Charles Reade - "A Terrible Temptation"

I. T. Thurston - "The Bishop's Shadow"

Maurice Maeterlinck - "Wisdom And Destiny"

Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi - "War and Peace"

Their Yesterdays

H >> Harold Bell Wright >> Their Yesterdays



Etext prepared by Julie Barkley, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.



[Illustration: In the glowing heart of the fire she saw her home warm
with holy love.]

THEIR YESTERDAYS


By: HAROLD BELL WRIGHT


Author of "The Winning Of Barbara Worth" etc., etc.





With illustrations by F. GRAHAM COOTES





To Mrs. Elsbery W. Reynolds

In admiration of the splendid motherhood that, in her sons, has
contributed such wealth of manhood to the race. And, in her daughter,
has given to human-kind such riches of womanhood. With kindest
regards, I inscribe this book.

H. B. W.

"Relay Heights" June 8, 1912






_Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleased with a rattle,
tickled with a straw; Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,
A little louder, but as empty quite; Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his
riper stage, And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age; Pleased
with this bauble still, as that before; Till tired he sleeps, and
life's poor play is o'er._

"AN ESSAY ON MAN"--_Pope._





PROEM

There was a man.

And it happened--as such things often so happen--that this man went
back into his days that were gone. Again and again and again he went
back. Even as every man, even as you and I, so this man went back into
his Yesterdays.

Then--why then there was a woman.

And it happened--as such things sometimes so happen--that this woman
also went back into her days that were gone. Again and again and again
she went back. Even as every woman, even as you and I, so this woman
went back into her Yesterdays.

So it happened--as such things do happen--that the Yesterdays of this
man and the Yesterdays of this woman became Their Yesterdays, and that
they went back, then, no more alone but always together.

Even as one, they, forever after, went back.





What They Found in Their Yesterdays

And the man and the woman who went back into Their Yesterdays found
there the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life. Just as they found
these things in their grown up days, even unto the end, so they found
them in Their Yesterdays.

Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life there are. No life can have less.
No life can have more. All of life is in them. No life is without them
all.

Dreams, Occupation, Knowledge, Ignorance, Religion, Tradition,
Temptation, Life, Death, Failure, Success, Love, Memories: these are
the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life--found by the man and the
woman in their grown up days--found by them in Their Yesterdays--and
they found no others.

It does not matter where this man and this woman lived, nor who they
were, nor what they did. It does not matter when or how many times
they went back into Their Yesterdays. These things are all that they
found. And they found these things even as every man and woman finds
them, even as you and I find them, in our days that are and in our
days that were--in our grown up days and in our Yesterdays.

And it is so that in all of these Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life
there is a man and there is a woman.





THE THIRTEEN TRULY GREAT THINGS OF LIFE

DREAMS

OCCUPATION

KNOWLEDGE

IGNORANCE

RELIGION

TRADITION

TEMPTATION

LIFE

DEATH

FAILURE

SUCCESS

LOVE

MEMORIES





THEIR YESTERDAYS




DREAMS

The man, for the first time, stood face to face with Life and, for the
first time, knew that he was a man.

For a long time he had known that some day he would be a man. But he
had always thought of his manhood as a matter of years. He had said to
himself: "when I am twenty-one, I will be a man." He did not know,
then, that twenty-one years--that indeed three times twenty-one
years--cannot make a man. He did not know, then, that men are made of
other things than years.

I cannot tell you the man's name, nor the names of his parents, nor
his exact age, nor just where he lived, nor any of those things. For
my story, such things are of no importance whatever. But this is of
the greatest importance: as the man, for the first time, stood face to
face with Life and, for the first time, realized his manhood, his
manhood life began in Dreams.

It is the dreams of life that, at the beginning of life, matter. Of
the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life, Dreams are first.

It was green fruit time. From the cherry tree that grew in the upper
corner of the garden next door, close by the hedge that separated the
two places, the blossoms were gone and the tiny cherries were already
well formed. The nest, that a pair of little brown birds had made that
spring in the hedge, was just empty, and, from the green laden
branches of the tree, the little brown mother was calling anxious
advice and sweet worried counsel to her sons and daughters who were
trying their new wings.

In the cemetery on the hill, beside a grave over which the sod had
formed thick and firm, there was now another grave--another grave so
new that on it no blade of grass had started--so new that the yellow
earth in the long rounded mound was still moist and the flowers that
tried with such loving, tender, courage, to hide its nakedness were
not yet wilted. Cut in the block of white marble that marked the
grass-grown grave were the dearest words in any tongue--Wife and
Mother; while, for the new-made mound that lay so close beside, the
workmen were carving on a companion stone the companion words.

There were two other smaller graves nearby--one of them quite
small--but they did not seem to matter so much to the tall young
fellow who had said to himself so many times: "when I am twenty-one, I
will be a man." It was the two graves marked by the companion words
that mattered. And certainly he did not, at that time, feel himself a
man. As he left the cemetery to go home with an old neighbor and
friend of the family, he felt himself rather a very small and lonely
boy in a very big and empty world.

But there had been many things to do in those next few days, with no
one but himself to do them. There had been, in the voices of his
friends, a note that was new. In the manner of the men who had come to
talk with him on matters of business, he had felt a something that he
had never felt before. And he had seen the auctioneer--a lifelong
friend of his father--standing on the front porch of his boyhood home
and had heard him cry the low spoken bids and answer the nodding heads
of the buyers in a voice that was hoarse with something more than long
speaking in the open air. And then--and then--at last had come the
sharp blow of the hammer on the porch railing and from the trembling
lips of the old auctioneer the word: "Sold."

It was as though that hammer had fallen on the naked heart of the boy.
It was as though the auctioneer had shouted: "Dead."

And so the time had come, a week later, when he must go for a last
look at the home that was his no longer. Very slowly he had walked
about the yard; pausing a little before each tree and bush and plant;
putting forth his hand, at times, to touch them softly as though he
would make sure that they were there for he saw them dimly through a
mist. The place was strangely hushed and still. The birds and bees and
even the butterflies seemed to have gone somewhere far away. Very
slowly he had gone up the steps to open the front door. Very slowly he
had passed from room to room in the empty, silent, house. On the
kitchen porch he had paused again, for a little, because he could not
see the steps; then had gone on to the well, the garden, the
woodhouse, the shop, the barn, and so out into the orchard that shaded
the gently rising slope of the hill beyond the house. At the farther
side of the orchard, on the brow of the hill, he had climbed the rail
fence and had seated himself on the ground where he could look out and
away over the familiar meadows and fields and pastures.

A bobo-link, swinging on a nearby bush, poured forth a tumbling
torrent of silvery melody. Behind him, on the fence, a meadow lark
answered with liquid music. About him on every side, in the soft
sunlight, the bluebirds were flitting here and there, twittering
cheerily the while over their bluebird tasks. And a woodpecker, hard
at work in the orchard shade, made himself known by the din of his
industry.

But the man, who did not yet quite realize that he was a man, gave no
heed to these busy companions of his boyhood. To him, it was as though
those men with their shovels had heaped that mound of naked, yellow,
earth upon his heart. The world, for him, was as empty as the old
house down there under the orchard hill. For a long time he sat very
still--seeing nothing, hearing nothing, heeding nothing--conscious
only of that dull, aching, loneliness--conscious only of that heavy
weight of pain.

A mile or more away, beyond the fields, a moving column of smoke from
a locomotive lifted itself into the sky above the tree tops and
streamed back a long, dark, banner. As the column of smoke moved
steadily on toward the distant horizon, the young man on the hilltop
watched it listlessly. Then, as his mind outran the train to the
cities that lay beyond the line of the sky, his eyes cleared, his
countenance brightened, his thoughts went outward toward the great
world where great men toil mightily; and the long, dark, banner of
smoke that hung above the moving train became to him as a flag of
battle leading swiftly toward the front. Eagerly now he
watched--watched until, far away, the streaming column of smoke passed
from sight around a wooded hill and faint and clear through the still
air--a bugle call to his ears--came the long challenging whistle.

Then it was that he realized his manhood--knew that he was a man--and
understood that manhood is not a matter of only twenty-one years. And
then it was--as he sat there alone on the brow of the little hill with
his boyhood years dead behind him and the years of his manhood
before--that his manhood life began, even as the manhood life of every
man really begins, with his Dreams.

Indeed it is true that all life really begins in dreams. Surely the
lover dreams of his mistress--the maiden of her mate. Surely mothers
dream of the little ones that sleep under their hearts and fathers
plan for their children before they hold them in their arms. Every
work of man is first conceived in the worker's soul and wrought out
first in his dreams. And the wondrous world itself, with its myriad
forms of life, with its grandeur, its beauty and its loveliness; the
stars and the heavenly bodies of light that crown the universe; the
marching of the days from the Infinite to the Infinite; the procession
of the years from Eternity to Eternity; all this, indeed, is but God's
good dream. And the hope of immortality--of that better life that lies
beyond the horizon of our years--what a vision is that--what a
wondrous dream--given us by God to inspire, to guide, to comfort, to
hold us true!

With wide eyes the man looked out upon a wide world somewhat as a
conquering emperor, confident in his armed strength, might from a
hilltop look out over the scene of a coming battle. He did not see the
grinding hardships, the desperate struggles, the disastrous losses,
the pitiful suffering. The dreadful dangers did not grip his heart.
The horrid fear of defeat did not strike his soul. He did not know the
dragging weight of responsibility nor the dead weariness of a losing
fight. He saw only the deeds of mighty valor, the glorious exhibitions
of courage, of heroism, of strength. He felt only the thrill of
victories, the pride of honors and renown. He knew only the
inspiration of a high purpose. He heard only the call to greatness.
And it was well that in his Dreams there were only these.

The splendid strength of young manhood stirred mightily in his limbs.
The rich, red, blood of youth moved swiftly in his veins. His eager
spirit shouted aloud in exultation of the deeds that he would do. And,
surely, it was no shame to him that at this moment, when for the first
time he realized his manhood, this man, in his secret heart, felt
himself to be a leader of men, a conqueror of men, a savior of men. It
was no shame to him that he felt the salvation of the world depending
upon him.

And he was right. Upon him and upon such as he the salvation of the
world _does_ depend. But it is well, indeed, that these
unrecognized, dreaming, saviors of the world do not know, as they
dream, that their crosses, even then, are being prepared for them. It
is their salvation that they do not know. It is the salvation of the
world that they do not know.

And then, as one from the deck of a ship bound for a foreign land
looks back upon his native shore when the vessel puts out from the
harbor, this man turned from his years that were to come to his years
that were past and from dreaming of his future slipped back into the
dreams of his Yesterdays. Perhaps it was the song of the bobo-link
that did it; or it may have been the music of the meadow lark; or
perhaps it was the bluebird's cheerful notes, or the woodpecker's loud
tattoo--whatever it was that brought it about, the man dreamed again
the dreams of his boyhood--dreamed them even as he dreamed the dreams
of his manhood.

And there was no one to tell him that, in dreaming, his boyhood and
his manhood were the same.

Once again a boy, on a drowsy summer afternoon, he lay in the shade of
the orchard trees or, in the big barn, sought the mow of new mown hay,
and, with half closed eyes, slipped away from the world that droned
and hummed and buzzed so lazily about him into another and better
world of stirring adventure and brave deeds. Once again, when the sun
was hidden under heavy skies and a steady pouring rain shut him in,
through the dusk of the attic he escaped from the narrow restrictions
of the house, and, from his gloomy prison, went out into a fairyland
of romance, of knighthood, and of chivalry. Again it was winter time
and the world was buried deep under white drifts, with all its
brightness and beauty of meadow and forest hidden by the cold mantle,
and all its music of running brooks and singing birds hushed by an icy
hand, when, snug and warm under blankets and comforters, after an
evening of stories, he slipped away into the wonderland of dreams--not
the irresponsible, sleeping, dreams--those do not count--but the
dreams that come between waking and sleeping, wherein a boy dare do
all the great deeds he ever read about and can be all the things that
ever were put in books for boys to wish they were.

Oh, but those were brave dreams--those dreams of his Yesterdays! No
cruel necessity of life hedged them in. No wall of the practical or
possible set a limit upon them. No right or wrong decreed the way they
should go. In his Yesterdays, there were fairy Godmothers to endow him
with unlimited power and to grant all his wishes, even unto mountains
of golden wealth and vast caverns filled with all manner of precious
gems. In his Yesterdays, there were wicked giants and horrid dragons
and evil beasts to kill, with always a good Genii to see that they did
not harm him the while he bravely took their baleful lives. In his
Yesterdays, he was a prince in gorgeous raiment; an emperor with
jeweled scepter and golden crown; a knight in armor, with a sword and
proudly stepping horse of war; he was a soldier leading a forlorn
hope; or a general, with his plumed staff officers about him,
directing the battle from a mountain top; he was a sailor cast away on
a desert island; or a captain commanding his ship in a storm or,
clinging to the shrouds in a smother of battle flame and smoke,
shouting his orders through a trumpet to his gallant crew; he was a
pirate; a robber chief; a red Indian; a hunter; a scout of the
plains--he could be anything, in those dreams of his Yesterdays,
anything.

So, even as the man, the boy had dreamed. But the man did not think of
it in that way--the dreams of his _manhood_ were too real.

Then in his Yesterdays would come, also, the putting of his dreams
into action, for the play of children, even as the works of men, are
only dreams in action after all. The quiet orchard became a vast and
pathless forest wherein lurked wild beasts and savage men ready to
pounce upon the daring hunter; or, perhaps, it was an enchanted wood
with lords and ladies imprisoned in the trees while in the carriage
house--which was not a carriage house at all but a great castle--a
cruel giant held captive their beautiful princess. The haymow was a
robbers' cave wherein great wealth of booty was stored; the garden, a
desert island on which lived the poor castaway. And many a long summer
hour the bold captain clung to the rigging of his favorite apple tree
ship and gazed out over the waving meadow sea, or the general of the
army, on his rail fence war horse, directed the battle from the
hilltop or led the desperate charge.

But rarely, in his Yesterdays, could the boy put his dreams into
successful action alone. Alone he could dream but to realize his
dreams, he needs must have the help of another. And so _she_ came
to take her place in his life, to help him play out his dreams--the
little girl who lived next door.

Who was she? Why, she was the beautiful princess held captive by the
giant in his carriage house castle until rescued by the brave prince
who came to her through the enchanted wood. She was the crew of the
apple tree ship; the robber band; the army following her general in
his victorious charge; and the relief expedition that found the
castaway on his desert island. Sometimes she was even a cannibal
chief, or a monster dragon, or a cruel wild beast. And always--though
the boy did not know--she was a good fairy weaving many spells for his
happiness.

The man remembered well enough the first time that he met her. A new
family was moving into the house that stood just below the garden and,
from his seat on the gate post, the boy was watching the big wagons,
loaded with household goods, as they turned into the neighboring yard.
On the high seat of one of the wagons was the little girl. A big man
lifted her down and the boy, watching, saw her run gaily into the
house. For some time he held his place, swinging his bare legs
impatiently, but he did not see the little girl come out into the yard
again. Then, dropping to the ground, the boy slipped along the garden
fence under the currant bushes to a small opening in the hedge that
separated the two places. Very cautiously, at first, he peered through
the branches. Then, upon finding all quiet, he grew bolder, and on
hands and knees crept part way through the little green tunnel to find
himself, all suddenly, face to face with her.

That was the beginning. The end had come several years later when the
family had moved again.

The parting, too, he remembered well enough. A boy and girl parting it
was. And the promises--boy and girl promises they were. At first many
poorly written, awkwardly expressed, laboriously compiled, but warmly
interesting letters were exchanged. Then the letters became shorter
and shorter; the intervals between grew longer and longer; until, even
as childhood itself goes, she had slipped out of his life. Even as the
brave dreams of his boyhood she had gone--even as his Yesterdays.

The bobo-link had long ago left his swinging bush. The meadow lark had
gone to find his mate in a distant field. The twittering bluebirds had
finished their tasks. The woodpecker had ceased from his labor. The
sunshine was failing fast. Faint and far away, through the still
twilight air, came the long, clear, whistle of another train that was
following swiftly the iron ways to the world of men.

The man on the hill came back from his Yesterdays--came back to
wonder: "where is the little girl now? Has she changed much? Her eyes
would be the same and her hair--only a little darker perhaps. And does
she ever go back into the Yesterdays? It is not likely," he thought,
"no doubt she is far too busy caring for her children and attending to
her household duties to think of her childhood days and her childhood
playmate. And what would her husband be like?" he wondered.

There was no woman in the dreams of the man who that afternoon, for
the first time, realized his manhood and began his manhood life. He
dreamed only of the deeds that he would do; of the work he would
accomplish; of the place he would win; and of the honors he would
receive. The little girl lived for him only in his Yesterdays. She did
not belong to his manhood years. She had no place in his manhood
dreams.

Slowly he climbed the rail fence again and, through the orchard, went
down the hill toward the house. But he did not again enter the house.
He went on past the kitchen porch to the garden gate where he stood,
for some minutes, looking toward the hedge that separated the two
places and toward the cherry tree that grew in the corner of the
garden next door.

At the big front gate he paused again and turned lingeringly as one
reluctant to go. The old home in the twilight seemed so lonely, so
deserted by all to whom it had been most kind.

At last, with a movement suggestive of a determination that could not
have belonged to his boyhood, he set his face toward the world. Down
the little hill in the dusk of the evening he went, walking quickly;
past the house where the little girl had lived; across the creek at
the foot of the hill; and on up the easy rise beyond. And, as he went,
there was on his face the look of a man. There was in his eyes a new
light--the light of a man's dream. Nor did he once look back.

To-morrow he would leave the friends of his boyhood; he would leave
the scenes of his Yesterdays; he would go to work out his dreams--even
as in his Yesterdays, he would play them out--for the works of men are
as the plays of children but dreams in action, after all.

Would he, _could_ he, play out his manhood dreams alone?

And the woman also, for the first time, was face to face with Life
and, for the first time, knew that she was a woman.

For a long while she had seen her womanhood approaching. Little by
little, as her skirts had been lengthened, as her dolls had been put
away, as her hair had been put up, she had seen her womanhood drawing
near. But she had always said to herself: "when I do not play with
dolls, when I can dress like mother, and fix my hair like mother, I
will be a woman." She did not know, then, that womanhood is a matter
of things very different from these. Until that night she did not
know. But that night she knew.

I cannot tell you the woman's name, nor where she lived, nor any of
those things that are commonly told about women in stories. But, as my
story is not that kind of a story, it will not matter that I cannot
tell. What really matters to my story is this: the woman, that night,
when, for the first time, she knew herself to be a woman, began her
woman life in dreams. Because the dreams of life are of the greatest
importance--because Dreams are of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of
Life--this is my story: that the woman life of this woman, when first
she knew herself to be a woman, began in dreams.

It was the time of the first roses. For a week or more she had been
very busy with a loving, tender, joyous, occupation that left her no
time to think of herself. Her dearest friend--her girlhood's most
intimate companion, and, save for herself, the last of their little
circle--was to be married and she was to be bridesmaid.

They had been glad days--those days of preparation--for she rejoiced
greatly in the happiness of her friend and had shared, as fully as it
was possible for another to share, the sweet sacredness, the holy
mysteriousness, and the proud triumph of it all. But with the gladness
of those days, there had come into her heart a strange quietness like
the quietness of an empty room that is furnished and ready but without
a tenant.

At the wedding that evening she had been all that a bridesmaid should
be, even to the last white ribbon and the last handful of rice, for
she would that no shadow of a cloud should come over the happiness of
her friend. But when the new-made husband and wife had been put safely
aboard the Pullman, and, with the group on the depot platform
frantically waving hats and handkerchiefs and shouting good lucks and
farewells, the train had pulled away, the loneliness in her heart had
become too great to hide. Her escort had made smart jokes about her
tears, alleging disappointment and envy. He was a poor, shallow,
witless, fool who could not understand; and that he could not
understand mattered, to her, not at all. She had commanded him to take
her home and at her front door had thanked him and sent him away.

And then it was--in the blessed privacy of her own room, with the door
locked and the shades drawn close, with her wedding finery thrown
aside and the need of self-repression no longer imperative--that, as
she sat in a low chair before the fire, she looked, for the first
time, boldly at Life and, for the first time, knew that she was a
woman--knew that womanhood was not a matter of long skirts, of hair
dressing, and the putting away of dolls.

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.