Mr. Lindsay's visits grew more frequent. At first Beulah wondered
what brought him so often from his distant home to the city, and
supposed it must be some legal business which engaged him; but
gradually a different solution dawned upon her mind. She rejected it
as the prompting of vanity, but again and again the supposition
recurred. The imperturbable gravity and repose of his manner often
disconcerted her. It was in vain that she resorted to sarcasm, and
irony; he was incorrigibly unruffled; in vain she was cold,
repellent, haughty; his quiet smile remained unaltered. His
superior, and thoroughly cultivated intellect, and the unaffected
simplicity of his manner, characterized by singular candor, rendered
him an unusually agreeable companion; but Beulah rebelled against
the unobtrusive yet constant care with which she fancied he watched
her. The seclusion of her life, and the reserve of her nature,
conspired to impart a degree of abruptness to her own manners; and
to one who understood her character less than Reginald Lindsay there
was an unhesitating sincerity of expression which might have been
termed rudeness. The frequency of his visits attracted the attention
of strangers; already the busy tongue of meddling gossip had
connected their names; Dr. Asbury, too, bantered her unmercifully
upon his nephew's constant pilgrimages to the city; and the result
was that Mr. Lindsay's receptions grew colder and less flattering
continually. From the first she had not encouraged his visits, and
now she positively discouraged them by every intimation which the
rules of etiquette justified her in offering. Yet she respected,
esteemed, and in many things admired him; and readily confessed to
her own heart that his society often gave her pleasure,
One winter evening she sat alone by the dining-room fire, with a
newspaper in her hand, reading a notice of the last number of the
magazine, in which one of her sketches was roughly handled. Of
course she was no better pleased with the unflattering criticism
than the majority of writers in such cases. She frowned, bit her
lip, and wondered who could have written it. The review was
communicated, and the paper had been sent to her by some unknown
hand. Once more she read the article, and her brow cleared, while a
smile broke over her face. She had recognized a particular dictum,
and was no longer puzzled. Leaning her head on her palm, she sat
looking into the fire, ruminating on the objections urged against
her piece; it was the first time she had ever been unfavorably
criticised, and this was sufficient food for thought.
Mr. Lindsay came in and stood near her unobserved. They had not met
for several weeks, and she was not aware that he was in the city.
Charon, who lay on the rug at her feet, growled, and she looked
round.
"Good-evening," said her visitor, extending his hand.
She did not accept it; but merely inclined her head, saying:
"Ah, how do you do, sir?"
He laid a package on the table, drew a chair near the hearth without
looking at her, and, calling to Charon, patted his huge head kindly.
"What have you there, Miss Beulah? Merely a newspaper; it seems to
interest you intensely. May I see it?"
"I am certainly very much obliged to you, sir, for the chivalrous
spirit in which you indited your criticism. I was just pondering it
when you entered."
She smiled as she spoke, and shook the paper at him.
"I thought I had feigned a style you would not recognize," he
answered quite unconcernedly.
"You succeeded admirably, with the exception of one pet phrase,
which betrayed you. Next time, recollect that you are very partial
to some particular expressions, with which I happen to be
acquainted; and avoid their introduction."
"I rather think I shall not repeat the experiment; especially as my
arguments seem to have failed signally in their design. Are you
quite sure that you understand my review perfectly?"
He looked a little curious--she fancied disappointed--and she
replied laughingly:
"Oh, I think I do; it is not so very abstruse."
He leaned forward, took the paper from her, before she was aware of
his intention, and threw it into the fire.
She looked surprised, and he offered his hand once more.
"Are we still friends? Will you shake hands with your reviewer?"
She unhesitatingly put her hand in his, and answered:
"Friendship is not a gossamer thread, to be severed by a stroke of
the pen."
She endeavored to withdraw her fingers, but he held them firmly,
while his blue eyes rested upon her with an expression she by no
means liked. Her black brows met in a heavy frown, and her lips
parted angrily. He saw it, and instantly released her hand.
"Miss Beulah, my uncle commissioned me to say to you that he
received a letter to-day from Dr. Hartwell. It was written during
his voyage down the Red Sea, and contained a long farewell, as
inland travel would afford no facilities for writing."
He noted the tight clasp in which her fingers locked each other, and
the livid paleness of her lips and brow, as the long lashes drooped
and she sat silently listening. Charon laid his head on her knee and
looked up at her. There was a brief silence, and Mr. Lindsay added
slowly:
"My uncle fears he will never return. Do you cherish the hope?"
"Yes; he will come back, if his life is spared. It may be many
years; but he will come, he will come."
Their eyes met; there was a long, searching look from Mr. Lindsay;
she did not shrink from the scrutiny. An expression of keen sorrow
swept over his face, but he conquered his emotion, took the parcel
he had brought, and, unwrapping a book, said, in his usual quiet
tone:
"When I saw you last you were regretting your inability to procure
Sir William Hamilton's 'Philosophy of the Conditioned,' and I have
taken the liberty of bringing you my own copy. Read it at your
leisure; I shall not need it again soon. I do not offer it as a
system which will satisfy your mind, by solving all your problems;
but I do most earnestly commend his 'Philosophy of the Conditioned,'
as the surest antidote to the abstractions in which your speculation
has involved you. The most erudite scholar of the age, and one of
the finest metaphysical minds the world has ever known, he expressly
sums up his vast philosophic researches with the humble confession:
'There are two sorts of ignorances; we philosophize to escape
ignorance, and the consummation of our philosophy is ignorance; we
start from the one, we repose in the other; they are the goals from
which, and to which, we tend; and the pursuit of knowledge is but a
course between two ignorances, as human life is itself only a
traveling from grave to grave. The highest reach of human science is
the scientific recognition of human ignorance.' Like you, Miss
Beulah, I set out to discover some system where no mysteries
existed; where I should only believe what I could clearly
comprehend. 'Yes,' said I proudly, 'I will believe nothing that I
cannot understand.' I wandered on until, like you, I stood in a wide
waste, strewn with the wreck of beliefs. My pride asserted that my
reason was the only and sufficient guide, and whither did it lead
me? Into vagaries more inexplicable than aught I fled from in
Revelation. It was easier to believe that, 'in the beginning, God
created the heaven and the earth,' than that the glorious universe
looked to chance as its sole architect, or that it was a huge
lumbering machine of matter, grinding out laws. I saw that I was the
victim of a miserable delusion in supposing my finite faculties
could successfully grapple with the mysteries of the universe. I
found that to receive the attempted solutions of philosophy required
more faith than Revelation, and my proud soul humbled itself and
rested in the Bible. My philosophic experience had taught me that if
mankind were to have any knowledge of their origin, their destiny,
their God, it must be revealed by that God, for man could never
discover aught for himself. There are mysteries in the Bible which I
cannot explain; but it bears incontrovertible marks of divine
origin, and as such I receive it. I can sooner believe the Mosaic
revelation than the doctrine which tells you that you are part of
God and capable of penetrating to absolute truth. To quote the
expressive language of an acute critic (whose well-known
latitudinarianism and disbelief in the verbal inspiration of
Scripture give peculiar weight to his opinion on this subject),
'when the advocates of this natural, spontaneous inspiration will
come forth from their recesses of thought and deliver prophecies as
clear as those of the Hebrew seer; when they shall mold the elements
of nature to their will; when they shall speak with the sublime
authority of Jesus of Nazareth; and with the same infinite ease,
rising beyond all the influence of time, place, and circumstances,
explain the past and unfold the future; when they die for the truth
they utter, and rise again as witnesses to its divinity; then we may
begin to place them on the elevation which they so thoughtlessly
claim. But until they either prove these facts to be delusions, or
give their parallel in themselves, the world may well laugh at their
ambition and trample their spurious inspiration beneath its feet.'
There is an infinite, eternal, and loving God; I am a finite
creature, unable to comprehend him, and knowing him only through his
own revelation. This very revelation is insufficient for our
aspiring souls, I grant; but it declares emphatically that here 'we
see through a glass darkly.' Better this than the starless night in
which you grope, without a promise of the dawn of eternity, where
all mystery shall be explained. Are you not weary of fruitless,
mocking speculation?" He looked at her anxiously.
She raised her colorless face, and said drearily, as she passed her
hand over her forehead:
"Weary? Ah, yes; weary as the lonely mariner, tempest-tossed on some
pathless ocean, without chart or compass. In my sky, even the star
of hope is shrouded. Weary? Yes; in body and mind."
"Then humble your proud intellect; confess your ignorance and
inability, and rest in God and Christianity."
She made an impatient gesture, and, turning away, he walked up and
down the floor. For some moments neither spoke. Finally he
approached her, and continued:
"There is strange significance in the Mosaic record of the Fall.
Longing for the fruits of knowledge, whereby the mysteries of God
would be revealed, cost man Eden. The first pair ate, knowledge
mocked them, and only the curse remained. That primeval curse of
desiring to know all things descended to all posterity, and at this
instant you exemplify its existence. Ah! you must humble your
intellect if you would have it exalted; must be willing to be guided
along unknown paths by other light than that of reason if you would
be happy. Well might Sir William Hamilton exclaim: 'It is this
powerful tendency of the most vigorous minds to transcend the sphere
of our faculties, which makes a "learned ignorance" the most
difficult acquirement, perhaps indeed the consummation of
knowledge.'"
He sighed as he uttered these words; she said nothing; and, putting
his hand gently upon hers, as they lay folded on the table beside
her, he added sadly:
"I had hoped that I could aid you; but I see my efforts are useless;
you will not be guided nor influenced by others; are determined to
wander on in ever-deepening night, solitary and restless! God help
you, Beulah!"
A shudder ran over her; but she made no reply.
He took her cold hands in his.
"And now we part. Since the evening I first saw you with your basket
of strawberries, I have cherished the hope that I might one day be
more than a friend. You have constantly shown me that I was nothing
more to you; I have seen it all along, but still I hoped; and,
notwithstanding your coldness, I shall continue to hope. My love is
too entirely yours to be readily effaced. I can wait patiently.
Beulah, you do not love me now; perhaps never can; but I shall at
least cling to the hope. I shall not come again; shall not weary you
with professions and attentions. I know your nature, and even had I
the power would not persuade you to give me your hand now. But time
may change your feelings; on this frail tenure I rest my hopes.
Meantime, should circumstances occur which demand the aid or counsel
of devoted friendship, may I ask you to feel no hesitancy in
claiming any assistance I can render? And, Beulah, at any instant, a
line, a word can recall me. The separation will be very painful to
me; but I cannot longer obtrude myself on your presence. If, as I
earnestly hope, the hour, however distant, should come when you
desire to see me, oh, Beulah, how gladly will I hasten to you--"
"We can never be more than friends; never!" cried Beulah.
"You think so now, and perhaps I am doomed to disappointment; but,
without your sanction, I shall hope it. Good-by." He pressed his
lips to her hand and walked away.
Beulah heard the closing of the little gate, and then, for the first
time, his meaning flashed upon her mind. He believed she loved her
guardian; fancied that long absence would obliterate his image from
her heart, and that, finally, grown indifferent to one who might
never return, she would give her love to him whose constancy merited
it. Genuine delicacy of feeling prevented his expressing all this;
but she was conscious now that only this induced his unexpected
course toward herself. A burning flush suffused her face as she
exclaimed:
"Oh, how unworthy I am of such love as his! how utterly
undeserving!"
Soon after, opening the book he had brought at the place designated,
she drew the lamp near her and began its perusal. Hour after hour
glided away, and not until the last page was concluded did she lay
it aside. The work contained very little that was new; the same
trains of thought had passed through her mind more than once before;
but here they were far more clearly and forcibly expressed.
She drew her chair to the window, threw up the sash, and looked out.
It was wintry midnight, and the sky blazed with its undying watch-
fires. This starry page was the first her childish intellect had
puzzled over. She had, from early years, gazed up into the
glittering temple of night, and asked: "Whence came yon silent
worlds, floating in solemn grandeur along the blue, waveless ocean
of space? Since the universe sprang phoenix-like from that dim
chaos, which may have been but the charnel-house of dead worlds,
those unfading lights have burned on, bright as when they sang
together at the creation. And I have stretched out my arms
helplessly to them, and prayed to hear just once their unceasing
chant of praise to the Lord of Glory. Will they shine on forever? or
are they indeed God's light-bearers, set to illumine the depths of
space and blaze a path along which the soul may travel to its God?
Will they one day flicker and go out?" To every thoughtful mind
these questions propound themselves, and Beulah especially had
essayed to answer them. Science had named the starry hosts, and
computed their movements with wonderful skill; but what could it
teach her of their origin and destiny? Absolutely nothing. And how
stood her investigations in the more occult departments of
psychology and ontology? An honest seeker of truth, what had these
years of inquiry and speculation accomplished? Let her answer as,
with face bowed on her palms, her eyes roved over the midnight sky.
"Once I had some principles, some truths clearly defined; but now I
know nothing distinctly, believe nothing. The more I read and study
the more obscure seem the questions I am toiling to answer. Is this
increasing intricacy the reward of an earnestly inquiring mind? Is
this to be the end of all my glorious aspirations? Have I come to
this? 'Thus far, and no farther.' I have stumbled on these
boundaries many times, and now must I rest here? Oh, is this my
recompense? Can this be all? All!" Smothered sobs convulsed her
frame.
She had long before rejected a "revealed code" as unnecessary; the
next step was to decipher nature's symbols, and thus grasp God's
hidden laws; but here the old trouble arose. How far was
"individualism" allowable and safe? To reconcile the theories of
rationalism, she felt, was indeed a herculean task, and she groped
on into deeper night. Now and then her horizon was bestarred, and,
in her delight, she shouted, "Eureka!" But when the telescope of her
infallible reason was brought to bear upon the coldly glittering
points, they flickered and went out. More than once a flaming comet,
of German manufacture, trailed in glory athwart her dazzled vision;
but close observation resolved the gilded nebula, and the nucleus
mocked her. Doubt engendered doubt; the death of one difficulty was
the instant birth of another. Wave after wave of skepticism surged
over her soul, until the image of a great personal God was swept
from its altar. But atheism never yet usurped the sovereignty of the
human mind; in all ages, moldering vestiges of protean deism
confront the giant specter, and every nation under heaven has reared
its fane to the "unknown God." Beulah had striven to enthrone in her
desecrated soul the huge, dim, shapeless phantom of pantheism, and
had turned eagerly to the system of Spinoza. The heroic grandeur of
the man's life and character had strangely fascinated her; but now,
that idol of a "substance, whose two infinite attributes were
extension and thought," mocked her; and she hurled it from its
pedestal, and looked back wistfully to the pure faith of her
childhood. A Godless world; a Godless woman. She took up the lamp
and retired to her own room. On all sides books greeted her; here
was the varied lore of dead centuries; here she had held communion
with the great souls entombed in these dusty pages. Here, wrestling
alone with those grim puzzles, she had read out the vexed and vexing
questions, in this debating club of the moldering dead, and
endeavored to make them solve them. These well-worn volumes, with
close "marginalias," echoed her inquiries, but answered them not to
her satisfaction. Was her life to be thus passed in feverish toil
and ended as by a leap out into a black, shoreless abyss? Like a
spent child she threw her arms on the mantelpiece and wept
uncontrollably, murmuring:
"Oh, better die now than live as I have lived, in perpetual
stragglings! What is life worth without peace of mind, without hope;
and what hope have I? Diamonded webs of sophistry can no longer
entangle; like Noah's dove, my soul has fluttered among them,
striving in vain for a sure hold to perch upon; but, unlike it, I
have no ark to flee to. Weary and almost hopeless, I would fain
believe that this world is indeed as a deluge, and in it there is no
ark of refuge but the Bible. It is true, I did not see this souls'
ark constructed; I know nothing of the machinery employed; and no
more than Noah's dove can I explore and fully understand its secret
chambers; yet, all untutored, the exhausted bird sought safety in
the incomprehensible, and was saved. As to the mysteries of
revelation and inspiration, why, I meet mysteries, turn which way I
will. Man, earth, time, eternity, God, are all inscrutable mysteries
My own soul is a mystery unto itself, and so long as I am impotent
to fathom its depths, how shall I hope to unfold the secrets of the
universe?"
She had rejected Christian theism, because she could not understand
how God had created the universe out of nothing. True, "with God,
all things are possible"; but she could not understand this creation
out of nothing, and therefore would not believe it. Yet (oh,
inconsistency of human reasoning!) she had believed that the
universe created laws; that matter gradually created mind. This was
the inevitable result of pantheism; for, according to geology, there
was a primeval period when neither vegetable nor animal life
existed; when the earth was a huge mass of inorganic matter. Of two
incomprehensibilities, which was the most plausible? To-night this
question recurred to her mind with irresistible force, and, as her
eyes wandered over the volumes she had so long consulted, she
exclaimed:
"Oh, philosophy! thou hast mocked my hungry soul; thy gilded fruits
have crumbled to ashes in my grasp. In lieu of the holy faith of my
girlhood, thou hast given me but dim, doubtful conjecture, cold
metaphysical abstractions, intangible shadows, that flit along my
path, and lure me on to deeper morasses. Oh, what is the shadow of
death, in comparison with the starless night which has fallen upon
me, even in the morning of my life! My God, save me! Give me light!
Of myself I can know nothing!"
Her proud intellect was humbled, and, falling on her knees, for the
first time in many months, a sobbing prayer went up to the throne of
the living God; while the vast clockwork of stars looked in on a
pale brow and lips, where heavy drops of moisture glistened.