Beulah - Page 306/348

She raised her colorless face, and said drearily, as she passed her

hand over her forehead: "Weary? Ah, yes; weary as the lonely mariner, tempest-tossed on some

pathless ocean, without chart or compass. In my sky, even the star

of hope is shrouded. Weary? Yes; in body and mind."

"Then humble your proud intellect; confess your ignorance and

inability, and rest in God and Christianity."

She made an impatient gesture, and, turning away, he walked up and

down the floor. For some moments neither spoke. Finally he

approached her, and continued: "There is strange significance in the Mosaic record of the Fall.

Longing for the fruits of knowledge, whereby the mysteries of God

would be revealed, cost man Eden. The first pair ate, knowledge

mocked them, and only the curse remained. That primeval curse of

desiring to know all things descended to all posterity, and at this

instant you exemplify its existence. Ah! you must humble your

intellect if you would have it exalted; must be willing to be guided

along unknown paths by other light than that of reason if you would

be happy. Well might Sir William Hamilton exclaim: 'It is this

powerful tendency of the most vigorous minds to transcend the sphere

of our faculties, which makes a "learned ignorance" the most

difficult acquirement, perhaps indeed the consummation of

knowledge.'"

He sighed as he uttered these words; she said nothing; and, putting

his hand gently upon hers, as they lay folded on the table beside

her, he added sadly: "I had hoped that I could aid you; but I see my efforts are useless;

you will not be guided nor influenced by others; are determined to

wander on in ever-deepening night, solitary and restless! God help

you, Beulah!"

A shudder ran over her; but she made no reply.

He took her cold hands in his.

"And now we part. Since the evening I first saw you with your basket

of strawberries, I have cherished the hope that I might one day be

more than a friend. You have constantly shown me that I was nothing

more to you; I have seen it all along, but still I hoped; and,

notwithstanding your coldness, I shall continue to hope. My love is

too entirely yours to be readily effaced. I can wait patiently.

Beulah, you do not love me now; perhaps never can; but I shall at

least cling to the hope. I shall not come again; shall not weary you

with professions and attentions. I know your nature, and even had I

the power would not persuade you to give me your hand now. But time

may change your feelings; on this frail tenure I rest my hopes.

Meantime, should circumstances occur which demand the aid or counsel

of devoted friendship, may I ask you to feel no hesitancy in

claiming any assistance I can render? And, Beulah, at any instant, a

line, a word can recall me. The separation will be very painful to

me; but I cannot longer obtrude myself on your presence. If, as I

earnestly hope, the hour, however distant, should come when you

desire to see me, oh, Beulah, how gladly will I hasten to you--"