Chapter XXXII: The Morning Star

Nina continued her visits to Tiff's garden on almost every pleasant morning or evening. Tiff had always some little offering, either berries or flowers, to present, or a nice little luncheon of fish or birds, cooked in some mode of peculiar delicacy; and which, served up in sylvan style, seemed to have something of the wild relish of the woods. In return, she continued to read the story so interesting to him; and it was astonishing how little explanation it needed--how plain honesty of heart, and lovingness of nature, interpreted passages over which theologians have wrangled in vain. It was not long before Tiff had impersonated to himself each of the disciples, particularly Peter; so that, when anything was said by him, Tiff would nod his head significantly, and say, "Ah, ah! dat ar's just like him! He's allers a puttin' in; but he's a good man, arter all!"

What impression was made on the sensitive young nature, through whom, as a medium, Tiff received this fresh revelation, we may, perhaps, imagine. There are times in life when the soul, like a half-grown climbing vine, hangs wavering tremulously, stretching out its tendrils for something to ascend by. Such are generally the great transition periods of life, when we are passing from the ideas and conditions of one stage of existence to those of another. Such times are most favorable for the presentation of the higher truths of religion. In the hazy, slumberous stillness of that midsummer atmosphere, in the long, silent rides through the pines. Nina half awakened from the thoughtless dreams of childhood, yearning for something nobler than she yet had lived for, thought over, and revolved in her mind, this beautiful and spotless image of God, revealed in man, which her daily readings presented; and the world that he created seemed to whisper to her in every pulsation of its air, in every breath of its flowers, in the fanning of its winds, "He still liveth, and he loveth thee." The voice of the Good Shepherd fell on the ear of the wandering lamb, calling her to his arms; and Nina found herself one day unconsciously repeating, as she returned through the woods, words which she had often heard read at church:--

"When thou saidst unto me, Seek ye my face, my heart said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek."

Nina had often dreaded the idea of becoming a Christian, as one shrinks from the idea of a cold, dreary passage which must be passed to gain a quiet home. But suddenly, as if by some gentle invisible hand, the veil seemed to be drawn which hid the face of Almighty Love from her view. She beheld the earth and the heavens transfigured in the light of his smile. A strange and unspeakable joy arose within her, as if some loving presence were always near her. It was with her when she laid down at night, and when she awoke in the morning the strange happiness had not departed. Her feelings may be best expressed by an extract from a letter which she wrote at this time to Clayton:--

"It seems to me that I have felt a greater change in me within the
last two months than in my whole life before. When I look back at
what I was in New York, three months ago, actually I hardly know
myself. It seems to me in those old days that life was only a
frolic to me, as it is to the kitten. I don't really think that
there was much harm in me, only the want of good. In those days,
sometimes I used to have a sort of dim longing to be better,
particularly when Livy Ray was at school. It seemed as if she woke
up something that had been asleep in me; but she went away, and I
fell asleep again, and life went on like a dream. Then I became
acquainted with you, and you began to rouse me again, and for some
time I thought I didn't like to wake; it was just as it is when one
lies asleep in the morning--it's so pleasant to sleep and dream,
that one resists any one who tries to bring them back to life. I
used to feel quite pettish when I first knew you, and sometimes
wished you'd let me alone, because I saw that you belonged to a
different kind of sphere from what I'd been living in. And I had a
presentiment that, if I let you go on, life would have to be
something more than a joke with me. But _you would_, like a very
indiscreet man as you are, you would insist on being in sober
earnest.

"I used to think that I had no heart; I begin to think I have a
good deal now. Every day it seems as if I could love more and more;
and a great many things are growing clear to me that I didn't use
to understand, and I'm growing happier every day.

"You know my queer old _protégé_, Uncle Tiff, who lives in the
woods here. For some time past I have been to his house every day,
reading to him in the Testament, and it has had a very great effect
on me. It affected me very much, in the first place, that he seemed
so very earnest about religion, when I, who ought to know so much
more, was so indifferent to it; and when the old creature, with
tears in his eyes, actually insisted upon it that I should show his
children the road to heaven, then I began to read to him the
Testament, the life of Jesus. I didn't know myself how beautiful it
was--how suited to all our wants. It seemed to me I never saw so
much beauty in anything before; and it seems as if it had waked a
new life in me. Everything is changed; and it is the beauty of
Christ that has changed it. You know I always loved beauty above
all things, in music, in nature, and in flowers; but it seems to me
that I see something now in Jesus more beautiful than all. It seems
as if all these had been shadows of beauty, but _he_ is the
substance. It is strange, but I have a sense of him, his living and
presence, that sometimes almost overpowers me. It seems as if he
had been following me always, but I had not seen him. He has been a
good shepherd, seeking the thoughtless lamb. He has, all my life,
been calling me child; but till lately my heart has never answered,
Father! Is this religion? Is this what people mean by conversion? I
tried to tell Aunt Nesbit how I felt, because now I feel kinder to
everybody; and really my heart smote me to think how much fun I had
made of her, and now I begin to love her very much. She was so
anxious I should talk with Mr. Titmarsh, because he is a minister.
Well, you know I didn't want to do it, but I thought I ought to,
because poor aunty really seemed to feel anxious I should. I
suppose, if I were as perfect as I ought to be, a good man's stiff
ways wouldn't trouble me so. But stiff people, you know, are my
particular temptation.

"He came and made a pastoral call, the other day, and talked to me.
I don't think he understood me very well, and I'm sure I didn't
understand him. He told me how many kinds of faith there were, and
how many kinds of love. I believe there were three kinds of faith,
and two kinds of love; and he thought it was important to know
whether I had got the right kind. He said we ought not to love God
because he loves us, but because he is holy. He wanted to know
whether I had any just views of sin, as an infinite evil; and I
told him I hadn't the least idea of what infinite was; and that I
hadn't any views of anything, but the beauty of Christ; that I
didn't understand anything about the different sorts of faith, but
that I felt perfectly sure that Jesus is so good that he would make
me feel right, and give me right views, and do everything for me
that I need.

"He wanted to know if I loved him because he magnified the law, and
made it honorable; and I told him I didn't understand what that
meant.

"I don't think, on the whole, that the talk did me much good. It
only confused me, and made me very uncomfortable. But I went out to
Old Tiff's in the evening, and read how Jesus received the little
children. You never saw anybody so delighted as Old Tiff was. He
got me to read it to him three or four times over; and now he gets
me to read it every time I go there, and he says he likes it better
than any other part of the Testament. Tiff and I get along very
well together. He doesn't know any more about faith than I do, and
hasn't any better views than I have. Aunt Nesbit is troubled about
me, because I'm so happy. She says she's afraid I haven't any sense
of sin. Don't you remember my telling you how happy I felt the
first time I heard _real_ music? I thought, before that, that I
could sing pretty well; but in one hour all _my_ music became trash
in my eyes. And yet, I would not have missed it for the world. So
it is now. That beautiful life of Jesus--so sweet, so calm, so
pure, so unselfish, so perfectly _natural_, and yet so far beyond
nature--has shown me what a poor, sinful, low creature I am; and
yet I rejoice. I feel, sometimes, as I did when I first heard a
full orchestra play some of Mozart's divine harmonies. I forgot
that I was alive; I lost all thought of myself entirely; and I was
perfectly happy. So it is now. This loveliness and beauty that I
see makes me happy without any thought of myself. It seems to me,
sometimes, that while I see it I never can suffer.

"There is another thing that is strange to me; and that is, that
the Bible has grown so beautiful to me. It seems to me that it has
been all my life like the transparent picture, without any light
behind it; and now it is all illuminated, and its words are full of
meaning to me. I am light-hearted and happy--happier than ever I
was. Do you remember, the first day you came to Canema, that I told
you it seemed so sad that we must die? That feeling is all gone,
now. I feel that Jesus is everywhere, and that there is no such
thing as dying; it is only going out of one room into another.

"Everybody wonders to see how light-hearted I am; and poor aunty
says, 'she trembles for me.' I couldn't help thinking of that, the
other morning I was reading to Tiff; what Jesus said when they
asked him why his disciples did not fast: 'Can the children of the
bride-chamber mourn while the bridegroom is with them?'

"Now, my dear friend, you must tell me what you think of all this,
because, you know, I always tell you everything. I have written to
Livy about it, because I know it will make her so happy. Milly
seems to understand it all, and what she says to me really helps me
very much. I always used to think that Milly had some strange,
beautiful kind of inward life, that I knew nothing of, because she
would speak with so much certainty of God's love, and _act_ as if
it was so real to her; and she would tell me so earnestly, 'Chile,
he loves you!' Now I see into it--that mystery of his love to us,
and how he overcomes and subdues all things by love; and I
understand how 'perfect love casteth out fear.'"

To this letter Nina soon received an answer, from which also we give an extract:--

"If I was so happy, my dearest one, as to be able to awaken that
deeper and higher nature which I always knew was in you, I thank
God. But, if I ever was in any respect your teacher, you have
passed beyond my teachings now. Your childlike simplicity of nature
makes you a better scholar than I in that school where the first
step is to forget all our worldly wisdom and become a little child.
We men have much more to contend with, in the pride of our nature,
in our habits of worldly reasoning. It takes us long to learn the
lesson that faith is the highest wisdom. Don't trouble your head,
dear Nina, with Aunt Nesbit or Mr. Titmarsh. _What you feel is
faith._ They _define_ it, and you _feel_ it. And there's all the
difference between the definition and the feeling, that there is
between the husk and the corn.

"As for me, I am less happy than you. Religion seems to me to have
two parts to it. One part is the aspiration of man's nature, and
the other is God's answer to those aspirations. I have, as yet,
only the first; perhaps, because I am less simple and less true;
perhaps, because I am not yet become a little child. So _you_ must
be my guide, instead of I _yours_; for I believe it is written of
the faithful, that a little child shall lead them.

"I am a good deal tried now, my dear, because I am coming to a
crisis in my life. I am going to take a step that will deprive me
of many friends, of popularity, and that will, perhaps, alter all
my course for the future. But, if I should lose friends and
popularity, _you_ would love me still, would you not? It is
wronging you to ask such a question; but yet I should like to have
you answer it. It will make me stronger for what I have to do. On
Thursday of this week, my case will come on again. I am very busy
just now; but the thought of you mingles with every thought."