The world said that he was a young man to have achieved so notable a Success. And he was. But years have, really, little to do with a man's age. It is the use that a man makes of his years that ages him or keeps him young.
This man knew that he was a man. He knew that manhood is not a matter of years. And, knowing this, he had dreamed a man's dream. In the world he had found something to do—a man's work—and from his Occupation he had gained Knowledge. He had learned the value of Ignorance and, behind the things that men have hung upon and piled about it, he had come to recognize Religion. He knew both the dangers and the blessings of Tradition. He had gained the heights that are fortified by Temptation and from those levels so far above the lowlands had looked out upon Life. Death he knew as a fact and through Failure he had passed as through a smelting furnace. It is these things, I say, that count for more in life than years. So, although he was still young, the man was ready for Success. He was in the fullness of his manhood strength. The tide of Life, for him, was just reaching its height.
I do not know just what it was in which the man achieved Success. Just what it was, indeed, is not my story; nor does it matter for Success is always the same. My story is this: that the man achieved Success while he was still young and strong to rejoice in the triumph.
The dreams that he had dreamed on the hilltop, when first he realized his manhood, were, in part, fulfilled. He was looked upon by the world as one not of the common herd—as one not of the rank and file. He was accepted, in the field of his work, as a leader—a master. He was held as one having authority and power. The world pointed him out to its children as an example to be followed. The mob, that crowds always at the foot of the ladder, looked up and cursed or begged or praised as is the temper of such mobs. His name was often in the papers. When he appeared on the streets or in public places he was recognized. The people told each other who he was and what he had done. He was received as a companion by those who were counted great by the world. Doors that were closed to the multitude, and that had been closed to him, were opened readily. Opportunities, offered only to the few, were presented. The golden stream of wealth flowed to his feet. By the foolish hangers-on of the world he was sought—he was offered praise and admiration. All that is called Success, in short, was his; not in so great a measure as had come to some older than he, it is true; but it was genuine; it was merited; it was secure; and, with the years, it would increase as a river nearing the sea.
And the man, as he looked back to that day of his dreams, was glad with an honest gladness. As he looked back to the time when he had asked of the world only something to do, he was proud with a just pride. As he looked back upon the things out of which he had builded his Success and saw how well he had builded, he was satisfied. But still in his gladness and pride and satisfaction there was a disappointment.
In his dreams, when he had looked out upon the world as a conquering emperor, the man had seen only the deeds of valor—the exhibitions of courage, of heroism, of strength—he had seen only the victories—the honors. But now, in the fulfillment of his dreams—when he had won the victory—when the honors were his—he knew the desperate struggle, the disastrous losses, the pitiful suffering. He had felt the dangers grip his heart. He had felt the horrid fear of defeat striking at his soul. Upon him were the marks of the conflict. His victory had not been won without effort. Success had demanded a price and he had paid. Perhaps no one but the man himself knew how great was the price he had paid.
The man found also that Success brought cares greater than he had ever known in the days of his struggle. Always there are cares that wait at the end of the battle and attend only upon the victor. Always there are responsibilities that come only when the victory is won—that are never seen in the heat of the conflict.
Once let it be discovered that you have the strength and the willingness to carry burdens and burdens will be heaped upon you until you stagger, fainting, under the load. Life has never yet bred a man who could shoulder the weight that the world insists that he take up in his success. And, when the man could not carry all the burdens that the world brought because his strength and endurance was only that of a mortal, the world cursed him—called him selfish, full of greed, heartless, an oppressor caring nothing for the woes of others. Those who had offered no helping hand in the time of his need now clamored loudly for a large part of his strength. Those who had cared nothing for his life in the times of his hardships now insisted that he give the larger part of his life to them. Those who had held him back now demanded that he lift them up to a place beside him. Those who had shown him only indifference—coldness—contempt, now begged of him attention—friendship—honors—aid.
And from all these things that attended his success the man found it impossible to escape. The cares, the burdens, the responsibilities that Success forced him to take up rested heavily upon him. So heavy indeed were these things that he had little strength or will left for the enjoyment of that which he had so worthily won.
And the victory that he had so hardily gained, the place that he now held, the man found that he could keep only by the utmost exertion of his strength. The battles he had fought were nothing in comparison to those he must now fight. The struggle he had made was nothing to the effort he must continue to make. Temptations multiplied and appeared in many new and unexpected forms. The very world that pointed him out as an example watched eagerly for excuse to condemn. Those who sought him with honors—who praised and flattered him, in envy, secretly hoped for his ruin. Those who followed him like dogs for favors would howl like wolves on his trail if he turned ever so little aside. Those who opened for him the doors of opportunities would flock like vultures to carrion if he should fall. The world, that, without consideration, heaped upon him its burdens, would trample him beneath its feet if he should slip under the weight. Nor had he in Success won freedom. His very servants were freer than he, to come and go, to seek their peculiar pleasures.
The chains with which Success had fettered the man were unusually galling and heavy upon him that day, when, on his way to an important appointment, his carriage was checked in a crowded street. The man's mind was so absorbed in the business waiting his attention that he did not notice how dense was the crowd that barred the way. Impatiently—with overwrought nerves—he spoke sharply, commanding his man to drive on.
The man begged pardon but it was impossible.
"Impossible," still more sharply, "what's the matter?"
The driver ventured a smile, "It's the circus parade, sir."
"Then turn around."
But that, too, was impossible. The traffic had pushed in behind hemming them in.
Then, down the street that crossed in front of the crowded jam of vehicles, came the familiar sound of trumpets and the gorgeously attired heralds at the head of the procession appeared, followed by the leading band with its crashing, smashing, music.
As gilded chariot followed gilded chariot, each drawn by many pairs of beautiful horses, gaily plumed and equipped—as the many riders, in glittering armor and flashing, spangled, costumes, rode proudly past; followed by the long line of elephants and camels with the cages of their fellow captives; and, in turn, by the chariot racers, the clowns, and the wagons of black faced fun makers; and at last by the steam calliope with its escort of madly shouting urchins—the man in the carriage slipped away from the cares and burdens of the present into the freedom of his Yesterdays. He escaped from the galling chains that Success had put upon him and lived again a circus day in the long ago.
Weeks before the date of the great event, the barns and sheds and every available wall in the little village, to which the boy often went with his father, would be covered with gorgeous pictures announcing the many startling, stupendous, wonders, to be seen for so small a price. There was a hippopotamus of such size that a boat load of twenty naked savages was not for him a mouthful. There were elephants so huge that the house where the boy lived was but a play house beside them. There were troops of aerial artists, who, on wires and rings and trapeze and ladders and ropes, did daring, dreadful, death defying, deeds, that no simian in his old world forest would ever think of attempting. There was a great, glittering, gorgeous, procession, of such length that the farther end was lost beyond the distant horizon and tents that covered more acres of ground than the boy could see from the top of the orchard hill.
Wonderful promises of the billboards! Wonderful! Wonderful promises of the billboards of Life! Wonderful!
Then would follow the days of waiting—the endless days of waiting—when the boy, with the help of the little girl, would try to be everything that the billboards pictured, from the roaring lion in his cage to the painted clown who cut such side splitting capers and the human fly that, with her gay Japanese parasol, walked upside down upon a polished ceiling. When circus day was coming, the fairies and knights and princes and soldiers and all their tried and true companions were forced to go somewhere—anywhere—out of the boy's way. There was no time, in those busy days, even for fishing. The old mill pond had no charm that was not exceeded by the promises of the billboards. The earth itself, indeed, was merely a place upon which to pitch a circus tent. The charms of the little girl, even, were almost totally eclipsed by the captivating loveliness of those ladies who, in spangled tights of blue and pink and red, hung by their teeth at dizzy heights, bestrode glittering wheels upon slack wires, or were shot from cannon to soar, amid black smoke and lurid flame, like angels, far above the heads of the common people.
There was no lying in bed to be called the third time the morning of that day; when at last it came. Scarcely had the sun peeped through the orchard on the hill when the boy was up and at the window anxiously looking to see if the sky was clear. Very early the start for town was made for there is much on circus day that is not pictured on the billboards—that, of course, the boy knew. And, as they drove through the fresh smelling fields, the boy would wonder if the long journey would ever come to an end and would ask himself, with sinking heart: "What if they had mistaken the day? What if something had happened that the circus could not materialize the promises of the billboards? What, if the hippopotamus, the elephants, the beautiful ladies in spangles and tights, and all the other promises of the billboards should fail?" And somewhere, deep within his being, the boy would feel a thrill of gladness that the little girl was so close beside him. If anything should happen that the promises of the billboards should fail he would need the little girl. While, if nothing happened—if it was all as pictured—still it would not be enough if the little girl were not there.
It was all over at last. The spangled riders galloped out of the ring; the trapeze performers made their last death defying leap; the clown cracked his last joke and cut his last caper; the last peanut in the sack was devoured by the elephant; and, at the close of the long day, the boy and the girl went back through the quiet fields to their homes; tired with the excitement and wonder of it all but with sighs of content and happiness. And, deep in his heart, that night, the boy resolved that he would grow up to travel with a circus. He would be very sorry to leave father and mother and the little girl but nothing in the world—nothing—should keep him from such a glorious career.
The man knew, now, that the promises of those billboards in his Yesterdays were never fulfilled. He knew, now, that the golden chariots were not gold at all but only gilded. He knew, now, that those wondrous beings who wore the glittering, spangled, costumes, were only very common and very ordinary men and women. He did not, now, envy the riders in the procession or the performers in the tent. He knew that to have a place in the parade or to perform in the ring, is to envy those whose applause you must win. The quiet of the old fields; the peaceful home under the orchard hill; the gentle companionship of the little girl; these were the things that in the man's life endured long after the glamor of the circus was gone.
Through the circus day crowd the man was driven on to his appointment but his mind was not now occupied with the business that awaited him. His thoughts were not with the crowd that filled the streets. His heart was in his Yesterdays. The music of the circus band, the sight of the parade that so stirred his memories of childhood, had awakened within him a hunger for the old home scenes. He longed to escape from Success—to get away from the circus parade of Life in which he found himself riding. He was weary of performing in the ring. He wanted to go home through the quiet fields. Perhaps—perhaps—amid the scenes of his Yesterdays, he might find that which Success had not brought.
As quickly as he could make arrangements, he went.
Of the woman's success, I cannot write here. My story has been poorly told, indeed, if I have not made it clear that, for this woman who knew herself to be a woman, Success was inseparable from Love.
For every woman who knows herself to be a woman, Love and Success are one.
Again it was that time of the year when every corner of the world is a lovers' corner.
On bough and branch, in orchard and wood; on bush and vine, in garden and yard; in meadow grass and pasture sod; on the silvery lichens that cling to the rocks; among the ferns and mosses that dwell in cool retreats; amid the reeds and rushes by the old mill pond; in the fragrant mints and fluted blades on the banks of the little creek; the children of Nature sought their mates or by their mates were sought.
Every flower cup was a loving cup, lifted to drink a pledge to Life; every tint of color was a blush of love, called forth by the wooing of Life; every perfumed breath was a breath of love, a blessing and prayer of Life; every rustling movement was a whisper of love, a promised word of Life; every touch of the breeze was a caress of love, a passionate kiss of Life; every sunbeam was a smile of love, warm with the tender triumph of Life.
The bees, that, in their labor for hive and swarm, carry the golden pollen from flower to flower, preach thus the word of God. The gauze winged insects, that, in the evening, dance their aerial mating dance, declare thus the Creator's will. The fireflies, that, in the night time, light their tiny lamps of love, signal thus a message from the throne on high.
The fowls of the air, singing their mating songs; the wild stallion on the hills, trumpeting aloud his fiery strength; the bull on the plains, thundering his bellowing challenge; the panther that in the mountains screams to his mate; the wolf that in the timber howls to his mistress; declare thus the supreme law of Life—make known the unchanging purpose of God—and evidence an authority and power divine.
In all this wooing and mating; in all this seeking and being sought; in all this giving and receiving; in all this loving and being loved; in all natural and holy desire; Life is exalted—the divine is worshiped—acceptable offerings to God are made.
To preserve Life—to perpetuate Life—to produce Life—to perfect Life—to exalt Life—this is the purpose of Life. In all the activity of Life there is no other meaning manifest. This, indeed,isLife. How foolish then to think only of eternal Life as though it began at the grave. This Life thatis, is the eternal Life.Eternity is to-day. The man and woman who mate in love fulfill thus the eternal law of Life, and, in their children, conceived and born in Love, do they know and do the will of God, even as do all things that are alive.
Life and Love are one.
The man had been at his boyhood home but three days when the neighbor, who lived next door, told him that his childhood playmate was coming, with her aunt, to visit their old home for a few weeks.
"Needs a rest and quiet" the neighbor said; and smiled at nothing at all as neighbors will sometimes do.
Perhaps, though, the neighbor smiled at the look of surprise and bewilderment that swept over the man's face as he heard the news, or it might have been at the mingling of pleasure and regret that was in his voice as he answered: "Indeed." Or, perhaps, the neighbor was wondering what the woman would say and how she would look if she knew that the man was to be next door. Whatever the reason the neighbor smiled.
They did not know that the woman was, in reality, seeking to escape from the thought of Failure that so haunted her. Since that day when her good friend had talked to her of her career and had gravely asked—"foryoudo you think it would be success?"—her work had become more and more unbearable. In desperation, at last, she had arranged to go, for a few weeks, back to the scenes of her girlhood; hoping to find there, as she had found before, the peace and strength she needed.
The cherry tree, in the corner of the garden near the hedge, showered the delicate petals of its blossoms down with every touch of the gentle breeze. In the nearby bower of green, a pair of brown birds had just put the finishing touch to a new nest. But, in the years that had passed since that boy and girl play wedding, the tree had grown large, and scarred, and old. Many pairs of brown birds had nested and reared their broods in the hedge since that day when the lad had kissed his childhood mate with a kiss that was different. And the little opening through which the boy and girl had so often gone at each other's call was closed by a growth of branches that time had woven as if to shut, forever, that gateway of their Yesterdays. On his former visit, the man had looked for that gateway of his childhood but could not find it. And now, when he heard that she was coming, he went again, curiously, to see if he could find any sign to show where the opening had been. But the branches that the years had woven hid from the man's eyes every trace of the old way that, in his Yesterdays, had been so plain.
Late that afternoon, when the neighbor, coming from the depot with his guests, drove slowly up the hill, the man stood at the gate where, years before, the little boy had sat on the post, and, swinging his bare legs, had watched the big wagons, loaded with household goods, turning into the yard of the place next door.
There was no reason why the man should get up when the first touches of gray light showed in the eastern sky the next morning, but the day seemed to call him and he arose and went out. From the little hill where he had sat that day when first he knew that he was a man and where his manhood life began with his dreams, he watched the sun rise and saw the sleeping world awake. Then back through the orchard that was all dew drenched and ringing with the morning hymn of the birds, he went, until he stood in the garden.
The man did not know why he went into the garden. Something seemed to lead him there. And he went very softly as one goes into places that are holy with the memories of dead years. Very still, he stood, watching the two birds that had builded their nest in the hedge near the cherry tree that, now, lifted its branches so high. The two birds were very, very, busy that morning; but, busy as they were, the father bird could not resist pouring forth the joy of his life in a flood of melody while his mate, swinging and fluttering and chirping on a nearby twig, seemed to enter as fully and heartily into his sentiments as though the song were her own. Breathlessly, with bare head and upturned, eager, face, the man watched and listened.
When the song was ended he drew a long breath—then started and, without moving from his place, looked carefully around. A low call had reached his ears—a familiar call that seemed to come out of the long ago. Surely his fancy was playing him strange tricks that morning.
He was turning toward the house when, again, that call came—low and clear. It was a call of his Yesterdays. And this time it was followed by a low, full throated laugh that was as full of music as the song of the bird to which the man had been listening.
With amazement and wonder upon his face, he turned quickly toward the hedge, as a voice that was like an echo of the laugh said: "Good morning! Pardon me for startling you—you looked so much like the little boy that I couldn't resist."
[Illustration: When they told me that you were here I wanted to go away again]
"But where are you?" asked the man, bewildered still.
Again came that low, full throated laugh. Then: "I believe you think I am a ghost. I'm here at the hedge—at the old place. Have you forgotten?"
Slowly, as she spoke, he went toward the hedge, guided by her voice. "Soyoufound it then," he said slowly, gazing at the beautiful woman face that was framed in the green of the leaves and branches.
And at his words, the woman's heart beat quicker—so he hadtriedto find it—but aloud she only said: "Of course."
To which he returned smilingly: "But it is quite grown over now, isn't it? You could scarcely come through there now as you used to do—could you?"
The woman laughed again. "I could if I were a man"—she challenged.
A moment later he stood beside her; a little breathless, with his clothing disarranged, and a scratch or two on his face and hands.
"Do you know"—she said when they had shaken hands quite properly as grown up people must do—"do you know that I was dreadfully afraid to meet you? When they told me that you were here I wanted to go away again. I was afraid that you would be so different. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he said, gravely, "I understand." But he did not tell her, then, how fully he understood.
She went on: "But when I looked through the hedge and saw you with your hat off, watching the birds, I knew you were the same little boy—and—well—I could not resist giving the old call."
And, all at once, the man knew why he had risen early that morning and why he had gone into the garden.
After that, they spent many days together in the scenes of their childhood; living over again, so far as man and woman may, their Yesterdays. And so cane, at last, the day that was forever after, to them,theday of all their days.
It was in the afternoon and they were together down by the little brook, in the shade of the willows, where the stream, running lazily under the patches of light and shade, murmured drowsily—seeming more than half asleep. She was weaving an old time daisy chain from a great armful that he had helped her gather on their way to the cool retreat. A bit of fancy work that she had brought from the house lay neglected near his hat, which the man, boy like, had cast aside. He was industriously fishing for minnows, with a slender twig of willow for a rod, a line of thread from her sewing, and a pin, that she had found for him, fashioned into a hook. With a pointed stick he had dug among the roots of the old tree for bait—securing one, tiny, thin, worm and rejoicing gleefully at his success. For a long time neither had said a word; but the woman, her white fingers busy with the daisies in her lap, had several times looked up from her pretty task to smile at the man who was so intensely and seriously interested in his childish sport.
"Gee! I nearly got one that time!" He exclaimed with boyish triumph and disappointment in his voice.
The woman laughed merrily. "One would think," she said, "that your fame in life depended upon your catching one of those poor little fish. What do you suppose your dear, devoted, public would say if they could see you now?"
The man grunted his disapproval. "I came out here to get away from said public," he retorted. "Why do you drag 'em into our paradise?"
At his words, a warm color crept into the woman's face, and, bending low over the daisies in her lap, she did not answer.
Lifting the improvised fishing tackle of his childhood and looking at it critically the man said: "I suppose, now, that if this rod were a split bamboo, and this thread were braided silk, and this pin with its wiggly piece of worm were a "Silver Doctor" or a "Queen of the Waters" or a "Dusty Miller" or a "Brown Hackle"; and if this stream were an educated stream, with educated trout; and the house up there were a club house; and your dear old aunt, who is watching to see that I don't eat you, were a lot of whist playing old men; I suppose you would think it all right and a proper sport for a man. But for me—I can't see much difference—except that, just now—" he carefully lowered his hook into the water—"just now, I prefer this. In fact," he added meditatively, "I would rather do this than anything else in the world."
The color in the woman's face deepened.
After a little, he looked cautiously around to see her bending over the daisy chain. A moment later, under pretense of examining his bait, he stole another look. Then, in spite of his declaration, he abandoned his sport to stretch himself full length on the ground at her side.
She did not look at him but bent her head low over the wealth of white and gold blossoms in her lap; and the man noticed, with an odd feeling of pleasure, the beautiful curve of her white neck from the soft brown hair to the edge of her dress low on the shoulder. Then, with a sly smile, as the boy of their Yesterdays might have done, he stealthily raised the slender willow twig and with the tip cautiously attempted to lift the thin golden chain that she always wore loosely about her throat with the locket or pendant concealed by her dress.
She clutched the chain with a frightened gesture and a little exclamation. "You must not—you must not do that."
The man laughed aloud as the mischievous boy would have laughed.
But the woman, with flaming cheeks, caught the twig from his hand and threw it into the creek. "If you are not good, I shall call auntie," she threatened.
At which he looked ruefully toward the porch and became very serious."Do you know that I am going away to-morrow?" he asked.
"And leave your paradise for your dear public?" she said mockingly."The public will be glad."
"And you, will you care?"
"I'm going back to my work, too, next week," she replied.
"But will you care to-morrow?" he persisted.
The woman's fingers, busy with the daisy chain, trembled.
The man, when she still did not answer his question, arose and, picking up his hat and her sewing, held out his hand.
She looked up into his face questioningly.
"Come"—he said with a grave smile—"come."
Still without speaking, she gave him her hand and he helped her to her feet; and, at her touch, the man again felt that thrill of pleasure.
The aunt, from her place on the porch, saw them coming up the grassy slope, through the daisies, toward the house. She saw them coming and smiled—as the neighbor had smiled, so she smiled, apparently, at nothing at all.
But the man and the woman did not go to the porch where the old lady sat. With a wave of their hands, they passed from her sight around the house, and, a few minutes later, stood face to face in that quiet, secluded, corner of the garden, under the old cherry tree, close by the hedge.
"Now," said the man gently, "now tell me—will you be sorry to have me go away to-morrow?"
She made no pretense that she did not understand, Nor did she hesitate as one in doubt. Lifting her head, proudly, humbly, graciously, she looked at him and, in that look, surrendered to him, without reserve, all the treasures of her womanhood that, with such care, she had kept against that hour. And her face was shining with the light that only a woman's mate can kindle.
The man caught his breath. "My wife," he said. "My wife,"
A few moments later he whispered: "Tell me again—I know that you have always belonged to me and I to you—but tell me again—you will—you will—be my wife?"
Releasing herself gently, she lifted her hands and, unfastening that slender chain of gold from around her throat, with rosy cheeks and happy, tender, eyes, held out to him a tiny brass ring.
So the Yesterdays of the man and the Yesterdays of the woman becameTheir Yesterdays.
All that Dreams, Occupation, Knowledge, Ignorance, Religion, Tradition, Temptation, Life, Death, Failure, Success, Love and Memories had given him, this man who knew that he was a man, gave to her. All that the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life had given her, this woman who knew herself to be a woman, gave to him. And thus these two became one. As God made them one, they became one.
And this is the love that I say, is one of the Thirteen Truly GreatThings of Life.
But my story is not yet quite finished for still, you must know, there are Memories.
And the years of the man and the woman passed until all their days were Yesterdays.
Even as they had, together, crossed the threshold of the old, old, door that has stood open since the beginning, they stood now, together, upon the threshold of another door that has never been closed.
And it was so, that, as once they went back into the Yesterdays that became Their Yesterdays, so they still went back to the days that were past. It was so, that the things of their manhood and womanhood had become to them, now, even as the things of their childhood. They knew, now, that, indeed, the work of men is but the play of children, after all.
Their years were nearly spent, it is true. His hair was silvery white and his form was bent and trembling. Her cheeks were like the drying petals of a rose and her once brown hair was as white as his. But the vigor and strength and life of their years lived still—gloriously increased in the lives that they had given to the race.
Gone were the years of their manhood and womanhood—even as the days of their boyhood and girlhood—they were gone. But, as the boy and the girl had lived in the man and the woman, the man and the woman lived, now, in their boys and girls and in the children of their children.
And this was the true glory and the fulfillment of their lives—that they could live thus in their children—that they could see themselves renewed in their children and in their children's children.
So it was that Memories became to this man and this woman, also, one of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life.
There are many things that might be told about this man and woman—about the work they did, the place they held in life, and the rewards and honors they received—but I have put down all that, at the end, seemed of any importance to them. Therefore have I put down all that matters to my story.
What matters to them and to my story is this: always, as they went back into the Yesterdays, they went back to the days of their childhood and to the days of their children. They went back only toTheirYesterdays. To those other days—those days when they were strangers—they did not go back.