There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is
life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these
states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these
best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions flood the reason at times,
and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the
busy scene goes on.
Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind
again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down,
but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The soul feels
new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height
after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.
This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful,
and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these weary, yet
hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for “light, more light.”
In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the
sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A sort
of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of
thought which gave her words at all times such force. All her best and
most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which she had spoken,
warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed,
till their real meaning was lost to her.
“Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever,” she said, and her
deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she
turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if
possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.
How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her thoughts
were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side, before she
knew that any one had entered.
“Why, Hugh!” was her exclamation of surprise.
“You are not at home, I see.”
He brought her back with those words.
“Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you,” and her glowing
features endorsed the truth of her assertion.
“How far had you wandered?” he asked, his face full of glowing sympathy;
“far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?”
“I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my
shortcomings.”
“I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand,” he
said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true earnest
relation to each other.
“Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if all
this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our words
and have their meaning misinterpreted?”
“I question,” she continued, “if we should project our thought until
mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek it.”
“Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares, to
be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a creation
to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest thoughts, even
though they are cast away as nought, and trampled upon. There would be
little richness or worth without this free offering, this giving of
self for truth's sake, even though we know that we and our words may be
spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my friend; you have been too long alone,
and are consumed by your own thoughts.”
“I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has
lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak when we
are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It is this fear
that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We forget that
truth can clear itself, and that principles are not dependent upon
persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do, when the mist of
doubt hangs over me.”
“Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of
recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and friendless
in the chill air of neglect.”
“This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you
to-night.”
“O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze over
the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the towering
hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even though its base
is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when these inner, pivotal
truths will be accepted?”
“We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when, or
where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not be our
hands that garner the harvest.”
“True. I was selfish and looking for grain.”
“Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often a
difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which says
in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient thoughts and
motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do without the approving
smile of man, and go on our way with none but God and angels to sanction
our efforts. I, too, have hours of darkness. All souls are at times
tossed on heaving waters, that they may rise higher than their weary
feet can climb.”
“You have done me good to-day; but do not go,” she said, seeing him rise
to leave.
“I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material matter,
which I had nearly forgotten?”
“I am at your service.”
“Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last
thing you would have imagined of me.”
“I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an idea
into your head?”
“Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the
satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring
together a strange medley,--counterparts, affinities, opposites, and
every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides
drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you come
and help us to-morrow?”
“I will. My love to Dawn and Miss Vernon.”
“Thank you,” and he passed out, leaving her bright and full of hope.
She felt the transfusion of his strong life into her own, and neither
herself nor her friend was the same as yesterday.
The day for the party was fair and balmy. Dawn and Miss Vernon rode to
the green-house and purchased flowers for the occasion, and the home
seemed like a fairy bower, so artistically and elegantly had they
arranged the fresh and fragrant blossoms.
Miss Evans glided from room to room, placing a vase here, and a
statuette there, as her feeling suggested, and what was her fancy was
Hugh's, for their tastes were one, and their lives ran parallel in
natural, innocent ways, never able to translate their feelings to
another, but giving and enjoying each other more and more at every
meeting.
Poor Mrs. Norton thought how pleasant it would be to her, to see a room
full of beautiful things, pleasant faces, and elegant clothes: it would
be such a contrast to her own dull life, which would be still more
lonely but for the frequent visits of Mr. Wyman's family, and the
substantial evidence often given by them that they did not forget the
poor and needy. She arrayed herself neatly in her black alpacca, the
gift of a friend; and when she looked in her little glass which hung
above the table, just were it did thirty years ago, when her good
husband was alive, a rush of better thoughts and feelings came over
her. She lived over again the happy days of her married life, and almost
thought she was making ready to walk by her husband's side to the little
church on the hill. Then the scene changed, years rolled away, and it
seemed but yesterday when she leaned over the coffin, and looked on the
still, pale face that would never light her home again. Thoughts grew
into words, and she said,--
“How little to keep me here. I have far more to recover by death than to
lose; and somehow it seems as though it would not be long ere I go.”
She was not sad; far from it. The thought was pleasant to her, and
folding her white handkerchief over her breast, she surveyed herself
once more, and then putting on her shawl and bonnet, was soon on her way
to Mr. Wyman's, thinking again and again how much good it would do her
to see so many people together.
Mrs. Clarke wondered if Mrs. Simonds would be dressed in great style,
for she had a wish not to be outdone in that direction, and yet
possessed a sufficient degree of good sense to feel that overdress would
be out of place at such a gathering; so she arrayed herself in a blue
silk, not over-trimmed, and put pearls in her dark hair to match her
jewels.
And thus, from different sections, arose a kind of magnetic life, as
each individual's thoughts went out and centered there.
Dawn was dressed in white, with scarlet sash, and coral ornaments. She
seemed like a ray of light flashing through darkness. Her soft,
brown hair hung in wavy curls over her shoulders, and the involuntary
exclamation was, “How beautiful,” as the pure light and brightness of
her inner being shone through and over the external.
At dusk, the carriages began to appear, winding up the long avenue,
which led to the house. Then came a few persons on foot, and in an hour
all the bustle and stir attendant upon a crowd was heard in the hall,
on the stairs, and in every room. The house was all aglow with life, and
lines of care and sorrow were swept away by radiant smiles.
Masks were drawn over aching hearts; jealousies, envyings, and all
strifes were put at bay, and the better natures of all were called
forth, and responded, each to each. Palm grasped palm, that had not in
the ordinary relations of life thrilled with contact for many years.
Hearts that had grown cold and callous under slights, and chilling
indifferences, were warmed anew in the social atmosphere which filled
the whole house; and then the sound of music swept through the rooms,
lifting all out of their narrowness into higher and better states.
Mr. Wyman had a word of cheer and love for all, and delicately brought
such temperaments together as could best enjoy companionship, and for
the time kept himself aloof from those he loved best, that others might
partake of their genial natures.
“Can you tell me who that tall, graceful lady is?” asked Miss Vernon,
before Mr. Wyman was aware that she was at his side.
“A Mrs. Hammond,” he replied, without looking at her.
“She is very elegant,” continued Miss Vernon.
“She is, externally.”
“What, not lovely in mind? Can it be that such an exterior covers
unloveliness?”
“I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a
woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the elements
of a true lady, to me.”
“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said
Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.
“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all
acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp enough,
and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with
heads.”
“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a
most searching glance.
“For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the
time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of
selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the
new.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”
“Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb the
spirit of the occasion.”
“I am glad you do. Come this way.” He led her to a remote part of the
room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.
“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and
knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.
A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside
of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a
conversation by saying,--
“There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don't see
many of them at church.”
This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character of a
forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject to one
of general interest.
Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard, and
the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his parents
to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those abstracted
individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude, speaking to
no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with an air of
superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents' admiration,--at
home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.
After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each accompanied
with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a long and
tedious sonata,--tedious, because ill-timed. On a suitable occasion it
would have been grand and acceptable. Of course the music was wasted on
the air, because it had only a mental rendering.
The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause. It did not
come. Only a few murmured, “How very difficult,” while a sense of
relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize that such
elaborate performances should be reserved for a far different occasion.
But we are slow in learning the fitness of things, and that everything
has its proper time and place.
The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played several
airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all with their
light and graceful beauty.
Mr. Wyman then led his friend and guest, Mr. Temple, to the instrument.
He touched it with a master hand. One forgot everything save melodious
tones; forgot even that there was a medium, through which those tones
were conveyed to the senses. The performer lost self, lost all save the
author's idea, until, at length, the ecstatic sounds came soft and clear
as light from a star. There was no intervention of self; his whole being
was subordinate to the great creation--the soul of the theme. Eyes grew
moist as the music floated on the air in one full, continuous strain.
Hearts beat with new pulsations; hopes soared anew; sorrows grew less;
life seemed electric, full of love; sharp lines, and irregularities of
mind were touched, softened, and toned to harmony under the swelling
notes, now soft, sweet, and dulcet; now broad, high, and upsoaring. No
words broke the heavenly spell when the performer left the instrument,
but each thrilled heart became a temple, in which only love and beauty
dwelt.
There, in that holy atmosphere, a soul burst its fetters and went home.
Old Mrs. Norton, who came with such glorious anticipations, sank back
upon the pillow upon which she was resting, while listening to the
soul-ravishing sounds, and died.
No feeling of awe came over the people assembled; but all felt as though
they, too, had entered within the confines of the silent land.
Gently they raised her form as one would a child who had fallen asleep.
There, in the presence of the still, pale face, they parted, with
better, truer natures than when they met.