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............