The hours of gradual convalescence were very trying to Beulah, now
that the sense of danger no longer nerved her to almost superhuman
endurance and exertion. Mr. Graham waited until his adopted son was
able to sit up, and then returned to the watering-place where his
wife remained. Thus the entire charge of the invalid devolved on the
tireless friends who had watched over him in the hour of peril.
Beulah had endeavored to banish the sorrow that pressed so heavily
on her heart, and to dispel the gloom and despondency which seemed
to have taken possession of the deserted husband. She read, talked,
sang to him, and constantly strove to cheer him by painting a future
in which the past was to be effectually canceled. Though well-nigh
exhausted by incessant care and loss of sleep, she never complained
of weariness, and always forced a smile of welcome to her lips when
the' invalid had his chair wheeled to her side, or tottered out into
the dining room to join her. One morning in August she sat on the
little gallery at the rear of the house, with a table before her,
engaged in drawing some of the clusters of blue, white, and pink
convolvulus which festooned the pillars and balustrade. Eugene sat
near her, with his thin face leaning on his hand, his thoughts
evidently far removed from flowers. His arm was still in a sling,
and he looked emaciated and dejected. Mrs. Williams had been talking
to him cheerfully about some money matters he had promised to
arrange for her so soon as he was well enough to go to his office;
but, gathering up her working materials, the old lady went into the
kitchen, and the two sat for some time in silence. One of his long-
drawn sighs arrested Beulah's attention, and she said kindly:
"What is the matter, brother mine? Are you tired of watching my
clumsy fingers? Shall I finish that essay of Macaulay's you were so
much interested in yesterday, or will you have another of Bryant's
poems?" She laid down her pencil, quite ready to divert his mind by
reading.
"No; do not quit your drawing; I should not enjoy even Macaulay to-
day."
He threw his head back, and sighed again.
"Why, Eugene? Don't you feel as well as usual this morning? Remember
your family will arrive to-day; you should be the happiest man
living."
"Oh, Beulah! don't mock me. I cannot bear it. My life seems a
hopeless blank."
"You ought not to talk so despondingly; you have everything to live
for. House your energies. Be indeed a man. Conquer this weak,
repining spirit. Don't you remember the motto on the tombstone at
St. Gilgen?
"'Look not mournfully on the past--it comes not back;
Enjoy the present--it is thine.
Go forth to meet the shadowy future
With a manly heart, and without fear.'"
"You know little of what oppresses me. It is the knowledge of my--of
Antoinette's indifference which makes the future so joyless, so
desolate. Beulah, this has caused my ruin. When I stood by
Cornelia's coffin, and recalled her last frantic appeal; when I
looked down at her cold face, and remembered her devoted love for
her unworthy brother, I vowed never to touch wine again; to absent
myself from the associates who had led me to dissipation. Beulah, I
was honest, and intended to reform from that hour. But Antoinette's
avowed coldness, or, to call it by its proper name, heartless
selfishness and fondness for admiration, first disgusted and then
maddened me. I would have gladly spent my evenings quietly, in our
elegant home; but she contrived to have it crowded with visitors as
soulless and frivolous as herself. I remonstrated; she was sneering,
defiant, and unyielding, and assured me she would 'amuse' herself as
she thought proper; I followed her example, and went back to the
reckless companions who continually beset my path. I was miserably
deceived in Antoinette's character. She was very beautiful, and I
was blind to her mental, nay, I may as well say it at once, her
moral, defects. I believed she was warmly attached to me, and I
loved her most devotedly. But no sooner were we married than I
discovered my blind rashness. Cornelia warned me; but what man,
fascinated by a beautiful girl, ever listened to counsels that
opposed his heart? Antoinette is too intensely selfish to love
anything or anybody but herself; she does not even love her child.
Strange as it may seem, she is too entirely engrossed by her weak
fondness for display and admiration even to caress her babe. Except
at breakfast and dinner we rarely meet, and then, unless company is
present (which is generally the case), our intercourse is studiedly
cold. Do you wonder that I am hopeless in view of a life passed with
such a companion? Oh, that I could blot out the last two years of my
existence!"
He groaned, and shaded his face with his hands.
"But, Eugene, probably your reformation and altered course will win
you your wife's love and reverence," suggested Beulah, anxious to
offer some incentive to exertion.
"I know her nature too well to hope that. A woman who prefers to
dance and ride with gentlemen rather than remain in her luxurious
home with her babe and her duties, cannot be won from her moth-like
life. No, no! I despair of happiness from her society and affection,
and, if at all, must derive it from other sources. My child is the
one living blossom amidst all my withered hopes. She is the only
treasure I have, except your friendship. She shall never blush for
her father's degradation. Henceforth, though an unhappy man, I shall
prove myself a temperate one. I cannot trust my child's education to
Antoinette; she is unworthy the sacred charge; I must fit myself to
form her character. Oh, Beulah, if I could make her such a woman as
you are, then I could indeed bear my lot patiently! I named her
Cornelia, but henceforth she shall be called Beulah also, in token
of her father's gratitude to his truest friend."
"No, Eugene; call her not after me, lest some of my sorrows come
upon her young head. Oh, no! name her not Beulah; let her be called
Cornelia. I would not have her soul shrouded as mine has been."
Beulah spoke vehemently, and, laying her hand on his arm, she added:
"Eugene, to-day you will leave me and go back to your own house, to
your family; but before you go, I ask you, if not for your sake, for
that of your child, to promise me solemnly that you will never again
touch intoxicating drinks of any kind. Oh, will you promise? Will
you reform entirely?"
There was a brief pause, and he answered slowly:
"I promise, Beulah. Nay, my friend, I swear I will abstain in
future. Ah, I will never disgrace my angel child! Never, so help me
Heaven!"
The sound of approaching steps interrupted the conversation, and,
expecting to see Antoinette and her infant, accompanied by Mr. and
Mrs. Graham, Beulah looked up quickly, and perceived Mr. Lindsay.
"Does my advent startle you, that you look so pale and breathless?"
said he, smiling as he took her hand.
"I am certainly very much surprised to see you here, sir."
"And I am heartily glad you have come, Reginald," cried Eugene,
returning his friend's tight clasp.
"I intended coming to nurse you, Graham, as soon as I heard of the
accident, but my mother's illness prevented my leaving home. I need
not ask about your arm; I see it still requires cautious handling;
but how are you otherwise? Regaining your strength, I hope?"
"Yes; gradually. I am better than I deserve to be, Reginald."
"That remains to be proved in future, Graham. Come, get well as
rapidly as possible; I have a plan to submit to you, the earliest
day you are strong enough to discuss business topics. Miss Beulah,
let me sharpen your pencil."
He took it from her, trimmed it carefully, and handed it back; then
drew her portfolio near him, and glanced over the numerous
unfinished sketches.
"I have several books filled with European sketches which, I think,
might afford you some pleasure. They were taken by different
persons; and some of the views on the Rhine, and particularly some
along the southern shore of Spain, are unsurpassed by any I have
seen. You may receive them some day, after I return."
"Thank you; I shall copy them with great pleasure."
"I see you are not as much of a pyrrhonist in art as in philosophy,"
said Mr. Lindsay, watching her countenance as she bent over her
drawing.
"Who told you, sir, that I was one in any department?" She looked up
suddenly, with flashing eyes.
"There is no need to be told. I can readily perceive it."
"Your penetration is at fault, then. Of all others, the charge of
pyrrhonism is the last I merit."
He smiled, and said quietly:
"What, then, is your aesthetic creed, if I may inquire?"
"It is nearly allied to Cousin's."
"I thought you had abjured eclecticism; yet Cousin is its apostle.
Once admit his theory of the beautiful, and you cannot reject his
psychology and ethics; nay, his theodicea."
"I do not desire to separate his system; as such I receive it."
Beulah compressed her lips firmly and looked at her interrogator
half defiantly.
"You deliberately shut your eyes, then, to the goal his philosophy
sets before you?"
"No; I am nearing the goal, looking steadily toward it." She spoke
hastily, and with an involuntary wrinkling of her brow.
"And that goal is pantheism; draped gorgeously, but pantheism
still," answered Mr. Lindsay, with solemn emphasis.
"No; his whole psychology is opposed to pantheism!" cried Beulah,
pushing aside her drawing materials and meeting his eyes fixedly.
"You probably attach undue weight to his assertion that, although
God passes into the universe, or therein manifests all the elements
of his being, he is not 'exhausted in the act.' Now, granting, for
the sake of argument, that God is not entirely absorbed in the
universe, Cousin's pet doctrine of the 'Spontaneous Apperception of
Absolute Truths' clearly renders man a modification of God.
Difference in degree, you know, implies sameness of kind; from this
there is no escape. He says, 'The God of consciousness is not a
solitary sovereign, banished beyond creation, upon the throne of a
silent eternity, and an absolute existence, which resembles
existence in no respect whatever. He is a God, at once true and
real, substance and cause, one and many, eternity and time, essence
and life, end and middle; at the summit of existence and at its
base, infinite and finite together; in a word, a Trinity; being at
the same time God, Nature, and Humanity.' His separation of reason
and reasoning, and the results of his boasted 'spontaneous
apperception,' are very nearly allied to those of Schelling's
'Intellectual Intuition'; yet I suppose you would shrink from the
'absolute identity' of the latter?"
"You have not stated the question fairly, sir. He reiterates that
the absolute belongs to none of us. We perceive truth, but do not
create it!" retorted Beulah.
"You will perhaps remember his saying explicitly that we can
comprehend the Absolute?"
"Yes; I recollect; and, moreover, he declares that 'we are conducted
to God by a ray of his own being.'"
"Can limited faculties comprehend the infinite and eternal creator?"
"We do not attain a knowledge of him through finite channels. Cousin
contends that it is by means of relation to the absolute that we
know God."
"Then, to know the absolute, or God, you must be the absolute; or,
in other words, God only can find God. This is the simple doctrine,
when you unwind the veil he has cleverly hung over it. True, he
denounces pantheism; but here is pantheism of the eclectic patent,
differing from that of other systems only in subtlety of expression,
wherein Cousin certainly excels. One of the most profound
philosophical writers of the age, [Footnote: J. D. Moreil.
"Speculative Philosophy of Europe."] and one whose opinion on this
point certainly merits careful consideration, has remarked, in an
analysis of Cousin's system, 'with regard to his notion of Deity, we
have already shown how closely this verges upon the principle of
Pantheism. Even if we admit that it is not a doctrine, like that of
Spinoza, which identifies God with the abstract idea of substance;
or even like that of Hegel, which regards Deity as synonymous with
the absolute law and process of the universe; if we admit, in fact,
that the Deity of Cousin possesses a conscious personality, yet
still it is one which contains in itself the infinite personality
and consciousness of every subordinate mind. God is the ocean--we
are but the waves; the ocean may be one individuality, and each wave
another; but still they are essentially one and the same. We see not
how Cousin's Theism can possibly be consistent with any idea of
moral evil; neither do we see how, starting from such a dogma, he
can ever vindicate and uphold his own theory of human liberty. On
such theistic principles all sin must be simply defect, and all
defect must be absolutely fatuitous.' Eclecticism was a beautiful
but frail levee, opposed to the swollen tide of skepticism, and, as
in every other crevasse when swept away, it only caused the stream
to rush on more madly."
He watched her closely as he spoke, and observed the quiver of her
long, curling lashes; he saw, too, that she was resolved not to
surrender, and waited for an explicit defense; but here Eugene
interrupted.
"All this tweedledum and tweedledee reminds me of Heidelberg days,
when a few of us roamed about the Odenwald, chopping off flowers
with our canes and discussing philosophy. Rare jargon we made of it;
talking of cosmothetie idealism or hypothetical dualism, of noetic
and dianoetic principles, of hylozoism and hypostasis, and
demonstrating the most undemonstrable propositions by appeals to the
law of contradiction or of excluded middle. I fancied then that I
was growing very learned--wondered whether Beulah here would be able
to keep up with me, and really thought I understood what I
discoursed about so logically."
"You can at least console yourself, Graham, by determining that
"'You know what's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.'"
I imagine there are very few of us who would agree with some of our
philosophers, that 'the pursuit of truth is far more important than
the attainment thereof'--that philosophizing is more valuable than
philosophy. To be conversant with the abstractions which, in the
hands of some metaphysical giants, have rendered both mind and
matter like abstractions, is a course of proceeding I should
scarcely indorse; and the best antidote I remember just now to any
such web-spinning proclivities is a persual of the three first
lectures of Sidney Smith on 'Moral Philosophy.' In recapitulating
the tenets of the schools, he says: 'The speculations of many of the
ancients on the human understanding are so confused, and so purely
hypothetical, that their greatest admirers are not agreed upon their
meaning; and whenever we can procure a plain statement of their
doctrines, all other modes of refuting them appear to be wholly
superfluous.' Miss Beulah, I especially commend you to these
humorous lectures." He bowed to her with easy grace.
"I have them, sir--have read them with great pleasure," said Beulah,
smiling at his droll manner of mingled reserve and freedom.
"What an exalted estimate that same incorrigible Sidney must have
placed upon the public taste of this republican land of ours? In one
of his lectures on 'the beauty of form,' I remember he says: 'A chin
ending in a very sharp angle would be a perfect deformity. A man
whose chin terminated in a point would be under the immediate
necessity of retiring to America--he would be such a perfect
horror!' Decidedly flattering to our national type of beauty." As
Eugene spoke, his lips wore a smile more akin to those of his
boyhood than any Beulah had seen since his return from Europe.
"Yes; that was to show the influence of custom, be it remembered;
and, in the same connection, he remarks, honestly enough, that he
'hardly knows what a Grecian face is; but thinks it very probable
that if the elegant arts had been transmitted to us from the
Chinese, instead of the Greeks, that singular piece of deformity--a
Chinese nose--would have been held in high estimation.' It was
merely association."
"Which I don't believe a word of!" cried Beulah, appropriating the
last as a lunge at her favorite absolutism. Rising, she placed her
drawings in the portfolio, for the sun had crept round the corner of
the gallery and was shining in her face.
Mr. Lindsay smiled, without replying, and gave his arm to assist
Eugene into the house. They were comfortably seated in the dining
room, and Beulah knew that the discussion was about to be renewed,
when a carriage dashed up to the door. Eugene turned pale, and a
sudden rigidity seized his features. Beulah gave her guest a quick,
meaning glance, and retreated to the gallery, whither he instantly
followed her, leaving Eugene to receive his wife without witnesses.
Leaning against one of the pillars, Beulah unfastened a wreath of
blue convolvulus which Mrs. Williams had twined in her hair an hour
before. The delicate petals were withered, and, with a suppressed
sigh, she threw them away. Mr. Lindsay drew a letter from his pocket
and handed it to her, saying briefly:
"I was commissioned to give you this, and, knowing the contents,
hope a favorable answer."
It was from Clara, urging her to come up the following week and
officiate as bridesmaid at her wedding. She could return home with
Helen and George Asbury. Beulah read the letter, smiled sadly, and
put it in her pocket.
"Will you go?"
"No, sir."
"Why not? You need a change of air, and the trip would benefit you.
You do not probably know how much you have altered in appearance
since I saw you. My uncle is coming out to persuade you to go. Can't
I succeed without his aid?"
"I could not leave home now. Eugene's illness has prevented my
accomplishing some necessary work, and as I consign him to other
hands to-day, I must make amends for my long indolence. Thank you
for taking charge of my letter; but I cannot think of going."
He perceived that no amount of persuasion would avail, and for an
instant a look of annoyance crossed his face. But his brow cleared
as he said, with a smile:
"For a year I have watched for your articles, and the magazine is a
constant companion of my desk. Sometimes I am tempted to criticise
your sketches; perhaps I may do so yet, and that in no Boswell
spirit either."
"Doubtless, sir, you would find them very vulnerable to criticism,
which nowadays has become a synonym for fault-finding; at least this
carping proclivity characterizes the class who seem desirous only of
earning reputation as literary Jeffreys. I am aware, sir, that I am
very vulnerable."
"Suppose, then, that at the next month's literary assize (as you
seem disposed to consider it), you find in some of the magazines a
severe animadversion upon the spirit of your writings? Dare I do
this, and still hope for your friendship?"
He watched her closely.
"Certainly, sir. I am not writing merely to see myself in print, nor
wholly for remuneration in dollars and cents. I am earnestly
searching for truth, and if in my articles you discover error and
can correct it, I shall be glad to have you do so, provided you
adopt the catholic spirit which should distinguish such
undertakings. Now, if you merely intend to hold me up for ridicule
as thoroughly as possible, I prefer that you let me and my articles
rest; but a calm, dispassionate criticism I should not shrink from.
I write only what I believe, and if I am in error, I shall be glad
to have it corrected."
"Miss Benton, may I venture to correct it without having recourse to
the vehicle of public criticism? Will you permit me to discuss with
you, here in your quiet home, those vital questions whose solution
seems to engage your every thought?"
She drew back, and answered, with a dreary sort of smile:
"I am afraid you would derive little pleasure, and I less profit,
from such disputation. I have learned from bitter experience that
merely logical forms of argumentation do not satisfy the hungry
soul. The rigid processes of Idealism annihilated the external
world; and Hume proved that Mind was a like chimera; yet who was
ever seriously converted by their incontrovertible reasoning? I have
lost faith in ratiocination."
"Still you cling to opinions founded on its errors. Why not be
consistent, and, in rejecting its most potent ally, reject the
conclusions of Rationalism also?"
"Because I must believe something. Faith in some creed is an
absolute necessity of human nature."
"You distinguish faith, then, from intellectual belief?"
"No; I compound them; my faith is based on mental conviction,"
replied Beulah, perceiving whither he was leading her, and resolved
not to follow.
"And this conviction results from those same processes of
ratiocination which you condemn as unworthy of credence, because
subject to gross, sometimes ludicrous, perversions?"
"I am unable to detect any such perversion or inaccuracy in the
cautious course of reasoning which has assisted me to my present
belief."
"Pardon me; but does this fact convince you of the Infallibility of
the course? Have you constituted your individual reason the sole
judge?"
"Yes; there is no other left me."
"And your conclusions are true for you only, since the individual
organism of your mind makes them so. To an intellect of a higher or
lower grade these conclusions would be untenable, since the
depressed or exalted reason judged them accordingly. You may cling
to some doctrine as absolutely and necessarily true, yet to my mind
it may seem a shallow delusion, like the vagaries of spirit-
rappers."
"No; reasoning is often fallacious, but reason is divine; reasoning
often clouds the truth, but reason, by spontaneous apperception,
grasps truth," persisted Beulah unhesitatingly.
"Then truth has as many phases, and as antagonistic, as there are
individuals in the universe. All men are prophets; all are alike
inspired; all alike worthy of trust and credence. Spontaneous reason
has grasped a number of oddly conflicting doctrines, let me tell
you, and the reconciliation of these would be an undertaking to
which the dozen labors of Hercules seem a farce."
"The superstitions of various ages and nations are not valid
arguments against the existence of universal and necessary
principles."
"Why, then, have these principles produced no unanimity of faith?
The history of the human race is the history of the rise of one
philosophy and religion from the ashes of its predecessor. There is
one universal belief in the necessity of religion, and this belief
built altars in the dawn of time; but your spontaneous reason is
perpetually changing the idols on these altars. The God of one man's
reason will not satisfy that of his neighbor."
Before Beulah could reply she heard Eugene calling her in the hall,
and was hastening to meet him; but Mr. Lindsay caught her hand, and
said: "You have not yet given me permission to intrude on your
seclusion." She withdrew her hand instantly.
"When you have nothing else to occupy you, and wish to while away an
hour in literary discussion, you will generally find me at home
during vacation."
She walked on and joined Eugene in the hall. Antoinette stood in the
door, and they merely exchanged bows, while Mr. Graham grasped her
hand and earnestly thanked her for the many kindnesses she had
rendered to his family. Beulah looked at the composed, beautiful
face of the young wife, and then at the thin form of the husband,
and said hastily:
"You owe me no thanks, sir; the claims of true friendship are
imperative. In removing to his own house I trust Eugene's
improvement may not be retarded."
Antoinette tripped down the steps, and, gathering the flounces of
her costly dress, seated herself in the carriage. Mr. Graham bit his
lip, colored, and, after a cordial good-by, joined her. Eugene
smiled bitterly, and, turning to Beulah, took both her hands in his,
saying feelingly:
"Beulah, I leave your house a wiser, if not less miserable man. I am
going to atone for the past; to prove to you that your faith in me
is not altogether unmerited. If I am saved from ruin and disgrace I
owe it to you; and to you I shall look for sympathy and
encouragement. To you, my best friend, I shall often come for
sisterly aid, when clouds gather black and stormy over my miserable
home. God bless you, Beulah! I have promised reformation, and will
keep my promise sacred if it cost me my life."
He raised her hand to his lips, and, linking his arm in Mr.
Lindsay's, left the house and entered the carriage, while the latter
mounted his horse and rode slowly away.
"You look weary, child. You must give yourself some rest now," said
Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
"Rest! Ah, yes; if I could find it," returned the girl, taking the
comb from the back of her head and shaking down the folds of hair
till it hung round her like a long mourning veil.
"Suppose you try to sleep some," suggested the matron.
"I have some work to do first," said she, drawing a long breath and
wiping the dust from her desk.
Mrs. Williams withdrew; and, clasping her hands over her forehead,
Beulah stood looking up, with dim eyes, at the cloudless face that
smiled down on her, until she almost fancied the lips parted to
address her.