The Heights and the Valley.
By Zula Myer Simpson
Madge was a generous, warm-hearted girl who would have sacrificed her own beloved art for her friend; for, while she worshiped at the shrine of art, her beauty-loving soul bowed in silent homage before the beautiful soul of her friend. She, had she tried to express this in words, would have said: “I love her, because she is beautiful, and the reason Marguerite is beautiful is because she is pure and good.” Ah! could the most perfect beauty in the land receive a higher tribute from her friend? While many dear girls are wasting precious hours in adorning their persons, spending money for so-called “beautifiers,” ever searching for the “secret of beauty,” and oftentimes vainly repining because of their lack of it; would that they could remember that, while it is said that “beauty fades,” still there is an unfading beauty that grows more beautiful day by day as the life reflects the Christ-life, and the soul grows braver, stronger, and truer, until the face reflects the glory of it; and those who look thereon say, as would Madge of her friend, “She is beautiful because she is pure and good.” Nothing more was said of the subject of which they were both thinking until the next morning while they were preparing their breakfast, when Madge asked, in what she tried to make a cheerful tone, “When do you intend to go, Marguerite?” Marguerite had turned quickly, and seen the tears in Madge’s eyes, and she spoke very gently, “It is so kind of you, dear, not to beg or persuade me. You think I am right, don’t you, now? I do so wish to feel that you think so. It’s hard for me to do anything without your encouragement, Madge, for I am so accustomed to depend upon you for commendation. It has meant a great deal to me, during the time we have been together.” Madge set her teeth firmly together, as she did when determined not to alter an opinion, and slowly shook her head, “I can not think you are right, somehow, but I think you are the best girl in the world, and I love you a thousand times better because of your determination to do what you think is right,” was her reply at last. “But you did not say when you were going, Marguerite?” She spoke almost fiercely now. “I shall go on the early train Monday morning, and shall reach home that evening. I must write to them to-day. How surprised they will be!” Madge uttered a short exclamation of dismay, and began bustling about the room as if she had been discovered wasting time, which must be atoned for by undue haste. She set the dishes upon the table with such a clatter that Marguerite turned to look at her with quiet amazement, but wisely made no comment. About 9 o’clock Madge went to the studio as usual, and Marguerite sat down at the piano to practise. As Madge slowly descended the stairs she wondered, as she had so many times before, how Marguerite could find the practice of scales so fascinating. She usually hurried away to her work, but now she lingered, both to hear the last of the scales and Marguerite’s voice counting “One, two, three, one,11two, three.” When she reached the street, and could no longer hear the familiar sounds, she was conscious of a choking sensation, and vainly tried to choke down the lump which would rise in her throat as she thought of the coming days when she would listen in vain for the well-known sounds. Marguerite practised her music that morning, and in the afternoon took her lesson. As she walked homeward she looked about the familiar streets with new interest. She was thinking of her return to the quiet country home, away from the noise and bustle of the city. Could she go back, take up her life as before, and be content? She thought of her teacher’s words when she had told him of her intentions. When he found that all his persuasions and resistance was in vain, he had said, “Ah, Miss Anderson, you will never be happy again if you give up music. You might have been content before you discovered your talent, and realized how great was your love for music; but you will never be satisfied now. Never!” She vaguely thought that perhaps this was true, and then was ashamed of the thought. When Madge came home that evening, Marguerite was singing. Marguerite was often singing when Madge came home, but it seemed to Madge that she had never sung so sweetly before. The tones were as clear and sweet, but now they seemed full of the triumphant joy of one who has conquered; and the listener’s mind came the thought of him who conquers his own spirit, and is better than he who taketh a city. She tried to open the door noiselessly, but failed, and Marguerite turned to meet her with a bright smile, taking from her the parcels she carried, as she said, “There, you poor child, you are so tired, I know. Now lie down and rest while I prepare something for you to eat.” “No, I am not hungry, Marguerite, and I wish to sit here by the window, and hear you finish your song.” And she seated herself in a large chair by the window. “Very well; your obedient servant,” said Marguerite with a laugh, as she gave a low courtesy, and again seated herself at the piano. But she did not sing, for just then her companion cried out, “O Marguerite, how can I let you go? Have you not a thought for me whom you leave behind? Don’t look at me like that! I can’t bear it!” For there was reproach and surprise, as well as tenderness and love, in the look with which Marguerite was regarding her. “It was you who drove away the gloom, and let the sunshine in upon my life, by teaching me to love not only the beautiful, but the Creator of beauty. You have done so much for me, Marguerite. Now my life will be lonely again, as it was before you came.” Here poor Madge burst into a passion of tears. Marguerite was by her side in an instant, saying, while she wiped away the tears, and kissed the flushed face, “No, no, Madge, for you will feel that you have my love, tho you may not see my face. I shall write long letters often, and you shall visit us during your vacation. O, my Madge, your life can not be altogether lonely, for there is One who will keep you from being lonely now, you know.” Poor Madge, her early life had been lonely indeed, for her mother, a gentle, warm-hearted little woman, who had lavished a wealth of affection upon her little daughter, died long ago; and her father, a reserved, dignified man, then became stern and silent, and appeared to give little thought to the lonely little girl who longed with an intense longing for love and sympathy. Her father’s elder sister, who came to live with them, was a cold, practical woman, who cared little for beauty, and had little sympathy with her niece. She at once banished Madge’s pets as “nuisances,” thereby inflicting many a heartache upon Madge; the flowers, which the little girl tenderly carried in from the meadow or wood, were said to be “littering,” and thrown away; and her books were carefully locked away in the old bookcase. Madge’s father and aunt would not be annoyed by young people, so she had no young companions, and since her father’s time and thoughts were given to his business, and his sister’s to household economy, Madge was much alone, and spent her time wandering about the wood, or with pencil and paper up in the attic, trying to depict the things she saw in her rambles. She was much alone, and grew to feel that there was no hope for love and companionship in her home, and there had been great danger of the loving, joyous little girl growing up into a morose, cold-hearted woman. But that was before she knew Marguerite. Marguerite’s love and sympathy had come like a sunbeam into her life, and under its cheering influence she had gradually become the cheerful, warm-hearted girl which she was by nature. Now the thought of a separation from her comes like a dark cloud shutting out the light and cheer. Monday morning dawned bright and clear, but to Madge it seemed that the bright sunshine and blue sky were but mocking her, and that it should have been a dreary, cloudy day, in accord with her feelings. She kept up a forced gaiety on the way to the depot, while Marguerite was silent and thoughtful. When the train was announced, and good-by must be said, Marguerite said, as she held Madge’s hand in both her own, “May the Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another. Don’t forget that I love you, and that your very best Friend is ever with you, and that He will never leave you nor forsake you. Good-by, Madge.” “Good-by, Marguerite. Do come back to me soon!” and the girl walked rapidly back to her lonely rooms, there to struggle on toward the far-away heights of her ambition. Would Marguerite regret her choice? That question came to her often during the long day’s journey. When she thought of her hopes and plans for the future, it did seem hard to see them fading away, and she wondered if she could endure the dreary monotony of the valley again. Those beautiful heights which she had been looking toward, and which had each day grown more majestic and grand as she journeyed slowly nearer, were now fading away into the mist as she retraced her steps. But, as she turned her face toward the valley, the dear familiar faces were smiling at her, and such a bright smile illumined her face that the old lady across the aisle wondered how young people could find so much to smile about, and her thoughts wandered back through the years to the time when she had been a happy, smiling girl herself. Dear young friends, perhaps you will stand some day, as did Marguerite, and see your plans fail, and your air-castles totter and fall about you. If so, may you stand, with a smile on your face, as firmly and bravely as did she among the ruins, and begin to build, slowly and patiently, a more substantial edifice, which shall endure throughout eternity, and of which it may be said at last, “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house, and it fell not; for it was founded upon a rock.” Marguerite aroused herself from her reveries as she heard “Valley View” announced as the next station. She peered eagerly through the window, but the gathering darkness shut out the familiar scene, and she gathered her wraps about her, and waited somewhat impatiently, wondering if they had received her letter in time to meet her, and if they had been surprised. How fast her heart was beating! What a long time she had been away! The train slackened its speed, and, at last, after what seemed to her a long time, stopped, and she hurried out, eagerly looking for father. Yes, there he was, with such a look of longing expectation upon his care-worn face that she found herself wondering how she could have stayed away so long. She was in his arms in an instant, laughing and crying at the same time, while her father only said, “Well, well, Marguerite; I declare!” They were soon on their way, Marguerite talking so rapidly that she did not give him time to reply to the many questions she asked. But he seemed quite well content to listen to the clear young voice again. When they reached home, Mrs. Anderson was standing at the gate, where she had stood when Marguerite went away. She was a slight woman, with a delicate, refined face. The shapely head, so like Marguerite’s own, was crowned with silver hair, and as the light shone through the open doorway, and fell upon the gentle face, all thought of sacrifice was forgotten, while Marguerite thought, “that sight alone were well worth the return.” Neither Marguerite nor her father had spoken a word, and an expression of great disappointment passed over Mrs. Anderson’s face. Then a sad, sweet voice, which somehow always caused the hearer to think of distant music, asked, “Father, where is our daughter?” “Here, mother,” said a cheery voice, and Marguerite sprang to the ground, and clasped her mother in her strong, young arms, holding her very close for a moment without speaking. “Let us go to Earnest. He has fairly counted the hours until he should see you,” said her mother, leading the way to the house. At the porch she paused, and laid a detaining hand on Marguerite, saying in a low tone, “Daughter, you will find Earnest much changed, but I know you will be brave. Do not appear to notice any change. Your coming will do much to help him. God bless you, child, for coming.” And then they passed into the cozy sitting-room. Could it be possible that that was her strong, merry-hearted brother? Marguerite breathed very hard for a moment, and then caught her breath with a gasp, but her mother’s words, “I know you will be brave,” echoed in her ears, and she recovered her composure, and went to his side. What an evening that was for them all! You who know what it is to return home after a long absence need not that I should tell you of that evening.