“So Love doth raine
In stoutest minds and maketh monstrous Warre:
He maketh warre: he maketh Peace again.
And yet his Peace is but continual Jarre.
Oh miserable men that to him subject arre.”
SPENSER.
The situation of Beatriz alone, so far as companionship of her sex
was concerned, was peculiar. She was not one readily to give or seek
confidence. Were she surrounded with her equals in race and cultivation,
she would not have disclosed her inmost self, and least of all to a
female. This was instinct rather than reason. Those about her thought
they knew her in all points, because they saw how good and true she
was to them. They loved her, because her vast capacity of love drew
all lesser loves towards it. They came readily to her with their
trials, because in her large heart and womanly perceptions there was an
inexhaustible fountain of sympathy and a foresight truer than a sybil’s.
Thus daily, wherever she was, whoever among, she received a constant
tribute of devotion and confidence. The character of those about her grew
better by her presence. But with all this power, of which each word or
look could not but make her conscious, she was often inexpressibly sad.
Whence this sadness? Beatriz had never analyzed her own heart. While all
others were open to her, her own had remained a mystery. She felt within
it deep, broad currents of emotion, which led, she scarcely knew whither.
That their waters flowed from a clear spring was self-evident, because
her desires were pure and high. She loved her brother warmly, and he
returned her love; still there was a wide gulf between them. With other
men the gulf was wider. With women she had never been intimate. Hence,
while she seemed so easily read by all about her, there still remained a
mystery of which none had been able to lift the veil.
Her sympathy, self-sacrificing spirit and generosity; her indignation at
the mean or base; her approving glance at the noble and true; her quiet
courage and patient endurance; her piety, her quick perception, which
so often anticipated man’s slower judgment; her passions even, for she
had shown, when roused, a force and decision, that awed armed men and
controlled rude hearts; all this was intelligible to her companions, and
commanded their love and esteem. But there still remained a depth to her
nature, that theirs could never have sounded, and would have remained
fathomless to herself, unless stirred by a depth answering to her own.
All God-filled souls experience this. With all that rank, position
and the ordinary affections of kindred can confer, with, as it were,
every earthly wish gratified, there still remains, underlying the calm
exterior of social cultivation, a gnawing and restlessness, that unmasks
the skeleton at the feast. Something is ever wanting.
What is this want?
It is not Reason. The book of Nature is ever open, and the mind has but
to look thereon to find always something new,—truths to lead it upward
and onward, daily convincing it that its heritage is Infinity.
What is it then?
It is Love!
Yes, with all the resources of Reason, without Love, we are indeed
widowed. Like Rachel we refuse to be comforted. No love will satisfy
our hearts, however much we may cling to the phantoms of sentiment or
passion, however strong may be the demands of duty, however implicit our
obedience, unless the _measure_ of our hearts is filled. We must have all
that we can contain of all that we are and all that we are not. Then only
dual souls become _One_.
It is right that it should be thus. The very misery arising from
uncongenial unions or unsatisfied desires, springs from a benevolent law,
which says, like pain to the diseased limb, “you are wrong.” Be dutiful
but not satisfied. Although you now see through a glass darkly, in time
light and harmony will be your portion. Cultivate your soul so as to
receive a better inheritance.
Beatriz had never married. Her nature had kept her from the great error
of mistaking a little for the whole. She who had so much to give, was
too wise to fling herself away upon a single impulse. Her love for all
was the result of an unconscious superiority of soul, which increased by
what it gave. It was, more properly speaking, kindness or benevolence,
and flowed from her as naturally and as sweetly as fragrance from the
rose.
All great natures have in them a vein of sadness. This springs from the
consciousness of the little they are, in contrast with the much they
would be. With man it is an active want. He would know all things. He
grasps the reins of the chariot of the sun, and falls headlong because
he tries to fly before his wings are unfolded. Woman is more patient.
She passively awaits her destiny. If it be long in coming, she may find
solace in apathy, but she rarely, wilfully commits a wrong to hasten her
right. Yet when her moral nature does become disordered, as the foulest
decay springs from the richest soil, so she becomes so wanton as to cause
even fallen man to shudder.
Love had remained passive in the soul of Beatriz. Its might was all
there, but the torch that was to kindle the flame had not yet reached it.
She only knew its power for joy by the pleasure she felt in seeing its
effects in others. Thus she welcomed within herself all that she saw in
another that was noble and lovable, while she shrank instinctively from
every base action or degrading thought.
Kiana’s ardent, generous nature, had from the first been her captive.
This she saw; but it inspired in her no deeper sentiment than the respect
due his qualities. He, however, unlike most men, did not fancy that
to love, implied of necessity to be loved. His passion was open and
honorable. To the praise of the Hawaiian race, be it recorded, that no
white woman ever received other than courtesy at their hands. Rich or
poor, alone among thousands of natives, they and theirs with no other
protection than their own virtue, have ever been, not only respected,
but cared for, and to a certain extent venerated. White men, it is true,
have in general been as hospitably received. But by their passions they
speedily place themselves upon the level of the native. The white woman,
on the contrary, from the first went among them as a missionary,—a being
superior in virtue as in knowledge to themselves,—and by the affinity of
respect which human nature everywhere shows for the truly good, she has
ever maintained over this semi-barbarian race an ascendancy more real
than hostile fleets have ever effected.[1]
Beatriz had nothing to fear from Kiana. It was not in her power to refuse
his gifts for they reached her indirectly, through the thousand channels
ever open to a despotic will. Kiana’s passion, like his nature, was
princely. The rarest flowers, fresh every morning, were placed by unseen
hands about her house. All that Hawaii could produce that was beautiful
or delicate, found its way thither; she could not tell how, though she
felt from whom it came. The choicest fruits were served to her by the
fairest and best of Hawaii’s maidens. No wanton curiosity was allowed to
intrude upon her retirement. If she walked out, not an eye gazed rudely
upon her, not a glance questioned her motives. Amid a populous district,
she was as retired, at her own choice, as if it were her pleasure
grounds. The gallantry of Kiana had even provided for her a bathing place
in a crystalline pool, so nicely shaded by nature and screened by art, as
to form a retreat that Diana might have coveted. When he visited her, it
was with the state of a Hawaiian noble. Rarely, unless specially invited
by Juan, did he approach her in an informal manner. Savage though he
was, he possessed a tact and an intuitive perception of the delicacy of
Beatriz’s character, which led him to adopt the only course that could in
any wise make him personally acceptable to her.
One day not long after the scene described in the last chapter, Beatriz,
sadder than usual, was alone in her garden, looking at the ocean without
seeing it, when Kiana came up to her and in a low voice said, “Does the
white maiden mourn her Spanish home?”
“No, chief,” said Beatriz, “my home is with my brother. We are orphans.”
“Juan loves Hawaii,” replied Kiana, “and will stay with us. He is my
brother, my Hoapili, ‘close adhering companion,’ my people now call him.
But my heart is lonely. Will not his sister be my wife?”
The abruptness of the proposal, although so long foreshadowed by
attentions that only an honorable love could have suggested, at first
startled Beatriz, and for a moment she was at a loss for a suitable
reply. Decided in her own feelings, she wished to spare him unnecessary
pain, and at the same time preserve a friendship so important to the
welfare of her brother. Perhaps she thought too of Olmedo. Her hesitation
encouraged Kiana to plead his suit still farther.
“Kiana loves only the white maiden. Since his eyes first saw her, all
other loves have left him. His heart grows feeble when she speaks. He
trembles at her voice, but it is music to his ears. When she smiles the
sun looks brighter, the birds sing more sweetly and the flowers grow more
fragrant. My people see in her a deity. To me, she is my soul, my life.
Be mine, maiden, and rule Hawaii, as you now rule me,” and the haughty
chief, who had never before bent the knee in prayer to God or mortal,
knelt to Beatriz.
Her resolution was at once taken. With a nature like his, frankness and
firmness would, she felt, be appreciated.
“Rise, chieftain,” said she, “this must not be. White maidens give their
hands only with their hearts. You are generous, noble, proud. Would you
wed one who cannot return your love? No! Kiana could not stoop to that.”
“But thou wilt love. Thou art formed for love. Does not each bird seek a
mate? Wilt thou, of all thy sex, be always alone? Look around. All nature
smiles; thou only art ever sad. Let my love be thy smile, and Hawaii
shall ever rejoice that ‘the pearl of the sea-wave,’ for so thou art
called among us, was found upon her shore.”
“You speak truly, chief, when you call me sad, but were I to wed you
without love, you too would soon grow sad. The white maiden respects
you,—is grateful to you,—would serve you all in her feeble power, but she
cannot do so great a wrong to herself and to you, as to say yes, when her
heart speaks no.”
Kiana shook like an aspen leaf. His voice grew tremulous, but the pride
and passion of his race were subdued before the truth and beauty of
Beatriz. There had always been something in her deportment, which as
decisively forbade hope where hope was not to be, as it would have
invited love where love was to be. So he turned from her more in sorrow
than in anger, but had gone but a few steps, when returning, he said,
“Kiana loves you, and ever will. He seeks a companion, not a captive. You
are right not to say yes, when you feel no; fear not. Kiana can love,
even if not loved. All that he possesses is yours. Never shall it be said
of Kiana that his love changed to dishonor, because he could not win the
white maiden.”
Tears started to her eyes as she gave him her hand. She dared not trust
her speech to express the gratitude she really felt, for fear it might
revive his passion. And so they parted, each remaining true to their last
words.