There was a long silence, broken at last by an exclamation from
Beulah: "Oh! how beautiful! how silent! how solemn! Look down the long dim
aisles. It is an oratory where my soul comes to worship! Presently
the breeze will rush up from the gulf, and sweep the green organ,
and a melancholy chant will swell through these dusky arches. Oh,
what are Gothic cathedrals and gilded shrines in comparison with
these grand forest temples, where the dome is the bending vault of
God's blue, and the columns are these everlasting pines!" She
pointed to a thick clump of pines sloping down to a ravine.
The setting sun threw long quivering rays through the clustering
boughs, and the broken beams, piercing the gloom beyond, showed the
long aisles as in a "cathedral light."
As Clara looked down the dim glade, and then watched Beulah's parted
lips and sparkling eyes, as she stood bending forward with rapturous
delight written on every feature, she thought that she had indeed
misjudged her in using the epithets "freezing and heartless."
"You are enthusiastic," said she gently.
"How can I help it? I love the grand and beautiful too well to offer
a tribute of silent admiration. Oh, my homage is that of a whole
heart!"
They reached home in the gloaming, and each retired to her own room.
For a mere trifle Beulah had procured the use of a melodeon, and
now, after placing the drooping flowers in water, she sat down
before the instrument and poured out the joy of her soul in song.
Sad memories no longer floated like corpses on the sea of the past;
grim forebodings crouched among the mists of the future, and she
sang song after song, exulting in the gladness of her heart. An
analysis of these occasional hours of delight was as impossible as
their creation. Sometimes she was conscious of their approach, while
gazing up at the starry islets in the boundless lake of azure sky;
or when a gorgeous sunset pageant was passing away; sometimes from
hearing a solemn chant in church, or a witching strain from a
favorite opera. Sometimes from viewing dim old pictures; sometimes
from reading a sublime passage in some old English or German author.
It was a serene elevation of feeling; an unbounded peace; a
chastened joyousness, which she was rarely able to analyze, but
which isolated her for a time from all surrounding circumstances.
How long she sang on the present occasion she knew not, and only
paused on hearing a heavy sob behind her. Turning round, she saw
Clara sitting near, with her face in her hands. Kneeling beside her,
Beulah wound her arms around her, and asked earnestly: "What troubles you, my friend? May I not know?"