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."