The Wedding Guest

“EVER, evermore!” repeated a young man, bending with a smile over the fair face that rested on his breast.

“Yes! evermore!” softly breathed the smiling lips upon which he gazed, and. evermore shone from the melting, heavenly eyes.

“And you believe all these bright fancies you have been telling me of, darling?” asked the young man.

“Ah! yes—­they are truth to me; they dwell in my heart of hearts—­they belong to the deepest and sweetest mysteries of my being.  I gaze out through the glory upon life, and I see no coldness, no darkness—­everything is coloured with bright radiance from the eternal world.  It is happiness that gives me this beautiful view.  I have known that the world was filled, with love, but I have never so clearly seen it before.  And sure I am that if I were to die now, this same splendour of love would still be poured through my soul; for it is myself, and I cannot lose it.  If you were next week in Europe, far from me, would not your inner world be illumined with love and hope?”

“It certainly would!

“And can you doubt the durability, the truth and reality of this inner-life?  Can this clay instrument be of any moment farther than it serves to develop life, in this, our first school?—­we should not confound the earthly dwelling with the free man who makes it his temporary home.  Ah!  Horace, I feel, I am, sure, you will some day enjoy all these ennobling thoughts with me, and then existence will also be to you sublime.”

An expression of radiant hope flitted over the young man’s face, and he kissed the soft lips and eyes of his betrothed, while he murmured, “I would suffer the loss of all happiness on earth, I would bear every stroke the Almighty might inflict, if I could believe as you do, of a life beyond this.  I am no unbeliever, you know.  I read my Bible daily, but beyond this world everything to me is misty and dark.  I shudder at the ghastliness of the grave, and would forget that I cannot always clasp your warm heart to my own.  You were surely sent to be my good angel, to teach me all that is gentlest and best in my nature, and this holy love must last evermore.  I have always smiled at the idea of love, at first sight, but when I first saw your face, Elma, none ever was so welcome; yet if you had not proved all that your face and manner promised, I should not have fallen in love.  I half-believe matches are made in Heaven—­ours will be Heaven-made, if any are.  You think human beings are made for each other, as the saying is, do you not?”

“Yes! returned Elma, smiling, “I hope we are made to be partners in this world, and a better one, but how can I know it?  When my happy womanhood first dawned, I had wild, sweet dreams that here on earth I and many others would surely meet the true half that belonged to us—­one with whom every thought would find a response.  I have met many whose views are like mine, and yet whose natures are so different that we could not see each other’s souls; perhaps if they had loved me, I could have seen more clearly—­but my rebellious heart went forth to meet you, although I tried so long to turn away—­although I trembled to think the religion of our natures was so unlike.”

“I once thought, love, that I should never win you—­it was your pale lips and the mournful intensity of your look, when we met after a long absence, that gave me new hope; and I have often wondered, Elma, why you gave so unhesitating an assent, when you had for months at a time avoided me at every opportunity.”

“It was because my views had changed in a manner—­although still believing in the fitness of two out of the whole universe for each other, I began to think that on earth these very two might each have a mission to others, and others to them, which would more fully call out their characters, and perhaps develop the dark traits necessary to be conquered—­so that perfect harmony might be evolved from chaos.  It once seemed to me, with the views I held, that it would be a sin for me to unite my destiny with one who did not sympathize with me on all points.  But the sad fate of Augusta Atwood made me reflect deeply.  She was my bosom friend, and never did mortal go to the altar with brighter hopes—­never did human being love more unreservedly.  She whispered to me as I arranged her hair on the morning of her bridal:—­’This seems to me like the beginning of my heavenly life—­there is not a height or depth of my soul that Charles’s nature does not respond to—­I know that we two are truly one.”  And so it seemed for two happy years—­his character took every one by surprise, perhaps himself, and now Augusta is a miserably neglected wife, toiling on like an angel to reap good from her desolated earth-life.  Yet we see that her mighty love was not a true interpreter.  No doubt her lover was sincere at the time in believing that they not only felt, but thought alike.  I have known many instances, very many, where two, perhaps equally good and true, have thought themselves fitted for each other and none else; yet on the death of one, they have found a companion who was still more especially made for them.  Thus we see that this is a matter where there appears to be little certainty and many mistakes.  Doubtless, there are some few blessed ones who truly find their better—­half; but in this sinful, imperfect state of life, we cannot believe that we are in an order sufficiently harmonious to have this a sure thing.  Perhaps one-third of the women in the world never even loved half as well as they felt themselves capable of loving, simply because no object presented himself who could call forth all the music of a high and noble nature.

  “So many a soul o’er life’s drear desert faring,
  Love’s pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,
  Suffers, recoils, then thirsty and despairing
  Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.”

But, Elma, my child, it is not pleasant to me that you should have a single doubt that we are not dearer to each other than any other mortals could ever be in this world, or the beautiful one you love to dream of.”

“I am telling you, Horace, the thoughts that have been in my mind—­I only feel now that you are good and gifted, and I love you more than I ever dreamed of loving.”

“And you, sweet, are the breath of my life.  It is heavenly to know that God has given you, and you alone, to be the angel ministrant of my oft tempestuous life:  you have risen like a star over my cloudy horizon—­may the light of the gentle star shine on my path, until it leads me unto the perfect day!”

“Only the light of the Sun of Righteousness can do that,” returned Elma; then, with a tear glistening on her lash, she added, “I hope God will help me to be good and pure, that I may be a medium of good, and not evil to you.”

Most blessedly passed the days to that hopeful maiden; it was a treasure full of all promise to have, not only the happiness of her lover, but as she trusted, his best good committed to her charge, next to God.  When she knelt in the morning hour, her prayer was ever a thanksgiving—­she lifted up the gates of her soul that the King of Glory might come in, and His radiant presence permeated her whole being—­she left to Him the control of her life, all the strange mysteries of heavenly policy, which she felt and knew would ultimate in perfecting her too worldly nature; and she went forth, angel-attended, to her duties, fusing into them this effluent life that dwelt so richly within her.  Every word of kindness and love that dropped from her soft, coral lips, bore with it a portion of the smiling life that overflowed her spirit.  When she arose, her constant thought was, “Another day is coming, in which the work of progress may go on:  I may perhaps this day conquer some evil, or do some humble good, that will fit me to be a still better angel to Horace, and which shall beautify my mansion in the Heavens.”

At length the bridal day came, and fled also like other days, save that a sweeter brightness enwrapped the soul of Elma; so six months or more flitted away in delicious dream-life, for outward things made comparatively slight impression; Elma lived and loved more than she thought.  But one morning reflection and pain came together; the latter led in the former, a long-forgotten friend, and the young wife asked herself how far she had travelled onward and upward since the bridal days, since her path had been all sunshine;—­she bowed her head and wept bitterly.  “Not for me, at least,” she sighed, “is constant happiness a friend,—­not yet am I fitted to enjoy the highest harmony of life.  ’Therefore, burn, thou holy pain, thou purifying fire!’ It is meet I should be wounded where my deepest joys are lodged.  I see that it is the lash of pain which must drive me through the golden gates.  Yes!  I will arise, and thank my Father that He has not been as unmindful of my eternal well-being as I would be myself, if left to wander only among flowers of love and gladness.”

And what was this grief that awoke the bride from her blissful dream?  It would seem the merest nothing to the strong man of the world, to the gay woman who glides, superficially through existence.  But many a young bride will understand how it might be more sorrowful than the loss of houses and lands.  It was the husband’s first frown, his first petulant word; it was the key that opened Elma’s understanding to the true estate of the past.  She could no longer blind her eyes, as she had done, to a certain worldliness in her husband, and which had also reached her through him.  This morning, that revealed so much, Horace had impatiently exclaimed as Elma held forth her Bible to him, as usual,—­

“I have not time for that now, child!” and hastily kissing her, he put on his hat, and went forth to his business.

A pale anguish settled on Elma’s face as she sunk upon a chair.

“Is this the beginning of sorrows?” she murmured; “he never spoke to me so before, perhaps he will often do so again.  If it had been about anything else, I think I could have borne it better!  Oh God! is the angel leaving our Paradise?”

And she thought over and over again of this worldliness in her husband, and his want of the high standard in religion that was so dear to her; she felt that she was, in a measure, deceived in him,—­surely once he seemed to dwell in an atmosphere that was more spiritual.  Yes!  Elma was deceived in him, but Horace had not deceived her.  In the happy glow of his successful love, he had caught the warmth of Elma’s thoughts; they had charmed his imagination, in a measure commended themselves to his understanding, and made a temporary impression upon him heart, so that he went out among men with a more benevolent spirit than he had ever done before.  But truth, to be abiding, must be sought after with an eager thirst; and it came to Horace crowned with flowers; he condescended to take the charmer in, and obeyed her for awhile, then she was forgotten, he thought not why, and he imperceptibly returned to the real self, which Elma had never before had an opportunity to become acquainted with.

Three years went by.  Horace was a devoted husband, no being on earth was to him so perfect as his wife—­no human being had ever exerted over him the quiet, holy influence that belonged to Elma.  She had gradually accomplished infinitely more than she suspected, yet many a time, and oft, had he caused her grieved tears to fall like rain.  Many a time had despairing prayers risen from her soul for him, while she breathed out to her God a cry for strength.  She felt that she saw through a glass darkly; but she sought with most earnest heart for every duty, knowing that thus her pathway would lead continually to a more sure and steady light.

Elma often wondered that so much joy was given to her earthly life; but she understood the true philosophy, for her every grief was regarded as a special messenger from the spirit-land, and amid her tears she looked up, and resolutely answered to the call, “Excelsior!” She was ever receiving with gratitude the blessings that clustered about her lot, and, as it were, transmuting all common things into pleasures, by seeking out a brightness in them.

But a heavier trial was in store for the wife than she had anticipated.  Horace had been very unfortunate in business; he bore it with more gentleness than Elma had expected, but it wore upon his spirits; day after day he was busied in settling up, and came home with a look of sadness and anxiety.  One evening he came in with a brighter look.

“What is the news?” asked his wife, as she read his face.

“I have an offer of a clerkship, at a very good salary, eighteen hundred dollars a year!”

“We can get along admirably with that!” said Elma, with a bright smile.  “You know we are retrenching our expenses so much, that we can live on half that, and the rest can go towards your debts.  In a few years you will be able to pay all you owe, will you not?”

“Perhaps so, by exerting every faculty, and living on less than you propose!”

“Oh! well, we can!” was the eager response.  “I’ll manage to get along on almost nothing; as small a sum as you choose to name.  Every trifling deprivation will be an actual delight, that helps to discharge those debts.  It will, indeed!” she added, as Horace smiled at her enthusiasm.

“I believe you, little one, every word you say!” and, with an air of cheerful affection, such as he had not shown for weeks, the husband drew his wife’s head upon his breast, and, forgetful of cold business cares and the world, they were gay, tender, and happy.

It was with a different look that Horace entered his home the next evening; a shadow fell on Elma’s heart when she saw him, and the evening meal passed in silence.

“What are you thinking of, Horace?” she timidly asked, some time after, approaching him as he stood by the window, gazing out gloomily into the star-lighted street.

“I have received a better offer, and have determined to accept it.”  It must be known that Horace came quickly to a decision, and then persevered in it; none knew the vanity of striving to change him, when fairly resolved, better than Elma; but in small matters he was yielding as Elma herself.  She stood in a fearful silence, looking into his face, which he had turned towards her.

“I am going to California!” he said, almost sternly, for he feared Elma’s tenderness might unman him.

“Not without me?” she asked, with pleading eyes.

“Yes!  Elma, I cannot take you, for I shall be constantly travelling, and subject to the greatest hardships,—­you could not bear it!  I shall be back in a year and a half.”

“I could bear anything better than to be left behind—­you do not know as well as I what would be the greatest hardship for me.  Ah!  Horace, do not put me to this dreadful trial.  Let me go with you, and you will find that I will not utter a complaint.  You can leave me at some place, while you travel over the roughest country—­you may be sick, and need me.  I fear men grow hard and selfish there, and what you gain in purse, you may lose in what is dearest to me.  ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’”

“Hush, darling; every word is vain!” answered Horace, clasping her to his breast, and kissing her with passionate vehemence.  For the first time in his life he wept without any restraint over her.  “Do you think anything but duty would tear me from you?  It is my duty to be just to all men, and to pay what I owe as soon as I can.”

“But take me!” sobbed Elma.

“Dear child! you must be reasonable.  I know that you fear the influence about me will not be as angelically pure as your own, and I love you for that fear.  I shall go where no man will care for my soul as you do; but I shall not forget you, Elma.  Now, cheer up, and show me the ready resolution you have always had at hand.”

“I never had such a cruel blow as this before!” returned Elma, in an entire abandonment of grief.  “Oh! take me with you, Horace, and nothing in the world will be hard for me.”

The wife’s pleadings were vain, and in a week she parted from her husband.  After he had gone, she won back a spirit of resignation; indeed, as soon as she found her doom was sealed, she gathered up her strength, and strove to cheer Horace, whose spirits sunk miserably when he had no longer to support Elma.  She laid out a plan for her life during her widowhood, as she called it, and this plan was after the example of One who went about doing good.  The weary time passed slowly, but each day added a little gem to Elma’s heavenly life, and when, at length, she received her husband’s last letter before his return, her thanks gushed forth in gladness, as they had so often before done, in holy confidence.  Part of his letter ran thus:—­

And now, dear love, having told you of the outward success which has met my efforts, let me tell you a little of the heart that belongs to you—­which you have won from darkness to light.  It is filled with images of hope and love, and a light from your spirit shines through all—­have been ever with me, ever leading me to that ’true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.’  I often gave you pain, my darling, when we were together; it was unintentional, and sprang from the evil of my nature; and a thousand times, when you did not suspect it, your gentle look and touch brought to my spirit better thoughts, and the thoughts brought better words and deeds.  You have been the angel of my life still more during our separation; for my soul has yearned for your dear presence constantly, and every day I have said to myself, ’Would this please Elma?’ and when I have been enabled to do a kindness, my heart glowed at the thought of Elma’s approval.  Your blessed spirit never seems so near to me as when I lift up my soul in prayer.  I sometimes fancy your prayers, beloved, have unlocked the Kingdom of Heaven for me.  Good bye, dearest life, we shall soon meet.

HORACE.”

And when they met, the joy of their first wedding days seemed doubled.  Elma rejoiced at the discipline she had been through, for it had better fitted her for the joyful existence that was before her.  It had now become more of a habit for her soul to dwell in a heavenly atmosphere—­she had learned to rely steadfastly upon her God for the good gifts of her life, and they were showered upon her abundantly; doubly beautiful, they were shared by a heart in unison.