THE HEIGHTS AND THE VALLEY.
By Zula Myer Simpson
THE years pass, and Marguerite is again in the city for a short time. Madge, who is now a well-known artist, had insisted upon the visit, telling her she would not take no for an answer, and begging her not to delay the visit, as there is to be an Art Exhibit in the city the first of the month, and she so much wished her friend to see two pictures which she had dreamed of and labored on for many months. It has been a glad time for both, for their love has stood the test of years, and they have not, as many friends do, grown apart with the flight of time. Marguerite’s happiness is mingled with a certain sadness, for she remembers her girlhood’s plans for the future, and, as she looks into the coming years, she knows they must remain unfulfilled. Still she is conscious that the success her friend is achieving is not bringing her the happiness she had expected. She has read this in the restless movements and the unsatisfied expression in the bright eyes. She rejoices in Madge’s success, but can not but feel sympathy for her. After Madge’s refusal to go to her home, she went to the masters, and told them she must give up her studies unless she could in some way earn her tuition, but that she was willing to do the hardest of work rather than give up her art. The masters were much interested in her, because of her talent and strict application to her studies, and they made arrangements for her to work about the school as long as she cared to stay. There had been a great deal of drudgery, unbroken by recreation or rest; her only pleasure being found in her work. She had at times been ready to fail from weariness, but was prevented by her indomitable will-power. Now her life is changing, for she is recognized as an artist of great ability, and is earning a competence. As the day of the exhibit approaches, Madge is in a state of suppressed excitement, which increases until the day arrives, when she can scarcely return intelligible replies to her friend’s questions. They go early, for Marguerite wishes to see Madge’s pictures before the crowd arrives. Madge has resolutely refused to talk of them, telling her friend “to wait and see.” When they reached the place, Madge takes Marguerite to her pictures, and hastens away to another part of the building. Marguerite utters an exclamation of surprise and delight, and then stands as if spellbound, with her eyes riveted, as it were, upon the picture before her. A lofty mountain rears itself in proud grandeur above the lesser mountains about it, while far in the background may be seen the deep, beautiful blue of the distant hills. There is a narrow, winding path up the rugged mountainside, and numerous cascades fall from the cliffs among the quiet pines beneath. It is a grand old mountain which nature has beautified in her own way, sculpturing and coloring it until it stands, massive and grand, magnificent in strength and beauty. As Marguerite observes closely the path up the mountainside, she sees that there are straggling streamlets to cross; that the path is, at places, almost overgrown with briers, and there are cruel, jagged rocks all along the path which the weary traveler must traverse. The path ends abruptly on a narrow ledge, a short distance from the highest point of the mountain,11and here is a beautiful laurel tree. ’Neath the laurel, seated upon a rocky bench, is a young woman clad in a flowing robe of purple, and with abundant dark hair falling about her face and down over her shoulders. A few bunches of the laurel have fallen from her hands to the rock at her feet, and she retains a few leaves in the hands which have dropped so listlessly upon her lap. Her attitude suggests extreme weariness, and a brief pause from activity, but not repose. So various are the emotions revealed in her expressive face that one is at first bewildered in the attempt to conjecture which are predominant. There is pride, a certain triumphant joy, and a careless observer might say even rapture, upon the beautiful face as she sits alone upon that desolate mountain peak, and realizes that she has passed through hardships bravely, and has reached the heights of her ambition. But to the one studying the face so intently, it is apparent that, at the moment of victory, her courage has failed. She is lonely, and her eyes are turned longingly toward the far-away valley, while her heart cries out for the clasp of a warm, friendly hand, the opportunity to love and be loved, and share the simple little pleasures of those in the valley. Marguerite remembers the wild anguish of the letter her friend had written to her after the death of her father, who had suddenly taken ill, and died after a brief illness. Madge had watched by his side with a heart filled with sorrow and remorse as she heard him talk in delirium of his dead wife, and again and again call for his little girl. Then it was that she knew how she had misunderstood her lonely, broken-hearted father, and she knelt by his bedside hour after hour, praying and vainly watching for a sign of recognition from him. O, that he might be spared to her until she could in some degree atone for the time of neglect. Her desire was not given her, and she returned to her work with a sad heart, wondering if it were possible to achieve success that should bring peace to her soul. As Marguerite gazed at the pictured face upon the canvas, and read the message there revealed, quick tears filled her eyes, and she turned away from it with a feeling of pain, to look upon the companion picture. Such a contrast as it presented! It is a quiet, sunny valley. Sunbeams play among the graceful foliage of the beautiful trees, and stoop to brighten the verdant meadows where dear little blossoms raise their sweet faces to greet them. The clearest streamlet seems to laugh with quiet joy from its mossy bank among the fern and heather, and a gleam of sunshine lightens the calm waters of the lake where the lilies grow. There are foot-paths through the meadows, and in yonder glen nestle the humble cottages of the peaceful village, and the little church rises among the trees with its steeple pointing heavenward. There is life, and light throughout the picture; yet, over all a quiet calm and peaceful repose. Standing in the meadow, her bare feet well-nigh hidden by the clover, is a young woman robed in a simple, white linen gown unrelieved by color or ornament. The shining waves of hair, so faithfully representing Marguerite’s own, are loosely caught away from her earnest face. Her hands are clasped in an attitude of prayer, and the honest eyes are gazing upward with an expression of trust and love. There is a peaceful smile upon the gentle face, and one feels that, altho she may have failed to overcome the difficulties that stood in the way of her success, she has done better still, for she has conquered self. There is not a shadow of discontent upon the pure face, but there is strong love, immaculate purity, unlimitable faith, here revealed. As Marguerite stands with clasped hands, gazing up at the beautiful face before her, Madge approaches, and, pausing a moment to observe her, sees the rapt expression of love and joy upon her friend’s face, and can not resist clapping her hands as she softly murmurs, “I did it! How like it is!” At the sound Marguerite turns with a little start, and exclaims, “O Madge, I am so glad, so happy! They are very, very beautiful. I knew you would succeed, dear.” But Madge comes nearer, and whispers, “Marguerite, I have tried to answer the question which you asked me long ago. Do you remember? You asked me if I did not think you had done right. That question has echoed in my ears very often since that day, and I have tried to answer it. You have indeed chosen the better part, Marguerite. ‘Succeeded,’ you say; it is you who have succeeded, not I. I have succeeded in the eyes of the world. I suppose many a girl here to-day will almost envy me my success. But have I succeeded? You are the only person in the world whom I truly love. I have worked almost ceaselessly, and have not thought that I had time to make friends. I have acquaintances, but not friends. I have shut myself away from the world, closed my ears to its cries of sorrow and suffering; blinded my eyes, lest I should see that the human creatures about me were brothers and sisters for whom Christ died; sealed my lips from speaking words of cheer and sympathy to the saddened, discouraged ones; ever toiling onward, possessed by a half-insane desire to succeed in the life I had chosen. ‘Believe in a loving God?’ I see the question in your eyes, my Marguerite. Yes; I believed, and thought that I had loved Him, too. I loved the pure and good, and tried to keep my own soul free from sin. I was grateful to Him for the beauty which He had created, and I believed that He must be pleased because of my love for the beautiful, and my feeble attempts at portraying it.” “There is a joy which comes to one who overcomes difficulties, and succeeds in the work she loves, but I would gladly give all to know the peace which is yours. You have brightened the lives of not only your father and mother, but of many others. A lady from Valley View, whom I met a short time ago, called you the ‘Sunbeam of Valley View,’ and she told me something of the way you have spent your time, and how you were beloved by all.” “You will be a blessing in the home to which you go as you have been in your girlhood’s home. You have friends, love, a home, and need never for an instant think your life a failure, because you have given up your musical career. Your life has been one grand, sweet song which angels might well rejoice to sing.” “You have the happiness you deserve, and I am glad. You have succeeded. I have failed. I have no home in the true sense of the word, no friend but you, my good, true friend.” “Listen, Madge,” said Marguerite, “I have been thinking of something I heard long ago.” Then in her sweet, low tones she repeated these words:— “Better the valley with peace and love
Than the desolate heights some souls attain;
Lonely is life on the hills above
The valley lands and the sunny plain.
What is fame to love? Can it satisfy
The longing and lonely hearts of men?
On the heights they must hunger and starve and die,
Come back to the valley of peace again!”