It was a sparkling August morning--one of those rare days when all
nature seems jubilant. The waters of the bay glittered like a sheet
of molten silver; the soft Southern breeze sang through the
treetops, and the cloudless sky wore that deep shade of pure blue
which is nowhere so beautiful as in our sunny South. Clad in a dress
of spotless white, with her luxuriant hair braided and twined with
white flowers, Beulah stood beside her window, looking out into the
street below. Her hands were clasped tightly over her heart, and on
one slender finger blazed a costly diamond, the seal of her
betrothal. She was very pale; now and then her lips quivered, and
her lashes were wet with tears. Yet this was her marriage day. She
had just risen from her knees, and her countenance told of a
troubled heart. She loved her guardian above everything else; knew
that, separated from him, life would be a dreary blank to her; yet,
much as she loved him, she could not divest herself of a species of
fear, of dread. The thought of being his wife filled her with vague
apprehension. He had hastened the marriage; the old place had been
thoroughly repaired and refurnished, and this morning she would go
home a wife. She clasped her hands over her eyes; the future looked
fearful. She knew the passionate, exacting nature of the man with
whose destiny she was about to link her own, and she shrank back, as
the image of Creola rose before her. The door opened, and Mrs.
Asbury entered, accompanied by Dr. Hartwell. The orphan looked up,
and leaned heavily against the window. Mrs. Asbury broke the
silence.
"They are waiting for you, my dear. The minister came some moments
ago. The clock has struck ten."
She handed her a pair of gloves from the table, and stood in the
door, waiting for her. Beulah drew them on, and then, with a long
breath, glanced at Dr. Hartwell. He looked restless, and, she
thought, sterner, than she had seen him since his return. He was
very pale and his lips were compressed firmly.
"You look frightened, Beulah. You tremble," said he, drawing her arm
through his and fixing his eyes searchingly on her face. "Yes. Oh,
yes. I believe I am frightened," she answered, with a constrained
smile.
She saw his brow darken and his cheek flush; but he said no more,
and led her down to the parlor, where the members of the family were
assembled. Claudia and Eugene were also present. The minister met
them in the center of the room; and there, in the solemn hush, a few
questions were answered, a plain band of gold encircled her finger,
and the deep tones of the clergyman pronounced her Guy Hartwell's
wife. Eugene took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly,
whispering:
"God bless you, dear sister and friend! I sincerely hope that your
married life will prove happier than mine."
Their congratulations wearied her, and she was glad when the
carriage came to bear her away. Bidding adieu to her friends, she
was handed into the carriage, and Dr. Hartwell took the seat beside
her. The ride was short; neither spoke, and when the door was
opened, and she entered the well-remembered house, she would gladly
have retreated to the greenhouse and sought solitude to collect her
thoughts; but a hand caught hers, and she soon found herself seated
on a sofa in the study. She felt that a pair of eyes were riveted on
her face, and suddenly the blood surged into her white cheeks. Her
hand lay clasped in his, and her head drooped lower, to avoid his
searching gaze.
"Oh, Beulah! my wife! why are you afraid of me?"
The low, musical tones caused her heart to thrill strangely; she
made a great effort, and lifted her head. She saw the expression of
sorrow that clouded his face; saw his white brow wrinkle; and, as
her eyes fell on the silver threads scattered through his brown
hair, there came an instant revolution of feeling. Fear vanished;
love reigned supreme. She threw her arms up about his neck, and
exclaimed:
"I am not afraid of you now. May God bless my guardian! my husband!"
Reader, marriage is not the end of life; it is but the beginning of
a new course of duties; but I cannot now follow Beulah. Henceforth
her history is bound up with another's. To save her husband from his
unbelief is the labor of future years. She had learned to suffer and
to bear patiently; and though her path looks sunny, and her heart
throbs with happy hopes, this one shadow lurks over her home and
dims her joys. Weeks and months glided swiftly on. Dr. Hartwell's
face lost its stern rigidity, and his smile became constantly
genial. His wife was his idol; day by day his love for her seemed
more completely to revolutionize his nature. His cynicism melted
insensibly away; his lips forgot their iron compression; now and
then, his long-forgotten laugh rang through the house. Beulah was
conscious of the power she wielded, and trembled lest she failed to
employ it properly. One Sabbath afternoon she sat in her room, with
her cheek on her hand, absorbed in earnest thought. Her little Bible
lay on her lap, and she was pondering the text she had heard that
morning. Charon came and nestled his huge head against her.
Presently she heard the quick tramp of hoofs and whir of wheels; and
soon after her husband entered and sat down beside her.
"What are you thinking of?" said he, passing his hand over her head
caressingly.
"Thinking of my life--of the bygone years of struggle."
"They are past, and can trouble you no more. 'Let the dead past bury
its dead!'"
"No; my past can never die. I ponder it often, and it does me good;
strengthens me, by keeping me humble. I was just thinking of the
dreary, desolate days and nights I passed, searching for a true
philosophy and going further astray with every effort. I was so
proud of my intellect; put so much faith in my own powers; it was no
wonder I was so benighted."
"Where is your old worship of genius?" asked her husband, watching
her curiously.
"I have not lost it all. I hope I never shall. Human genius has
accomplished a vast deal for man's temporal existence. The physical
sciences have been wheeled forward in the march of mind, and man's
earthly path gemmed with all that a merely sensual nature could
desire. But, looking aside from these channels, what has it effected
for philosophy, that great burden, which constantly recalls the
fabled labors of Sisyphus and the Danaides? Since the rising of
Bethlehem's star, in the cloudy sky of polytheism, what has human
genius discovered of God, eternity, destiny? Metaphysicians build
gorgeous cloud palaces, but the soul cannot dwell in their cold,
misty atmosphere. Antiquarians wrangle and write; Egypt's moldering
monuments are raked from their desert graves, and made the theme of
scientific debate; but has all this learned disputation contributed
one iota to clear the thorny way of strict morality? Put the Bible
out of sight, and how much will human intellect discover concerning
our origin-our ultimate destiny? In the morning of time sages
handled these vital questions, and died, not one step nearer the
truth than when they began. Now, our philosophers struggle,
earnestly and honestly, to make plain the same inscrutable
mysteries. Yes; blot out the records of Moses, and we would grope in
starless night; for, notwithstanding the many priceless blessings it
has discovered for man, the torch of science will never pierce and
illumine the recesses over which Almighty God has hung his veil.
Here we see, indeed, as 'through a glass, darkly.' Yet I believe the
day is already dawning when scientific data will not only cease to
be antagonistic to Scriptural accounts, but will deepen the impress
of Divinity on the pages of Holy Writ; when 'the torch shall be
taken out of the hand of the infidel, and set to burn in the temple
of the living God'; when Science and Religion shall link hands. I
revere the lonely thinkers to whom the world is indebted for its
great inventions. I honor the tireless laborers who toil in
laboratories; who sweep midnight skies in search of new worlds; who
unheave primeval rocks, hunting for footsteps of Deity; and I
believe that every scientific fact will ultimately prove but another
lamp planted along the path which leads to a knowledge of Jehovah!
Ah! it is indeed peculiarly the duty of Christians 'to watch, with
reverence and joy, the unveiling of the august brow of Nature by the
hand of Science; and to be ready to call mankind to a worship ever
new'! Human thought subserves many useful, nay, noble, ends; the
Creator gave it, as a powerful instrument, to improve man's temporal
condition; but oh, sir, I speak of what I know, when I say: alas,
for that soul who forsakes the divine ark, and embarks on the gilded
toys of man's invention, hoping to breast the billows of life and be
anchored safely in the harbor of eternal rest! The heathens, 'having
no law, are a law unto themselves'; but for such as deliberately
reject the given light, only bitter darkness remains. I know it; for
I, too, once groped, wailing for help."
"Your religion is full of mystery," said her husband gravely.
"Yes; of divine mystery. Truly, 'a God comprehended is no God at
all!' Christianity is clear, as to rules of life and duty. There is
no mystery left about the directions to man; yet there is a divine
mystery infolding it, which tells of its divine origin, and promises
a fuller revelation when man is fitted to receive it. If it were not
so we would call it man's invention. You turn from Revelation
because it contains some things you cannot comprehend; yet you
plunge into a deeper, darker mystery when you embrace the theory of
an eternal, self-existing universe, having no intelligent creator,
yet constantly creating intelligent beings. Sir, can you understand
how matter creates mind?"
She had laid her Bible on his knee; her folded hands rested upon it,
and her gray eyes, clear and earnest, looked up reverently into her
husband's noble face. His soft hand wandered over her head, and he
seemed pondering her words.
May God aid the wife in her holy work of love!