by T. S. Arthur
“And rarely in error. You may add that,” replied the sister-in-law, confidently. “When Mr. Lyon darkened our doors,”—Fanny was passing from the room, and Aunt Grace spoke in a guarded voice—”I said he would leave a shadow behind him, and so he has. Was my judgment hasty, so far as he was concerned? I think you will hardly say so. But, my word for it, the presence of Mr. Willet will ever bring a gleam of sunshine. I am glad he has come into our neighbourhood. If his mother and sisters are like him, they are a company of choice spirits.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
TO the opinion of her sister-in-law, Mrs. Markland made no dissent. She was, also, favourably impressed with Mr. Willet, and looked forward with pleasure to making the acquaintance of his mother and sisters.
On the following morning the carriage was ordered, and about eleven o’clock Mrs. Markland, Aunt Grace, and Fanny, were driven over to “Sweetbrier,” the fanciful name which Mr. Ashton, the former owner, had given to the beautiful seat, now the property of Mr. Willet.
The day was cloudless, the air cool and transparent, the sky of the deepest cerulean. These mirrored themselves in the spirits of our little party. Mrs. Markland looked calm and cheerful; Fanny’s thoughts were drawn out of herself, and her heart responded to the visible beauty around her. Even Aunt Grace talked of the sky, the trees, and the flowers, and saw a new charm in every thing.
“I presume we shall not meet Mr. Willet,” she remarked, as the carriage drove within the elegant grounds of their neighbour.
“He probably goes to the city every day,” said Mrs. Markland. “I believe he is engaged in business.”
“Yes; I think I heard Edward say that he was.”
“Our visit might be a pleasant one in some respects,” observed Mrs. Markland, “if he were at home. To him, we are not entire strangers.”
“I see him in the portico,” said Fanny, leaning toward the carriage window. They were now in sight of the house.
“Yes, there he is,” added Aunt Grace, in a pleased tone of voice.
In a few minutes the carriage drew up at the beautiful mansion, in the portico of which were Mr. Willet and his mother and sisters, waiting to receive them. The welcome was most cordial, and the ladies soon felt at home with each other.
Flora, the youngest sister of Mr. Willet, was a lovely girl about Fanny’s age. It did not take them long to know and appreciate each other. The mind of Flora was naturally stronger than that of Fanny, partaking slightly of the masculine type; but only sufficient to give it firmness and self-reliance. Her school education had progressed farther, and she had read, and thought, and seen more of the world than Fanny. Yet the world had left no stain upon her garments, for, in entering it, she had been lovingly guarded. To her brother she looked up with much of a child’s unwavering confidence. He was a few years her senior, and she could not remember the time when she had not regarded him as a man whose counsels were full of wisdom.
“Where have you been for the last hour?” Mr. Willet inquired of the young maidens, as they entered, arm-in-arm, their light forms gently inclined to each other.
“Wandering over your beautiful grounds,” replied Fanny.
“I hardly thought you would see them as beautiful,” said Mr. Willet.
“Do you think that I have no eye for the beautiful?” returned Fanny, with a smile.
“Not so,” quickly answered Mr. Willet. “Woodbine Lodge is so near perfection that you must see defects in Sweetbrier.”
“I never saw half the beauty in nature that has been revealed to my eyes this morning,” said Fanny. “It seemed as if I had come upon enchanted ground. Ah, sir, your sister has opened a new book for me to read in—the book of nature.”
Mr. Willet glanced, half-inquiringly, toward Flora.
“Fanny speaks with enthusiasm,” said the sister.
“What have you been talking about? What new leaf has Flora turned for you, Miss Markland?”
“A leaf on which there is much written that I already yearn to understand. All things visible, your sister said to me, are but the bodying forth in nature of things invisible, yet in harmony with immutable laws of order.”
“Reason will tell you that this is true,” remarked Mr. Willet.
“Yes; I see that it must be so. Yet what a world of new ideas it opens to the mind! The flower I hold in my hand, Flora says, is but the outbirth, or bodily form, of a spiritual flower. How strange the thought!”
“Did she not speak truly?” asked Mr. Willet, in a low, earnest voice.
“What is that?” inquired Mrs. Markland, who was not sure that she had heard her daughter correctly.
“Flora say that this flower is only the bodily form of a spiritual flower; and that, without the latter, the former would have no existence.”
Mrs. Markland let her eyes fall to the floor, and mused for some moments.
“A new thought to me,” she at length said, looking up. “Where did you find it, Flora?”
“I have believed this ever since I could remember any thing,” replied Flora.
“You have?”
“Yes, ma’am. It was among the first lessons that I learned from my mother.”
“Then you believe that every flower has a spirit,” said Mrs. Markland.
“Every flower has life,” was calmly answered.
“True.”
“And every different flower a different life. How different, may be seen when we think of the flower which graces the deadly nightshade, and of that which comes the fragrant herald of the juicy orange. We call this life the spiritual flower.”
“A spiritual flower! Singular thought!” Mrs. Markland mused for some time.
“There is a spiritual world,” said Mr. Willet, in his gentle, yet earnest way.
“Oh, yes. We all believe that.” Mrs. Markland fixed her eyes on the face of Mr. Willet with a look of interest.
“What do we mean by a world?”
Mrs. Markland felt a rush of new ideas, though seen but dimly, crowding into her mind.
“We cannot think of a world,” said Mr. Willet, “except as filled with objects, whether that world be spiritual or natural. The poet, in singing of the heavenly land, fails not to mention its fields of ‘living green,’ and ‘rivers of delight.’ And what are fields without grass, and flowers, and tender herb? If, then, there be flowers in the spiritual world, they must be spiritual flowers.”
“And that is what Flora meant?” said Mrs. Markland.
“Nothing more,” said Flora; “unless I add, that all flowers in the natural world derive their life from flowers in the spiritual world; as all other objects in nature have a like correspondent origin.”
“This comes to me as an entirely new idea,” said Mrs. Markland, in a thoughtful way. “Yet how beautiful! It seems to bring my feet to the verge of a new world, and my hand trembles with an impulse to stretch itself forth and lift the vail.”
“Do not repress the impulse,” said Mrs. Willet, laying a hand gently upon one of Mrs. Markland’s.
“Ah! But I grope in the dark.”
“We see but dimly here, for we live in the outward world, and only faint yet truthful images of the inner world are revealed to us. No effort of the mind is so difficult as that of lifting itself above the natural and the visible into the spiritual and invisible—invisible, I mean, to the bodily eyes. So bound down by mere sensual things are all our ideas, that it is impossible, when the effort is first made, to see any thing clear in spiritual light. Yet soon, if the effort be made, will the straining vision have faint glimpses of a world whose rare beauties have never been seen by natural eyes. There is the natural, and there is the spiritual; but they are so distinct from each other, that the one by sublimation, increase, or decrease, never becomes the other. Yet are they most intimately connected; so intimately that, without the latter, the former could have no existence. The relation is, in fact, that of cause and effect.”
“I fear this subject is too grave a one for our visitors,” said Mr. Willet,
as his mother ceased speaking.
“It may be,” remarked the lady, with a gentle smile that softened her features and gave them a touch of heavenly beauty. “And Mrs. Markland will forgive its intrusion upon her. We must not expect that others will always be attracted by themes in which we feel a special interest.”
“You could not interest me more,” said Mrs. Markland. “I am listening with the deepest attention.”
“Have you ever thought much of the relation between your soul and body; or, as I would say, between your spiritual body and your natural body?” asked Mrs. Willet.
“Often; but with a vagueness that left the mind wearied and dissatisfied.”
“I had a long talk with Mr. Allison on that subject,” said Fanny.
“Ah!” Mrs. Willet looked toward Fanny with a brightening face. “And what did he say?”
“Oh! a great deal—more than I can remember.”
“You can recollect something?”
“Oh yes. He said that our spiritual bodies were as perfectly organized as our material bodies, and that they could see, and hear, and feel.”
“He said truly. That our spirits have vision every one admits, when he uses the words, on presenting some idea or principle to another—’Can’t you see it?’ The architect sees the palace or temple before he embodies it in marble, and thus makes it visible to natural eyes. So does the painter see his picture; and the sculptor his statue in the unhewn stone. You see the form of your absent father with a distinctness of vision that makes every feature visible; but not with the eyes of your body.”
“No, not with my bodily eyes,” said Fanny. “I have thought a great deal about this since I talked with Mr. Allison; and the more I think of it, the more clearly do I perceive that we have spiritual bodies as well as natural bodies.”
“And the inevitable conclusion is, that the spiritual body must live, breathe, and act in a world above or within the natural world, where all things are adapted to its functions and quality.”
“In this world are the spiritual flowers we were speaking about?” said Mrs. Markland, smiling.
“Yes, ma’am; in this world of causes, where originate all effects seen in the world of nature,” answered Mrs. Willet;—”the world from which flowers as well as men are born.”
“I am bewildered,” said Mrs. Markland, “by these suggestions. That a volume of truth lies hidden from common eyes in this direction, I can well believe. As yet my vision is too feeble to penetrate the vail.”
“If you look steadily in this direction, your eyes will, in time, get accustomed to the light, and gradually see clearer and clearer,” said Mrs. Willet.
CHAPTER XXV.
SOME incidents interrupted the conversation at this point, and when it flowed on again, it was in a slightly varied channel, and gradually changed from the abstract into matters of more personal interest.
“What a mystery is life!” exclaimed Mrs. Markland, the words following an observation that fell from the lips of Mr. Willet.
“Is it a mystery to you?” was asked, with something of surprise in the questioner’s tone.
“There are times,” replied Mrs. Markland, “when I can see a harmony, an order, a beauty in every thing; but my vision does not always remain clear. Ah! if we could ever be content to do our duty in the present, and leave results to Him who cares for us with an infinite love!”
“A love,” added Mrs. Willet, “that acts by infinite wisdom. Can we not trust these fully? Infinite love and infinite wisdom?”
“Yes!—yes!—reason makes unhesitating response. But when dark days come, how the poor heart sinks! Our faith is strong when the sky is bright. We can trust the love and wisdom of our Maker when broad gleams of sunshine lie all along our pathway.”
“True; and therefore the dark days come to us as much in mercy as the bright ones, for they show us that our confidence in Heaven is not a living faith. ‘There grows much bread in the winter night,’ is a proverb full of a beautiful significance. Wheat, or bread, is, in the outer world of nature, what good is in the inner world of spirit. And as well in the winter night of trial and adversity is bread grown, as in the winter of external nature. The bright wine of truth we crush from purple clusters in genial autumn; but bread grows even while the vine slumbers.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Markland, “that, in the language of another, ‘sweet are the uses of adversity.’ I know it to be true, that good gains strength and roots itself deeply in the winter of affliction and adversity, that it may grow up stronger, and produce a better harvest in the end. As an abstract truth, how clear this is! But, at the first chilling blast, how the spirit sinks; and when the sky grows dull and leaden, how the heart shivers!”
“It is because we rest in mere natural and external things as the highest good.”
“Yes—how often do we hear that remarked! It is the preacher’s theme on each recurring Sabbath,” said Mrs. Markland, in an abstracted way. “How often have words of similar import passed my own lips, when I spoke as a mentor, and vainly thought my own heart was not wedded to the world and the good things it offers for our enjoyment!”
“If we are so wedded,” said Mrs. Willet, in her earnest, gentle way, “is not that a loving Providence which helps us to a knowledge of the truth, even though the lesson prove a hard one to learn—nay, even if it be acquired under the rod of a stern master?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” said Mrs. Markland, unhesitatingly.
“It is undoubtedly true,” said Mrs. Willet, “that all things of natural life are arranged, under Providence, with a special view to the formation and development within us of spiritual life, or the orderly and true lives of our spirits. We are not born into this world merely to eat, drink, and enjoy sensual and corporeal pleasures alone. This is clear to any mind on the slightest reflection. The pleasures of a refined taste, as that of music and art, are of a higher and more enduring character than these; and of science and knowledge, still more enduring. Yet not for these, as the highest development of our lives, were we born. Taste, science, knowledge, even intelligence, to which science and knowledge open the door, leave us still short of our high destiny. The Temple of Wisdom is yet to be penetrated.”
“Science, knowledge, intelligence, wisdom!” said Mrs. Markland, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “What a beautiful and orderly series! First we must learn the dead formulas.”
“Yes, the lifeless scientifics, if they may so be called, must first be grounded in the memory. Arrangement and discrimination follow. One fact or truth is compared with another, and the mind thus comes to know, or has knowledge. Mere facts in the mind are lifeless without thought. Thought broods over dead science in the external memory, and knowledge is born.”
“How clear! How beautiful!” ejaculated Mrs. Markland.
“But knowledge is little more than a collection of materials, well arranged; intelligence builds the house.”
“And wisdom is the inhabitant,” said Mrs. Markland, whose quick perceptions were running in advance.
“Yes—all that preceded was for the sake of the inhabitant. Science is first; then knowledge, then intelligence—but all is for the sake of wisdom.”
“Wisdom—wisdom.” Mrs. Markland mused again.
“What is wisdom?”
“Angelic life,” said Mrs. Willet. “One who has thought and written much on heavenly themes, says, ‘Intelligence and wisdom make an angel.’”
Mrs. Markland sighed, but did not answer. Some flitting thought seemed momentarily to have shadowed her spirit.
“To be truly wise is to be truly good,” said Mrs. Willet. “We think of angels as the wisest and best of beings, do we not?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The highest life, then, toward which we can aspire, is angelic life. Their life is a life of goodness, bodying itself in wisdom.”
“How far below angelic life is the natural life that we are leading here!” said Mrs. Markland.
“And therefore is it that a new life is
prescribed,—a life that begins in learning heavenly truths first, as mere external formulas of religion. These are to be elevated into knowledge, intelligence, and afterward wisdom. And it is because we are so unwilling to lead this heavenly life that our way in the world is often made rough and thorny, and our sky dark with cloud and tempest.”
Mr. Willet now interrupted the conversation by a remark that turned the thoughts of all from a subject which he felt to be too grave for the occasion, and soon succeeded in restoring a brighter hue to the mind of Mrs. Markland. Soon after, the visitors returned home, all parties feeling happier for the new acquaintance which had been formed, and holding in their hearts a cheerful promise of many pleasant interchanges of thought and feeling.
Many things said by Mr. Willet, and by his mother and sisters, made a strong impression on the mind of Mrs. Markland and her daughter. They perceived some things in a new and clearer light that had been to them vailed in obscurity before.
“Flora is a lovely girl,” said Fanny, “and so wise beyond her years. Many times I found myself looking into her face and wondering not to see the matron there. We are fortunate in such neighbours.”
“Very fortunate, I think,” replied her mother. “I regard them as having minds of a superior order.”
“Flora is certainly a superior girl. And she seems to me as good as she is wise. Her thought appears ever lifting itself upward, and there is a world of new ideas in her mind. I never heard any one talk just as she does.”
“What struck me in every member of the family,” said Mrs. Markland, “was a profound religious trust; a full confidence in that Infinite Wisdom which cannot err, nor be unkind. Ah! my daughter, to possess that were worth more than all this world can offer.”
A servant who had been despatched for letters, brought, late in the day, one for Mrs. Markland from her husband, and one for Fanny from Mr. Lyon. This was the first communication the latter had sent to Fanny direct by post. The maiden turned pale as she received the letter, and saw, by the superscription, from whom it came. Almost crushing it in her hand, she hurried away, and when alone, broke the seal, and with unsteady hands unfolded it, yet scarcely daring to let her eyes rest upon the first words:—
