# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 10

"There goes a gentle angel Throughout this earthly land, To comfort all earth's sorrows Sent by the Father's hand; And in his look is quiet, And mercy soft and mild— O, follow him forever, Patience, the Angel Child!
Reply he hath not always In answer to thy quest: 'Endurance' is still his motto, Not far the place of rest;— And so, without much speaking, He journeys by thy side, And thinks but of the fair, grand goal, Far in the distance wide."
Oh Life, what would'st thou be worth but for the hereafter! Liable at any moment to be clouded by sorrow, thy sunniest hours are but a passing dream! Thy happiest memories chilled by some poignant regret, thy noblest aspirations checked by the promptings of distrust or inefficiency, thy highest sense of duty overpowered by timid counsels, thou art one continued struggle between heaven-born impulses on the one side, and earth-bound propensities on the other. Aye, but it is for the hereafter thou wast created.
What we call life is only birth;—birth of the spirit-life, the soul, First link in the chain of being, part of one harmonious whole.
Through toil and sacrifice; up the rugged ascent ​which is gained only by prayer and faith, down the steep chasm whence thou shalt rise again through the deep waters of repentance and humiliation, dost thou reach the blissful summit where thou shalt lie down in green pastures beside the still waters, feeling that the Lord is thy Shepherd and thou shalt not want forevermore.
It was a dull day in December. The snow had not yet whitened the earth, but the leaden grey aspect of the clouds portended an approaching storm.
It was particularly a dull day to Amelia Crawford, who had accepted Mrs. Claremont's offer of a home in her family the present winter. Her brain had been unusually busy for a few weeks, and now wearied and exhausted, she sat listless and sad over her work. Days, weeks and years passed heavily by as she plodded on her lonely way after her mother's death, not knowing of a single human being with whom she could claim kith or kin, and feeling like a waif on the ocean strand, waiting for another wave to bear her onward into the circle of the great human family, the only kinship she was henceforth to know. When that wave came it swept her to the threshold of a new existence. Hitherto separated from all the influences that stimulate to thought and action, contact with the world aroused new feelings, and awakened aspirations to which she was before a stranger. Introduced to the society of books, history, ethics, romance and biography brought their treasures to her awakening faculties, among which she revelled with that delicious sense of rapture a fresh acquisition of knowledge brings to the enquiring mind, ​until a labyrinth of wonder and perplexity opened before her as she began to comprehend the complicated net-work of desire and aspiration, passion and sentiment, and other diverse agencies through which the human soul works out the great problem of its existence and destiny.
Developing too suddenly for a healthful activity of the brain, which gave her power, but not a harmonious character, she displayed many eccentricities that stood in the way of gaining the friendship the social element of her nature coveted now, though undeveloped before. The diffidence early ingrafted by the surrounding influences of her childhood had not worn off, seldom venturing beyond a monosyllable in reply to any remark addressed to her, which made her quite an object of curiosity to Walter, who could not imagine how it was possible for any one to live in this bustling world without manifesting some degree of animation, and wondered whether she could be thinking at all or whether her mind was a vacuum. He would have been astonished to know what was going on there. Though apparently so timid and quiescent, underneath the seeming dulness existed an energy of thought, and a determination of purpose not to be resisted or overcome. One accustomed to study human nature, could read this in the knitting of the brow, and the compression of the lips as she sat earnestly plying her needle on this December afternoon. Little given to conversation generally, she was now resolutely mute, wishing no one to speak to her, and replying briefly as possible to any question. Too many unpleasant memories flitted through ​her mind, too many unanswered questionings arose from the depths of her soul, for the wearied mental powers to throw off and play the agreeable. Milly sat at another window busily engaged in hemstitching a ruffle, sometimes looking out upon the dreary, angry aspect of the water in the distance as a gust of wind howled by, and occasionally stealing a glance at Amelia, as if desirous to enter into conversation if she only knew what to say. There were many points of resemblance between the two, which unfortunately, combined the qualities in each most unfavorable for an intimate acquaintance.
Kate made one of her unceremonious calls, bantering Milly about her ruffle which she "was very sure meant somethin' out of the common course, or she would not be doin' such finery work instead of writin' her novel," sending a blush to Milly's cheeks, and almost bringing a smile to Amelia's motionless lips on witnessing her confusion.
Suddenly recollecting that her presence had been requested in Mrs. Claremont's room she immediately withdrew, without waiting for a word of reply, and thus continued her remarks to Rosalind and her mother as she passed through the open door near which the former was seated.
"There's a chance for you to get a little diversion by goin' into the other room and lookin' at the two spinsters if they was only a little older, sittin' up there as straight as a broomstick at each winder, and I don't think they've spoke the whole afternoon. I started 'em up a little, and it would have done you good to see Amelia brighten up as she did for a ​minute, always lookin' so like a moonbeam gone to sleep. It's strange how mighty takin' 'tis to every body to hear the leastest hint about gettin' married. Now I never said a word, only touched Milly up a little about a ruffle she's takin' so much pains with, and conscience, I don't know but there'd been a scene right straight off if I hadn't left. I shouldn't have 'sposed Amelia was bright enough to catch the meanin' of anything, and Milly for all what she's said that she wouldn't marry a man that drinked or smoked, now she's got most round the first corner, I shouldn't wonder if she'd change her mind. Nobody knows' what they'll do till the time comes."
"I don't know how it happens that she is so free to talk with you. She never seems disposed to enter into conversation with the rest of us," observed Rosalind.
"Just the easiest thing in the world. She thinks you all know so much mor'n she does, but I'm so light-headed and careless, she ain't afraid of a venture with me."
"Milly knows enough if she only knew how to act it out, and I admire her good sense, having too much confidence in her to think she will ever swerve from her principles."
Kate cast a quizzing glance, as Rosalind said this without looking up from her work, wondering what might be passing through her mind then, and regretting that the proprieties of her station as a domestic forbade the familiarity with which she would have treated a similar remark from Milly.
The early twilight soon forbade their sewing long​er, yet, still they sat, maintaining an unbroken silence, as if some strong magnetic force riveted them to the spot. Milly had an intense desire to penetrate the inner sanctuary of Amelia's soul, but was denied the privilege. No human being was the confident of her thoughts. Perhaps a slight feeling of regret for some neglected duty, either through ignorance or thoughtlessness, which might have mitigated her mother's sufferings, lent poignancy to the sorrow working in the outlines of her face, anon compressing the lips still more, as she looked into the dreary distance, and thought of the still more dreary hours of the long night whose sleepless vigils she kept. Not for a life of ease was she born, and there was work for her to do.
When other homes were made miserable by the same curse that had robbed her of childhood and blighted the sunniest years of youth, she could not be content to lead a life of comfort and self support merely, but what could she do? A question that implied no unbecoming self-distrust, for no one could seem less qualified for any ordinary undertaking. Apparently as cold as an iceberg she was never swayed by a single momentary impulse; "lookin'" as Kate expressed it, "so like a moonbeam gone to sleep." But those dull eyes were yet to be lighted with the brightness of a high, spiritual life;—that timid, faltering voice to grow strong in the inspiration of God's truth.
Was Milly content now that she lived in the midst of those tender affections which had been the Alpha and Omega of her day dreams, and of which she had ​also been deprived through the whole part of her early life? Not by any means. Neither was she unhappy.
It is not always the severing of a tie, or the awakening thrill of a new love, that sends us in quest of higher knowledge, and a grander, deeper life. It is the natural unfolding of the divine nature within us, a reaching after something we cannot grasp,—the natural cry of the mortal child for its immortal parent. There come such moments to all men and women, varying in degree according to different temperaments, but none the less real,—times when the unutterable aspirations of the soul may be compared to a prisoned bird longing to soar aloft in the full and free exercise of its powers, and yet unable to free itself.
Have patience;—a time will arrive when an angel will come to unlock the prison door; while through these years of earnest waiting the needed preparation goes on for the appointed work.
There are those, patient waiters, faithful watchers, whose mission seems to be, to serve by waiting, and no idle mission is it. They are an indispensable element in society,—the medium through which the leaven of a bolder truth than they have dared, or had the ability to proclaim, finds its way by their acceptance of it to circles whence otherwise it would be excluded.
It is true that to some only "it is given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God," who are the ordained servants of the lowest, speaking for them in terms they readily understand, but which they have ​not the capacity themselves to do. Milly had the knowledge but not the capacity to communicate it. She had an undefined consciousness, a dim foreshadowing of the beauty and glory of that guarded sacredness of life which is reserved for those who drink of the cup from which Jesus drank; so ethereal that no outward eye can form any conception of its grandeur, so intensely spiritual that no outward sense can comprehend or explain its celestial attributes.
Such a person could not be satisfied with an ordinary life, and she was one not likely to lead any other than an ordinary life. No stern "I will" ruled that gentle nature;—no indomitable persistency of purpose revealed those strong points of character which, if they display greater faults, press through every obstacle to achieve a triumph all its own.
Had she suffered like Amelia, or committed some great error, which demanded an expiation, all the latent forces of her soul might have gathered in a single heart-throb, and, bursting from the effect of the pressure, startled the world from its slumber to set the seal of condemnation upon some foul wrong which, perpetuated from generation to generation, hoary-headed with age, had obtained the reverence of mankind. Had she known how her mother had suffered, how day by day she toiled her life away to obtain the pittance that was to secure a home for herself and child together, she might have denounced in terms of righteous indignation the oppression that still threatens the chastity of thousands of defenceless women who, in stifled attics and damp basements, ​waste their health and bloom merely to keep body and soul together, uncared for by those enriched thereby.
An organic wrong, the monied interest will take no thought for, the selfishness of which will rear a barrier like adamant, and woe to the trembling hand that shall dare to raise the feeblest blow; but what power can resist the tongue of eloquence? Even selfishness stands aghast, and the little crevice through which the penetrating ray first finds an entrance closes and opens with every vibration of the popular heart, until the adamantine barrier gradually and unperceptibly crumbles away.
Mrs. Dayton was a woman of refined tastes and artistic perceptions, which, not being able to indulge on account of the grim master, poverty, that sat like a relentless tyrant at the threshold of her parental home, hurried her into the rash step that led to greater evils than poverty, seeing nothing before her but the menial occupations then open to woman. Cruelly deserted by her husband shortly before the birth of Milly, the extra exertions she was obliged to make to support them soon undermined her health. It was a pleasant room they occupied, where the morning glory shaded the window, and the air was fragrant with lilac and honeysuckle. Reared among such influences could Milly be other than poetic in her aspirations? She came like a blessed sunbeam to cheer her mother's soul, and when the tie was severed and the child left alone, a dependent on strangers, how like a crushing weight the blow came! As Mrs. Dayton had married in opposition to all her ​friends, she received none of their sympathy and
Milly was the more unwelcome, none of them being disposed to take her.
The snow came that night accompanied by a strong north-easter which piled it in drifts, and imparted a fantastic beauty to the surface of the earth, dazzling the eye with its pearly whiteness as the sun burst forth in his greatest splendor towards noon of the next day. Amelia still felt an unusual depression of spirits, meanwhile reproaching herself for shutting her eyes to the beauty of the outward world, which ought to buoy her upward in songs of gratitude and praise for the manifold blessings bestowed upon her. Why should she not stifle every feeling of discontent and quench every aspiration that sought a broader life, being satisfied to live as others did, seeking only present enjoyment and accepting the time-worn ruts of past ages as sufficient for the pathway of all the future?
Yes, why, that is the question. Thousands have asked it who, wearying of the search, have abandoned it as a fatal delusion. Persevere and the moment will come. Then no more vain questionings. Soul, be still, and listen for the answer:
Because thou art immortal.
She went to church that evening but not to listen to the preacher. He had no power to minister unto sorrow like hers. The sound of the music awakened no thrill of rapture now, though it had by no means lost its charm and power. She longed for intercourse with some such choice spirits as she had held com​munion with in books, the inspiration of whose noble thoughts had hallowed many an hour of her lonely lot, that she might derive consolation from their counsel, sympathy and support, instead of wandering on alone in doubt and despondency. And yet not alone. He whose midnight anguish has immortalized the garden of Gethsemane was walking beside her,—a still greater than he was holding her in his arms. Now that she was buried to all sense of worldly aspiration, a glorious resurrection awaited her.
Suddenly as if borne on the tongue of a heavenly messenger came a voice, "Follow me and I will give thee inspiration; what thou askest I will grant."
Then, as in the twinkling of an eye, this world which, but an instant before was so dark and dreary she would gladly have closed her eyes on it forever, was transformed into a paradise of light and joy, full of beauty, poetry, music and love; a new radiance shone from every eye, and she saw in every human being the type of God's own image, a fellow-traveler in the pilgrimage of life, and felt in each a companion and friend.
It is at such moments we truly live. Then comes the proof of immortality—the finite is lost in the infinite, and the soul touches the realities of the eternal world.
Because some are not susceptible to these influences but go sighing through life for a "witness," despair has erected her throne on the hopes of thousands whom the religion of universal love might have ​sent on their way rejoicing in the sunlight of God's smile. Only in the crisis of a great emotion, as the conflicting elements of certain peculiar organizations are contending for the mastery come these marked phases of the human soul. To this order of minds Amelia belonged, but not Milly, who was more evenly balanced in her mental constitution.
It is doubtless a wise ordination that this rapt exaltation, this fulness of the soul's need, is not permitted to remain long, for then aspiration would he silenced. Neither exaltation nor depression is its normal state, but the crisis to note its progress,—the predominance of its strength or weakness. How often are we obliged to confront our faults again after we thought to have conquered them forever, yet each time rising with a more resolute purpose, learning that it is only by continued effort the soul gains the height where she can resist reacting influences, overcome every weakness and silence every doubt.