--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Gates, Susa Young collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 9 number: 3 published: 1906-01 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Susa Young Gates, \"A New Year's Shrine,\" *Improvement Era* 9, no. 3 (January 1906): 231–239." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0903unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera0903unse start_page: 231 end_page: 239 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1906-01) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0903unse publication_year: 1906 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1906, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # A New Year's Shrine A NEW YEAR'S SHRINE. BY SUSA YOUNG GATES. '*We are going to have a white New Year's day as well as a ■white Christmas, ' ' said the lady as she stood at the western window of her upper chamber. "And isn't that a very proper, and a very healthful New Tear's and Christmas to have, mother mine," answered her tall and beautiful daughter, as she pinned her hat with numerous pretty daggers, before the quaint, oval mirror. ' 'What is it the English say about a white Christmas making a green Easter?" she added, as she drew on her worn but neat gloves. "I don't remember what the English say, I'm sure," absently replied the lady mother, as she moved away from the window and prepared to follow her daughter down the stairs. * 1 should fancy you'd be thinking all the time about the English, mother, ' ' laughed the girl over her shoulder. "Why so?" again absently replied the lady. "Well, I am sure if I had a son over in Great Britain, and was .also reviving ancient English history, as your old lover is doing for you, I think I myself should be somewhat alive to the habits and customs of the tight little Isle. ' ' "What nonsense," murmured the lady, a slight flush rising upon her smooth cheek. ' 'What do you think your father would .say to hear you speak that way?" "Father?" answered the girl gayly, "Why he'd just laugh as 1 do, and as you ought to do, at thie absurdity of the situation. In all my life, I never heard of anything quite so romantic and quite so queer. But I must hurry now, or I shall not be at my post in 232 IMPROVEMENT ERA. time. 0, dear, the modern methods of observing the holidays with parties and gifts for the school children, and the Sunday school children, and the kindergarten children, are just about destructive of both the Christmas ideal and the Christmas idea. We Americans, and especially we western Americans, are so strenuous. I long for a quiet, old-fashioned Christmas and New Year's, all our own, mother dear. But—" And the girl folded her furs about her neck and ran down the front steps, the cool air calling up into cheeks and lips a mild pink glow. The mother watched, with lingering eyes, the tall, graceful form swing down the hill, and she could but admit the beauty and grace of the delicately-poised head, the firm, yet soft outline of cheek and chin, the brown hair coiled in a mass of golden shade, low in the neck. And more than all was the subtle something which surrounded the whole figure with an atmostphere of highbred charm. "Divinely tall and most divinely fair," quoted the lady under her breath. The words called up a vista of a long past experience in her own life— or, perhaps, who may tell— the long-past experience which had been hovering about her memory for weeks, had called to her mind the lover who had quoted those same lovely English lines to her when she, too, was young and fair. The lady's eyes wandered up and down the street from her vantage point. The house behind her was tall and stately, yet some fate had stayed the restless, ambitious hands which had essayed to build a mansion in this commanding situation. Three high stories and a basement make a tall house in a busy western town like Salt Lake City, but in spite of its unfinished condition there was still an air of proud gentility about the plain structure.' If the builder's hand had not been checked, some gracious lines of beauty had been added to the massive, high brick walls by pillared porches or more modest porticos. But even so, with only a pair of uncovered steps leading up to the heavy front door, there was a glimpse of the solid, stately thought which had inspired this dwelling with its honest red bricks, softened and faded by time and rude weather. It stood on a western hillside which sloped rapidly down to the low valley rolling swiftly onward to the western horizon where the blue salt sea kissed the deep blue sky. A NEW YEAR'S SHRINE. 233 The lady saw, scarcely noting the most familiar features of close-clustered cottages below and above her; all were bowered in summer with trees and green vines. But now the skeleton limbs of the trees lay resting on the quiet air, awaiting, as all nature waits, with slow, still breath the coming snow. The serrated outlines of the Oquirrhs were covered with a snowy mist, while even the familiar low haze of smoke in the valley at their feet had taken a deeper, dingier hue from the white reflection of pale cloud above, and white-covered mountain peaks around the valley. The lady's eyes were busy with the signs of the coming snow, but she kept watch of the street until her daughter's form had turned southward. And then, with a quiet sigh, she turned into her house. There were many tasks for the lady's hands to accomplish; but as she worked, some lines wove harmonious discord in and out of the other busy thoughts in her brain. • "Divinely tall and most divinely fair — " with what facility he could quote poetry, that lover of long ago. And how earnest were his eyes, and how tender were the tones of his voice. And yet — those mince pies must not stay in the oven a moment longer. And yet — "Not wisely, but too well" — the words floated through her thoughts with mischievous persistence. Those were his last words to her — well — she had parted with him with the same kindly indifference which had marked her every hour's acquaintance with him, that lover of long ago! Three eggs, a pint of milk, a cup of sugar — and why should he haunt her memory now! The same kindly indifference marked her every thought of him, and his recent rather odd correspondence. That telephone again! "Yes; yes; I am sorry, but I have an engagement. New Year's day always finds me at home, you know! Maybe so, it may sound selfish — but I am old-fashioned, you know. Yes, quite so. But you must please excuse me, goodbye, goodbye." * 'Telephones are a nuisance when one is in the basement, just when one is ready to put cake in the oven. ' ' " 'Not wisely, but too well' — the fire is too low; the coal is a long way from the kitchen. But this house was built for servants, not 234 IMPROVEMENT ERA. for on6 woman — 'divinely tall, and most divinely fair. ' Pshaw! What a persistent and stupid companion memory can be!" The shrill front door-bell buzzed three times, and the lady hurried to answer the postman's ring. Two letters! And both from England! One from her beloved boy, so far away, and one from the long ago lover who had so recently been thrust back into the quiet channels of her life. The lady looked at the square, pale blue envelopes, and turned them over in her hands. With the occasional stern straightening, which came at times into the soft curved lips, she took them both unopened into the long, old-fashioned sitting room, and setting them upright against the clock, on the mantel, she went out and shut them in to await the evening, and the return of the absent ones. The afternoon hours sped by. The whole lower part of the house was saturated with the odors of spices, sweets and roasting meats. The basement dining-room, with its plain, old-fashioned, cane-seated chairs, and folding-leaf table, shone with cleanliness and comfort. The western windows were packed full with geraniums, petunias, nasturtiums, and mignonette. The cane-seated, armed rocker still held the soft silk patch-w^ork cushion made in the now distant crazy patch- work period. But the heavy crocheted anti-Macassar shad been folded away in the garret by the daughter's progressive hands, on her return from the eastern school, a few years before. The honest stove of thirty years before had never been replaced by a furnace; and now its radiant black surface glistened and whispered of comfort to every cold wavelet which stole in from the large ventilating crevices opened by the capable daughter of the house. And the dining-table ! It was in strict keeping with the large house and its three occupants. For it was stretched out to a length which would have accommodated three times the people who were to sit down to its generous repast. An old-fashioned cruet stand, in the center of the table, was flanked by two tall, crystal vases, with beautiful, pink tea-roses pluming themselves in their stately beauty. The napkins rested harmoniously between old, wellworn Sheffield knives, and glossy, new silver forks. Homemade pickles and jelly brightened one side of the festal board, while up- A NEW YEARS SHRINE. 235 to-date stuffed olives and salted almonds filled in the broad spaces on the dazzling white cloth. The tall, New England clock in the dining-room intoned four, long, hollow notes, and the lady closed the doors of the room, and drawing off her apron, she ascended the stairs to wait for the good man of the house, who was often late, but who would surely be on time tonight, and the tired daughter who was rarely late, but might be on this busy New Year's day. The fire in the huge sitting-room needed replenishing, for the evening shadows were bringing cooler breaths from the hills and canyons. It took a long afternoon of glowing heat in the big round stove to warm the high ceilings, and the cold walls of this immense, unsheltered eastern room, on the first floor. There was also a fire in the grate under the mantel; and as all the day's work was now done and awaiting only the final hour of triumphant results at the glittering table below, the lady drew a low chair to the blaze, and sat down to rest and wait. The thoughts which had been so persistent through the day now centered themselves around the two letters on the mantel before her. There had been other letters, both from her son and the time-old lover of hers. But these last two she would not open till her two loved ones were home to share them with her. "Not wisely, but too well" — he had quoted that in one of his letters recently, which one was that? She arose, and going to the desk, which was a heavy, but antiquated combination of bookcase and desk, she drew out a small packet of letters. Drawing the rubber band away, she looked at the fan-like array of thin-enveloped letters that spread out in her hands. ' 1 have never taken the time to look them over and place them in their proper order," she thought, with that qualm of conscience which assails the orderly housekeeper who fails in one small item of systematic arrangement. She drew the letters out from the enclosures, and searched through their dates to find the first. "Here it is," she said half aloud. "Headdresses me as quaintly as ever, ' ' she murmured. "Dear lady!"— "He used to call me My Lady!" she thought; 236 IMPROVEMENT ERA. but the thought failed, somehow, to quicken, with ever such a shadowy remembrance, the pulse-beats in her steady throat. "Dear lady," and the lady's eyes traveled on over the difficult, English, angular handwriting, for there was nothing better to occupy her mind in this quiet waiting time: Where will this letter find you? And how? Will you take time from your busy life to answer me these questions? And may I tell you without intrusion of where I am, and of what my lonely life holds for me? I would not thus adventure, did I not know, through the best of authority, your son, that you are still alive, well, and, let me believe, happy, as happy as you well deserve. This last sounds very trite to my ears as I read it over, and I marvel thereat. For in all my thoughts and dreams, when once I should have speech with you again, no common words, no poor or mean expressions should mar that gracious intercourse. And I? What details of four walls, of English woods and English hills, would paint the picture to your eyes of where the I, who knew you once so well, am housed. I live, and in these later years have found some mead of hope and consolation in stern occupation. The lady rose, and stirred the fire down. "He has the same old predilection for vague ideas and misty explanations. How difficult he could be!" thought she, as she once more prepared to resume her reading. "I wonder if he really works!" "And you? the letter read, "your son needs not to tell — for in his clear eyes and broad, fair brow, on which truth and intelligence are stamped with noble lines, I read the record of your life. 'Tis all I dreamed you would become. I have asked but few questions. Yet would I hear from your own lips some record of your life's fulfilment. "And he? The man who is the father of your son. I must be just. And therefore, surely is he good and true; else, — nay, there is no else." The letter fluttered to her lap, while the lady's thoughts wandered to that father of her boy. A gentle smile lifted the thoughtful corners of her mouth, as the sturdy image of her good husband rose before her. No, he was not even tall. Yet he was not short nor meanly insignificant. His frame was knit by winds and waves of toil and struggle into that broad usefulness which sits so lightly and so well upon the pioneer. Nor was he handsome; yet, always A NEW YEAR'S SHRINE. 237 her thoughts dwelt cheerily on the firm capacity of squared chin and piercing, hazel eyes. He had never achieved wealth nor fame; yet, in her heart she bowed, and always had, to that high manhood which could never compromise in least degree with sin. He had ambitions— and she loved him for that — but he also had ideals. And life had not been able to harmonize the two for him. And certainly, he could not quote poetry! A little inward laugh rippled up to her throat at thought of her good husband quoting poetry! She slowly pisked up another letter and read the second one: "You have answered my letter! And all the earth and sky is green and blue for me today. ' 'Your letter was so like my lady, my lady who is still divinely tall and most divinely fair. 'Tis filled with question marks and interrogatories. Why question life so closely? We live, and soon we die. And is that not enough? Yet will I fashion some replies. ''About your son: a British mob had pelted him with rotten eggs for singing hymns upon a street corner. It happened, strange enough, within the town near which my own home lies, and the mob was largely made of my own farm hands. The British mind objects to truths that are too new or even are too old. You Yankees ought to know how long it takes for Yankee wit and Yankee thought to penetrate the skull of slow John Bull. Yet, plant it there, and there it lies till death and hell are swallowed up. Your son objects, and rather naturally, to eggs when used as missiles, especially when thejr've passed the eating stage. And I? Well, in common with my fellow Britishers, I have some sympathy for the under dog. I had no idea who the hero of the egg fusillade was, and certainly he could not guess that I had once lived in far off Western America, nor, more astounding still, that I was once a privileged friend of his sweet mother. However, the boy and I were soon good friends. And when I had driven off my peasants, and had carried him and his companions off to my home, I sat him down opposite me, and while he ate at my welcome table, I scanned his features and studied him through his quiet conversation. He is like you, my lady! with few words; but ah, the words float out upon such tuneful waves of sound. My hungry ears drank up his voice, and still I cried for more. My questions led his quiet speech to paint for me the wondrous changes in that grey-green valley near your salt sea. Houses^ 238 IMPROVEMENT ERA. great and fine, there must be; steam and electricity have wrought their marvels there as elsewhere on the earth; and into the blue dome above the mountain tops pierces your Temple's golden spire. The Temple walls were low and grim with slow fulfilment, when last I walked upon their wide foundations; thirty years build many Temples, and sometimes thirty years suffice to crumble all the walls of hope and faith which youth and pious teaching reared in boyish hearts. I looked with saddened memories upon the once familiar picture of the busy city near the Inland Sea, which once I knew and loved. I have a rough print of it upon my walls, as it was thirty years ago, and showed it to your son. He was too well bred to ask me how and when and where, but I saw the questions all in his clear eyes, the eyes that are so nearly like his mother's. And so I told him if he would come to my home and spend a week, I would tell him all my story. 'Tis such a short one, and I am not loth to tell to him or to you that your name is written large on every page, I need not hesitate to tell him that, nor you, for I am old and grey, and life has lost its twang; the sparkle's gone, and the heart's dregs are stale and flat." The lady rose and let the letters fall in sudden shapeless heaps upon the velvet rug. She stood beside the eastern window and watched the grey gloom which night and snow were bringing over mountain crests and valley plains. Her wanderer's lingered; so back she walked with unhasting steps, and once more read her letters. "Your son was interested in my story. Far more than ever were you, or now would be. His eyes upon my face seemed almost lifting up the veil from that secret chamber which no man opens but to the woman he loves? What is it Browning says about a man having two soul sides, one which he opens to the world, the other only to the woman he loves. I told your son the story of an English boy, caught up by the wave of religious fervor, which even steady English blood may sometimes feel, and cast upon the far off shores of America's dead sea. Friendless and poor, because he chose to turn his back on friends and home. Your people gave him welcome, and some there were who offered home and work. He could not- eat the bread of charity, nor would he dip the idler's crust in any sop. And so you saw him first. Do you recall him? A NEW YEAR'S SHRINE. 239 Old hat, and shabby clothes, an awkward lad atop of loads of quarried rock for those same Temple walls which now are glistening grey in noonday glare, but white and pale beneath the moon's soft flame. You never laughed at me, my lady; and yet you always made me think of your own valley hills when soft, white flakes of snow were twirling round them. So sweetly cold, so hid by nature's veil of purity, that not a thought of gross or carnal quality might penetrate within." The lady's lips were curved in something like, a questioning smile. ' 'I wonder if he thinks me such an iceberg, ' ' she murmured. Her eyes turned to the window; outside the fluttering snow flowers fell on pane and sill, and soon their silent tracery would frame the hills and vales, e'en the mountain tops, with pure white velvet. The letter read: And yet you were so kind, so kind. My very heart was but a cushion upon which you set your foot. I tried, so many times, to tell you how I felt. But when I tried, a mist of snow crept from your chin to brow, and then your eyes shone through the mist as clear as your own skies in winter, and they were quite as cold. A year of toiling hope, and faithless toil. I pray you, do not blame my love for you with my departure from your city. It may have helped to feed the strong impulse which swept me back to England's shores. But even when you scorned my love, I could not answer scorn for scorn. Yet 'twas not that which drove me from your church, if from it I have gone. I heard your preachers tell one time about the blood of Gentiles ; and how that blood, when once it flows in human veins cannot be stayed around low altar steps; but it must sweep its way to worldly marts and halls of luxury. Perhaps 'twas that, who knows? that sent me far from you and all your people. I have treasured some few things." * 'What a strange man, ' ' the lady whispered, as she laid the letters in her desk. But hark! There the lad/s wanderers are at the very door! (to be continued.)