Beulah Part 59

"At least more than all speculation has taught you. You admit that of its origin you know nothing; the Bible tells me that time was when earth was sinless, and man holy, and that death and sin entered the world by man's transgression--"

"Which I don't believe," interrupted Beulah.

"So you might sit there and stop your ears and close your eyes and a.s.sert that this was a sunny, serene day. Your reception or rejection of the Biblical record by no means affects its authenticity. My faith teaches that the evil you so bitterly deprecate is not eternal; shall finally be crushed, and the harmony you crave pervade all realms. Why an All-wise and All-powerful G.o.d suffers evil to exist is not for his finite creatures to determine.

It is one of many mysteries which it is as utterly useless to bother over as to weave ropes of sand."

She gathered up her sewing materials, put them in her basket, and retired to her own room. Beulah felt relieved when the door closed behind her, and, taking up Theodore Parker's "Discourses," began to read. Poor, famis.h.i.+ng soul! what chaff she eagerly devoured! In her anxious haste she paused not to perceive that the attempted refutations of Christianity contained objections more gross and incomprehensible than the doctrine a.s.sailed. Long before she had arrived at the conclusion that ethical and theological truth must be firmly established on psychological foundations, hence she plunged into metaphysics, studying treatise after treatise and system after system. To her grievous disappointment, however, the psychology of each seemed different, nay opposed. She set out believing her "consciousness" the infallible criterion of truth; this she fancied philosophy taught, at least professed to teach; but instead of unanimity among metaphysicians, she found fierce denunciation of predecessors, ingenious refutations of principles which they had evolved from rigid a.n.a.lysis of the facts of consciousness, and an intolerant dogmatism which astonished and confused her. One extolled Locke as an oracle of wisdom; another ridiculed the shallowness of his investigations and the absurdity of his doctrines; while a third showed conclusively that Locke's a.s.sailant knew nothing at all of what he wrote, and maintained that he alone could set matters right.

She studied Locke for herself. Either he was right and all the others were wrong, or else there was no truth in any. Another philosopher professed to ground some points of his faith on certain principles of Descartes; the very next work she read proclaimed that Descartes never held any such principles, that the writer had altogether mistaken his views; whereupon up started another, who informed her that n.o.body knew what Descartes really did believe on the subject under discussion; that it was a mooted question among his disciples. This was rather discouraging, but, nothing daunted, she bought, borrowed, and read on.

Brown's descent upon Reid greatly interested her. True, there were very many things she could not a.s.sent to; yet the arguments seemed plausible enough, when lo! a metaphysical giant rescues Reid; tells her that Brown was an ignoramus; utterly misunderstood the theory he set himself to criticise, and was a wretched bungler; after which he proceeds to show that although Brown had not ac.u.men enough to perceive it, Reid had himself fallen into grave errors and culpable obscurity. Who was right, or who was wrong, she could not for her life decide. It would have been farcical, indeed, had she not been so anxiously in earnest. Beginning to distrust herself, and with a dawning dread lest after all psychology would prove an incompetent guide, she put by the philosophies themselves and betook herself to histories of philosophy, fancying that here all bitter invective would be laid aside, and stern impartiality prevail. Here the evil she fled from increased fourfold. One historian of philosophy (who was a great favorite of her guardian), having lost all confidence in the subjects he treated, set himself to work to show the fallacy of all systems, from Anaximander to Cousin. She found the historians of philosophy as much at variance as the philosophers themselves, and looked with dismay into the dim land of vagaries into which metaphysics had drawn the brightest minds of the past. Then her guardian's favorite quotation recurred to her with painful significance: "There is no criterion of truth; all is merely subjective truth." It was the old skeptical palladium, ancient as metaphysics. She began to despair of the truth in this direction; but it certainly existed somewhere. She commenced the study of Cousin with trembling eagerness; if at all, she would surely find in a harmonious "Eclecticism" the absolute truth she has chased through so many metaphysical doublings. "Eclecticism" would cull for her the results of all search and reasoning. For a time she believed she had indeed found a resting-place; his "true" satisfied her; his "beautiful" fascinated her; but when she came to examine his "Theodieea," and trace its results, she shrank back appalled. She was not yet prepared to embrace his subtle pantheism. Thus far had her sincere inquiries and efforts brought her. It was no wonder her hopeful nature grew bitter and cynical; no wonder her brow was bent with puzzled thought and her pale face haggard and joyless. Sick of systems, she began to search her own soul; did the very thing of all others best calculated to hara.s.s her mind and fill it with inexplicable mysteries. She const.i.tuted her own reason the sole judge; and then, dubious of the verdict, arraigned reason itself before itself. Now began the desperate struggle. Alone and unaided, she wrestled with some of the grimmest doubts that can a.s.sail a human soul. The very prevalence of her own doubts augmented the difficulty. On every side she saw the footprints of skepticism; in history, essays, novels, poems, and reviews. Still her indomitable will maintained the conflict. Her hopes, aims, energies, all centered in this momentous struggle. She studied over these world- problems until her eyes grew dim and the veins on her brow swelled like cords. Often gray dawn looked in upon her, still sitting before her desk, with a sickly, waning lamplight gleaming over her pallid face. And to-day, as she looked out on the flying clouds, and listened to the mournful wail of the rus.h.i.+ng gale, she seemed to stand upon the verge of a yawning chaos. What did she believe? She knew not. Old faiths had crumbled away; she stood in a dreary waste, strewn with the wreck of creeds and systems; a silent desolation!

And with Richter's Christ she exclaimed: "Oh! how is each so solitary in this wide grave of the All? I am alone with myself. Oh, Father! oh, Father, where is thy infinite bosom, that I might rest on it?" A belief in something she must have; it was an absolute necessity of the soul. There was no scoffing tendency in her skepticism; she could not jest over the solemn issues involved, and stood wondering which way she should next journey after this "pearl of great price." It was well for her that garlands of rhetoric and glittering logic lay over the pitfalls before her; for there were unsounded abysses, darker than any she had yet endeavored to fathom.

Clara came back, and softly laid her hand on her friend's arm.

"Please put up your book and sing something for me, won't you?"

Beulah looked at the serene countenance, so full of resignation, and answered gloomily:

"What! are you, too, tired of listening to this storm-anthem nature has treated us to for the last two days? It seems to me the very universe, animate and inanimate, is indulging in an uncontrollable fit of the 'blues.' One would almost think the dead-march was being played up and down the aisles of creation."

She pressed her hands to her hot brow, as if to wipe away the cobwebs that dimmed her vision, and, raising the lid of the piano, ran her fingers over the keys.

"Sing me something hopeful and heart-cheering," said Clara.

"I have no songs of that description."

"Yes, you have: 'Look Aloft' and the 'Psalm of Life.'"

"No, no. Impossible. I could not sing either now," replied Beulah, averting her face.

"Why not now? They are the excelsior strains of struggling pilgrims.

They were written for the dark hours of life."

"They are a mockery to me. Ask me for anything else," said she, compressing her lips.

Clara leaned her arm on the piano, and, looking sadly at her companion, said, as if with a painful effort:

"Beulah, in a little while we shall be separated, and only the All- Father knows whether we shall meet on earth again. My application for that situation as governess up the country brought me an answer to-day. I am to go very soon."

Beulah made no reply, and Clara continued sorrowfully:

"It is very painful to leave my few remaining friends and go among perfect strangers, but it is best that I should." She leaned her head on her hand, and wept.

"Why is it best?"

"Because here I am constantly reminded of other days and other hopes, now lying dead on my heart. But we will not speak of this. Of all my ties here, my love for you is now the strongest. Oh, Beulah, our friends.h.i.+p has been sacred, and I dread the loneliness which will be my portion when hundreds of miles lie between us! The links that bind orphan hearts like ours are more lasting than all others."

"I shall be left entirely alone, if you accept this situation. You have long been my only companion. Don't leave me, Clara," murmured Beulah, while her lips writhed and quivered.

"You will have the Asburys still, and they are sincere friends."

"Yes, friends, but not companions. What congeniality is there between those girls and myself? None. My isolation will be complete when you leave me."

"Beulah, will you let me say what is in my heart?"

"Say it freely, my brown-eyed darling."

"Well, then, Beulah; give it up; give it up. It will only bow down your heart with untold cares and sorrows."

"Give up what?"

"This combat with loneliness and poverty."

"I am not lonely," answered Beulah, with a wintry smile.

"Oh, Beulah! yes, you are; wretchedly lonely. I have been but a poor companion for you; intellectually, you are far beyond me, and there has been little congeniality in our tastes and pursuits. I have always known this; and I know, too, that you never will be a happy woman until you have a companion equal in intellect, who understands and sympathizes with you. Ah, Beulah! with all your stubborn pride, and will, and mental endowments, you have a woman's heart; and crush its impulses as you may, it will yet a.s.sert its sway. As I told you long ago, grammars, and geographies, and duty could not fill the void in my heart; and, believe me, neither will metaphysics and philosophy and literature satisfy you. Suppose you do attain celebrity as a writer. Can the plaudits of strangers bring back to your solitary hearth the loved dead, or cheer you in your hours of gloom? I too am an orphan; I speak of what I can appreciate. You are mistaken, Beulah, in thinking you can dispense with sympathy. You are not sufficient for yourself, as you have so proudly maintained.

G.o.d has created us for companions.h.i.+p; it is a necessity of human nature."

"Then why are you and I orphaned for all time?" asked Beulah coldly.

"The sablest clouds of sorrow have silver linings. Perhaps that you and I might turn more continually to the G.o.d of orphans. Beulah, G.o.d has not flooded earth with eternal sunlight. He knew that shadows were needed to chasten the spirits of his children, and teach them to look to him for the renewal of all blessings. But shadows are fleeting, and every season of gloom has its morning star. Oh, I thank G.o.d that his own hand arranged the chiaroscuro of earth!" She spoke earnestly; the expression of her eyes told that her thoughts had traveled into the dim, weird land of futurity. Beulah offered no comment; but the gloom deepened on her brow and her white fingers crept restlessly over the piano keys. After a moment's silence, Clara continued:

"I would not regret our separation so much if I left you in the possession of Christian faith; armed with a perfect trust in the religion of Jesus Christ. Oh, Beulah, it makes my heart ache when I think of you, struggling so fiercely in the grasp of infidelity!

Many times have I seen the light s.h.i.+ning beneath your door, long after midnight, and wept over the conflict in which I knew you were engaged; and only G.o.d knows how often I have mingled your name in my prayers, entreating him to direct you in your search, to guide you safely through the paths of skepticism, and place your weary feet upon the 'rock of ages.' Oh, Beulah, do not make my prayers vain by your continued questioning! Come back to Christ and the Bible."

Tears glided down her cheeks as she pa.s.sed her arm round her friend, and dropped her head on her shoulder. Beulah's eyelids trembled an instant, but there was no moisture in the gray depths, as she answered:

"Thank you, Clara, for your interest. I am glad you have this faith you would fain lead me to. Not for worlds would I unsettle it, even if I could. You are comforted in your religion, and it is a priceless blessing to you. But I am sincere, even in my skepticism.

I am honest; and G.o.d, if he sees my heart, sees that I am. I may be an infidel, as you call me, but, if so, I am an honest one; and if the Bible is all true, as you believe, G.o.d will judge my heart. But I shall not always be skeptical; I shall find the truth yet. I know it is a tedious journey I have set out on, and it may be my life will be spent in the search; but what of that, if at last I attain the goal? What if I only live to reach it? What will my life be to me without it?"

"And can you contentedly contemplate your future, pa.s.sed as this last year has been?" cried Clara.

"Perhaps 'contentedly' is scarcely the right term. I shall not murmur, no matter how dreary the circ.u.mstances of my life may be, provided I succeed at last," replied Beulah resolutely.

"Oh, Beulah, you make my heart ache!"

"Then try not to think of or care for me."

"There is another heart, dear Beulah, a heart sad but n.o.ble, that you are causing bitter anguish. Are you utterly indifferent to this also?"

"All of the last exists merely in your imagination. We will say no more about it, if you please."

She immediately began a brilliant overture, and Clara retreated to the window. With night the roar of the tempest increased; the rain fell with a dull, uninterrupted patter, the gale swept furiously on, and the heaving, foaming waters of the bay gleamed luridly beneath the sheet-lightning. Clara stood looking out, and before long Beulah joined her; then the former said suddenly:

"Do you remember that, about six years ago, a storm like this tossed the 'Morning Star' far from its destined track, and for many days it was unheard of? Do you remember, too, that it held one you loved; and that, in an agony of dread lest he should find a grave among coral beds, you bowed your knee in prayer to Almighty G.o.d, imploring him to calm the tempest, hush the gale, and save him who was so dear to you? Ah, Beulah, you distrusted human pilots then!"

As Beulah made no reply, she fancied she was pondering her words.

But memory had flown back to the hour when she knelt in prayer for Eugene, and she thought she could far better have borne his death then, in the glorious springtime of his youth, than know that he had fallen from his n.o.ble height. Then she could have mourned his loss and cherished his memory ever after; now she could only pity and despise his folly. What was that early s.h.i.+pwreck she so much dreaded, in comparison with the sea of vice, whose every wave tossed him helplessly on to ruin. He had left her an earnest believer in religion; he came back scoffing at everything sacred. This much she had learned from Cornelia. Was there an intimate connection between the revolutions in his nature? Misled by her silence, Clara said eagerly:

"You were happy in that early faith. Oh, Beulah, you will never find another so holy, so comforting!"