A SECOND VISIT TO THE LIME-TREE.
Rosalind, as she walked slowly back towards the house, repeated to
herself in shuddering the fearful words of Henrietta Cartwright--I AM AN
ATHEIST,--and her very soul seemed sick and faint within her. She had
sought in some degree the friendship of this unhappy girl, chiefly
because it was evident that not even the connexion of father and
daughter had sufficed to blind her to the hateful hypocrisy and unholy
fanaticism of the vicar. Did, then, hatred and contempt for him lead to
the hideous abyss of Atheism? She trembled as she asked herself the
question; but the weakness lasted not a moment: the simple and true
piety of her spirit awoke within her, and with kindly warmth cheered and
revived her heart. That the unhappy Henrietta, when revolted by watching
the false religion of her father, should have fled from it with such
passionate vehemence as to plunge her into the extreme of scepticism,
offered no precedent for what would be likely to befall a person who,
like her, loathed the dark sin of hypocrisy, but who, unlike her, had
learned the benignant truths of religion with no false and frightful
commentaries to disfigure them.
As she remembered this--as she remembered that, probably, the only
religious lessons ever given to this most unhappy girl were such as her
judgment must revolt from, and the sincerity of her nature detest as
false and feigned, pity and compassion took place of terror and
repugnance, and a timid, but most earnest wish, that she might herself
be the means of sending a ray of divine light to cheer the fearful gloom
of poor Henrietta's mind, took possession of her heart.
The delightful glow of feeling that seemed to pervade every nerve of
Rosalind as this thought took possession of her cannot be described.
Tears again filled her beautiful eyes, but they were no longer the tears
of disappointment and despondency; yet a dread of incurring the guilt of
presumption, by assuming the office of teacher on a theme so awfully
important, so sublimely exalted, mixed fear with her hope, and she
determined to restrict her efforts wholly to the selection of such books
as might tend to enlighten the dark night of that perverted mind,
without producing in it the painful confusion of thought which must ever
result from a loose and unlogical arrangement of proofs and arguments,
however sound or however unquestionable they may individually be.
When she met Henrietta in the drawing-room, where all the family were
assembled before dinner, she was conscious of being so full of thoughts
concerning her, that she almost feared to encounter her eyes, lest her
own might prematurely disclose her being acquainted with the scene she
had gone through.
But the moment she heard Henrietta speak, the sound of her voice, so
quiet, so cold, so perfectly composed, convinced her that the
conversation which she had supposed must have agitated her so
dreadfully, had in truth produced no effect on her whatever; and when,
taking courage from this, she ventured to speak to and look at her, the
civil smile, the unaltered eye, the easy allusion to their walk and
their separation, led her almost to doubt her senses as to the identity
of the being now before her, and the one to whom she had listened in
horror a short half-hour ago. This perplexity was, however, in a great
measure relieved by an interpretation suggested by her fancy, and
immediately and eagerly received by her as truth.
"It was in bitter irony, and shrewdly to test the sincerity of that
man's assumed sanctity, that she uttered those terrible words," thought
Rosalind; and inexpressibly relieved by the supposition, she determined
to take an early opportunity of confessing to Miss Cartwright her
involuntary participation of Mr. Hetherington's tender avowal, and of
her own temporary credulity in believing for a moment that what was
uttered, either to get rid of him or to prove the little worth of his
pretended righteousness, was a serious avowal of her secret sentiments.
This opportunity was not long wanting; for, perfectly unconscious that
Miss Torrington's motive for hovering near her was to seek a
confidential conversation,--a species of communication from which she
always shrunk,--Henrietta, who really liked and admired her more than
any person she had ever met with, readily seconded her wish, by again
wandering into the garden-walks, on which the sun had just poured his
parting beams, and where the full moon, rising at the same moment to
take her turn of rule, shone with a splendour increasing every moment,
and rendering the night more than a rival in beauty to the day.
"Let us go to the same seat we occupied this morning," said Rosalind.
"No, no; go anywhere else, and I shall like it better. Let us go where
we can see the moon rise, and watch her till she reaches her highest
noon;--of all the toys of creation it is the prettiest."
"Shall you be afraid to go as far as the lime-tree?" asked Rosalind.
"What! The tree of trees? the bower of paradise?--in short, the tree
that you and I have once before visited together?"
"The same. There is no point from whence the rising moon is seen to such
advantage."
"Come along, then; let us each put on the armour of a good shawl, and
steal away from this superlatively dull party by the hall-door."
The two girls walked on together arm-in-arm, both clad in white, both
raising a fair young face to the clear heavens, both rejoicing in the
sweet breath of evening, heavy with dew-distilling odours. Yet, thus
alike, the wide earth is not ample enough to serve as a type whereby to
measure the distance that severed them. The adoration, the joy, the hope
of Rosalind, as her thoughts rose "from Nature up to Nature's God,"
beamed from her full eye; thankfulness and love swelled her young heart,
and every thought and every feeling was a hymn of praise.
Henrietta, as she walked beside her, though sharing Nature's banquet so
lavishly prepared for every sense, like a thankless guest, bestowed no
thought upon the hand that gave it. Cold, dark, and comfortless was the
spirit within her; she saw that all was beautiful, but remembered not
that all was good,--and the thankless heart heaved with no throb of
worship to the eternal Creator who made the lovely world, and then made
her to use it.
Notwithstanding the interpretation which Rosalind had put upon the works
spoken by Henrietta in the morning, and the consolation she had drawn
from it, it was not without considerable agitation that she anticipated
the conversation she was meditating. "If she were mistaken?--if beneath
that pure sky, from whence the eye of Heaven seemed to look down upon
them, she were again to hear the same terrific words--how should she
answer them? How should she find breath, and strength, and thought, and
language, to speak on such a theme?"
She trembled at her own temerity as this fear pressed upon her, and
inwardly prayed, in most true and sweet humility, for forgiveness for
her presumptuous sin. A prayer so offered never fails of leaving in the
breast it springs from a cheering glow, that seems like an assurance of
its being heard. Like that science-taught air, which blazes as it
exhales itself, prayer--simple, sincere, unostentatious prayer, sheds
light and warmth upon the soul that breathes it, even by the act of
breathing.
They had, however, reached the seat beneath the lime-tree before
Rosalind found courage to begin: and then she said, as they seated
themselves beneath the spreading canopy, "Miss Cartwright,--I have a
confession to make to you."
"To me?--Pray, what is it? To judge by the place you have chosen for
your confessional, it should be something rather solemn and majestical."
"Do you remember that I left you on the shrubbery-seat this morning fast
asleep?"
"Oh! perfectly.--You mean, then, to confess that the doing so was
unwatchful and unfriendly: and, indeed, I think it was. How did you know
but I might be awakened by some venomous reptile that should come to
sting me?"
"Believe me, I thought the place secure from interruption of every kind.
But I had reason to think afterwards that it did not prove so."
"What do you mean, Miss Torrington?" replied Henrietta, in an accent of
some asperity. "I presume you did not creep away for the purpose of
spying at me from a distance?"
"Oh no!--You cannot, I am sure, suspect me of wishing to spy at you at
all. And yet things have so fallen out, that when I tell you all, you
must suspect me of it--unless you believe me, as I trust you do,
incapable of such an action."
"Pray do not speak in riddles," said Henrietta impatiently. "What is it
you have got to confess to me? Tell me at once, Miss Torrington."
"You really do not encourage me to be very frank with you, for you seem
angry already. But the truth is, Miss Cartwright, that I did most
unintentionally overhear your conversation with Mr. Hetherington."
"The whole of it?--Did you hear the whole of it, Rosalind?"
"Not quite. The gentleman appeared to be in the midst of his declaration
when my unwilling ears became his confidants."
"And then you listened to the end?"
"I did."
A deathlike silence followed this avowal, which was at last broken by
Henrietta, who said in a low whisper, "Then at last you know me!"
"Oh! do not say so;--do not say that the fearful words that I heard were
spoken in earnest!--Do not say that;--I cannot bear to hear it!"
"Poor girl!--poor Rosalind!" said Henrietta, in a voice of the deepest
melancholy. "I have always wished to spare you this--I have always
wished to spare myself the pain of reading abhorrence in the eyes of one
that I do believe I could have loved, had not my heart been dead."
"But if you feel thus, Henrietta,--if indeed you know that such words as
I heard you utter must raise abhorrence,--it is because that you
yourself must hate them. I know you are unhappy--I know that your
nature scorns the faults that are but too conspicuous in your father;
but is it not beneath a mind of such power as yours to think there is no
God in heaven, because one weak and wicked man has worshipped him
amiss?"
"He worship!--Trust me, Rosalind, had I been the child of a Persian, and
seen him, in spirit and in truth, worshipping the broad sun as it looked
down from heaven upon earth, making its fragrant dews rise up to him in
incense, I should not have been the wretched thing I am,--for I should
have worshipped too."
"Henrietta!--If to behold the Maker of the universe, and the Redeemer
whom he sent to teach his law--if to see worship offered to their
eternal throne could teach you to worship too, then look around you.
Look at the poor in heart, the humble, pious Christians who, instead of
uttering the horrible doom of eternal damnation upon their fellow-men,
live and die in the delightful hope that all shall one day meet in the
presence of their God and Father, chastised, purified, and pleading, to
his everlasting mercy, with the promised aid of his begotten Son, for
pardon and for peace.--Look out for this, Henrietta, and you will find
it. Find it, and your heart will be softened, and you will share the
healing balm that makes all the sorrow and suffering of this life seem
but as the too close fitting of a heavy garment that galls but for an
hour!"
"Dear, innocent Rosalind!--How pure and beautiful your face looks in the
bright moonlight!--But, alas! I know that very sinful faces may look
just as fair. There is no truth to rest on. In the whole wide world,
Rosalind, there is not honesty enough whereon to set a foot, that one
may look around and believe, at least, that what one sees, one sees. But
this is a perfection of holiness--a species of palpable and present
divinity, that is only granted to mortals in their multiplication
tables.--Twice two are four--I feel sure of it,--but my faith goes no
farther."
"I cannot talk to you," cried Rosalind in great agitation; "I am not
capable of doing justice to this portentous theme, on which hangs the
eternal life of all the men that have been, are, and shall be. It is
profane in me to speak of it,--a child--a worm. Father of mercy, forgive
me!" she cried suddenly dropping upon her knees.
Henrietta uttered a cry which almost amounted to a shriek. "I had almost
listened to you!" she exclaimed,--"I had almost believed that your voice
was the voice of truth; but now you put yourself in that hateful
posture, and what can I think of you, but that you are all alike--all
juggling--all! The best of ye juggle yourselves,--the worst do as we saw
Mr. Cartwright do;--on that very spot, Rosalind, beneath the shelter of
that very tree, did he not too knuckle down? and for what?--to lure and
cajole a free and innocent spirit to be as false and foul as himself!
Yet this is the best trick of which you can bethink you to teach the
sceptical Henrietta that there is a God."
"Truth, Henrietta," said Rosalind, rising up and speaking in a tone that
indicated more contempt than anger,--"neither truth nor falsehood can be
tested by a posture of the body. It is but a childish cavil. The
stupendous question, whether this world and all the wonders it contains
be the work of chance, or of unlimited power and goodness, conceiving,
arranging, and governing the whole, can hardly depend for its solution
upon the angle in which the joints are bent. You have read much, Miss
Cartwright,--read one little passage more, which I think may have
escaped you. Read the short and simple instructions given as to the
manner in which prayer should be offered up--read this passage of some
dozen lines, and I think you will allow that in following these
instructions, greatly as they have been misconstrued and abused, there
is nothing that can justify the vehement indignation which you express."
Poor Henrietta shrunk more abashed before this simple word of common
sense, than she would have done before the revealed word. Rosalind saw
this, and pointed out the anomaly to her, simply, but strongly.
"Does it not show a mind diseased?" she continued. "You feel that you
were wrong to make an attitude a matter of importance, and you are
ashamed of it: but from the question, whether you shall exist in pure
and intellectual beatitude through countless ages, or perish to-morrow,
you turn with contempt, as too trifling and puerile to merit your
attention."
"If I do turn from it, Rosalind,--if I do think the examination of such
a question a puerile occupation,--it is in the same spirit that I should
decline to share the employment of a child who would set about counting
the stars. Such knowledge is too excellent for me; I cannot attain unto
it."
"Your illustration would be more correct, Henrietta, were you to say
that you shut your eyes and would not see the stars, upon the same
principle that you declined inquiring into the future hopes of man. It
would be quite as reasonable to refuse to look at the stars because you
cannot count them, as to close your eyes upon the book of life because
it tells of intellectual power beyond your own.--But this is all
contrary to my resolution, Henrietta,--contrary to all my hopes for your
future happiness. Do not listen to me; do not hang a chance dearer than
life upon the crude reasonings of an untaught woman. Will you read,
Henrietta?--if I will find you books and put them in your hands, will
you read them, and keep your judgment free and clear from any foregone
conclusion that every word that speaks of the existence and providence
of God must be a falsehood? Will you promise me this?"
"Let us go home, Rosalind; my head is giddy and my heart is sick. I had
hoped never again to fever my aching brain in attempting to sift the
truth from all the lies that may and must surround it. I have made my
choice deliberately, Rosalind. I have never seen sin and wickedness
flourish any where so rapidly and so vigorously as where it has been
decked in the masquerading trappings of religion. I hate sin, Rosalind,
and I have thrown aside for ever the hateful garb in which I have been
used to see it clothed. If there be a God, can I stand guilty before his
eyes for this?"
"Oh yes! most guilty! If you have found hypocrisy and sin, turn from it
with all the loathing that you will; and be very sure, let it wear what
mask it will, that religion is not there. Look then elsewhere for it. Be
not frightened by a bugbear, a phantom, from seeking what it is so
precious to find! Dearest Henrietta! will you not listen to me?--will
you not promise for a while to turn your thoughts from every lighter
thing, till you are able to form a surer judgment upon this?"
"Dearest?--Do you call me dear, and dearest, Rosalind? Know you that I
have lived in almost abject terror lest you should discover the
condition of my mind? I thought you would hate and shun me.--Rosalind
Torrington! you are a beautiful specimen, and a very rare one. To please
you, and to approach you if I could, I would read much, and think and
reason more, and try to hope again, as I did once, until I was
stretched upon the torturing rack of fear: but there is no time left
me!"
"Do not say that, dear friend," said Rosalind, gently drawing
Henrietta's cold and trembling arm within her own. "You are still so
young, that time is left for harder studies than any I propose to you."
"I am dying, Rosalind. I have told you so before, but you cannot believe
me because I move about and send for no doctor--but I am dying."
"And if I could believe it, Henrietta, would not that be the greatest
cause of all for this healing study that I want to give you?"
"Perhaps so, Rosalind; but my mind, my intellect, is weak and wayward.
If there be a possibility that I should ever again turn my eyes to seek
for light where I have long believed that all was darkness, it must be
even when and where my sickly fancy wills.--Here let the subject drop
between us. Perhaps, sweet girl! I dread as much the chance of my
perverting you, as you can hope to convert me."
Rosalind was uttering a protest against this idle fear, when Henrietta
stopped her by again saying, and very earnestly, "Let the subject drop
between us; lay the books you speak of in my room, where I can find
them, but let us speak no more."
Satisfied, fully satisfied with this permission, Rosalind determined to
obey her injunction scrupulously, and silently pressing her arm in
testimony of her acquiescence, they returned to the house without
uttering another word.