Part 17 (1/2)
'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks beneath the noonday sun.'
A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said,
'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make of heaven a h.e.l.l, of h.e.l.l a heaven.'
The principle holds universally, notwithstanding apparent contradictions and exceptions in various instances. I have seen more pure and perfect happiness, nestled in poverty, in a laborer's cottage, than I ever met with in the houses of the rich.”
”Then the fault lies with me,” said Mr. Royden, thoughtfully, ”whenever my home appears less agreeable and attractive than it might, I suppose.”
”In a great measure, the fault is yours, undoubtedly. Do you not think that an established habit of preserving a serene temper, in the midst of the most trying scenes, would produce blessed results?”
”But the power is not in me.”
”It is in every man,” said Father Brighthopes. ”Only exercise it.”
”You can have no conception of what I have had to go through,” replied Mr. Royden, gloomily. ”Everything has conspired to ruin my disposition.
My nature has been soured; I could not help it. I have become irritable, and the least thing moves me.”
The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that Mr. Royden continued,
”You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?”
”Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled.”
”Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only briers.”
”You found life a stern and unromantic fact,” said Father Brighthopes, smiling. ”The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is sad--it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson.”
”The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my undisciplined feet,” resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. ”I came upon the ledges very suddenly. The haze and suns.h.i.+ne faded and dissolved, even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent.”
”It is plain you allude to your marriage.”
Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke.
”My wife is the best of women at heart,” he said. ”I feel that I could not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy.”
”It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure,” replied Father Brighthopes.
”I know it is--I know it is! We did not understand each other before marriage. Our attachment was a romantic one. She had no thought of what was in me; she saw me only as a lover attractive enough to please her girlish imagination. She was very beautiful, and I loved her devotedly.
But--” Mr. Royden's voice was shaken--”when I looked to find my other ideal self glowing beneath her brilliant exterior, I saw a stranger there. I found that it was not her character I had loved.”
”And she, probably, made a similar discovery in you,” said the old man, cheerfully, but feelingly.
”No doubt--no doubt! But I do wrong to speak of this,” murmured Mr.
Royden, brus.h.i.+ng a tear from his eye. ”It is a subject I could never talk upon to a living soul, and how I have come to let you into my confidence I am at a loss to know.”
”Some good angel prompted you, perhaps,” replied Father Brighthopes, ”in order that something may come, through me, to counsel or comfort you.”