Chapter XIII

O Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf, And lure out blossoms. LOWELL.

They were days of violent grief which for a little while followed each other. Elizabeth spent them out of doors; in the woods, on the rocks, by the water's edge. She would take her bible out with her, and sometimes try to read a little; but a very few words would generally touch some spring which set her off upon a torrent of sorrow. Pleasant things past or out of her reach, the present time a blank, the future worse than a blank, -- she knew nothing else. She did often in her distress repeat the prayer she had made over the first chapter of Matthew; but that was rather the fruit of past thought; she did not think in those days; she gave up to feeling; and the hours were a change from bitter and violent sorrow to dull and listless quiet. Conscience sometimes spoke of duties resolved upon; impatient pain always answered that their time was not now.

The first thing that roused her was a little letter from Winthrop, which came with the pieces of furniture and stores he sent up to her order. It was but a word, -- or two words; one of business, to say what he had done for her; and one of kindness, to say what he hoped she was doing for herself. Both words were brief, and cool; but with them, with the very handwriting of them, came a waft of that atmosphere of influence -- that silent breath of truth which every character breathes -- which in this instance was sweetened with airs from heaven. The image of the writer rose before her brightly, in its truth and uprightness and high and fixed principle; and though Elizabeth wept bitter tears at the miserable contrast of her own, they were more healing tears than she had shed all those days. When she dried them, it was with a new mind, to live no more hours like those she had been living. Something less distantly unlike him she could be, and would be. She rose and went into the house, while her eyes were yet red, and gave her patient and unwearied attention, for hours, to details of household arrangements that needed it. Her wits were not wandering, nor her eyes; nor did they suffer others to wander. Then, when it was all done, she took her bonnet and went back to her old wood-place and her bible, with an humbler and quieter spirit than she had ever brought to it before. It was the fifth chapter of Matthew now.

The first beatitude puzzled her. She did not know what was meant by 'poor in spirit,' and she could not satisfy herself. She passed it as something to be made out by and by, and went on to the others. There were obligations enough.

"'Meek?'" said Elizabeth, -- "I suppose if there is anything in the world I am _not_, it is meek. I am the very, very opposite. What can I do with this? It is like a fire in my veins. Can _I_ cool it? And if I could control the outward seeming of it, that would not be the change of the thing itself. Besides, I couldn't, I must _be_ meek, if I am ever to seem so."

She went on sorrowfully to the next.

"'Hunger and thirst after righteousness' -- I do desire it -- I do not '_hunger and thirst_.' I don't think I do -- and it is those and those only to whom the promise is given. I am so miserable that I cannot even wish enough for what I need most. O God, help me to know what I am seeking, and to seek it more earnestly! --"

"'Merciful?'" she went on with tears in her eyes -- "I think I am merciful. -- I haven't been tried, but I am pretty sure I am merciful. But there it is -- one must have all the marks, I suppose, to be a Christian. Some people may be merciful by nature -- I suppose I am. --"

"Blessed are the _pure in heart_."

She stopped there, and even shut up her book, in utter sorrow and shame, that if 'pure in heart' meant pure to the All- seeing eye, hers was so very, very far from it. There was not a little scrap of her heart fit for looking into. And what could she do with it? The words of Job recurred to her, -- "Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? not one."

Elizabeth was growing 'poor in spirit' before she knew what the words meant. She went on carefully, sorrowfully, earnestly -- till she came to the twenty-fourth verse of the sixth chapter. It startled her.

"No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and Mammon."

"That is to say then," said Elizabeth, "that I must devote myself _entirely_ to God -- or not at all. All my life and possessions and aims. It means all that! --"

And for 'all that' she felt she was not ready. One corner for self-will and doing her own pleasure she wanted somewhere; and wanted so obstinately, that she felt, as it were, a mountain of strong unwillingness rise up between God's requirements and her; an iron lock upon the door of her heart, the key of which she could not turn, shutting and barring it fast against his entrance and rule. And she sat down before the strong mountain and the locked door, as before something which must, and could not, give way; with a desperate feeling that it _must_ -- with another desperate feeling that it would not.

Now was Elizabeth very uncomfortable, and she hated discomfort. She would have given a great deal to make herself right; if a movement of her hand could have changed her and cleared away the hindrance, it would have been made on the instant; her judgment and her wish were clear; but her will was not. Unconditional submission she thought she was ready for; unconditional obedience was a stumbling-block before which she stopped short. She _knew_ there would come up occasions when her own will would take its way -- she could not promise for it that it would not; and she was afraid to give up her freedom utterly and engage to serve God in _everything_. An enormous engagement, she felt! How was she to meet with ten thousand the enemy that came against her with twenty thousand? -- Ay, how? But if he were not met -- if she were to be the servant of _sin_ for ever -- all was lost then! And she was not going to be lost; therefore she _was_ going to be the unconditional servant of God. When? --

The tears came, but they did not flow; they could not, for the fever of doubt and questioning. She dashed them away as impertinent asides. What were they to the matter in hand. Elizabeth was in distress. But at the same time it was distress that she was resolved to get out of. She did not know just what to do; but neither would she go into the house till something was done.

"If Mr. Landholm were here! --"

"What could he do?" answered conscience; "there is the question before you, for you to deal with. You must deal with it. It's a plain question."

"I cannot" -- and "Who will undertake for me?" -- were Elizabeth's answering cry.

Her heart involuntarily turned to the great helper, but what could or would he do for her? -- it was his will she was thwarting. Nevertheless, "_to whom should she go?_" -- the shaken needle of her mind's compass turned more and more steadily to its great centre. There was light in no other quarter but on that 'wicket-gate' towards which Bunyan's Pilgrim first long ago set off to run. With some such sorrowful blind looking, she opened to her chapter of Matthew again, and carelessly and sadly turned over a leaf or two; till she saw a word which though printed in the ordinary type of the rest, stood out to her eyes like the lettering on a signboard. "ASK." --

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you."

The tears came then with a gush.

"Ask what? -- it doesn't say, --but it must be whatever my difficulty needs -- there is no restriction. 'Knock'! -- I will -- till it is opened to me -- as it will be! --"

The difficulty was not gone -- the mountain had not suddenly sunk to a level; but she had got a clue to get over the one, and daylight had broken through the other. Elizabeth felt not changed at all; no better, and no tenderer; but she laid hold of those words as one who has but uncertain footing puts his arms round a strong tree, -- she clung as one clings there; and clasped them with assurance of life. Ask? -- did she not ask, with tears that streamed now; she knocked, clasping that stronghold with more glad and sure clasp; she knew then that everything would be 'made plain' in the rough places of her heart.

She did not sit still long then for meditation or to rest; her mood was action. She took her bible from the moss, and with a strong beating sense both of the hopeful and of the forlorn in her condition, she walked slowly through the grass to the steps of her house door. As she mounted them a new thought suddenly struck her, and instead of turning to the right she turned to the left.

"Mrs. Nettley," said Elizabeth as she entered the sitting- room, "isn't it very inconvenient for you to be staying here with me?"

Good Mrs. Nettley was sitting quietly at her work, and looked up at this quite startled.

"Isn't it inconvenient for you?" Elizabeth repeated.

"Miss Haye! -- it isn't inconvenient; -- I am very glad to do it -- if I can be of any service --"

"It is very kind of you, and very pleasant to me; but aren't you wanted at home?"

"I don't think I am wanted, Miss Haye, -- at least I am sure my brother is very glad to have me do anything for Mr. Landholm, or for you, I am sure; -- if I can."

Elizabeth's eye flashed; but then in an instant she called herself a fool, and in the same breath wondered why it should be, that Winthrop's benevolence must put him in the way of giving her so much pain.

"Who fills your place at home, while you are taking care of me here, Mrs. Nettley?"

"I don't suppose any of 'em can just do that," said the good lady with a little bit of a laugh at the idea.

"Well, is there any one to take care of your house and your brother?"

"Mr. Landholm -- he said he'd see to it."

"Mr. Landholm! --"

"He promised he'd take care of George and the house as well. -- I dare say they don't manage much amiss."

"But who takes care of Mr. Landholm?"

"Nobody does, if he don't himself," said Mrs. Nettley with a shake of her head. "He don't give that pleasure to any other living person."

"Not when you are at home?"

"It makes no difference, Miss Haye," said Mrs. Nettley going on with her sewing. "He never will. He never did."

"But surely he boards somewhere, don't he? He don't live entirely by himself in that room?"

"That's what he always used," said Mrs. Nettley; "he _does_ take his dinners somewhere now, I believe. But nothing else. He makes his own tea and breakfast, -- that is! -- for he don't drink anything. If it was any one else, one would be apt to say one would grow unsociable, living in such a way; but it don't make any change in him, no more than in the sun, what sort of a place he lives in."

Elizabeth stood for a minute very still; and then said gently,

"Mrs. Nettley, I mustn't let you stay here with me."

"Why not, Miss Haye? -- I am sure they don't want me. I can just as well stay as not. I am very glad to stay."

"You are wanted more there than here. I must learn to get along alone. -- It don't matter how soon I begin."

"Dear Miss Haye, not yet. Never mind now -- we'll talk about it by and by," said Mrs. Nettley hurriedly and somewhat anxiously. She was a little afraid of Elizabeth.

"How could you get home from this place?"

"O by and by -- there'll be ways -- when the time comes."

"The time must come, Mrs. Nettley. You are very good -- I'm very much obliged to you for coming and staying with me, -- but in conscience I cannot let you stay any longer. It don't make any difference, a little sooner or later."

"Later is better, Miss Elizabeth."

"No -- I shall feel more comfortable to think you are at home, than to think I am keeping you here. I would rather you should make your arrangements and choose what day you will go; and I will find some way for you to go."

"I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth," said Mrs. Nettley most unaffectedly. "I am sure Mr. Landholm would a great deal rather I should stay."

It was the last word Elizabeth could stand. Her lip trembled, as she crossed the passage to her own room and bolted the door; and then she threw herself on her knees by the bedside and hid the quivering face in her hands.

Why should it, that kind care of his, pierce her like thorns and arrows? why give her that when he could give her no more? "But it will all be over," she thought to herself, -- "this struggle like all other struggles will come to an end; meanwhile I have it to bear and my work to do. Perhaps I shall get over this feeling in time -- time wears out so much. -- But I should despise myself if I did. No, when I have taken up a liking on so good and solid grounds, I hope I am of good enough stuff to keep it to the end of my days."

Then came over her the feeling of forlornness, of loneliness, well and thoroughly realized; with the single gleam of better things that sprung from the promise her heart had embraced that day. True and strong it was, and her soul clung to it. But yet its real brightness, to her apprehension, shone upon a "land that is very far off;" and left all the way thereunto with but a twilight earnest of good things to come; and Elizabeth did not like looking forward; she wanted some sweetness in hand. Yet she clung to that, her one stand-by. She had a vague notion that its gleam might lead to more brightness even this side of heaven; that there might be a sort of comfort growing out of doing one's duty, and the favour of him whose service duty is. Winthrop Landholm was always bright, -- and what else had he to make him so? She would try what virtue there might be in it; she would essay those paths of wisdom which are said to be 'pleasantness;' but again came the longing for help; she felt that she knew so little. Again the word '_ask_' -- came back to her; and at last, half comforted, wholly wearied, she rose from her long meditation by the bed-side and went towards the window.

There was such a sparkling beauty on everything outside, under the clear evening sun, that its brilliancy half rebuked her. The very shadows seemed bright, so bright were the lines of light between them, where the tall pointed cedars were casting their mantle on the grass. Elizabeth stood by the open window, wondering. She looked back to the time when she had been there before, when she was as bright, though not as pure, as all things else; and now -- father and friend were away from her, and she was alone. Yet still the sun shone -- might it not again some time for her? Poor child, as she stood there the tears dropped fast, at that meeting of hope and sorrow; hope as intangible as the light, sorrow a thicker mantle than that of the cedar trees. And now the sunlight seemed to say '_Ask_' -- and the green glittering earth responded -- "and ye shall receive." Elizabeth looked; -- she heard them say it constantly. She did not question the one word or the other. It seemed very sweet to her, the thought of doing her duty; and yet, -- the tears which had stayed, ran fast again when she thought of Mrs. Nettley's going away and how utterly alone she should be.

She had sat down and was resting her arm on the window-sill; and Miss Haye's face was in a state of humbled and saddened gravity which no one ever saw it in before these days. As she sat there, Karen's voice reached her from the back of the house somewhere; and it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that it might be as well for her to acquaint herself somewhat better with one of her few remaining inmates, since their number was to be so lessened. She dried her eyes, and went out with quick step through the kitchen till she neared the door of the little back porch where Karen was at work. There she paused.

The old woman was singing one of her Methodist songs, in a voice that had once very likely been sweet and strong. It was trembling and cracked now. Yet none of the fire and spirit of old was wanting; as was shewn, not indeed by the power of the notes, but by the loving flow or cadence the singer gave them. Elizabeth lingered just within the door to listen. The melody was as wild and sweet as suited the words. The first of the song she had lost; it went on --

"Till Jesus shall come, "Protect and defend me until I'm called home; "Though worms my poor body may claim as their prey, "'Twill outshine, when rising, the sun at noon-day.

"The sun shall be darkened, the moon turned to blood, "The mountains all melt at the presence of God; "Red lightnings may flash, and loud thunders may roar, "All this cannot daunt me on Canaan's blest shore.

"A glimpse of bright glory surprises my soul, "I sink in sweet visions to view the bright goal; "My soul, while I'm singing, is leaping to go, "This moment for heaven I'd leave all below.

"Farewell, my dear brethren -- my Lord bids me come; "Farewell, my dear sisters --I'm now going home; "Bright angels are whispering so sweet in my ear, -- "Away to my Saviour my spirit they'll bear.

"I am going -- I'm going -- but what do I see! --"

She was interrupted.

"Do you mean all that, Karen?" said Elizabeth, stepping without the door.

Karen stopped her song and looked round.

"Do you mean all that you are singing, Karen?"

"What I'm singing? --"

"Yes. I've been listening to you. -- Do you feel and mean all those words of your hymn?"

"I don't say no words I don't mean," said Karen, going on with her work; -- "anyhow, I don't mean to."

"But those words you have been singing -- do you mean that you feel them all?"

Karen stood up and faced her as she answered,

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that you would rather die than live?"

"If 'twas the Lord's will, I would," said Karen, without moving her face.

"Why?"

Karen looked at her still, but her face unbent in a little bit of a smile.

"You ain't one of the Lord's people, be you, young lady?"

"I don't know --" said Elizabeth, blushing and hesitating, -- "I mean to be."

"Do you mean to be one of 'em?" said Karen.

"I wish to be -- yes, I mean to be, -- if I can."

The old woman dried her hand which had been busy in water, and coming up took one of Elizabeth's, -- looked at its delicate tints in her own wrinkled and black fingers, and then lifting a moistened eye to Elizabeth's face, she answered expressively,

"_Then_ you'll know."

"But I want to know something about it now," said the young lady as Karen went back to her work. "Tell me. How can you wish to 'leave all for heaven,' as you were singing a moment ago?"

"I'd ha' done that plenty o' years ago," said Karen. "I'd got enough of this world by that time."

"Is that the reason?"

"What reason?" said Karen.

"Is that the reason you would like to go to heaven?"

"It's the reason why I'm willing to leave the earth," said Karen. "It hain't nothin' to do with heaven."

"Anybody might be willing to go to heaven at that rate," said Elizabeth.

"That ain't all, young lady," said Karen, working away while she spoke. "I'm not only willin' to go -- I'm willin' to _be_ there when I get there -- and I'm ready too, thank the Lord!"

"How can one be 'ready' for it, Karen? -- It seems such a change."

"It'll be a good change," said Karen. "Mis' Landholm thinks it is."

Elizabeth stood silent, the tears swelling; she got little light from Karen.

"You wa'n't one of the Lord's people when you come? -- be you? --" said Karen suddenly, looking round at her.

"I hardly know whether I am one now, Karen, -- but I mean to try."

"Tryin' ain't no use," said Karen. "If you want to be one of the Lord's people, you've only to knock, and it shall be opened to you."

"Did you never know that fail?"

"I never tried it but once -- it didn't fail me then," said the old woman. "The Lord keeps his promises. -- I tried it a good while -- it don't do to stop knockin'."

"But I must -- one must try to do something -- I must try to do my duty," said Elizabeth.

"Surely!" said Karen, facing round upon her again, "but you can't help that. Do you s'pose you can love Jesus Christ, and _not_ love to please him? 'Tain't in natur' -- you can't help it."

"But suppose I don't love him, Karen?" said Elizabeth, her voice choking as she said it. "I don't know him yet -- I don't know him enough to love him."

There was a little pause; and then without looking at her, Karen said in her trembling voice, a little more trembling than it was,

"I don't know, Miss 'Lizabeth -- 'To them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name!' -- I heard a man preach that once."

The tears rushed in full measure to Elizabeth's eyes. She stood, not heeding Karen nor anything else, and the thick veil of tears hiding everything from her sight. It was a moment of strong joy; for she knew she believed in him! She was, or she would be, one of 'his people.' Her strong pillar of assurance she clasped again, and leaned her heart upon, with unspeakable rest.

She stood, till the water had cleared itself from her eyes; and then she was turning into the house, but turned back again, and went close up to the old black woman.

"Thank you, Karen," said she. "You have given me comfort."

"You hain't got it all," said Karen without looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever read a book called the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' young lady?"

"No."

"I ain't much like the people there," said Karen, "but they was always glad to hear of one more that was going to be a pilgrim; and clapped their hands, they did."

"Did _you_ ever read it, Karen?"

"I hearn Mis' Landholm read it -- and the Governor."

Elizabeth turned away, and she had not half crossed the kitchen when she heard Karen strike up, in a sweet refrain,

"I'll march to Canaan's land, "I'll land on Canaan's shore," --

Then something stopped the song, and Elizabeth came back to her room. She sat down by the window. The light was changed. There seemed a strange clear brightness on all things without that they had not a little while ago, and that they never had before. And her bread was sweet to her that night.