Were other things dreams too? Was she indeed foolishly, romantic, as her mother had said? Were her ideals mistaken? The glorious visions of the poets, were they illusive? The grand possibilities that life had seemed to her to hold, as she studied the inspiring utterances of the great teachers of mankind, were they too phantasmal? Was there indeed no poetry in life, and would she be wiser if she consented to follow the dictates of vulgar, worldly prudence?
In the heart-sickness caused by the shock of her first real disappointment, Aldyth questioned everything. What was the good of life if it were so low and sordid, so barren of all that is truly noble and elevating? But presently, healthier feelings returned to her.
She had taken refuge in her room, and was sitting gazing dully before her, when a ray of wintry sunshine entering through the window gleamed on a tiny bunch of violets which Nelly had placed on her dressing-table. Aldyth caught them up, and their beauty and sweetness comforted her. After all, the world was not the dreary place she had been imagining it.
God was in the world, God, working ever for righteousness and purity and loveliness, and God was love. Did not the poet Browning say that the grand lesson of life was to learn love—what love had been, what love might be?
"I believe in love and God," said Aldyth to herself; "and, God helping me, I will be true to my ideal of what my life should be. I will not love my mother less because she is not just what I had fancied she would be. Is not a certain amount of forbearance necessary in every human relationship? I will strive to be to my mother all that a daughter should be, and perhaps in time she will come to think as I do about things. I hope she did not see how impatient and angry I felt just now."
And Aldyth dried her eyes, and seeing that the sunshine looked inviting, put on her hat and jacket and set off to take her usual remedy for depression—a good walk.
[CHAPTER XVI.]
CONTRASTS.
WHEN Nelly had been sent to school, Aldyth found herself more at leisure.
Gladys was always good-natured and bright; there was something very charming in her pretty, careless ways. It was impossible to help loving her, and yet after she had lived with her for weeks, Aldyth felt that she knew her no better than on the first day of their meeting. It seemed impossible to have a quiet talk with Gladys; she was always self-occupied, restless, eager about trifles. Apparently she did not know what serious thought was. She had inherited her mother's gift of fascination, and, like her, knew how to use it for the accomplishment of her own ends.