# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 21

"Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime, Sees not the spectre of his misspent time; And through the shade Of funeral cypress, planted thick behind, Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind From the loved dead!"
The first year of Walter's college life drew to a close, and Rosalind was full of joyous anticipations, laying every plan with reference to his return, and neglecting no means her imagination could suggest to enhance the pleasure of his visit with agreeable surprises. Her mother and Ernest were equally joyful, but her enthusiasm cast their's into the shade. If they started a new idea, she was sure to add something to it which would increase the interest of the occasion. Ernest was very eager to add one to the list of her surprises, in which she could have no share being as much of a surprise to her as to Walter, if he could do it without at the same time giving her pain.
This was the presentation of her picture which had long been finished, and carefully veiled from all eyes except his own. She was so sensitive to the most indirect allusion to that unhappy occurrence between them, that he had not even ventured to give her any pond lilies.
After considerable deliberation, he decided that ​the greatest kindness towards her would be to help her overcome this needless shrinking from recurrence to an event which was not worth a painful thought, and which had long since lost every painful association. He gathered some lilies, of which a few yet remained, and presented them to her the day before Walter's return. Notwithstanding an effort to appear grateful for them an expression of pain flitted over her features.
"Rosalind," said Ernest in a serious tone, "why should those lilies, or any reminiscence of last summer's experience cause you or me an unpleasant sensation? Do you think you are alone in needlessly disturbing your own peace by a thoughtless act? If so, he who now stands before you can relate a personal experience as much more painful than yours as it is more impossible to retrieve an error with the dead than with the living."
Startled from her motionless attitude, the lilies dropped from her hands upon the table, and she gave him a look of surprise, saying, "You, Ernest?"
"Yes. I had a mother once, as kind, as devoted as yours, and I loved her as intensely as a child could love a parent, which she returned by treating me as a companion, rather than as a son over whom she might exercise a parent's control. Our lives in this matter very much resembled yours here, and perhaps my youth was as blameless as Walter's. My mother's health was always delicate, though never such as to excite alarm. I never left her until I went to college. I know now the struggle it must have cost her to part with me, but I did not realize it then. As full ​of joyous anticipations as Walter at the thought of the new paths of science I was about to tread, I scarcely cast a lingering regret behind me, and she summoned her fortitude to bid me a cheerful good bye, saying it was needless to caution me against falling into bad habits, a compliment of which I was justly proud. Then she wrote me such beautiful letters which I always answered promptly. Before I was aware, the temptations of college life were undermining my fixed principles of conduct, and in a thoughtless moment I yielded to importunities to which once I would not have thought of listening. Convinced of my folly before really committing anything bad, has it not been for the associations connected with it, probably it would have left no lasting impression. I consented to join a party of students in high life, for what purpose I knew not, except that they were to meet for a convivial frolic, which needed no nice interpretation to foresee its character among such a set of fellows as those who first proposed it. Not requested to assist in the preparations, probably knowing I was not sufficiently initiated for that, they merely asked me to be present as a guest. At first my conscience hesitated a little, but it soon became quieted with the reflection that there was no necessity to set myself above others who were to be present, the sons of clergymen and professional men of the highest respectability in the land, not thinking that perhaps they were taking their first lessons in the downward career of vice. I cannot imagine now, how it was possible for me to have remained a whole hour in the presence of such conduct as I there ​witnessed; how I could have sanctioned for a moment such utter violation of the laws of the institution, and every principle of correct habits and a refined taste. Being unaccustomed to such scenes I must have been dazzled, bewildered at what I saw, and the congratulations I heard passing from lip to lip that I was one of their number. How they ever managed so secretly as to carry out their plan successfully without being detected, has always been a mystery. Making no secret of it among themselves, as the champagne was freely passed around the circle the toast to one and another of the Faculty was drunk, boasting of the delicious fowls their granaries had contributed to their bacchanalian feast, and exulting over the depletion of the kitchen larder. Suddenly, as vividly as if she had stood there before me to utter them, the last words of my mother when standing in the doorway to give me her parting benediction occurred to my mind. 'There is no need to caution you against falling into bad habits.'
"I rose instantly from the table, leaving the meal untasted, and hastened to my room. The suddenness of my departure probably stupified their wonder as they made no effort to detain me, or seek an explanation. There I found a letter written in a strange hand, announcing the sudden illness of my mother, who desired my presence immediately. The anxiety of that night and the upbraidings of conscience I will not attempt to describe. To go from such a debasing scene as I had just left, to the death bed of, my beloved mother, seemed like tainting the pure air of heaven with the malarious exhalations of ​some noxious pit. Then I recollected my neglect in answering her last letter, the first instance of the kind. Why it was I could not tell, but as if a lightning flash had come from heaven to reveal me unto myself, I saw at once how the excitements of my new life were fast blunting the acute perceptions of my moral nature, and how rapidly, yet unconsciously, my conscience was becoming seared. The next morning as soon as I could obtain conveyance, I started for home, arriving at nightfall, but not until the vital spark had fled. All day I had been revolving the question in my mind how I should meet her with that sense of guilt on my soul; whether to confess it or spare her last hours the pain of that disclosure. Facing my sin alone in that chamber of death, what would I not have given for one short hour to pour into her ears the tale of my contrition, and hear from her lips the sweet words of forgiveness. No such comfort remained. No more loving words of hers would ever again bring sunlight to my soul, and henceforth, through the stormy waves that had come thus early to buffet me, no beacon smile of joy would lead me in triumph, nor tender admonition warn me of danger. I now thought I could not live. The loss of my mother alone seemed too hard to bear, and the addition of this terrible burden of remorse seemed hell itself.
For months I wandered in my restless agony without being able to fix my mind on any kind of business, or participate in any pleasure. Abandoning all thoughts of completing my collegiate course, I resolved to make a tour in the old world to visit its ​curiosities, and if possible, divert my attention from such useless regrets. While there I visited a studio of one of the most eminent Italian artists, where a painting of extraordinary excellence riveted my gaze. Such exquisite coloring and perfect representation of natural beauty, such life-like delineation of human character I never before observed. There were several groups in the picture, each representing different phases of life, one of which particularly attracted me, which I still remember as if it were but yesterday. An old lady sat bonneted and shawled in the corner, with spectacles resting on the tip of her nose, watching with concealed merriment a group of young persons who were trying to manage something they did not understand, and evidently wishing her out of the way. The scornful expression of their lips as they glanced backward to see if she were looking at them, and their uneasy glances at each other showed as plainly as words could express, that they knew she could give them all the information desired, the thought of receiving which from her they spurned. The scene was evidently intended to represent the old adage, "Young folks think old folks are fools, and old folks know young ones are," which was most clearly illustrated in the chuckling expression of the old lady's face. Though out of keeping with the current of my thoughts, it suggested to me the idea, "Why not be an artist?" What a thrill went through me at that moment! It seemed like a monitor from heaven sent to calm my troubled soul by leading it to that eternal sense of Beauty which is the source of all inspiration, ​forming an indissoluble bond between man and his Creator; as it is through it the divine perceptions are shadowed forth in visible types of the Infinite, and recognized by a corresponding artistic combination of the immortal attributes of the human soul. I immediately engaged myself as a pupil under the instruction of one of the most celebrated masters, and succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations. After sufficient practice, I undertook a sketch of my mother from memory. I was advised not to make the attempt as it would probably prove a failure and dampen my ardor. But my soul was alive with the idea, and nothing could deter it. Here my anticipations were also realized, and the result was a most perfect representation of her features and expression. Even the eyes beamed with the serene radiance of faith and hope which constituted such a beautiful feature of her daily life. That picture has ever since been my guiding star to lead me to a higher life. In it I read the sweet words of forgiveness so much desired, and the loving spirit of charity needed to make me lenient toward the faults of erring humanity. Formerly I had been too exacting, holding others to the rigid standard I proposed to myself, and expected to carry out, which is well if done in the right spirit. As I found in my own experience, no person knows his own power to withstand surrounding influences until exposed to the temptation. That mercy we ask for ourselves we must show unto others, and judge them by their different temperaments and comparative education and advantages. After sufficiently qualifying my​self for my profession, I spent two years at a University in Germany and then returned to my native land. My good fortune brought me to this place just before I formed your acquaintance, and the rest you know. I have long wished to make this relation, not only for the relief it brings, to make another the confident of our secret sorrow, but also to show you how little we know of the faults of the wisest and best in some unguarded moment of their lives, and how our errors as well as our virtues, may be the stepping-stone to a higher order of perfection."
The sympathy excited in Rosalind by this narration imparted an unwonted degree of tenderness which shone in every act and word through the day. The admiration before felt for Ernest was increased to unbounded reverence, feeling the force of his implied admonition to reconcile her to herself and the world. A new expression appeared on her countenance, not physically so animated, but more spiritually beautiful, which betokened a calm pensiveness of experience as if she had opened a new page in the book of life, interesting as well as affecting, and prophetic of life's great purpose.
This infused more of seriousness in Walter's reception, than she had anticipated, but not in such a manner as to impair the enjoyment of the occasion, rather enhancing its interest. When the other surprises were over, Ernest improved a favorable opportunity to bring on his.
Walter and Rosalind were quietly chatting together on the sofa after tea, when he entered with a picture which he handed to Walter, saying, "Here is a ​present for Rosalind which is intended to surprise you both." Turning to her he said, "Let no unpleasant associations connected with it disturb you, for I want you to cherish it as I do, among the sweetest memories of life. If it shall remind us of suffering let us remember that it is through suffering the soul reveals her noblest gifts."
Walter unveiled the picture, and jumped up with a joyful exclamation of surprise, holding it before the astonished eyes of Rosalind which were soon suffused with tears at this unexpected feature of the programme. Quickly suppressing them, she arose without speaking and approached Ernest, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him in such a natural, child-like manner as to bring fresh to mind the memory of those happy days when the child and the father walked together in such close and loving companionship, not without their trials, yet blessed in the end.
Walter's buoyant spirit was yet unclouded by trials. Affectionate and deferential as when a child, he exhibited a self-reliance which sought no outside guidance, yet so gentle and submissive in its nature that it sought instinctively the protecting panoply of a mother's blessing. The moral firmness of his character shone conspicuously amid the temptations of his new life, never for a moment swerving from the path of duty. Even the most reckless and unprincipled of his classmates loved and honored him for his genial temper, frankness of manners, and the resolute stand he maintained in opposition to their habits and vices.