It was a dreary Saturday afternoon, but Beulah wrapped a warm shawl
about her, and set out to pay the promised visit. The air was damp
and raw, and leaden, marbled clouds hung in the sky. Mr. Graham's
house was situated in the fashionable part of the city, near Mr.
Grayson's residence, and, as Beulah passed the crouching lions, she
quickened her steps, to escape the painful reminiscences which they
recalled. In answer to her ring, the servant ushered her into the
parlors, furnished with almost Oriental magnificence, and was
retiring, when she gave her name.
"You are Miss Benton, then. I have orders to show you up at once to
Miss Cornelia's room. She has seen no visitors today. This way,
miss, if you please."
He led the way, up an easy, spiral flight of steps, to the door of a
room, which he threw open. Cornelia was sitting in a large cushioned
chair by the fire, with a papier-mache writing-desk beside her,
covered with letters. There was a bright fire in the grate, and the
ruddy haze, together with the reflection from the crimson damask
curtains, gave a dim, luxurious aspect to the chamber, which in
every respect betokened the fastidious taste of a petted invalid.
Clad in a dark silk robe-de-chambre, with her cheek pressed against
the blue velvet lining of the chair, Cornelia's face wore a sickly,
sallow hue, which was rendered more palpable by her black,
glittering eyes and jetty hair. She eagerly held out her hand, and a
smile of sincere pleasure parted the lips, which a paroxysm of pain
seemed to have just compressed.
"It is such a gloomy day I feared you would not come. Take off your
bonnet and shawl."
"It is not so gloomy out as you imagine," said Beulah.
"What? not, with dull clouds, and a stiff, raw, northeaster? I
looked out of the window a while since, and the bay looked just as I
have seen the North Sea, gray and cold. Why don't you take off your
bonnet?"
"Because I can only sit with you a short time," answered Beulah,
resisting the attempt made to take her shawl.
"Why can't you spend the evening?" said Cornelia, frowning.
"I promised not to remain more than an hour."
"Promised whom?"
"Clara Sanders. She is sick; unable to leave her room; and is lonely
when I am away."
"My case is analogous; so I will put myself on the charity list for
once. I have not been downstairs for two days."
"But you have everything to interest you even here," returned
Beulah, glancing around at the numerous paintings and engravings
which were suspended on all sides, while ivory, marble, and bronze
statuettes were scattered in profusion about the room. Cornelia
followed her glance, and asked, with a joyless smile:
"Do you suppose those bits of stone and canvas satisfy me?"
"Certainly. 'A thing of beauty should be a joy forever.' With all
these, and your library, surely you are never lonely."
"Pshaw! they tire me immensely. Sometimes the cramped positions and
unwinking eyes of that 'Holy Family' there over the chimneypiece
make me perfectly nervous."
"You must be morbidly sensitive at such times."
"Why? Do you never feel restless and dissatisfied without any
adequate reason?"
"No, never."
"And yet you have few sources of pleasure," said Cornelia, in a
musing tone, as her eyes wandered over her visitor's plain attire.
"No! my sources of enjoyment are as varied and extended as the
universe."
"I should like you to map them. Shut up all day with a parcel of
rude, stupid children, and released only to be caged again in a
small room in a second-rate boarding house. Really, I should fancy
they were limited indeed."
"No; I enjoy my brisk walk to school in the morning; the children
are neither so dull nor so bearish as you seem to imagine. I am
attached to many of them, and do not feel the day to be very long.
At three I hurry home, get my dinner, practice, and draw or sew till
the shadows begin to dim my eyes; then I walk until the lamps are
lighted, find numberless things to interest me, even in a winter's
walk, and go back to my room refreshed and eager to get to my books.
Once seated with them, what portion of the earth is there that I may
not visit, from the crystal Arctic temples of Odin and Thor to the
groves of Abyssinia? In this age of travel and cheap books I can sit
in my room in the third story, and, by my lamplight, see all, and
immeasurably more, than you, who have been traveling for eighteen
months. Wherever I go I find sources of enjoyment; even the pictures
in bookstores give me pleasure and contribute food for thought; and
when, as now, I am surrounded by all that wealth can collect, I
admire, and enjoy the beauty and elegance as much as if I owned it
all. So you see that my enjoyments are as varied as the universe
itself."
"Eureka!" murmured Cornelia, eying her companion curiously, "Eureka!
you shall have the tallest case in the British Museum, or Barnum's,
just as your national antipathies may incline you."
"What impresses you as so singular in my mode of life?" asked Beulah
rather dryly.
"Your philosophic contentment, which I believe you are too candid to
counterfeit. Your easy solution of that great human riddle given the
world, to find happiness. The Athenian and Alexandrian schools
dwindle into nothingness. Commend me to your 'categories,' O Queen
of Philosophy." She withdrew her searching eyes, and fixed them
moodily on the fire, twirling the tassel of her robe as she mused.
"You are most egregiously mistaken, Cornelia, if you have been led
to suppose, from what I said a moment since, that I am never
troubled about anything. I merely referred to enjoyments derived
from various sources, open alike to rich and poor. There are Marahs
hidden in every path; no matter whether the draught is taken in
jeweled goblets or unpolished gourds."
"Sometimes, then, you are 'blued' most dismally, like the balance of
unphilosophic men and women, eh?"
"Occasionally my mind is very much perplexed and disturbed; not
exactly 'blued,' as you express it, but dimmed, clouded."
"What clouds it? Will you tell me?" said Cornelia eagerly.
"The struggle to see that which I suppose it never was intended I
should see."
"I don't understand you," said Cornelia, knitting her brows.
"Nor would you even were I to particularize."
"Perhaps I am not so very obtuse as you fancy."
"At any rate, I shall not enter into detail," answered Beulah,
smiling quietly at the effect of her words.
"Do you ever weary of your books?" Cornelia leaned forward, and bent
a long searching look on her guest's countenance as she spoke.
"Not of my books; but sometimes, nay, frequently, of the thoughts
they excite."
"A distinction without a difference," said the invalid coldly.
"A true distinction, nevertheless," maintained Beulah.
"Be good enough to explain it then."
"For instance, I read Carlyle for hours, without the slightest
sensation of weariness. Midnight forces me to lay the book
reluctantly aside, and then the myriad conjectures and inquiries
which I am conscious of, as arising from those same pages, weary me
beyond all degrees of endurance."
"And these conjectures cloud your mind?" said Cornelia, with a half-
smile breaking over her face.
"I did not say so; I merely gave it as an illustration of what you
professed not to understand."
"I see your citadel of reserve and mistrust cannot be carried by
storm," answered Cornelia petulantly.
Before Beulah could reply, a servant entered, and addressed
Cornelia.
"Your mother wants to show your Paris hat and veil, and handsomest
point-lace set, to Mrs. Vincent, and Miss Julia says, can't she run
up and see you a minute?"
A sneering smile accompanied the contemptuous answer, which was
delivered in no particularly gentle manner.
"This is the second time those 'particular friends' of ours have
called to inspect my winter outfit. Take down my entire wardrobe to
them: dresses, bonnets, mantles, laces, handkerchiefs, ribbons,
shawls--nay, gloves and slippers, for there is a 'new style' of
catch on one, and of bows and buckles on the other. Do you hear me,
Mary? don't leave a rag of my French finery behind. Let the
examination be sufficiently complete this time. Don't forget the
Indian shawl and the opera cloak and hood, nor that ornamental comb,
named after the last popular danseuse; and tell Miss Julia she will
please excuse me--another time I will try to see her. Say I am
engaged."
Some moments elapsed, during which Mary opened and shut a number of
drawers and boxes, and finally disappeared, staggering beneath a
load of silks, velvets, and laces. As the door closed behind her,
Cornelia smoothed her brow, and said apologetically:
"Doubtless it seems a mere trifle of accommodation to display all
that mass of finery to their eagerly curious eyes; but I assure you
that, though I have not been at home quite a week, those things have
vacated their places at least twenty times for inspection; and this
ridiculous mania for the 'latest style' disgusts me beyond measure.
I tell you, the majority of the women in this town think of nothing
else. I have not yet looked over my wardrobe myself. Mother selected
it in Paris, and I did not trouble myself to examine it when it was
unpacked."
Beulah smiled, but offered no comment. Cornelia suddenly sank back
in her chair, and said hastily:
"Give me that vial on the bureau! Quick! quick!"
Beulah sprang up and handed her the vial, which she put to her lips.
She was ghastly pale, her features writhed, and heavy drops
glistened on her brow, corrugated by severe pain.
"Can I do anything for you, Cornelia? Shall I call your mother?"
"No. You may fan me, if you will." She moaned and closed her eyes.
Beulah seized a fan, and did as requested, now and then wiping away
the moisture which gathered around the lips and forehead. Gradually
the paroxysm passed off, and, opening her eyes, she said wearily:
"That will do, thank you. Now pour out a glass of water from the
pitcher yonder."
Beulah handed her the draught, saying, with surprise:
"Sitting wrapped up by a fire and drinking ice-water!"
"Yes; I use ice-water the year round. Please touch the bellrope,
will you?"
As Beulah resumed her seat, Cornelia added, with a forced laugh:
"You look as if you pitied me."
"I do, most sincerely. Do you suffer in this way often?"
"Yes--no--well, when I am prudent I don't." Then, turning to the
servant, who stood at the door, she continued: "John, go to Dr.
Hartwell's office (not his house, mind you), and leave word that he
must come here before night. Do you understand? Shut the door-stop!
send up some coal!"
She drew her chair closer to the fire, and, extending her slippered
feet on the marble hearth, said:
"I have suffered more during the last three days than in six months
before. Last night I did not close my eyes--and Dr. Hartwell must
prepare me some medicine. What is the matter with Clara Sanders? She
looks like an alabaster image!"
"She has never recovered entirely from that attack of yellow fever;
and a day or two ago she took cold, and has had constant fever
since. I suppose she will see the doctor while I am here. I feel
anxious about her."
"She looks ethereal, as if refined for a translation to heaven,"
continued Cornelia musingly; then suddenly lifting her head, she
listened an instant, and exclaimed angrily: "It is very strange that
I am not to have an hour's peace and enjoyment with you, without--"
The door opened, and a graceful form and lovely face approached the
fireplace. "Miss Benton, suffer me to introduce my cousin, Miss
Dupres," said Cornelia very coldly.
The young lady just inclined her head, and proceeded to scan
Beulah's countenance and dress, with a degree of cool impertinence
which was absolutely amusing. Evidently, however, Cornelia saw
nothing amusing in this ill-bred stare, for she pushed a light chair
impatiently toward her, saying:
"Sit down, Antoinette!"
She threw herself into the seat with a sort of languid grace, and
said, in the most musical of voices:
"Why would not you see Julia Vincent? She was so much disappointed."
"Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her. Be good
enough to move your chair to one side, if you please," snapped
Cornelia.
"That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you. We
are all to spend the evening with her next week--you, and your
brother, and I. A mere 'sociable,' she says." She had been
admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and
now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had
been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky
auburn curls. Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was
such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls--blank, soulless,
expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of
self-satisfaction. Beulah's quiet dignity failed to repel the
continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her
shawl, she rose.
"Don't go," said Cornelia earnestly.
"I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon."
"When will you come again?" Cornelia took her hand and pressed it
warmly.
"I really do not know. I hope you will be better soon."
"Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening
with us. What shall I tell him?"
"Nothing."
"I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this
prison-house of mine. Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and
sit with me?"
"That depends upon circumstances. If you are sick and lonely, I
certainly will. Good-by."
"Good-by, Beulah." The haughty heiress drew the orphan's face down
to hers and kissed her cordially. Not a little surprised by this
unexpected demonstration of affection in one so cold and stately,
Beulah bowed distantly to the cousin, who returned the salutation
still more distantly, and, hastening down the steps, was glad to
find herself once more under the dome of sky, gray and rainy though
it was. The wind sighed and sobbed through the streets, and a few
cold drops fell, as she approached Mrs. Hoyt's. Quickening her
steps, she ran in by a side entrance, and was soon at Clara's room.
The door stood open, and, with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she
entered, little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented
herself with the hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table,
preparing some medicine, and looked up involuntarily as she came in.
His eyes lightened instantly, but he merely said:
"Good-evening, Beulah."
The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and, crossing the
room at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand.
"How are you, sir?"
He did not, take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said:
"You are an admirable nurse, to go off and leave your sick friend."
Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and, retreating to the
hearth, began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with
indifference:
"I have just left another of your patients. Cornelia Graham has been
worse than usual for a day or two. Clara, I will put away my outdoor
wrappings and be with you presently." She retired to her own room,
and, leaning against the window, where the rain was now pattering
drearily, she murmured faintly:
"Will he always treat me so? Have I lost my friend forever? Once he
was so different; so kind, even in his sternness!" A tear hung upon
her lash, and fell on her hand; she brushed it hastily away, and
stood thinking over this alienation, so painful and unnatural, when
she heard her guardian close Clara's door and walk across the hall
to the head of the stairs. She waited a while, until she thought he
had reached his buggy, and slowly proceeded to Clara's room. Her
eyes were fixed on the floor and her hand was already on the bolt of
the door, when a deep voice startled her.
"Beulah!"
She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of
grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes that looked into hers
with such misty splendor; and, provoked at her own emotion, she
asked coldly:
"What do you want, sir?"
He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt
the hot blood rush into her usually cold, pale face, and, despite
her efforts to seem perfectly indifferent, her eyelids and lips
would tremble. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke
very gently.
"Child, have you been ill? You look wretched. What ails you,
Beulah?"
"Nothing, sir."
"That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me!"
"I tell you I am as well as usual," cried she impatiently, yet her
voice faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart.
The return of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice,
affected her more than she was willing he should see.
"Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid."
"I am so still," she returned stoutly, though tears began to gather
in her eyes.
"No, child; already the world has changed you."
A shadow fell over his face, and the sad eyes were like clouded
stars.
"You know better, sir! I am just what I always was! It is you who
are so changed! Once you were my friend; my guardian! Once you were
kind, and guided me; but now you are stern, and bitter, and
tyrannical!" She spoke passionately, and tears, which she bravely
tried to force back, rolled swiftly down her cheeks. His light touch
on her shoulder tightened until it seemed a hand of steel, and, with
an expression which she never forgot, even in after years, he
answered:
"Tyrannical! Not to you, child!"
"Yes, sir; tyrannical! cruelly tyrannical! Because I dared to think
and act for myself, you have cast off--utterly! You try to see how
cold and distant you can be; and show me that you don't care whether
I live or die, so long as I choose to be independent of you. I did
not believe that you could ever be so ungenerous!" She looked up at
him with swimming eyes. He smiled down into her tearful face, and
asked:
"Why did you defy me, child?"
"I did not, sir, until you treated me worse than the servants; worse
than you did Charon even."
"How?"
"How, indeed! You left me in your own house without one word of
good-by, when you expected to be absent an indefinite time. Did you
suppose that I would remain there an hour after such treatment?"
He smiled again, and said in the low, musical tone which she had
always found so difficult to resist.
"Come back, my child. Come back to me!"
"Never, sir! never!" answered she resolutely.
A stony hue settled on his face; the lips seemed instantly frozen,
and, removing his hand from her shoulder, he said, as if talking to
a perfect stranger: "See that Clara Sanders needs nothing; she is
far from being well."
He left her; but her heart conquered for an instant, and she sprang
down two steps and caught his hand. Pressing her face against his
arm, she exclaimed brokenly:
"Oh, sir! do not cast me off entirely! My friend, my guardian,
indeed I have not deserved this!"
He laid his hand on her bowed head, and said calmly:
"Fierce, proud spirit! Ah! it will take long years of trial and
suffering to tame you. Go, Beulah! You have cast yourself off. It
was no wish, no work of mine."
He lifted her head from his arm, gently unclasped her fingers, and
walked away. Beulah dried the tears on her cheek, and, composing
herself by a great effort, returned to Clara. The latter still sat
in an easy-chair, and leaned back with closed eyes. Beulah made no
effort to attract her attention, and sat down noiselessly to reflect
upon her guardian's words and the separation which, she now clearly
saw, he intended should be final. There, in the gathering gloom of
twilight, sat Clara Sanders, nerving her heart for the dreary
future; solemnly and silently burying the cherished hopes that had
irised her path, and now, looking steadily forward to coming years,
she said to her drooping spirit: "Be strong and bear this sorrow. I
will conquer my own heart." How is it that, when the human soul is
called to pass through a fierce ordeal, and numbing despair seizes
the faculties and energies in her sepulchral grasp, how is it that
superhuman strength is often suddenly infused into the sinking
spirit? There is a mysterious yet resistless power given, which
winds up and sets again in motion that marvelous bit of mechanism,
the human will; that curiously intricate combination of wheels; that
mainspring of action, which has baffled the ingenuity of
philosophers, and remains yet undiscovered, behind the cloudy shrine
of the unknown. Now, there are times when this human clock well-nigh
runs down; when it seems that volition is dead; when the past is all
gilded, the future all shrouded, and the soul grows passive, hoping
nothing, fearing nothing. Yet when the slowly swinging pendulum
seems about to rest, even then an unseen hand touches the secret
spring; and, as the curiously folded coil quivers on again, the
resuscitated will is lifted triumphantly back to its throne. This
newborn power is from God. But, ye wise ones of earth, tell us how,
and by whom, is the key applied? Are ministering angels (our white-
robed idols, our loved dead) ordained to keep watch over the
machinery of the will and attend to the winding up? Or is this
infusion of strength, whereby to continue its operations, a sudden
tightening of those invisible cords which bind the All-Father to the
spirits he has created? Truly, there is no Oedipus for this vexing
riddle. Many luckless theories have been devoured by the Sphinx;
when will metaphysicians solve it? One tells us vaguely enough, "Who
knows the mysteries of will, with its vigor? Man doth not yield him
to the angels, nor unto death, utterly, save only through the
weakness of his feeble will." This pretty bubble of a "latent
strength" has vanished; the power is from God; but who shall unfold
the process? Clara felt that this precious help was given in her
hour of need; and, looking up undauntedly to the clouds that
darkened her sky, said to her hopeless heart: "I will live to do my
duty, and God's work on eirth; I will go bravely forward in my path
of labor, strewing flowers and sunshine. If God needs a lonely,
chastened spirit to do his behests, oh! shall I murmur and die
because I am chosen? What are the rushing, howling waves of life in
comparison with the calm, shoreless ocean of all eternity?"
The lamp was brought in and the fire renewed, and the two friends
sat by the hearth, silent, quiet. Clara's face had a sweet, serene
look: Beulah's was composed, so far as rigidity of features
betokened; yet the firm curve of her full upper lip might have
indexed somewhat of the confusion which reigned in her mind. Once a
great, burning light flashed out from her eyes, then the lashes
drooped a little and veiled the storm. After a time Clara lifted her
eyes, and said gently:
"Will you read to me, Beulah?"
"Gladly, gladly; what shall it be?" She sprang up eagerly.
"Anything hopeful and strengthening. Anything but your study-books
of philosophy and metaphysics. Anything but those, Beulah."
"And why not those?" asked the girl quickly.
"Because they always confuse and darken me."
"You do not understand them, perhaps?"
"I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I
need."
"What do you need, Clara?"
"The calm content and courage to do my duty through life. I want to
be patient and useful."
The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a
contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out. The
night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down
the panes. She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her
hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning:
"'The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.'"
Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem
which seemed so singularly suited to Clara's wishes, the latter said
earnestly:
"Yes, yes, Beulah,"
"'Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.'"
"Let us obey the poet's injunction, and realize the closing lines:"
"'And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.'"
Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking
out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of
impatience in her tone:
"Why try to escape it all, Clara? If those 'grand old masters,'
those 'bards sublime,' who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's
endless toil and endeavor,' speak to you through my loved books, why
should you 'long for rest'?"
"An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the
eagle," answered Clara meekly.
"One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties. Strong
swimmers are such from fierce buffetings with hungry waves. Come out
of your warm nest of inertia! Strengthen your wings by battling with
storm and wind!" Her brow bent as she spoke.
"Beulah, what sustains you would starve me."
"Something has come over you, Clara."
"Yes; a great trust in God's wisdom and mercy has stolen into my
heart. I no longer look despondingly into my future."
"Why? Because you fancy that future will be very short and painless?
Ah, Clara, is this trust, when the end comes and there is no more
work to do?"
"You are mistaken; I do not see Death beckoning me home. Oh, I have
not earned a home yet! I look forward to years of labor, profit, and
peace. To-day I found some lines in the morning paper. Nay, don't
curl your lips with a sneer at what you call 'newspaper poetry.'
Listen to the words that came like a message from the spirit-land to
my murmuring heart." Her voice was low and unsteady, as she read:
"'Two hands upon the breast, and labor's done;
Two pale feet crossed in rest, the race is won.
Two eyes with coin-weights shut, all tears cease;
Two lips where grief is mute, and wrath at peace.
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
God, in his kindness, answereth not!'"
"Such, Beulah, I felt had been my unvoiced prayer; but now!"
"'Two hands to work addressed; aye, for his praise,
Two feet that never rest; walking his ways;
Two eyes that look above, still through all tears;
Two lips that breathe but love; never more fears.
SO WE CRY AFTERWARD, LOW AT OUR KNEES.
PARDON THOSE ERRING CRIES! FATHER, HEAR THESE!"
"Oh Beulah, such is now my prayer."
As Beulah stood near the lamp, strange shadows fell on her brow;
shadows from the long, curling lashes. After a brief silence, she
asked earnestly:
"Are your prayers answered, Clara? Does God hear you?"
"Yes; oh, yes!" "Wherefore?"
"Because Christ died!"
"Is your faith in Christ so firm? Does it never waver?"
"Never; even in my most desponding moments."
Beulah looked at her keenly; and asked, with something like a
shiver:
"Did it never occur to you to doubt the plan of redemption, as
taught by divines, as laid down in the New Testament?"
"No, never. I want to die before such a doubt occurs to me. Oh, what
would my life be without that plan? What would a fallen, sin-cursed
world be without a Jesus?"
"But why curse a race in order to necessitate a Saviour?"
Clara looked in astonishment at the pale, fixed features before her.
A frightened expression came over her own countenance, a look of
shuddering horror; and, putting up her wasted hands, as if to ward
off some grim phantom, she cried:
"Oh, Beulah! what is this? You are not an infidel?"
Her companion was silent a moment; then said emphatically:
"Dr. Hartwell does not believe the religion you hold so dear."
Clara covered her face with her hands, and answered brokenly:
"Beulah, I have envied you, because I fancied that your superior
intellect won you the love which I was weak enough to expect and
need. But if it has brought you both to doubt the Bible, I thank God
that the fatal gift was withheld from me. Have your books and
studies brought you to this? Beulah! Beulah! throw them into the
fire, and come back to trust in Christ."
She held out her hands imploringly; but, with a singularly cold
smile, her friend replied:
"You must go to sleep. Your fever is rising. Don't talk any more to-
night; I will not hear you."
An hour after Clara slept soundly, and Beulah sat in her own room
bending over a book. Midnight study had long since become an
habitual thing; nay, two and three o'clock frequently found her
beside the waning lamp. Was it any marvel that, as Dr. Hartwell
expressed it, she "looked wretched." From her earliest childhood she
had been possessed by an active spirit of inquiry which constantly
impelled her to investigate, and as far as possible to explain, the
mysteries which surrounded, her on every side. With her growth grew
this haunting spirit, which asked continually: "What am I? Whence
did I come? And whither am I bound? What is life? What is death? Am
I my own mistress, or am I but a tool in the hands of my Maker? What
constitutes the difference between my mind and my body? Is there any
difference? If spirit must needs have body to incase it, and body
must have a spirit to animate it, may they not be identical? With
these primeval foundation questions began her speculative career. In
the solitude of her own soul she struggled bravely and earnestly to
answer those "dread questions, which, like swords of flaming fire,
tokens of imprisonment, encompass man on earth." Of course mystery
triumphed. Panting for the truth, she pored over her Bible,
supposing that here, at least, all clouds would melt away; but here,
too, some inexplicable passages confronted her. Physically, morally,
and mentally she found the world warring. To reconcile these
antagonisms with the conditions and requirements of Holy Writ, she
now most faithfully set to work. Ah, proudly aspiring soul! How many
earnest thinkers had essayed the same mighty task, and died under
the intolerable burden? Unluckily for her, there was no one to
direct or assist her. She scrupulously endeavored to conceal her
doubts and questions from her guardian. Poor child? she fancied she
concealed them so effectually from his knowledge; while he silently
noted the march of skepticism in her nature. There were dim,
puzzling passages of Scripture which she studied on her knees; now
trying to comprehend them, and now beseeching the Source of all
knowledge to enlighten her. But, as has happened to numberless
others, there was seemingly no assistance given. The clouds grew
denser and darker, and, like the "cry of strong swimmers in their
agony," her prayers had gone up to the Throne of Grace. Sometimes
she was tempted to go to the minister of the church where she sat
Sunday after Sunday, and beg him to explain the mysteries to her.
But the pompous austerity of his manners repelled her whenever she
thought of broaching the subject, and gradually she saw that she
must work out her own problems. Thus, from week to week and month to
month, she toiled on, with a slowly dying faith, constantly
clambering over obstacles which seemed to stand between her trust
and revelation. It was no longer study for the sake of erudition;
these riddles involved all that she prized in Time and Eternity, and
she grasped books of every description with the eagerness of a
famishing nature. What dire chance threw into her hands such works
as Emerson's, Carlyle's, and Goethe's? Like the waves of the clear,
sunny sea, they only increased her thirst to madness. Her burning
lips were ever at these fountains; and, in her reckless eagerness,
she plunged into the gulf of German speculation. Here she believed
that she had indeed found the "true processes," and, with renewed
zest, continued the work of questioning. At this stage of the
conflict the pestilential scourge was laid upon the city, and she
paused from her metaphysical toil to close glazed eyes and shroud
soulless clay. In the awful hush of those hours of watching she
looked calmly for some solution, and longed for the unquestioning
faith of early years. But these influences passed without aiding her
in the least, and, with rekindled ardor, she went back to her false
prophets. In addition, ethnology beckoned her on to conclusions
apparently antagonistic to the revealed system, and the stony face
of geology seemed radiant with characters of light, which she might
decipher and find some security in. From Dr. Asbury's extensive
collection she snatched treatise after treatise. The sages of
geology talked of the pre-Adamic eras, and of man's ending the
slowly forged chain, of which the radiata form the lowest link; and
then she was told that in those pre-Adamic ages paleontologists find
no trace whatever of that golden time when the vast animal creation
lived in harmony and bloodshed was unknown; ergo, man's fall in Eden
had no agency in bringing death into the world; ergo, that chapter
in Genesis need puzzle her no more.
Finally, she learned that she was the crowning intelligence in the
vast progression; that she would ultimately become part of Deity.
"The long ascending line, from dead matter to man, had been a
progress Godward, and the next advance would unite creation and
Creator in one person." With all her aspirations she had never
dreamed of such a future as was here promised her. To-night she was
closely following that most anomalous of all guides, "Herr
Teufelsdrockh." Urged on by the same "unrest," she was stumbling
along dim, devious paths, while from every side whispers came to
her: "Nature is one: she is your mother, and divine: she is God! The
'living garment of God.'" Through the "everlasting No," and the
"everlasting Yea," she groped her way, darkly, tremblingly, waiting
for the day-star of Truth to dawn; but, at last, when she fancied
she saw the first rays silvering the night, and looked up hopefully,
it proved one of many ignes-fatui which had flashed across her path,
and she saw that it was Goethe, uplifted as the prophet of the
genuine religion. The book fell from her nerveless fingers; she
closed her eyes, and groaned. It was all "confusion, worse
confounded." She could not for her life have told what she believed,
much less what she did not believe. The landmarks of earlier years
were swept away; the beacon light of Calvary had sunk below her
horizon. A howling chaos seemed about to ingulf her. At that moment
she would gladly have sought assistance from her guardian; but how
could she approach him after their last interview? The friendly face
and cordial kindness of Dr. Asbury flashed upon her memory, and she
resolved to confide her doubts and difficulties to him, hoping to
obtain from his clear and matured judgment some clew which might
enable her to emerge from the labyrinth that involved her. She knelt
and tried to pray. To what did she, on bended knees, send up
passionate supplications? To nature? to heroes? These were the new
deities. She could not pray; all grew dark; she pressed her hands to
her throbbing brain, striving to clear away the mists. "Sartor" had
effectually blindfolded her, and she threw herself down to sleep
with a shivering dread, as of a young child separated from its
mother, and wailing in some starless desert.