But the shiver which crept through her frame denied her assertion, and with a keen pang he saw the footprints of the Destroyer. She must not know, however, that he doubted her words, and, with an effort, he said:
"I am glad, Beulah; and if you would continue to believe, don't read my books promiscuously. There are many on those shelves yonder which I would advise you never to open. Be warned in time, my child."
She snatched her hand from his, and answered proudly:
"Sir, think you I could be satisfied with a creed which I could not bear to have investigated? If I abstained from reading your books, dreading lest my faith be shaken, then I could no longer confide in that faith. Christianity has triumphed over the subtleties of infidelity for eighteen hundred years. What have I to fear?"
"Beulah, do you want to be just what I am? Without belief in any creed! hopeless of eternity as of life! Do you want to be like me? If not, keep your hands off of my books! Good night; it is time for you to be asleep."
He motioned her away, and, too much pained to reply, she silently withdrew.
CHAPTER XV.
The day had been clear, though cold, and late in the afternoon Beulah wrapped a shawl about her, and ran out into the front yard for a walk. The rippling tones of the fountain were hushed; the shrubs were bare, and, outside the greenhouse, not a flower was to be seen. Even the hardy chrysanthemums were brown and shriveled. Here vegetation slumbered in the grave of winter. The hedges were green, and occasional clumps of cassina bent their branches beneath the weight of coral fruitage. Tall poplars lifted their leafless arms helplessly toward the sky, and threw grotesque shadows on the ground beneath, while the wintry wind chanted a mournful dirge through the somber foliage of the aged, solemn cedars. Noisy flocks of robins fluttered among the trees, eating the ripe, red yaupon berries, and now and then parties of pigeons circled round and round the house. Charon lay on the doorstep, blinking at the setting sun, with his sage face dropped on his paws. Afar off was heard the hum of the city; but here all was quiet and peaceful. Beulah looked over the beds, lately so brilliant and fragrant in their wealth of floral beauty; at the bare gray poplars, whose musical rustling had so often hushed her to sleep in cloudless summer nights, and an expression of serious thoughtfulness settled on her face. Many months before she had watched the opening spring in this same garden. Had seen young leaves and delicate blossoms bud out from naked stems, had noted their rich luxuriance as the summer heat came on—their mature beauty; and when the first breath of autumn sighed through the land she saw them flush and decline, and gradually die and rustle down to their graves. Now, where green boughs and perfumed petals had gayly looked up in the sunlight, all was desolate. The piercing northern wind seemed to whisper as it passed, "Life is but the germ of death, and death the development of a higher life." Was the cycle eternal then? Were the beautiful ephemeras she had loved so dearly gone down into the night of death, but for a season, to be born again, in some distant springtime, mature, and return, as before, to the charnel-house? Were the threescore and ten years of human life analogous? Life, too, had its springtime, its summer of maturity, its autumnal decline, and its wintry night of death. Were the cold sleepers in the neighboring cemetery waiting, like those dead flowers, for the tireless processes of nature, whereby their dust was to be reanimated, remolded, lighted with a soul, and set forward for another journey of threescore and ten years of life and labor? Men lived and died; their ashes enriched Mother Earth; new creations sprang, phoenix- like, from the sepulcher of the old. Another generation trod life's path in the dim footprints of their predecessors, and that, too, vanished in the appointed process, mingling dust with dust, that Protean matter might hold the even tenor of its way, in accordance with the oracular decrees of Isis. Was it true that, since the original Genesis, "nothing had been gained, and nothing lost?" Was earth, indeed, a monstrous Kronos? If so, was not she as old as creation? To how many other souls had her body given shelter? How was her identity to be maintained? True, she had read that identity was housed in "consciousness," not bones and muscles? But could there be consciousness without bones and muscles? She drew her shawl closely around her, and looked up at the cloudless sea of azure. The sun had sunk below the horizon; the birds had all gone to rest; Charon had sought the study rug; even the distant hum of the city was no longer heard. "The silver sparks of stars were rising on the altar of the east, and falling down in the red sea of the west." Beulah was chilled; there were cold thoughts in her mind—icy specters in her heart; and she quickened her pace up and down the avenue, dusky beneath the ancient gloomy cedars. One idea haunted her: aside from revelation, what proof had she that, unlike those moldering flowers, her spirit should never die? No trace was to be found of the myriads of souls who had preceded her. Where were the countless hosts? Were life and death balanced? was her own soul chiliads old, forgetting its former existences, save as dim, undefinable reminiscences, flashed fitfully upon it? If so, was it a progression? How did she know that her soul had not entered her body fresh from the release of the hangman, instead of coming down on angel wings from its starry home, as she had loved to think? A passage which she had read many weeks before flashed upon her mind: "Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the dead children. After a time uprises the everlasting sun; and the mother starts up at the summons of the heavenly dawn, with a resurrection of her ancient bloom. And her children? Yes, but they must wait a while!" This resurrection was springtime, beckoning dormant beauty from the icy arms of winter; how long must the children wait for the uprising of the morning star of eternity? From childhood these unvoiced queries had perplexed her mind, and, strengthening with her growth, now cried out peremptorily for answers. With shuddering dread she strove to stifle the spirit which, once thoroughly awakened, threatened to explore every nook and cranny of mystery. She longed to talk freely with her guardian regarding many of the suggestions which puzzled her, but shrank instinctively from broaching such topics. Now, in her need, the sublime words of Job came to her: "Oh, that my words were now written! oh, that they were printed in a book; for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God." Handel's "Messiah" had invested this passage with resistless grandeur, and, leaving the cold, dreary garden, she sat down before the melodeon and sang a portion of the Oratorio. The sublime strains seemed to bear her worshiping soul up to the presence-chamber of Deity, and exultingly she repeated the concluding words:
"For now is Christ risen from the dead:
The first-fruits of them that sleep."
The triumph of faith shone in her kindled eyes, though glittering drops fell on the ivory keys, and the whole countenance bespoke a heart resting in the love of the Father. While her fingers still rolled waves of melody through the room, Dr. Hartwell entered, with a parcel in one hand and a magnificent cluster of greenhouse flowers in the other. He laid the latter before Beulah, and said: