THE HEIGHTS AND THE VALLEY.
By Zula Myer Simpson
It had been a dark, cloudy day, but a bright little sunbeam, which had been loitering about the window for some time, was at last joined by ever so many more sunbeams, and together they stole softly into the room, chasing away the shadows, and brightening the dark corners. The room was a very pleasant apartment; it was, it is true, somewhat small, and very simply furnished, but was most cozy and inviting, with its neat matting, windows draped with snow-white curtains, a few chairs and pretty pictures, and a piano. A tall girl, who had apparently been studying a picture on the opposite wall, turned, upon the entrance of the sunbeams, and the frown which had been gathering on her brow as she listened to her companion’s words, was dispelled as were the shadows. “Going home! You do not mean it! Impossible!” The tone expressed surprise and incredulity, and she was gazing at her friend with such an expression of amazement and dismay that she laughed outright. “Why, Madge, one would suppose from your expression that I contemplated going to Siberia, or some other remote part of the world, instead of ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Do smile, now don’t look at me like that.” Her voice was cheery, but betrayed an effort to make it so. “But you do not mean it, Marguerite; say you do not!” the words were spoken very gently. “Yes, but I do mean it, ‘entirely and altogether.’ My mind is quite made up this time. I have decided to go back to Valley View.” “Why did you not speak of it before? You have surely made up your mind very suddenly,” said Madge, somewhat reproachfully. “No, I have been thinking of it for some time, but did not decide until to-day. Please forgive me, Madge, for not speaking of it before. I knew it would be harder for me to decide if you knew. I wish to put self (Marguerite Anderson) far in the background, and you know, dear, you would have insisted upon bringing her into the foreground continually. It was hard enough to keep her back as it was, without your influence upon her. Then I felt I could not talk of it, least of all to you. Come here, and let me tell you all about it; then my dear, good girl will help me, I know,” and she held out her hand with an appealing gesture that brought her to her side in an instant. Now, I doubt not that my readers are curious to know something more of our young friends, and since I think this a laudable curiosity, I shall hasten to gratify it. Marguerite Anderson is below medium height, but11slender, and possesses a certain queenly manner. Something in her graceful movements and the poise of her shapely head gives to her an appearance of dignity not often seen in one so small of stature. Her face is fair, and impresses you at first as being too calm, colorless, and expressionless; but that is before you have noticed her eyes, which are large and expressive, and of a peculiar shade sometimes of blue, often gray, and at other times hazel. Her hair is light brown, with many a gleam of sunshine among the soft locks. Her companion, Madeline Cattron, or Madge, as her friends call her, is taller, not so graceful, and has not the queenly way which is a characteristic of her friend. She has a bright, vivacious face—a face which one loves, and wishes to see again. Her eyes are large and dark; her hair is dark and abundant, and drawn straight back from a high forehead, and her face lacks a rounded contour. It is a face which expresses strong feelings, with a great degree of pride and ambition. Marguerite Anderson has been in the city for nearly two years, studying music under one of the best instructors there; while Madeline Cattron has been studying art in the School of Design. They have studied and worked with an untiring energy, each finding her greatest pleasure in her chosen vocation, content to make any sacrifice to insure success in the beloved art. Yet Marguerite has now told her friend that she is going to leave her work, and return to her country home. Madge is at first incredulous, then, as she reads the determination upon her friend’s resolute face, she determines, if possible, to prevent it; and, seating herself by Marguerite, she says: “There, there, there, tell me all about it. I can not understand it. Have you soon forgotten our motto, ‘Never turn back’? You have been so hopeful all along, and not at all inclined to become discouraged. Why, it has been you who have carried the banner ‘Excelsior’ to us so far,” and Madge gave her companion a bright smile. Marguerite did not reply at once, but after a few moments began slowly, “It is not my work, Madge. I am not discouraged about my music; for I love it, and believe that I could succeed, for I am ready to sacrifice, and do the hardest of work in order to do it. My Professor has given me great encouragement. He says I can not fail to succeed if I persevere. He thinks it is a gift which God has given me, and that it will be a sin if I fail to cultivate the talent which is one of the greatest blessings He gives to His children. You know how dearly I love my music, Madge; still I do not think I have been actuated, in my desire to study music, by selfishness alone, for I have never thought of the future without thinking that perhaps I should be able to brighten this sad old world of sorrow and sin, and make it happier and better.” There was a break in the sweet voice, but she continued thoughtfully, “I suppose there has been much of selfishness, too, about it all, for, altho I have not worked and longed for fame alone, I have worked because I loved music, and wished to arrive at the highest degree of excellence, not simply from a desire to excel, but because, loving it as I do, I can not be satisfied with a smattering of it. But I have thought, after all, of my own desire altogether, so it has been but selfishness.” “Marguerite, surely it can not be selfishness for you to wish to succeed with your work! Should one be satisfied with poor work? Think of the stuff which people listen to, and call music, and of the daubs which they call art!” replied Madge, somewhat impatiently. “No, I do not think that one should be satisfied with poor work. We should do with our might what our hands find to do,” replied Marguerite. “But, dear, we must not forget that ‘One is our Master, even Christ.’ We must be very sure that, as His servants, we are doing just the work He would have us do, in the place He would put us, and that we have the right motive in doing this work. Do you not believe that many a life which the multitude pronounces a failure, is, in the eyes of One, a grand success, while many lives which are great, as the world counts greatness, are but miserable failures, after all?” Madge did not reply, and, after a brief silence, Marguerite continued in a low tone, “You know that we talked of the ‘Heights and the Valley,’ Madge. We were in the valley in our quiet homes, but we felt an unrest, and an intense longing for the heights above us; so we left the valley, and began our journey. We said we would never turn back, but would reach those heights, no matter what they cost us of toil and privation. As I look back upon the past two years, it seems to me that I have made all things, and, O Madge, I have made all people, even, subservient to my ambition!” and there was a sob in her voice as she concluded. “There, I had my suspicions that you were working too hard, and now I know it. You have been working too hard, and thinking too much, and have brought on a bad case of the blues. You are homesick, Margie girl, wait until the home letter comes, and you will see things quite differently. Why, it would be a great disappointment to them to have you give up and come home now. Have you not thought of that?” asked Madge. “The home letter did come, Madge, and it did, indeed, help me to see things ‘quite differently,’” said Marguerite, without replying to Madge’s question. “I have not been working too hard, and I do not know that I have been thinking too much, either, only that my thoughts have taken a different direction. I do not think I have been exactly homesick, but the voices from the valley have been calling, and at last my better self has heard them. I have heard them again and again, and as they pleaded, the luring voices seemed to call me by strains of sweetest music on to the heights. You do not know what a conflict it has proven!” “Mother wrote some time ago that the doctor gave them but little encouragement about Earnest’s condition. She kept it from me until I wrote to reproach him for his short notes to me; then she wrote that—but there—I will read you what she says about it, then you will understand.” She quickly finds the letter, and reads: “Dear Daughter: You do not know the pleasure your letters are to us. We look forward to them from one letter to the next. Earnest watches for them with the eagerness of a child. Marguerite, it hurt him so for you to think him neglectful of you. His silence has not been caused by carelessness, nor has it been because of his work, for he is not strong enough to work now. His failing health made that impossible some time ago. We thought at first that he was only worn out, and that a rest would be all he needed, but it has proven more serious than we thought. He has made a heroic struggle against it, but it has been of no avail. Dr. Clarke does not say much, but seems anxious. Earnest is brave and patient, and has repeatedly cautioned me against worrying you about it. He speaks of ‘sister’ each day, and is lonely without you; but he is so glad and thankful for your talent and the progress you have made, and would not hear of your giving up your music. You must try and write often to cheer him, Marguerite.” Here she folded the letter slowly, and the only sound to be heard in the room for several moments was the tick of the little clock upon the shelf. Madge had turned to the window, and to all appearance was intently studying a church steeple in the distance. At last Marguerite spoke. “Do you see it now as I do, Madge? Would you not do as I shall do?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “I knew, when I came away, that mother needed me there. I knew that father was growing old and care-worn, and that he and Earnest were toiling early and late to pay the mortgage, and keep us comfortable. I knew that Earnest had given up his cherished plans of going to college, because of the mortgage and father’s need of him on the farm. But, O Madge, I did not dream that his strength would fail ’neath the burden, and he grow weaker and weaker—dying perhaps. O, my noble, unselfish brother! It was he who planned my coming here, and sacrificed that I might come! How could I be so selfish? How could they allow me to do it?” Here she buried her face in her hands, while the slight form shook with sobs. Madge turned from the window at once, and came to her friend, trying to soothe her with caresses and loving words. Her own eyes were filled with tears, and her voice was tremulous as she said, “There, there, I can not allow you to speak so of my best friend. You are not selfish, and you must not say so to me. You know how glad they were to have you come. You could not rejoice in your success more than they; and by becoming a musician you will make them happier than you could in any other way. You know that, don’t you, Margie? You must not worry so. After a long rest your brother will be well again, and laugh at your fears. Of course, you must go home and visit them awhile, then I am sure they will send you back to your work with a determination to succeed for their dear sakes. But you haven’t any idea of how lonely I shall be without you!” So she rambled on until Marguerite had ceased sobbing, when she said: “I am going now to Bernstein’s to order a canvas, and you must come with me. You need a brisk walk in the open air, and I won’t go alone, so come now!” and she held out her hand to assist her to rise. They were soon on their way; Madge chatting cheerily of the day in the studio, graphically describing the model who posed for them, and quoting the criticism as well as the commendation of the master. Marguerite said little, but Madge knew by the resolute mouth that she had reached her final decision, and she talked on with a smiling face, but a heavy heart. She loved her friend even more because of her decision, altho she felt a great longing to prevent the sacrifice of talent upon the altar of human love. She felt like crying out that it must not be—that the heavenly Father could not be pleased by such a sacrifice.