Midnight was long past, and yet Olive sat at her desk; she had finished
her note to Mrs. Gwynne, and was poring over a small packet of letters
carefully separated from the remainder of her correspondence. If she had
been asked the reason of this, perhaps she would have made answer that
they were unlike the rest--solemn in character, and secret withal. She
never looked at them but her expression changed; when she touched them
she did it softly and tremulously, as one would touch a living sacred
thing.
They were letters which at intervals during his various absences she had
received from Harold Gwynne.
Often had she read them over--so often, that, many a time waking in the
night, whole sentences came distinctly on her memory, vivid almost as a
spoken voice. And yet scarcely a day passed that she did not read them
over again. Perhaps this was from their tenor, for they were letters
such as a man rarely writes to a woman, or even a friend to a friend.
Let us judge, extracting portions from them at will.
The first, dated months back, began thus: “You will perhaps marvel, my
dear Miss Rothesay, that I should write to you, when for some time we
have met so rarely, and then apparently like ordinary acquaintance. Yet,
who should have a better right than we to call each other _friends_? And
like a friend you acted, when you consented that there should be between
us for a time this total silence on the subject which first bound us
together by a tie which we can neither of us break if we would. Alas!
sometimes I could almost curse the weakness which had given you--a
woman--to hold my secret in your hands. And yet so gently, so nobly
have you held it, that I could kneel and bless you. You see I can write
earnestly, though I speak so coldly.”
“I told you, after that day when we two were alone with death (the
words are harsh, I know, but I have no smooth tongue), I told you that
I desired entire silence for weeks, perhaps months. I must 'commune with
my own heart and be still.' I must wrestle with this darkness alone. You
assented; you forced on me no long argumentative homilies--you preached
to me solely with your life, the pure beautiful life of a Christian
woman. Sometimes I tried to read carefully the morality of Jesus, which
I, and sceptics worse than I, must allow to be perfect of its kind, and
it struck me how nearly you approached to that divine life which I had
thought impossible to be realised.”
“I have advanced thus far into my solemn seeking. I have learned to see
the revelation--imputedly divine--clear and distinct from the mass of
modern creeds with which it has been overladen. I have begun to read the
book on which--as you truly say--every form of religion is founded.
I try to read with my own eyes, putting aside all received
interpretations, earnestly desiring to cast from my soul all
long-gathered prejudices, and to bring it, naked and clear, to meet the
souls of those who are said to have written by divine inspiration.”
“The book is a marvellous book. The history of all ages can scarcely
show its parallel. What diversity, yet what unity! The stream seems
to flow through all ages, catching the lights and shadows of different
periods, and of various human minds. Yet it is one and the same
stream---pure and shining as truth. Is it truth?--is it divine?”
“I will confess, candidly, that if the scheme of a worlds history with
reference to its Creator, as set forth in the Bible, were true, it would
be a scheme in many things worthy of a divine benevolence: such as that
in which you believe. But can I imagine Infinity setting itself to work
out such trivialities? What is even a world? A mere grain of dust in
endless space! It cannot be. A God who could take interest in man, in
such an atom as I, would be no God at all. What avails me to have risen
unto more knowledge, more clearness in the sense of the divine, if it is
to plunge me into such an abyss as this? Would I had never been awakened
from my sleep--the dull stupor of materialism into which I was fast
sinking. Then I might, in the end, have conquered even the last fear,
that of 'something after death,' and have perished like a soulless clod,
satisfied that there was no hereafter. Now, if there should be? I whirl
and whirl; I can find no rest. I would I knew for certain that I was
mad. But it is not so.”
“You answer, my kind friend, like a woman--like the sort of woman I
believed in in my boyhood--when I longed for a sister, such a sister as
you. It is very strange, even to myself, that I should write to any
one as freely as I do to you. I know that I could never speak thus.
Therefore, when I return home, you must not marvel to find me just the
same reserved being as ever--less to you, perhaps, than to most people,
but still reserved. Yet, never believe but that I thank you for all your
goodness most deeply.”
“You say that, like most women, you have little power of keen
philosophical argument. Perhaps not; but there is in you a spiritual
sense that may even transcend knowledge. I once heard--was it not you
who said so?--that the poet who 'reads God's secrets in the stars' soars
nearer Him than the astronomer who calculates by figures and by line.
As, even in the material universe, there are planets and systems which
mock all human ken; so in the immaterial world there must be a boundary
where all human reasoning fails, and we can trust to nothing but that
inward inexplicable sense which we call faith. This seems to me
the great argument which inclines us to receive that supernatural
manifestation of the all-pervading Spirit which is termed 'revelation.'
And there we go back again to the relation between the finite--humanity,
and the infinite--Deity.'”
“One of my speculations you answer by an allegory--Does not the sun make
instinct with life not only man, but the meanest insect, the lowest form
of vegetable existence? He shines. His light at once revivifies a blade
of grass and illumines a world. If thus it is with the created, may not
it be also with the Creator? There is something within me that answers
to this reasoning.
“If I have power to conceive the existence of God, to look up from my
nothingness unto His great height, to desire nearer insight into His
being, there must be in my soul something not unworthy of Him--something
that, partaking His divinity, instinctively turns to the source whence
it was derived. Shall I, suffering myself to be guided by this power,
seek less to doubt than to believe?
“I remember my first mathematical tutor once said to me, 'If you would
know anything, begin by doubting everything.' I did begin, but I have
never yet found an end.”
“I will take your advice, my dear friend; advice given so humbly, so
womanly. Yet I think you deal with me wisely. I am a man who never could
be preached or argued into belief. I must find out the truth for myself.
And so, according to your counsel, I will again carefully study the
Bible, and especially the life of Jesus of Nazareth, which you believe
the clearest revelation which God has allowed of Himself to earth.
Finding any contradictions or obscurities, I will remember, as you say,
that Scripture was not, and does not pretend to be, written visibly and
actually by the finger of God, but by His inspiration conveyed through
many human minds, and of course always bearing to a certain extent the
impress of the mind through which it passes. Therefore, while the letter
is sometimes apparently contradictory, the spirit is invariably one and
the same. I am to look to _that_, first? Above all, I am to look to
the only earthly manifestation of Divine perfection--Jesus Christ, the
Saviour of all men? _I will_.
“You see how my mind echoes your words, my friend! I am becoming, I
think, more like you. All human affections are growing closer and dearer
unto me. I can look at my good and pious mother without feeling, as I
did at times, that she is either a self-deceiver or deceived. I do not
now shrink from my little daughter, nor think with horror that she owes
to me that being which may lead her one day to 'curse God and die.'
Still I cannot rest at Harbury. All things there torture me. As for
resuming my duties as a minister, that seems all but impossible. What an
accursed hypocrite I have been! If this search after truth should end
in a belief anything like that of the Church of England, I shall marvel
that Heaven's lightning has not struck me dead.”
... “You speak hopefully of the time when we shall hold one faith, and
both give thanks unto the merciful God who has lightened my darkness.
I cannot say this _yet _; but the time may come. And if it does, what
shall I owe to you, who, by your outward life, first revived my faith
in humanity--by your inward life, my faith in God? You have solved to
me many of those enigmas of Providence which, in my blindness, I thought
impugned eternal justice. Now I see that love--human and divine--is
sufficient to itself, and that he who loves God is one with God. There
may be a hundred varying forms of doctrine, but this one truth is above
all and the root of all.--I hold to it, and I believe it will save my
soul. If ever I lift up a prayer worthy to reach the ear of God, it is
that He may bless you, my friend, and comforter.”
And here, reader, for a moment, we pause. Following whither our object
led, we have gone far beyond the bounds usually prescribed to a book
like this; After perusing the present chapter, you may turn to the
title-page, and reading thereon, “Olive, a _Novel_” may exclaim, “Most
incongruous--most strange!” Nay, some may even accuse us of irreverence
in thus bringing into a fictitious story those subjects which are
acknowledged as most vital to every human soul, but yet which most
people are content, save at set times and places, tacitly to ignore.
There are those who sincerely believe that in such works as this it is
profanity even to name the Holy Name. Yet what is a novel, or, rather,
what is it that a novel ought to be? The attempt of one earnest mind
to show unto many what humanity is--ay, and more, what humanity might
become; to depict what is true in essence through imaginary forms; to
teach, counsel, and warn, by means of the silent transcript of human
life. Human life without God! Who will dare to tell us we should paint
_that_?
Authors, who feel the solemnity of their calling, cannot suppress the
truth that is within them. Having put their hands to the plough, they
may not turn aside, nor look either to the right or the left. They
must go straight on, as the inward voice impels; and He who seeth their
hearts will guide them aright.