it has come swelling out of the deep sea of his thought, has
caught me up, and is making me joyful as the morning. That wave is my
love for you, Molly--is you, my Molly!”
She turned and kissed him, then ran to his father. He read, turned, and
kissed Molly.
In his heart he sung this song:
“Blessed art thou among women! for thou hast given me a son of
consolation!”
And to Molly he said,
“Let us go to Walter!”
THE END.