“Sudden arose
Ianthe’s soul; it stood
All beautiful in naked purity,
The perfect semblance of its bodily frame.
Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace,
Each stain of earthliness
Had passed away; it reassumed
Its native dignity, and stood
Immortal.”
QUEEN MAB.
Beatriz was once more at her home by the seaside. Liliha was always
near her. Since their first meeting the loving forest-girl had grown
still dearer to her. When her father claimed her, she pleaded so hard
and showed so much distress at the thought of leaving her white sister
that he consented she should remain for the time being. Kiana and the
high-priest were at peace. The latter had more than once visited Olmedo,
for the double purpose of talking with him and seeing his daughter. By
this interchange of civilities and the impression which the superior
condition of Kiana’s people made upon him, added to the more enlarged
views derived from his intercourse with the Spaniards, Hewahewa became,
if not a believer in any creed, a more humane and wiser man. By his
influence, backed as it always was when necessary with the arms of Kiana,
his people partially gave up their predatory habits, and paid more
attention to their fisheries and the culture of their soil. It was great
gain also to establish an amicable intercourse between tribes so long
bitterly hostile to each other. Instead of warlike expeditions to secure
prisoners for sacrifice and to plunder, Hewahewa’s people now came often
to trade. A commerce was growing up, which later led to the establishment
of regular fairs, the principal of which was held at stated intervals
on the banks of the Wailuku river, in the territory of Kiana. Here the
products of the soil and the manufactures of the several districts of
Hawaii, each of which from peculiarity of soil or climate, or from the
skill and industry of its inhabitants, could claim some local advantage,
were brought and interchanged. A paid police preserved order, and public
inspectors decided upon the qualities of the merchandise, or acted as
arbitrators in case of dispute, while the numerous pedlars by their cries
and importunity would not have discredited their brethren of Europe.
[Illustration]
But this fact is foreign to my story, except so far as showing how soon
and rapidly commercial industry supplants the fighting principle, if
it be allowed a fair chance, even among the passionate and sensuous
aborigines of Polynesia.
Beatriz looked wan and feeble. More than a month had gone by since her
rescue. Before her capture she had been gradually failing, but almost
imperceptibly and with such an increased delicacy of outline and purity
of complexion, that while Olmedo and Juan had praised her increasing
beauty, neither had noticed that it was sapping her life. The exposure
and excitement consequent upon the violence of Tolta, acting upon an
already enfeebled frame, had at last brought her very low. Daily since
her return had she been compelled to shorten her walks. At the same time
her voice grew weaker, but gained ever in sweetness, and the flush upon
her face became deeper. Still so long as she could go out she went,
leaning upon Liliha or Olmedo, to look upon the scenery she so loved,
and to breathe the balmy sea air beneath the palms. Juan clung to her as
to a life-buoy. Careless and impetuous as he had always been, he loved
his sister fervently. To see her pine day by day, her flesh wasting
as disease claimed it, the rich blood fading from her cheek never to
return, each embrace growing more languid as life ebbed, well nigh drove
him mad. Bitterly he blamed himself for his absence on that fatal day.
Even the horror of Tolta’s death did not check his curses upon him. To
Olmedo he would listen in deference as he talked of the consolations of
religion, but escaping to the woods, he would there sit hours in silent
agony brooding over his coming loneliness, and fiercely resenting any
intrusion. Liliha alone could quiet his grief. Knowing his habits, she
would sometimes steal from the side of Beatriz and go after him. Taking
his hand, without speaking, she would lead him to his sister, and the two
would sit by her in sympathetic sadness, watching her every motion, and
endeavoring to anticipate every want. While thus occupied he was in some
degree soothed. His sister was still with him. The Blessed Mother of God
might yet restore her. He would be so lonely when she was gone. Never
until now had he felt how large a portion of his happiness was derived
from her presence; how much he needed her calm sustaining spirit, her
untiring kindness, and above all her exhaustless fountain of forgiveness.
Was all this so soon to be taken away? Cold shudders passed through his
heart as the gloom of certainty shut down upon him, and starting up
abruptly he would go back to the forest. Giving time for the paroxysm
to subside, Liliha at a sign from Beatriz would again bring him back.
“My dear brother,” she would say, “sorrow not so, I may yet live; I feel
stronger to-day. Take my hand; see! it is not very thin; and my face, is
it not a little fuller? It seems so to me. Once you know, before we left
Spain, I was as ill, but I got well. Kiss me and stay by me while I sleep
a little. When I wake we will talk more. I have much to say, and yet I
cannot speak it, when you are so sad. Another kiss, dear Juan; you have
ever been a kind brother to me.” Thus she would cheer him with a hope
that at times dawned upon herself, in spite of her rapid decline.
Often Kiana came in, and sat gazing at her until the big tears followed
one another down his cheeks. Seemingly unconscious of them, he would
remain without uttering a word for hours, striving only to give some
order which he thought might promote her comfort. To him the fading away
of the maiden was like the loss of sunlight to the landscape. The earth
was all there, but its joy and glory were alike gone.
How was Olmedo? Calm. Never had Beatriz appeared to him so lovely as now.
He had seen too many death-beds not to know that she was shortly to pass
away. Every change in her aspect was closely watched, and all that his
experience could suggest done to postpone, if it could not avert, her
death. But he neither sought to deceive himself nor her. If Juan felt
himself alone, how much more must he whose soul was so interwoven with
the dying woman’s! Tenderly and truly had their love and faith kept pace
in all the eventful scenes they had passed through. Tempted, they had
conquered. Their hearts had recognized their inalienable birthright—to
love—yet they had not sinned. Now the spiritual was triumphing over
the material. As the body grew more helpless, the spirit became indeed
stronger. This he saw. How could he then sorrow; when, with the eye of
faith, he beheld infinite joy expanding in her soul? Mourn for himself,
left so solitary in his earthly pilgrimage, he must, and did, but he
rejoiced for her. At no time had he been more earnest in his religious
duties than during her illness. A solemn responsibility rested upon him
to be even more faithful to her pure aspirations and gentle faith. He
was with her also more than ever. As she drew nigh her departure, every
trace of the harsher doctrines of her church passed from her mind, as
the dead leaves of autumn give way to the living growth of spring. Fed
by the vital currents of faith and love that flowed into her soul from
that world her spirit was now piercing, his mind grew likewise, and he
perceived how that separation in body could prove union in spirit. Thus
he was comforted and sustained. He now felt that divine wisdom and love
were given in some degree to all men; that all nature was imbued with
their principles; that both nature and man were working out the great
problem of happiness, through a slow and laborious progress, governed by
universal laws existing from a beneficent and impartial deity. Polemical
creeds were the shackles of intellect and the graves of the soul. There
was but one creed, viz., that God made all men, and none had a right to
arrogate to themselves the way of salvation. Of him to whom much was
given, it was true that much would be required. God was always revealing
himself to the inquiring soul. No age or race had a right to claim a
final revelation or a monopoly of inspiration. Truth was as free as the
air to all who could or would receive it, but it was like gold in the
mine, dark and hidden until labor brought it to the sunlight, stamped
it with the die of reason, and put it into circulation. All new coin
was looked on with suspicion, but when made familiar became as current
as the old. All truth was partial, because its degree depended upon
the quality and capacity of the individual mind. Perfect truth is the
divine atmosphere. No man can breathe that now, but might hope to attain
it through infinite progress. Hence among men universal toleration
of opinions should prevail. The best minds here were but infants in
knowledge. Striving there should be, but it should consist in mutual
charity and forbearance; the patient waiting of each soul, and patient
working out of its duties in faith, for individual and general life were
linked together for a harmonious end. If disappointment to him were
needful for another’s good, he was ready to bid it welcome, and from out
of self-sacrifice to rise the stronger man. He saw in Beatriz’s death
her spiritual promotion. In strengthening her to meet it, he was best
preparing himself for those consolations which as necessarily result
from moral laws as does gravitation from the physical. Therefore Olmedo
looked upon the present trial as the beautiful working out of the final
happiness of Beatriz and himself. To him she was the divine messenger
through whom life and light had come. Talk not of the power of passionate
love! Its selfish flame burns itself out, leaving nothing but ashes.
Olmedo loved Beatriz, but it was now with a love in which passion was
sublimated into purity; strengthened by self-sacrifice and made immortal
by faith. What, then, were a few years of time to him who already saw
into eternity!
One day Beatriz felt so much stronger that she asked to be carried to the
spot in the forest, where she and Olmedo had met when they were taken off
by Tolta. Besides her litter-bearers and women, who retired a little way
after making up for her an easy couch, she was alone with him. It was
the loveliest hour of the twenty-four, drawing towards sunset, just as
the sun’s rays, becoming mellow, were casting a veil of soft and purple
light, tinged with golden radiance, over sea and land. The air was as
warm and healthful as an infant’s breath.
Beautiful as was the place, it had never looked so beautiful to her as
now. The birds were twittering in their leafy homes, and, coming close to
her as to an old friend, warbled a welcome before they bade good night
to the sinking sun, or from the topmost branches sang their vespers.
All old memories came back to her, save only the sad one connected with
Tolta, which she seemed now to have forgotten. She thought only of the
many talks they had had here, on subjects dear to both; their mutually
expressed longings for the familiar faces and scenes of their native
land, and their plans and hopes when forced to feel that they would no
more see them; the sadness that stole over her spirit as she realized
that she must live and die upon the island without one of her sex, born
of her race, to share her solitude; how the good father comforted her
with holy words, and finally her love spoke and his spoke, and they
each knew the heart’s secret of the other, and both trembled, but grew
stronger from prayer and faith, and now could look back upon their past
without a blush, and forward with hope in an eternal union; all this,
and much else that was endeared to her, came bright and joyful to her
recollection. She recalled to Olmedo scenes and words full of gladness
to both. Her voice was much clearer and stronger, and her manner so
cheerful, that he was borne away on the pleasant tide, and thought only
of their present happiness, without heeding that it was the illumination
of a mortal on the confines of the spirit-world.
Suddenly a shadow passed over her features, and she told Olmedo that she
would rest awhile. Closing her eyes, she sank into a gentle slumber that
lasted for half an hour. Bright smiles chased each other in such quick
succession on her face, that she seemed to her watcher to be already
living in another sphere. As he gazed almost in awe upon a happiness that
gave him a closer insight into the joys of a soul communing with its God,
Beatriz awoke. Turning her eyes vacantly upon him, then looking around
upon the scenery still lovely, for the brief twilight was in its prime,
she was for a moment bewildered. “Where am I; is this earth,—am I back
again? How dark it seems,” said she. “Give me your hand, Olmedo,—I see
you now. I have had such a dream,—shall I tell it to you?”
Olmedo begged her not to exhaust herself, but to wait until she was more
equal to talking. “No, Olmedo, I must tell it now. I am quite strong.
Indeed a new life is in my veins, but something bids me be quick. When I
closed my eyes it seemed to me I was dead. My spirit slowly left my body,
and rested in the air above you, who were watching it so tenderly. How I
wanted to embrace you and speak my love, but I could not. Soon a bright
form came, so bright that my eyes were at first too dazzled to be able to
look upon it. But as that wore off, I knew my sister Domitila, who you
remember, died before we left Spain. She welcomed me to my new home, as
she called it, and took me away with her. How we went I could not tell,
but we were borne on without effort on our own part, by an unseen power,
and yet it seemed to come from ourselves. Such scenery, such beauty,
those loving faces crying, ‘welcome, dear sister.’ Would that I could
describe them. Joy filled my heart. I was amid all things loveliest and
best, such as of late you and I have so often faintly conceived as we
talked of heaven. Oh! how real they now were! I was a spirit, yet I had a
body and senses that gave me exquisite pleasure. Every emotion and effort
was increasing happiness. How clearly my soul saw into divine wisdom and
love. I thought it strange at first that I did not see the Holy Virgin
and the Saints, and asked where they were. ‘Such as we are now they
were,’ replied my sister; ‘they have passed on to greater glory through
the sure operation of the laws of progress. Ye do wrong on earth to
worship those who once were but human beings like yourselves,—whose sole
claim to honor is, that they were obedient to the divine will, diligent
to understand, and quick to practise. It is because you have lived on
earth a blameless life, charitable and useful, enjoying existence,
cultivating purity, seeking truth, actively good, and ever aspiring to
know the divine will, patient and sincere, through doubt and ignorance
trusting in the great good, that you now witness these mysteries. Soon
they will be as much yours as mine. Go back to earth and tell your
companion what you have seen. He will understand the message. Bid him
be patient and zealous, for he has much earthly work yet to do, but for
you, my sister, I shall soon return. I have watched over you as you will
over Olmedo since we parted in form, striving to impress your heart with
the love of our world. It was an easy task, and now it is finished, and
we will kneel in future together at the feet of older spirits, to learn
of them still further the way of truth and life.’ So saying, she floated
away like a sunbeam, and I awoke.
“What think you of it, Olmedo? Was it not sweet? There is no death;
joy! joy! Ever shall I watch over you with my sister until you too
pass through the gate of heaven. Look! look! there she comes. Oh! how
beautiful. Many others are with her now. I see their rainbow robes. I
hear their voices,—they call me; oh! listen to the music. Seraphs are
striking their harps,—the air is filled with harmony,—do you not hear
it too? Where are you, Olmedo? Touch me. I do not see you, but I see
them,—that white light,—how glorious all appears; how melodious their
speech! I am here, dear sister,—quick,—take me,”—and thus her sweet
spirit went home.
Olmedo was stupefied. Not a word had he lost, feebly and brokenly as the
last words had been uttered. Yet to see her go from him as her spirit
became so ravishingly beautiful, was more than even he could well bear.
There she lay in death’s stillness. The sun had gone down, the wind was
hushed, her maidens looked on in speechless grief, not a leaf stirred,
all was silent,—silent as the grave! No! there is no silence in the grave
to the believer.
Before him it is true was the form by which he had known Beatriz, soon
to be dust. The eloquent eye, the laughing lip, the blushing cheek were
never again in flesh to speak to him. Must we not allow him a moment’s
anguish as he _heard_ their silence? Mourn, monk;—thou art still human!
Grief is permitted thee. Many and lonely must thy days of pilgrimage yet
be!
He shed no tears, but leaned his face on the bosom of the corpse, and
there groaned. A light seemed to pass before his eyes. He looked up.
“Merciful God, am I too a Spirit?” burst from his lips as he gazed.
There, floating in the air, and almost touching him, he saw her he had
just lost. She was an angel now. As she smiled upon him, he thought he
heard a voice say, “Farewell for a little while,”—and then the stars only
were twinkling above him.