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Title: Beulah

Author: Augusta J. Evans

Release Date: July, 2003 [Etext# 4246]
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BEULAH

BY

AUGUSTA J. EVANS

Author of "Inez," "St. Elmo," "Infelice," "At the Mercy of
Tiberius," "Vashti," etc.




    "With that gloriole
     Of ebon hair, on calmed brows."




            TO MY AUNT
        MRS. SEABORN JONES
            OF GEORGIA
        I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
 AS A FEEBLE TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION
           AND GRATITUDE




BEULAH

CHAPTER I.


A January sun had passed the zenith, and the slanting rays flamed
over the window panes of a large brick building, bearing on its
front in golden letters the inscription "Orphan Asylum." The
structure was commodious, and surrounded by wide galleries, while
the situation offered a silent tribute to the discretion and good
sense of the board of managers who selected the suburbs instead of
the more densely populated portion of the city. The whitewashed
palings inclosed, as a front yard or lawn, rather more than an acre
of ground, sown in grass and studded with trees, among which the
shelled walks meandered gracefully. A long avenue of elms and
poplars extended from the gate to the principal entrance, and
imparted to the Asylum an imposing and venerable aspect. There was
very little shrubbery, but here and there orange boughs bent beneath
their load of golden fruitage, while the glossy foliage, stirred by
the wind, trembled and glistened in the sunshine. Beyond the
inclosure stretched the common, dotted with occasional clumps of
pine and leafless oaks, through which glimpses of the city might be
had. Building and grounds wore a quiet, peaceful, inviting look,
singularly appropriate for the purpose designated by the inscription
"Orphan Asylum," a haven for the desolate and miserable. The front
door was closed, but upon the broad granite steps, where the
sunlight lay warm and tempting, sat a trio of the inmates. In the
foreground was a slight fairy form, "a wee winsome thing," with
coral lips, and large, soft blue eyes, set in a frame of short,
clustering golden curls. She looked about six years old, and was
clad, like her companions, in canary-colored flannel dress and blue-
check apron. Lillian was the pet of the asylum, and now her rosy
cheek rested upon her tiny white palm, as though she wearied of the
picture-book which lay at her feet. The figure beside her was one
whose marvelous beauty riveted the gaze of all who chanced to see
her. The child could have been but a few months older than Lillian,
yet the brilliant black eyes, the peculiar curve of the dimpled
mouth, and long, dark ringlets, gave to the oval face a maturer and
more piquant loveliness. The cast of Claudia's countenance bespoke
her foreign parentage, and told of the warm, fierce Italian blood
that glowed in her cheeks. There was fascinating grace in every
movement, even in the easy indolence of her position, as she bent on
one knee to curl Lillian's locks over her finger. On the upper step,
in the rear of these two, sat a girl whose age could not have been
very accurately guessed from her countenance, and whose features
contrasted strangely with those of her companions. At a first casual
glance, one thought her rather homely, nay, decidedly ugly; yet, to
the curious physiognomist, this face presented greater attractions
than either of the others. Reader, I here paint you the portrait of
that quiet little figure whose history is contained in the following
pages. A pair of large gray eyes set beneath an overhanging
forehead, a boldly projecting forehead, broad and smooth; a rather
large but finely cut mouth, an irreproachable nose, of the order
furthest removed from aquiline, and heavy black eyebrows, which,
instead of arching, stretched straight across and nearly met. There
was not a vestige of color in her cheeks; face, neck, and hands wore
a sickly pallor, and a mass of rippling, jetty hair, drawn smoothly
over the temples, rendered this marble-like whiteness more apparent.
Unlike the younger children, Beulah was busily sewing upon what
seemed the counterpart of their aprons; and the sad expression of
the countenance, the lips firmly compressed, as if to prevent the
utterance of complaint, showed that she had become acquainted with
cares and sorrows, of which they were yet happily ignorant. Her eyes
were bent down on her work, and the long, black lashes nearly
touched her cold cheeks.

"Sister Beulah, ought Claudy to say that?" cried Lillian, turning
round and laying her hand upon the piece of sewing.

"Say what, Lilly? I was not listening to you."

"She said she hoped that largest robin redbreast would get drunk and
tumble down. He would be sure to bump some of his pretty bright
feathers out, if he rolled over the shells two or three times,"
answered Lilly, pointing to a China tree near, where a flock of
robins were eagerly chirping over the feast of berries.

"Why, Claudy! how can you wish the poor little fellow such bad
luck?" The dark, thoughtful eyes, full of deep meaning, rested on
Claudia's radiant face.

"Oh! you need not think I am a bear, or a hawk, ready to swallow the
darling little beauty alive! I would not have him lose a feather for
the world; but I should like the fun of seeing him stagger and wheel
over and over, and tumble off the limb, so that I might run and
catch him in my apron. Do you think I would give him to our matron
to make a pie? No, you might take off my fingers first!" And the
little elf snapped them emphatically in Beulah's face.

"Make a pie of robies, indeed! I would starve before I would eat a
piece of it," chimed in Lilly, with childish horror at the thought.

Claudia laughed with mingled mischief and chagrin. "You say you
would not eat a bit of roby-pie to save your life? Well, you did it
last week, anyhow."

"Oh, Claudy, I didn't!"

"Oh, but you did! Don't you remember Susan picked up a bird last
week that fell out of this very tree, and gave it to our matron?
Well, didn't we have bird-pie for dinner?"

"Yes, but one poor little fellow would not make a pie."

"They had some birds already that came from the market, and I heard
Mrs. Williams tell Susan to put it in with the others. So, you see,
you did eat roby-pie, and I didn't, for I knew what was in it. I saw
its head wrung off!"

"Well, I hope I did not get any of roby. I won't eat any more pie
till they have all gone," was Lilly's consolatory reflection.
Chancing to glance toward the gate, she exclaimed:

"There is a carriage."

"What is to-day? Let me see--Wednesday. Yes, this is the evening for
the ladies to meet here. Lil, is my face right clean? because that
red-headed Miss Dorothy always takes particular pains to look at it.
She rubbed her pocket-handkerchief over it the other day. I do hate
her, don't you?" cried Claudia, springing up and buttoning the band
of her apron sleeve, which had become unfastened.

"Why, Claudy, I am astonished to hear you talk so. Miss Dorothy
helps to buy food and clothes for us, and you ought to be ashamed to
speak of her as you do." As she delivered this reprimand Beulah
snatched up a small volume and hid it in her work-basket.

"I don't believe she gives us much. I do hate her, and I can't help
it; she is so ugly, and cross, and vinegar-faced. I should not like
her to look at my mug of milk. You don't love her either, any more
than I do, only you won't say anything about her. But kiss me, and I
promise I will be good, and not make faces at her in my apron."
Beulah stooped down and warmly kissed the suppliant, then took her
little sister's hand and led her into the house, just as the
carriage reached the door. The children presented a pleasant
spectacle as they entered the long dining room, and ranged
themselves for inspection. Twenty-eight heirs of orphanage, varying
in years, from one crawling infant to well-nigh grown girls, all
neatly clad, and with smiling, contented faces, if we except one
grave countenance, which might have been remarked by the close
observer.

The weekly visiting committee consisted of four of the lady
managers, but to-day the number was swelled to six. A glance at the
inspectors sufficed to inform Beulah that something of more than
ordinary interest had convened them on the present occasion, and she
was passing on to her accustomed place when her eyes fell upon a
familiar face, partially concealed by a straw bonnet. It was her
Sabbath-school teacher. A sudden, glad light flashed over the girl's
countenance, and the pale lips disclosed a set of faultlessly
beautiful teeth, as she smiled and hastened to her friend.

"How do you do, Mrs. Mason? I am so glad to see you!"

"Thank you, Beulah; I have been promising myself this pleasure a
great while. I saw Eugene this morning, and told him I was coming
out. He sent you a book and a message. Here is the book. You are to
mark the passages you like particularly, and study them well until
he comes. When did you see him last?"

Mrs. Mason put the volume in her hand as she spoke.

"It has been more than a week since he was here, and I was afraid he
was sick. He is very kind and good to remember the book he promised
me, and I thank you very much, Mrs. Mason, for bringing it." The
face was radiant with newborn joy, but it all died out when Miss
Dorothea White (little Claudia's particular aversion) fixed her pale
blue eyes upon her, and asked, in a sharp, discontented tone:

"What ails that girl, Mrs. Williams? She does not work enough or she
would have some blood in her cheeks. Has she been sick?"

"No, madam, she has not been sick exactly; but somehow she never
looks strong and hearty like the others. She works well enough.
There is not a better or more industrious girl in the asylum; but I
rather think she studies too much. She will sit up and read of
nights, when the others are all sound asleep; and very often, when
Kate and I put out the hall lamp, we find her with her book alone in
the cold. I can't get my consent to forbid her reading, especially
as it never interferes with her regular work, and she is so fond of
it." As the kind-hearted matron uttered these words she glanced at
the child and sighed involuntarily. "You are too indulgent, Mrs.
Williams; we cannot afford to feed and clothe girls of her age, to
wear themselves out reading trash all night. We are very much in
arrears at best, and I think some plan should be adopted to make
these large girls, who have been on hand so long, more useful. What
do you say, ladies?" Miss Dorothea looked around for some
encouragement and support in her move.

"Well, for my part, Miss White, I think that child is not strong
enough to do much hard work; she always has looked delicate and
pale," said Mrs. Taylor, an amiable-looking woman, who had taken one
of the youngest orphans on her knee.

"My dear friend, that is the very reason. She does not exercise
sufficiently to make her robust. Just look at her face and hands, as
bloodless as a turnip."

"Beulah, do ask her to give you some of her beautiful color; she
looks exactly like a cake of tallow, with two glass beads in the
middle--"

"Hush!" and Beulah's hand was pressed firmly over Claudia's crimson
lips, lest the whisper of the indignant little brunette should reach
ears for which it was not intended.

As no one essayed to answer Miss White, the matron ventured to
suggest a darling scheme of her own.

"I have always hoped the managers would conclude to educate her for
a teacher. She is so studious, I know she would learn very rapidly."

"My dear madam, you do not in the least understand what you are
talking about. It would require at least five years' careful
training to fit her to teach, and our finances do not admit of any
such expenditure. As the best thing for her, I should move to bind
her out to a mantua-maker or milliner, but she could not stand the
confinement. She would go off with consumption in less than a year.
There is the trouble with these delicate children."

"How is the babe that was brought here last week?" asked Mrs.
Taylor.

"Oh, he is doing beautifully. Bring him round the table, Susan," and
the rosy, smiling infant was handed about for closer inspection. A
few general inquiries followed, and then Beulah was not surprised to
hear the order given for the children to retire, as the managers had
some especial business with their matron. The orphan band defiled
into the hall, and dispersed to their various occupations, but
Beulah approached the matron, and whispered something, to which the
reply was:

"No; if you have finished that other apron, you shall sew no more
to-day. You can pump a fresh bucket of water, and then run out into
the yard for some air."

She performed the duty assigned to her, and then hastened to the
dormitory, whither Lillian and Claudia had preceded her. The latter
was standing on a chair, mimicking Miss Dorothea, and haranguing her
sole auditor, in a nasal twang, which she contrived to force from
her beautiful, curling lips. At sight of Beulah she sprang toward
her, exclaiming:

"You shall be a teacher if you want to, shan't you, Beulah?"

"I am afraid not, Claudy. But don't say any more about her; she is
not as kind as our dear matron, or some of the managers, but she
thinks she is right. Remember, she made these pretty blue curtains
round your and Lilly's bed."

"I don't care if she did. All the ladies were making them, and she
did no more than the rest. Never mind; I shall be a young lady some
of these days,--our matron says I will be beautiful enough to marry
the President,--and then I will see whether Miss Dorothy Red-head
comes meddling and bothering you any more." The brilliant eyes
dilated with pleasure at the thought of the protection which the
future lady-President would afford her protegee.

Beulah smiled, and asked almost gayly:

"Claudy, how much will you pay me a month, to dress you and keep
your hair in order, when you get into the White House at
Washington?"

"Oh, you dear darling! you shall have everything you want, and do
nothing but read." The impulsive child threw her arms around
Beulah's neck, and kissed her repeatedly, while the latter bent down
over her basket.

"Lilly, here are some chinquapins for you and Olaudy. I am going out
into the yard, and you may both go and play hull-gull."

In the debating room of the visiting committee Miss White again had
the floor. She was no less important a personage than vice president
of the board of managers, and felt authorized to investigate closely
and redress all grievances.

"Who did you say sent that book here, Mrs. Mason?"

"Eugene Rutland, who was once a member of Mrs. Williams' orphan
charge in this asylum. Mr. Graham adopted him, and he is now known
as Eugene Graham. He is very much attached to Beulah, though I
believe they are not at all related."

"He left the asylum before I entered the board. What sort of boy is
he? I have seen him several times, and do not particularly fancy
him."

"Oh, madam, he is a noble boy! It was a great trial to me to part
with him three years ago. He is much older than Beulah, and loves
her as well as if she were his sister," said the matron, more
hastily than was her custom, when answering any of the managers.

"I suppose he has put this notion of being a teacher into her head.
Well, she must get it out, that is all. I know of an excellent
situation, where a lady is willing to pay six dollars a month for a
girl of her age to attend to an infant, and I think we must secure
it for her."

"Oh, Miss White! she is not able to carry a heavy child always in
her arms," expostulated Mrs. Williams.

"Yes, she is. I will venture to say she looks all the better for it
at the month's end." The last sentence, fraught with interest to
herself, fell upon Beulah's ear, as she passed through the hall, and
an unerring intuition told her "You are the one." She put her hands
over her ears to shut out Miss Dorothea's sharp tones, and hurried
away, with a dim foreboding of coming evil, which pressed heavily
upon her young heart.




CHAPTER II.


The following day, in obedience to the proclamation of the mayor of
the city, was celebrated as a season of special thanksgiving, and
the inmates of the asylum were taken to church to morning service.
After an early dinner, the matron gave them permission to amuse
themselves the remainder of the day as their various inclinations
prompted. There was an immediate dispersion of the assemblage, and
only Beulah lingered beside the matron's chair.

"Mrs. Williams, may I take Lilly with me, and go out into the woods
at the back of the asylum?"

"I want you at home this evening; but I dislike very much to refuse
you."

"Oh, never mind! if you wish me to do anything," answered the girl
cheerfully.

Tears rolled over the matron's face, and, hastily averting her head,
she wiped them away with the corner of her apron.

"Can I do anything to help you? What is the matter?"

"Never mind, Beulah; do you get your bonnet and go to the edge of
the woods--not too far, remember; and if I must have you, why I will
send for you."

"I would rather not go if it will be any trouble."

"No, dear; it's no trouble; I want you to go," answered the matron,
turning hastily away. Beulah felt very strongly inclined to follow,
and inquire what was in store for her; but the weight on her heart
pressed more heavily, and, murmuring to herself, "It will come time
enough, time enough," she passed on.

"May I come with you and Lilly?" entreated little Claudia, running
down the walk at full speed, and putting her curly head through the
palings to make the request.

"Yes, come on. You and Lily can pick up some nice smooth burrs to
make baskets of. But where is your bonnet?" "I forgot it." She ran
up, almost out of breath, and seized Beulah's hand.

"You forgot it, indeed! You little witch, you will burn as black as
a gypsy!"

"I don't care if I do. I hate bonnets."

"Take care, Claudy; the President won't have you all freckled and
tanned."

"Won't he?" queried the child, with a saucy sparkle in her black
eyes.

"That he won't. Here, tie on my hood, and the next time you come
running after me bareheaded, I will make you go back; do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear. I wonder why Miss Dorothy don't bleach off her
freckles; she looks like a--"

"Hush about her, and run on ahead."

"Do, pray, let me get my breath first. Which way are we going?"

"To the piney woods yonder," cried Lilly, clapping her hands in
childish glee; "won't we have fun, rolling and sliding on the
straw?" The two little ones walked on in advance.

The path along which their feet pattered so carelessly led to a
hollow or ravine, and the ground on the opposite side rose into
small hillocks, thickly wooded with pines. Beulah sat down upon a
mound of moss and leaves; while Claudia and Lillian, throwing off
their hoods, commenced the glorious game of sliding. The pine straw
presented an almost glassy surface, and, starting from the top of a
hillock, they slid down, often stumbling and rolling together to the
bottom. Many a peal of laughter rang out, and echoed far back in the
forest, and two blackbirds could not have kept up a more continuous
chatter. Apart from all this sat Beulah; she had remembered the
matron's words, and stopped just at the verge of the woods, whence
she could see the white palings of the asylum. Above her the winter
breeze moaned and roared in the pine tops; it was the sad but dearly
loved forest music that she so often stole out to listen to. Every
breath which sighed through the emerald boughs seemed to sweep a
sympathetic chord in her soul, and she raised her arms toward the
trees as though she longed to clasp the mighty musical box of nature
to her heart. The far-off blue of a cloudless sky looked in upon
her, like a watchful guardian; the sunlight fell slantingly, now
mellowing the brown leaves and knotted trunks, and now seeming to
shun the darker spots and recesses where shadows lurked. For a time
the girl forgot all but the quiet and majestic beauty of the scene.
She loved nature as only those can whose sources of pleasure have
been sadly curtailed, and her heart went out, so to speak, after
birds, and trees, and flowers, sunshine and stars, and the voices of
sweeping winds. An open volume lay on her lap; it was Longfellow's
Poems, the book Eugene had sent her, and leaves were turned down at
"Excelsior" and the "Psalm of Life." The changing countenance
indexed very accurately the emotions which were excited by this
communion with Nature. There was an uplifted look, a brave, glad,
hopeful light in the gray eyes, generally so troubled in their
expression. A sacred song rose on the evening air, a solemn but
beautiful hymn. She sang the words of the great strength-giving
poet, the "Psalm of Life":

    "Tell me not in mournful numbers,
      Life is but an empty dream;
      For the soul is dead that slumbers,
      And things are not what they seem."

It was wonderful what power and sweetness there was in her voice;
burst after burst of rich melody fell from her trembling lips. Her
soul echoed the sentiments of the immortal bard, and she repeated
again and again the fifth verse:

    "In the world's broad field of battle,
     In the bivouac of life;
     Be not like dumb, driven cattle,
     Be a hero in the strife."

Intuitively she seemed to feel that an hour of great trial was at
hand, and this was a girding for the combat. With the shield of a
warm, hopeful heart, and the sword of a strong, unfaltering will,
she awaited the shock; but as she concluded her song the head bowed
itself upon her arms, the shadow of the unknown, lowering future had
fallen upon her face, and only the Great Shepherd knew what passed
the pale lips of the young orphan. She was startled by the sharp
bark of a dog, and, looking up, saw a gentleman leaning against a
neighboring tree, and regarding her very earnestly. He came forward
as she perceived him, and said with a pleasant smile:

"You need not be afraid of my dog. Like his master, he would not
disturb you till you finished your song. Down, Carlo; be quiet, sir.
My little friend, tell me who taught you to sing."

She had hastily risen, and a slight glow tinged her cheek at his
question. Though naturally reserved and timid, there was a self-
possession about her unusual in children of her age, and she
answered in a low voice, "I have never had a teacher, sir; but I
listen to the choir on Sabbath, and sing our Sunday-school hymns at
church."

"Do you know who wrote those words you sang just now? I was not
aware they had been set to music."

"I found them in this book yesterday, and liked them so much that I
tried to sing them by one of our hymn tunes." She held up the volume
as she spoke.

He glanced at the title, and then looked curiously at her. Beulah
chanced just then to turn toward the asylum, and saw one of the
oldest girls running across the common. The shadow on her face
deepened, and she looked around for Claudia and Lillian. They had
tired of sliding, and were busily engaged picking up pine burrs at
some little distance in the rear.

"Come, Claudy--Lilly--our matron has sent for us; come, make haste."

"Do you belong to the asylum?" asked the gentleman, shaking the
ashes from his cigar.

"Yes, sir," answered she, and, as the children came up, she bowed
and turned homeward.

"Wait a moment. Those are not your sisters, certainly?" His eyes
rested with unfeigned admiration on their beautiful faces.

"This one is, sir; that is not." As she spoke she laid her hand on
Lillian's head. Claudia looked shyly at the stranger, and then,
seizing Beulah's dress, exclaimed:

"Oh, Beulah, don't let us go just yet! I left such a nice, splendid
pile of burrs!"

"Yes, we must go; yonder comes Katy for us. Good-evening, sir."

"Good-evening, my little friend. Some of these days I shall come to
the asylum to see you all, and have you sing that song again."

She made no reply, but, catching her sister's hand, walked rapidly
homeward. Katy delivered Mrs. Williams' message, and assured Beulah
she must make haste, for Miss Dorothy was displeased that the
children were absent.

"What! is she there again, the hateful--"

Beulah's hand was over Claudia's mouth, and prevented the remainder
of the sentence. That short walk was painful, and conflicting hopes
and fears chased each other in the sister's heart, as she tightened
her hold on Lilly's hand.

"Oh, what a beautiful carriage!" cried Claudia, as they approached
the door, and descried an elegant carriage, glittering with silver
mountings, and drawn by a pair of spirited black horses.

"Yes, that it is, and there is a lady and gentleman here who must
be very rich, judging from their looks. They brought Miss White."

"What do they want, Katy?" asked Claudia.

"I don't know for certain, though I have my own thoughts," answered
the girl, with a knowing laugh that grated on Beulah's ears.

"Here, Beulah, bring them to the dormitory," said Mrs. Williams,
meeting them at the door and hurrying them upstairs. She hastily
washed Claudia's face and recurled her hair, while the same offices
were performed for Lillian by her sister.

"Don't rub my hand so hard; you hurt," cried out Claudia sharply, as
in perfect silence, and with an anxious countenance, the kind matron
dressed her.

"I only want to get it white and clean, beauty," was the
conciliatory reply.

"Well, I tell you that won't come off, because it's turpentine,"
retorted the self-willed little elf.

"Come, Beulah; bring Lilly along. Miss White is out of patience."

"What does all this mean?" said Beulah, taking her sister's hand.

"Don't ask me, poor child." As she spoke the good woman ushered the
trio into the reception room. None of the other children were
present. Beulah noted this circumstance, and, drawing a long breath,
looked around.

Miss White was eagerly talking to a richly dressed and very pretty
woman, while a gentleman stood beside them, impatiently twirling his
seal and watch-key.

All looked up, and Miss White exclaimed:

"Here they are! Now my dear Mrs. Grayson, I rather think you can be
suited. Come here, little ones." She drew Claudia to her side, while
Lilly clung closer to her sister.

"Oh, what beauties! Only look at them, Alfred!" Mrs. Grayson glanced
eagerly from one to the other.

"Very pretty children, indeed, my dear. Extremely pretty;
particularly the black-eyed one," answered her husband, with far
less ecstasy.

"I don't know; I believe I admire the golden-haired one most. She is
a perfect fairy. Come here, my love, and let me talk to you,"
continued she, addressing Lilly. The child clasped her sister's
fingers more firmly, and did not advance an inch.

"Do not hold her, Beulah. Come to the lady, Lillian," said Miss
White. As Beulah gently disengaged her hand, she felt as if the
anchor of hope had been torn from her hold; but, stooping down, she
whispered:

"Go to the lady, Lilly darling; I will not leave you."

Thus encouraged, the little figure moved slowly forward, and paused
in front of the stranger. Mrs. Grayson took her small, white hands
tenderly, and, pressing a warm kiss on her lips, said in a kind,
winning tone:

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Lillian, ma'am; but sister calls me Lilly."

"Who is 'sister'--little Claudia here?"

"Oh, no; sister Beulah." And the soft blue eyes turned lovingly
toward that gentle sister.

"Good Heavens, Alfred; how totally unlike! This is one of the most
beautiful children I have ever seen, and that girl yonder is ugly,"
said the lady, in an undertone to her husband, who was talking to
Claudia. It was said in a low voice, but Beulah heard every
syllable, and a glow of shame for an instant bathed her brow.
Claudia heard it too, and, springing from Mr. Grayson's knee, she
exclaimed angrily:

"She isn't ugly, any such thing; she is the smartest girl in the
asylum, and I love her better than anybody in the world."

"No, Beulah is not pretty, but she is good, and that is far better,"
said the matron, laying her trembling hand on Beulah's shoulder. A
bitter smile curled the girl's lips, but she did not move her eyes
from Lillian's face.

"Fanny, if you select that plain-spoken little one you will have
some temper to curb," suggested Mr. Grayson, somewhat amused by
Claudia's burst of indignation.

"Oh, my dear husband, I must have them both. Only fancy how lovely
they will be, dressed exactly alike. My little Lilly, and you
Claudia, will you come and be my daughters? I shall love you very
much, and that gentleman will be your papa. He is very kind. You
shall have big wax dolls, as high as your heads, and doll-houses,
and tea-sets, and beautiful blue and pink silk dresses, and every
evening I shall take you out to ride in my carriage. Each of you
shall have a white hat, with long, curling feathers. Will you come
and live with me, and let me be your mamma?"

Beulah's face assumed an ashen hue, as she listened to these coaxing
words. She had not thought of separation; the evil had never
presented itself in this form, and, staggering forward, she clutched
the matron's dress, saying hoarsely:

"Oh, don't separate us! Don't let them take Lilly from me! I will do
anything on earth, I will work my hands off. Oh, do anything, but
please, oh, please, don't give Lilly up. My own darling Lilly."

Claudia here interrupted: "I should like to go well enough, if you
will take Beulah too. Lil, are you going?"

"No, no." Lillian broke away from the stranger's clasping arm and
rushed toward her sister; but Miss White sat between them, and,
catching the child, she firmly, though very gently, held her back.
Lilly was very much afraid of her, and, bursting into tears, she
cried imploringly:

"Oh, sister! take me, take me!"

Beulah sprang to her side, and said, almost fiercely: "Give her to
me; she is mine, and you have no right to part us." She extended her
arms toward the little form struggling to reach her.

"The managers have decided that it is for the child's good that Mrs.
Grayson should adopt her. We dislike very much to separate sisters,
but it cannot be avoided; whole families can't be adopted by one
person, and you must not interfere. She will soon be perfectly
satisfied away from you, and instead of encouraging her to be
rebellious, you ought to coax her to behave and go peaceably,"
replied Miss White, still keeping Beulah at arm's length.

"You let go Lilly, you hateful, ugly, old thing you! She shan't go
if she don't want to? She does belong to Beulah," cried Claudia,
striding up and laying her hand on Lilly's arm.

"You spoiled, insolent little wretch!" muttered Miss White,
crimsoning to the roots of her fiery hair.

"I am afraid they will not consent to go. Fanny, suppose you take
Claudia; the other seems too reluctant," said Mr. Grayson, looking
at his watch.

"But I do so want that little blue-eyed angel. Cannot the matron
influence her?" She turned to her as she spoke. Thus appealed to,
Mrs. Williams took the child in her arms, and caressed her tenderly.

"My dear little Lilly, you must not cry and struggle so. Why will
you not go with this kind lady? She will love you very much."

"Oh, I don't want to!" sobbed she, pressing her wet cheeks against
the matron's shoulder.

"But, Lilly love, you shall have everything you want. Kiss me, like
a sweet girl, and say you will go to my beautiful home. I will give
you a cage full of the prettiest canary birds you ever looked at.
Don't you love to ride? My carriage is waiting at the door. You and
Claudia will have such a nice time." Mrs. Grayson knelt beside her,
and kissed her tenderly; still she clung closer to the matron.

Beulah had covered her face with her hands, and stood trembling like
a weed bowed before the rushing gale. She knew that neither
expostulation nor entreaty would avail now, and she resolved to bear
with fortitude what she could not avert. Lifting her head, she said
slowly:

"If I must give up my sister, let me do so as quietly as possible.
Give her to me; then perhaps she will go more willingly. Do not
force her away! Oh, do not force her!"

As she uttered these words her lips were white and cold, and the
agonized expression of her face made Mrs. Grayson shiver.

"Lilly, my darling! My own precious darling!" She bent over her
sister, and the little arms clasped her neck tightly, as she lifted
and bore her back to the dormitory.

"You may get their clothes ready, Mrs. Williams. Rest assured, my
dear Mrs. Grayson, they will go now without any further difficulty.
Of course we dislike to separate sisters, but it can't be helped
sometimes. If you like, I will show you over the asylum while the
children are prepared." Miss White led the way to the schoolroom.

"I am very dubious about that little one. Fanny, how will you ever
manage two such dispositions, one all tears and the other all fire
and tow?" said Mr. Grayson.

"A truce to your fears, Alfred. We shall get on charmingly after the
first few days. How proud I shall be with such jewels!" Beulah sat
down on the edge of the blue-curtained bed, and drew her idol close
to her heart. She kissed the beautiful face, and smoothed the golden
curls she had so long and so lovingly arranged, and, as the child
returned her kisses, she felt as if rude hands were tearing her
heart-strings loose. But she knew she must give her up. There was no
effort within her power which could avail to keep her treasure, and
that brave spirit nerved itself. Not a tear dimmed her eye, not a
sob broke from her colorless lips.

"Lilly, my own little sister, you must not cry any more. Let me wash
your face; you will make your head ache if you cry so."

"Oh, Beulah! I don't want to go away from you."

"My darling, I know you don't; but you will have a great many things
to make you happy, and I shall come to see you as often as I can. I
can't bear to have you go, either; but I cannot help it, and I want
you to go quietly, and be so good that the lady will love you."

"But to-night, when I go to bed, you will not be there to hear me
say my prayers. Oh, sister! why can't you go?"

"They do not want me, my dear Lilly; but you can kneel down and say
your prayers, and God will hear you just as well as if you were here
with me, and I will ask Him to love you all the more, and take care
of you--"

Here a little arm stole round poor Beulah's neck, and Claudia
whispered with a sob:

"Will you ask Him to love me too?"

"Yes, Claudy; I will."

"We will try to be good. Oh, Beulah--I love you so much, so very
much!" The affectionate child pressed her lips repeatedly to
Beulah's bloodless cheek.

"Claudy, if you love me, you must be kind to my little Lilly. When
you see that she is sad, and crying for me, you must coax her to be
as contented as possible, and always speak gently to her. Will you
do this for Beulah?"

"Yes, that I will! I promise you I will, and, what is more, I will
fight for her! I boxed that spiteful Charley's ears the other day
for vexing her, and I will scratch anybody's eyes out that dares to
scold her. This very morning I pinched Maggie black and blue for
bothering her, and I tell you I shall not let anybody impose on
her." The tears dried in her brilliant eyes, and she clinched her
little fist with an exalted opinion of her protective powers.

"Claudy, I do not ask you to fight for her; I want you to love her.
Oh, love her! always be kind to her," murmured Beulah.

"I do love her better than anything in the world, don't I, Lilly
dear!" She softly kissed one of the child's hands.

At this moment the matron entered, with a large bundle neatly
wrapped. Her eyes were red, and there were traces of tears on her
cheek. Looking tenderly down upon the trio, she said very gently:

"Come, my pets; they will not wait any longer for you. I hope you
will try to be good, and love each other, and Beulah shall come to
see you." She took Claudia's hand and led her down the steps. Beulah
lifted her sister, and carried her in her arms, as she had done from
her birth, and at every step kissed her lips and brow.

Mr. and Mrs. Grayson were standing at the front door; they both
looked pleased, as Lilly had ceased crying, and the carriage door
was opened to admit them.

"Ah, my dears, now for a nice ride; Claudia, jump in," said Mr.
Grayson, extending his hand to assist her. She paused, kissed her
kind matron, and then approached Beulah. She could not bear to leave
her, and, as she threw her arms around her, sobbed out:

"Good-by, dear, good Beulah. I will take care of Lilly. Please love
me, and ask God for me too." She was lifted into the carriage with
tears streaming over her face.

Beulah drew near to Mrs. Grayson, and said in a low but imploring
tone:

"Oh, madam, love my sister, and always speak affectionately to her,
then she will be good and obedient. I may come to see her often, may
I not?"

"Certainly," replied the lady, in a tone which chilled poor Beulah's
heart. She swallowed a groan of agony, and, straining the loved one
to her bosom, pressed her lips to Lilly's.

"God bless my little sister, my darling, my all!" She put the child
in Mr. Grayson's extended arms, and only saw that her sister looked
back appealingly to her. Miss White came up and said something which
she did not hear, and, turning hastily away, she went up to the
dormitory, and seated herself on Lilly's vacant bed. The child knew
not how the hours passed; she sat with her face buried in her hands,
until the light of a candle flashed into the darkened chamber, and
the kind voice of the matron fell on her ear.

"Beulah, will you try to eat some supper? Do, dear."

"No, thank you, I don't want anything."

"Poor child, I would have saved you all this had it been in my
power; but, when once decided by the managers, you know I could not
interfere. They disliked to separate you and Lily, but thought that,
under the circumstances, it was the best arrangement they could
make. Beulah, I want to tell you something, if you will listen to
me." She seated herself on the edge of the bed, and took one of the
girl's hands between both hers.

"The managers think it is best that you should go out and take a
situation. I am sorry I am forced to give you up, very sorry, for
you have always been a good girl, and I love you dearly; but these
things cannot be avoided, and I hope all will turn out for the best.
There is a place engaged for you, and Miss White wishes you to go
to-morrow. I trust you will not have a hard time. You are to take
care of an infant, and they will give you six dollars a month
besides your board and clothes. Try to do your duty, child, and
perhaps something may happen which will enable you to turn teacher."

"Well, I will do the best I can. I do not mind work, but then Lilly-
-" Her head went down on her arms once more.

"Yes, dear, I know it is very hard for you to part with her; but
remember, it is for her good. Mr. Grayson is very wealthy, and of
course Lilly and Claudy will have--"

"And what is money to my--" Again she paused abruptly.

"Ah, child, you do not begin to know! Money is everything in this
world to some people, and more than the next to other poor souls.
Well, well, I hope it will prove for the best as far as you are
concerned. It is early yet, but maybe you had better go to bed, as
you are obliged to leave in the morning."

"I could not sleep."

"God will help you, dear child, if you try to do your duty. All of
us have sorrows, and if yours have begun early, they may not last
long. Poor little thing, I shall always remember you in my prayers."
She kissed her gently, and left her, hoping that solitude would
soothe her spirits. Miss White's words rang in the girl's ears like
a knell. "She will soon be perfectly satisfied away from you."

Would she? Could that idolized sister learn to do without her, and
love her new friends as fondly as the untiring one who had cradled
her in her arms for six long years? A foreboding dread hissed
continually, "Do you suppose the wealthy and fashionable Mrs.
Grayson, who lives in that elegant house on ---- street, will suffer
her adopted daughter to associate intimately with a hired nurse?"

Again the light streamed into the room. She buried her face deeper
in her apron.

"Beulah," said a troubled, anxious voice.

"Oh, Eugene!" She sprang up with a dry sob, and threw herself into
his arms.

"I know it all, dear Beulah; but come down to Mrs. Williams' room;
there is a bright fire there, and your hands are as cold as ice. You
will make yourself sick sitting here without even a shawl around
you." He led her downstairs to the room occupied by the matron, who
kindly took her work to the dining room, and left them to talk
unrestrainedly.

"Sit down in this rocking-chair and warm your hands."

He seated himself near her, and as the firelight glowed on the faces
of both, they contrasted strangely. One was classical and full of
youthful beauty, the other wan, haggard, and sorrow-stained. He
looked about sixteen, and promised to become a strikingly handsome
man, while the proportions of his polished brow indicated more than
ordinary intellectual endowments. He watched his companion
earnestly, sadly, and, leaning forward, took one of her hands.

"Beulah, I see from your face that you have not shed a single tear.
I wish you would not keep your sorrow so pent up in your heart. It
grieves me to see you look as you do now."

"Oh, I can't help it! If it were not for you I believe I should die,
I am so very miserable. Eugene, if you could have seen our Lilly
cling to me, even to the last moment. It seems to me my heart will
break." She sank her weary head on his shoulder.

"Yes, darling, I know you are suffering very much; but remember that
'all things work together for good to them that love God.' Perhaps
he sees it is best that you should give her up for a while, and if
so, will you not try to bear it cheerfully, instead of making
yourself sick with useless grief?" He gently smoothed the hair from
her brow as he spoke. She did not reply. He did not expect that she
would, and continued in the same kind tone:

"I am much more troubled about your taking this situation. If I had
known it earlier I would have endeavored to prevent it; but I
suppose it cannot be helped now, for a while at least."

"As soon as possible I am determined you shall go to school; and
remember, dear Beulah, I am just as much grieved at your sorrows as
you are. In a few years I shall have a home of my own, and you shall
be the first to come to it. Never mind these dark, stormy days. Do
you remember what our minister said in his sermon last Sunday? 'The
darkest hour is just before daybreak.' Already I begin to see the
'silver lining' of clouds that a few years, or even months ago,
seemed heavy and cheerless. I have heard a great deal about the ills
and trials of this world, but I think a brave, hopeful spirit will
do much toward remedying the evil. For my part, I look forward to
the time when you and I shall have a home of our own, and then Lilly
and Claudy can be with us. I was talking to Mrs. Mason about it
yesterday; she loves you very much. I dare say all will be right; so
cheer up, Beulah, and do look on the bright side."

"Eugene, you are the only bright side I have to look on. Sometimes I
think you will get tired of me, and if you ever do I shall want to
die. Oh, how could I bear to know you did not love me!" She raised
her head and looked earnestly at his noble face.

Eugene laughingly repeated her words.

"Get tired of you, indeed--not I, little sister."

"Oh, I forgot to thank you for your book. I like it better than
anything I ever read. Some parts are so beautiful--so very grand. I
keep it in my basket, and read every moment I can spare."

"I knew you would like it, particularly 'Excelsior.' Beulah, I have
written 'excelsior' on my banner, and I intend, like that noble
youth, to press forward over every obstacle, mounting at every step,
until I, too, stand on the highest pinnacle, and plant my banner
where its glorious motto shall float over the world. That poem stirs
my very soul like martial music, and I feel as if I should like to
see Mr. Longfellow, to tell him how I thank him for having written
it. I want you to mark the passages you like best; and, now I think
of it, here is a pencil I cut for you to-day."

He drew it from his pocket and put it into her hand, while his face
glowed with enthusiasm.

"Thank you, thank you." Grateful tears sprang to her eyes; tears
which acute suffering could not wring from her. He saw the gathering
drops, and said gayly:

"If that is the way you intend to thank me I shall bring you no more
pencils. But you look very pale, and ought to be asleep, for I have
no doubt to-morrow will be a trying day for you. Do exert yourself
to be brave, and bear it all for a little while; I know it will not
be very long, and I shall come and see you just as often as
possible."

He rose as he spoke.

"Are you obliged to go so soon? Can't you stay with me a little
longer?" pleaded Beulah.

The boy's eyes filled as he looked at the beseeching, haggard face,
and he answered hastily:

"Not to-night, Beulah; you must go to sleep--you need it sadly."

"You will be cold walking home. Let me get you a shawl."

"No, I left my overcoat in the hall--here it is."

She followed him out to the door, as he drew it on and put on his
cap. The moonlight shone over the threshold, and he thought she
looked ghostly as it fell upon her face. He took her hand, pressed
it gently, and said:

"Good-night, dear Beulah."

"Good-by, Eugene. Do come and see me again, soon."

"Yes, I will. Don't get low-spirited as soon as I am out of sight,
do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear; I will try not to complain. Walk fast and keep warm."

She pressed his hand affectionately, watched his receding form as
long as she could trace its outline, and then went slowly back to
the dormitory. Falling on her knees by the side of Lilly's empty
couch, she besought God, in trembling accents, to bless her "darling
little sister and Claudy," and to give her strength to perform all
her duties contentedly and cheerfully.




CHAPTER III.


Beulah stood waiting on the steps of the large mansion to which she
had been directed by Miss Dorothea White. Her heart throbbed
painfully, and her hand trembled as she rang the bell. The door was
opened by a negro waiter, who merely glanced at her, and asked
carelessly:

"Well, little miss, what do you want?"

"Is Mrs. Martin at home?"

"Yes, miss; come, walk in. There is but a poor fire in the front
parlor--suppose you sit down in the back room. Mrs. Martin will be
down in a minute."

The first object which arrested Beulah's attention was a center
table covered with books. "Perhaps," thought she, "they will permit
me to read some of them." While she sat looking over the titles the
rustle of silk caused her to glance around, and she saw Mrs. Martin
quite near her.

"Good-morning," said the lady, with a searching look, which made the
little figure tremble.

"Good-morning, madam."

"You are the girl Miss White promised to send from the asylum, are
you not?"

"Yes, madam."

"Do you think you can take good care of my baby?"

"Oh, I will try."

"You don't look strong and healthy--have you been sick?"

"No; I am very well, thank you."

"I may want you to sew some, occasionally, when the baby is asleep.
Can you hem and stitch neatly?"

"I believe I sew very well, madam--our matron says so."

"What is your name? Miss White told me, but I have forgotten it."

"Beulah Benton."

"Well, Beulah, I think you will suit me very well, if you are only
careful and attend to my directions. I am just going out shopping,
but you can come upstairs and take charge of Johnny. Where are your
clothes?"

"Our matron will send them to-day."

Beulah followed Mrs. Martin up the steps, somewhat reassured by her
kind reception. The room was in utter confusion, the toilet-table
covered with powder, hairpins, bows of different colored ribbon, and
various bits of jewelry; the hearth unswept, the workstand groaning
beneath the superincumbent mass of sewing, finished and unfinished
garments, working materials, and, to crown the whole, the lady's
winter hat. A girl, apparently about thirteen years of age, was
seated by the fire, busily embroidering a lamp-mat; another, some
six years younger, was dressing a doll; while an infant, five or six
months old, crawled about the carpet, eagerly picking up pins,
needles, and every other objectionable article his little purple
fingers could grasp.

"Take him, Beulah," said the mother.

She stooped to comply, and was surprised that the little fellow
testified no fear of her. She raised him in her arms, and kissed his
rosy cheeks, as he looked wonderingly at her.

"Ma, is that Johnny's new nurse? What is her name?" said the
youngest girl, laying down her doll and carefully surveying the
stranger.

"Yes, Annie; and her name is Beulah," replied the mother, adjusting
her bonnet.

"Beulah--it's about as pretty as her face. Yes, just about,"
continued Annie, in an audible whisper to her sister. The latter
gave Beulah a condescending stare, curled her lips disdainfully,
and, with a polite "Mind your own business, Annie," returned to her
embroidery.

"Keep the baby by the fire; and if he frets you must feed him.
Laura, show her where to find his cup of arrowroot, and you and
Annie stay here till I come home."

"No, indeed, ma, I can't; for I must go down and practice my music
lesson," answered the eldest daughter decisively.

"Well, then, Annie, stay in my room."

"I am going to make some sugar-candy, ma. She"--pointing to Beulah--
"can take care of Johnny. I thought that was what you hired her
for."

"You will make no sugar-candy till I come home, Miss Annie; do you
hear that? Now, mind what I said to you."

Mrs. Martin rustled out of the room, leaving Annie to scowl
ominously at the new nurse, and vent her spleen by boxing her doll,
because the inanimate little lady would not keep her blue-bead eyes
open. Beulah loved children, and Johnny forcibly reminded her of
earlier days, when she had carried Lilly about in her arms. For some
time after the departure of Mrs. Martin and Laura, the little fellow
seemed perfectly satisfied, but finally grew fretful, and Beulah
surmised he might be hungry.

"Will you please give me the baby's arrowroot?"

"I don't know anything about it; ask Harrison."

"Who is Harrison?"

"Why, the cook."

Glancing around the room, she found the arrowroot; the boy was fed,
and soon fell asleep. Beulah sat in a low rocking-chair, by the
hearth, holding the infant, and watching the little figure opposite.
Annie was trying to fit a new silk waist to her doll, but it was too
broad one way and too narrow another. She twisted and jerked it
divers ways, but all in vain; and at last, disgusted by the
experiment, she tore it off and aimed it at the fire, with an
impatient cry.

"The plagued, bothering, ugly thing! My Lucia never shall wear such
a fit."

Beulah caught the discarded waist, and said quietly:

"You can very easily make it fit, by taking up this seam and cutting
it out in the neck."

"I don't believe it."

"Then, hand me the doll and the scissors, and I will show you."

"Her name is Miss Lucia-di-Lammermoor. Mr. Green named her. Don't
say 'doll'; call her by her proper name," answered the spoiled
child, handing over the unfortunate waxen representative of a not
less unfortunate heroine.

"Well, then, Miss Lucia-di-Lammermoor," said Beulah, smiling. A few
alterations reduced the dress to proper dimensions, and Annie
arrayed her favorite in it, with no slight degree of satisfaction.
The obliging manner of the new nurse won her heart, and she began to
chat pleasantly enough. About two o'clock Mrs. Martin returned,
inquired after Johnny, and again absented herself to "see about
dinner." Beulah was very weary of the close, disordered room, and as
the babe amused himself with his ivory rattle, she swept the floor,
dusted the furniture, and arranged the chairs. The loud ringing of a
bell startled her, and she conjectured dinner was ready. Some time
elapsed before any of the family returned, and then Laura entered,
looking very sullen. She took charge of the babe, and rather
ungraciously desired the nurse to get her dinner.

"I do not wish any," answered Beulah.

At this stage of the conversation the door opened, and a boy,
seemingly about Eugene's age, entered the room. He looked curiously
at Beulah, inclined his head slightly, and joined his sister at the
fire.

"How do you like her, Laura?" he asked, in a distinct undertone.

"Oh, I suppose she will do well enough! but she is horribly ugly,"
replied Laura, in a similar key.

"I don't know, sis. It is what Dr. Patton, the lecturer on
physiognomy, would call a 'striking' face."

"Yes, strikingly ugly, Dick. Her forehead juts over, like the eaves
of the kitchen, and her eyebrows--"

"Hush! she will hear you. Come down and play that new waltz for me,
like a good sister." The two left the room. Beulah had heard every
word; she could not avoid it, and as she recalled Mrs. Grayson's
remark concerning her appearance on the previous day, her
countenance reflected her intense mortification. She pressed her
face against the window-pane and stared vacantly out. The elevated
position commanded a fine view of the town, and on the eastern
horizon the blue waters of the harbor glittered with "silvery
sheen." At any other time, and with different emotions, Beulah's
love of the beautiful would have been particularly gratified by this
extended prospect; but now the whole possessed no charms for her
darkened spirit. For the moment, earth was black-hued to her gaze;
she only saw "horribly ugly" inscribed on sky and water. Her soul
seemed to leap forward and view nearer the myriad motes that floated
in the haze of the future. She leaned over the vast whirring lottery
wheel of life, and saw a blank come up, with her name stamped upon
it. But the grim smile faded from her lips, and brave endurance
looked out from the large, sad eyes, as she murmured,

     "Be not like dumb, driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife."

"If I am ugly, God made me so, and I know 'He doeth all things
well.' I will not let it bother me; I will try not to think of it.
But, oh! I am so glad, I thank God that he made my Lilly beautiful.
She will never have to suffer as I do now. My own darling Lilly!"
Large drops glistened in her eyes; she rarely wept; but though the
tears did not fall, they gathered often in the gray depths. The
evening passed very quietly; Mr. Martin was absent in a distant
State, whither, as traveling agent for a mercantile house, he was
often called. After tea, when little Johnny had been put to sleep in
his crib, Mrs. Martin directed Annie to show the nurse her own room.
Taking a candle, the child complied, and her mother ordered one of
the servants to carry up the trunk containing Beulah's clothes. Up,
up two weary, winding flights of steps, the little Annie toiled,
and, pausing at the landing of the second, pointed to a low attic
chamber, lighted by dormer windows on the east and west. The floor
was uncovered; the furniture consisted of a narrow trundle-bed, a
washstand, a cracked looking-glass suspended from a nail, a small
deal table, and a couple of chairs. There were, also, some hooks
driven into the wall, to hang clothes upon.

"You need not be afraid to sleep here, because the boarders occupy
the rooms on the floor below this; and besides, you know robbers
never get up to the garret," said Annie, glancing around the
apartment, and shivering with an undefined dread, rather than with
cold, though her nose and fingers were purple, and this garret
chamber possessed neither stove nor chimney.

"I am not afraid; but this is only one garret room. Are the others
occupied?"

"Yes--by carpets in summer and rats in winter," laughed Annie.

"I suppose I may have a candle?" said Beulah, as the porter
deposited her trunk and withdrew.

"Yes, this one is for you. Ma is always uneasy about fire, so don't
set anything in a blaze to keep yourself warm. Here, hold the light
at the top of the steps till I get down to the next floor, then
there is a hall-lamp. Good-night."

"Good-night." Beulah bolted the door, and surveyed her new
apartment. Certainly it was sufficiently cheerless, but its isolated
position presented to her a redeeming feature. Thought she, "I can
sit up here, and read just as late as I please. Oh! I shall have so
much time to myself these long, long nights." Unpacking her trunk,
she hung her dresses on the hooks, placed the books Mrs. Mason and
Eugene had given her on the table, and, setting the candle beside
them, smiled in anticipation of the many treats in store for her.
She read several chapters in her Bible, and then, as her head ached
and her eyes grew heavy, she sank upon her knees. Ah! what an
earnest, touching petition ascended to the throne of the Father;
prayers, first for Lilly and Claudia, and lastly for herself.

"Help me, O Lord! not to be troubled and angry when I hear that I am
so ugly; and make me remember that I am your child." Such was her
final request, and she soon slept soundly, regardless of the fact
that she was now thrown upon the wide, though not altogether cold or
unloving, world.




CHAPTER IV.


Day after day passed monotonously, and, except a visit from Eugene,
there was no link added to the chain which bound Beulah to the past.
That brief visit encouraged and cheered the lonely heart, yearning
for affectionate sympathy, yet striving to hush the hungry cry and
grow contented with its lot. During the second week of her stay
little Johnny was taken sick, and he had become so fond of his new
attendant that no one else was permitted to hold him. Often she
paced the chamber floor for hours, lulling the fretful babe with
softly sung tunes of other days, and the close observer, who could
have peered at such times into the downcast eyes, might have easily
traced in the misty depths memories that nestled in her heart's
sanctuary. The infant soon recovered, and one warm, sunny afternoon,
when Mrs. Martin directed Beulah to draw him in his wicker carriage
up and down the pavement before the door, she could no longer
repress the request which had trembled on her lips more than once,
and asked permission to take her little charge to Mrs. Grayson's. A
rather reluctant assent was given, and soon the carriage was drawn
in the direction of Mr. Grayson's elegant city residence. A
marvelous change came over the wan face of the nurse as she paused
at the marble steps, guarded on either side by sculptured lions. "To
see Lilly." The blood sprang to her cheeks, and an eager look of
delight crept into the eyes. The door was partially opened by an
insolent-looking footman, whose hasty glance led him to suppose her
one of the numerous supplicants for charity, who generally left that
princely mansion as empty-handed as they came. He was about to close
the door; but, undaunted by this reception, she hastily asked to see
Mrs. Grayson and Lillian Benton.

"Mrs. Grayson is engaged, and there is no such person here as
Lillian Benton. Miss Lilly Grayson is my young mistress' name; but I
can tell you, her mamma don't suffer her to see the like of you; so
be off."

"Lilly is my sister, and I must see her. Tell Mrs. Grayson Beulah
Benton wishes to see her sister; and ask her also if Claudia may not
see me."

She dropped the tongue of the carriage, and the thin hands clutched
each other in an agony of dread, lest her petition should be
refused. The succeeding five minutes seemed an eternity to her, and,
as the door opened again, she leaned forward and held her breath,
like one whose fate was in the balance. Costly silk and dazzling
diamonds met her gaze. The settled lines of Mrs. Grayson's pretty
mouth indicated that she had a disagreeable duty to perform, yet had
resolved to do it at once, and set the matter forever at rest.

"You are Mrs. Martin's nurse, I believe, and the girl I saw at the
asylum?" said she frigidly.

"Yes, madam; I am Lilly's sister; you said I might come and see her.
Oh, if you only knew how miserable I have been since we were parted,
you would not look so coldly at me! Do, please, let me see her. Oh,
don't deny me!"

These words were uttered in a tone of imploring agony.

"I am very sorry you happen to be her sister, and I assure you,
child, it pains me to refuse you; but, when you remember the
circumstances, you ought not to expect to associate with her as you
used to do. She will be educated to move in a circle very far above
you; and you ought to be more than willing to give her up, when you
know how lucky she has been in securing a home of wealth. Besides,
she is getting over the separation very nicely indeed, and if she
were to see you even once it would make matters almost as bad as
ever. I dare say you are a good girl, and will not trouble me any
further. My husband and I are unwilling that you should see Lilly
again; and though I am very sorry I am forced to disappoint you, I
feel that I am doing right."

The petitioner fell on her knees, and, extending her arms, said
huskily:

"Oh, madam! are we to be parted forever? I pray you, in the name of
God, let me see her! let me see her!"

Mrs. Grayson was not a cruel woman, far from it, but she was
strangely weak and worldly. The idea of a hired nurse associating
familiarly with her adopted daughter was repulsive to her
aristocratic pride, and therefore she hushed the tones of true
womanly sympathy, and answered resolutely:

"It pains me to refuse you; but I have given good reasons, and
cannot think of changing my determination. I hope you will not annoy
me by any future efforts to enter my house. There is a present for
you. Good-evening."

She tossed a five-dollar gold piece toward the kneeling figure, and,
closing the door, locked it on the inside. The money rolled
ringingly down the steps, and the grating sound of the key, as it
was hurriedly turned, seemed typical of the unyielding lock which
now forever barred the child's hopes. The look of utter despair gave
place to an expression of indescribable bitterness. Springing from
her suppliant posture, she muttered with terrible emphasis:

"A curse on that woman and her husband! May God answer their prayers
as she has answered mine!"

Picking up the coin which lay glittering on the sidewalk, she threw
it forcibly against the door, and, as it rebounded into the street,
took the carriage tongue, and slowly retraced her steps. It was not
surprising that passers-by gazed curiously at the stony face, with
its large eyes, brimful of burning hate, as the injured orphan
walked mechanically on, unconscious that her lips were crushed till
purple drops oozed over them. The setting sun flashed his ruddy
beams caressingly over her brow, and whispering winds lifted
tenderly the clustering folds of jetty hair; but nature's pure-
hearted darling had stood over the noxious tarn, whence the
poisonous breath of a corrupt humanity rolled upward, and the once
sinless child inhaled the vapor until her soul was a great boiling
Marah. Ah, truly

"There are swift hours in life--strong, rushing hours--That do the
work of tempests in their might!"

Peaceful valleys, green and flowery, sleeping in loveliness, have
been unheaved, and piled in somber, jagged masses, against the sky,
by the fingering of an earthquake; and gentle, loving, trusting
hearts, over whose altars brooded the white-winged messengers of
God's peace, have been as suddenly transformed by a manifestation of
selfishness and injustice, into gloomy haunts of misanthropy. Had
Mrs. Grayson been arraigned for cruelty, or hard-heartedness, before
a tribunal of her equals (i. e., fashionable friends), the charge
would have been scornfully repelled, and unanimous would have been
her acquittal. "Hard-hearted! oh, no! she was only prudent and
wise." Who could expect her to suffer her pampered, inert darling to
meet and acknowledge as an equal the far less daintily fed and
elegantly clad sister, whom God called to labor for her frugal
meals? Ah, this fine-ladyism, this ignoring of labor, to which, in
accordance with the divine decree, all should be subjected: this
false-effeminacy, and miserable affectation of refinement, which
characterizes the age, is the unyielding lock on the wheels of
social reform and advancement.

Beulah took her charge home, and when dusk came on rocked him to
sleep, and snugly folded the covering of his crib over the little
throbbing heart, whose hours of trial were yet veiled by the
impenetrable curtain of futurity. Mrs. Martin and her elder children
had gone to a concert, and, of course, the nurse was to remain with
Johnny until his mother's return. Standing beside the crib, and
gazing down at the rosy cheeks and curling locks, nestled against
the pillow, Beulah's thoughts winged along the tear-stained past, to
the hour when Lilly had been placed in her arms, by emaciated hands
stiffening in death. For six years she had held, and hushed, and
caressed her dying father's last charge, and now strange, ruthless
fingers had torn the clinging heart-strings from the idol. There
were no sobs, nor groans, to voice the anguish of the desolate
orphan. The glittering eyes were tearless, but the brow was darkly
furrowed, the ashy lips writhed, and the folded hands were purple
from compression. Turning from the crib, she threw up the sash, and
seated herself on the window-sill. Below lay the city, with its
countless lamps gleaming in every direction, and stretching away on
the principal streets, like long processions; in the distance the
dark waters of the river, over which steamboat lights flashed now
and then like ignesfatui; and above her arched the dome of sky, with
its fiery fretwork. Never before had she looked up at the starry
groups without an emotion of exulting joy, of awful adoration. To
her worshiping gaze they had seemed glimpses of the spirit's home;
nay, loving eyes shining down upon her thorny pathway. But now, the
twinkling rays fell unheeded, impotent to pierce the sable clouds of
grief. She sat looking out into the night, with strained eyes that
seemed fastened upon a corpse. An hour passed thus, and, as the
clang of the town clock died away the shrill voice of the watchman
rang through the air:

"Nine o'clock; and all's well!"

Beulah lifted her head, and listened. "All's well!" The mockery
maddened her, and she muttered audibly:

"That is the sort of sympathy I shall have through life. I am to
hear that 'all is well' when my heart is dying, nay, dead within me!
Oh, if I could only die! What a calm, calm time I should have in my
coffin! Nobody to taunt me with my poverty and ugliness! Oh, what
did God make me for? The few years of my life have been full of
misery; I cannot remember one single day of pure happiness, for
there was always something to spoil what little joy I ever knew.
When I was born, why did not I die at once? And why did not God take
me instead of my dear, dear father? He should have been left with
Lilly, for people love the beautiful, but nobody will ever care for
me. I am of no use to anything, and so ugly that I hate myself. O
Lord, I don't want to live another day! I am sick of my life--take
me, take me!" But a feeble ray of comfort stole into her shivering
heart, as she bowed her head upon her hands; Eugene Graham loved
her; and the bleeding tendrils of affection henceforth clasped him
as their only support. She was aroused from her painful reverie by a
movement in the crib, and, hastening to her charge, was startled by
the appearance of the babe. The soft blue eyes were rolled up and
set, the face of a purplish hue, and the delicate limbs convulsed.
During her residence at the asylum she had more than once assisted
the matron in nursing children similarly affected; and now, calling
instantly for a tub of water, she soon immersed the rigid limbs in a
warm bath, while one of the waiters was dispatched for the family
physician. When Dr. Hartwell entered he found her standing with the
infant clasped in her arms, and, as his eyes rested curiously upon
her face, she forgot that he was a stranger, and, springing to meet
him, exclaimed:

"Oh, sir; will he die?"

With his fingers on the bounding pulse, he answered:

"He is very ill. Where is his mother? Who are you?"

"His mother is at a concert, and I am his nurse."

The spasms had ceased, but the twitching limbs told that they might
return any moment, and the physician immediately administered a
potion.

"How long will Mrs. Martin be absent?"

"It is uncertain. When shall I give the medicine again?"

"I shall remain until she comes home."

Beulah was pacing up and down the floor, with Johnny in her arms;
Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the
mantelpiece, and watching the slight form as it stole softly to and
fro. Gradually the child became quiet, but his nurse kept up her
walk. Dr. Hartwell said abruptly:

"Sit down, girl! you will walk yourself into a shadow."

She lifted her head, shook it in reply, and resumed her measured
tread.

"What is your name?"

"Beulah Benton."

"Beulah!" repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his
mustached lip. She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis:

"You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it.
Beulah! Beulah! Oh, my father! I have neither sunshine nor flowers,
nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle. You
ought to have called me Marah."

"You have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress' then?" said he, with a
searching glance.

Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by
painful reflection to frame an answer. The despairing expression
settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on
again.

"Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?"

"I was driven here by necessity."

"Where are your parents and friends?"

"I have none. I am alone in the world."

"How long have you been so dependent?"

She raised her hand deprecatingly, nay commandingly, as though she
had said:

"No more. You have not the right to question, nor I the will to
answer."

He marked the look of unconquerable grief, and, understanding her
gesture, made no more inquiries.

Soon after, Mrs. Martin returned, and, having briefly stated what
had occurred, and given directions for the child's treatment, he
withdrew. His low "good-night," gently spoken to the nurse, was only
acknowledged by a slight inclination of the head as he passed her.
Little Johnny was restless, and constantly threatened with a return
of the convulsions. His mother held him on her knee, and telling
Beulah she "had been a good, sensible girl to bathe him so
promptly," gave her permission to retire.

"I am not at all sleepy, and would rather stay here and nurse him.
He does not moan so much when I walk with him. Give him back to me."

"But you will be tired out."

"I shall not mind it." Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy,
and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless
tread. Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt
her babe's pulse, and assisted in giving the hourly potions, then
reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on. Once she
offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden.
A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair. Gradually
the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that
girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that
transformed them into mountains of topaz. Pausing by the window, and
gazing vacantly out, Beulah's eyes were suddenly riveted on the
gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood
watching the masses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and
floating slowly before the wind, until the "King of Day" flashed up
and dazzled her. Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a
servant, and starting up, exclaimed:

"Bless me! I have been asleep. Beulah, how is Johnny? You must be
tired to death."

"He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is
not so high. I will take care of him, and you had better take
another nap before breakfast."

Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse's injunction, and it was two hours
later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her
breakfast. But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and,
retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair.
Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on
her lips; and, too miserable to frame a petition, she returned to
the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night. Dr.
Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and,
without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and
walked to the window. While she stood there her eyes fell upon the
loved face of her best friend. Eugene Graham was crossing the
street. For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly
cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she
leaned forward to see whether he was coming in. The door bell rang,
and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes
fastened upon her. Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother's lap,
she merely said, "I will be back soon," and, darting down the steps,
met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and
hiding her face on his shoulder.

"What is the matter, Beulah? Do tell me," said he anxiously.

Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed
out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them.
Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word
"brutal" escaped his lips. He endeavored to comfort her by holding
out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and
his cheering words failed to call up a smile. They stood in the hall
near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left
the sickroom. Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped
forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand.
Beulah's countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning
away when the doctor addressed her:

"You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night. I know
from your looks that you did not close your eyes."

"I am no worse looking than usual, thank you," she replied icily,
drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene. The doctor left them, and,
as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely
again. Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply
wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to
shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain.
Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said
reprovingly:

"Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell. Politeness costs
nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with
ordinary civility."

Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor passed over her mouth, as she
answered meekly:

"I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or
speak to me."

"Why, pray?"

"Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see
it."

He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor
child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest assured Dr.
Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a
very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I
confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if
you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you.
But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly.
Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face
haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will
serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book"
in her hand, and drew on his gloves.

"Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer--just a little longer?
It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up
wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.

Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and
answered hurriedly:

"See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the
lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must
be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her
hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands
tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought,
and slowly remounted the stairs.




CHAPTER V.


Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days
and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were
never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed,
constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her
former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her,
but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her
own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick
child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her
knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and
while he slept she read. Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given
her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering
monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded
by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man passes away; his name perishes
from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told,
and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad
comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind
was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes.
Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the
back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page. At
length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her
eyes, said audibly:

"Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret,
and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton!
I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on
your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"

"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the
doctor.

She started, looked up, and answered slowly:

"No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know."

"What made you think of him?"

"I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured
marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where. I often think
of him."

"Why?"

"Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I
feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed
her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to
say, so do not question me."

He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's
pulse, pointed to the crib, saying:

"You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep."

"No, I may as well hold him."

"Girl, will you follow my directions?" said he sharply.

Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy
in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features. The
doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the glass on the table, put
both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse. Her head was
averted.

"Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?" She fixed her eyes
proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted
lips.

"Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at
least five years?"

An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of
death settled there.

"I am in earnest. He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long
time."

She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoarse whisper:

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure; his passage is already engaged in a packet that will
sail early next week. What will become of you in his absence?"

The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she
fell forward against him.

Guy Hartwell placed the slight, attenuated form on the sofa, and
stood with folded arms looking down at the colorless face. His high
white brow clouded, and a fierce light kindled in his piercing dark
eyes, as through closed teeth came the rather indistinct words:

"It is madness to indulge the thought; I was a fool to dream of it.
She would prove heartless, like all of her sex, and repay me with
black ingratitude. Let her fight the battle of life unaided."

He sprinkled a handful of water on the upturned face, and in a few
minutes saw the eyelids tremble, and knew from the look of suffering
that with returning consciousness came the keen pangs of grief. She
covered her face with her hands, and, after a little while, asked:

"Shall I ever see him again?"

"He will come here to-night to tell you about his trip. But what
will become of you in his absence?--answer me that!"

"God only knows!"

Dr. Hartwell wrote the directions for Johnny's medicine, and,
placing the slip of paper on the glass, took his hat and left the
room. Beulah sat with her head pressed against the foot of the crib-
-stunned, taking no note of the lapse of time.

                             "Twilight gray
     Had in her sober livery all things clad."

The room had grown dark, save where a mellow ray stole through the
western window. Beulah rose mechanically, lighted the lamp, and
shaded it so as to shield the eyes of the sleeping boy. The door was
open, and, glancing up, she saw Eugene on the threshold. Her arms
were thrown around him, with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.

"Oh, Eugene! please don't leave me! Whom have I in the world but
you?"

"Beulah, dear, I must go. Only think of the privilege of being at a
German university! I never dreamed of such a piece of good luck.
Don't cry so; I shall come back some of these days, such an erudite,
such an elegant young man, you will hardly know me. Only five years.
I am almost seventeen now; time passes very quickly, and you will
scarcely miss me before I shall be at home again."

He lifted up her face, and laughed gayly as he spoke.

"When are you to go?"

"The vessel sails Wednesday--three days from now. I shall be very
busy until then. Beulah, what glorious letters I shall write you
from the Old World! I am to see all Europe before I return; that is,
my father says I shall. He is coming on, in two or three years, with
Cornelia, and we are all to travel together. Won't it be glorious?"

"Yes, for you. But, Eugene, my heart seems to die when I think of
those coming five years. How shall I live without you? Oh, what
shall I do?"

"There, Beulah! do not look so wretched. You will have a thousand
things to divert your mind. My father says he will see that you are
sent to the public school. You know the tuition is free, and he
thinks he can find some good, kind family, where you will be taken
care of till your education is finished. Your studies will occupy
you closely, and you will have quite enough to think of, without
troubling yourself about my absence. Of course you will write to me
constantly, and each letter will be like having a nice, quiet chat
together. Oh. dear! can't you get up a smile, and look less forlorn?
You never would look on the bright side."

"Because I never had any to look on, except you and Lilly; and when
you are gone, everything will be dark--dark!" she groaned, and
covered her face with her hands.

"Not unless you determine to make it so. If I did not know that my
father would attend to your education, I should not be so delighted
to go. Certainly, Beulah, in improving yourself, you will have very
little leisure to sit down and repine that your lot is not among the
brightest. Do try to hope that things may change for the better. If
they do not, why, I shall not spend eternity in Europe; and when I
come home, of course I shall take care of you myself." She stood
with one hand resting on his arm, and while he talked on,
carelessly, of her future, she fixed her eyes on his countenance,
thinking of the desolate hours in store for her, when the mighty
Atlantic billows surged between her and the noble, classic face she
loved so devotedly. A shadowy panorama of coming years glided before
her, and trailing clouds seemed gathered about the path her little
feet must tread. A vague foreboding discovered to her the
cheerlessness, and she shivered in anticipating the dreariness that
awaited her. But there was time enough for the raging of the storm;
why rush so eagerly to meet it? She closed her eyes to shut out the
grim vision, and listened resolutely to the plans suggested for her
approval. When Eugene rose to say "good-night," it was touching to
note the efforts she made to appear hopeful; the sob swallowed, lest
it should displease him; the trembling lips forced into a smile, and
the heavy eyelids lifted bravely to meet his glance. When the door
closed after his retreating form, the hands were clasped
convulsively, and the white, tearless face, mutely revealed the
desolation which that loving heart locked in its darkened chambers.




CHAPTER VI.


Several tedious weeks had rolled away since Eugene Graham left his
sunny Southern home to seek learning in the venerable universities
of the Old World. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had
clothed the earth with verdure, and enameled it with flowers of
every hue, scattering her treasures before the rushing car of
summer. During the winter scarlet fever had hovered threateningly
over the city, but, as the spring advanced, hopes were entertained
that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it was announced that
the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant form, in the
house adjoining Mrs. Martin's, she determined to send her children
immediately out of town. A relative living at some distance up the
river happened to be visiting her at the time, and, as she intended
returning home the following day, kindly offered to take charge of
the children until all traces of the disease had vanished. To this
plan Beulah made no resistance, though the memory of her little
sister haunted her hourly. What could she do? Make one last attempt
to see her, and if again refused then it mattered not whither she
went. When the preparations for their journey had been completed,
and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw
bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson's residence. The sun was low in
the sky, and the evening breeze, rippling the waters of the bay,
stirred the luxuriant foliage of the ancient China trees that
bordered the pavements. The orphan's heart was heavy with undefined
dread; such a dread as had oppressed her the day of her separation
from her sister.

     "Coming events cast their shadows before,"

and she was conscious that the sunset glow could not dispel the
spectral gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head
bowed, like one stooping from an impending blow, and when at last
the crouching lions confronted her she felt as if her heart had
suddenly frozen. There stood the doctor's buggy. She sprang up the
steps, and stretched out her hand for the bolt of the door. Long
streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She stood still a
moment, then threw open the door and rushed in. The hall floor was
covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her save the
stirring of the China trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade
to ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape
fastened to the parlor door, and, pushing it ajar, she looked in.
The furniture was draped; even the mirrors and pictures; and on a
small oblong table in the center of the room lay a shrouded form. An
over-powering perfume of crushed flowers filled the air, and Beulah
stood on the threshold, with her hands extended, and her eyes fixed
upon the table. There were two children; Lilly might yet live, and
an unvoiced prayer went up to God that the dead might be Claudia.
Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her curse:
"May God answer their prayers as they answered mine." With rigid
limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hand on the velvet
pall; with closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and
looked. There lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah! how
matchlessly beautiful, wrapped in her last sleep! The bright golden
curls glittered around the snowy brow, and floated like wandering
sunlight over the arms and shoulders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped
each other as in life, and the delicately chiseled lips were just
parted, as though the sleeper whispered. Beulah's gaze dwelt upon
this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildly up, and,
with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet
cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it
rested there she never knew. Earth seemed to pass away; darkness
closed over her, and for a time she had no pain, no sorrow; she and
Lilly were together. All was black, and she had no feeling. Then she
was lifted, and the motion aroused her torpid faculties; she moaned
and opened her eyes. Dr. Hartwell was placing her on a sofa, and
Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a handkerchief over her eyes.
With returning consciousness came a raving despair; Beulah sprang
from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and, laying one
clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other
fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically:

"You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you took my
darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye, my prayer! I knelt
and prayed you, in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to
let me hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and forehead, and
little slender hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer; you taunted
me with my poverty, and locked me from my darling, my Lilly, my all!
Oh, woman! you drove me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha!
Has your wealth and splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me, I
feel as if I could curse you eternally. Could you not have sent for
me before she died? Oh, if I could only have taken her in my arms,
and seen her soft angel eyes looking up to me, and felt her little
arms around my neck, and heard her say 'sister' for the last time!
Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made you less
fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? 'Such measure as
ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your
heart trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!"

Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were
fastened on the young sleeper; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a
frightened child, left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and,
crossing her arms on the table, bowed her head; now and then broken,
wailing tones passed the white lips. Dr. Hartwell stood in a recess
of the window, with folded arms and tightly compressed mouth,
watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward her, then drew
back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though he
scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away,
and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet,
with its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black
hair veiled the bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and
the thin hands, and a look of remorseful agony swept over his
countenance. A deadly pallor settled on cheek and brow, as, with an
expression of iron resolve, he retraced his steps, and, putting his
hand on the orphan's shoulder, said gently:

"Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child."

She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.

"Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very
ill with it. If you stay here you will certainly take it yourself."

"I hope I shall take it."

He laid his fingers on the pale, high brow, and, softly drawing back
the thick hair, said earnestly: "Beulah, come home with me. Be my
child; my daughter."

Again her hand was raised to put him aside.

"No. You too would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in the
grave with Lilly. They cannot separate us there." He lifted her
head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered kindly:

"I promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy.
Come to me, child." She shook her head with a moan. Passing his arm
around her, he raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head
against him.

"Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely,
earth's bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of
its fairy-like future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggle so.
You must come with me, my child." He took her in his strong arms,
and bore her out of the house of death. His buggy stood at the door,
and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy who accompanied him
to "drive home." Beulah offered no resistance; she hid her face in
her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what passed.
She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her
wretchedness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the
buggy, carried up a flight of steps, and then a flood of light
flashed through the fingers upon her closed eyelids. Dr. Hartwell
placed his change on a sofa, and rank the bell. The summons was
promptly answered by a negro woman of middle age. She stood at the
door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on the floor, and
his brows knitted.

"Master, did you ring?"

"Yes; tell my sister to come to me."

He took a turn across the floor, and paused by the open window. As
the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed
deeply. The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps
thirty-five years, entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with
a profusion of short chestnut curls about her face. With her hand
resting on the door, she said, in a calm, clear tone:

"Well, Guy."

He started, and, turning from the window, approached her.

"May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible.
Will you see that a hot footbath is provided? When it is ready, send
Harriet for her."

His sister's lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on
the sofa, and said coldly:

"What freak now, Guy?"

For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly.

"I intend to adopt that poor little orphan; that is all!"

"Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?" said she sneeringly.

"No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding house." He folded
his arms, and again they looked at each other.

"I thought you had had quite enough of protegees." She nervously
clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet.

"Take care, May Ohilton! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once
more, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector.
Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed?" He was
very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm and
subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell walked
up and down the room for a while, now and then looking sadly at the
young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands
over her face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered:

"Will you trust me, Beulah?"

She made no answer; but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she
shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been
arranged, as he had directed. However surprised she might have been
at this sudden advent of the simply clad orphan in her master's
study, there was not the faintest indication of it in her
impenetrable countenance. Not even the raising of an eyebrow.

"Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed; and, when she is in
bed, come for some medicine."

Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah:

"Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof,
where no more cruel injustice can assail you."

He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah
accompanied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form.
The room to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and
lighted by an elegant colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs.
Chilton stood near an armchair, looking moody and abstracted.
Harriet carefully undressed the poor mourner, and, wrapping a shawl
about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed her feet. Mrs.
Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When the little
dripping feet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an
infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the
study, and administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her
finger on the girl's wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and,
turning unconcernedly toward Mrs. Chilton, said:

"Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. I am
to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl."

"Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother
directed. My head aches miserably, or I should remain myself."

She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the
pillow and examined the orphan's countenance. The eyes were closed,
but scalding tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands
were clasped over the brow, as if to still its throbbings. Harriet's
face softened, and she said kindly:

"Poor thing! what ails you? What makes you cry so?"

Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured:

"I am so miserable! I want to die, and God will not take me."

"Don't say that till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever.
If you have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you;
and if you haven't, why, it's all for the best. It is a bad plan to
fly in the Almighty's face that way, and tell him what he shall do
and what he shan't."

This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah's ears, and
Harriet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her
grief, but she perceived her master standing beside her, and
immediately moved away from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he
counted the pulse several times. The result seemed to trouble him,
and he stood for some minutes watching the motionless form.

"Harriet, bring me a glass of ice-water."

Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he
said tenderly:

"My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I
know; but remember that, though Lilly has been taken from you, from
this day you have a friend, a home, a guardian."

Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head,
and put the sparkling draught to Beulah's parched lips. Without
unclosing her eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and, laying the
head back on the pillow, he drew an armchair before the window at
the further end of the room, and seated himself.




CHAPTER VII.


Through quiet, woody dells roamed Beulah's spirit, and, hand in
hand, she and Lilly trod flowery paths and rested beside clear,
laughing brooks. Life, with its grim realities, seemed but a flying
mist. The orphan hovered on the confines of eternity's ocean, and
its silent waves almost laved the feet of the weary child. The room
was darkened, and the summer wind stole through the blinds
stealthily, as if awed by the solitude of the sick-chamber. Dr.
Hartwell sat by the low French bedstead, holding one emaciated hand
in his, counting the pulse which bounded so fiercely in the blue
veins. A fold of white linen containing crushed ice lay on her
forehead, and the hollow cheeks and thin lips were flushed to
vermilion hue. It was not scarlet, but brain fever, and this was the
fifth day that the sleeper had lain in a heavy stupor. Dr. Hartwell
put back the hand he held, and, stooping over, looked long and
anxiously at the flushed face. The breathing was deep and labored,
and, turning away, he slowly and noiselessly walked up and down the
floor. To have looked at him then, in his purple silk robe de
chambre, one would have scarcely believed that thirty years had
passed over his head. He was tall and broad-chested, his head
massive and well formed, his face a curious study. The brow was
expansive and almost transparent in its purity, the dark, hazel eyes
were singularly brilliant, while the contour of lips and chin was
partially concealed by a heavy mustache and board. The first glance
at his face impressed strangers by its extreme pallor, but in a
second look they were fascinated by the misty splendor of the eyes.
In truth, those were strange eyes of Guy Hartwell's. At times,
searching and glittering like polished steel; occasionally lighting
up with a dazzling radiance, and then as suddenly growing gentle,
hazy, yet luminous; resembling the clouded aspect of a star seen
through a thin veil of mist. His brown, curling hair was thrown back
from the face, and exposed the outline of the ample forehead.
Perhaps utilitarians would have carped at the feminine delicacy of
the hands, and certainly the fingers were slender and marvelously
white. On one hand he wore an antique ring, composed of a cameo
snake-head set round with diamonds. A proud, gifted, and miserable
man was Guy Hartwell, and his characteristic expression of stern
sadness might easily have been mistaken by casual observers for
bitter misanthropy.

I have said he was about thirty, and though the handsome face was
repellently cold and grave, it was difficult to believe that that
smooth, fair brow had been for so many years uplifted for the
handwriting of time. He looked just what he was, a baffling,
fascinating mystery. You felt that his countenance was a volume of
hieroglyphics which, could you decipher, would unfold the history of
a checkered and painful career. Yet the calm, frigid smile which sat
on his lip, and looked out defiantly from his deep-set eyes, seemed
to dare you to an investigation. Mere physical beauty cannot impart
the indescribable charm which his countenance possessed. Regularity
of features is a valuable auxiliary, but we look on sculptured
marble, perfect in its chiseled proportions, and feel that, after
all, the potent spell is in the raying out of the soul, that
imprisoned radiance which, in some instances, makes man indeed but
"little lower than the angels." He paused in his echoless tread, and
sat down once more beside his protegee. She had not changed her
position, and the long lashes lay heavily on the crimson cheeks. The
parched lips were parted, and, as he watched her, she murmured
aloud:

"It is so sweet, Lilly; we will stay here always." A shadowy smile
crossed her face, and then a great agony seemed to possess her, for
she moaned long and bitterly. He tried to arouse her, and, for the
first time since the night she entered his house, she opened her
eyes and gazed vacantly at him.

"Are you in pain, Beulah? Why do you moan so?"

"Eugene, I knew it would be so, when you left me."

"Don't you know me, Beulah?" He put his face close to hers.

"They killed her, Eugene! I told you they would; they are going to
bury her soon. But the grave can't hide her; I am going down with
her into the darkness--she would be frightened, you know." Making a
great effort, she sat upright. Dr. Hartwell put a glass containing
medicine to her lips; she shrank back and shuddered, then raised her
hand for the glass, and, looking fixedly at him, said: "Did Mrs.
Grayson say I must take it? Is it poison that kills quickly? There;
don't frown, Eugene, I will drink it all for you." She swallowed the
draught with a shiver. He laid her back on her pillow and renewed
the iced-cloth on her forehead; she did not move her burning eyes
from his face, and the refreshing coolness recalled the sad smile.
"Are we on the Alps, Eugene? I feel dizzy; don't let me fall. There
is a great chasm yonder. Oh, I know now; I am not afraid; Lilly is
down there--come on." Her arms drooped to her side, and she slept
again.

Evening shadows crept on; soon the room was dark. Harriet entered
with a shaded lamp, but her master motioned her out, and, throwing
open the blinds, suffered the pure moonlight to enter freely. The
window looked out on the flower garden, and the mingled fragrance of
roses, jasmines, honeysuckles, and dew-laden four-o'clocks enveloped
him as in a cloud of incense. A balmy moonlight June night in our
beautiful sunny South--who shall adequately paint its witchery? Dr.
Hartwell leaned his head against the window, and glanced down at the
parterre he had so fondly fostered. The golden moonlight mellowed
every object, and not the gorgeous pictures of Persian poets
surpassed the quiet scene that greeted the master. The shelled
serpentine walks were bordered with low, closely clipped cassina
hedges; clusters of white and rose oleander, scarlet geraniums,
roses of countless variety, beds of verbena of every hue, and
patches of brilliant annuals, all looked up smilingly at him. Just
beneath the window the clasping tendrils of a clematis were wound
about the pedestal of a marble Flora, and a cluster of the delicate
purple blossoms peeped through the fingers of the goddess. Further
off, a fountain flashed in the moonlight, murmuring musically in and
out of its reservoir, while the diamond spray bathed the sculptured
limbs of a Venus. The sea breeze sang its lullaby through the boughs
of a luxuriant orange tree near, and silence seemed guardian spirit
of the beautiful spot, when a whip-poor-will whirred through the
air, and, perching on the snowy brow of the Aphrodite, began his
plaintive night-hymn. In childhood Guy Hartwell had been taught by
his nurse to regard the melancholy chant as ominous of evil; but as
years threw their shadows over his heart, darkening the hopes of his
boyhood, the sad notes of the lonely bird became gradually soothing,
and now in the prime of life he loved to listen to the shy visitor,
and ceased to remember that it boded ill. With an ardent love for
the beautiful, in all its Protean phases, he enjoyed communion with
nature as only an imaginative, aesthetical temperament can. This
keen appreciation of beauty had been fostered by travel and study.
Over the vast studio of nature he had eagerly roamed; midnight had
seen him gazing enraptured on the loveliness of Italian scenery, and
found him watching the march of constellations from the lonely
heights of the Hartz; while the thunder tones of awful Niagara had
often hushed the tumults of his passionate heart, and bowed his
proud head in humble adoration. He had searched the storehouses of
art, and collected treasures that kindled divine aspirations in his
soul, and wooed him for a time from the cemetery of memory. With a
nature so intensely aesthetical, and taste so thoroughly cultivated,
he had, in a great measure, assimilated his home to the artistic
beau ideal. Now as he stood inhaling the perfumed air, he forgot the
little sufferer a few yards off--forgot that Azrail stood on the
threshold, beckoning her to brave the dark floods; and, as his whole
nature became permeated (so to speak) by the intoxicating beauty
that surrounded him, he extended his arms, and exclaimed
triumphantly:

"Truly thou art my mother, dear old earth! I feel that I am indeed
nearly allied to thy divine beauty! Starry nights, and whispering
winds, and fragrant flowers! yea, and even the breath of the
tempest! all, all are parts of my being."

"Guy, there is a messenger waiting at the door to see you. Some
patient requires prompt attendance." Mrs. Chilton stood near the
window, and the moonlight flashed over her handsome face. Her
brother frowned and motioned her away, but, smiling quietly, she put
her beautifully molded hand on his shoulder, and said:

"I am sorry I disturbed your meditations, but if you will practice--
"

"Who sent for me?"

"I really don't know."

"Will you be good enough to inquire?"

"Certainly." She glided gracefully from the room.

The whip-poor-will flew from his marble perch, and, as the mournful
tones died away, the master sighed, and returned to the bedside of
his charge. He renewed the ice on her brow, and soon after his
sister re-entered.

"Mr. Vincent is very sick, and you are wanted immediately."

"Very well." He crossed the room and rang the bell.

"Guy, are you sure that girl has not scarlet fever?"

"May, I have answered that question at least twice a day for nearly
a week."

"But you should sympathize with a mother's anxiety. I dread to
expose Pauline to danger."

"Then let her remain where she is."

"But I prefer having her come home, if I could feel assured that
girl has only brain fever."

"Then, once for all, there is no scarlet fever in the house."

He took a vial from his pocket, and poured a portion of its contents
into the glass, which he placed on a stand by Beulah's bed; then,
turning to Harriet, who had obeyed his summons, he directed her to
administer the medicine hourly.

"Guy, you may give your directions to me, for I shall stay with the
child to-night." As she spoke, she seated herself at the foot of the
bed.

"Harriet, hand me the candle in the hall." She did so; and, as her
master took it from her hand, he said abruptly:

"Tell Hal to bring my buggy round, and then you may go to bed. I
will ring if you are wanted." He waited until she was out of
hearing, and, walking up to his sister, held the candle so that the
light fell full upon her face.

"May, can I trust you?"

"Brother, you are cruelly unjust." She covered her face with her
lace handkerchief.

"Am I, indeed?"

"Yes, you wrong me hourly, with miserable suspicions. Guy, remember
that I have your blood in my veins, and it will not always tamely
bear insult, even from you." She removed the handkerchief, and shook
back her glossy curls, while her face grew still paler than was its
wont.

"Insult! May, can the unvarnished truth be such?"

They eyed each other steadily, and it was apparent that each iron
will was mated.

"Guy, you shall repent this."

"Perhaps so. You have made me repent many things."

"Do you mean to say that--"

"I mean to say, that since you have at last offered to assist in
nursing that unconscious child, I wish you to give the medicine
hourly. The last potion was at eight o'clock." He placed the candle
so as to shade the light from the sick girl, and left the room. Mrs.
Chilton sat for some time as he had left her with her head leaning
on her hand, her thoughts evidently perplexed and bitter. At
length she rose and stood close to Beulah, looking earnestly at her
emaciated face. She put her fingers on the burning temples and
wrist, and counted accurately the pulsations of the lava tide, then
bent her queenly head, and listened to the heavily drawn breathing.
A haughty smile lit her fine features as she said complacently: "A
mere tempest in a teacup. Pshaw, this girl will not mar my projects
long. By noon tomorrow she will be in eternity. I thought, the first
time I saw her ghostly face, she would trouble me but a short
season. What paradoxes men are! What on earth possessed Guy, with
his fastidious taste, to bring to his home such an ugly, wasted,
sallow little wretch? I verily believe, as a family, we are beset by
evil angels." Drawing out her watch, she saw that the hand had
passed nine. Raising the glass to her lips, she drank the quantity
prescribed for the sufferer, and was replacing it on the stand, when
Beulah's large, eloquent eyes startled her.

"Well, child, what do you want?" said she, trembling, despite her
assumed indifference. Beulah looked at her vacantly, then threw her
arms restlessly over the pillow, and slept again. Mrs. Chilton drew
up a chair, seated herself, and sank into a reverie of some length.
Ultimately she was aroused by perceiving her brother beside her, and
said hastily:

"How is Mr. Vincent? Not dangerously ill, I hope!"

"Tomorrow will decide that. It is now ten minutes past ten; how many
potions have you given?"

"Two," answered she firmly.

"Thank you, May. I will relieve you now. Good-night."

"But you are worn out, and I am not. Let me sit up. I will wake you
if any change occurs."

"Thank you, I prefer watching tonight. Take that candle, and leave
it on the table in the hall. I need nothing but moonlight. Leave the
door open." As the flickering light vanished, he threw himself into
the chair beside the bed.




CHAPTER VIII.


It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to
consciousness. For some moments after unclosing her eyes they
wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall
form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window. Gradually
memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of
that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her. The little table,
with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been
carried to a friendly shelter. Was it only yesterday evening, and
had she slept? The utter prostration which prevented her raising her
head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her "no." Too
feeble even to think, she moaned audibly. Dr. Hartwell turned and
looked at her. The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky
was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside. The fever had died out,
the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes
lusterless. She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect
indifference. He leaned over, and said eagerly:

"Beulah, do you know me?"

"Yes; I know you."

"How do you feel this morning?"

"I am very weak, and my head seems confused. How long have I been
here?"

"No matter, child, if you are better." He took out his watch, and,
after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a
potion. Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if
afraid of her own question:

"Have they buried her?"

"Yes; a week ago."

She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed;
then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow. Dr. Hartwell sat
down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said
gently:

"Beulah, you have been very ill. I scarcely thought you would
recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself,
for you are far too weak to bear it."

"Why didn't you let me die? Oh, it would have been a mercy!" She put
her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.

"Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little
friend, my child. Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to
me. When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know;
but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses
you. Will you try?"

The strong, stern man shuddered, as she looked up at him with an
expression of hopeless desolation, and said slowly:

"I have nothing but misery to think of."

"Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?"

For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her
cheeks, and she murmured:

"Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also. I
never loved anything but trouble came upon it."

Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned
to view some page in the history of his own life.

"Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant
young man before you are fairly out of short dresses. There, do not
talk any more, and don't cry. Try to sleep, and remember, child, you
are homeless and friendless no longer." He pressed her hand kindly,
and turned toward the door. It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.

"Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?" said she blandly.

"Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better. She has been
talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast." He put
both hands on his sister's shoulders, and looked down into her
beautiful eyes. She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle
around her lips.

"Ah! I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery. You
are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead." Her
voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.

"More wonderful still, May; I can read the living." His mustached
lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.

"Read the living? Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure
at this good news. Doubly good, because it secures Pauline's return
to-day. Dear child, I long to have her at home again." An expression
of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features. Her brother
kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy
auburn curls, he said, half musingly:

"Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint
on your hair."

"He has dealt quite as leniently with you. But how could I feel the
inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness? Cares and
sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you,
Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister."

"Have I indeed, May?"

"Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your
generosity, your--"

"Enough! Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not
for her sake, for your own. You and Pauline can aid me in making her
happy, if you will. And if not, remember, May, you know my nature.
Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet." He led
her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped
out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a
tiara in the early sunlight. Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the
two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning
against the wall, she muttered:

"It cannot be possible that that miserable beggar is to come between
Pauline and his property! Is he mad, to dream of making that little
outcast his heiress? Yet he meant it; I saw it in his eye; the
lurking devil that has slumbered since that evening, and that I
hoped would never gleam out at me again. Oh! we are a precious
family. Set the will of one against another, and all Pandemonium
can't crush either! Ten to one, Pauline will lose her wits too, and
be as hard to manage as Guy." Moody and perplexed, she walked on to
the dining room. Beulah had fallen into a heavy slumber of
exhaustion, and it was late in the day when she again unclosed her
eyes. Harriet sat sewing near her, but soon perceived that she was
awake, and immediately put aside her work.

"Aha! so you have come to your senses again, have you? How are you,
child?"

"I am weak."

"Which isn't strange, seeing that you haven't eat a teaspoonful in
more than a week. Now, look here, little one; I am ordered to nurse
and take charge of you till you are strong enough to look out for
yourself. So you must not object to anything I tell you to do."
Without further parley, she washed and wiped Beulah's face and
hands, shook up the pillows, and placed her comfortably on them. To
the orphan, accustomed all her life to wait upon others, there was
something singularly novel in being thus carefully handled; and,
nestling her head close to the pillows, she shut her eyes, lest the
tears that were gathering should become visible. Harriet quitted the
room for a short time, and returned with a salver containing some
refreshments.

"I can't eat anything. Thank you; but take it away." Beulah put her
hands over her face, but Harriet resolutely seated herself on the
side of the bed, lifted her up, and put a cup of tea to the
quivering lips.

"It is no use talking; master said you had to eat, and you might
just as well do it at once. Poor thing! you are hiding your eyes to
cry. Well, drink this tea and eat a little; you must, for folks
can't live forever without eating." There was no alternative, and
Beulah swallowed what was given her. Harriet praised her obedient
spirit, and busied herself about the room for some time. Finally,
stooping over the bed, she said abruptly:

"Honey, are you crying?"

There was no reply, and, kneeling down, she said cautiously:

"If you knew as much about this family as I do, you would cry, sure
enough, for something. My master says he has adopted you, and since
he has said it, everything will work for good to you. But, child,
there will come times when you need a friend besides master, and be
sure you come to me when you do. I won't say any more now; but
remember what I tell you when you get into trouble. Miss Pauline has
come, and if she happens to take a fancy to you (which I think she
won't), she will stand by you till the stars fall; and if she don't,
she will hate you worse than Satan himself for--" Harriet did not
complete the sentence, for she detected her master's step in the
passage, and resumed her work.

"How is she?"

"She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted."

"That will do. I will ring when you are needed."

Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the
child's head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.

"Beulah, are you following my directions?"

"Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable,
even to thank you."

"I do not wish you to thank me. All I desire is that you will keep
quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing
yourself into another fever. I know you have had a bitter lot in
life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better
not to dwell upon the past. Ah, child! it is well to live only in
the present, looking into the future. I promise you I will guard
you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I
think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful."

He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the
tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her
face. The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his
voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great
effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly:

"Oh, sir, how good you are! I am--very grateful--to you--indeed, I--
"

"There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be
cheerful. It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you
will always remain in my house."

How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when
hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet
was in the room. A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the
nurse and physician. One sunny afternoon she looped back the white
curtains, and sat down before the open window. Harriet had dressed
her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more
ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of
the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like
an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue. Her elbows rested on the
arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands.
Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on
a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street
stretched the west common. In the distance rose a venerable brick
building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked
only once, and knew it vas the asylum. It was the first time she had
seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no
longer be restrained. Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and
the frail form trembled violently. For nearly fourteen years that
brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better
things. With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself
to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in
the eternal love and goodness of God, had looked to him for relief
and reward. But the reward came not in the expected way. Hope died;
faith fainted; and bitterness and despair reigned in that once
loving and gentle soul. Her father had not been spared in answer to
her frantic prayers. Lilly had been taken, without even the sad
comfort of a farewell, and now, with the present full of anguish,
and the future shrouded in dark forebodings, she sobbed aloud:

"All alone! All alone! Oh, father! Oh, Lilly, Lilly!"

"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick
again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.

"Don't talk to me--don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.

"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and
you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"

"I did, and he has forgotten me."

"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you
wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait
until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"

"He never can give me back my dead."

"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a
blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think
of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and
nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky--"

She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to
come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly
upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly
over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a
fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The
leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down
on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.

"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it
were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the
windows.

Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene
had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and
an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last,
and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the
Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the
crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise.
As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on
those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the
paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own
age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.

"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you
are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"

The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed
curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily
Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her.
The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the
lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was
faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The
features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet
hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown
back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist;
her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore
the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked
a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah
shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her
face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The
expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept
over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form
of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to
address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently:

"Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your
entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy
this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner
on her daughter's arm.

"Oh, sink the buggy! What do I care if he does catch me here? I
shall stay till I make up my mind whether that little thing is a
ghost or not. So, mother, let me alone." She shook off the clasping
hand that sought to drag her away, and again fixed her attention on
Beulah.

"Willful girl! you will ruin everything yet. Pauline, follow me
instantly, I command you!" She was white with rage, but the daughter
gave no intimation of having heard the words; and, throwing her arm
about the girl's waist, Mrs. Chilton dragged her to the door. There
was a brief struggle at the threshold, and then both stood quiet
before the master of the house.

"What is all this confusion about? I ordered this portion of the
house kept silent, did I not?"

"Yes, Guy; and I hope you will forgive Pauline's thoughtlessness.
She blundered in here, and I have just been scolding her for
disobeying your injunctions."

"Uncle Guy, it was not thoughtlessness, at all; I came on purpose.
For a week I have been nearly dying with curiosity to see that
little skeleton you have shut up here, and I ran up to get a glimpse
of her. I don't see the harm of it; I haven't hurt her." Pauline
looked fearlessly up in her uncle's face, and planted herself firmly
in the door, as if resolved not to be ejected.

"Does this house belong to you or to me, Pauline?"

"To you, now; to me, some of these days, when you give it to me for
a bridal present."

His brow cleared, he looked kindly down into the frank, truthful
countenance, and said, with a half-smile:

"Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal
anticipations may prove an egregious failure. Do you understand me?"

"I have not finished the first. Mother played pirate, and carried me
off before I was half satisfied. Uncle Guy, take me under your flag,
do! I will not worry the little thing--I promise you I will not.
Can't I stay here a while?" He smiled, and put his hand on her head,
saying:

"I am inclined to try you. May, you can leave her here. I will send
her to you after a little." As he spoke, he drew her up to the
orphan. Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.

"Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my
adopted child, Beulah Benton. You are about the same age, and can
make each other happy, if you will. Beulah, shake hands with my
niece." She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly
clasped in Pauline's plump palm.

"Do stop crying, and look at me. I want to see you," said the
latter.

"I am not crying."

"Then what are you hiding your face for?"

"Because it is so ugly," answered the orphan sadly.

Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the
features to view. She gave them a searching examination, and then,
looking up at her uncle, said bluntly:

"She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her.
If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she
would pass well enough; don't you think so?"

Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor,
placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before. She did,
indeed, look "doleful," as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming,
lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.

"What have you been doing all day?" said the doctor kindly.

She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone:

"Thinking about my past life--all my misfortunes."

"You promised you would do so no more."

"Ah, sir! how can I help it?"

"Why, think of something pleasant, of course," interrupted Pauline.

"You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering," replied
Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance
before her--a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never
rippled.

"How came you so wise? I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody
else."

Beulah shook her head dubiously.

"Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you
be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not
been as happy as yours? Can't you love her?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively:

"I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit
looking so dismal and graveyardish. I don't know about loving her;
we shall see."

"You can go down to your mother now," said he gravely.

"That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!" cried she, saucily
shaking her curls over her face.

"Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off."

"Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow." She
reached the door, but looked back.

"Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?"

"No."

"Well, he will die if you don't do something for him. It is a shame
to forget him as you do!" said she indignantly.

"Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine."

"It is high time somebody interfered. Poor Charon! If Hal doesn't
take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if
I don't."

She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at
leisure. Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly:

"This large room does not suit you. Come, and I will show you your
own little room--one I have had arranged for you." She silently
complied, and, leading her through several passages, he opened the
door of the apartment assigned her. The walls were covered with blue
and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue,
matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and
tasteful expenditure. There was a small writing-desk near a handsome
case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up
to it. He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes
wandered curiously and admiringly around the room. They rested on a
painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the
design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows. It represented an
angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal,
and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a
distant steep. Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on;
some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in
the attitude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and
pale, haggard faces.

"Do you like it?" said Dr. Hartwell.

Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the
question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded
her earnestly. Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising
her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones:

"I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to
the resting-place."

Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once
more.

Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted
her face, and a musical voice said:

"Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea. Do you
feel strong enough?"

"Yes, sir." She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem
cheerful.

The study was an oblong room, and on one side book-shelves rose
almost to the ceiling. The opposite wall, between the windows, was
covered with paintings, and several statues stood in the recesses
near the chimney. Over the low marble mantelpiece hung a full-length
portrait, shrouded with black crape, and underneath was an
exquisitely chased silver case, containing a small Swiss clock. A
beautiful terra-cotta vase, of antique shape, stood on the hearth,
filled with choice and fragrant flowers, and near the window sat an
elegant rosewood melodeon. A circular table occupied the middle of
the room, and here the evening meal was already arranged. Beulah
glanced timidly around as her conductor seated her beside the urn,
and, seeing only cups for two persons, asked hesitatingly:

"Shall I make your tea now?"

"Yes; and remember, Beulah, I shall expect you to make it every
evening at this hour. Breakfast and dinner I take with my sister and
Pauline in the dining room, but my evenings are always spent here.
There, make another cup for yourself."

A long silence ensued. Dr. Hartwell seemed lost in reverie, for he
sat with his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and his head resting on
his hand. His features resumed their habitual expression of stern
rigidity, and as Beulah looked at him she could scarcely believe
that he was the same kind friend who had been so gentle and fatherly
in his manner. Intuitively she felt then that she had to deal with a
chaotic, passionate, and moody nature, and, as she marked the
knitting of his brows and the iron compression of his lips, her
heart was haunted by grave forebodings. While she sat pondering his
haughty, impenetrable appearance, a servant entered.

"Sir, there is a messenger at the door."

His master started slightly, pushed away his cup, and said:

"Is the buggy ready?"

"Yes, sir; waiting at the door--"

"Very well; I am coming."

The windows opened down to the floor, and led into a vine-covered
piazza. He stepped up to one and stood a moment, as if loath to quit
his sanctum; then, turning round, addressed Beulah:

"Ah, child, I had almost forgotten you. It is time you were asleep.
Do you know the way back to your room?"

"I can find it," said she, rising from the table.

"Good-night; let me see you at breakfast if you feel strong enough
to join us."

He opened the door for her, and, hurrying out, Beulah found her own
room without difficulty. Walking up to Harriet, whom she saw waiting
for her, she said in a grave, determined manner:

"You have been very kind to me since I came here, and I feel
grateful to you; but I have not been accustomed to have someone
always waiting on me, and in future I shall not want you. I can
dress myself without any assistance, so you need not come to me
night and morning."

"I am obeying master's orders. He said I was to 'tend to you,"
answered Harriet, wondering at the independent spirit evinced by the
newcomer.

"I do not want any tending, so you may leave me, if you please."

"Haven't you been here long enough to find out that you might as
well fight the waves of the sea as my master's will? Take care,
child, how you begin to countermand his orders, for I tell you now
there are some in this house who will soon make it a handle to turn
you out into the world again. Mind what I say."

"Do you mean that I am not wanted here?"

"I mean, keep your eyes open." Harriet vanished in the dark passage,
and Beulah locked the door, feeling that now she was indeed alone,
and could freely indulge the grief that had so long sought to veil
itself from curious eyes. Yet there was no disposition to cry. She
sat down on the bed and mused on the strange freak of fortune which
had so suddenly elevated the humble nurse into the possessor of that
elegantly furnished apartment. There was no elation in the quiet
wonder with which she surveyed the change in her position. She did
not belong there, she had no claim on the master of the house, and
she felt that she was trespassing on the rights of the beautiful
Pauline. Rapidly plans for the future were written in firm resolve.
She would thankfully remain under the roof that had so kindly
sheltered her, until she could qualify herself to teach. She would
ask Dr. Hartwell to give her an education, which, once obtained,
would enable her to repay its price. To her proud nature there was
something galling in the thought of dependence, and, throwing
herself on her knees for the first time in several weeks, she
earnestly besought the God of orphans to guide and assist her.




CHAPTER IX.


"Do you wish her to commence school at once?"

"Not until her wardrobe has been replenished. I expect her clothes
to be selected and made just as Pauline's are. Will you attend to
this business, or shall I give directions to Harriet?"

"Certainly, Guy; I can easily arrange it. You intend to dress her
just as I do Pauline?"

"As nearly as possible. Next week I wish her to begin school with
Pauline, and Hansell will give her music lessons. Be so good as to
see about her clothes immediately."

Dr. Hartwell drew on his gloves and left the room. His sister
followed him to the door, where his buggy awaited him.

"Guy, did you determine about that little affair for Pauline? She
has so set her heart on it."

"Oh, do as you please, May; only I am--"

"Stop, Uncle Guy! Wait a minute. May I have a birthday party? May
I?" Almost out of breath, Pauline ran up the steps; her long hair
floating over her face, which exercise had flushed to crimson.

"You young tornado! Look how you have crushed that cluster of
heliotrope, rushing over the flower-beds as if there were no walks."
He pointed with the end of his whip to a drooping spray of purple
blossoms.

"Yes; but there are plenty more. I say, may I?--may I?" She eagerly
caught hold of his coat.

"How long before your birthday?"

"Just a week from to-day. Do, please, let me have a frolic!"

"Poor child! you look as if you needed some relaxation," said he,
looking down into her radiant face, with an expression of mock
compassion.

"Upon my word, Uncle Guy, it is awfully dull here. If it were not
for Charon and Mazeppa I should be moped to death. Do, pray, don't
look at me as if you were counting the hairs in my eyelashes. Come,
say yes: do, Uncle Guy."

"Take your hands off of my coat, and have as many parties as you
like, provided you keep to your own side of the house. Don't come
near my study with your Babel, and don't allow your company to
demolish my flowers. Mind, not a soul is to enter the greenhouse.
The parlors are at your service, but I will not have a regiment of
wildcats tearing up and down my greenhouse and flower garden; mind
that." He stepped into his buggy.

"Bravo! I have won my wager, and got the party too! Hugh Cluis bet
me a papier-mache writing-desk that you would not give me a party.
When I send his invitation I will write on the envelope 'the
writing-desk is also expected.' Hey, shadow, where did you creep
from?" She fixed her merry eyes on Beulah, who just then appeared on
the terrace. Dr. Hartwell leaned from the buggy, and looked
earnestly at the quiet little figure.

"Do you want anything, Beulah?"

"No, sir; I thought you had gone. May I open the gate for you?"

"Certainly, if you wish to do something for me." His pale features
relaxed, and his whole face lighted up, like a sun-flushed cloud.

Beulah walked down the avenue, lined on either side with venerable
poplars and cedars, and opened the large gate leading into the city.
He checked his horse, and said:

"Thank you, my child. Now, how are you going to spend the day?
Remember you commence with school duties next week; so make the best
of your holiday."

"I have enough to occupy me to-day. Good-by, sir."

"Good-by, for an hour or so." He smiled kindly and drove on, while
she walked slowly back to the house, wondering why smiles were such
rare things in this world, when they cost so little, and yet are so
very valuable to mourning hearts. Pauline sat on the steps with an
open book in her hand. She looked up as Beulah approached, and
exclaimed gayly:

"Aren't you glad I am to have my birthday frolic?"

"Yes; I am glad on your account," answered Beulah gravely.

"Can you dance all the fancy dances? I don't like any so well as the
mazourka."

"I do not dance at all."

"Don't dance! Why, I have danced ever since I was big enough to
crawl! What have you been doing all your life, that you don't know
how to dance?"

"My feet have had other work to do," replied her companion; and, as
the recollections of her early childhood flitted before her, the
brow darkened.

"I suppose that is one reason you look so forlorn all the time. I
will ask Uncle Guy to send you to the dancing school for--"

"Pauline, it is school-time, and you don't know one word of that
Quackenbos; I would be ashamed to start from home as ignorant of my
lessons as you are." Mrs. Chilton's head was projected from the
parlor window, and the rebuke was delivered in no very gentle tone.

"Oh, I don't mind it at all; I have got used to it," answered the
daughter, tossing up the book as she spoke.

"Get ready for school this minute!"

Pauline scampered into the house for her bonnet and sachel; and,
fixing her eyes upon Beulah, Mrs. Chilton asked sternly:

"What are you doing out there? What did you follow my brother to the
gate for? Answer me!"

"I merely opened the gate for him," replied the girl, looking
steadily up at the searching eyes.

"There was a servant with him to do that. In future don't make
yourself so conspicuous. You must keep away from the flower beds
too. The doctor wishes no one prowling about them; he gave
particular directions that no one should go there in his absence."

They eyed each other an instant; then, drawing up her slender form
to its utmost height, Beulah replied proudly:

"Be assured, madam, I shall not trespass on forbidden ground!"

"Very well." The lace curtains swept back to their place--the fair
face was withdrawn.

"She hates me," thought Beulah, walking on to her own room; "she
hates me, and certainly I do not love her. I shall like Pauline very
much, but her mother and I never will get on smoothly. What freezing
eyes she has, and what a disagreeable look there is about her mouth
whenever she sees me! She wishes me to remember all the time that I
am poor, and that she is the mistress of this elegant house. Ah, I
am not likely to forget it!" The old smile of bitterness crossed her
face.

The days passed swiftly. Beulah spent most of her time in her own
room, for Dr. Hartwell was sometimes absent all day, and she longed
to escape his sister's icy espionage. When he was at home, and not
engaged in his study, his manner was always kind and considerate;
but she fancied he was colder and graver, and often his stern
abstraction kept her silent when they were together. Monday was the
birthday, and on Monday morning she expected to start to school.
Madam St. Cymon's was the fashionable institution of the city, and
thither, with Pauline, she was destined. Beulah rose early, dressed
herself carefully, and, after reading a chapter in her Bible, and
asking God's special guidance through the day, descended to the
breakfast room. Dr. Hartwell sat reading a newspaper; he did not
look up, and she quietly seated herself unobserved. Presently Mrs.
Chilton entered and walked up to her brother.

"Good-morning, Guy. Are there no tidings of that vessel yet? I hear
the Grahams are terribly anxious about it. Cornelia said her father
was unable to sleep."

"No news yet; but, May, be sure you do not let--"

"Was it the 'Morning Star'? Is he lost?"

Beulah stood crouching at his side, with her hands extended
pleadingly, and her white face convulsed.

"My child, do not look so wretched; the vessel that Eugene sailed in
was disabled in a storm, and has not yet reached the place of
destination. But there are numerous ways of accounting for the
detention, and you must hope and believe that all is well until you
know the contrary." He drew her to his side, and stroked her head
compassionately.

"I knew it would be so," said she, in a strangely subdued,
passionless tone.

"What do you mean, child?"

"Death and trouble come on everything I love."

"Perhaps at this very moment Eugene may be writing you an account of
his voyage. I believe that we shall soon hear of his safe arrival.
You need not dive down into my eyes in that way. I do believe it,
for the vessel was seen after the storm, and, though far out of the
right track, there is good reason to suppose she has put into some
port to be repaired."

Beulah clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some
horrid phantom, and, while her heart seemed dying on the rack, she
resolved not to despair till the certainty came.

"Time enough when there is no hope; I will not go out to meet
sorrow." With a sudden, inexplicable revulsion of feeling she sank
on her knees, and there beside her protector vehemently prayed
Almighty God to guard and guide the tempest-tossed loved one. If her
eyes had rested on the face of Deity, and she had felt his presence,
her petition could not have been more importunately preferred. For a
few moments Dr. Hartwell regarded her curiously; then his brow
darkened, his lips curled sneeringly, and a mocking smile passed
over his face. Mrs. Chilton smiled, too, but there was a peculiar
gleam in her eyes, and an uplifting of her brows which denoted
anything but pleasurable emotions. She moved away, and sat down at
the head of the table. Dr. Hartwell put his hand on the shoulder of
the kneeling girl, and asked, rather abruptly:

"Beulah, do you believe that the God you pray to hears you?"

"I do. He has promised to answer prayer."

"Then, get up and be satisfied, and eat your breakfast. You have
asked him to save and protect Eugene, and, according to the Bible,
He will certainly do it; so no more tears. If you believe in your
God, what are you looking so wretched about?" There was something in
all this that startled Beulah, and she looked up at him. His chilly
smile pained her, and she rose quickly, while again and again his
words rang in her ear. Yet, what was there so strange about this
application of faith? True, the Bible declared that "whatsoever ye
ask, believing, that ye shall receive," yet she had often prayed for
blessings, and often been denied. Was it because she had not had the
requisite faith, which should have satisfied her? Yet God knew that
she had trusted him. With innate quickness of perception, she
detected the tissued veil of irony which the doctor had wrapped
about his attempted consolation, and she looked at him so intently,
so piercingly, that he hastily turned away and seated himself at the
table. Just then Pauline bounded into the room, exclaiming:

"Fourteen to-day! Only three more years at school, and then I shall
step out a brilliant young lady, the--"

"There; be quiet; sit down. I would almost as soon select a small
whirlwind for a companion. Can't you learn to enter a room without
blustering like a March wind or a Texan norther?" asked her uncle.

"Have you all seen a ghost? You look as solemn as grave-diggers.
What ails you, Beulah? Come along to breakfast. How nice you look in
your new clothes!" Her eyes ran over the face and form of the
orphan.

"Pauline, hush! and eat your breakfast. You annoy your uncle," said
her mother severely.

"Oh, do, for gracious' sake, let me talk! I feel sometimes as if I
should suffocate. Everything about this house is so demure, and
silent, and solemn, and Quakerish, and hatefully prim. If ever I
have a house of my own, I mean to paste in great letters over the
doors and windows, 'Laughing and talking freely allowed!' This is my
birthday, and I think I might stay at home. Mother, don't forget to
have the ends of my sash fringed, and the tops of my gloves
trimmed." Draining her small china cup, she sprang up from the
table, but paused beside Beulah.

"By the by, what are you going to wear to-night, Beulah?"

"I shall not go into the parlors at all," answered the latter.

"Why not?" said Dr. Hartwell, looking suddenly up. He met the sad,
suffering expression of the gray eyes, and bit his lip with
vexation. She saw that he understood her feelings, and made no
reply.

"I shall not like it, if you don't come to my party," said Pauline
slowly; and as she spoke she took one of the orphan's hands.

"You are very kind, Pauline; but I do not wish to see strangers."

"But you never will know anybody if you make such a nun of yourself.
Uncle Guy, tell her she must come down into the parlors to-night."

"Not unless she wishes to do so. But, Pauline, I am very glad that
you have shown her you desire her presence." He put his hand on her
curly head, and looked with more than usual affection at the bright,
honest face.

"Beulah, you must get ready for school. Come down as soon as you
can. Pauline will be waiting for you." Mrs. Chilton spoke in the
calm, sweet tone peculiar to her and her brother, but to Beulah
there was something repulsive in that even voice, and she hurried
from the sound of it. Kneeling beside her bed, she again implored
the Father to restore Eugene to her, and, crushing her grief and
apprehension down into her heart, she resolved to veil it from
strangers. As she walked on by Pauline's side, only the excessive
paleness of her face and drooping of her eyelashes betokened her
suffering.

Entering school is always a disagreeable ordeal, and to a sensitive
nature, such as Beulah's, it was torturing. Madam St. Cymon was a
good-natured, kind, little body, and received her with a warmth and
cordiality which made amends in some degree for the battery of eyes
she was forced to encounter.

"Ah, yes! the doctor called to see me about you--wants you to take
the Latin course. For the present, my dear, you will sit with Miss
Sanders. Clara, take this young lady with you."

The girl addressed looked at least sixteen years of age, and, rising
promptly, she come forward and led Beulah to a seat at her desk,
which was constructed for two persons. The touch of her fingers sent
a thrill through Beulah's frame, and she looked at her very
earnestly.

Clara Sanders was not a beauty in the ordinary acceptation of the
term, but there was an expression of angelic sweetness and purity in
her countenance which fascinated the orphan. She remarked the
scrutiny of the young stranger, and, smiling good-humoredly, said,
as she leaned over and arranged the desk:

"I am glad to have you with me, and dare say we shall get on very
nicely together. You look ill."

"I have been ill recently and have not yet regained my strength. Can
you tell me where I can find some water? I feel rather faint."

Her companion brought her a glass of water. She drank it eagerly,
and, as Clara resumed her seat, said in a low voice:

"Oh, thank you! You are very kind."

"Not at all. If you feel worse you must let me know." She turned to
her books and soon forgot the presence of the newcomer.

The latter watched her, and noticed now that she was dressed in deep
mourning. Was she too an orphan, and had this circumstance rendered
her so kindly sympathetic? The sweet, gentle face, with its soft,
brown eyes, chained her attention, and in the shaping of the mouth
there was something very like Lilly's. Soon Clara left her for
recitation, and then she turned to the new books which madam had
sent to her desk. Thus passed the morning, and she started when the
recess bell rang its summons through the long room. Bustle, chatter,
and confusion ensued. Pauline called to her to come into lunchroom,
and touched her little basket as she spoke, but Beulah shook her
head and kept her seat. Clara also remained.

"Pauline is calling you," said she gently.

"Yes, I hear; but I do not want anything." And Beulah rested her
head on her hands.

"Don't you feel better than you did this morning?"

"Oh, I am well enough in body; a little weak, that is all."

"You look quite tired. Suppose you lean your head against me and
take a short nap?"

"You are very good indeed; but I am not at all sleepy."

Clara was engaged in drawing, and, looking on, Beulah became
interested in the progress of the sketch. Suddenly a hand was placed
over the paper, and a tall, handsome girl, with black eyes and
sallow complexion, exclaimed sharply:

"For Heaven's sake, Clara Sanders, do you expect to swim into the
next world on a piece of drawing-paper? Come over to my seat and
work out that eighth problem for me. I have puzzled over it all the
morning, and can't get it right."

"I can show you here quite as well." Taking out her Euclid, she
found and explained the obstinate problem.

"Thank you! I cannot endure mathematics, but father is bent upon my
being 'thorough,' as he calls it. I think it is all thorough
nonsense. Now, with you it is very different; you expect to be a
teacher, and of course will have to acquire all these branches; but
for my part I see no use in it. I shall be rejoiced when this dull
school-work is over."

"Don't say that, Cornelia; I think our school days are the happiest,
and feel sad when I remember that mine are numbered."

Here the bell announced recess over, and Cornelia moved away to her
seat. A trembling hand sought Clara's arm.

"Is that Cornelia Graham?"

"Yes. Is she not very handsome?"

Beulah made no answer; she only remembered that this girl was
Eugene's adopted sister, and, looking after the tall, queenly form,
she longed to follow her and ask all the particulars of the storm.
Thus ended the first dreaded day at school, and, on reaching home,
Beulah threw herself on her bed with a low, wailing cry. The long-
pent sorrow must have vent, and she sobbed until weariness sank her
into a heavy sleep.

Far out in a billowy sea, strewed with wrecks, and hideous with the
ghastly, upturned faces of floating corpses, she and Eugene were
drifting--now clinging to each other--now tossed asunder by howling
waves. Then came a glimmering sail on the wide waste of waters; a
little boat neared them, and Lilly leaned over the side and held out
tiny, dimpled hands to lift them in. They were climbing out of their
watery graves, and Lilly's long, fair curls already touched their
cheeks, when a strong arm snatched Lilly back, and struck them down
into the roaring gulf, and above the white faces of the drifting
dead stood Mrs. Grayson, sailing away with Lilly struggling in her
arms. Eugene was sinking and Beulah could not reach him; he held up
his arms imploringly toward her, and called upon her to save him,
and then his head with its wealth of silken, brown locks
disappeared. She ceased to struggle; she welcomed drowning now that
he had gone to rest among coral temples. She sank down--down. The
rigid corpses were no longer visible. She was in an emerald palace,
and myriads of rosy shells paved the floors. At last she found
Eugene reposing on a coral bank, and playing with pearls; she
hastened to join him, and was just taking his hand when a horrible
phantom, seizing him in its arms, bore him away, and, looking in its
face, she saw that it was Mrs. Chilton. With a wild scream of
terror, Beulah awoke. She was lying across the foot of the bed, and
both hands were thrown up, grasping the post convulsively. The room
was dark, save where the moonlight crept through the curtains and
fell slantingly on the picture of Hope and the Pilgrims, and by that
dim light she saw a tall form standing near her.

"Were you dreaming, Beulah, that you shrieked so wildly?"

The doctor lifted her up, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Oh, Dr. Hartwell, I have had a horrible, horrible dream!" She
shuddered, and clung to him tightly, as if dreading it might still
prove a reality.

"Poor child! Come with me, and I will try to exorcise this evil
spirit which haunts even your slumbers."

Keeping her hand in his, he led her down to his study, and seated
her on a couch drawn near the window. The confused sound of many
voices and the tread of dancing feet, keeping time to a band of
music, came indistinctly from the parlors. Dr. Hartwell closed the
door, to shut out the unwelcome sounds, and, seating himself before
the melodeon, poured a flood of soothing, plaintive melody upon the
air. Beulah sat entranced, while he played on and on, as if
unconscious of her presence. Her whole being was inexpressibly
thrilled; and, forgetting her frightful vision, her enraptured soul
hovered on the very confines of fabled elysium. Sliding from the
couch, upon her knees, she remained with her clasped hands pressed
over her heart, only conscious of her trembling delight. Once or
twice before she had felt thus, in watching a gorgeous sunset in the
old pine grove; and now, as the musician seemed to play upon her
heart-strings, calling thence unearthly tones, the tears rolled
swiftly over her face. Images of divine beauty filled her soul, and
nobler aspirations than she had ever known took possession of her.
Soon the tears ceased, the face became calm, singularly calm; then
lighted with an expression which nothing earthly could have kindled.
It was the look of one whose spirit, escaping from gross bondage,
soared into realms divine, and proclaimed itself God-born. Dr.
Hartwell was watching her countenance, and, as the expression of
indescribable joy and triumph flashed over it, he involuntarily
paused. She waited till the last deep echoing tone died away, and
then, approaching him, as he still sat before the instrument, she
laid her hand on his knee, and said slowly:

"Oh, thank you! I can bear anything now."

"Can you explain to me how the music strengthened you? Try, will
you?"

She mused for some moments, and answered thoughtfully:

"First, it made me forget the pain of my dream; then it caused me to
think of the wonderful power which created music; and then, from
remembering the infinite love and wisdom of the Creator, who has
given man the power to call out this music, I thought how very noble
man was, and what he was capable of doing; and, at last, I was glad
because God has given me some of these powers; and, though I am
ugly, and have been afflicted in losing my dear loved ones, yet I
was made for God's glory in some way, and am yet to be shown the
work he has laid out for me to do. Oh, sir! I can't explain it all
to you, but I do know that God will prove to me that 'He doeth all
things well.'"

She looked gravely up into the face beside her, and sought to read
its baffling characters. He had leaned his elbow on the melodeon,
and his wax-like fingers were thrust through his hair. His brow was
smooth, and his mouth at rest, but the dark eyes, with their
melancholy splendor, looked down at her moodily. They met her gaze
steadily; and then she saw into the misty depths, and a shudder
crept over her, as she fell on her knees, and said shiveringly:

"Oh, sir, can it be?"

He put his hand on her head, and asked quietly:

"Can what be, child?"

"Have you no God?"

His face grew whiter than was his wont. A scowl of bitterness
settled on it, and the eyes burned with an almost unearthly
brilliance, as he rose and walked away. For some time he stood
before the window, with his arms folded; and, laying her head on the
stool of the melodeon, Beulah knelt just as he left her It has been
said, "Who can refute a sneer?" Rather ask, Who can compute its
ruinous effects. To that kneeling figure came the thought, "If he,
surrounded by wealth and friends, and blessings, cannot believe in
God, what cause have I, poor, wretched, and lonely, to have faith in
him?" The bare suggestion of the doubt stamped it on her memory, yet
she shrank with horror from the idea, and an eager, voiceless prayer
ascended from her heart that she might be shielded from such
temptations in future. Dr. Hartwell touched her, and said, in his
usual low, musical tones:

"It is time you were asleep. Do not indulge in any more horrible
dreams, if you please. Good-night, Beulah. Whenever you feel that
you would like to have some music, do not hesitate to ask me for
it."

He held open the door for her to pass out. She longed to ask him
what he lived for, if eternity had no joys for him; but, looking in
his pale face, she saw from the lips and eyes that he would not
suffer any questioning, and, awed by the expression of his
countenance, she said "Good-night," and hurried away. The merry hum
of childish voices again fell on her ear, and as she ascended the
steps a bevy of white-clad girls emerged from a room near, and
walked on just below her. Pauline's party was at its height. Beulah
looked down on the fairy gossamer robes, and gayly tripping girls,
and then hastened to her own room, while the thought presented
itself:

"Why are things divided so unequally in this world? Why do some have
all of joy, and some only sorrow's brimming cup to drain?" But the
sweet voice of Faith answered, "What I do, thou knowest not now, but
thou shalt know hereafter," and, trusting the promise, she was
content to wait.




CHAPTER X.


"Cornelia Graham, I want to know why you did not come to my party.
You might at least have honored me with an excuse." Such was
Pauline's salutation, the following day, when the girls gathered in
groups about the schoolroom.

"Why, Pauline, I did send an excuse; but it was addressed to your
mother, and probably she forgot to mention it. You must acquit me of
any such rudeness."

"Well, but why didn't you come? We had a glorious time. I have half
a mind not to tell you what I heard said of you, but I believe you
may have it second-hand. Fred Vincent was as grum as a preacher all
the evening, and when I asked him what on earth made him so surly
and owlish, he said, 'It was too provoking you would not come, for
no one else could dance the schottisch to his liking.' Now there was
a sweet specimen of manners for you! You had better teach your beau
politeness."

Cornelia was leaning listlessly against Clara's desk, and Beulah
fancied she looked very sad and abstracted. She colored at the jest,
and answered contemptuously:

"He is no beau of mine, let me tell you; and as for manners, I
commend him to your merciful tuition."

"But what was your excuse?" persisted Pauline.

"I should think you might conjecture that I felt no inclination to
go to parties and dance when you know that we are all so anxious
about my brother."

"Oh, I did not think of that!" cried the heedless girl, and quite as
heedlessly she continued:

"I want to see that brother of yours. Uncle Guy says he is the
handsomest boy in the city, and promises to make something
extraordinary. Is he so very handsome?"

"Yes." The proud lip trembled.

"I heard Anne Vernon say she liked him better than all her other
beaux, and that is great praise, coming from her queenship," said
Emily Wood, who stood near.

Cornelia's eyes dilated angrily, as she answered with curling lips:

"Eugene one of her beaux! It is no such thing."

"You need not look so insulted. I suppose if the matter is such a
delicate one with you, Anne will withdraw her claim," sneered Emily,
happy in the opportunity afforded of wounding the haughty spirit
whom all feared and few sympathized with.

Cornelia was about to retort, but madam's voice prevented, as,
leaning from the platform opposite, she held out a note, and said:

"Miss Graham, a servant has just brought this for you."

The girl's face flushed and paled alternately, as she received the
note and broke the seal with trembling fingers. Glancing over the
contents, her countenance became irradiated, and she exclaimed
joyfully:

"Good news! The 'Morning Star' has arrived at Amsterdam. Eugene is
safe in Germany."

Beulah's head went down on her desk, and just audible were the
words:

"My Father in Heaven, I thank thee!"

Only Clara and Cornelia heard the broken accents, and they looked
curiously at the bowed figure, quivering with joy.

"Ah! I understand; this is the asylum Beulah I have often heard him
speak of. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. You knew him very
well, I suppose?" said Cornelia, addressing herself to the orphan,
and crumpling the note between her fingers, while her eyes ran with
haughty scrutiny over the dress and features before her.

"Yes, I knew him very well." Beulah felt the blood come into her
cheeks, and she ill brooked the cold, searching look bent upon her.

"You are the same girl that he asked my father to send to the public
school. How came you here?"

A pair of dark gray eyes met Cornelia's gaze, and seemed to answer
defiantly, "What is it to you?"

"Has Dr. Hartwell adopted you? Pauline said so, but she is so
heedless that I scarcely believed her, particularly when it seemed
so very improbable."

"Hush, Cornelia! Why, you need Pauline's tuition about as much as
Fred Vincent, I am disposed to think. Don't be so inquisitive; it
pains her," remonstrated Clara, laying her arm around Beulah's
shoulder as she spoke.

"Nonsense! She is not so fastidious, I will warrant. At least, she
might answer civil questions."

"I always do," said Beulah.

Cornelia smiled derisively, and turned off, with the parting taunt:

"It is a mystery to me what Eugene can see in such a homely,
unpolished specimen. He pities her, I suppose."

Clara felt a long shiver creep over the slight form, and saw the
ashen hue that settled on her face, as if some painful wound had
been inflicted. Stooping down, she whispered:

"Don't let it trouble you. Cornelia is hasty, but she is generous,
too, and will repent her rudeness. She did not intend to pain you;
it is only her abrupt way of expressing herself."

Beulah raised her head, and, putting back the locks of hair that had
fallen over her brow, replied coldly:

"It is nothing new; I am accustomed to such treatment. Only
professing to love Eugene I did not expect her to insult one whom he
had commissioned her to assist, or at least sympathize with."

"Remember, Beulah, she is an only child, and her father's idol, and
perhaps--"

"The very blessings that surround her should teach her to feel for
the unfortunate and unprotected," interrupted the orphan.

"You will find that prosperity rarely has such an effect upon the
heart of its favorite," answered Clara musingly.

"An unnecessary piece of information. I discovered that pleasant
truth some time since," said Beulah bitterly.

"I don't know, Beulah; you are an instance to the contrary. Do not
call yourself unfortunate, so long as Dr. Hartwell is your friend.
Ah! you little dream how blessed you are."

Her voice took the deep tone of intense feeling, and a faint glow
tinged her cheek.

"Yes, he is very kind, very good," replied the other, more gently.

"Kind! good! Is that all you can say of him?" The soft brown eyes
kindled with unwonted enthusiasm.

"What more can I say of him than that he is good?" returned the
orphan eagerly, while the conversation in the study, the preceding
day, rushed to her recollection.

Clara looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then averting her
head, answered evasively:

"Pardon me; I have no right to dictate the terms in which you should
mention your benefactor." Beulah's intuitions were remarkably quick,
and she asked slowly:

"Do you know him well?"

"Yes; oh, yes! very well indeed. Why do you ask?"

"And you like him very much?"

"Very much."

She saw the gentle face now, and saw that some sorrow had called
tears to the eyes, and sent the blood coldly back to her heart.

"No one can like him as I do. You don't know how very kind he has
been to me--me, the miserable, lonely orphan," murmured Beulah, as
his smile and tones recurred to her.

"Yes, I can imagine, because I know his noble heart; and, therefore,
child, I say you cannot realize how privileged you are."

The discussion was cut short by a call to recitation, and too calmly
happy in the knowledge of Eugene's safety to ponder her companion's
manner, Beulah sank into a reverie, in which Eugene, and Heidelberg,
and long letters mingled pleasingly. Later in the day, as she and
Pauline were descending the steps, the door of the primary
department of the school opened, and a little girl, clad in deep
black, started up the same flight of steps. Seeing the two above,
she leaned against the wall, waiting for them to pass. Beulah stood
still, and the sachel she carried fell unheeded from her hand, while
a thrilling cry broke from the little girl's lips; and, springing up
the steps, she threw herself into Beulah's arms.

"Dear Beulah! I have found you at last!" She covered the thin face
with passionate kisses; then heavy sobs escaped her, and the two
wept bitterly together.

"Beulah, I did love her very much; I did not forget what I promised
you. She used to put her arms around my neck every night, and go to
sleep close to me; and whenever she thought about you and cried, she
always put her head in my lap. Indeed I did love her."

"I believe you, Claudy," poor Beulah groaned, in her anguish.

"They did not tell me she was dead; they said she was sick in
another room! Oh, Beulah! why didn't you come to see us? Why didn't
you come? When she was first taken sick she called for you all the
time; and the evening they moved me into the next room she was
asking for you. 'I want my sister Beulah! I want my Beulah!' was the
last thing I heard her say; and when I cried for you, too, mamma
said we were both crazy with fever. Oh!"--she paused and sobbed
convulsively. Beulah raised her head, and, while the tears dried in
her flashing eyes, said fiercely:

"Claudy, I did go to see you! On my knees, at Mrs. Grayson's front
door, I prayed her to let me see you. She refused, and ordered me to
come there no more! She would not suffer my sister to know that I
was waiting there on my knees to see her dear, angel face. That was
long before you were taken sick. She did not even send me word that
Lilly was ill: I knew nothing of it till my darling was cold in her
little shroud! Oh, Claudy! Claudy!"

She covered her face with her hands and tried to stifle the wail
that crossed her lips. Claudia endeavored to soothe her, by winding
her arms about her and kissing her repeatedly. Pauline had looked
wonderingly on, during this painful reunion; and now drawing nearer,
she said, with more gentleness than was her custom:

"Don't grieve so, Beulah. Wipe your eyes and come home; those girls
yonder are staring at you."

"What business is it of yours?" began Claudia; but Beulah's
sensitive nature shrank from observation, and, rising hastily, she
took Claudia to her bosom, kissed her, and turned away.

"Oh, Beulah! shan't I see you again?" cried the latter, with
streaming eyes.

"Claudia, your mamma would not be willing."

"I don't care what she thinks. Please come to see me--please, do!
Beulah, you don't love me now, because Lilly is dead! Oh, I could
not keep her--God took her!"

"Yes, I do love you, Claudy--more than ever; but you must come to
see me. I cannot go to that house again. I can't see your mamma
Grayson. Come and see me, darling!"

She drew her bonnet over her face and hurried out.

"Where do you live? I will come and see you!" cried Claudia, running
after the retreating form.

"She lives at Dr. Hartwell's--that large, brick house, out on the
edge of town; everybody knows the place."

Pauline turned back to give this piece of information, and then
hastened on to join Beulah. She longed to inquire into all the
particulars of the orphan's early life; but the pale, fixed face
gave no encouragement to question, and they walked on in perfect
silence until they reached the gate at the end of the avenue. Then
Pauline asked energetically:

"Is that little one any kin to you?"

"No; I have no kin in this world," answered Beulah drearily.

Pauline shrugged her shoulders, and made no further attempt to
elicit confidence. On entering the house, they encountered the
doctor, who was crossing the hall. He stopped, and said:

"I have glad tidings for you, Beulah. The 'Morning Star' arrived
safely at Amsterdam, and by this time Eugene is at Heidelberg."

Beulah stood very near him, and answered tremblingly:

"Yes, sir; I heard it at school."

He perceived that something was amiss, and, untying her bonnet,
looked searchingly at the sorrow-stained face. She shut her eyes,
and leaned her head against him.

"What is the matter, my child? I thought you would be very happy in
hearing of Eugene's safety."

She was unable to reply just then; and Pauline, who stood swinging
her sachel to and fro, volunteered an explanation.

"Uncle Guy, she is curious, that is all. As we were leaving school,
she met a little girl on the steps, and they flew at each other, and
cried, and kissed, and--you never saw anything like it! I thought
the child must be a very dear relation; but she says she has no kin.
I don't see the use of crying her eyes out, particularly when the
little one is nothing to her."

Her uncle's countenance resumed its habitual severity, and, taking
Beulah's hand, he led her into that quietest of all quiet places,
his study. Seating himself, and drawing her to his side, he said:

"Was it meeting Claudia that distressed you so much? That child is
very warmly attached to you. She raved about you constantly during
her illness. So did Lilly. I did not understand the relationship
then, or I should have interfered, and carried you to her. I called
to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson last week, to remove the difficulties in
the way of your intercourse with Claudia, but they were not at home.
I will arrange matters so that you may be with Claudia as often as
possible. You have been wronged, child, I know; but try to bury it;
it is all past now." He softly smoothed back her hair as he spoke.

"No, sir; it never will be past; it will always be burning here in
my heart."

"I thought you professed to believe in the Bible."

She looked up instantly, and answered:

"I do, sir. I do."

"Then your belief is perfectly worthless; for the Bible charges you
to 'forgive and love your enemies,' and here you are trying to fan
your hate into an everlasting flame."

She saw the scornful curl of his lips, and, sinking down beside him,
she laid her head on his knee, and said hastily:

"I know it is wrong, sinful, to feel toward Mrs. Grayson as I do.
Yes, sir; the Bible tells me it is very sinful; but I have been so
miserable, I could not help hating her. But I will try to do so no
more. I will ask God to help me forgive her."

His face flushed even to his temples, and then the blood receded,
leaving it like sculptured marble. Unable or unwilling to answer, he
put his hands on her head, softly, reverently, as though he touched
something ethereal. He little dreamed that, even then, that
suffering heart was uplifted to the Throne of Grace, praying the
Father that she might so live and govern herself that he might come
to believe the Bible, which her clear insight too surely told her he
despised.

Oh! Protean temptation. Even as she knelt, with her protector's
hands resting on her brow, ubiquitous evil suggested the thought:
"Is he not kinder, and better, than anyone you ever knew? Has not
Mrs. Grayson a pew in the most fashionable church? Did not Eugene
tell you he saw her there, regularly, every Sunday? Professing
Christianity, she injured you; rejecting it, he has guarded and most
generously aided you. 'By their fruits ye shall judge.'" Very dimly
all this passed through her mind. She was perplexed and troubled at
the confused ideas veiling her trust.

"Beulah, I have an engagement, and must leave you. Stay here, if you
like, or do as you please with yourself. I shall not be home to tea,
so good-night." She looked pained, but remained silent. He smiled,
and, drawing out his watch, said gayly:

"I verily believe you miss me when I leave you. Go, put on your
other bonnet, and come down to the front door; I have nearly an hour
yet, I see, and will give you a short ride. Hurry, child; I don't
like to wait."

She was soon seated beside him in the buggy, and Mazeppa's swift
feet had borne them some distance from home ere either spoke. The
road ran near the bay, and while elegant residences lined one side,
the other was bounded by a wide expanse of water, rippling,
sparkling, glowing in the evening sunlight. Small sail boats, with
their gleaming canvas, dotted the blue bosom of the bay; and the
balmy breeze, fresh from the gulf, fluttered the bright pennons that
floated from their masts. Beulah was watching the snowy wall of
foam, piled on either side of the prow of a schooner, and thinking
how very beautiful it was, when the buggy stopped suddenly, and Dr.
Hartwell addressed a gentleman on horseback:

"Percy, you may expect me; I am coming as I promised."

"I was about to remind you of your engagement. But, Guy, whom have
you there?"

"My protegee I told you of. Beulah, this is Mr. Lockhart."

The rider reined his horse near her side, and, leaning forward as he
raised his hat, their eyes met. Both started visibly, and, extending
his hand, Mr. Lockhart said eagerly:

"Ah, my little forest friend! I am truly glad to find you again."

She shook hands very quietly, but an expression of pleasure stole
over her face. Her guardian observed it, and asked:

"Pray, Percy, what do you know of her?"

"That she sings very charmingly," answered his friend, smiling at
Beulah.

"He saw me once when I was at the asylum," said she,

"And was singing part of the regime there?"

"No, Guy. She was wandering about the piney woods, near the asylum,
with two beautiful elves, when I chanced to meet her. She was
singing at the time. Beulah, I am glad to find you out again; and in
future, when I pay the doctor long visits, I shall expect you to
appear for my entertainment. Look to it, Guy, that she is present.
But I am fatigued with my unusual exercise, and must return home.
Good-by, Beulah; shake hands. I am going immediately to my room,
Guy; so come as soon as you can." He rode slowly on, while Dr.
Hartwell shook the reins, and Mazeppa sprang down the road again.
Beulah had remarked a great alteration in Mr. Lockhart's appearance;
he was much paler, and bore traces of recent and severe illness. His
genial manner and friendly words had interested her, and, looking up
at her guardian, she said timidly:

"Is he ill, sir?"

"He has been, and is yet quite feeble. Do you like him?"

"I know nothing of him, except that he spoke to me one evening some
months ago. Does he live here, sir?"

"No; he has a plantation on the river, but is here on a visit
occasionally. Much of his life has been spent in Europe, and thither
he goes again very soon."

The sun had set. The bay seemed a vast sheet of fire, as the crimson
clouds cast their shifting shadows on its bosom; and, forgetting
everything else, Beulah leaned out of the buggy, and said almost
unconsciously:

"How beautiful! how very beautiful!" Her lips were parted; her eyes
clear and sparkling with delight. Dr. Hartwell sighed, and, turning
from the bay road, approached his home. Beulah longed to speak to
him of what was pressing on her heart; but, glancing at his
countenance to see whether it was an auspicious time, she was
deterred by the somber sternness which overshadowed it, and before
she could summon courage to speak, they stopped at the front gate.

"Jump out, and go home; I have not time to drive in."

She got out of the buggy, and, looking up at him as he rose to
adjust some part of the harness, said bravely:

"I am very much obliged to you for my ride. I have not had such a
pleasure for years. I thank you very much."

"All very unnecessary, child. I am glad you enjoyed it."

He seated himself, and gathered up the reins, without looking at
her. But she put her hand on the top of the wheel, and said in an
apologetic tone:

"Excuse me, sir; but may I wait in your study till you come home? I
want to ask you something." Her face flushed, and her voice trembled
with embarrassment.

"It may be late before I come home to-night. Can't you tell me now
what you want? I can wait."

"Thank you, sir; to-morrow will do as well, I suppose. I will not
detain you." She opened the gate and entered the yard. Dr. Hartwell
looked after her an instant, and called out, as he drove on:

"Do as you like, Beulah, about waiting for me. Of course the study
is free to you at all times."

The walk, or rather carriage road, leading up to the house was
bordered by stately poplars and cedars, whose branches interlaced
overhead, and formed a perfect arch. Beulah looked up at the dark-
green depths among the cedars, and walked on with a feeling of
contentment, nay, almost of happiness, which was a stranger to her
heart. In front of the house, and in the center of a grassy circle,
was a marble basin, from which a fountain ascended. She sat down on
the edge of the reservoir, and, taking off her bonnet, gave
unrestrained license to her wandering thoughts. Wherever her eyes
turned, verdure, flowers, statuary met her gaze; the air was laden
with the spicy fragrance of jasmines, and the low, musical babble of
the fountain had something very soothing in its sound. With her keen
appreciation of beauty, there was nothing needed to enhance her
enjoyment; and she ceased to remember her sorrows. Before long,
however, she was startled by the sight of several elegantly dressed
ladies emerging from the house; at the same instant a handsome
carriage, which she had not previously observed, drove from a turn
in the walk and drew up to the door to receive them. Mrs. Chilton
stood on the steps, exchanging smiles and polite nothings, and, as
one of the party requested permission to break a sprig of geranium
growing near, she gracefully offered to collect a bouquet, adding,
as she severed some elegant clusters of heliotrope and jasmine:

"Guy takes inordinate pride in his parterre, arranges and overlooks
all the flowers himself. I often tell him I am jealous of my
beautiful rivals; they monopolize his leisure so completely."

"Nonsense! we know to our cost that you of all others need fear
rivalry from no quarter. There; don't break any more. What superb
taste the doctor has! This lovely spot comes nearer my ideal of
European elegance than any place I know at the South. I suppose the
fascination of his home makes him such a recluse! Why doesn't he
visit more? He neglects us shamefully! He is such a favorite in
society too; only I believe everybody is rather afraid of him. I
shall make a most desperate effort to charm him so soon as an
opportunity offers. Don't tell him I said so though--'forewarned,
forearmed.'" All this was very volubly uttered by a dashing, showy
young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bearing
unmistakable marks of belonging to beau monde. She extended a hand
eased in white kid, for the flowers, and looked steadily at the lady
of the house as she spoke.

"I shall not betray your designs, Miss Julia. Guy is a great lover
of the beautiful, and I am not aware that anywhere in the book of
fate is written the decree that he shall not marry again. Take care,
you are tearing your lace point on that rose bush; let me disengage
it." She stooped to rescue the cobweb wrapping, and, looking about
her, Miss Julia exclaimed:

"Is that you, Pauline? Come and kiss me! Why, you look as unsociable
as your uncle, sitting there all alone!"

She extended her hand toward Beulah, who, as may be supposed, made
no attempt to approach her. Mrs. Chilton smiled, and, clasping the
bracelet on her arm, discovered to her visitor the mistake.

"Pauline is not at home. That is a little beggarly orphan Guy took
it into his head to feed and clothe, till some opportunity offered
of placing her in a respectable home. I have teased him unmercifully
about this display of taste; asked him what rank he assigned her in
his catalogue of beautiful treasures." She laughed as if much
amused.

"Oh, that reminds me that I heard some of the schoolgirls say that
the doctor had adopted an orphan. I thought I would ask you about
it. Mother here declared that she knew it could not be so; but I
told her he was so very odd, there was no accounting for his
notions. So he has not adopted her?"

"Pshaw! of course not! She was a wretched little object of charity,
and Guy brought her here to keep her from starving. He picked her up
at the hospital, I believe."

"I knew it must be a mistake. Come, Julia, remember you are going
out to-night, and it is quite late. Do come very soon, my dear Mrs.
Chilton." Mrs. Vincent, Miss Julia, and their companions entered the
carriage, and were soon out of sight. Beulah still sat at the
fountain. She would gladly have retreated on the appearance of the
strangers, but could not effect an escape without attracting the
attention she so earnestly desired to be spared, and therefore kept
her seat. Every word of the conversation, which had been carried on
in anything but a subdued tone, reached her, and though the head was
unbowed as if she had heard nothing, her face was dyed with shame.
Her heart throbbed violently, and as the words, "beggarly orphan,"
"wretched object of charity," fell on her ears, it seemed as if a
fierce fire-bath had received her. As the carriage disappeared, Mrs.
Chilton approached her, and, stung to desperation by the merciless
taunts, she instantly rose and confronted her. Never had she seen
the widow look so beautiful, and for a moment they eyed each other.

"What are you doing here, after having been told to keep out of
sight?--answer me!" She spoke with the inflexible sternness of a
mistress to an offending servant.

"Madam, I am not the miserable beggar you represented me a moment
since; nor will I answer questions addressed in any such tone of
authority and contempt."

"Indeed! Well, then, my angelic martyr, how do you propose to help
yourself?" answered Mrs. Chilton, laughing with undisguised scorn.

"Dr. Hartwell brought me to his house, of his own accord; you know
that I was scarcely conscious when I came into it. He has been very
kind to me--has offered to adopt me. This you know perfectly well.
But I am not in danger of starvation away from this house. You know
that instead of having been picked up at the hospital, I was earning
my living, humble though it was, as a servant. He offered to adopt
me, because he saw that I was very unhappy; not because I needed
food or clothes, as you asserted just now, and as you knew was
untrue. Madam, I have known, ever since my recovery, that you hated
me, and I scorn to accept bounty, nay, even a shelter, where I am so
unwelcome. I have never dreamed of occupying the place you covet for
Pauline. I intended to accept Dr. Hartwell's kindness, so far as
receiving an education, which would enable me to support myself less
laboriously; but, madam, I will relieve you of my hated presence. I
can live without any assistance from your family. The despised and
ridiculed orphan will not remain to annoy you. Oh, you might have
effected your purpose with less cruelty! You could have told me
kindly that you did not want me here, and I would not have wondered
at it. But to crush me publicly, as you have done--" Wounded pride
stifled the trembling accents.

Mrs. Chilton bit her lip. She had not expected this expression of
proud independence; and, seeing that she had gone too far, pondered
the best method of rectifying the mischief with as little compromise
of personal dignity as possible. Ultimately to eject her, she had
intended from the first; but perfectly conscious that her brother
would accept no explanation or palliation of the girl's departure at
this juncture, and that she and Pauline would soon follow her from
the house, she felt that her own interest demanded the orphan's
presence for a season. Nearly blinded by tears of indignation and
mortification, Beulah turned from her, but the delicate white hand
arrested her, and pressed heavily on her shoulder. She drew herself
up, and tried to shake off the hold; but firm as iron was the grasp
of the snowy fingers, and calm and cold as an Arctic night was the
tone which said:

"Pshaw, girl, are you mad? You have sense enough to know that you
are one too many in this house; but if you only desire to be
educated, as you profess, why, I am perfectly willing that you
should remain here. The idea of your growing up as my brother's
heiress and adopted child was too preposterous to be entertained,
and you can see the absurdity yourself; but so long as you
understand matters properly, and merely desire to receive
educational advantages, of course you can and will remain. I do not
wish this to go any further, and, as a sensible girl, you will not
mention it. As a friend, however, I would suggest that you should
avoid putting yourself in the way of observation." As she concluded
she quietly brushed off a small spider which was creeping over
Beulah's sleeve.

"Don't trouble yourself, madam; I am not at all afraid of poisonous
things; I have become accustomed to them."

Smiling bitterly, she stooped to pick up her new bonnet, which had
fallen on the grass at her feet, and, fixing her eyes defiantly on
the handsome face before her, said resolutely:

"No! contemptible as you think me, beggarly and wretched as you
please to term me, I have too much self-respect to stay a day longer
where I have been so grossly, so needlessly insulted. You need not
seek to detain me. Take your hand off my arm. I am going now; the
sooner, the better. I understand, madam, your brother will not
countenance your cruelty, and you are ashamed for him to know what,
in his absence, you were not ashamed to do. I scorn to retaliate! He
shall not learn from me why I left so suddenly. Tell him what you
choose."

Mrs. Chilton was very pale, and her lips were compressed till they
grew purple. Clinching her hand, she said under her breath:

"You artful little wretch. Am I to be thwarted by such a mere child?
You shall not quit the house. Go to your room, and don't make a fool
of yourself. In future I shall not concern myself about you, if you
take root at the front door. Go in, and let matters stand. I promise
you I will not interfere again, no matter what you do. Do you hear
me?"

"No. You have neither the power to detain nor to expel me. I shall
leave here immediately, and you need not attempt to coerce me; for,
if you do, I will acquaint Dr. Hartwell with the whole affair, as
soon as he comes, or when I see him. I am going for my clothes; not
those you so reluctantly had made, but the old garments I wore when
I worked for my bread." She shook off the detaining hand, and went
up to her room. Harriet had already lighted her lamp, and, as she
entered the door, the rays fell brightly on the picture she had
learned to love so well. Now she looked at it through scalding
tears, and, to her excited fancy, the smile seemed to have faded
from the lips of Hope, and the valley looked more dreary, and the
pilgrims more desolate and miserable. She turned from it, and,
taking off the clothes she wore, dressed herself in the humble
apparel of former days. The old trunk was scarcely worth keeping,
save as a relic; and folding up the clothes and books into as small
a bundle as possible, she took it in her arms and descended the
steps. She wished very much to tell Harriet good-by, and thank her
for her unvarying kindness; and now, on the eve of her departure,
she remembered the words whispered during her illness, and the offer
of assistance when she "got into trouble," as Harriet phrased it;
but, dreading to meet Mrs. Chilton again, she hurried down the hall,
and left the house. The friendly stars looked kindly down upon the
orphan, as she crossed the common, and proceeded toward the asylum,
and raising her eyes to the jeweled dome, the solemn beauty of the
night hushed the wild tumult in her heart, and she seemed to hear
the words pronounced from the skyey depths: "Lo, I am with you
always, even unto the end." Gradually, the results of the step she
had taken obtruded themselves before her, and with a keen pang of
pain and grief came the thought, "What will Dr. Hartwell think of
me?" All his kindness during the time she had passed beneath his
roof--his genial tones; his soft, caressing touch on her head; his
rare, but gentle smile; his constant care for her comfort and
happiness--all rushed like lightning over her mind, and made the hot
tears gush over her face. Mrs. Chilton would, of course, offer him
some plausible solution of her sudden departure. He would think her
ungrateful, and grow indifferent to her welfare or fate. Yet hope
whispered, "He will suspect the truth; he must know his sister's
nature; he will not blame me." But all this was in the cloudy realm
of conjecture, and the stern realities of her position weighed
heavily on her heart. Through Dr. Hartwell, who called to explain
her sudden disappearance, Mrs. Martin had sent her the eighteen
dollars due for three months' service, and this little sum was all
that she possessed. As she walked on, pondering the many
difficulties which attended the darling project of educating herself
thoroughly, the lights of the asylum greeted her, and it was with a
painful sense of desolation that she mounted the steps, and stood
upon the threshold, where she and Lilly had so often sat, in years
gone by. Mrs. Williams met her at the door, wondering what unusual
occurrence induced a visitor at this unseasonable hour. The hall
lamp shone on her kind but anxious face, and as Beulah looked at
her, remembered care and love caused a feeling of suffocation, and,
with an exclamation of joy, she threw her arms around her.
Astonished at a greeting so unexpected, the matron glanced hurriedly
at the face pressed against her bosom, and, recognizing her quondam
charge, folded her tenderly to her heart.

"Beulah, dear child, I am so glad to see you!" As she kissed her
white cheeks, Beulah felt the tears dropping down upon them.

"Come into my room, dear, and take off your bonnet." She led her to
the quiet little room, and took the bundle and the antiquated
bonnet, which Pauline declared "Mrs. Noah had worn all through the
forty days' shower."

"Mrs. Williams, can I stay here with you until I can get a place
somewhere? The managers will not object, will they?"

"No, dear; I suppose not. But, Beulah, I thought you had been
adopted, just after Lilly died, by Dr. Hartwell? Here I have been,
ever since I heard it from some of the managers, thinking how lucky
it was for you, and feeling so thankful to God for remembering his
orphans. Child, what has happened? Tell me freely, Beulah."

With her head on the matron's shoulder, she imparted enough of what
had transpired to explain her leaving her adopted home. Mrs.
Williams shook her head, and said sadly:

"You have been too hasty, child. It was Dr. Hartwell's house; he had
taken you to it, and, without consulting and telling him, you should
not have left it. If you felt that you could not live there in peace
with his sister, it was your duty to have told him so, and then
decided as to what course you would take. Don't be hurt, child, if I
tell you you are too proud. Poverty and pride make a bitter lot in
this world; and take care you don't let your high spirit ruin your
prospects. I don't mean to say, dear, that you ought to bear insult
and oppression, but I do think you owed it to the doctor's kindness
to have waited until his return before you quitted his house."

"Oh, you do not know him! If he knew all that Mrs. Chilton said and
did he would turn her and Pauline out of the house immediately. They
are poor, and, but for him, could not live without toil. I have no
right to cause their ruin. She is his sister, and has a claim on
him. I have none. She expects Pauline to inherit his fortune, and
could not bear to think of his adopting me. I don't wonder at that
so much. But she need not have been so cruel, so insulting. I don't
want his money, or his house, or his elegant furniture. I only want
an education, and his advice, and his kind care for a few years. I
like Pauline very much indeed. She never treated me at all unkindly;
and I could not bear to bring misfortune on her, she is so happy."

"That is neither here nor there. He will not hear the truth, of
course; and, even if he did, he will not suppose you were actuated
by any such Christian motives to shield his sister's meanness. You
ought to have seen him first."

"Well, it is all over now, and I see I must help myself. I want to
go to the public school, where the tuition is free; but how can I
support myself in the meantime? Eighteen dollars would not board me
long, and, besides, I shall have to buy clothes." She looked up,
much perplexed, in the matron's anxious face. The latter was silent
a moment, and then said:

"Why, the public school closes in a few weeks; the next session will
not begin before autumn, and what could you do until then? No, I
will just inform Dr. Hartwell of the truth of the whole matter. I
think it is due him, and--"

"Indeed you must not! I promised Mrs. Chilton that I would not
implicate her, and your doing it would amount to the same thing. I
would not be the means of driving Pauline out of her uncle's house
for all the gold in California!"

"Silly child! What on earth possessed you to promise any such
thing?"

"I wanted her to see that I was honest in what I said. She knew that
I could, by divulging the whole affair, turn her out of the house
(for Dr. Hartwell's disposition is a secret to no one who has lived
in his home), and I wished to show her that I told the truth in
saying I only wanted to be educated for a teacher." "Suppose the
doctor comes here and asks you about the matter?"

"I shall tell him that I prefer not being dependent on anyone. But
he will not come. He does not know where I am."

Yet the dread that he would filled her mind with new anxieties.

"Well, well, it is no use to fret over what can't be undone. I wish
I could help you, but I don't see any chance just now."

"Could not I get some plain sewing? Perhaps the managers would give
me work?"

"Ah, Beulah, it would soon kill you, to have to sew for your
living."

"No, no; I can bear more than you think," answered the girl, with a
dreary smile.

"Yes; your spirit can endure more than your body. Your father died
with consumption, child; but don't fret about it any more to-night.
Come, get some supper, and then go to sleep. You will stay in my
room, with me, dear, till something can be done to assist you."

"Mrs. Williams, you must promise me that you never will speak of
what I have told you regarding that conversation with Mrs. Chilton."

"I promise you, dear, I never will mention it, since you prefer
keeping the matter secret."

"What will Dr. Hartwell think of me?" was the recurring thought that
would not be banished; and, unable to sleep, Beulah tossed
restlessly on her pillow all night, dreading lest he should despise
her for her seeming ingratitude.




CHAPTER XI.


For perhaps two hours after Beulah's departure Mrs. Chilton wandered
up and down the parlors, revolving numerous schemes explanatory of
her unexpected exodus. Completely nonplused, for the first time in
her life, she sincerely rued the expression of dislike and contempt
which had driven the orphan from her adopted home; and, unable to
decide on the most plausible solution to be offered her brother, she
paced restlessly to and fro. Engrossed by no particularly felicitous
reflections, she failed to notice Mazeppa's quick tramp, and
remained in ignorance of the doctor's return until he entered the
room, and stood beside her. His manner was hurried, his thoughts
evidently preoccupied, as he said:

"May, I am going into the country to be absent all of tomorrow, and
possibly longer. There is some surgical work to be performed for a
careless hunter, and I must start immediately. I want you to see
that a room is prepared for Percy Lockhart. He is very feeble, and I
have invited him to come and stay with me while he is in the city.
He rode out this evening, and is worse from the fatigue. I shall
expect you to see that everything is provided for him that an
invalid could desire. Can I depend upon you?"

"Certainly; I will exert myself to render his stay here pleasant;
make yourself easy on that score." It was very evident that the
cloud was rapidly lifting from her heart and prospects; but she
veiled the sparkle in her eye, and, unsuspicious of anything amiss,
her brother left the room. Walking up to one of the mirrors, which
extended from floor to ceiling, she surveyed herself carefully, and
a triumphant smile parted her lips.

"Percy Lockhart is vulnerable as well as other people, and I have
yet to see the man whose heart will proudly withstand the
allurements of flattery, provided the homage is delicately and
gracefully offered. Thank Heaven! years have touched me lightly, and
there was more truth than she relished in what Julia Vincent said
about my beauty!"

This self-complacent soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of
her brother, who carried a case of surgical instruments in his hand.

"May, tell Beulah I am sorry I did not see her. I would go up and
wake her, but have not time. She wished to ask me something. Tell
her, if it is anything of importance, to do just as she likes; I
will see about it when I come home. Be sure you tell her. Good-
night; take care of Percy." He turned away, but she exclaimed:

"She is not here, Guy. She asked me this evening if she might spend
the night at the asylum. She thought you would not object, and
certainly I had no authority to prevent her. Indeed, the parlor was
full of company, and I told her she might go if she wished. I
suppose she will be back early in the morning."

His face darkened instantly, and she felt that he was searching her
with his piercing eyes.

"All this sounds extremely improbable to me. If she is not at home
again at breakfast, take the carriage and go after her. Mind, May! I
will sift the whole matter when I come back." He hurried off, and
she breathed freely once more. Dr. Hartwell sprang into his buggy,
to which a fresh horse had been attached, and, dismissing Hal, whose
weight would only have retarded his progress, he drove rapidly off.
The gate had been left open for him, and he was passing through,
when arrested by Harriet's well-known voice.

"Stop, master! Stop a minute!"

"What do you want? I can't stop!" cried he impatiently.

"Are you going after that poor, motherless child?"

"No. But what the devil is to pay here! I shall get at the truth
now. Where is Beulah? Talk fast."

"She is at the asylum to-night, sir. I followed and watched the poor
little thing. Master, if you don't listen to me, if you please, sir,
you never will get at the truth, for that child won't tell it. I
heard her promise Miss May she would not. You would be ready to
fight if you knew all I know."

"Why did Beulah leave here this evening?"

"Because Miss May abused and insulted her; told her before some
ladies that she was a 'miserable beggar' that you picked up at the
hospital, and that you thought it was charity to feed and clothe her
till she was big enough to work. The ladies were in the front yard,
and the child happened to be sitting by the fountain; she had just
come from riding. I was sewing at one of the windows upstairs, sir,
and heard every word. When the folks were gone Miss May walks up to
her and asks her what she is doing where anybody could see her? Oh,
master! if you could have seen that child's looks. She fairly seemed
to rise off her feet, and her face was as white as a corpse. She
said she had wanted an education; that she knew you had been very
kind; hut she never dreamed of taking Miss Pauline's place in your
house. She said she would not stay where she was unwelcome; that she
was not starving when you took her home; that she knew you were kind
and good; but that she scorned--them were the very words, master--
she scorned to stay a day longer where she had been so insulted! Oh,
she was in a towering rage; she trembled all over, and Miss May
began to be scared, for she knew you would not suffer such doings,
and she tried to pacify her and make up the quarrel by telling her
she might stay and have an education, if that was all she wanted.
But the girl would not hear to anything she said, and told her she
need not be frightened, that she wouldn't go to you with the fuss;
she would not tell you why she left your house. She went to her room
and she got every rag of her old clothes, and left the house with
the tears raining out of her eyes. Oh, master, it's a crying shame!
If you had only been here to hear that child talk to Miss May! Good
Lord! how her big eyes did blaze when she told her she could earn a
living!"

By the pale moonlight she could see that her master's face was rigid
as steel; but his voice was even calmer than usual when he asked:
"Are you sure she is now at the asylum?"

"Yes, sir; sure."

"Very well; she is safe then for the present. Does anyone know that
you heard the conversation?"

"Not a soul, sir, except yourself."

"Keep the matter perfectly quiet till I come home. I shall be away a
day, or perhaps longer. Meantime, see that Beulah does not get out
of your sight. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir--I do."

The buggy rolled swiftly on, and Harriet returned to the house by a
circuitous route, surmising that "Miss May's" eyes might detect her
movements.

The same night Clara Sanders sat on the doorstep of her tumble
cottage home. The moonlight crept through the clustering honeysuckle
and silvered the piazza floor with grotesque fretwork, while it
bathed lovingly the sad face of the girlish watcher. Her chin rested
in her palms, and the soft eyes were bent anxiously on the
countenance of her infirm and aged companion.

"Grandpa, don't look so troubled. I am very sorry, too, about the
diploma; but if I am not to have it, why, there is no use in
worrying about it. Madam St. Cymon is willing to employ me as I am,
and certainly I should feel grateful for her preference, when there
are several applicants for the place. She told me this evening that
she thought I would find no difficulty in performing what would be
required of me."

This was uttered in a cheerful tone, which might have succeeded very
well had the sorrowful face been veiled.

"Ah, Clara, you don't dream of the burden you are taking upon
yourself! The position of assistant teacher in an establishment like
Madam St. Cymon's is one that you are by nature totally unfitted
for. Child, it will gall your spirit; it will be unendurable." The
old man sighed heavily.

"Still, I have been educated with an eye to teaching, and though I
am now to occupy a very subordinate place, the trials will not be
augmented. On the whole, I do not know but it is best as it is. Do
not try to discourage me. It is all I can do, and I am determined I
will not despond about what can't be helped."

"My dear child, I did not mean to depress you. But you are so young
to bow your neck to such a yoke! How old are you?" He turned round
to look at her.

"Only sixteen and a few months. Life is before me yet, an untrodden
plain. Who knows but this narrow path of duty may lead to a calm,
sweet resting-place for us both? I was thinking just now of that
passage from your favorite Wallenstein:"

   "My soul's secure! In the night only, Friedland's stars can beam.'

"The darkness has come down upon us, grandpa; let us wait patiently
for the uprising of stars. I am not afraid of the night."

There was silence for some moments; then the old man rose, and,
putting back the white locks which had fallen over his face, asked,
in a subdued tone:

"When will you commence your work?"

"To-morrow, sir."

"God bless you, Clara, and give you strength, as he sees you have
need." He kissed her fondly, and withdrew to his own room. She sat
for some time looking vacantly at the mosaic of light and shade on
the floor before her, and striving to divest her mind of the
haunting thought that she was the victim of some unyielding
necessity, whose decree had gone forth, and might not be annulled.
In early childhood her home had been one of splendid affluence; but
reverses came, thick and fast, as misfortunes ever do, and, ere she
could realize the swift transition, penury claimed her family among
its crowding legions. Discouraged and embittered, her father made
the wine-cup the sepulcher of care, and in a few months found a
deeper and far more quiet grave. His mercantile embarrassments had
dragged his father-in-law to ruin; and, too aged to toil up the
steep again, the latter resigned himself to spending the remainder
of his days in obscurity, and perhaps want. To Clara's gifted mother
he looked for aid and comfort in the clouded evening of life, and
with unceasing energy she toiled to shield her father and her child
from actual labor. Thoroughly acquainted with music and drawing, her
days were spent in giving lessons in those branches which had been
acquired with reference to personal enjoyment alone, and the silent
hours of the night often passed in stitching the garments of those
who had flocked to her costly entertainments in days gone by. When
Clara was about thirteen years of age a distant relative, chancing
to see her, kindly proposed to contribute the sum requisite for
affording her every educational advantage. The offer was gratefully
accepted by the devoted mother, and Clara was placed at Madam St.
Cymon's, where more than ordinary attention could be bestowed on the
languages.

The noble woman whose heart had bled incessantly over the misery,
ruin, and degradation of her husband sank slowly under the
intolerable burden of sorrows, and a few weeks previous to the
evening of which I write folded her weary hands and went home to
rest. In the springtime of girlhood, Clara felt herself transformed
into a woman. Standing beside her mother's tomb, supporting her
grandmother's tottering form, she shuddered in anticipating the
dreary future that beckoned her on; and now, as if there were not
troubles enough already to disquiet her, the annual amount advanced
toward her school expenses was suddenly withdrawn. The cousin,
residing in a distant State, wrote that pecuniary troubles had
assailed him, and prevented all further assistance. In one more year
she would have finished the prescribed course and graduated
honorably; and, more than all, she would have obtained a diploma,
which might have been an "open sesame" to any post she aspired to.
Thus frustrated in her plans, she gladly accepted the position of
assistant teacher in the primary department, which, having become
vacant by the dismissal of the incumbent, madam kindly tendered her.
The salary was limited, of course; but nothing else presented
itself, and, quitting the desk, where she had so often pored over
her text-books, she prepared to grapple with the trials which
thickly beset the path of a young woman thrown upon her own
resources for maintenance. Clara was naturally amiable, unselfish,
and trusting. She was no intellectual prodigy, yet her mind was
clear and forcible, her judgment matured, and, above all, her pure
heart warm and loving. Notwithstanding the stern realities that
marked her path, there was a vein of romance in her nature which,
unfortunately, attained more than healthful development, and while
it often bore her into the Utopian realms of fancy, it was still
impotent to modify, in any degree, the social difficulties with
which she was forced to contend. Ah, there is a touching beauty in
the radiant up-look of a girl just crossing the limits of youth, and
commencing her journey through the checkered sphere of womanhood! It
is all dew-sparkle and morning glory to her ardent, buoyant spirit,
as she presses forward exulting in blissful anticipations. But the
withering heat of the conflict of life creeps on; the dewdrops
exhale, the garlands of hope, shattered and dead, strew the path,
and too often, ere noontide, the clear brow and sweet smile are
exchanged for the weary look of one longing for the evening rest,
the twilight, the night. Oh, may the good God give his sleep early
unto these many!

There was a dawning light in Clara's eyes which showed that, though
as yet a mere girl in years, she had waked to the consciousness of
emotions which belong to womanhood. She was pretty, and of course
she knew it, for I am skeptical of those characters who grow up to
mature beauty, all unsuspicious of the fatal dower, and are some day
startled by a discovery of their possessions. She knew, too, that
female loveliness was an all-potent spell, and, depressing as were
the circumstances of her life and situation, she felt that a
brighter lot might be hers, without any very remarkable or seemingly
inconsistent course of events.




CHAPTER XII.


"Harriet, bring me a cup of strong coffee."

Dr. Hartwell had returned late in the afternoon of the second day,
and, travel-worn and weary, threw himself down on the sofa in his
study. There was a pale severity in his face which told that his
reflections during his brief absence had been far from pleasant, and
as he swept back the hair from his forehead, and laid his head on
the cushion, the whole countenance bespoke the bitterness of a proud
but miserable man. He remained for some time with closed eyes, and
when the coffee was served drank it without comment. Harriet busied
herself about the room, doing various unnecessary things, and
wondering why her master did not inquire concerning home affairs.
Finally, having exhausted every pretext for lingering, she coughed
very spasmodically once or twice, and, putting her hand on the knob
of the door, said deferentially:

"Do you want anything else, sir? The bathroom is all ready."

"Has my sister been to the asylum?"

"No, sir."

"Go and arrange Beulah's room."

She retired; and, springing up, he paced the floor, striving to
master the emotion which so unwontedly agitated him. His lips
writhed, and the thin nostrils expanded, but he paused before the
melodeon, sat down and played several pieces, and gradually the
swollen veins on his brow lost their corded appearance, and the
mouth resumed its habitual compression. Then, with an exterior as
calm as the repose of death, he took his hat, and went toward the
parlor. Mr. Lockhart was reclining on one of the sofas, Pauline sat
on an ottoman near him, looking over a book of prints, and Mrs.
Chilton, tastefully attired, occupied the piano-stool. Witching
strains of music greeted her brother, as he stopped at the door and
looked in. In the mirror opposite she saw his image reflected, and
for an instant her heart beat rapidly; but the delicate fingers flew
over the keys as skillfully as before, and only the firm setting of
the teeth betokened the coming struggle. He entered, and, walking up
to the invalid, said cordially:

"How are you, Percy? better, I hope." While one hand clasped his
friend's, the other was laid with brotherly freedom on the sick
man's head.

"Of course I am. There was no malady in Eden, was there? Verily,
Guy, in your delightful home, I am growing well again."

"Ah! so much for not possessing Ithuriel's spear. I am glad to find
you free from fever."

"Howd'y-do, uncle! Don't you see me?" said Pauline, reaching up her
hand.

"It is always hard to find you, Pauline; you are such a demure,
silent little body," said he, shaking her hand kindly.

"Welcome, Guy! I expected you yesterday. What detained you so long?"
Mrs. Chilton approached with outstretched hand, and at the same time
offered her lips for a kiss.

He availed himself of neither, but, fixing his eyes intently on
hers, said as sweetly as if he had been soothing a fretful child:

"Necessity, of course; but now that I have come, I shall make
amends, I promise you, for the delay. Percy, has she taken good care
of you?"

"She is an admirable nurse; I can never requite the debt she has
imposed. Is not my convalescence sufficient proof of her superior
skill?" Mr. Lockhart raised himself, and, leaning on his elbow,
suffered his eyes to rest admiringly on the graceful form and
faultless features beside him.

"Are you really so much better?" said Dr. Hartwell, gnawing his lip.

"Indeed I am! Why are you so incredulous? Have you so little
confidence in your own prescriptions?"

"Confidence! I had little enough when given, immeasurably less now.
But we will talk of all this after a little. I have some matters to
arrange, and will be with you at tea. May, I wish to see you."

"Well, Guy, what is it!" Without moving an inch, she looked up at
him.

"Come to my study," answered her brother quietly.

"And leave your patient to amuse himself? Really, Guy, you exercise
the rites of hospitality so rarely that you forget the ordinary
requirements. Apropos, your little protegee has not returned. It
seems she did not fancy living here, and prefers staying at the
asylum. I would not trouble myself about her, if I were you. Some
people cannot appreciate kindness, you know." She uttered this piece
of counsel with perfect sangfroid, and met her brother's eye as
innocently as Pauline would have done.

"I am thoroughly acquainted with her objections to this place, and
determined to remove them so completely that she cannot refused to
return."

A gray pallor crept over his sister's face; but she replied, with
her usual equanimity.

"You have seen her, then? I thought you had hurried back to your
sick friend here, without pausing by the way."

"No! I have not seen her, and, you are aware, her voluntary promise
would seal her lips, even if I had." He smiled contemptuously, as he
saw her puzzled look, and continued: "Percy will excuse you for a
few moments; come with me. Pauline, entertain this gentleman in our
absence."

She took his offered arm, and they proceeded to the study in
silence.

"Sit down." Dr. Hartwell pushed a chair toward her, and stood
looking her fully in the face. She did not shrink, and asked
unconcernedly:

"Well, Guy, to what does all this preamble lead?"

"May, is the doctrine of future punishments laid down as orthodox,
in that elegantly gilded prayer-book you take with you in your
weekly pilgrimages to church?"

"Come, come, Guy; if you have no respect for religion yourself,
don't scoff at its observances in my presence. It is very unkind,
and I will not allow it." She rose, with an air of offended dignity.

"Scoff! You wrong me. Why, verily, your religion is too formidable
to suffer the thought. I tell you, sister mine, your creed is a
terrible one in my eyes." He looked at her with a smile of withering
scorn.

She grew restless under his impaling gaze, and he continued
mockingly:

"From such creeds! such practice! Good Lord deliver us!"

She turned to go, but his hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

"I am acquainted with all that passed between Beulah and yourself
the evening she left my house. I was cognizant of the whole truth
before I left the city."

"Artful wretch! She is as false as contemptible!" muttered the
sister, through set teeth.

"Take care! Do not too hastily apply your own individual standard of
action to others. She does not dream that I am acquainted with the
truth, though doubtless she wonders that, knowing you so well, I
should not suspect it."

"Ah, guided by your favorite Mephistopheles, you wrapped the mantle
of invisibility about you, and heard it all. Eh?"

"No; Mephistopheles is not ubiquitous, and I left him at home here,
it seems, when I took that child to ride. It is difficult for me to
believe you are my sister! very difficult! It is the most
humiliating thought that could possibly be suggested to me. May, I
very nearly decided to send you and Pauline out into the world
without a dime!--without a cent!--just as I found you, and I may do
so yet--"

"You dare not! You dare not! You swore a solemn oath to the dying
that you would always provide for us! I am not afraid of your
breaking your vow!" cried Mrs. Chilton leaning heavily against the
table to support herself.

"You give me credit for too much nicety. I tell you I would break my
oath to-morrow--nay, to-night; for your duplicity cancels it--but
for that orphan you hate so cordially. She would never return if you
and Pauline suffered for the past. For her sake, and hers only, I
will still assist, support you; for have her here I will! if it cost
me life and fortune! I would send you off to the plantation, but
there are no educational advantages there for Pauline; and,
therefore, if Beulah returns, I have resolved to buy and give you a
separate home, wherever you may prefer. Stay here, you cannot and
shall not!"

"And what construction will the world place on your taking a young
girl into your house at the time that I leave it? Guy, with what
marvelous foresight you are endowed!" said she, laughing
sardonically.

"I shall take measures to prevent any improper construction! Mrs.
Watson, the widow of one of my oldest and best friends, has been
left in destitute circumstances, and I shall immediately offer her a
home here, to take charge of my household and look after Beulah when
I am absent. She is an estimable woman, past fifty years of age, and
her character is so irreproachable that her presence here will
obviate the objection you have urged. You will decide to-night where
you wish to fix your future residence, and let me know to-morrow. I
shall not give you longer time for a decision. Meantime, when Beulah
returns you will not allude to the matter. At your peril, May! I
have borne much from you; but, by all that I prize, I swear I will
make you suffer severely if you dare to interfere again. Do not
imagine that I am ignorant of your schemes! I tell you now, I would
gladly see Percy Lockhart lowered into the grave rather than know
that you had succeeded in blinding him! Oh, his noble nature would
loathe you, could he see you as you are. There, go! or I shall
forget that I am talking to a woman--much less a woman claiming to
be my sister! Go! go!" He put up his hands as if unwilling to look
at her, and, leaving the room, descended to the front door. A large
family carriage, drawn by two horses, stood in readiness, and,
seating himself within it, he ordered the coachman to drive to the
asylum. Mrs. Williams met him at the entrance, and, despite her
assumed composure, felt nervous and uncomfortable, for his
scrutinizing look disconcerted her.

"Madam, you are the matron of this institution, I presume. I want to
see Beulah Benton."

"Sir, she saw your carriage, and desired me to say to you that,
though she was very grateful for your kindness, she did not wish to
burden you, and preferred remaining here until she could find some
position which would enable her to support herself. She begs you
will not insist upon seeing her; she does not wish to see you."

"Where is she? I shall not leave the house until I do see her."

She saw from his countenance that it was useless to contend. There
was an unbending look of resolve which said plainly, "Tell me where
to find her, or I shall search for her at once." Secretly pleased at
the prospect of reconciliation, the matron no longer hesitated, and,
pointing to the staircase, said: "She is in the first right-hand
room."

He mounted the steps, opened the door, and entered. Beulah was
standing by the window. She had recognized his step, and knew that
he was in the room, but felt as if she would not meet his eye for
the universe. Yet there was in her heart an intense longing to see
him again. During the two past days she had missed his kind manner
and grave watchfulness, and now, if she had dared to yield to the
impulse that prompted, she would have sprung to meet him and caught
his hand to her lips. He approached, and stood looking at the
drooped face; then his soft, cool touch was on her head, and he said
in his peculiar low, musical tones:

"Proud little spirit, come home and be happy."

She shook her head, saying resolutely:

"I cannot; I have no home. I could not be happy in your house."

"You can be in future. Beulah, I know the whole truth of this
matter. How I discovered it is no concern of yours--you have not
broken your promise. Now, mark me; I make your return to my house
the condition of my sister's pardon. I am not trifling! If you
persist in leaving me, I tell you solemnly I will send her and
Pauline out into the world to work for their daily bread, as you
want to do! If you will come back, I will give them a comfortable
home of their own wherever they may prefer to live, and see that
they are always well cared for. But they shall not remain in my
house whether you come or not. I am in earnest! Look at me; you know
I never say what I do not mean. I want you to come back; I ask you
to come with me now. I am lonely; my home is dark and desolate.
Come, my child; come!" He held her hands in his, and drew her gently
toward him. She looked eagerly into his face, and, as she noted the
stern sadness that marred its noble beauty, the words of his sister
flashed upon her memory: He had been married! Was it the loss of his
wife that had so darkened his elegant home?--that gave such
austerity to the comparatively youthful face? She gazed into the
deep eyes till she grew dizzy, and answered indistinctly:

"I have no claim on you--will not be the means of parting you and
your sister. You have Pauline; make her your child."

"Henceforth my sister and myself are parted, whether you will it or
not, whether you come back or otherwise. Once for all, if you would
serve her, come, for on this condition only will I provide for her.
Pauline does not suit me; you do. I can make you a friend, in some
sort a companion. Beulah, you want to come to me; I see it in your
eyes; but I see too that you want conditions. What are they?"

"Will you always treat Pauline just as kindly as if you had never
taken me to your house?"

"Except having a separate home, she shall never know any difference.
I promise you this. What else?"

"Will you let me go to the public school instead of Madam St.
Cymon's?"

"Why, pray?"

"Because the tuition is free."

"And you are too proud to accept any aid from me?"

"No, sir; I want your counsel and guidance, and I want to be with
you to show you that I do thank you for all your goodness; but I
want to cost you as little as possible."

"You do not expect to depend on me always, then?" said he, smiling
despite himself.

"No, sir; only till I am able to teach. If you are willing to do
this, I shall be glad to go back, very glad; but not unless you
are." She looked as firm as her guardian.

"Better stipulate also that you are to wear nothing more expensive
than bit calico." He seemed much amused.

"Indeed, sir, I am not jesting at all. If you will take care of me
while I am educating myself, I shall be very grateful to you; but I
am not going to be adopted."

"Very well. Then I will try to take care of you. I have signed your
treaty; are you ready to come home?"

"Yes, sir; glad to come." Her fingers closed confidingly over his,
and they joined Mrs. Williams in the hall below. A brief explanation
from Beulah sufficed for the rejoicing matron, and soon she was
borne rapidly from the asylum. Dr. Hartwell was silent until they
reached home, and Beulah was going to her own room, when he asked
suddenly:

"What was it that you wished to ask me about the evening of the
ride?"

"That I might go to the public school."

"What put that into your head?" "As an independent orphan, I am
insulted at Madam St. Cymon's."

"By whom?" His eyes flashed.

"No matter now, sir."

"By whom? I ask you."

"Not by Pauline. She would scorn to be guilty of anything so
ungenerous."

"You do not mean to answer my question, then?"

"No, sir. Do not ask me to do so, for I cannot."

"Very well. Get ready for tea. Mr. Lockhart is here. One word more.
You need fear no further interference from anyone."

He walked on, and, glad to be released, Beulah hastened to her own
room, with a strange feeling of joy on entering it again. Harriet
welcomed her warmly, and, without alluding to her absence, assisted
in braiding the heavy masses of hair, which required arranging. Half
an hour after, Dr. Hartwell knocked at the door, and conducted her
downstairs. Mrs. Chilton rose and extended her hand, with an
amicable expression of countenance for which Beulah was not
prepared. She could not bring herself to accept the hand, but her
salutation was gravely polite.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Chilton."

Mr. Lockhart made room for her on the sofa; and, quietly ensconced
in one corner, she sat for some time so engaged in listening to the
general conversation that the bitter recollection of by-gone trials
was entirely banished. Dr. Hartwell and his friend were talking of
Europe, and the latter, after recounting much of interest in
connection with his former visits, said earnestly:

"Go with me this time, Guy; one tour cannot have satiated you. It
will be double, nay, triple, enjoyment to have you along. It is, and
always has been, a mystery to me why you should persist in
practicing. You do not need the pecuniary aid; your income would
enable you to live just as you pleased. Life is short at best. Why
not glean all of pleasure that travel affords to a nature like
yours? Your sister was just telling me that in a few days she goes
North to place Pauline at some celebrated school, and, without her,
you will be desolate. Come, let's to Europe together. What do you
say?"

Dr. Hartwell received this intimation of his sister's plans without
the slightest token of surprise, and smiled sarcastically as he
replied:

"Percy, I shall answer you in the words of a favorite author of the
day. He says, 'It is for want of self-culture that the superstition
of traveling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its
fascination for all educated Americans. He who travels to be amused,
or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from
himself, and grows old, even in youth, among--old things. In Thebes,
in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as
they. He carries ruins to ruins. Traveling is a fool's paradise. At
home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with
beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embark, and finally
wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad
self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I affect to be
intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not. My giant goes
with me wherever I go.' Percy, I endeavored to drown my giant in the
Mediterranean; to bury it forever beneath the green waters of Lago
Maggiore; to hurl it from solemn, icy, Alpine heights; to dodge it
in museums of art; but, as Emerson says, it clung to me with
unerring allegiance, and I came home. And now, daily and yearly, I
repeat the hopeless experiment, in my round of professional duties.
Yes, May and Pauline are going away, but I shall have Beulah to look
after, and I fancy time will not drag its wheels through coming
years. How soon do you think of leaving America? I have some
commissions for you when you start."

"I hope I shall be able to go North within a fortnight, and, after a
short visit to Newport or Saratoga, sail for Havre. What do you want
from the great storehouse of art, sculpture, and paintings, cameos
and prints?"

"I will furnish you with a catalogue. Do you go through Germany, or
only flaunt, butterfly-like, under the sunny skies of the Levant?"

"I have, as yet, no settled plans; but probably before I return
shall explore Egypt, Syria, and Arabia. Do you want anything from
the dying world? From Dendera, Carnac, or that city of rock, lonely,
silent, awful Petra?"

"Not I. The flavor of Sodom is too prevalent. But there are a few
localities that I shall ask you to sketch for me."

Subsequently, Mr. Lockhart requested Beulah to sing her forest song
for him again. The blood surged quickly into her face, and, not
without confusion, she begged him to excuse her. He insisted, and
tried to draw her from her seat; but, sinking further back into the
corner, she assured him she could not; she never sang, except when
alone. Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, looking at her curiously, said:

"I never heard her even attempt to sing. Beulah, why will you not
try to oblige him?"

"Oh, sir! my songs are all connected with sorrows. I could not sing
them now; indeed, I could not." And as the memory of Lilly, hushed
by her lullaby, rose vividly before her, she put her hands over her
eyes and wept quietly.

"When you come home from your Oriental jaunt, she will be able to
comply with your request. Meantime, Percy, come into the study; I
want a cigar and game of chess."

Beulah quitted the parlor at the same time, and was mounting the
steps, when she heard Mr. Lockhart ask:

"Guy, what are you going to do with that solemn-looking child?"

"Going to try to show her that the world is not altogether made up
of brutes." She heard no more; but, long after she laid her head
upon the pillow, pondered on the kind fate which gave her so
considerate, so generous a guardian; and, in the depths of her
gratitude, she vowed to show him that she reverenced and honored
him.




CHAPTER XIII


Three years passed swiftly, unmarked by any incidents of interest,
and one dreary night in December Beulah sat in Dr. Hartwell's study,
wondering what detained him so much, later than usual. The lamp
stood on the tea-table, and the urn awaited the master's return. The
room, with its books, statues, paintings, and melodeon, was
unaltered, but time had materially changed the appearance of the
orphan. She had grown tall, and the mazarine blue merino dress
fitted the slender form with scrupulous exactness. The luxuriant
black hair was combed straight back from the face, and wound into a
circular knot, which covered the entire back of the head, and gave a
classical outline to the whole. The eyelashes were longer and
darker, the complexion had lost its sickly hue, and, though there
was no bloom on the cheeks, they were clear and white. I have spoken
before of the singular conformation of the massive brow, and now the
style in which she wore her hair fully exposed the outline. The
large gray eyes had lost their look of bitterness, but more than
ever they were grave, earnest, restless, and searching; indexing a
stormy soul. The whole countenance betokened that rare combination
of mental endowments, that habitual train of deep, concentrated
thought, mingled with somewhat dark passion, which characterizes the
eagerly inquiring mind that struggles to lift itself far above
common utilitarian themes. The placid element was as wanting in her
physiognomy as in her character, and even the lines of the mouth
gave evidence of strength and restlessness, rather than peace.
Before her lay a book on geometry, and, engrossed by study, she was
unobservant of Dr. Hartwell's entrance. Walking up to the grate, he
warmed his fingers, and then, with his hands behind him, stood still
on the rug, regarding his protegee attentively. He looked precisely
as he had done more than three years before, when he waited at Mrs.
Martin's, watching little Johnny and his nurse. The colorless face
seemed as if chiseled out of ivory, and stern gravity, blended with
bitterness, was enthroned on the lofty, unfurrowed brow. He looked
at the girl intently, as he would have watched a patient to whom he
had administered a dubious medicine and felt some curiosity
concerning the result.

"Beulah, put up your book and make the tea, will you?"

She started up, and, seating herself before the urn, said joyfully:

"Good-evening! I did not know you had come home. You look cold,
sir."

"Yes, it is deucedly cold; and, to mend the matter, Mazeppa must
needs slip on the ice in the gutter and lame himself. Knew, too, I
should want him again to-night." He drew a chair to the table and
received his tea from her hand, for it was one of his whims to
dismiss Mrs. Watson and the servants at this meal, and have only
Beulah present.

"Who is so ill as to require a second visit to-night?"

She very rarely asked anything relative to his professional
engagements, but saw that he was more than usually interested.

"Why, that quiet little Quaker friend of yours, Clara Sanders, will
probably lose her grandfather this time. He had a second paralytic
stroke to-day, and I doubt whether he survives till morning."

"Are any of Clara's friends with her?" asked Beulah quickly.

"Some two or three of the neighbors. What now?" he continued as she
rose from the table.

"I am going to get ready and go with you when you return."

"Nonsense! The weather is too disagreeable; and, besides, you can do
no good; the old man is unconscious. Don't think of it."

"But I must think of it, and what is more, you must carry me, if you
please. I shall not mind the cold, and I know Clara would rather
have me with her, even though I could render no assistance. Will you
carry me? I shall thank you very much." She stood on the threshold.

"And if I will not carry you?" he answered questioningly.

"Then, sir, though sorry to disobey you, I shall be forced to walk
there."

"So I supposed. You may get ready."

"Thank you." She hurried off to wrap up for the ride and acquaint
Mrs. Watson with the cause of her temporary absence. On re-entering
the study she found the doctor lying on the sofa, with one hand over
his eyes. Without removing it he tossed a letter to her, saying:

"There is a letter from Heidelberg. I had almost forgotten it. You
will have time to read it; the buggy is not ready." He moved his
fingers slightly, so as to see her distinctly, while she tore off
the envelope and perused it. At first she looked pleased; then the
black eyebrows met over the nose, and as she refolded it there was a
very decided curl in the compressed upper lip. She put it into her
pocket without comment.

"Eugene is well, I suppose?" said the doctor, still shading his
eyes.

"Yes, sir; quite well."

"Does he seem to be improving his advantages?"

"I should judge not, from the tone of this letter."

"What does it indicate?"

"That he thinks of settling down into mercantile life on his return;
as if he needed to go to Germany to learn to keep books." She spoke
hastily and with much chagrin.

"And why not? Germany is par excellence the land of book-making, and
book-reading; why not of bookkeeping?"

"German proficiency is not the question, sir."

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, passing his fingers through his hair,
replied:

"You intend to annihilate that plebeian project of his, then?"

"His own will must govern him, sir; over that I have no power."

"Still you will use your influence in favor of a learned
profession?"

"Yes, sir; if I have any."

"Take care your ambitious pride does not ruin you both. There is the
buggy. Be so good as to give me my fur gauntlets out of the drawer
of my desk. That will do; come."

The ride was rather silent. Beulah spoke several times, but was
answered in a manner which informed her that her guardian was in a
gloomy mood and did not choose to talk. He was to her as
inexplicable as ever. She felt that the barrier which divided them,
instead of melting away with long and intimate acquaintance, had
strengthened and grown impenetrable. Kind but taciturn, she knew
little of his opinions on any of the great questions which began to
agitate her own mind. For rather more than three years they had
spent their evenings together; she in studying, he in reading or
writing. Of his past life she knew absolutely nothing, for no
unguarded allusion to it ever escaped his lips. As long as she had
lived in his house, he had never mentioned his wife's name, and but
for his sister's words she would have been utterly ignorant of his
marriage. Whether the omission was studied, or merely the result of
abstraction, she could only surmise. Once, when sitting around the
fire, a piece of crape fell upon the hearth from the shrouded
portrait. He stooped down, picked it up, and, without glancing at
the picture, threw the fragment into the grate. She longed to see
the covered face, but dared not unfasten the sable folds, which had
grown rusty with age. Sometimes she fancied her presence annoyed
him; but if she absented herself at all during the evening he
invariably inquired the cause. He had most scrupulously avoided all
reference to matters of faith; she had endeavored several times to
direct the conversation to religious topics, but he adroitly eluded
her efforts, and abstained from any such discussion; and though on
Sabbath she generally accompanied Mrs. Watson to church, he never
alluded to it. Occasionally, when more than ordinarily fatigued by
the labors of the day, he had permitted her to read aloud to him
from some of his favorite volumes, and these brief glimpses had
given her an intense longing to pursue the same paths of
investigation. She revered and admired him; nay, she loved him; but
it was more earnest gratitude than genuine affection. Love casteth
out fear, and most certainly she feared him. She had entered her
seventeenth year, and, feeling that she was no longer a child, her
pride sometimes rebelled at the calm, commanding manner he
maintained toward her.

They found Clara kneeling beside her insensible grandfather, while
two or three middle-aged ladies sat near the hearth, talking in
undertones. Beulah put her arms tenderly around her friend ere she
was aware of her presence, and the cry of blended woe and gladness
with which Clara threw herself on Beulah's bosom told her how well-
timed that presence was. Three years of teaching and care had worn
the slight young form, and given a troubled, strained, weary look to
the fair face. Thin, pale, and tearful, she clung to Beulah, and
asked, in broken accents, what would become of her when the aged
sleeper was no more.

"Our good God remains to you, Clara. I was a shorn lamb, and he
tempered the winds for me. I was very miserable, but he did not
forsake me."

Clara looked at the tall form of the physician, and, while her eyes
rested upon him with a species of fascination, she murmured:

"Yes, you have been blessed indeed! You have him. He guards and
cares for your happiness; but I, oh, I am alone!"

"You told me he had promised to be your friend. Best assured he will
prove himself such," answered Beulah, watching Clara's countenance
as she spoke.

"Yes, I know; but--" She paused, and averted her head, for just then
he drew near and said gravely:

"Beulah, take Miss Clara to her own room, and persuade her to rest.
I shall remain probably all night; at least until some change takes
place."

"Don't send me away," pleaded Clara mournfully.

"Go, Beulah; it is for her own good." She saw that he was
unrelenting, and complied without opposition. In the seclusion of
her room she indulged in a passionate burst of grief, and, thinking
it was best thus vented, Beulah paced up and down the floor,
listening now to the convulsive sobs, and now to the rain which
pelted the window-panes. She was two years younger than her
companion, yet felt that she was immeasurably stronger. Often during
their acquaintance a painful suspicion had crossed her mind; as
often she had banished it, but now it haunted her with a pertinacity
which she could not subdue. While her feet trod the chamber floor,
memory trod the chambers of the past, and gathered up every link
which could strengthen the chain of evidence. Gradually dim
conjecture became sad conviction, and she was conscious of a degree
of pain and sorrow for which she could not readily account. If Clara
loved Dr. Hartwell, why should it grieve her? Her step grew
nervously rapid, and the eyes settled upon the carpet with a
fixedness of which she was unconscious. Suppose he was double her
age, if Clara loved him notwithstanding, what business was it of
hers? Besides, no one would dream of the actual disparity in years,
for he was a very handsome man, and certainly did not look more than
ten years older. True, Clara was not very intellectual, and he was
particularly fond of literary pursuits; but had not she heard him
say that it was a singular fact in anthropology that men selected
their opposites for wives? She did not believe her guardian ever
thought of Clara save when in her presence. But how did she know
anything about his thoughts and fancies, his likes and dislikes? He
had never even spoken of his marriage--was it probable that the
subject of a second love would have escaped him? All this passed
rapidly in her mind, and when Clara called her to sit down on the
couch beside her, she started as from a painful dream. While her
friend talked sadly of the future, Beulah analyzed her features, and
came to the conclusion that it would be a very easy matter to love
her; the face was so sweet and gentle, the manner so graceful, the
tone so musical and winning. Absorbed in thought, neither noted the
lapse of time. Midnight passed; two o'clock came; and then at three
a knock startled the watchers. Clara sprang to the door; Dr.
Hartwell pointed to the sickroom, and said gently:

"He has ceased to suffer. He is at rest."

She looked at him vacantly an instant, and whispered, under her
breath: "He is not dead?"

He did not reply, and, with a frightened expression, she glided into
the chamber of death, calling piteously on the sleeper to come back
and shield her. Beulah would have followed, but the doctor detained
her.

"Not yet, child. Not yet."

As if unconscious of the act, he passed his arm around her
shoulders, and drew her close to him. She looked up in astonishment,
but his eyes were fixed on the kneeling figure in the room opposite,
and she saw that, just then, he was thinking of anything else than
her presence.

"Are you going home now, sir?"

"Yes; but you must stay with that poor girl yonder. Can't you
prevail on her to come and spend a few days with you?"

"I rather think not," answered Beulah, resolved not to try.

"You look pale, my child. Watching is not good for you. It is a long
time since you have seen death. Strange that people will not see it
as it is. Passing strange."

"What do you mean?" said she, striving to interpret the smile that
wreathed his lips.

"You will not believe if I tell you. 'Life is but the germ of Death,
and Death the development of a higher Life.'"

"Higher in the sense of heavenly immortality?"

"You may call it heavenly if you choose. Stay here till the funeral
is over, and I will send for you. Are you worn out, child?" He had
withdrawn his arm, and now looked anxiously at her colorless face.

"No, sir."

"Then why are you so very pale?"

"Did you ever see me, sir, when I was anything else?"

"I have seen you look less ghostly. Good-by." He left the house
without even shaking hands.

The day which succeeded was very gloomy, and, after the funeral
rites had been performed, and the second day looked in, Beulah's
heart rejoiced at the prospect of returning home. Clara shrank from
the thought of being left alone, the little cottage was so desolate.
She would give it up now, of course, and find a cheap boarding
house; but the furniture must be rubbed and sent down to an auction
room, and she dreaded the separation from all the objects which
linked her with the past.

"Clara, I have been commissioned to invite you to spend several days
with me, until you can select a boarding house. Dr. Hartwell will be
glad to have you come."

"Did he say so?" asked the mourner, shading her face with her hand.

"He told me I must bring you home with me," answered Beulah.

"Oh, how good, how noble he is! Beulah, you are lucky, lucky
indeed." She dropped her head on her arms.

"Clara, I believe there is less difference in our positions than you
seem to imagine. We are both orphans, and in about a year I too
shall be a teacher. Dr. Hartwell is my guardian and protector, but
he will be a kind friend to you also."

"Beulah, you are mad to dream of leaving him and turning teacher! I
am older than you, and have traveled over the very track that you
are so eager to set out upon. Oh, take my advice; stay where you
are! Would you leave summer sunshine for the icebergs of Arctic
night? Silly girl, appreciate your good fortune."

"Can it be possible, Clara, that you are fainting so soon? Where are
all your firm resolves? If it is your duty, what matter the
difficulties?" She looked down pityingly on her companion, as in
olden time one of the athletae might have done upon a drooping
comrade.

"Necessity knows no conditions, Beulah. I have no alternative but to
labor in that horrible treadmill round, day after day. You are more
fortunate; can have a home of elegance, luxury, and--"

"And dependence! Would you be willing to change places with me, and
indolently wait for others to maintain you?" interrupted Beulah,
looking keenly at the wan, yet lovely, face before her.

"Ah, gladly, if I had been selected as you were. Once I too felt
hopeful and joyous; but now life is dreary, almost a burden. Be
warned, Beulah; don't suffer your haughty spirit to make you reject
the offered home that may be yours."

There was a strong approach to contempt in the expression with which
Beulah regarded her, as the last words were uttered, and she
answered coldly:

"You are less a woman than I thought you, if you would be willing to
live on the bounty of others when a little activity would enable you
to support yourself."

"Ah, Beulah! it is not only the bread you eat, or the clothes that
you wear; it is sympathy and kindness, love and watchfulness. It is
this that a woman wants. Oh, was her heart made, think you, to be
filled with grammars and geographies and copy-books? Can the feeling
that you are independent and doing your duty satisfy the longing for
other idols? Oh, Duty is an icy shadow! It will freeze you. It
cannot fill the heart's sanctuary. Woman was intended as a pet
plant, to be guarded and cherished; isolated and uncared for, she
droops, languishes, and dies." Ah! the dew-sparkle had exhaled and
the morning glory had vanished; the noontide heat of the conflict
was creeping on, and she was sinking down, impotent to continue the
struggle.

"Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing
nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly
geranium, I know better. If you have concluded that you belong to
that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that
you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow
to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to
action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and
suffer others to minister to its needs? Don't talk to me about
woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to
repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don't want to hear
it; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and
lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like
one of those old pine trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if
you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself; battle with wind
and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the
storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a
woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, instead of showing that she
has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none."

"All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the
reality is quite another matter. A tame, joyless, hopeless time you
will have if you scorn good fortune, as you threaten, and go into
the world to support yourself," answered Clara impatiently.

"I would rather struggle with her for a crust than hang on her
garments asking a palace. I don't know what has come over you. You
are strangely changed!" cried Beulah, pressing her hands on her
friend's shoulders.

"The same change will come over you when you endure what I have.
With all your boasted strength, you are but a woman; have a woman's
heart, and one day will be unable to hush its hungry cries."

"Then I will crush it, so help me Heaven!" answered Beulah.

"No! sorrow will do that time enough; no suicidal effort will be
necessary." For the first time Beulah marked an expression of
bitterness in the usually gentle, quiet countenance. She was pained
more than she chose to evince, and, seeing Dr. Hartwell's carriage
at the door, prepared to return home.

"Tell him that I am very grateful for his kind offer; that his
friendly remembrance is dear to a bereaved orphan. Ah, Beulah! I
have known him from my childhood, and he has always been a friend as
well as a physician. During my mother's long illness he watched her
carefully and constantly, and when we tendered him the usual
recompense for his services he refused all remuneration, declaring
he had only been a friend. He knew we were poor, and could ill
afford any expense. Oh, do you wonder that I--Are you going
immediately? Come often when I get to a boarding house. Do, Beulah!
I am so desolate; so desolate!" She bowed her head on Beulah's
shoulder and wept unrestrainedly.

"Yes, I will come as often as I can; and, Clara, do try to cheer up.
I can't bear to see you sink down in this way." She kissed the
tearful face and hurried away.

It was Saturday, and, retiring to her own room, she answered
Eugene's brief letter. Long before she had seen with painful anxiety
that he wrote more and more rarely, and, while his communications
clearly conveyed the impression that he fancied they were essential
to her happiness, the protective tenderness of early years gave
place to a certain commanding yet condescending tone. Intuitively
perceiving, yet unable to analyze this gradual revolution of
feeling, Beulah was sometimes tempted to cut short the
correspondence. But her long and ardent attachment drowned the
whispers of wounded pride, and hallowed memories of his boyish love
ever prevented an expression of the pain and wonder with which she
beheld the alteration in his character. Unwilling to accuse him of
the weakness which prompted much of his arrogance and egotism, her
heart framed various excuses for his seeming coldness. At first she
had written often, and without reference to ordinary epistolary
debts; but now she regularly waited (and that for some time) for the
arrival of his letters; not from a diminution of affection so much
as from true womanly delicacy, lest she should obtrude herself too
frequently upon his notice. More than once she had been troubled by
a dawning consciousness of her own superiority; but, accustomed for
years to look up to him as a sort of infallible guide, she would not
admit the suggestion, and tried to keep alive the admiring respect
with which she had been wont to defer to his judgment. He seemed to
consider his dogmatic dictation both acceptable and necessary, and
it was this assumed mastery, unaccompanied with manifestations of
former tenderness, which irritated and aroused her pride. With the
brush of youthful imagination she had painted him as the future
statesman--gifted, popular, and revered; and while visions of his
fame and glory flitted before her the promise of sharing all with
her was by no means the least fascinating feature in her fancy
picture. Of late, however, he had ceased to speak of the choice of a
profession, and mentioned vaguely Mr. Graham's wish that he should
acquaint himself thoroughly with French, German, and Spanish, in
order to facilitate the correspondence of the firm with foreign
houses. She felt that once embarked on the sea of mercantile life he
would have little leisure or inclination to pursue the paths which
she hoped to travel by his side, and, on this occasion, her letter
was longer and more earnest than usual, urging his adherence to the
original choice of the law and using every forcible argument she
could adduce. Finally the reply was sealed and directed, and she
went down to the study to place it in the marble receiver which
stood on her guardian's desk. Hal, who accompanied the doctor in his
round of visits, always took their letters to the post office, and
punctually deposited all directed to them in the vase. To her
surprise she found no fire in the grate. The blinds were drawn
closely, and, in placing her letter on the desk, she noticed several
addressed to the doctor and evidently unopened. They must have
arrived the day before, and while she wondered at the aspect of the
room Harriet entered.

"Miss Beulah, do you know how long master expects to be gone? I
thought maybe you could tell when you came home, for Mrs. Watson
does not seem to know any more than I do."

"Gone! What do you mean?"

"Don't you know he has gone up the river to the plantation? Why, I
packed his valise at daylight yesterday, and he left in the early
morning boat. He has not been to the plantation since just before
you came here. Hal says he heard him tell Dr. Asbury to take charge
of his patients, that his overseer had to be looked after. He told
me he was going to the plantation, and I would have asked him when
he was coming back, but he was in one of his unsatisfactory ways--
looked just like his mouth had been dipped in hot sealing-wax, so I
held my tongue."

Beulah bit her lips with annoyance, but sat down before the
melodeon, and said as unconcernedly as possible:

"I did not know he had left the city, and, of course, have no idea
when he will be back. Harriet, please make me a fire here, or call
Hal to do it."

"There is a good fire in the dining room; better go in there and sit
with Mrs. Watson. She is busy seeding raisins for mincemeat and
fruit-cake."

"No; I would rather stay here."

"Then I will kindle you a fire right away."

Harriet moved about the room with cheerful alacrity. She had always
seemed to consider herself Beulah's special guardian and friend, and
gave continual proof of the strength of her affection. Evidently she
desired to talk about her master, but Beulah's face gave her no
encouragement to proceed. She made several efforts to renew the
conversation, but they were not seconded, and she withdrew,
muttering to herself:

"She is learning all his ways. He does hate to talk any more than he
can help, and she is patterning after him just as fast as she can.
They don't seem to know what the Lord gave them tongues for."

Beulah practiced perseveringly for some time, and then, drawing a
chair near the fire, sat down and leaned her head on her hand. She
missed her guardian--wanted to see him--felt surprised at his sudden
departure and mortified that he had not thought her of sufficient
consequence to bid adieu to and be apprised of his intended trip. He
treated her precisely as he did when she first entered the house;
seemed to consider her a mere child, whereas she knew she was no
longer such. He never alluded to her plan of teaching, and when she
chanced to mention it he offered no comment, looked indifferent or
abstracted. Though invariably kind, and sometimes humorous, there
was an impenetrable reserve respecting himself, his past and future,
which was never laid aside. When not engaged with his flowers or
music, he was deep in some favorite volume, and, outside of these
sources of enjoyment, seemed to derive no real pleasure.
Occasionally he had visitors, but these were generally strangers,
often persons residing at a distance, and Beulah knew nothing of
them. Several times he had attended concerts and lectures, but she
had never accompanied him; and frequently, when sitting by his side,
felt as if a glacier lay between them. After Mrs. Chilton's
departure for New York, where she and Pauline were boarding, no
ladies ever came to the house, except a few of middle age, who
called now and then to see Mrs. Watson, and, utterly isolated from
society, Beulah was conscious of entire ignorance of all that passed
in polite circles. Twice Claudia had called, but, unable to forget
the past sufficiently to enter Mrs. Grayson's house, their
intercourse had ended with Claudia's visits. Mrs. Watson was a kind-
hearted and most excellent woman, who made an admirable housekeeper,
but possessed few of the qualifications requisite to render her an
agreeable companion. With an ambitious nature, and an eager thirst
for knowledge, Beulah had improved her advantages as only those do
who have felt the need of them. While she acquired, with unusual
ease and rapidity, the branches of learning taught at school, she
had availed herself of the extensive and select library, to which
she had free access, and history, biography, travels, essays, and
novels had been perused with singular avidity. Dr. Hartwell, without
restricting her reading, suggested the propriety of incorporating
more of the poetic element in her course. The hint was timely, and
induced an acquaintance with the great bards of England and Germany,
although her taste led her to select works of another character. Her
secluded life favored habits of study, and, at an age when girls are
generally just beginning to traverse the fields of literature, she
had progressed so far as to explore some of the footpaths which
entice contemplative minds from the beaten track. With earlier
cultivation and superiority of years, Eugene had essayed to direct
her reading; but now, in point of advancement, she felt that she was
in the van. Dr. Hartwell had told her, whenever she was puzzled, to
come to him for explanation, and his clear analysis taught her how
immeasurably superior he was, even to those instructors whose
profession it was to elucidate mysteries. Accustomed to seek
companionship in books, she did not, upon the present occasion, long
reflect on her guardian's sudden departure, but took from the
shelves a volume of Poe which contained her mark. The parting rays
of the winter sun grew fainter; the dull, somber light of vanishing
day made the room dim, and it was only by means of the red glare
from the glowing grate that she deciphered the print. Finally the
lamp was brought in, and shed a mellow radiance over the dusky
apartment. The volume was finished and dropped upon her lap. The
spell of this incomparable sorcerer was upon her imagination; the
sluggish, lurid tarn of Usher; the pale, gigantic water lilies,
nodding their ghastly, everlasting heads over the dreary Zaire; the
shrouding shadow of Helusion; the ashen skies, and sere, crisped
leaves in the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir, hard by the dim lake
of Auber--all lay with grim distinctness before her; and from the
red bars of the grate the wild, lustrous, appalling eyes of Ligeia
looked out at her, while the unearthly tones of Morella whispered
from every corner of the room. She rose and replaced the book on the
shelf, striving to shake off the dismal hold which all this
phantasmagoria had taken on her fancy. Her eyes chanced to fall upon
a bust of Athene which surmounted her guardian's desk, and
immediately the mournful refrain of the Raven, solemn and dirge-
like, floated through the air, enhancing the spectral element which
enveloped her. She retreated to the parlor, and, running her fingers
over the keys of the piano, endeavored by playing some of her
favorite airs to divest her mind of the dreary, unearthly images
which haunted it. The attempt was futile, and there in the dark,
cold parlor she leaned her head against the piano, and gave herself
up to the guidance of one who, like the "Ancient Mariner," holds his
listener fascinated and breathless. Once her guardian had warned her
not to study Poe too closely, but the book was often in his own
hand, and, yielding to the matchless ease and rapidity of his
diction, she found herself wandering in a wilderness of baffling
suggestions. Under the drapery of "William Wilson," of "Morella,"
and "Ligeia," she caught tantalizing glimpses of recondite
psychological truths and processes, which dimly hovered over her own
consciousness, but ever eluded the grasp of analysis. While his
unique imagery filled her mind with wondering delight, she shrank
appalled from the mutilated fragments which he presented to her as
truths, on the point of his glittering scalpel of logic. With the
eagerness of a child clutching at its own shadow in a glassy lake,
and thereby destroying it, she had read that anomalous prose poem
"Eureka." The quaint humor of that "bottled letter" first arrested
her attention, and, once launched on the sea of Cosmogonies, she was
amazed at the seemingly infallible reasoning which, at the
conclusion, coolly informed her that she was her own God. Mystified,
shocked, and yet admiring, she had gone to Dr. Hartwell for a
solution of the difficulty. False she felt the whole icy tissue to
be, yet could not detect the adroitly disguised sophisms. Instead of
assisting her, as usual, he took the book from her, smiled, and put
it away, saying indifferently:

"You must not play with such sharp tools just yet. Go and practice
your music lesson."

She was too deeply interested to be put off so quietly, and
constantly pondered this singular production, which confirmed in
some degree a fancy of her own concerning the pre-existence of the
soul. Only on the hypothesis of an anterior life could she explain
some of the mental phenomena which puzzled her. Heedless of her
guardian's warning, she had striven to comprehend the philosophy of
this methodical madman, and now felt bewildered and restless. This
study of Poe was the portal through which she entered the vast
Pantheon of Speculation.




CHAPTER XIV.


A week later, at the close of a dull winter day, Beulah sat as usual
in the study. The large parlors and dining room had a desolate look
at all times, and of the whole house only the study seemed genial.
Busily occupied during the day, it was not until evening that she
realized her guardian's absence. No tidings of him had been
received, and she began to wonder at his prolonged stay. She felt
very lonely without him, and, though generally taciturn, she missed
him from the hearth, missed the tall form and the sad, stern face.
Another Saturday had come, and all day she had been with Clara in
her new home, trying to cheer the mourner and dash away the gloom
that seemed settling down upon her spirits. At dusk she returned
home, spent an hour at the piano, and now walked up and down the
study, wrapt in thought. The room had a cozy, comfortable aspect;
the fire burned brightly; the lamplight silvered the paintings and
statues; and on the rug before the grate lay a huge black dog of the
St. Bernard order, his shaggy head thrust between his paws. The
large, intelligent eyes followed Beulah as she paced to and fro, and
seemed mutely to question her restlessness. His earnest scrutiny
attracted her notice, and she held out her hand, saying musingly:

"Poor Charon; you too miss your master. Charon, King of Shadows,
when will he come?"

The great black eyes gazed intently into hers, and seemed to echo,
"When will he come?" He lifted his grim head, snuffed the air,
listened, and sullenly dropped his face on his paws again. Beulah
threw herself on the rug, and laid her head on his thick neck; he
gave a quick, short bark of satisfaction, and very soon both girl
and dog were fast asleep. A quarter of an hour glided by, and then
Beulah was suddenly roused by a violent motion of her pillow. Charon
sprang up, and leaped frantically across the room. The comb which
confined her hair had fallen out, and, gathering up the jetty folds
which swept over her shoulders, she looked around. Dr. Hartwell was
closing the door.

"Down, Charon; you ebon scamp! Down, you keeper of Styx!" He forced
down the paws from his shoulders, and patted the shaggy head, while
his eyes rested affectionately on the delightful countenance of his
sable favorite. As he threw down his gloves, his eyes fell on
Beulah, who had hastily risen from the rug, and he held out his
hand, saying

"Ah! Charon waked you rudely. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, sir. I am so glad you have come home, so
glad." She took his cold hand between both hers, rubbed it
vigorously, and looked up joyfully in his face. She thought he was
paler and more haggard than she had ever seen him, his hair
clustered in disorder about his forehead, his whole aspect was weary
and wretched. He suffered her to keep his hand in her warm, tight
clasp, and asked kindly.

"Are you well, Beulah? Your face is flushed, and you feel feverish."

"Perfectly well. But you are as cold as an Esquimaux hunter. Come to
the fire." She drew his armchair, with its candle-stand and book-
board, close to the hearth, and put his warm velvet slippers before
him. She forgot her wounded pride, forgot that he had left without
even bidding her good by, and only remembered that he had come home
again, that he was sitting there in the study, and she would be
lonely no more. Silently leaning back in the chair, he closed his
eyes with a sigh of relief. She felt as if she would like very much
to smooth off the curling hair that lay thick and damp on his white,
gleaming brow, but dared not. She stood watching him for a moment,
and said considerately.

"Will you have your tea now? Charon and I had our supper long ago."

"No, child, I only want to rest."

Beulah fancied he spoke impatiently. Had she been too officious in
welcoming him to his own home? She bit her lip with proud vexation,
and, taking her geometry, left him. As she reached the door the
doctor called to her.

"Beulah, you need not go away. This is a better fire than the one in
your own room." But she was wounded, and did not choose to stay.

"I can study better in my own room. Good-night, sir."

"Why, child, this is Saturday night. No lessons until Monday."

She was not particularly mollified by the reiteration of the word
"child," and answered coldly:

"There are hard lessons for every day we live."

"Well, be good enough to hand me the letters that have arrived
during my absence."

She emptied the letter receiver, and placed several communications
in his hand. He pointed to a chair near the fire, and said quietly:

"Sit down, my child; sit down."

Too proud to discover how much she was piqued by his coldness, she
took the seat and commenced studying. But lines and angles swam
confusedly before her, and, shutting the book, she sat looking into
the fire. While her eyes roamed into the deep, glowing crevices of
the coals, a letter was hurled into the fiery mass, and in an
instant blazed and shriveled to ashes. She looked up in surprise,
and started at the expression of her guardian's face. Its Antinous-
like beauty had vanished; the pale lips writhed, displaying the
faultless teeth; the thin nostrils were expanded, and the eyes
burned with fierce anger. The avalanche was upheaved by hidden
volcanic fires, and he exclaimed, with scornful emphasis:

"Idiot! blind lunatic! In his dotage!"

There was something so marvelous in this excited, angry
manifestation that Beulah, who had never before seen him other than
phlegmatic, looked at him with curious wonder. His clenched hand
rested on the arm of the chair, and he continued sarcastically:

"Oh, a precious pair of idiots! They will have a glorious life. Such
harmony, such congeniality! Such incomparable sweetness on her part,
such equable spirits on his! Not the surpassing repose of a windless
tropic night can approach to the divine serenity of their future.
Ha! by the Furies! he will have an enviable companion; a matchless
Griselda!" Laughing scornfully, he started up and strode across the
floor. As Beulah caught the withering expression which sat on every
feature she shuddered involuntarily. Could she bear to incur his
contempt? He approached her, and she felt as though her very soul
shrank from him; his glowing eyes seemed to burn her face, as he
paused and said ironically:

"Can't you participate in my joy? I have a new brother-in-law.
Congratulate me on my sister's marriage. Such desperate good news
can come but rarely in a lifetime."

"Whom has she married, sir?" asked Beulah, shrinking from the iron
grasp on her shoulder.

"Percy Lockhart, of course. He will rue his madness. I warned him.
Now let him seek apples in the orchards of Sodom! Let him lay his
parched lips to the treacherous waves of the Dead Sea! Oh, I pity
the fool! I tried to save him, but he would seal his own doom. Let
him pay the usurious school-fees of experience."

"Perhaps your sister's love for him will--"

"Oh, you young, ignorant lamb! You poor, little, unfledged birdling!
I suppose you fancy she is really attached to him. Do you, indeed?
About as much as that pillar of salt in the plain of Sodom was
attached to the memory of Lot. About as much as this peerless Niobe
of mine is attached to me." He struck the marble statue as he spoke.

"Then, how could she marry him?" asked Beulah naively.

"Ha! ha! I will present you to the Smithsonian Institution as the
last embodiment of effete theories. Who exhumed you, patron saint of
archaism, from the charnel-house of centuries?" He looked down at
her with an expression of intolerable bitterness and scorn. Her
habitually pale face flushed to crimson, as she answered with
sparkling eyes:

"Not the hand of Diogenes, encumbered with his tub!"

He smiled grimly.

"Know the world as I do, child, and tubs and palaces will be alike
to you. Feel the pulse of humanity, and you will--"

"Heaven preserve me from looking on life through your spectacles!"
cried she impetuously, stung by the contemptuous smile which curled
his lips. "Amen." Taking his hands from her shoulder, he threw
himself back into his chair. There was silence for some minutes, and
Beulah said:

"I thought Mr. Lockhart was in Syria?"

"Oh, no; he wants a companion in his jaunt to the Holy Land. How
devoutly May will kneel on Olivet and Moriah! What pious tears will
stain her lovely cheek as she stands in the hall of Pilate, and
calls to mind all the thirty years' history! Oh, Percy is cruel to
subject her tender soul to such torturing associations! Beulah, go
and play something; no matter what. Anything to hush my cursing
mood. Go, child." He turned away his face to hide its bitterness,
and, seating herself at the melodeon, Beulah played a German air of
which he was very fond. At the conclusion he merely said:

"Sing."

A plaintive prelude followed the command, and she sang. No
description could do justice to the magnificent voice, as it swelled
deep and full in its organ-like tones; now thrillingly low in its
wailing melody, and now ringing clear and sweet as silver bells.
There were soft, rippling notes that seemed to echo from the deeps
of her soul and voice its immensity. It was wonderful what compass
there was, what rare sweetness and purity too. It was a natural
gift, like that conferred on birds. Art could not produce it, but
practice and scientific culture had improved and perfected it. For
three years the best teachers had instructed her, and she felt that
now she was mistress of a spell which, once invoked, might easily
exorcise the evil spirit which had taken possession of her guardian.
She sang several of his favorite songs, then closed the melodeon and
went back to the fire. Dr. Hartwell's face lay against the purple
velvet lining of the chair, and the dark surface gave out the
contour with bold distinctness. His eyes were closed, and as Beulah
watched him she thought, "How inflexible he looks, how like a marble
image! The mouth seems as if the sculptor's chisel had just carved
it--so stern, so stony. Ah, he is not scornful now! he looks only
sad, uncomplaining, but very miserable. What has steeled his heart,
and made him so unrelenting, so haughty? What can have isolated him
so completely? Nature lavished on him every gift which could render
him the charm of social circles, yet he lives in the seclusion of
his own heart, independent of sympathy, contemptuous of the world he
was sent to improve and bless." These reflections were interrupted
by his opening his eyes and saying, in his ordinary, calm tone:

"Thank you, Beulah. Did you finish that opera I spoke of some time
since?"

"Yes, sir."

"You found it difficult?"

"Not so difficult as your description led me to imagine."

"Were you lonely while I was away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did not Clara come and stay with you?"

"She was engaged in changing her home; has removed to Mrs. Hoyt's
boarding house."

"When did you see her last? How does she bear the blow?"

"I was with her to-day. She is desponding, and seems to grow more so
daily."

She wondered very much whether he suspected the preference which she
felt sure Clara entertained for him; and, as the subject recurred to
her, she looked troubled.

"What is the matter?" he asked, accustomed to reading her expressive
face.

"Nothing that can be remedied, sir."

"How do you know that? Suppose you let me be the judge."

"You could not judge of it, sir; and, besides, it is no concern of
mine."

A frigid smile fled over his face, and for some time he appeared
lost in thought. His companion was thinking too; wondering how Clara
could cope with such a nature as his; wondering why people always
selected persons totally unsuited to them; and fancying that if
Clara only knew her guardian's character as well as she did the
gentle girl would shrink in dread from his unbending will, his
habitual, moody taciturnity. He was generous and unselfish, but also
as unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar. There was nothing
pleasurable in this train of thought, and, taking up a book, she
soon ceased to think of the motionless figure opposite. No sooner
were her eyes once fastened on her book than his rested searchingly
on her face. At first she read without much manifestation of
interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head
which Charon had laid on her lap. After a while the lips parted
eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon's
head ceased. Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of
enthusiastic pleasure. Another page fluttered over, a flush stole
across her brow; and, as she closed the volume, her whole face was
irradiated.

"What are you reading?" asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed to sink
into a reverie.

"Analects from Richter."

"De Quincey's!"

"Yes, sir."

"Once that marvelous 'Dream upon the Universe' fascinated me as
completely as it now does you."

Memories of earlier days clustered about him, parting the somber
clouds with their rosy fingers. His features began to soften.

"Sir, can you read it now without feeling your soul kindle?"

"Yes, child; it has lost its interest for me. I read it as
indifferently as I do one of my medical books. So will you one day."

"Never! It shall be a guide-book to my soul, telling of the pathway,
arched with galaxies and paved with suns, through which that soul
shall pass in triumph to its final rest!"

"And who shall remain in that 'illimitable dungeon of pure, pure
darkness, which imprisons creation? That dead sea of nothing, in
whose unfathomable zone of blackness the jewel of the glittering
universe is set and buried forever?' Child, is not that, too a
dwelling-place?" He passed his fingers through his hair, sweeping it
all back from his ample forehead. Beulah opened the book, and read
aloud:

"Immediately my eyes were opened, and I saw, as it were, an
interminable sea of light; all spaces between all heavens were
filled with happiest light, for the deserts and wastes of the
creation were now filled with the sea of light, and in this sea the
suns floated like ash-gray blossoms, and the planets like black
grains of seed. Then my heart comprehended that immortality dwelled
in the spaces between the worlds, and Death only among the worlds;
and the murky planets I perceived were but cradles for the infant
spirits of the universe of light! In the Zaarahs of the creation I
saw, I heard, I felt--the glittering, the echoing, the breathing of
life and creative power!"

She closed the volume, and, while her lips trembled with deep
feeling, added earnestly:

"Oh, sir, it makes me long, like Jean Paul, 'for some narrow cell or
quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the universe.' It is
an infinite conception and painting of infinity, which my soul
endeavors to grasp, but wearies in thinking of!"

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, pointing to a row of books, said with some
eagerness:

"I will test your love of Jean Paul. Give me that large volume in
crimson binding on the second shelf. No--further on; that is it."

He turned over the leaves for a few minutes, and, with a finger
still on the page, put it into her hand, saying:

"Begin here at 'I went through the worlds,' and read down to 'when I
awoke.'"

She sat down and read. He put his hand carelessly over his eyes, and
watched her curiously through his fingers. It was evident that she
soon became intensely interested. He could see the fierce throbbing
of a vein in her throat and the tight clutching of her fingers. Her
eyebrows met in the wrinkling forehead, and the lips were compressed
severely. Gradually the flush faded from her cheek, an expression of
pain and horror swept over her stormy face, and, rising hastily, she
exclaimed:

"False! false! 'That everlasting storm which no one guides' tells me
in thunder tones that there is a home of rest in the presence of the
infinite Father! Oh, chance does not roam, like a destroying angel,
through that 'snow-powder of stars!' The love of our God is over all
his works as a mantle! Though you should 'take the wings of the
morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,' lo! he is
there! The sorrowing children of the universe are not orphans!
Neither did Richter believe it; well might he declare that with this
sketch he would 'terrify himself' and vanquish the specter of
Atheism! Oh, sir! the dear God stretches his arm about each and all
of us! 'When the sorrow-laden lays himself, with a galled back, into
the earth, to sleep till a fairer morning,' it is not true that 'he
awakens in a stormy chaos, in an everlasting midnight!' It is not
true! He goes home to his loved dead, and spends a blissful eternity
in the kingdom of Jehovah, where death is no more, 'where the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!'"

She laid the volume on his knee, and tears which would not be
restrained rolled swiftly over her cheeks.

He looked at her mournfully, and took her hand in his.

"My child, do you believe all this as heartily as you did when a
little girl? Is your faith in your religion unshaken?"

He felt her fingers close over his spasmodically, as she hastily
replied:

"Of course, of course! What could shake a faith which years should
strengthen?"

But the shiver which crept through her frame denied her assertion,
and with a keen pang he saw the footprints of the Destroyer. She
must not know, however, that he doubted her words, and, with an
effort, he said:

"I am glad, Beulah; and if you would continue to believe, don't read
my books promiscuously. There are many on those shelves yonder which
I would advise you never to open. Be warned in time, my child."

She snatched her hand from his, and answered proudly:

"Sir, think you I could be satisfied with a creed which I could not
bear to have investigated? If I abstained from reading your books,
dreading lest my faith be shaken, then I could no longer confide in
that faith. Christianity has triumphed over the subtleties of
infidelity for eighteen hundred years. What have I to fear?"

"Beulah, do you want to be just what I am? Without belief in any
creed! hopeless of eternity as of life! Do you want to be like me?
If not, keep your hands off of my books! Good night; it is time for
you to be asleep."

He motioned her away, and, too much pained to reply, she silently
withdrew.




CHAPTER XV.


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."

The triumph of faith shone in her kindled eyes, though glittering
drops fell on the ivory keys, and the whole countenance bespoke a
heart resting in the love of the Father. While her fingers still
rolled waves of melody through the room, Dr. Hartwell entered, with
a parcel in one hand and a magnificent cluster of greenhouse flowers
in the other. He laid the latter before Beulah, and said:

"I want you to go with me to-night to hear Sontag. The concert
commences at eight o'clock, and you have no time to spare. Here are
some flowers for your hair; arrange it as you have it now; and here,
also, a pair of white gloves. When you are ready, come down and make
my tea."

"Thank you, sir, for remembering me so kindly, and supplying all my
wants so--"

"Beulah, there are tears on your lashes. What is the matter?"
interrupted the doctor, pointing to the drops which had fallen on
the rosewood frame of the melodeon.

"Is it not enough to bring tears to my eyes when I think of all your
kindness?" She hurried away without suffering him to urge the
matter.

The prospect of hearing Sontag gave her exquisite pleasure, and she
dressed with trembling eagerness, while Harriet leaned on the bureau
and wondered what would happen next. Except to attend church and
visit Clara and Mrs. Williams, Beulah had never gone out before; and
the very seclusion in which she lived rendered this occasion one of
interest and importance. As she took her cloak and ran downstairs
the young heart throbbed violently. Would her fastidious guardian be
satisfied with her appearance? She felt the blood gush over her face
as she entered the room; but he did not look at her, continued to
read the newspaper he held, and said, from behind the extended
sheet:

"I will join you directly."

She poured out the tea with an unsteady hand. Dr. Hartwell took his
silently; and, as both rose from the table, handed her a paper,
saying:

"The carriage is not quite ready yet. There is a programme."

As she glanced over it he scanned her closely, and an expression of
satisfaction settled on his features. She wore a dark blue silk (one
he had given her some weeks before), which exquisitely fitted her
slender, graceful figure, and was relieved by a lace collar,
fastened with a handsome cameo pin, also his gift. The glossy black
hair was brushed straight back from the face, in accordance with the
prevailing style, and wound into a knot at the back of the head. On
either side of this knot she wore a superb white camellia, which
contrasted well with the raven hair. Her face was pale, but the
expression was one of eager expectation. As the carriage rattled up
to the door he put his hand on her shoulder, and said:

"You look very well to-night, my child. Those white japonicas become
you."

She breathed freely once more.

At the door of the concert hall he gave her his arm, and, while the
pressure of the crowd detained them a moment at the entrance, she
clung to him with a feeling of dependence utterly new to her. The
din of voices, the dazzling glare of the gas-lights bewildered her,
and she walked on mechanically, till the doctor entered his seat and
placed her beside him. The brilliant chandeliers shone down on
elegant dresses, glittering diamonds, and beautiful women, and,
looking forward, Beulah was reminded of the glowing descriptions in
the "Arabian Nights." She observed that many curious eyes were bent
upon her, and ere she had been seated five minutes more than one
lorgnette was leveled at her. Everybody knew Dr. Hartwell, and she
saw him constantly returning the bows of recognition which assailed
him from the ladies in their vicinity. Presently he leaned his head
on his hand, and she could not forbear smiling at the ineffectual
attempts made to arrest his attention. The hall was crowded, and, as
the seats filled to their utmost capacity she was pressed against
her guardian. He looked down at her, and whispered:

"Very democratic. Eh, Beulah?"

She smiled, and was about to reply, when her attention was attracted
by a party which just then took their places immediately in front of
her. It consisted of an elderly gentleman and two ladies, one of
whom Beulah instantly recognized as Cornelia Graham. She was now a
noble-looking, rather than beautiful, woman; and the incipient
pride, so apparent in girlhood, had matured into almost repulsive
hauteur. She was very richly dressed, and her brilliant black eyes
wandered indifferently over the room, as though such assemblages had
lost their novelty and interest for her. Chancing to look back, she
perceived Dr. Hartwell, bowed, and said with a smile:

"Pray, do not think me obstinate. I had no wish to come, but father
insisted."

"I am glad you feel well enough to be here," was his careless reply.

Cornelia's eyes fell upon the quiet figure at his side, and, as
Beulah me her steady gaze, she felt something of her old dislike
warming in her eyes. They had never met since the morning of
Cornelia's contemptuous treatment at Madam St. Cymon's; and now, to
Beulah's utter astonishment, she deliberately turned round, put out
her white-gloved hand over the back of the seat, and said
energetically:

"How are you, Beulah? You have altered so materially that I scarcely
knew you."

Beulah's nature was generous; she was glad to forget old injuries,
and, as their hands met in a friendly clasp, she answered:

"You have changed but little."

"And that for the worse, as people have a pleasant way of telling
me. Beulah, I want to know honestly if my rudeness caused you to
leave madam's school?"

"That was not my only reason," replied Beulah very candidly.

At this moment a burst of applause greeted the appearance of the
cantatrice, and all conversation was suspended. Beulah listened to
the warbling of the queen of song with a thrill of delight.
Passionately fond of music, she appreciated the brilliant execution
and entrancing melody as probably very few in that crowded house
could have done. With some of the pieces selected she was familiar,
and others she had long desired to hear. She was unconscious of the
steady look with which her guardian watched her, as, with parted
lips, she leaned eagerly forward to catch every note. When Sontag
left the stage, and the hum of conversation was heard once more,
Beulah looked up, with a long sigh of delight, and murmured:

"Oh, sir! isn't she a glorious woman?"

"Miss Graham is speaking to you," said he coolly.

She raised her head, and saw the young lady's eyes riveted on her
countenance.

"Beulah, when did you hear from Eugene?"

"About three weeks since, I believe."

"We leave for Europe day after to-morrow; shall, perhaps, go
directly to Heidelberg. Have you any commissions? any messages?"
Under the mask of seeming indifference, she watched Beulah intently
as, shrinking from the cold, searching eyes, the latter replied:

"Thank you, I have neither to trouble you with."

Again the prima-donna appeared on the stage, and again Beulah forgot
everything but the witching strains. In the midst of one of the
songs she felt her guardian start violently; and the hand which
rested on his knee was clinched spasmodically. She looked at him;
the wonted pale face was flushed to the edge of his hair; the blue
veins stood out hard and corded on his brow; and the eyes, like
burning stars, were fixed on some object not very remote, while he
gnawed his lip, as if unconscious of what he did. Following the
direction of his gaze, she saw that it was fastened on a gentleman
who sat at some little distance from them. The position he occupied
rendered his countenance visible, and a glance sufficed to show her
that the features were handsome, the expression sinister, malignant,
and cunning. His entire appearance was foreign, and conveyed the
idea of reckless dissipation. Evidently he came there, not for the
music, but to scan the crowd, and his fierce eyes roamed over the
audience with a daring impudence which disgusted her. Suddenly they
rested on her own face, wandered to Dr. Hartwell's, and, lingering
there a full moment with a look of defiant hatred, returned to her,
causing her to shudder at the intensity and freedom of his gaze. She
drew herself up proudly, and, with an air of haughty contempt, fixed
her attention on the stage. But the spell of enchantment was broken;
she could hear the deep, irregular breathing of her guardian, and
knew, from the way in which he stared down on the floor, that he
could with difficulty remain quietly in his place. She was glad when
the concert ended and the mass of heads began to move toward the
door. With a species of curiosity that she could not repress, she
glanced at the stranger; their eyes met, as before, and his smile of
triumphant scorn made her cling closer to her guardian's arm, and
take care not to look in that direction again. She felt
inexpressibly relieved when, hurried on by the crowd in the rear,
they emerged from the heated room into a long, dim passage leading
to the street. They were surrounded on all sides by chattering
groups, and, while the light was too faint to distinguish faces,
these words fell on her ear with painful distinctness: "I suppose
that was Dr. Hartwell's protegee he had with him. He is a great
curiosity. Think of a man of his age and appearance settling down as
if he were sixty years old, and adopting a beggarly orphan! She is
not at all pretty. What can have possessed him?"

"No, not pretty, exactly; but there is something odd in her
appearance. Her brow is magnificent, and I should judge she was
intellectual. She is as colorless as a ghost. No accounting for
Hartwell; ten to one he will marry her. I have heard it surmised
that he was educating her for a wife--" Here the party who were in
advance vanished, and, as he approached the carriage, Dr. Hartwell
said coolly:

"Another specimen of democracy."

Beulah felt as if a lava tide surged madly in her veins, and, as the
carriage rolled homeward, she covered her face with her hands.
Wounded pride, indignation, and contempt struggled violently in her
heart. For some moments there was silence; then her guardian drew
her hands from her face, held them firmly in his, and, leaning
forward, said gravely:

"Beulah, malice and envy love lofty marks. Learn, as I have done, to
look down with scorn from the summit of indifference upon the feeble
darts aimed from the pits beneath you. My child, don't suffer the
senseless gossip of the shallow crowd to wound you."

She endeavored to withdraw her hands, but his unyielding grasp
prevented her.

"Beulah, you must conquer your morbid sensitiveness, if you would
have your life other than a dreary burden."

"Oh, sir! you are not invulnerable to these wounds; how, then, can
I, an orphan girl, receive them with indifference?" She spoke
passionately, and drooped her burning face till it touched his arm.

"Ah, you observed my agitation to-night. But for a vow made to my
dying mother, that villian's blood had long since removed all
grounds of emotion. Six years ago he fled from me, and his
unexpected reappearance to-night excited me more than I had fancied
it was possible for anything to do." His voice was as low, calm, and
musical as though he were reading aloud to her some poetic tale of
injuries; and, in the same even, quiet tone, he added:

"It is well. All have a Nemesis."

"Not on earth, sir."

"Wait till you have lived as long as I, and you will think with me.
Beulah, be careful how you write to Eugene of Cornelia Graham;
better not mention her name at all. If she lives to come home again
you will understand me."

"Is not her health good?" asked Beulah in surprise.

"Far from it. She has a disease of the heart which may end her
existence any moment. I doubt whether she ever returns to America.
Mind, I do not wish you to speak of this to anyone. Good-night. If
you are up in time in the morning I wish you would be so good as to
cut some of the choicest flowers in the greenhouse and arrange a
handsome bouquet before breakfast. I want to take it to one of my
patients, an old friend of my mother's."

They were at home, and, only pausing at the door of Mrs. Watson's
room to tell the good woman the "music was charming," Beulah
hastened to her own apartment. Throwing herself into a chair, she
recalled the incidents of the evening, and her cheeks burned
painfully as her position in the eyes of the world was forced upon
her recollection. Tears of mortification rolled over her hot face,
and her heart throbbed almost to suffocation. She sank upon her
knees and tried to pray, but sobs choked her utterrance; and,
leaning her head against the bed, she wept bitterly.

Ah, is there not pain, and sorrow, and evil enough in this fallen
world of ours, that meddling gossips must needs poison the few pure
springs of enjoyment and peace? Not the hatred of the Theban
brothers could more thoroughly accomplish this fiendish design than
the whisper of detraction, the sneer of malice, or the fatal
innuendo of envious, low-bred tattlers. Human life is shielded by
the bulwark of legal provisions, and most earthly possessions are
similarly protected; but there are assassins whom the judicial arm
cannot reach, who infest society in countless hordes, and, while
their work of ruin and misery goes ever on, there is for the unhappy
victims no redress. Thy holy precepts, O Christ! alone can antidote
this universal evil.

Beulah calmed the storm that raged in her heart, and, as she took
the flowers from her hair, said resolutely:

"Before long I shall occupy a position where there will be nothing
to envy, and then, possibly, I may escape the gossiping rack. Eugene
may think me a fool, if he likes; but support myself I will, if it
costs me my life. What difference should it make to him, so long as
I prefer it? One more year of study and I shall be qualified for any
situation; then I can breathe freely. May God shield me from all
harm!"




CHAPTER XVI.


That year of study rolled swiftly away; another winter came and
passed; another spring hung its verdant drapery over earth, and now
ardent summer reigned once more. It was near the noon of a starry
July night that Beulah sat in her own room beside her writing-desk.
A manuscript lay before her, yet damp with ink, and as she traced
the concluding words, and threw down her pen, a triumphant smile
flashed over her face. To-morrow the session of the public school
would close, with an examination of its pupils; to-morrow she would
graduate, and deliver the valedictory to the graduating class. She
had just finished copying her address, and, placing it carefully in
the desk, rose and leaned against the window, that the cool night
air might fan her fevered brow. The hot blood beat heavily in her
temples, and fled with arrowy swiftness through her veins. Continued
mental excitement, like another Shylock, peremptorily exacted its
debt, and, as she looked out on the solemn beauty of the night,
instead of soothing, it seemed to mock her restlessness. Dr.
Hartwell had been absent since noon, but now she detected the whir
of wheels in the direction of the carriage house, and knew that he
was in the study. She heard him throw open the shutters and speak to
Charon, and, gathering up her hair, which hung loosely about her
shoulders, she confined it with a comb and glided noiselessly down
the steps. The lamplight gleamed through the open door, and, pausing
on the threshold, she asked:

"May I come in for a few minutes, or are you too much fatigued to
talk?"

"Beulah, I positively forbade your sitting up this late. It is
midnight, child; go to bed." He held some papers, and spoke without
even glancing toward her.

"Yes, I know; but I want to ask you something before I sleep."

"Well, what is it?" Still he did not look up from his papers.

"Will you attend the exercises to-morrow?"

"Is it a matter of any consequence whether I do or not?"

"To me, sir, it certainly is."

"Child, I shall not have leisure."

"Be honest, and say that you have not sufficient interest!" cried
she passionately.

He smiled, and answered placidly:

"Good-night, Beulah. You should have been asleep long ago." Her lips
quivered, and she lingered, loath to leave him in so unfriendly a
mood. Suddenly he raised his head, looked at her steadily, and said:

"Have you sent in your name as an applicant for a situation?"

"I have."

"Good-night." His tone was stern, and she immediately retreated.
Unable to sleep, she passed the remaining hours of the short night
in pacing the floor, or watching the clockwork of stars point to the
coming dawn. Though not quite eighteen, her face was prematurely
grave and thoughtful, and its restless, unsatisfied expression
plainly discovered a perturbed state of mind and heart. The time had
come when she must go out into the world and depend only upon
herself; and though she was anxious to commence the work she had
assigned herself, she shrank from the thought of quitting her
guardian's home and thus losing the only companionship she really
prized. He had not sought to dissuade her; had appeared perfectly
indifferent to her plans; and this unconcern had wounded her deeply.
To-morrow would decide her election as teacher, and, as the
committee would be present at her examination (which was to be more
than usually minute in view of her application), she looked forward
impatiently to this occasion. Morning dawned, and she hailed it
gladly; breakfast came, and she took hers alone; the doctor had
already gone out for the day. This was not an unusual occurrence,
yet this morning she noted it particularly. At ten o'clock the
academy was crowded with visitors, and the commissioners and
teachers were formidably arrayed on the platform raised for this
purpose. The examination began; Greek and Latin classes were
carefully questioned, and called on to parse and scan to a tiresome
extent; then came mathematical demonstrations. Every conceivable
variety of lines and angles adorned the blackboards; and next in
succession were classes in rhetoric and natural history. There was a
tediousness in the examinations incident to such occasions, and, as
repeated inquiries were propounded, Beulah rejoiced at the prospect
of release. Finally the commissioners declared themselves quite
satisfied with the proficiency attained, and the graduating class
read the compositions for the day. At length, at a signal from the
superintendent of the department, Beulah ascended the platform, and,
surrounded by men signalized by scholarship and venerable from age,
she began her address. She wore a white mull muslin, and her glossy
black hair was arranged with the severe simplicity which
characterized her style of dress. Her face was well-nigh as
colorless as the paper she held, and her voice faltered with the
first few sentences.

The theme was "Female Heroism," and as she sought among the dusky
annals of the past for instances in confirmation of her predicate,
that female intellect was capable of the most exalted attainments,
and that the elements of her character would enable woman to cope
successfully with difficulties of every class, her voice grew clear,
firm, and deep. Quitting the fertile fields of history, she painted
the trials which hedge woman's path, and with unerring skill defined
her peculiar sphere, her true position. The reasoning was singularly
forcible, the imagery glowing and gorgeous, and occasional passages
of exquisite pathos drew tears from her fascinated audience; while
more than once a beautiful burst of enthusiasm was received with
flattering applause. Instead of flushing, her face grew paler, and
the large eyes were full of lambent light, which seemed to flash out
from her soul. In conclusion, she bade adieu to the honored halls
where her feet had sought the paths of knowledge; paid a just and
grateful tribute to the Institution of Public Schools, and to the
Commissioners through whose agency she had been enabled to enjoy so
many privileges; and, turning to her fellow-graduates, touchingly
reminded them of the happy past and warned of the shrouded future.
Crumpling the paper in one hand, she extended the other toward her
companions, and in thrilling accents conjured them, in any and every
emergency, to prove themselves true women of America--ornaments of
the social circle, angel guardians of the sacred hearthstone,
ministering spirits where suffering and want demanded succor; women
qualified to assist in a council of statesmen, if dire necessity
ever required it; while, in whatever positions they might be placed,
their examples should remain imperishable monuments of true female
heroism. As the last words passed her lips she glanced swiftly over
the sea of heads, and perceived her guardian leaning with folded
arms against a pillar, while his luminous eyes were fastened on her
face. A flash of joy irradiated her countenance, and, bending her
head amid the applause of the assembly, she retired to her seat. She
felt that her triumph was complete; the whispered, yet audible,
inquiries regarding her name, the admiring, curious glances directed
toward her, were not necessary to assure her of success; and when,
immediately after the diplomas were distributed, she rose and
received hers with the calm look of one who has toiled long for some
need, and puts forth her hand for what she is conscious of having
deserved. The crowd slowly dispersed, and, beckoned forward once
more, Beulah confronted the august committee whose prerogative it
was to elect teachers. A certificate was handed her, and the
chairman informed her of her election to a vacant post in the
Intermediate Department. The salary was six hundred dollars, to be
paid monthly, and her duties would commence with the opening of the
next session, after two months' vacation. In addition he
congratulated her warmly on the success of her valedictory effort,
and suggested the propriety of cultivating talents which might
achieve for her an enviable distinction. She bowed in silence, and
turned away to collect her books. Her guardian approached, and said
in a low voice:

"Put on your bonnet and come down to the side gate. It is too warm
for you to walk home."

Without waiting for her answer, he descended the steps, and she was
soon seated beside him in the buggy. The short ride was silent, and,
on reaching home, Beulah would have gone, immediately to her room,
but the doctor called her into the study and, as he rang the bell,
said gently:

"You look very much exhausted; rest here, while I order a glass of
wine."

It was speedily brought, and, having iced it, he held it to her
white lips. She drank the contents, and her head sank on the sofa
cushions. The fever of excitement was over, a feeling of lassitude
stole over her, and she soon lost all consciousness in a heavy
sleep. The sun was just setting as she awakened from her slumber,
and, sitting up, she soon recalled the events of the day. The
evening breeze, laden with perfume, stole in refreshingly through
the blinds, and, as the sunset pageant faded, and darkness crept on,
she remained on the sofa, pondering her future course. The lamp and
her guardian made their appearance at the same moment, and, throwing
himself down in one corner of the sofa, the latter asked: "How are
you since your nap? A trifle less ghastly, I see."

"Much better, thank you, sir. My head is quite clear again."

"Clear enough to make out a foreign letter?" He took one from his
pocket and put it in her hand.

An anxious look flitted across her face, and she glanced rapidly
over the contents, then crumpled the sheet nervously in her fingers.

"What is the matter now?"

"He is coming home. They will all be here in November." She spoke as
if bitterly chagrined and disappointed.

"Most people would consider that joyful news," said the doctor
quietly.

"What! after spending more than five years (one of them in
traveling), to come back without having acquired a profession and
settle down into a mere walking ledger! To have princely advantages
at his command, and yet throw them madly to the winds and be content
to plod along the road of mercantile life, without one spark of
ambition, when his mental endowments would justify his aspiring to
the most exalted political stations in the land."

Her voice trembled from intensity of feeling.

"Take care how you disparage mercantile pursuits; some of the most
masterly minds of the age were nurtured in the midst of ledgers."

"And I honor and reverence all such far more than their colleagues
whose wisdom was culled in classic academic halls; for the former,
struggling amid adverse circumstances, made good their claim to an
exalted place in the temple of Fame. But necessity forced them to
purely mercantile pursuits. Eugene's case is by no means analogous;
situated as he is, he could be just what he chose. I honor all men
who do their duty nobly and truly in the positions fate has assigned
them; but, sir, you know there are some more richly endowed than
others, some whom nature seems to have destined for arduous
diplomatic posts; whose privilege it is to guide the helm of state
and achieve distinction as men of genius. To such the call will be
imperative; America needs such men. Heaven only knows where they are
to rise from, when the call is made! I do not mean to disparage
mercantile pursuits; they afford constant opportunities for the
exercise and display of keenness and clearness of intellect, but do
not require the peculiar gifts so essential in statesmen. Indolence
is unpardonable in any avocation, and I would be commended to the
industrious, energetic merchant, in preference to superficial, so-
called, 'professional men.' But Eugene had rare educational
advantages, and I expected him to improve them, and be something
more than ordinary. He expected it, five years ago. What infatuation
possesses him latterly I cannot imagine."

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and said very quietly: "Has it ever occurred to
you that you might have overestimated Eugene's abilities?"

"Sir, you entertained a flattering opinion of them when he left
here." She could animadvert upon his fickleness, but did not choose
that others should enjoy the same privilege.

"I by no means considered him an embryo Webster or Calhoun; never
looked on him as an intellectual prodigy. He had a good mind, a
handsome face, and frank, gentlemanly manners which, in the
aggregate, impressed me favorably." Beulah bit her lips, and stooped
to pat Charon's head. There was silence for some moments, and then
the doctor asked:

"Does he mention Cornelia's health?"

"Only once, incidentally. I judge from the sentence that she is
rather feeble. There is a good deal of unimportant chat about a lady
they have met in Florence. She is the daughter of a Louisiana
planter; very beautiful and fascinating; is a niece of Mrs.
Graham's, and will spend part of next winter with the Grahams."

"What is her name?"

"Antoinette Dupres."

Beulah was still caressing Charon, and did not observe the purplish
glow which bathed the doctor's face at the mention of the name. She
only saw that he rose abruptly, and walked to the window, where he
stood until tea was brought in. As they concluded the meal and left
the table he held out his hand.

"Beulah, I congratulate you on your signal success to-day. Your
valedictory made me proud of my protegee." She had put her hand in
his, and looked up in his face, but the cloudy splendor of the eyes
was more than she could bear, and drooping her head a little, she
answered:

"Thank you."

"You have vacation for two months?"

"Yes, sir; and then my duties commence. Here is the certificate of
my election." She offered it for inspection; but, without noticing
it, he continued:

"Beulah, I think you owe me something for taking care of you, as you
phrased it long ago at the asylum. Do you admit the debt?"

"Most gratefully, sir! I admit that I can never liquidate it: I can
repay you only with the most earnest gratitude." Large tears hung
upon her lashes, and, with an uncontrollable impulse, she raised his
hand to her lips.

"I am about to test the sincerity of your gratitude, I doubt it."

She trembled, and looked at Mm uneasily. He laid his hand on her
shoulder, and said slowly:

"Relinquish the idea of teaching. Let me present you to society as
my adopted child. Thus you can requite the debt."

"I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah firmly, though tears gushed over
her cheeks.

"Cannot? cannot?" repeated the doctor, pressing heavily upon her
shoulders.

"Will not, then!" said she proudly.

They looked at each other steadily. A withering smile of scorn and
bitterness distorted his Apollo-like features, and he pushed her
from him, saying, in the deep, concentrated tone of intense
disappointment:

"I might have known it. I might have expected it; for Fate has
always decreed me just such returns."

Leaning against the sculptured Niobe, which stood near, Beulah
exclaimed, in a voice of great anguish:

"Oh, Dr. Hartwell! do not make me repent the day I entered this
house. God knows I am grateful, very grateful, for your unparalleled
kindness. Oh, that it were in my power to prove to you my gratitude!
Do not upbraid me. You knew that I came here only to be educated.
Even then I could not bear the thought of always imposing on your
generosity; and every day that passed strengthened this impatience
of dependence. Through your kindness it is now in my power to
maintain myself, and, after the opening of next session, I cannot
remain any longer the recipient of your bounty. Oh, sir, do not
charge me with ingratitude! It is more than I can bear; more than I
can bear!"

"Mark me, Beulah! Your pride will wreck you; wreck your happiness,
your peace of mind. Already its iron hand is crushing your young
heart. Beware lest, in yielding to its decrees, you become the
hopeless being a similar course has rendered me. Beware! But why
should I warn you? Have not my prophecies ever proved Cassandran?
Leave me."

"No, I will not leave you in anger." She drew near him and took his
hand in both hers. The fingers were cold and white as marble, rigid
and inflexible as steel.

"My guardian, would you have me take a step (through fear of your
displeasure) which would render my life a burden? Will you urge me
to remain, when I tell you that I cannot be happy here? I think
not."

"Urge you to remain? By the Furies--no! I urge you to go! Yes--go! I
no longer want you here. Your presence would irritate me beyond
measure. But listen to me. I am going to New York on business; had
intended taking you with me; but, since you are so stubbornly proud,
I can consent to leave you. I shall start to-morrow evening--rather
earlier than I expected--and shall not return before September,
perhaps even later. What your plans are I shall not inquire; but it
is my request that you remain in this house, under Mrs. Watson's
care, until your school duties commence; then you will, I suppose,
remove elsewhere. I also request, particularly, that you will not
hesitate to use the contents of a purse which I shall leave on my
desk for you. Remember that in coming years, when trials assail you,
if you need a friend, I will still assist you. You will leave me
now, if you please, as I have some letters to write." He motioned
her away, and, unable to frame any reply, she left the room.

Though utterly miserable, now that her guardian seemed so completely
estranged, her proud nature rebelled at his stern dismissal, and a
feeling of reckless defiance speedily dried the tears on her cheek.
That he should look down upon her with scornful indifference stung
her almost to desperation, and she resolved, instead of weeping, to
meet and part with him as coldly as his contemptuous treatment
justified. Weary in mind and body she fell asleep, and soon forgot
all her plans and sorrows. The sun was high in the heavens when
Harriet waked her, and, starting up, she asked:

"What time is it? How came I to sleep so late?"

"It is eight o'clock. Master ate breakfast an hour ago. Look here,
child; what is to pay? Master is going off to the North, to be gone
till October. He sat up all night, writing and giving orders about
things on the place, 'specially the greenhouse and the flower seeds
to be saved in the front yard. He has not been in such a way since
seven years ago. What is in the wind now? What ails him?" Harriet
sat with her elbows on her knees, and her wrinkled face resting in
the palms of her hands. She looked puzzled and discontented.

"He told me last night that he expected to leave home this evening;
that he was going to New York on business." Beulah affected
indifference; but the searching eyes of the old woman were fixed on
her, and, as she turned away, Harriet exclaimed:

"Going this evening! Why, child, he has gone. Told us all good-by,
from Mrs. Watson down to Charon. Said his trunk must be sent down to
the wharf at three o'clock; that he would not have time to come home
again. There, good gracious! you are as white as a sheet; I will
fetch you some wine." She hurried out, and Beulah sank into a chair,
stunned by the intelligence.

When Harriet proffered a glass of cordial she declined it, and said
composedly:

"I will come, after a while, and take my breakfast. There is no
accounting for your master's movements. I would as soon engage to
keep up with a comet. There, let go my dress; I am going into the
study for a while." She went slowly down the steps and, locking the
door of the study to prevent intrusion, looked around the room.
There was an air of confusion, as though books and chairs had been
hastily moved about. On the floor lay numerous shreds of crape, and,
glancing up, she saw, with surprise, that the portrait had been
closely wrapped in a sheet and suspended with the face to the wall.
Instantly an uncontrollable desire seized her to look at that face.
She had always supposed it to be his wife's likeness, and longed to
gaze upon the features of one whose name her husband had never
mentioned. The mantel was low, and, standing on a chair, she
endeavored to catch the cord which supported the frame; but it hung
too high. She stood on the marble mantel, and stretched her hands
eagerly up; but though her fingers touched the cord she could not
disengage it from the hook, and, with a sensation of keen
disappointment, she was forced to abandon the attempt. A note on the
desk attracted her attention. It was directed to her, and contained
only a few words:

"Accompanying this is a purse containing a hundred dollars. In any
emergency which the future may present, do not hesitate to call on
YOUR GUARDIAN."

She laid her head down on his desk and sobbed bitterly. For the
first time she realized that he had indeed gone--gone without one
word of adieu, one look of kindness or reconciliation. Her tortured
heart whispered: "Write him a note; ask him to come home; tell him
you will not leave his house." But pride answered: "He is a tyrant;
don't be grieved at his indifference; he is nothing to you; go to
work boldly and repay the money you have cost him." Once more, as in
former years, a feeling of desolation crept over her. She had
rejected her guardian's request, and isolated herself from sympathy;
for who would assist and sympathize with her mental difficulties as
he had done? The tears froze in her eyes, and she sat for some time
looking at the crumpled note. Gradually an expression of proud
defiance settled on her features; she took the purse, walked up to
her room, and put on her bonnet and mantle. Descending to the
breakfast room, she drank a cup of coffee, and, telling Mrs. Watson
she would be absent an hour or two, left the house and proceeded to
Madam St. Cymon's. She asked to see Miss Sanders, and, after waiting
a few minutes in the parlor, Clara made her appearance. She looked
wan and weary, but greeted her friend with a gentle smile.

"I heard of your triumph yesterday, Beulah, and most sincerely
congratulate you."

"I am in no mood for congratulations just now. Clara, did not you
tell me, a few days since, that the music teacher of this
establishment was ill and that Madam St. Cymon was anxious to
procure another?"

"Yes; I have no idea she will ever be well again. If strong enough
she is going back to her family in Philadelphia next week. Why do
you ask?"

"I want to get the situation, and wish you would say to madam that I
have called to see her about it. I will wait here till you speak to
her."

"Beulah, are you mad? Dr. Hartwell never will consent to your
teaching music!" cried Clara, with astonishment written on every
feature.

"Dr. Hartwell is not my master, Clara Sanders! Will you speak to
madam, or shall I have to do it?"

"Certainly, I will speak to her. But oh, Beulah! are you wild enough
to leave your present home for such a life?"

"I have been elected a teacher in the public schools but shall have
nothing to do until the first of October. In the meantime I intend
to give music lessons. If madam will employ me for two months she
may be able to procure a professor by the opening of the next term.
And, further, if I can make this arrangement I am coming immediately
to board with Mrs. Hoyt. Now speak to madam for me, will you?"

"One moment more. Does the doctor know of all this?"

"He knows that I intend to teach in the public school. He goes to
New York this afternoon."

Clara looked at her mournfully, and said, with sad emphasis:

"Oh, Beulah! you may live to rue your rashness."

To Madam St. Cymon the proposal was singularly opportune, and,
hastening to meet the applicant, she expressed much pleasure at
seeing Miss Benton again. She was very anxious to procure a teacher
for the young ladies boarding with her, and for her own daughters,
and the limited engagement would suit very well. She desired,
however, to hear Miss Benton perform. Beulah took off her gloves and
played several very difficult pieces with the ease which only
constant practice and skillful training can confer. Madam declared
herself more than satisfied with her proficiency, and requested her
to commence her instructions on the following day. She had given the
former teacher six hundred dollars a year, and would allow Miss
Benton eighty dollars for the two months. Beulah was agreeably
surprised at the ample remuneration, and, having arranged the hours
of her attendance at the school, she took leave of the principal.
Clara called to her as she reached the street; and, assuming a
gayety which, just then, was very foreign to her real feelings,
Beulah answered:

"It is all arranged. I shall take tea with you in my new home,
provided Mrs. Hoyt can give me a room." She kissed her hand and
hurried away. Mrs. Hoyt found no difficulty in providing a room;
and, to Beulah's great joy, managed to have a vacant one adjoining
Clara's. She was a gentle, warmhearted woman; and as Beulah examined
the apartment and inquired the terms, she hesitated, and said:

"My terms are thirty dollars a month; but you are poor, I judge, and
being Miss Clara's friend I will only charge you twenty-five."

"I do not wish you to make any deduction in my favor. I will take
the room at thirty dollars," answered Beulah rather haughtily.

"Very well. When will you want it?"

"Immediately. Be kind enough to have it in readiness for me. I shall
come this afternoon. Could you give me some window curtains? I
should like it better, if you could do so without much
inconvenience."

"Oh, certainly! they were taken down yesterday to be washed.
Everything shall be in order for you."

It was too warm to walk home again, and Beulah called a carriage.
The driver had not proceeded far when a press of vehicles forced him
to pause a few minutes. They happened to stand near the post office,
and, as Beulah glanced at the eager crowd collected in front, she
started violently on perceiving her guardian. He stood on the
corner, talking to a gentleman of venerable aspect, and she saw that
he looked harassed. She was powerfully impelled to beckon him to
her, and at least obtain a friendly adieu; but again pride
prevailed. He had deliberately left her, without saying good-by, and
she would not force herself on his notice. Even as she dropped her
veil to avoid observation the carriage rolled on, and she was soon
at Dr. Hartwell's door. Unwilling to reflect on the steps she had
taken, she busied herself in packing her clothes and books. On every
side were tokens of her guardian's constant interest and
remembrance--pictures, vases, and all the elegant appendages of a
writing-desk. At length the last book was stowed avay and nothing
else remained to engage her. The beautiful little Nuremberg clock on
the mantel struck two, and, looking up, she saw the solemn face of
Harriet, who was standing in the door. Her steady, wondering gaze
disconcerted Beulah, despite her assumed indifference.

"What is the meaning of all this commotion? Hal says you ordered the
carriage to be ready at five o'clock to take you away from here. Oh,
child! what are things coming to? What will master say? What won't
he say? What are you quitting this house for, where you have been
treated as well as if it belonged to you? What ails you?"

"Nothing. I have always intended to leave here as soon as I was able
to support myself. I can do so now, very easily, and am going to
board. Your master knows I intend to teach."

"But he has no idea that you are going to leave here before he comes
home, for he gave us all express orders to see that you had just
what you wanted. Oh, he will be in a tearing rage when he hears of
it! Don't anger him, child! Do, pray, for mercy's sake, don't anger
him! He never forgets anything! When he once sets his head he is
worse than David or the Philistines! If he is willing to support you
it is his own lookout. He is able, and his money is his own. His kin
won't get it. He and his brother don't speak; and as for Miss May!
they never did get along in peace, even before he was married. So,
if he chooses to give some of his fortune to you, it is nobody's
business but his own; and you are mighty simple, I can tell you, if
you don't stay here and take it."

"That will do, Harriet. I do not wish any more advice. I don't want
your master's fortune, even if I had the offer of it! I am
determined to make my own living; so just say no more about it."

"Take care, child. Remember, 'Pride goeth before a fall'!"

"What do you mean?" cried Beulah angrily.

"I mean that the day is coming when you will be glad enough to come
back and let my master take care of you! That's what I mean. And see
if it doesn't come to pass. But he will not do it then; I tell you
now he won't. There is no forgiving spirit about him; he is as
fierce, and bears malice as long, as a Comanche Injun! It is no
business of mine though. I have said my say; and I will be bound you
will go your own gait. You are just about as hard-headed as he is
himself. Anybody would almost believe you belonged to the Hartwell
family. Every soul of them is alike in the matter of temper; only
Miss Pauline has something of her pa's disposition. I suppose, now
her ma is married again, she will want to come back to her uncle;
should not wonder if he 'dopted her, since you have got the bit
between your teeth."

"I hope he will," answered Beulah. She ill brooked Harriet's plain
speech, but remembrances of past affection checked the severe rebuke
which more than once rose to her lips.

"We shall see; we shall see!" And Harriet walked off with anything
but a placid expression of countenance, while Beulah sought Mrs.
Watson to explain her sudden departure and acquaint her with her
plans for the summer. The housekeeper endeavored most earnestly to
dissuade her from taking the contemplated step, assuring her that
the doctor would be grieved and displeased; but her arguments
produced no effect, and, with tears of regret, she bade her
farewell.

The sun was setting when Beulah took possession of her room at Mrs.
Hoyt's house. The furniture was very plain, and the want of several
articles vividly recalled the luxurious home she had abandoned. She
unpacked and arranged her clothes, and piled her books on a small
table, which was the only substitute for her beautiful desk and
elegant rosewood bookcase. She had gathered a superb bouquet of
flowers as she crossed the front yard, and, in lieu of her Sevres
vases, placed them in a dim-looking tumbler which stood on the tall,
narrow mantelpiece. Her room was in the third story, with two
windows, one opening to the south and one to the west. It grew dark
by the time she had arranged the furniture, and, too weary to think
of going down to tea, she unbound her hair and took a seat beside
the window. The prospect was extended; below her were countless
lamps, marking the principal streets; and, in the distance, the dark
cloud of masts told that river and bay might be distinctly seen by
daylight. The quiet stars looked dim through the dusty atmosphere,
and the noise of numerous vehicles rattling by produced a confused
impression, such as she had never before received at this usually
calm twilight season. The events of the day passed in a swift
review, and a mighty barrier seemed to have sprung up (as by some
foul spell) between her guardian and herself. What an immeasurable
gulf now yawned to separate them! Could it be possible that the
friendly relations of years were thus suddenly and irrevocably
annulled? Would he relinquish all interest in one whom he had so
long watched over and directed? Did he intend that they should be
completely estranged henceforth? For the first time since Lilly's
death she felt herself thrown upon the world. Alone and unaided, she
was essaying to carve her own fortune from the huge quarries where
thousands were diligently laboring. An undefinable feeling of
desolation crept into her heart; but she struggled desperately
against it, and asked, in proud defiance of her own nature:

"Am I not sufficient unto myself? Leaning only on myself, what more
should I want? Nothing! His sympathy is utterly unnecessary."

A knock at the door startled her, and, in answer to her "Come in,"
Clara Sanders entered. She walked slowly, and, seating herself
beside Beulah, said, in a gentle but weary tone:

"How do you like your room? I am so glad it opens into mine."

"Quite as well as I expected. The view from this window must be very
fine. There is the tea-bell, I suppose. Are you not going down? I am
too much fatigued to move."

"No; I never want supper, and generally spend the evenings in my
room. It is drearily monotonous here. Nothing to vary the routine
for me, except my afternoon walk, and recently the warm weather has
debarred me even from that. You are a great walker, I believe, and I
look forward to many pleasant rambles with you when I feel stronger
and autumn comes. Beulah, how long does Dr. Hartwell expect to
remain at the North? He told me, some time ago, that he was a
delegate to the Medical Convention."

"I believe it is rather uncertain; but probably he will not return
before October."

"Indeed! That is a long time for a physician to absent himself."

Just then an organ-grinder paused on the pavement beneath the window
and began a beautiful air from "Sonnambula." It was a favorite song
of Beulah's, and, as the melancholy tones swelled on the night air,
they recalled many happy hours spent in the quiet study beside the
melodeon. She leaned out of the window till the last echo died away,
and, as the musician shouldered his instrument and trudged off, she
said abruptly:

"Is there not a piano in the house!"

"Yes; just such a one as you might expect to find in a boarding
house, where unruly children are thrumming upon it from morning till
night. It was once a fine instrument, but now is only capable of
excruciating discords. You will miss your grand piano."

"I must have something in my own room to practice on. Perhaps I can
hire a melodeon or piano for a moderate sum. I will try to-morrow."

"The Grahams are coming home soon, I hear. One of the principal
upholsterers boards here, and he mentioned this morning at breakfast
that he had received a letter from Mr. Graham, directing him to
attend to the unpacking of an entirely new set of furniture.
Everything will be on a grand scale. I suppose Eugene returns with
them?"

"Yes; they will all arrive in November."

"It must be a delightful anticipation for you."

"Why so, pray?"

"Why? Because you and Euguene are such old friends."

"Oh, yes; as far as Eugene is concerned, of course it is a very
pleasant anticipation."

"He is identified with the Grahams."

"Not necessarily," answered Beulah coldly.

A sad smile flitted over Clara's sweet face as she rose and kissed
her friend's brow, saying gently:

"Good-night, dear. I have a headache, and must try to sleep it off.
Since you have determined to battle with difficulties I am very glad
to have you here with me. I earnestly hope that success may crown
your efforts and the sunshine of happiness dispel for you the
shadows that have fallen thick about my pathway. You have been rash,
Beulah, and short-sighted; but I trust that all will prove for the
best. Good-night."

She glided away, and, locking the door, Beulah returned to her seat
and laid her head wearily down on the window-sill. What a Hermes is
thought! Like a vanishing dream fled the consciousness of
surrounding objects, and she was with Eugene. Now, in the earlier
years of his absence, she was in Heidelberg, listening to the
evening chimes, and rambling with him through the heart of the
Odenwald. Then they explored the Hartz, climbed the Brocken, and
there, among the clouds, discussed the adventures of Faust and his
kinsman, Manfred. Anon, the arrival of the Grahams disturbed the
quiet of Eugene's life, and, far away from the picturesque haunts of
Heidelberg students, he wandered with them over Italy, Switzerland,
and France. Engrossed by these companions, he no longer found time
to commune with her, and when occasionally he penned a short letter
it was hurried, constrained, and unsatisfactory. One topic had
become stereotyped; he never failed to discourage the idea of
teaching; urged most earnestly the folly of such a step, and dwelt
upon the numerous advantages of social position arising from a
residence under her guardian's roof. We have seen that from the hour
of Lilly's departure from the asylum Beulah's affections, hopes,
pride, all centered in Eugene. There had long existed a tacit
compact which led her to consider her future indissolubly linked
with his; and his parting words seemed to seal this compact as holy
and binding, when he declared, "I mean, of course, to take care of
you myself, when I come home, for you know you belong to me." His
letters for many months retained the tone of dictatorship, but the
tenderness seemed all to have melted away. He wrote as if with a
heart preoccupied by weightier matters, and now Beulah could no
longer conceal from herself the painful fact that the man was far
different from the boy. After five years' absence he was coming back
a man; engrossed by other thoughts and feelings than those which had
prompted him in days gone by. With the tenacious hope of youth she
still trusted that she might have misjudged him; he could never be
other than noble and generous; she would silence her forebodings and
wait till his return. She wished beyond all expression to see him
once more, and the prospect of a speedy reunion often made her heart
throb painfully. That he would reproach her for her obstinate
resolution of teaching, she was prepared to expect; but, strong in
the consciousness of duty, she committed herself to the care of a
merciful God, and soon slept as soundly as though under Dr.
Hartwell's roof.




CHAPTER XVII.


Sometimes, after sitting for five consecutive hours at the piano,
guiding the clumsy fingers of tyros, and listening to a tiresome
round of scales and exercises, Beulah felt exhausted, mentally and
physically, and feared that she had miserably overrated her powers
of endurance. The long, warm days of August dragged heavily by, and
each night she felt grateful that the summer was one day nearer its
grave. One afternoon she proposed to Clara to extend their walk to
the home of her guardian, and, as she readily assented, they left
the noise and crowd of the city, and soon found themselves on the
common.

"This is my birthday," said Beulah, as they passed a clump of pines
and caught a glimpse of the white gate beyond.

"Ah! How old are you?"

"Eighteen--but I feel much older."

She opened the gate, and, as they leisurely ascended the avenue of
aged cedars, Beulah felt once more as if she were going home. A
fierce bark greeted her, and the next moment Charon rushed to meet
her; placing his huge paws on her shoulders, and whining and barking
joyfully. He bounded before her to the steps, and lay down
contentedly on the piazza. Harriet's turbaned head appeared at the
entrance, and a smile of welcome lighted up her ebon face, as she
shook Beulah's hand.

Mrs. Watson was absent, and, after a few questions, Beulah entered
the study, saying:

"I want some books, Harriet; and Miss Sanders wishes to see the
paintings."

Ah! every chair and book-shelf greeted her like dear friends, and
she bent down over some volumes to hide the tears that sprang into
her eyes. The only really happy portion of her life had been passed
here; every article in the room was dear from association, and,
though only a month had elapsed since her departure, those bygone
years seemed far, far off, among the mist of very distant
recollections. Thick and fast fell the hot drops, until her eyes
were blinded, and she could no longer distinguish the print they
were riveted on. The memory of kind smiles haunted her, and kinder
tones seemed borne to her from every corner of the apartment. Clara
was eagerly examining the paintings, and neither of the girls
observed Harriet's entrance, until she asked:

"Do you know that the yellow fever has broke out here?"

"Oh, you are mistaken! It can't be possible!" cried Clara, turning
pale.

"I tell you, it is a fact. There are six cases now at the hospital;
Hal was there this morning. I have lived here a good many years,
and, from the signs, I think we are going to have dreadfully sickly
times. You young ladies had better keep out of the sun; first thing
you know, you will have it."

"Who told you there was yellow fever at the hospital?"

"Dr. Asbury said so; and, what is more, Hal has had it himself, and
nursed people who had it; and he says it is the worst sort of yellow
fever."

"I am not afraid of it," said Beulah, looking up for the first time.

"I am dreadfully afraid of it," answered Clara, with a nervous
shudder.

"Then you had better leave town as quick as possible, for folks who
are easily scared always catch it soonest."

"Nonsense!" cried Beulah, noting the deepening pallor of Clara's
face.

"Oh, I will warrant, if everybody else--every man, woman, and child
in the city--takes it, you won't! Miss Beulah, I should like to know
what you are afraid of!" muttered Harriet, scanning the orphan's
countenance, and adding, in a louder tone: "Have you heard anything
from master?"

"No." Beulah bit her lips to conceal her emotion.

"Hal hears from him. He was in New York when he wrote the last
letter." She took a malicious pleasure in thus torturing her
visitor; and, determined not to gratify her by any manifestation of
interest or curiosity, Beulah took up a couple of volumes and turned
to the door, saying:

"Come, Clara, you must each have a bouquet. Harriet, where are the
flower scissors? Dr. Hartwell never objected to my carefully cutting
even his choicest flowers. There! Clara, listen to the cool rippling
of the fountain. How I have longed to hear its silvery murmur once
more!"

They went out into the front yard. Clara wandered about the flower
beds, gathering blossoms which were scattered in lavish profusion on
all sides; and, leaning over the marble basin, Beulah bathed her
brow in the crystal waters. There were bewitching beauty and
serenity in the scene before her, and as Charon nestled his great
head against her hand she found it very difficult to realize the
fact that she had left this lovely retreat for the small room at
Mrs. Hoyt's boarding house. It was not her habit, however, to
indulge in repinings, and, though her ardent appreciation of beauty
rendered the place incalculably dear to her, she resolutely gathered
a cluster of flowers, bade adieu to Harriet, and descended the
avenue. Charon walked soberly beside her, now and then looking up,
as if to inquire the meaning of her long absence and wonder at her
sudden departure. At the gate she patted him affectionately on the
head and passed out; he made no attempt to follow her, but barked
violently, and then lay down at the gate, whining mournfully.

"Poor Charon! I wish I might have him," said she sadly.

"I dare say the doctor would give him to you," answered Clara very
simply.

"I would just as soon think of asking him for his own head," replied
Beulah.

"It is a mystery to me, Beulah, how you can feel so coldly toward
Dr. Hartwell."

"I should very much like to know what you mean by that?" said
Beulah, involuntarily crushing the flowers she held.

"Why, you speak of him just as you would of anybody else."

"Well?"

"You seem to be afraid of him."

"To a certain extent, I am; and so is everybody else who knows him
intimately."

"This fear is unjust to him."

"How so, pray?"

"Because he is too noble to do aught to inspire it."

"Certainly he is feared, nevertheless, by all who know him well."

"It seems to me that, situated as you have been, you would almost
worship him!"

"I am not addicted to worshiping anything but God!" answered Beulah
shortly.

"You are an odd compound, Beulah. Sometimes I think you must be
utterly heartless!"

"Thank you!"

"Don't be hurt. But you are so cold, so freezing; you chill me."

"Do I? Dr. Hartwell (your Delphic oracle, it seems) says I am as
fierce as a tropical tornado."

"I do not understand how you can bear to give up such an enchanting
home, and go to hard work, as if you were driven to it from
necessity."

"Do not go over all that beaten track again, if you please. It is
not my home! I can be just as happy, nay, happier, in my little
room."

"I doubt it," said Clara pertinaciously.

Stopping suddenly, and fixing her eyes steadily on her companion,
Beulah hastily asked:

"Clara Sanders, why should you care if my guardian and I are
separated?"

A burning blush dyed cheek and brow, as Clara drooped her head, and
answered:

"Because he is my friend also, and I know that your departure will
grieve him."

"You overestimate my worth and his interest. He is a man who lives
in a world of his own and needs no society, save such as is afforded
in his tasteful and elegant home. He loves books, flowers, music,
paintings, and his dog! He is a stern man, and shares his griefs and
joys with no one. All this I have told you before."

There was a long silence, broken at last by an exclamation from
Beulah:

"Oh! how beautiful! how silent! how solemn! Look down the long dim
aisles. It is an oratory where my soul comes to worship! Presently
the breeze will rush up from the gulf, and sweep the green organ,
and a melancholy chant will swell through these dusky arches. Oh,
what are Gothic cathedrals and gilded shrines in comparison with
these grand forest temples, where the dome is the bending vault of
God's blue, and the columns are these everlasting pines!" She
pointed to a thick clump of pines sloping down to a ravine.

The setting sun threw long quivering rays through the clustering
boughs, and the broken beams, piercing the gloom beyond, showed the
long aisles as in a "cathedral light."

As Clara looked down the dim glade, and then watched Beulah's parted
lips and sparkling eyes, as she stood bending forward with rapturous
delight written on every feature, she thought that she had indeed
misjudged her in using the epithets "freezing and heartless."

"You are enthusiastic," said she gently.

"How can I help it? I love the grand and beautiful too well to offer
a tribute of silent admiration. Oh, my homage is that of a whole
heart!"

They reached home in the gloaming, and each retired to her own room.
For a mere trifle Beulah had procured the use of a melodeon, and
now, after placing the drooping flowers in water, she sat down
before the instrument and poured out the joy of her soul in song.
Sad memories no longer floated like corpses on the sea of the past;
grim forebodings crouched among the mists of the future, and she
sang song after song, exulting in the gladness of her heart. An
analysis of these occasional hours of delight was as impossible as
their creation. Sometimes she was conscious of their approach, while
gazing up at the starry islets in the boundless lake of azure sky;
or when a gorgeous sunset pageant was passing away; sometimes from
hearing a solemn chant in church, or a witching strain from a
favorite opera. Sometimes from viewing dim old pictures; sometimes
from reading a sublime passage in some old English or German author.
It was a serene elevation of feeling; an unbounded peace; a
chastened joyousness, which she was rarely able to analyze, but
which isolated her for a time from all surrounding circumstances.
How long she sang on the present occasion she knew not, and only
paused on hearing a heavy sob behind her. Turning round, she saw
Clara sitting near, with her face in her hands. Kneeling beside her,
Beulah wound her arms around her, and asked earnestly:

"What troubles you, my friend? May I not know?"

Clara dropped her head on Beulah's shoulder, and answered
hesitatingly:

"The tones of your voice always sadden me. They are like organ
notes, solemn and awful! Yes, awful; and yet very sweet--sweeter
than any music I ever heard. Your singing fascinates me, yet,
strange as it may seem, it very often makes me weep. There is an
unearthliness, a spirituality that affects me singularly."

"I am glad that is all. I was afraid you were distressed about
something. Here, take my rocking chair; I am going to read, and, if
you like, you may have the benefit of my book."

"Beulah, do put away your books for one night, and let us have a
quiet time. Don't study now. Come, sit here, and talk to me."

"Flatterer, do you pretend that you prefer my chattering to the
wonderful words of a man who 'talked like an angel'? You must listen
to the tale of that 'Ancient Mariner with glittering eye.'"

"Spare me that horrible ghostly story of vessels freighted with
staring corpses! Ugh! it curdled the blood in my veins once, and I
shut the book in disgust. Don't begin it now, for Heaven's sake!"

"Why, Clara! It is the most thrilling poem in the English language.
Each reperusal fascinates me more and more. It requires a dozen
readings to initiate you fully into its weird, supernatural realms."

"Yes; and it is precisely for that reason that I don't choose to
hear it. There is quite enough of the grim and hideous in reality
without hunting it up in pages of fiction. When I read I desire to
relax my mind, not put it on the rack, as your favorite books
invariably do. Absolutely, Beulah, after listening to some of your
pet authors, I feel as if I had been standing on my head. You need
not look so coolly incredulous; it is a positive fact. As for that
'Ancient Mariner' you are so fond of, I am disposed to take the
author's own opinion of it, as expressed in those lines addressed to
himself."

"I suppose, then, you fancy 'Christabel' as little as the other,
seeing that it is a tale of witchcraft. How would you relish that
grand anthem to nature's God, written in the vale of Chamouni?"

"I never read it," answered Clara very quietly.

"What? Never read 'Sibylline Leaves'? Why, I will wager my head that
you have parsed from them a thousand times! Never read that
magnificent hymn before sunrise, in the midst of glaciers and snow-
crowned, cloud-piercing peaks? Listen, then; and if you don't feel
like falling upon your knees, you have not a spark of poetry in your
soul!"

She drew the lamp close to her, and read aloud. Her finely modulated
voice was peculiarly adapted to the task, and her expressive
countenance faithfully depicted the contending emotions which filled
her mind as she read. Clara listened with pleased interest, and,
when the short poem was concluded, said:

"Thank you; it is beautiful. I have often seen extracts from it.
Still, there is a description of Mont Blanc in 'Manfred' which I
believe I like quite as well."

"What? That witch fragment?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand 'Manfred.' Here and there are passages in
cipher. I read and catch a glimpse of hidden meaning; I read again,
and it vanishes in mist. It seems to me a poem of symbols, dimly
adumbrating truths, which my clouded intellect clutches at in vain.
I have a sort of shadowy belief that 'Astarte,' as in its ancient
mythological significance, symbolizes nature. There is a dusky vein
of mystery shrouding her, which favors my idea of her as
representing the universe. Manfred, with daring hand, tore away that
'Veil of Isis' which no mortal had ever pierced before, and,
maddened by the mockery of the stony features, paid the penalty of
his sacrilegious rashness, and fled from the temple, striving to
shake off the curse. My guardian has a curious print of 'Astarte,'
taken from some European Byronic gallery. I have studied it until
almost it seemed to move and speak to me. She is clad in the ghostly
drapery of the tomb, just as invoked by Nemesis, with trailing
tresses, closed eyes, and folded hands. The features are dim,
spectral, yet marvelously beautiful. Almost one might think the
eyelids quivered, there is such an air of waking dreaminess. That
this is a false and inadequate conception of Byron's 'Astarte' I
feel assured, and trust that I shall yet find the key to this
enigma. It interests me greatly, and, by some inexplicable process,
whenever I sit pondering the mystery of Astarte, that wonderful
creation in 'Shirley' presents itself. Astarte becomes in a trice
that 'woman-Titan' Nature, kneeling before the red hills of the
west, at her evening prayers. I see her prostrate on the great steps
of her altar, praying for a fair night, for mariners at sea, for
lambs in moors, and unfledged birds in woods. Her robe of blue air
spreads to the outskirts of the heath. A veil, white as an
avalanche, sweeps from her head to her feet, and arabesques of
lightning flame on its borders. I see her zone, purple, like the
horizon; through its blush shines the star of evening. Her forehead
has the expanse of a cloud, and is paler than the early moon, risen
long before dark gathers. She reclines on the ridge of Stillbro-
Moor, her mighty hands are joined beneath it. So kneeling, face to
face, 'Nature speaks with God.' Oh! I would give twenty years of my
life to have painted that Titan's portrait. I would rather have been
the author of this than have wielded the scepter of Zenobia, in the
palmiest days of Palmyra!"

She spoke rapidly, and with white lips that quivered. Clara looked
at her wonderingly, and said hesitatingly:

"I don't understand the half of what you have been saying, It sounds
to me very much as if you had stumbled into a lumber room of queer
ideas; snatched up a handful, all on different subjects, and woven
them into a speech as incongruous as Joseph's variegated coat."
There was no reply. Beulah's hands were clasped on the table before
her, and she leaned forward with eyes fixed steadily on the floor.
Clara waited a moment, and then continued:

"I never noticed any of the mysteries of 'Manfred' that seem to
trouble you so much. I enjoy the fine passages, and never think of
the hidden meanings, as you call them; whereas it seems you are
always plunging about in the dark, hunting you know not what. I am
content to glide on the surface, and--"

"And live in the midst of foam and bubbles!" cried Beulah, with a
gesture of impatience.

"Better that than grope among subterranean caverns, black and icy,
as you are forever doing. You are even getting a weird, unearthly
look. Sometimes, when I come in and find you, book in hand, with
that far-off expression in your eyes, I really dislike to speak to
you. There is no more color in your face and hands than in that wall
yonder. You will dig your grave among books, if you don't take care.
There is such a thing as studying too much. Your mind is perpetually
at work; all day you are thinking, thinking, thinking; and at night,
since the warm weather has made me open the door between our rooms,
I hear you talking earnestly and rapidly in your sleep. Last week I
came in on tiptoe, and stood a few minutes beside your bed. The moon
shone in through the window, and though you were fast asleep, I saw
that you tossed your hands restlessly; while I stood there you spoke
aloud, in an incoherent manner, of the 'Dream Fugue,' and 'Vision of
Sudden Death,' and now and then you frowned, and sighed heavily, as
if you were in pain. Music is a relaxation to most people, but it
seems to put your thoughts on the rack. You will wear yourself out
prematurely if you don't quit this constant studying."

She rose to go, and, glancing up at her, Beulah answered musingly:

"We are very unlike. The things that I love you shrink from as dull
and tiresome. I live in a different world. Books are to me what
family, and friends, and society are to other people. It may be that
the isolation of my life necessitates this. Doubtless, you often
find me abstracted. Are you going so soon? I had hoped we should
spend a profitable evening, but it has slipped away, and I have done
nothing. Good-night." She rose and gave the customary good-night
kiss, and, as Clara retired to her own room, Beulah turned up the
wick of her lamp and resumed her book. The gorgeous mazes of
Coleridge no longer imprisoned her fancy; it wandered mid the
silence, and desolation, and sand rivulets of the Thebaid desert;
through the date groves of the lonely Laura; through the museums of
Alexandria. Over the cool, crystal depths of "Hypatia" her thirsty
spirit hung eagerly. In Philammon's intellectual nature she found a
startling resemblance to her own. Like him, she had entered a
forbidden temple, and learned to question; and the same "insatiable
craving to know the mysteries of learning" was impelling her, with
irresistible force, out into the world of philosophic inquiry. Hours
fled on unnoted; with nervous haste the leaves were turned. The town
clock struck three. As she finished the book and laid it on the
table she bowed her head upon her hands. She was bewildered. Was
Kingsley his own Raphael-Aben-Ezra? or did he heartily believe in
the Christianity of which he had given so hideous a portraiture? Her
brain whirled, yet there was a great dissatisfaction. She could not
contentedly go back to the Laura with Philammon; "Hypatia" was not
sufficiently explicit. She was dissatisfied; there was more than
this Alexandrian ecstasy to which Hypatia was driven; but where, and
how should she find it? Who would guide her? Was not her guardian,
in many respects, as skeptical as Raphael himself? Dare she enter,
alone and unaided, this Cretan maze of investigation, where all the
wonderful lore of the gifted Hypatia had availed nothing? What was
her intellect given her for, if not to be thus employed? Her head
ached with the intensity of thought, and, as she laid it on her
pillow and closed her eyes, day looked out over the eastern sky.

The ensuing week was one of anxious apprehension to all within the
city. Harriet's words seemed prophetic; there was every intimation
of a sickly season. Yellow fever had made its appearance in several
sections of the town in its most malignant type. The board of health
devised various schemes for arresting the advancing evil. The
streets were powdered with lime and huge fires of tar kept
constantly burning, yet daily, hourly, the fatality increased; and,
as colossal ruin strode on, the terrified citizens fled in all
directions. In ten days the epidemic began to make fearful havoc;
all classes and ages were assailed indiscriminately. Whole families
were stricken down in a day, and not one member spared to aid the
others. The exodus was only limited by impossibility; all who could
abandoned their homes and sought safety in flight. These were the
fortunate minority; and, as if resolved to wreak its fury on the
remainder, the contagion spread into every quarter of the city. Not
even physicians were spared; and those who escaped trembled in
anticipation of the fell stroke. Many doubted that it was yellow
fever, and conjectured that the veritable plague had crossed the
ocean. Of all Mrs. Hoyt's boarders, but half a dozen determined to
hazard remaining in the infected region. These were Beulah, Clara,
and four gentlemen. Gladly would Clara have fled to a place of
safety, had it been in her power; but there was no one to accompany
or watch over her, and as she was forced to witness the horrors of
the season a sort of despair seemed to nerve her trembling frame.
Mrs. Watson had been among the first to leave the city. Madam St.
Cymon had disbanded her school; and, as only her three daughters
continued to take music lessons, Beulah had ample leisure to
contemplate the distressing scenes which surrounded her. At noon,
one September day, she stood at the open window of her room. The air
was intensely hot; the drooping leaves of the China trees were
motionless; there was not a breath of wind stirring; and the sable
plumes of the hearses were still as their burdens. The brazen,
glittering sky seemed a huge glowing furnace, breathing out only
scorching heat. Beulah leaned out of the window, and, wiping away
the heavy drops that stood on her brow, looked down the almost
deserted street. Many of the stores were closed; whilom busy haunts
were silent; and very few persons were visible, save the drivers of
two hearses and of a cart filled with coffins. The church bells
tolled unceasingly, and the desolation, the horror, were
indescribable, as the sable wings of the Destroyer hung over the
doomed city. Out of her ten fellow-graduates, four slept in the
cemetery. The night before she had watched beside another, and at
dawn saw the limbs stiffen and the eyes grow sightless. Among her
former schoolmates the contagion had been particularly fatal, and,
fearless of danger, she had nursed two of them. As she stood fanning
herself, Clara entered hurriedly, and, sinking into a chair,
exclaimed, in accents of terror:

"It has come! as I knew it would! Two of Mrs. Hoyt's children have
been taken, and, I believe, one of the waiters also! Merciful God!
what will become of me?" Her teeth chattered, and she trembled from
head to foot.

"Don't be alarmed, Clara! Your excessive terror is your greatest
danger. If you would escape you must keep as quiet as possible."

She poured out a glass of water and made her drink it; then asked:

"Can Mrs. Hoyt get medical aid?"

"No; she has sent for every doctor in town, and not one has come."

"Then I will go down and assist her." Beulah turned toward the door,
but Clara caught her dress, and said hoarsely:

"Are you mad, thus continually to put your life in jeopardy? Are you
shod with immortality, that you thrust yourself into the very path
of destruction?"

"I am not afraid of the fever, and therefore think I shall not take
it. As long as I am able to be up I shall do all that I can to
relieve the sick. Remember, Clara, nurses are not to be had now for
any sum." She glided down the steps, and found the terrified mother
wringing her hands helplessly over the stricken ones. The children
were crying on the bed, and, with the energy which the danger
demanded, Beulah speedily ordered the mustard baths, and
administered the remedies she had seen prescribed on previous
occasions. The fever rose rapidly, and, undaunted by thoughts of
personal danger, she took her place beside the bed. It was past
midnight when Dr. Asbury came; exhausted and haggard from
unremitting toil and vigils, he looked several years older than when
she had last seen him. He started on perceiving her perilous post,
and said anxiously:

"Oh, you are rash! very rash! What would Hartwell say? What will he
think when he comes?"

"Comes! Surely you have not urged him to come back now!" said she,
grasping his arm convulsively.

"Certainly. I telegraphed to him to come home by express. You need
not look so troubled; he has had this Egyptian plague, will run no
risk, and, even if he should, will return as soon as possible."

"Are you sure that he has had the fever?"

"Yes, sure. I nursed him myself, the summer after he came from
Europe, and thought he would die. That was the last sickly season we
have had for years, but this caps the climax of all I ever saw or
heard of in America. Thank God, my wife and children are far away;
and, free from apprehension on their account, I can do my duty."

All this was said in an undertone, and, after advising everything
that could possibly be done, he left the room, beckoning Beulah
after him. She followed, and he said earnestly:

"Child, I tremble for you. Why did you leave Hartwell's house and
incur all this peril? Beulah, though it is nobly unselfish in you to
devote yourself to the sick, as you are doing, it may cost you your
life--nay, most probably it will."

"I have thought of it all, sir, and determined to do my duty."

"Then God preserve you. Those children have been taken violently;
watch them closely; good nursing is worth all the apothecary shops.
You need not send for me any more; I am out constantly; whenever I
can I will come; meantime, depend only on the nursing. Should you be
taken yourself, let me know at once; do not fail. A word more--keep
yourself well stimulated."

He hurried away, and she returned to the sickroom, to speculate on
the probability of soon meeting her guardian. Who can tell how
dreary were the days and nights that followed? Mrs. Hoyt took the
fever, and mother and children moaned together. On the morning of
the fourth day the eldest child, a girl of eight years, died, with
Beulah's hand grasped in hers. Happily, the mother was unconscious,
and the little corpse was borne into an adjoining room. Beulah
shrank from the task which she felt for the first time in her life
called on to perform. She could nurse the living, but dreaded the
thought of shrouding the dead. Still, there was no one else to do
it, and she bravely conquered her repugnance, and clad the young
sleeper for the tomb. The gentlemen boarders, who had luckily
escaped, arranged the mournful particulars of the burial; and, after
severing a sunny lock of hair for the mother, should she live,
Beulah saw the cold form borne out to its last resting-place.
Another gloomy day passed slowly, and she was rewarded by the
convalescence of the remaining sick child. Mrs. Hoyt still hung upon
the confines of eternity; and Beulah, who had not closed her eyes
for many nights, was leaning over the bed counting the rushing
pulse, when a rapid step caused her to look up, and, falling forward
in her arms, Clara cried:

"Save me! save me! The chill is on me now!"

It was too true; and as Beulah assisted her to her room and
carefully bathed her feet, her heart was heavy with dire dread lest
Clara's horror of the disease should augment its ravages. Dr. Asbury
was summoned with all haste; but, as usual, seemed an age in coming,
and when at last he came could only prescribe what had already been
done. It was pitiable to watch the agonized expression of Clara's
sweet face, as she looked from the countenance of the physician to
that of her friend, striving to discover their opinion of her case.

"Doctor, you must send Hal to me. He can nurse Mrs. Hoyt and little
Willie while I watch Clara. I can't possibly take care of all three,
though Willie is a great deal better. Can you send him at once? He
is a good nurse."

"Yes; he has been nursing poor Tom Hamil, but he died about an hour
ago, and Hal is released. I look for Hartwell hourly. You do keep up
amazingly! Bless you, Beulah!" Wringing her hand, he descended the
stairs.

Re-entering the room Beulah sat down beside Clara, and taking one
burning hand in her cool palms, pressed it softly, saying in an
encouraging tone:

"I feel so much relieved about Willie; he is a great deal better;
and I think Mrs. Hoyt's fever is abating. You were not taken so
severely as Willie, and if you will go to sleep quietly I believe
you will only have a light attack."

"Did those downstairs have black vomit?" asked Clara shudderingly.

"Lizzie had it; the others did not. Try not to think about it. Go to
sleep."

"What was that the doctor said about Dr. Hartwell? I could not hear
very well, you talked so low. Ah, tell me, Beulah."

"Only that he is coming home soon--that was all. Don't talk any
more."

Clara closed her eyes, but tears stole from beneath the lashes and
coursed rapidly down her glowing cheeks. The lips moved in prayer,
and her fingers closed tightly over those of her companion. Beulah
felt that her continued vigils and exertions were exhausting her.
Her limbs trembled when she walked, and there was a dull pain in her
head which she could not banish. Her appetite had long since
forsaken her, and it was only by the exertion of a determined will
that she forced herself to eat. She was warmly attached to Clara,
and the dread of losing this friend caused her to suffer keenly.
Occasionally she stole away to see the other sufferers, fearing that
when Mrs. Hoyt discovered Lizzie's death the painful intelligence
would seal her own fate. It was late at night. She had just returned
from one of these hasty visits, and, finding that Hal was as
attentive as anyone could be, she threw herself, weary and anxious,
into an armchair beside Clara's bed. The crimson face was turned
toward her, the parched lips parted, the panting breath labored and
irregular. The victim was delirious; the hazel eyes, inflamed and
vacant, rested on Beulah's countenance, and she murmured:

"He will never know! Oh, no! how should he? The grave will soon shut
me in, and I shall see him no more--no more!" She shuddered and
turned away.

Beulah leaned her head against the bed, and, as a tear slid down
upon her hand, she thought and said with bitter sorrow:

"I would rather see her the victim of death than have her drag out
an aimless, cheerless existence, rendered joyless by this hopeless
attachment!"

She wondered whether Dr. Hartwell suspected this love. He was
remarkably quick-sighted, and men, as well as women, were very vain
and wont to give even undue weight to every circumstance which
flattered their self-love. She had long seen this partiality; would
not the object of it be quite as penetrating? Clara was very pretty;
nay, at times she was beautiful. If conscious of her attachment,
could he ever suffer himself to be influenced by it? No; impossible!
There were utter antagonisms of taste and temperament which rendered
it very certain that she would not suit him for a companion. Yet she
was very lovable. Beulah walked softly across the room and leaned
out of the window. An awful stillness brooded over the city.

    "The moving moon went up the sky,
      And nowhere did abide;
     Softly she was going up,
      And a star or two beside."

The soft beams struggled to pierce the murky air, dense with smoke
from the burning pitch. There was no tread on the pavement--all was
solemn as Death, who held such mad revel in the crowded graveyards.
Through the shroud of smoke she could see the rippling waters of the
bay, as the faint southern breeze swept its surface. It was a
desolation realizing all the horrors of the "Masque of the Red
Death," and as she thought of the mourning hearts in that silent
city, of Clara's danger and her own, Beulah repeated sadly those
solemn lines:

   "'Like clouds that rake the mountain summit,
      Or waves that own no curbing hand,
     How fast has brother followed brother,
      From sunshine to the sunless land!'"

Clasping her hands, she added earnestly:

"I thank thee, my Father! that the Atlantic rolls between Eugene and
this 'besom of destruction.'"

A touch on her shoulder caused her to look around, and her eyes
rested on her guardian. She started, but did not speak, and held out
her hand. He looked at her long and searchingly; his lip trembled,
and, instead of taking her offered hand, he passed his arm around
her and drew her to his bosom. She looked up with surprise; and,
bending his haughty head, he kissed her pale brow for the first
time. She felt then that she would like to throw her arms round his
neck and tell him how very glad she was to see him again--how
unhappy his sudden departure had made her; but a feeling she could
not pause to analyze prevented her from following the dictates of
her heart; and, holding her off, so as to scan her countenance, Dr.
Hartwell said:

"How worn and haggard you look! Oh, child! your rash obstinacy has
tortured me beyond expression."

"I have but done my duty. It has been a horrible time. I am glad you
have come. You will not let Clara die."

"Sit down, child. You are trembling from exhaustion."

He drew up a chair for her, and, taking her wrist in his hand, said,
as he examined the slow pulse:

"Was Clara taken violently? How is she?"

"She is delirious, and so much alarmed at her danger that I feel
very uneasy about her. Come and see her; perhaps she will know you."
She led the way to the bedside; but there was no recognition in the
wild, restless eyes, and as she tossed from side to side, her
incoherent muttering made Beulah dread lest she should discover to
its object the adoring love which filled her pure heart. She told
her guardian what had been prescribed. He offered no suggestion as
to the treatment, but gave a potion which she informed him was due.
As Clara swallowed the draught, she looked at him, and said eagerly:

"Has he come? Did he say he would see me and save me? Did Dr.
Hartwell send me this?"

"She raves," said Beulah hastily.

A shadow fell upon his face, and, stooping over the pillow, he
answered very gently:

"Yes; he has come to save you. He is here."

She smiled, and seemed satisfied for a moment; then moaned and
muttered on indistinctly.

"He knows it all? Oh, poor, poor Clara!" thought Beulah. shading her
face to prevent his reading what passed in her mind.

"How long have you been sitting up, Beulah?"

She told him.

"It is no wonder you look as if years had suddenly passed over your
head! You have a room here, I believe. Go to it, and go to sleep; I
will not leave Clara."

It was astonishing how his presence removed the dread weight of
responsibility from her heart. Not until this moment had she felt as
if she could possibly sleep.

"I will sleep now, so as to be refreshed for to-morrow and to-morrow
night. Here is a couch; I will sleep here, and if Clara grows worse
you must wake me." She crossed the room, threw herself on the couch,
and laid her aching head on her arm. Dr. Hartwell placed a pillow
under the head; once more his fingers sought her wrist; once more
his lips touched her forehead, and as he returned to watch beside
Clara and listen to her ravings, Beulah sank into a heavy, dreamless
sleep of exhaustion.




CHAPTER XVIII.


She was awakened by the cool pattering of raindrops, which beat
through the shutters and fell upon her face. She sprang up with a
thrill of delight and looked out. A leaden sky lowered over the
city, and as the torrents came down in whitening sheets, the thunder
rolled continuously overhead, and trailing wreaths of smoke from the
dying fires drooped like banners over the roofs of the houses. Not
the shower which gathered and fell around seagirt Carmel was more
gratefully received.

"Thank God! it rains!" cried Beulah, and, turning toward Clara, she
saw with pain that the sufferer was all unconscious of the tardy
blessing. She kissed the hot, dry brow; but no token of recognition
greeted her anxious gaze. The fever was at its height; the delicate
features were strangely sharpened and distorted. Save the sound of
her labored breathing, the room was silent, and, sinking on her
knees, Beulah prayed earnestly that the gentle sufferer might be
spared. As she rose her guardian entered, and she started at the
haggard, wasted, harassed look of the noble face, which she had not
observed before. He bent down and coaxed Clara to take a spoonful of
medicine, and Beulah asked earnestly:

"Have you been ill, sir?"

"No."

He did not even glance at her. The affectionate cordiality of the
hour of meeting had utterly vanished. He looked as cold, stern, and
impenetrable as some half-buried sphinx of the desert.

"Have you seen the others this morning?" said she, making a strong
effort to conceal the chagrin this revulsion of feeling occasioned.

"Yes; Mrs. Hoyt will get well."

"Does she know of her child's death?"

"Yes."

"You are not going, surely?" she continued, as he took his hat and
glanced at his watch.

"I am needed elsewhere. Only nursing can now avail here. You know
very well what is requisite. Either Dr. Asbury or I will be here
again to-night to sit up with this gentle girl."

"You need neither of you come to sit up with her. I will do that
myself. I shall not sleep another moment until I know that she is
better."

"Very well." He left the room immediately.

"How he cases his volcanic nature in ice!" thought Beulah, sinking
into the armchair. "Last night he seemed so kind, so cordial, so
much my friend and guardian! To-day there is a mighty barrier, as
though he stood on some towering crag and talked to me across an
infinite gulf! Well, well, even an Arctic night passes away; and I
can afford to wait till his humor changes."

For many hours the rain fell unceasingly, but toward sunset the pall
of clouds was scourged on by a brisk western breeze, and the clear
canopy of heaven, no longer fiery as for days past, but cool and
blue, bent serenely over the wet earth. The slanting rays of the
swiftly sinking sun flashed through dripping boughs, creating
myriads of diamond sprays; and over the sparkling waters of the bay
sprang a brilliant bow, arching superbly along the eastern horizon,
where a bank of clouds still lay. Verily, it seemed a new covenant
that the destroying demon should no longer desolate the beautiful
city, and to many an anxious, foreboding heart that glorious rainbow
gave back hope and faith. A cool, quiet twilight followed. Beulah
knew that hearses still bore the dead to their silent chambers; she
could hear the rumbling, the melancholy, solemn sound of the wheels;
but firm trust reigned in her heart, and, with Clara's hand in hers,
she felt an intuitive assurance that the loved one would not yet be
summoned from her earthly field of action. The sick in the other
part of the house were much better, and, though one of the gentlemen
boarders had been taken since morning, she lighted the lamp and
stole about the room with a calmer, happier spirit than she had
known for many days. She fancied that her charge breathed more
easily, and the wild stare of the inflamed eyes was concealed under
the long lashes which lay on the cheeks. The sufferer slept, and the
watcher augured favorably. About nine o'clock she heard steps on the
stairs, and soon after Drs. Asbury and Hartwell entered together.
There was little to be told, and less to be advised, and while the
latter attentively examined the pulse and looked down at the altered
countenance, stamped with the signet of the dread disease, the
former took Beulah's hand in both his, and said kindly:

"How do you do, my little heroine? By Nebros! you are worth your
weight in medical treatises. How are you, little one?"

"Quite well, thank you, sir, and I dare say I am much more able to
sit up with the sick than you, who have had no respite whatever.
Don't stand up, when you must be so weary; take this easy-chair."
Holding his hand firmly, she drew him down to it. There had always
been a fatherly tenderness in his manner toward her, when visiting
at her guardian's, and she regarded him with reverence and
affection. Though often blunt, he never chilled nor repelled her, as
his partner so often did, and now she stood beside him, still
holding one of his hands. He smoothed back the gray hair from his
furrowed brow, and, with a twinkle in his blue eye, said:

"How much will you take for your services? I want to engage you to
teach my madcap daughters a little quiet bravery and uncomplaining
endurance."

"I have none of the Shylock in my composition; only give me a few
kind words and I shall be satisfied. Now, once for all, Dr. Asbury,
if you treat me to any more barefaced flattery of this sort, I nurse
no more of your patients."

Dr. Hartwell here directed his partner's attention to Clara, and,
thoroughly provoked at the pertinacity with which he avoided
noticing her, she seized the brief opportunity to visit Mrs. Hoyt
and little Willie. The mother welcomed her with a silent grasp of
the hand and a gush of tears. But this was no time for
acknowledgments, and Beulah strove, by a few encouraging remarks, to
cheer the bereaved parent and interest Willie, who, like all other
children under such circumstances, had grown fretful. She shook up
their pillows, iced a fresh pitcher of water for them, and,
promising to run down and see them often, now that Hal was forced to
give his attention to the last victim, she noiselessly stole back to
Clara's room. Dr. Hartwell was walking up and down the floor, and
his companion sat just as she had left him. He rose as she entered,
and, putting on his hat, said kindly:

"Are you able to sit up with Miss Sanders to-night? If not, say so
candidly."

"I am able and determined to do so."

"Very well. After to-morrow it will not be needed."

"What do you mean?" cried Beulah, clutching his arm.

"Don't look so savage, child. She will either be convalescent or
beyond all aid. I hope and believe the former. Watch her closely
till I see you again. Good-night, dear child." He stepped to the
door, and, with a slight inclination of his head, Dr. Hartwell
followed him.

It was a vigil Beulah never forgot. The night seemed interminable,
as if the car of time were driven backward, and she longed
inexpressibly for the dawning of day. Four o'clock came at last;
silence brooded over the town; the western breeze had sung itself to
rest, and there was a solemn hush, as though all nature stood still
to witness the struggle between dusky Azrael and a human soul. Clara
slept. The distant stars looked down encouragingly from their homes
of blue, and once more the lonely orphan bent her knee in
supplication before the throne of Jehovah. But a cloud seemed
hovering between her heart and the presence-chamber of Deity. In
vain she prayed, and tried to believe that life would be spared in
answer to her petitions. Faith died in her soul, and she sat with
her eyes riveted upon the face of her friend. The flush of consuming
fever paled, the pulse was slow and feeble, and by the gray light of
day Beulah saw that the face was strangely changed. For several
hours longer she maintained her watch; still the doctor did not
come, and while she sat with Clara's fingers clasped in her, the
brown eyes opened, and looked dreamily at her. She leaned over and,
kissing the wan cheek, asked eagerly:

"How do you feel, darling?"

"Perfectly weak and helpless. How long have I been sick?"

"Only a few days. You are a great deal better now." She tenderly
smoothed the silky hair that clustered in disorder round the face.
Clara seemed perplexed; she thought for a moment, and said feebly:

"Have I been very ill?"

"Well--yes. You have been right sick. Had some fever, but it has
left you."

Clara mused again. Memory came back slowly, and at length she asked:

"Did they all die?"

"Did who die?"

"All those downstairs." She shuddered violently.

"Oh, no! Mrs. Hoyt and Willie are almost well. Try to go to sleep
again, Clara."

Several minutes glided by; the eyes closed, and, clasping Beulah's
fingers tightly, she asked again:

"Have I had any physician?"

"Yes. I thought it would do no harm to have Dr. Asbury see you,"
answered Beulah carelessly. She saw an expression of disappointment
pass sadly over the girl's countenance; and, thinking it might be as
well to satisfy her at once, she continued, as if speaking on
indifferent topics:

"Dr. Hartwell came home since you were taken sick, and called to see
you two or three times."

A faint glow tinged the sallow cheek, and while a tremor crept over
her lips she said almost inaudibly:

"When will he come again?"

"Before long, I dare say. Indeed, there is his step now. Dr. Asbury
is with him."

She had not time to say more, for they came in immediately, and,
with a species of pity she noted the smile of pleasure which curved
Clara's mouth as her guardian bent down and spoke to her. While he
took her thin hand and fixed his eyes on her face, Dr. Asbury looked
over his shoulder, and said bluntly:

"Hurrah for you! All right again, as I thought you would be! Does
your head ache at all this morning? Feel like eating half a dozen
partridges?"

"She is not deaf," said Dr. Hartwell rather shortly.

"I am not so sure of that; she has been to all my questions lately.
I must see about Carter, below. Beulah, child, you look the worse
for your apprenticeship to our profession."

"So do you, sir," said she, smiling as her eyes wandered over his
grim visage.

"You may well say that, child. I snatched about two hours' sleep
this morning, and when I woke I felt very much like Coleridge's
unlucky sailor:

    "'I moved, and could not feel my limbs;
       I was so light--almost,
      I thought that I had died in sleep,
       And was a blessed ghost.'"

He hurried away to another part of the house, and Beulah went into
her own apartment to arrange her hair, which she felt must need
attention sadly.

Looking into the glass she could not forbear smiling at the face
which looked back at her, it was so thin and ghastly; even the lips
were colorless and the large eyes sunken. She unbound her hair, and
had only shaken it fully out, when a knock at her door called her
from the glass. She tossed her hair all back, and it hung like an
inky veil almost to the floor, as she opened the door and confronted
her guardian.

"Here is some medicine which must be mixed in a tumbler of water. I
want a tablespoonful given every hour, unless Clara is asleep. Keep
everything quiet."

"Is that all?" said Beulah coolly.

"That is all." He walked off, and she brushed and twisted up her
hair, wondering how long he meant to keep up that freezing manner.
It accorded very well with his treatment before his departure for
the North, and she sighed as she recalled the brief hour of
cordiality which followed his return. She began to perceive that
this was the way they were to meet in future; she had displeased
him, and he intended that she should feel it. Tears gathered in her
eyes, but she drove them scornfully back, and exclaimed indignantly:

"He wants to rule me with a rod of iron, because I am indebted to
him for an education and support for several years. As I hope for a
peaceful rest hereafter, I will repay him every cent he has expended
for music, drawing, and clothing! I will economize until every
picayune is returned."

The purse had not been touched, and, hastily counting the contents
to see that all the bills were there, she relocked the drawer and
returned to the sickroom with anything but a calm face. Clara seemed
to be asleep, and, picking up a book, Beulah began to read. A
sickroom is always monotonous and dreary, and long confinement had
rendered Beulah restless and uncomfortable. Her limbs ached--so did
her head, and continued loss of sleep made her nervous to an unusual
degree. She longed to open her melodeon and play; this would have
quieted her, but of course was not to be thought of, with four
invalids in the house and death on almost every square in the city.
She was no longer unhappy about Clara, for there was little doubt
that, with care, she would soon be well, and thus drearily the hours
wore on. Finally Clara evinced a disposition to talk. Her nurse
discouraged it, with exceedingly brief replies; intimating that she
would improve her condition by going to sleep. Toward evening Clara
seemed much refreshed by a long nap, and took some food which had
been prepared for her.

"The sickness is abating, is it not, Beulah?"

"Yes, very perceptibly; but more from lack of fresh victims than
anything else. I hope we shall have a white frost soon."

"It has been very horrible! I shudder when I think of it," said
Clara.

"Then don't think of it," answered her companion.

"Oh, how can I help it? I did not expect to live through it. I was
sure I should die when that chill came on. You have saved me, dear
Beulah!" Tears glistened in her soft eyes.

"No; God saved you."

"Through your instrumentality," replied Clara, raising her friend's
hand to her lips.

"Don't talk any more; the doctor expressly enjoined quiet for you."

"I am glad to owe my recovery to him also. How noble and good he is-
-how superior to everybody else!" murmured the sick girl.

Beulah's lips became singularly compact, but she offered no comment.
She walked up and down the room, although so worn out that she could
scarcely keep herself erect. When the doctor came she escaped
unobserved to her room, hastily put on her bonnet, and ran down the
steps for a short walk. It was perfect Elysium to get out once more
under the pure sky and breathe the air, as it swept over the bay,
cool, sweet, and invigorating. The streets were still quiet, but
hearses and carts, filled with coffins, no longer greeted her on
every side, and she walked for several squares. The sun went down,
and, too weary to extend her ramble, she slowly retraced her steps.
The buggy no longer stood at the door, and, after seeing Mrs. Hoyt
and trying to chat pleasantly, she crept back to Clara.

"Where have you been?" asked the latter.

"To get a breath of fresh air and see the sun set."

"Dr. Hartwell asked for you. I did not know what had become of you."

"How do you feel to-night?" said Beulah, laying her hand softly on
Clara's forehead.

"Better, but very weak. You have no idea how feeble I am. Beulah, I
want to know whether--"

"You were told to keep quiet, so don't ask any questions, for I will
not answer one."

"You are not to sit up to-night; the doctor said I would not require
it."

"Let the doctor go back to the North and theorize in his medical
conventions! I shall sleep here by your bed, on this couch. If you
feel worse, call me. Now, good-night; and don't open your lips
again." She drew the couch close to the bed, and, shading the lamp,
threw her weary frame down to rest; ere long she slept. The
pestilential storm had spent its fury. Daily the number of deaths
diminished; gradually the pall of silence and desolation which had
hung over the city vanished. The streets resumed their usual busy
aspect, and the hum of life went forward once more. At length
fugitive families ventured home again; and though bands of crape,
grim badges of bereavement, met the eye on all sides, all rejoiced
that Death had removed his court--that his hideous carnival was
over. Clara regained her strength very slowly; and when well enough
to quit her room, walked with the slow, uncertain step of
feebleness. On the last day of October she entered Beulah's
apartment, and languidly approached the table, where the latter was
engaged in drawing.

"Always at work! Beulah, you give yourself no rest. Day and night
you are constantly busy."

Apparently this remark fell on deaf ears; for, without replying,
Beulah lifted her drawing, looked at it intently, turned it round
once or twice, and then resumed her crayon.

"What a hideous countenance! Who is it?" continued Clara.

"Mors."

"She is horrible! Where did you ever see anything like it?"

"During the height of the epidemic I fell asleep for a few seconds,
and dreamed that Mors was sweeping down, with extended arms, to
snatch you. By the clock I had not slept quite two minutes, yet the
countenance of Mors was indelibly stamped on my memory, and now I am
transferring it to paper. You are mistaken; it is terrible, but not
hideous!" Beulah laid aside her pencil, and, leaning her elbows on
the table, sat, with her face in her hands, gazing upon the drawing.
It represented the head and shoulders of a winged female; the
countenance was inflexible, grim, and cadaverous. The large, lurid
eyes had an owlish stare; and the outspread pinions, black as night,
made the wan face yet more livid by contrast. The extended hands
were like those of a skeleton.

"What strange fancies you have! It makes the blood curdle in my
veins to look at that awful countenance," said Clara shudderingly.

"I cannot draw it as I saw it in my dream! Cannot do justice to my
ideal Mors!" answered Beulah, in a discontented tone, as she took up
the crayon and retouched the poppies which clustered in the sable
locks.

"For Heaven's sake, do not attempt to render it any more horrible!
Put it away, and finish this lovely Greek face. Oh, how I envy you
your talent for music and drawing! Nature gifted you rarely!"

"No! she merely gave me an intense love of beauty, which constantly
impels me to embody, in melody or coloring, the glorious images
which the contemplation of beauty creates in my soul. Alas! I am not
a genius. If I were I might hope to achieve an immortal renown.
Gladly would I pay its painful and dangerous price!" She placed the
drawing of Mors in her portfolio and began to touch lightly an
unfinished head of Sappho.

"Ah, Clara, how connoisseurs would carp at this portrait of the
'Lesbian Muse'! My guardian, for one, would sneer, superbly."

"Why, pray? It is perfectly beautiful!"

"Because, forsooth, it is no low-browed, swarthy Greek. I have a
penchant for high, broad, expansive foreheads, which are
antagonistic to all the ancient models of beauty. Low foreheads
characterize the antique; but who can fancy 'violet-crowned,
immortal Sappho,'

     "'With that gloriole
       Of ebon hair, on calmed brows,'

other than I have drawn her!" She held up the paper, and smiled
triumphantly.

In truth, it was a face of rare loveliness; of oval outline, with
delicate yet noble features, whose expression seemed the reflex of
the divine afflatus. The uplifted eyes beamed with the radiance of
inspiration; the full, ripe lips were just parted; the curling hair
clustered with child-like simplicity round the classic head; and the
exquisitely formed hands clasped a lyre.

"Beulah, don't you think the eyes are most too wild?" suggested
Clara timidly.

"What? for a poetess! Remember poesy hath madness in it," answered
Beulah, still looking earnestly at her drawing.

"Madness? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I believe poetry to be the highest and purest
phase of insanity. Those finely strung, curiously nervous natures
that you always find coupled with poetic endowments, are
characterized by a remarkable activity of the mental organs; and
this continued excitement and premature development of the brain
results in a disease which, under this aspect, the world offers
premiums for. Though I enjoy a fine poem as much as anybody, I
believe, in nine cases out of ten, it is the spasmodic vent of a
highly nervous system, overstrained, diseased. Yes, diseased! If it
does not result in the frantic madness of Lamb, or the final
imbecility of Southey, it is manifested in various other forms, such
as the morbid melancholy of Cowper, the bitter misanthropy of Pope,
the abnormal moodiness and misery of Byron, the unsound and
dangerous theories of Shelley, and the strange, fragmentary nature
of Coleridge."

"Oh, Beulah! what a humiliating theory! The poet placed on an
ignominious level with the nervous hypochondriac! You are the very
last person I should suppose guilty of entertaining such a degraded
estimate of human powers," interposed Clara energetically.

"I know it is customary to rave about Muses, and Parnassus, and
Helicon, and to throw the charitable mantle of 'poetic
idiosyncrasies' over all those dark spots on poetic disks. All
conceivable and inconceivable eccentricities are pardoned, as the
usual concomitants of genius; but, looking into the home lives of
many of the most distinguished poets, I have been painfully
impressed with the truth of my very unpoetic theory. Common sense
has arraigned before her august tribunal some of the socalled
'geniuses' of past ages, and the critical verdict is that much of
the famous 'fine frenzy' was bona-fide frenzy of a sadder nature."

"Do you think that Sappho's frenzy was established by the Leucadian
leap?"

"You confound the poetess with a Sappho who lived later, and threw
herself into the sea from the promontory of Leucate. Doubtless she
too had 'poetic idiosyncrasies'; but her spotless life and, I
believe, natural death, afford no indication of an unsound
intellect. It is rather immaterial, however, to--" Beulah paused
abruptly as a servant entered and approached the table, saying:

"Miss Clara, Dr. Hartwell is in the parlor and wishes to see you."

"To see me!" repeated Clara in surprise, while a rosy tinge stole
into her wan face; "to see me! No! It must be you, Beulah."

"He said Miss Sanders," persisted the servant, and Clara left the
room.

Beulah looked after her with an expression of some surprise; then
continued penciling the chords of Sappho's lyre. A few minutes
elapsed, and Clara returned with flushed cheeks and a smile of
trembling joyousness.

"Beulah, do pin my mantle on straight. I am in such a hurry. Only
think how kind Dr. Hartwell is; he has come to take me out to ride;
says I look too pale, and he thinks a ride will benefit me. That
will do, thank you."

She turned away, but Beulah rose and called out:

"Come back here and get my velvet mantle. It is quite cool, and it
will be a marvelous piece of management to ride out for your health
and come home with a cold. What! no gloves either! Upon my word,
your thoughts must be traveling over the bridge Shinevad."

"Sure enough; I had forgotten my gloves; I will get them as I go
down. Good-by." With the mantle on her arm she hurried away.

Beulah laid aside her drawing materials and prepared for her
customary evening walk. Her countenance was clouded, her lip
unsteady. Her guardian's studied coldness and avoidance pained her,
but it was not this which saddened her now. She felt that Clara was
staking the happiness of her life on the dim hope that her
attachment would be returned. She pitied the delusion and dreaded
the awakening to a true insight into his nature; to a consciousness
of the utter uncongeniality which, she fancied, barred all thought
of such a union. As she walked on these reflections gave place to
others entirely removed from Clara and her guardian; and, on
reaching the grove of pines opposite the asylum, where she had so
often wandered in days gone by, she paced slowly up and down the
"arched aisles," as she was wont to term them. It was a genuine
October afternoon, cool and sunny. The delicious haze of Indian
summer wrapped every distant object in its soft, purple veil; the
dim vistas of the forest ended in misty depths; the very air, in its
dreamy languor, resembled the atmosphere which surrounded

  "The mild-eyed, melancholy lotus-eaters"

of the far East. Through the openings, pale, golden poplars shook
down their dying leaves, and here and there along the ravine crimson
maples gleamed against the background of dark green pines. In every
direction bright-colored leaves, painted with "autumnal hectic,"
strewed the bier of the declining year. Beulah sat down on a tuft of
moss, and gathered clusters of golden-rod and purple and white
asters. She loved these wild wood-flowers much more than gaudy
exotics or rare hothouse plants. They linked her with the days of
her childhood, and now each graceful spray of golden-rod seemed a
wand of memory calling up bygone joys, griefs, and fancies. Ah, what
a hallowing glory invests our past, beckoning us back to the haunts
of the olden time! The paths our childish feet trod seem all angel-
guarded and thornless; the songs we sang then sweep the harp of
memory, making magical melody; the words carelessly spoken now
breathe a solemn, mysterious import; and faces that early went down
to the tomb smile on us still with unchanged tenderness. Aye, the
past, the long past, is all fairyland. Where our little feet were
bruised we now see only springing flowers; where childish lips drank
from some Marab verdure and garlands woo us back. Over the rustling
leaves a tiny form glided to Beulah's side; a pure infantine face
with golden curls looked up at her, and a lisping voice of unearthly
sweetness whispered in the autumn air. Here she had often brought
Lilly and filled her baby fingers with asters and goldenrod; and
gathered bright scarlet leaves to please her childish fancy. Bitter
waves had broken over her head since then; shadows had gathered
about her heart. Oh, how far off were the early years! How changed
she was; how different life and the world seemed to her now! The
flowery meadows were behind her, with the vestibule of girlhood, and
now she was a woman, with no ties to link her with any human being;
alone, and dependent only on herself. Verily she might have
exclaimed in the mournful words of Lamb:

 "All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."

She sat looking at the wild flowers in her hand; a sad, dreamy light
filled the clear gray eyes, and now and then her brow was plowed by
some troubled thought. The countenance told of a mind perplexed and
questioning. The "cloud no bigger than a man's hand" had crept up
from the horizon of faith, and now darkened her sky; but she would
not see the gathering gloom; shut her eyes resolutely to the coming
storm. As the cool October wind stirred the leaves at her feet, and
the scarlet and gold cloud-flakes faded in the west, she rose and
walked slowly homeward. She was too deeply pondering her speculative
doubts to notice Dr. Hartwell's buggy whirling along the street; did
not see his head extended, and his cold, searching glance; and of
course he believed the blindness intentional and credited it to
pique or anger. On reaching home she endeavored by singing a
favorite hymn to divert the current of her thoughts, but the shadows
were growing tenacious and would not be banished so easily. "If a
man die shall he live again?" seemed echoing on the autumn wind. She
took up her Bible and read several chapters, which she fancied would
uncloud her mind; but in vain. Restlessly she began to pace the
floor; the lamplight gleamed on a pale, troubled face. After a time
the door opened and Clara came in. She took a seat without speaking,
for she had learned to read Beulah's countenance, and saw at a
glance that she was abstracted and in no mood for conversation. When
the tea bell rang Beulah stopped suddenly in the middle of the room.

"What is the matter?" asked Clara.

"I feel as if I needed a cup of coffee, that is all. Will you join
me?"

"No; and if you take it you will not be able to close your eyes."

"Did you have a pleasant ride?" said Beulah, laying her hand on her
companion's shoulder and looking gravely down into the sweet face,
which wore an expression she had never seen there before.

"Oh, I shall never forget it! never!" murmured Clara.

"I am glad you enjoyed it; very glad. I wish the color would come
back to your cheeks. Riding is better for you now than walking." She
stooped down and pressed her lips to the wan cheek as she spoke.

"Did you walk this evening, after I left you?"

"Yes."

"What makes you look so grave?"

"A great many causes--you among the number."

"What have I done?"

"You are not so strong as I should like to see you. You have a sort
of spiritual look that I don't at all fancy."

"I dare say I shall soon be well again." This was said with an
effort, and a sigh quickly followed.

Beulah rang the bell for a cup of coffee, and, taking down a book,
drew her chair near the lamp.

"What! studying already?" cried Clara impatiently.

"And why not? Life is short at best, and rarely allows time to
master all departments of knowledge. Why should I not seize every
spare moment?"

"Oh, Beulah! though you are so much younger, you awe me. I told your
guardian to-day that you were studying yourself into a mere shadow.
He smiled, and said you were too willful to be advised. You talk to
me about not looking well! You never have had any color, and lately
you have grown very thin and hollow-eyed. I asked the doctor if he
did not think you were looking ill, and he said that you had changed
very much since the summer. Beulah, for my sake, please don't pore
over your books so incessantly." She took Beulah's hand gently in
both hers.

"Want of color is as constitutional with me as the shape of my nose.
I have always been pale, and study has no connection with it. Make
yourself perfectly easy on my account."

"You are very willful, as your guardian says!" cried Clara
impatiently.

"Yes; that is like my sallow complexion--constitutional," answered
Beulah, laughing, and opening a volume of Carlyle as she spoke.

"Oh, Beulah, I don't know what will become of you!" Tears sprang
into Clara's eyes.

"Do not be at all uneasy, my dear, dove-eyed Clara. I can take care
of myself."




CHAPTER XIX.


It was the middle of November, and the absentees who had spent their
summer at the North were all at home again. Among these were Mrs.
Asbury and her two daughters; and only a few days after their return
they called to see Beulah. She found them polished, cultivated, and
agreeable; and when, at parting, the mother kindly pressed her hand
and cordially invited her to visit them often and sociably, she felt
irresistibly drawn toward her, and promised to do so. Ere long there
came a friendly note, requesting her to spend the evening with them;
and thus, before she had known them many weeks, Beulah found herself
established on the familiar footing of an old friend. Universally
esteemed and respected, Dr. Asbury's society was sought by the most
refined circle of the city, and his house was a favorite resort for
the intellectual men and women of the community. Occupying an
enviable position in his profession, he still found leisure to
devote much of his attention to strictly literary topics, and the
honest frankness and cordiality of his manners, blended with the
instructive tone of his conversation, rendered him a general
favorite. Mrs. Asbury merited the elevated position which she so
ably filled as the wife of such a man. While due attention was given
to the education and rearing of her daughters, she admirably
discharged the claims of society, and, by a consistent adherence to
the principles of the religion she professed, checked by every means
within her power the frivolous excesses and dangerous extremes which
prevailed throughout the fashionable circles in which she moved.
Zealously, yet unostentatiously, she exerted herself in behalf of
the various charitable institutions organized to ameliorate the
sufferings of the poor in their midst; and while as a Christian she
conformed to the outward observances of her church, she faithfully
inculcated and practiced at home the pure precepts of a religion
whose effects should be the proper regulation of the heart and
charity toward the world. Her parlors were not the favorite
rendezvous where gossips met to retail slander. Refined, dignified,
gentle, and hospitable, she was a woman too rarely, alas! met with,
in so-called fashionable circles. Her husband's reputation secured
them the acquaintance of all distinguished strangers, and made their
house a great center of attraction. Beulah fully enjoyed and
appreciated the friendship thus tendered her, and soon looked upon
Dr. Asbury and his noble wife as counselors to whom in any emergency
she could unhesitatingly apply. They based their position in society
on their own worth, not the extrinsic appendages of wealth and
fashion, and readily acknowledged the claims of all who (however
humble their abode or avocation) proved themselves worthy of respect
and esteem. In their intercourse with the young teacher there was an
utter absence of that contemptible supercilious condescension which
always characterizes an ignorant and parvenu aristocracy. They
treated her as an equal in intrinsic worth, and prized her as a
friend. Helen Asbury was older than Beulah and Georgia somewhat
younger. They were sweet-tempered, gay girls, lacking their parent's
intellectual traits, but sufficiently well-informed and cultivated
to constitute them agreeable companions. Of their father's extensive
library they expressed themselves rather afraid, and frequently
bantered Beulah about the grave books she often selected from it.
Beulah found her school duties far less irksome than she had
expected, for she loved children, and soon became interested in the
individual members of her classes. From eight o'clock until three
she was closely occupied; then the labors of the day were over, and
she spent her evenings much as she had been wont ere the opening of
the session. Thus November glided quickly away, and the first of
December greeted her ere she dreamed of its approach. The Grahams
had not returned, though daily expected; and, notwithstanding two
months had elapsed without Eugene's writing, she looked forward with
intense pleasure to his expected arrival. There was one source of
constant pain for her in Dr. Hartwell's continued and complete
estrangement. Except a cold, formal bow in passing there was no
intercourse whatever; and she sorrowed bitterly over this seeming
indifference in one to whom she owed so much and was so warmly
attached. Remotely connected with this cause of disquiet was the
painful change in Clara. Like a lily suddenly transplanted to some
arid spot, she had seemed to droop since the week of her ride.
Gentle, but hopeless and depressed, she went, day after day, to her
duties at Madam St. Cymon's school, and returned at night wearied,
silent, and wan. Her step grew more feeble, her face thinner and
paler. Often Beulah gave up her music and books, and devoted the
evenings to entertaining and interesting her; but there was a
constraint and reserve about her which could not be removed.

One evening, on returning from a walk with Helen Asbury, Beulah ran
into her friend's room with a cluster of flowers. Clara sat by the
fire, with a piece of needlework in her hand; she looked listless
and sad. Beulah threw the bright golden and crimson chrysanthemums
in her lap, and, stooping down, kissed her warmly, saying:

"How is your troublesome head? Here is a flowery cure for you."

"My head does not ache quite so badly. Where did you find these
beautiful chrysanthemums?" answered Clara languidly.

"I stopped to get a piece of music from Georgia, and Helen cut them
for me. Oh, what blessed things flowers are! They have been well
styled, 'God's undertones of encouragement to the children of
earth.'"

She was standing on the hearth, warming her fingers. Clara looked up
at the dark, clear eye and delicate, fixed lips before her, and
sighed involuntarily. Beulah knelt on the carpet, and, throwing one
arm around her companion, said earnestly:

"My dear Clara, what saddens you to-night? Can't you tell me?"

A hasty knock at the door gave no time for an answer. A servant
looked in.

"Is Miss Beulah Benton here? There is a gentleman in the parlor to
see her; here is the card."

Beulah still knelt on the floor and held out her hand indifferently.
The card was given, and she sprang up with a cry of joy.

"Oh, it is Eugene!"

At the door of the parlor she paused and pressed her hand tightly to
her bounding heart. A tall form stood before the grate, and a glance
discovered to her a dark mustache and heavy beard; still it must be
Eugene, and, extending her arms unconsciously, she exclaimed:

"Eugene! Eugene! Have you come at last?"

He started, looked up, and hastened toward her. Her arms suddenly
dropped to her side, and only their hands met in a firm, tight
clasp. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence, each noting
the changes which time had wrought. Then he said slowly:

"I should not have known you, Beulah. You have altered
surprisingly." His eyes wandered wonderingly over her features. She
was pale and breathless; her lips trembled violently, and there was
a strange gleam in her large, eager eyes. She did not reply, but
stood looking up intently into his handsome face. Then she shivered;
the long, black lashes drooped; her white fingers relaxed their
clasp of his, and she sat down on the sofa near. Ah! her womanly
intuitions, infallible as Ithuriel's spear, told her that he was no
longer the Eugene she had loved so devotedly. An iron hand seemed to
clutch her heart, and again a shudder crept over her as he seated
himself beside her, saying:

"I am very much pained to find you here. I am just from Dr.
Hartwell's, where I expected to see you."

He paused, for something about her face rather disconcerted him, and
he took her hand again in his.

"How could you expect to find me there, after reading my last
letter?"

"I still hoped that your good sense would prevent your taking such
an extraordinary step."

She smiled icily, and answered:

"Is it so extraordinary, then, that I should desire to maintain my
self-respect?"

"It would not have been compromised by remaining where you were."

"I should scorn myself were I willing to live idly on the bounty of
one upon whom I have no claim."

"You are morbidly fastidious, Beulah."

Her eyes flashed, and, snatching her hand from his, she asked, with
curling lips: "Eugene, if I prefer to teach for a support, why
should you object?"

"Simply because you are unnecessarily lowering yourself in the
estimation of the community. You will find that the circle which a
residence under Dr. Hartwell's roof gave you the entree of, will
look down with contempt upon a subordinate teacher in a public
school--"

"Then, thank Heaven, I am forever shut out from that circle! Is my
merit to be gauged by the cost of my clothes or the number of
fashionable parties I attend, think you?"

"Assuredly, Beulah, the things you value so lightly are the
standards of worth and gentility in the community you live in, as
you will unfortunately find."

She looked at him steadily, with grief, and scorn, and wonder in her
deep, searching eyes, as she exclaimed:

"Oh, Eugene! what has changed you so, since the bygone years when in
the asylum we talked of the future? of laboring, conquering, and
earning homes for ourselves! Oh, has the foul atmosphere of foreign
lands extinguished all your selfrespect? Do you come back sordid and
sycophantic, and the slave of opinions you would once have utterly
detested? Have you narrowed your soul and bowed down before the
miserable standard which every genuine, manly spirit must loathe?
Oh! has it come to this? Has it come to this?" Her voice was broken
and bitter, scalding tears of shame and grief gushed over her
cheeks.

"This fierce recrimination and unmerited tirade is not exactly the
welcome I was prepared to expect," returned Eugene haughtily; and,
rising, he took his hat from the table. She rose also, but made no
effort to detain him, and leaned her head against the mantelpiece.
He watched her a moment, then approached and put his hand on her
shoulder.

"Beulah, as a man I see the world and its relations in a far
different light from that in which I viewed it while a boy."

"It is utterly superfluous to tell me so!" replied Beulah bitterly.

"I grapple with realities now, and am forced to admit the expediency
of prudent policy. You refuse to see things in their actual
existence and prefer toying with romantic dreams. Beulah, I have
awakened from these since we parted."

She put up her hand deprecatingly, and answered:

"Then let me dream on! let me dream on!"

"Beulah, I have been sadly mistaken in my estimate of your
character. I could not have believed there was so much fierce
obstinacy, so much stubborn pride, in your nature."

She instantly lifted her head, and their eyes met. Other days came
back to both; early confidence, mutual love and dependence. For a
moment his nobler impulses prevailed, and, with an unsteady lip, he
passed his arm quickly around her. But she drew coldly back, and
said:

"It seems we are mutually disappointed in each other. I regret that
the discharge of my duty should so far conflict with your opinions
and standard of propriety as to alienate us so completely as it
seems likely to do. All my life I have looked to you for guidance
and counsel; but to-night you have shaken my trust, and henceforth I
must depend upon my own heart to support me in my work. Oh, Eugene!
friend of my childhood! beware lest you sink yourself in your own
estimation! Oh, for days, and months, and years I have pictured the
hour of your return, little dreaming that it would prove one of the
saddest of my life! I have always looked up to you. Oh, Eugene!
Eugene! you are not what you were! Do not! oh, do not make me pity
you! That would kill me!" She covered her face with her hands, and
shuddered convulsively.

"I am not so changed as you think me," returned Eugene proudly.

"Then, in earlier years I was miserably deceived in your character.
For the sake of wealth, and what the world calls 'position,' you
have sold yourself. In lieu of his gold and influence Mr. Graham has
your will, your conscience. Ah, Eugene! how can you bear to be a
mere tool in his hands?"

"Beulah, your language, your insinuations are unpardonable! By
Heaven, no one but yourself might utter them, and not even you can
do so with impunity! If you choose to suffer your foolish pride and
childish whims to debar you from the enviable position in society
which Dr. Hartwell would gladly confer on you--why, you have only
yourself to censure. But my situation in Mr. Graham's family has
long been established. He has ever regarded me as his son, treated
me as such, and as such I feel bound to be guided by him in my
choice of a profession. Beulah, I have loved you well, but such
another exhibition of scorn and bitterness will indeed alienate us.
Since you have set aside my views and counsel in the matter of
teaching, I shall not again refer to it, I promise you. I have no
longer the wish to control your actions, even had I the power. But,
remember, since the hour you stood beside your father's grave,
leaning on me, I have been constantly your friend. My expostulations
were for what I considered your good. Beulah, I am still, to you,
the Eugene of other days. It will be your own fault if the sanctity
of our friendship is not maintained."

"It shall not be my fault, Eugene." She hastily held out her hand.
He clasped it in his, and, as if dismissing the topics which had
proved so stormy, drew her to a seat, and said composedly:

"Come, tell me what you have been doing with yourself these long
five years, which have changed you so. I have heard already of your
heroism in nursing the sick, during the late awful season of
pestilence and death."

For an hour they talked on indifferent themes, each feeling that the
other was veiling the true impulses of the heart, and finally Eugene
rose to go.

"How is Cornelia's health now?" asked Beulah, as they stood up
before the fire.

"About the same. She never complains, but does not look like
herself. Apropos! she intrusted a note to me, for you, which I had
quite forgotten. Here it is. Miss Dupres is with her for the winter;
at least, a part of it. Cornelia will come and see you in a day or
two, she requested me to say; and I do hope, Beulah, that you will
visit her often; she has taken a great fancy to you."

"How long since?" answered Beulah, with an incredulous smile.

"Since she met you at a concert, I believe. By the way, we are very
musical at our house, and promise ourselves some delightful evenings
this winter. You must hear Antoinette Dupres sing; she is equal to
the best prima-donna of Italy. Do you practice much?"

"Yes."

"Well, I must go. When shall I see you again?"

"Whenever you feel disposed to come; and I hope that will be often.
Eugene, you were a poor correspondent; see that you prove a better
visitor."

"Yes, I will. I have a thousand things to say, but scarcely know
where to commence. You are always at home in the evenings, I
suppose?"

"Yes: except occasionally when I am with the Asburys."

"Do you see much of them?"

"Yes; a good deal."

"I am glad to hear it; they move in the very first circle. Now,
Beulah, don't be offended if I ask what is the matter with Dr.
Hartwell? How did you displease him?"

"Just as I displeased you; by deciding to teach. Eugene, it pains me
very much that he should treat me as he does, but it is utterly out
of my power to rectify the evil."

"He told me that he knew nothing of your movements or plans. I wish,
for your sake, you could be reconciled."

"We will be some day. I must wait patiently," said she, with a sigh.

"Beulah, I don't like that troubled look about your mouth. What is
the matter? Can I in any way remove it? It is connected with me,
even remotely? My dear Beulah, do not shrink from me."

"Nothing is the matter that you can rectify," said she gravely.

"Something is the matter, then, which I may not know?"

"Yes."

"And you will not trust me?"

"It is not a question of trust, Eugene."

"You think I cannot help you?"

"You cannot help me, I am sure." "Well, I will see you again to-
morrow; till then, good-by." They shook hands, and she went back to
her own room. Cornelia's note contained an invitation to spend the
next evening with them; she would call as soon as possible. She put
it aside, and, throwing her arms on the mantelpiece, bowed her head
upon them. This, then, was the hour which, for five years, she had
anticipated as an occasion of unmixed delight. She was not weeping;
no, the eyes were dry and the lips firmly fixed. She was thinking of
the handsome face which a little while before was beside her;
thinking, with keen agony, of footprints there which she had never
dreamed of seeing; they were very slight, yet unmistakable--the fell
signet of dissipation. Above all, she read it in the eyes, which
once looked so fearlessly into hers. She knew he did not imagine for
an instant that she suspected it; and of all the bitter cups which
eighteen years had proffered, this was by far the blackest. It was
like a hideous dream, and she groaned, and passed her hand over her
brow, as if to sweep it all away. Poor Beulah! the idol of her
girlhood fell from its pedestal and lay in crumbling ruins at her
feet. In this hour of reunion she saw clearly into her own heart;
she did not love him, save as a friend, as a brother. She was forced
to perceive her own superiority; could she love a man whom she did
not revere? Verily, she felt now that she did not love Eugene. There
was a feeling of contempt for his weakness, yet she could not bear
to see him other than she had hoped. How utterly he had disappointed
her? Could it be possible that he had fallen so low as to dissipate
habitually? This she would not believe; he was still too noble for
such a disgraceful course. She felt a soft touch on her shoulder,
and raised her sad, tearless face. Clara, with her ethereal,
spiritual countenance, stood on the hearth. "Do I disturb you?" said
she timidly.

"No; I am glad you came. I was listening to cold, bitter, bitter
thoughts. Sit down, Clara; you look fatigued."

"Oh, Beulah! I am weary in body and spirit; I have no energy; my
very existence is a burden to me."

"Clara, it is weak to talk so. Rouse yourself, and fulfill the
destiny for which you were created."

"I have no destiny but that of loneliness and misery."

"Our situations are similar, yet I never repine as you do."

"You have not the same cause. You are self-reliant; need no society
to conduce to your happiness; your heart is bound up in your books."

"Where yours had better have been," answered Beulah. She walked
across the floor several times, then said impressively, as she threw
her arm round Clara's waist:

"Crush it; crush it; if you crush your heart in the effort."

A moan escaped Clara's lips, and she hid her face against her
friend's shoulder.

"I have known it since the night of your grandfather's death. If you
want to be happy and useful, crush it out of your heart."

"I have tried, and cannot."

"Oh, but you can! I tell you there is nothing a woman cannot do,
provided she puts on the armor of duty and unsheathes the sword of a
strong, unbending will. Of course, you can do it, if you will."

"Wait till you feel as I do, Beulah, and it will not seem so light a
task."

"That will never happen. If I live till the next geological period I
never shall love anybody as insanely as you love. Why, Clara, don't
you see that you are wrecking your happiness? What strange
infatuation has seized you?"

"I know now that it is perfectly hopeless," said Clara calmly.

"You might have known it from the first."

"No; it is but recently that the barrier has risen."

"What barrier?" asked Beulah curiously.

"For Heaven's sake, Beulah, do not mock me! You know too well what
separates us."

"Yes; utter uncongeniality."

Clara raised her head, looked into the honest face before her, and
answered:

"If that were all, I could yet hope to merit his love; but you know
that is not so. You must know that he has no love to bestow."

Beulah's face seemed instantly steeled. A grayish hue crept over it;
and, drawing her slender form to its full height, she replied, with
haughty coldness:

"What do you mean? I can only conjecture."

"Beulah, you know he loves you!" cried Clara, with a strangely quiet
smile.

"Clara Sanders, never say that again as long as you live; for there
is not the shadow of truth in it."

"Ah, I would not believe it till it was forced upon me. The heart
bars itself a long time to painful truths! I have looked at you, and
wondered whether you could be ignorant of what I saw so clearly. I
believe you are honest in what you say. I know that you are; but it
is nevertheless true. I saw it the evening I went to ride. He loves
you, whether you see it or not. And, moreover, the world has begun
to join your names. I have heard, more than once, that he educated
you with the intention of marrying you; and recently it has been
rumored that the marriage would take place very soon. Do not be hurt
with me, Beulah! I think it is right that you should know all this."

"It is utterly false from beginning to end! He never had such a
thought! never! never!" cried Beulah, striking her clenched hand
heavily on the table.

"Why, then, was he so anxious to prevent your teaching?"

"Because he is generous and kind, and fancied it was a life of
hardship, which I could escape by accepting his offer to adopt me.
Your supposition is perfectly ridiculous. He is double my age. A
stern, taciturn man. What could possibly attract him to one whom he
looks upon as a mere child? And, moreover, he is a worshiper of
beauty! Now, it is an indisputable fact that I am anything but a
beauty! Oh, the idea is absurd beyond all degree. Never mention it
to me again. I tell you solemnly, Clara, your jealous fancy has run
away with your common sense."

A sad, incredulous smile flitted over Clara's face; but she made no
reply.

"Clara, rouse yourself from this weak dream. Oh, where is your
pride--your womanly pride--your self-respect? Is your life to be
aimless and dreary because of an unrequited attachment? Shake it
off! Rise above it! Destroy it! Oh, it makes the blood tingle in my
veins to think of your wasting your energies and hopes in love for
one who is so utterly indifferent to you. Much as I love you, Clara,
had I the power to make you his wife to-morrow, I would rather see
you borne to your grave. You know nothing of his fitful, moody
nature; his tyrannical will. You could not be happy with him; you
would see how utterly unsuited you are."

"Are you acquainted with the circumstances of his early life and
ill-fated marriage?" asked Clara, in a low, passionless tone.

"No; he never alluded to his marriage in any way. Long as I lived in
his house there was no mention of his wife's name, and I should
never have known of his marriage but from his sister."

"It was a most unhappy marriage," said Clara musingly.

"So I conjectured from his studious avoidance of all allusion to
it."

"His wife was very, very beautiful; I saw her once when I was a
child," continued Clara.

"Of course she must have been, for he could not love one who was
not."

"She lived but a few months; yet even in that short time they had
become utterly estranged, and she died of a broken heart. There is
some mystery connected with it; they were separated."

"Separated!" cried Beulah in amazement.

"Yes, separated; she died in New Orleans, I believe."

"And yet you profess to love him! A man who broke his wife's heart,"
said Beulah, with a touch of scorn.

"No; you do his noble nature injustice. He is incapable of such a
course. Even a censorious world acquitted him of unkindness."

"And heaped contumely on the unhappy victim, eh?" rejoined Beulah.

"Her conduct was not irreproachable, it has been whispered."

"Aye, whispered by slanderous tongues! Not openly avowed, to admit
of denial and refutation! I wonder the curse of Gomorrah does not
descend on this gossiping, libelous community."

"No one seems to know anything definite about the affair; though I
have often heard it commented upon and wondered over."

"Clara, let it be buried henceforth. Neither you nor I have any
right to discuss and censure what neither of us know anything about.
Dr. Hartwell has been my best and truest friend. I love and honor
him; his faults are his own, and only his Maker has the right to
balance his actions. Once for all, let the subject drop." Beulah
compressed her lips with an expression which her companion very well
understood. Soon after the latter withdrew, and, leaning her arms on
the table near her, Beulah sank into a reverie which was far from
pleasant. Dismissing the unsatisfactory theme of her guardian's
idiosyncrasies, her thoughts immediately reverted to Eugene, and the
revolution which five years had effected in his character.

In the afternoon of the following day she was engaged with her
drawing, when a succession of quick raps at her door forced an
impatient "Come in" from her lips. The door opened, and she rose
involuntarily as the queenly form of Cornelia Graham stood before
her. With a slow, stately tread she approached, and, extending her
hand, said unconcernedly:

"I have waived ceremony, you see, and come up to your room."

"How are you?" said Beulah, as they shook hands and seated
themselves.

"Just as usual. How did you contrive to escape the plague?"

"By resolving not to have it, I believe."

"You have a wan, sickly look, I think."

"So have you, I am sure. I hoped that you would come home strong and
well." Beulah noted, with a feeling of compassion, the thin, hollow
cheeks and sunken, yet burning, eyes before her. Cornelia bit her
lip, and asked haughtily:

"Who told you that I was not well?"

"Your countenance would tell me, if I had never heard it from
others," replied Beulah, with an instantaneous recollection of her
guardian's warning.

"Did you receive my note yesterday?"

"Yes. I am obliged by your invitation, but cannot accept it."

"So I supposed, and therefore came to make sure of you. You are too
proud to come until all the family call upon you, eh?"

"No; only people who consider themselves inferior are on the watch
for slights, and scrupulously exact the minutest requirements of
etiquette. On the plane of equality these barriers melt away."

As Beulah spoke she looked steadily into the searching, black eyes,
which seemed striving to read her soul. An expression of pleasure
lighted the sallow face, and the haughty lines about the beautiful
mouth melted into a half-smile.

"Then you have not forgiven my rudeness during early schooldays?"

"I had nothing to forgive. I had forgotten the affair until you
spoke."

"Then, why will you not come?"

"For reasons which would not be removed by a recapitulation."

"And you positively will not come?"

"Not this evening. Another time I certainly will come with
pleasure."

"Say to-morrow, then."

"To-morrow I shall be engaged."

"Where? Excuse my pertinacity."

"At Dr. Asbury's. I have promised to practice some duets with
Helen."

"Do you play well, Beulah? Are you a good musician?"

"Yes."

Cornelia mused a moment, and then said slowly, as if watching the
effect of her question:

"You have seen Eugene, of course?"

"Yes."

"He has changed very much in his appearance, has he not?"

"More than I was prepared to expect."

"He is to be a merchant, like my father."

"So he wrote me."

"You endeavored to dissuade him from complying with my father's
wishes, did you not?"

"Yes; most earnestly," answered Beulah gravely.

"Beulah Benton, I like you! You are honest indeed. At last I find
one who is." With a sudden impulse she laid her white, jeweled hand
on Beulah's.

"Is honesty, or, rather, candor, so very rare, Cornelia?"

"Come out from your 'loop-hole of retreat,' into the world, and you
can easily answer your own question."

"You seem to have looked on human nature through misanthropic
lenses."

"Yes; I bought a pair of spectacles, for which I paid a most
exorbitant price! but they were labeled 'experience'!" She smiled
frigidly.

"You do not seem to have enjoyed your tour particularly."

"Yes, I did; but one is glad to rest sometimes. I may yet prove a
second Bayard Taylor, notwithstanding. I should like you for a
companion. You would not sicken me with stereotyped nonsense."

Her delicate fingers folded themselves about Beulah's, who could not
bring herself to withdraw her hand.

"And, sure enough, you would not be adopted? Do you mean to adhere
to your determination, and maintain yourself by teaching?"

"I do."

"And I admire you for it! Beulah, you must get over your dislike to
me."

"I do not dislike you, Cornelia."

"Thank you for your negative preference," returned Cornelia, rather
amused at her companion's straightforward manner. Then, with a
sudden contraction of her brow, she added:

"I am not so bearish as they give me credit for?"

"I never heard you called so."

"Ah! that is because you do not enter the enchanted circle of 'our
clique.' During morning calls I am flattered, cajoled, and fawned
upon. Their carriages are not out of hearing before my friends and
admirers, like hungry harpies, pounce upon my character, manners,
and appearance, with most laudable zest and activity. Wait till you
have been initiated into my coterie of fashionable friends! Why, the
battle of Marengo was a farce in comparison with the havoc they can
effect in the space of a morning among the characters of their
select visiting list! What a precious age of backbiting we city
belles live in!" She spoke with an air of intolerable scorn.

"As a prominent member of this circle, why do you not attempt to
rectify this spreading evil? You might effect lasting good."

"I am no Hercules, to turn the Peneus of reform through the Augean
realms of society," answered Cornelia, with an impatient gesture;
and, rising, she drew on her glove. Beulah looked up at her, and
pitied the joyless, cynical nature, which gave an almost repulsively
austere expression to the regular, faultless features.

"Beulah, will you come on Saturday morning and spend an hour or so
with me?"

"No; I have a music lesson to give; but if you will be at home in
the afternoon, I will come with pleasure."

"I shall expect you, then. You were drawing when I came in; are you
fond of it?" As she spoke she took up a piece which was nearly
completed.

"Yes; but you will find my sketches very crude."

"Who taught you to draw?"

"I have had several teachers. All rather indifferent, however."

"Where did you see a St. Cecilia? There is too much breadth of brow
here," continued Cornelia, with a curious glance at the young
teacher.

"Yes; I deviated from the original intentionally. I copied it from a
collection of heads which Georgia Asbury brought from the North."

"I have a number of choice paintings, which I selected in Europe.
Any that you may fancy are at your service for models."

"Thank you. I shall be glad to avail myself of the privilege."

"Good-by. You will come Saturday?"

"Yes; if nothing occurs to prevent, I will come in the afternoon."
Beulah pressed her offered hand, and saw her descend the steps with
a feeling of pity which she could not exactly analyze. Passing by
the window, she glanced down, and paused to look upon an elegant
carriage standing before the door. The day was cold, but the top was
thrown back, and on one of the cushions sat, or, rather, reclined, a
richly dressed and very beautiful girl. As Beulah leaned out to
examine the lovely stranger more closely Cornelia appeared. The
driver opened the low door, and, as Cornelia stepped in, the young
lady, who was Miss Dupres, of course, ejaculated rather peevishly:

"You stayed an age!"

"Drive down the Bay Road, Wilson," was Cornelia's reply, and, as she
folded her rich cloak about her, the carriage was whirled away.

Beulah went back to the fire, warmed her fingers, and resumed her
drawing, thinking that she would not willingly change places with
the petted child of wealth and luxury.




CHAPTER XX.


It was a dreary Saturday afternoon, but Beulah wrapped a warm shawl
about her, and set out to pay the promised visit. The air was damp
and raw, and leaden, marbled clouds hung in the sky. Mr. Graham's
house was situated in the fashionable part of the city, near Mr.
Grayson's residence, and, as Beulah passed the crouching lions, she
quickened her steps, to escape the painful reminiscences which they
recalled. In answer to her ring, the servant ushered her into the
parlors, furnished with almost Oriental magnificence, and was
retiring, when she gave her name.

"You are Miss Benton, then. I have orders to show you up at once to
Miss Cornelia's room. She has seen no visitors today. This way,
miss, if you please."

He led the way, up an easy, spiral flight of steps, to the door of a
room, which he threw open. Cornelia was sitting in a large cushioned
chair by the fire, with a papier-mache writing-desk beside her,
covered with letters. There was a bright fire in the grate, and the
ruddy haze, together with the reflection from the crimson damask
curtains, gave a dim, luxurious aspect to the chamber, which in
every respect betokened the fastidious taste of a petted invalid.
Clad in a dark silk robe-de-chambre, with her cheek pressed against
the blue velvet lining of the chair, Cornelia's face wore a sickly,
sallow hue, which was rendered more palpable by her black,
glittering eyes and jetty hair. She eagerly held out her hand, and a
smile of sincere pleasure parted the lips, which a paroxysm of pain
seemed to have just compressed.

"It is such a gloomy day I feared you would not come. Take off your
bonnet and shawl."

"It is not so gloomy out as you imagine," said Beulah.

"What? not, with dull clouds, and a stiff, raw, northeaster? I
looked out of the window a while since, and the bay looked just as I
have seen the North Sea, gray and cold. Why don't you take off your
bonnet?"

"Because I can only sit with you a short time," answered Beulah,
resisting the attempt made to take her shawl.

"Why can't you spend the evening?" said Cornelia, frowning.

"I promised not to remain more than an hour."

"Promised whom?"

"Clara Sanders. She is sick; unable to leave her room; and is lonely
when I am away."

"My case is analogous; so I will put myself on the charity list for
once. I have not been downstairs for two days."

"But you have everything to interest you even here," returned
Beulah, glancing around at the numerous paintings and engravings
which were suspended on all sides, while ivory, marble, and bronze
statuettes were scattered in profusion about the room. Cornelia
followed her glance, and asked, with a joyless smile:

"Do you suppose those bits of stone and canvas satisfy me?"

"Certainly. 'A thing of beauty should be a joy forever.' With all
these, and your library, surely you are never lonely."

"Pshaw! they tire me immensely. Sometimes the cramped positions and
unwinking eyes of that 'Holy Family' there over the chimneypiece
make me perfectly nervous."

"You must be morbidly sensitive at such times."

"Why? Do you never feel restless and dissatisfied without any
adequate reason?"

"No, never."

"And yet you have few sources of pleasure," said Cornelia, in a
musing tone, as her eyes wandered over her visitor's plain attire.

"No! my sources of enjoyment are as varied and extended as the
universe."

"I should like you to map them. Shut up all day with a parcel of
rude, stupid children, and released only to be caged again in a
small room in a second-rate boarding house. Really, I should fancy
they were limited indeed."

"No; I enjoy my brisk walk to school in the morning; the children
are neither so dull nor so bearish as you seem to imagine. I am
attached to many of them, and do not feel the day to be very long.
At three I hurry home, get my dinner, practice, and draw or sew till
the shadows begin to dim my eyes; then I walk until the lamps are
lighted, find numberless things to interest me, even in a winter's
walk, and go back to my room refreshed and eager to get to my books.
Once seated with them, what portion of the earth is there that I may
not visit, from the crystal Arctic temples of Odin and Thor to the
groves of Abyssinia? In this age of travel and cheap books I can sit
in my room in the third story, and, by my lamplight, see all, and
immeasurably more, than you, who have been traveling for eighteen
months. Wherever I go I find sources of enjoyment; even the pictures
in bookstores give me pleasure and contribute food for thought; and
when, as now, I am surrounded by all that wealth can collect, I
admire, and enjoy the beauty and elegance as much as if I owned it
all. So you see that my enjoyments are as varied as the universe
itself."

"Eureka!" murmured Cornelia, eying her companion curiously, "Eureka!
you shall have the tallest case in the British Museum, or Barnum's,
just as your national antipathies may incline you."

"What impresses you as so singular in my mode of life?" asked Beulah
rather dryly.

"Your philosophic contentment, which I believe you are too candid to
counterfeit. Your easy solution of that great human riddle given the
world, to find happiness. The Athenian and Alexandrian schools
dwindle into nothingness. Commend me to your 'categories,' O Queen
of Philosophy." She withdrew her searching eyes, and fixed them
moodily on the fire, twirling the tassel of her robe as she mused.

"You are most egregiously mistaken, Cornelia, if you have been led
to suppose, from what I said a moment since, that I am never
troubled about anything. I merely referred to enjoyments derived
from various sources, open alike to rich and poor. There are Marahs
hidden in every path; no matter whether the draught is taken in
jeweled goblets or unpolished gourds."

"Sometimes, then, you are 'blued' most dismally, like the balance of
unphilosophic men and women, eh?"

"Occasionally my mind is very much perplexed and disturbed; not
exactly 'blued,' as you express it, but dimmed, clouded."

"What clouds it? Will you tell me?" said Cornelia eagerly.

"The struggle to see that which I suppose it never was intended I
should see."

"I don't understand you," said Cornelia, knitting her brows.

"Nor would you even were I to particularize."

"Perhaps I am not so very obtuse as you fancy."

"At any rate, I shall not enter into detail," answered Beulah,
smiling quietly at the effect of her words.

"Do you ever weary of your books?" Cornelia leaned forward, and bent
a long searching look on her guest's countenance as she spoke.

"Not of my books; but sometimes, nay, frequently, of the thoughts
they excite."

"A distinction without a difference," said the invalid coldly.

"A true distinction, nevertheless," maintained Beulah.

"Be good enough to explain it then."

"For instance, I read Carlyle for hours, without the slightest
sensation of weariness. Midnight forces me to lay the book
reluctantly aside, and then the myriad conjectures and inquiries
which I am conscious of, as arising from those same pages, weary me
beyond all degrees of endurance."

"And these conjectures cloud your mind?" said Cornelia, with a half-
smile breaking over her face.

"I did not say so; I merely gave it as an illustration of what you
professed not to understand."

"I see your citadel of reserve and mistrust cannot be carried by
storm," answered Cornelia petulantly.

Before Beulah could reply, a servant entered, and addressed
Cornelia.

"Your mother wants to show your Paris hat and veil, and handsomest
point-lace set, to Mrs. Vincent, and Miss Julia says, can't she run
up and see you a minute?"

A sneering smile accompanied the contemptuous answer, which was
delivered in no particularly gentle manner.

"This is the second time those 'particular friends' of ours have
called to inspect my winter outfit. Take down my entire wardrobe to
them: dresses, bonnets, mantles, laces, handkerchiefs, ribbons,
shawls--nay, gloves and slippers, for there is a 'new style' of
catch on one, and of bows and buckles on the other. Do you hear me,
Mary? don't leave a rag of my French finery behind. Let the
examination be sufficiently complete this time. Don't forget the
Indian shawl and the opera cloak and hood, nor that ornamental comb,
named after the last popular danseuse; and tell Miss Julia she will
please excuse me--another time I will try to see her. Say I am
engaged."

Some moments elapsed, during which Mary opened and shut a number of
drawers and boxes, and finally disappeared, staggering beneath a
load of silks, velvets, and laces. As the door closed behind her,
Cornelia smoothed her brow, and said apologetically:

"Doubtless it seems a mere trifle of accommodation to display all
that mass of finery to their eagerly curious eyes; but I assure you
that, though I have not been at home quite a week, those things have
vacated their places at least twenty times for inspection; and this
ridiculous mania for the 'latest style' disgusts me beyond measure.
I tell you, the majority of the women in this town think of nothing
else. I have not yet looked over my wardrobe myself. Mother selected
it in Paris, and I did not trouble myself to examine it when it was
unpacked."

Beulah smiled, but offered no comment. Cornelia suddenly sank back
in her chair, and said hastily:

"Give me that vial on the bureau! Quick! quick!"

Beulah sprang up and handed her the vial, which she put to her lips.
She was ghastly pale, her features writhed, and heavy drops
glistened on her brow, corrugated by severe pain.

"Can I do anything for you, Cornelia? Shall I call your mother?"

"No. You may fan me, if you will." She moaned and closed her eyes.

Beulah seized a fan, and did as requested, now and then wiping away
the moisture which gathered around the lips and forehead. Gradually
the paroxysm passed off, and, opening her eyes, she said wearily:

"That will do, thank you. Now pour out a glass of water from the
pitcher yonder."

Beulah handed her the draught, saying, with surprise:

"Sitting wrapped up by a fire and drinking ice-water!"

"Yes; I use ice-water the year round. Please touch the bellrope,
will you?"

As Beulah resumed her seat, Cornelia added, with a forced laugh:

"You look as if you pitied me."

"I do, most sincerely. Do you suffer in this way often?"

"Yes--no--well, when I am prudent I don't." Then, turning to the
servant, who stood at the door, she continued: "John, go to Dr.
Hartwell's office (not his house, mind you), and leave word that he
must come here before night. Do you understand? Shut the door-stop!
send up some coal!"

She drew her chair closer to the fire, and, extending her slippered
feet on the marble hearth, said:

"I have suffered more during the last three days than in six months
before. Last night I did not close my eyes--and Dr. Hartwell must
prepare me some medicine. What is the matter with Clara Sanders? She
looks like an alabaster image!"

"She has never recovered entirely from that attack of yellow fever;
and a day or two ago she took cold, and has had constant fever
since. I suppose she will see the doctor while I am here. I feel
anxious about her."

"She looks ethereal, as if refined for a translation to heaven,"
continued Cornelia musingly; then suddenly lifting her head, she
listened an instant, and exclaimed angrily: "It is very strange that
I am not to have an hour's peace and enjoyment with you, without--"

The door opened, and a graceful form and lovely face approached the
fireplace. "Miss Benton, suffer me to introduce my cousin, Miss
Dupres," said Cornelia very coldly.

The young lady just inclined her head, and proceeded to scan
Beulah's countenance and dress, with a degree of cool impertinence
which was absolutely amusing. Evidently, however, Cornelia saw
nothing amusing in this ill-bred stare, for she pushed a light chair
impatiently toward her, saying:

"Sit down, Antoinette!"

She threw herself into the seat with a sort of languid grace, and
said, in the most musical of voices:

"Why would not you see Julia Vincent? She was so much disappointed."

"Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her. Be good
enough to move your chair to one side, if you please," snapped
Cornelia.

"That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you. We
are all to spend the evening with her next week--you, and your
brother, and I. A mere 'sociable,' she says." She had been
admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and
now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had
been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky
auburn curls. Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was
such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls--blank, soulless,
expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of
self-satisfaction. Beulah's quiet dignity failed to repel the
continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her
shawl, she rose.

"Don't go," said Cornelia earnestly.

"I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon."

"When will you come again?" Cornelia took her hand and pressed it
warmly.

"I really do not know. I hope you will be better soon."

"Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening
with us. What shall I tell him?"

"Nothing."

"I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this
prison-house of mine. Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and
sit with me?"

"That depends upon circumstances. If you are sick and lonely, I
certainly will. Good-by."

"Good-by, Beulah." The haughty heiress drew the orphan's face down
to hers and kissed her cordially. Not a little surprised by this
unexpected demonstration of affection in one so cold and stately,
Beulah bowed distantly to the cousin, who returned the salutation
still more distantly, and, hastening down the steps, was glad to
find herself once more under the dome of sky, gray and rainy though
it was. The wind sighed and sobbed through the streets, and a few
cold drops fell, as she approached Mrs. Hoyt's. Quickening her
steps, she ran in by a side entrance, and was soon at Clara's room.
The door stood open, and, with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she
entered, little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented
herself with the hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table,
preparing some medicine, and looked up involuntarily as she came in.
His eyes lightened instantly, but he merely said:

"Good-evening, Beulah."

The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and, crossing the
room at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand.

"How are you, sir?"

He did not, take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said:

"You are an admirable nurse, to go off and leave your sick friend."

Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and, retreating to the
hearth, began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with
indifference:

"I have just left another of your patients. Cornelia Graham has been
worse than usual for a day or two. Clara, I will put away my outdoor
wrappings and be with you presently." She retired to her own room,
and, leaning against the window, where the rain was now pattering
drearily, she murmured faintly:

"Will he always treat me so? Have I lost my friend forever? Once he
was so different; so kind, even in his sternness!" A tear hung upon
her lash, and fell on her hand; she brushed it hastily away, and
stood thinking over this alienation, so painful and unnatural, when
she heard her guardian close Clara's door and walk across the hall
to the head of the stairs. She waited a while, until she thought he
had reached his buggy, and slowly proceeded to Clara's room. Her
eyes were fixed on the floor and her hand was already on the bolt of
the door, when a deep voice startled her.

"Beulah!"

She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of
grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes that looked into hers
with such misty splendor; and, provoked at her own emotion, she
asked coldly:

"What do you want, sir?"

He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt
the hot blood rush into her usually cold, pale face, and, despite
her efforts to seem perfectly indifferent, her eyelids and lips
would tremble. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke
very gently.

"Child, have you been ill? You look wretched. What ails you,
Beulah?"

"Nothing, sir."

"That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me!"

"I tell you I am as well as usual," cried she impatiently, yet her
voice faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart.
The return of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice,
affected her more than she was willing he should see.

"Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid."

"I am so still," she returned stoutly, though tears began to gather
in her eyes.

"No, child; already the world has changed you."

A shadow fell over his face, and the sad eyes were like clouded
stars.

"You know better, sir! I am just what I always was! It is you who
are so changed! Once you were my friend; my guardian! Once you were
kind, and guided me; but now you are stern, and bitter, and
tyrannical!" She spoke passionately, and tears, which she bravely
tried to force back, rolled swiftly down her cheeks. His light touch
on her shoulder tightened until it seemed a hand of steel, and, with
an expression which she never forgot, even in after years, he
answered:

"Tyrannical! Not to you, child!"

"Yes, sir; tyrannical! cruelly tyrannical! Because I dared to think
and act for myself, you have cast off--utterly! You try to see how
cold and distant you can be; and show me that you don't care whether
I live or die, so long as I choose to be independent of you. I did
not believe that you could ever be so ungenerous!" She looked up at
him with swimming eyes. He smiled down into her tearful face, and
asked:

"Why did you defy me, child?"

"I did not, sir, until you treated me worse than the servants; worse
than you did Charon even."

"How?"

"How, indeed! You left me in your own house without one word of
good-by, when you expected to be absent an indefinite time. Did you
suppose that I would remain there an hour after such treatment?"

He smiled again, and said in the low, musical tone which she had
always found so difficult to resist.

"Come back, my child. Come back to me!"

"Never, sir! never!" answered she resolutely.

A stony hue settled on his face; the lips seemed instantly frozen,
and, removing his hand from her shoulder, he said, as if talking to
a perfect stranger: "See that Clara Sanders needs nothing; she is
far from being well."

He left her; but her heart conquered for an instant, and she sprang
down two steps and caught his hand. Pressing her face against his
arm, she exclaimed brokenly:

"Oh, sir! do not cast me off entirely! My friend, my guardian,
indeed I have not deserved this!"

He laid his hand on her bowed head, and said calmly:

"Fierce, proud spirit! Ah! it will take long years of trial and
suffering to tame you. Go, Beulah! You have cast yourself off. It
was no wish, no work of mine."

He lifted her head from his arm, gently unclasped her fingers, and
walked away. Beulah dried the tears on her cheek, and, composing
herself by a great effort, returned to Clara. The latter still sat
in an easy-chair, and leaned back with closed eyes. Beulah made no
effort to attract her attention, and sat down noiselessly to reflect
upon her guardian's words and the separation which, she now clearly
saw, he intended should be final. There, in the gathering gloom of
twilight, sat Clara Sanders, nerving her heart for the dreary
future; solemnly and silently burying the cherished hopes that had
irised her path, and now, looking steadily forward to coming years,
she said to her drooping spirit: "Be strong and bear this sorrow. I
will conquer my own heart." How is it that, when the human soul is
called to pass through a fierce ordeal, and numbing despair seizes
the faculties and energies in her sepulchral grasp, how is it that
superhuman strength is often suddenly infused into the sinking
spirit? There is a mysterious yet resistless power given, which
winds up and sets again in motion that marvelous bit of mechanism,
the human will; that curiously intricate combination of wheels; that
mainspring of action, which has baffled the ingenuity of
philosophers, and remains yet undiscovered, behind the cloudy shrine
of the unknown. Now, there are times when this human clock well-nigh
runs down; when it seems that volition is dead; when the past is all
gilded, the future all shrouded, and the soul grows passive, hoping
nothing, fearing nothing. Yet when the slowly swinging pendulum
seems about to rest, even then an unseen hand touches the secret
spring; and, as the curiously folded coil quivers on again, the
resuscitated will is lifted triumphantly back to its throne. This
newborn power is from God. But, ye wise ones of earth, tell us how,
and by whom, is the key applied? Are ministering angels (our white-
robed idols, our loved dead) ordained to keep watch over the
machinery of the will and attend to the winding up? Or is this
infusion of strength, whereby to continue its operations, a sudden
tightening of those invisible cords which bind the All-Father to the
spirits he has created? Truly, there is no Oedipus for this vexing
riddle. Many luckless theories have been devoured by the Sphinx;
when will metaphysicians solve it? One tells us vaguely enough, "Who
knows the mysteries of will, with its vigor? Man doth not yield him
to the angels, nor unto death, utterly, save only through the
weakness of his feeble will." This pretty bubble of a "latent
strength" has vanished; the power is from God; but who shall unfold
the process? Clara felt that this precious help was given in her
hour of need; and, looking up undauntedly to the clouds that
darkened her sky, said to her hopeless heart: "I will live to do my
duty, and God's work on eirth; I will go bravely forward in my path
of labor, strewing flowers and sunshine. If God needs a lonely,
chastened spirit to do his behests, oh! shall I murmur and die
because I am chosen? What are the rushing, howling waves of life in
comparison with the calm, shoreless ocean of all eternity?"

The lamp was brought in and the fire renewed, and the two friends
sat by the hearth, silent, quiet. Clara's face had a sweet, serene
look: Beulah's was composed, so far as rigidity of features
betokened; yet the firm curve of her full upper lip might have
indexed somewhat of the confusion which reigned in her mind. Once a
great, burning light flashed out from her eyes, then the lashes
drooped a little and veiled the storm. After a time Clara lifted her
eyes, and said gently:

"Will you read to me, Beulah?"

"Gladly, gladly; what shall it be?" She sprang up eagerly.

"Anything hopeful and strengthening. Anything but your study-books
of philosophy and metaphysics. Anything but those, Beulah."

"And why not those?" asked the girl quickly.

"Because they always confuse and darken me."

"You do not understand them, perhaps?"

"I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I
need."

"What do you need, Clara?"

"The calm content and courage to do my duty through life. I want to
be patient and useful."

The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a
contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out. The
night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down
the panes. She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her
hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning:

  "'The day is done, and the darkness
     Falls from the wings of night,
    As a feather is wafted downward
     From an eagle in his flight.'"

Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem
which seemed so singularly suited to Clara's wishes, the latter said
earnestly:

"Yes, yes, Beulah,"

  "'Such songs have power to quiet
     The restless pulse of care,
    And come like the benediction
     That follows after prayer.'"

"Let us obey the poet's injunction, and realize the closing lines:"

  "'And the night shall be filled with music,
      And the cares that infest the day
    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
      And as silently steal away.'"

Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking
out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of
impatience in her tone:

"Why try to escape it all, Clara? If those 'grand old masters,'
those 'bards sublime,' who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's
endless toil and endeavor,' speak to you through my loved books, why
should you 'long for rest'?"

"An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the
eagle," answered Clara meekly.

"One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties. Strong
swimmers are such from fierce buffetings with hungry waves. Come out
of your warm nest of inertia! Strengthen your wings by battling with
storm and wind!" Her brow bent as she spoke.

"Beulah, what sustains you would starve me."

"Something has come over you, Clara."

"Yes; a great trust in God's wisdom and mercy has stolen into my
heart. I no longer look despondingly into my future."

"Why? Because you fancy that future will be very short and painless?
Ah, Clara, is this trust, when the end comes and there is no more
work to do?"

"You are mistaken; I do not see Death beckoning me home. Oh, I have
not earned a home yet! I look forward to years of labor, profit, and
peace. To-day I found some lines in the morning paper. Nay, don't
curl your lips with a sneer at what you call 'newspaper poetry.'
Listen to the words that came like a message from the spirit-land to
my murmuring heart." Her voice was low and unsteady, as she read:

  "'Two hands upon the breast, and labor's done;
    Two pale feet crossed in rest, the race is won.
    Two eyes with coin-weights shut, all tears cease;
    Two lips where grief is mute, and wrath at peace.
    So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
    God, in his kindness, answereth not!'"

"Such, Beulah, I felt had been my unvoiced prayer; but now!"

  "'Two hands to work addressed; aye, for his praise,
    Two feet that never rest; walking his ways;
    Two eyes that look above, still through all tears;
    Two lips that breathe but love; never more fears.
    SO WE CRY AFTERWARD, LOW AT OUR KNEES.
    PARDON THOSE ERRING CRIES! FATHER, HEAR THESE!"

"Oh Beulah, such is now my prayer."

As Beulah stood near the lamp, strange shadows fell on her brow;
shadows from the long, curling lashes. After a brief silence, she
asked earnestly:

"Are your prayers answered, Clara? Does God hear you?"

"Yes; oh, yes!" "Wherefore?"

"Because Christ died!"

"Is your faith in Christ so firm? Does it never waver?"

"Never; even in my most desponding moments."

Beulah looked at her keenly; and asked, with something like a
shiver:

"Did it never occur to you to doubt the plan of redemption, as
taught by divines, as laid down in the New Testament?"

"No, never. I want to die before such a doubt occurs to me. Oh, what
would my life be without that plan? What would a fallen, sin-cursed
world be without a Jesus?"

"But why curse a race in order to necessitate a Saviour?"

Clara looked in astonishment at the pale, fixed features before her.
A frightened expression came over her own countenance, a look of
shuddering horror; and, putting up her wasted hands, as if to ward
off some grim phantom, she cried:

"Oh, Beulah! what is this? You are not an infidel?"

Her companion was silent a moment; then said emphatically:

"Dr. Hartwell does not believe the religion you hold so dear."

Clara covered her face with her hands, and answered brokenly:

"Beulah, I have envied you, because I fancied that your superior
intellect won you the love which I was weak enough to expect and
need. But if it has brought you both to doubt the Bible, I thank God
that the fatal gift was withheld from me. Have your books and
studies brought you to this? Beulah! Beulah! throw them into the
fire, and come back to trust in Christ."

She held out her hands imploringly; but, with a singularly cold
smile, her friend replied:

"You must go to sleep. Your fever is rising. Don't talk any more to-
night; I will not hear you."

An hour after Clara slept soundly, and Beulah sat in her own room
bending over a book. Midnight study had long since become an
habitual thing; nay, two and three o'clock frequently found her
beside the waning lamp. Was it any marvel that, as Dr. Hartwell
expressed it, she "looked wretched." From her earliest childhood she
had been possessed by an active spirit of inquiry which constantly
impelled her to investigate, and as far as possible to explain, the
mysteries which surrounded, her on every side. With her growth grew
this haunting spirit, which asked continually: "What am I? Whence
did I come? And whither am I bound? What is life? What is death? Am
I my own mistress, or am I but a tool in the hands of my Maker? What
constitutes the difference between my mind and my body? Is there any
difference? If spirit must needs have body to incase it, and body
must have a spirit to animate it, may they not be identical? With
these primeval foundation questions began her speculative career. In
the solitude of her own soul she struggled bravely and earnestly to
answer those "dread questions, which, like swords of flaming fire,
tokens of imprisonment, encompass man on earth." Of course mystery
triumphed. Panting for the truth, she pored over her Bible,
supposing that here, at least, all clouds would melt away; but here,
too, some inexplicable passages confronted her. Physically, morally,
and mentally she found the world warring. To reconcile these
antagonisms with the conditions and requirements of Holy Writ, she
now most faithfully set to work. Ah, proudly aspiring soul! How many
earnest thinkers had essayed the same mighty task, and died under
the intolerable burden? Unluckily for her, there was no one to
direct or assist her. She scrupulously endeavored to conceal her
doubts and questions from her guardian. Poor child? she fancied she
concealed them so effectually from his knowledge; while he silently
noted the march of skepticism in her nature. There were dim,
puzzling passages of Scripture which she studied on her knees; now
trying to comprehend them, and now beseeching the Source of all
knowledge to enlighten her. But, as has happened to numberless
others, there was seemingly no assistance given. The clouds grew
denser and darker, and, like the "cry of strong swimmers in their
agony," her prayers had gone up to the Throne of Grace. Sometimes
she was tempted to go to the minister of the church where she sat
Sunday after Sunday, and beg him to explain the mysteries to her.
But the pompous austerity of his manners repelled her whenever she
thought of broaching the subject, and gradually she saw that she
must work out her own problems. Thus, from week to week and month to
month, she toiled on, with a slowly dying faith, constantly
clambering over obstacles which seemed to stand between her trust
and revelation. It was no longer study for the sake of erudition;
these riddles involved all that she prized in Time and Eternity, and
she grasped books of every description with the eagerness of a
famishing nature. What dire chance threw into her hands such works
as Emerson's, Carlyle's, and Goethe's? Like the waves of the clear,
sunny sea, they only increased her thirst to madness. Her burning
lips were ever at these fountains; and, in her reckless eagerness,
she plunged into the gulf of German speculation. Here she believed
that she had indeed found the "true processes," and, with renewed
zest, continued the work of questioning. At this stage of the
conflict the pestilential scourge was laid upon the city, and she
paused from her metaphysical toil to close glazed eyes and shroud
soulless clay. In the awful hush of those hours of watching she
looked calmly for some solution, and longed for the unquestioning
faith of early years. But these influences passed without aiding her
in the least, and, with rekindled ardor, she went back to her false
prophets. In addition, ethnology beckoned her on to conclusions
apparently antagonistic to the revealed system, and the stony face
of geology seemed radiant with characters of light, which she might
decipher and find some security in. From Dr. Asbury's extensive
collection she snatched treatise after treatise. The sages of
geology talked of the pre-Adamic eras, and of man's ending the
slowly forged chain, of which the radiata form the lowest link; and
then she was told that in those pre-Adamic ages paleontologists find
no trace whatever of that golden time when the vast animal creation
lived in harmony and bloodshed was unknown; ergo, man's fall in Eden
had no agency in bringing death into the world; ergo, that chapter
in Genesis need puzzle her no more.

Finally, she learned that she was the crowning intelligence in the
vast progression; that she would ultimately become part of Deity.
"The long ascending line, from dead matter to man, had been a
progress Godward, and the next advance would unite creation and
Creator in one person." With all her aspirations she had never
dreamed of such a future as was here promised her. To-night she was
closely following that most anomalous of all guides, "Herr
Teufelsdrockh." Urged on by the same "unrest," she was stumbling
along dim, devious paths, while from every side whispers came to
her: "Nature is one: she is your mother, and divine: she is God! The
'living garment of God.'" Through the "everlasting No," and the
"everlasting Yea," she groped her way, darkly, tremblingly, waiting
for the day-star of Truth to dawn; but, at last, when she fancied
she saw the first rays silvering the night, and looked up hopefully,
it proved one of many ignes-fatui which had flashed across her path,
and she saw that it was Goethe, uplifted as the prophet of the
genuine religion. The book fell from her nerveless fingers; she
closed her eyes, and groaned. It was all "confusion, worse
confounded." She could not for her life have told what she believed,
much less what she did not believe. The landmarks of earlier years
were swept away; the beacon light of Calvary had sunk below her
horizon. A howling chaos seemed about to ingulf her. At that moment
she would gladly have sought assistance from her guardian; but how
could she approach him after their last interview? The friendly face
and cordial kindness of Dr. Asbury flashed upon her memory, and she
resolved to confide her doubts and difficulties to him, hoping to
obtain from his clear and matured judgment some clew which might
enable her to emerge from the labyrinth that involved her. She knelt
and tried to pray. To what did she, on bended knees, send up
passionate supplications? To nature? to heroes? These were the new
deities. She could not pray; all grew dark; she pressed her hands to
her throbbing brain, striving to clear away the mists. "Sartor" had
effectually blindfolded her, and she threw herself down to sleep
with a shivering dread, as of a young child separated from its
mother, and wailing in some starless desert.




CHAPTER XXI.


It was Christmas Eve--cold, cloudy, and damp. The store windows were
gay with every conceivable and inconceivable device for attracting
attention. Parents, nurses, and porters hurried along with
mysterious looking bundles and important countenances. Crowds of
curious, merry children thronged the sidewalks; here a thinly clad,
meager boy, looked, with longing eyes and empty pockets, at pyramids
of fruit and sweetmeats; and there a richly dressed group chattered
like blackbirds, and occasionally fired a pack of crackers, to the
infinite dismay of horses and drivers. Little chaps just out of
frocks rushed about, with their round, rosy faces hid under
grotesque masks; and shouts of laughter, and the squeak of penny
trumpets, and mutter of miniature drums swelled to a continuous din,
which would have been quite respectable even on the plain of Shinar.
The annual jubilee had come, and young and old seemed determined to
celebrate it with due zeal. From her window Beulah looked down on
the merry groups, and involuntarily contrasted the bustling, crowded
streets with the silence and desolation which had reigned over the
same thoroughfares only a few months before. One brief year ago
childish voices prattled of Santa Claus and gift stockings, and
little feet pattered along these same pavements, with tiny hands
full of toys. Fond parents, too, had gone eagerly in and out of
these gay shops, hunting presents for their darlings. Where were
they? children and parents? Ah! a cold, silent band of sleepers in
yonder necropolis, where solemn cedars were chanting an everlasting
dirge. Death's harvest time was in all seasons; when would her own
throbbing pulses be stilled and her questioning tones hushed? Might
not the summons be on that very wintry blast which rushed over her
hot brow? And if it should be so? Beulah pressed her face closer to
the window, and thought it was too inconceivable that she also
should die. She knew it was the common birthright, the one
unchanging heritage of all humanity; yet long vistas of life opened
before her, and though, like a pall, the shadow of the tomb hung
over the end, it was very distant, very dim.

"What makes you look so solemn?" asked Clara, who had been busily
engaged in dressing a doll for one of Mrs. Hoyt's children.

"Because I feel solemn, I suppose."

Clara came up and, passing her arm round Beulah's shoulder, gazed
down into the noisy street. She still wore mourning, and the
alabaster fairness of her complexion contrasted vividly with the
black bombazine dress. Though thin and pale, there was an
indescribable expression of peace on the sweet face; a calm, clear
light of contentment in the mild, brown eyes. The holy serenity of
the countenance was rendered more apparent by the restless, stormy
visage of her companion. Every passing cloud of perplexed thought
cast its shadow over Beulah's face, and on this occasion she looked
more than usually grave.

"Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve! Indeed, I can remember
having been half wild with excitement. Yet now it all seems like a
flitting dream." Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.

"Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you," answered Beulah.

"How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?"

"Because it was

  "All dark and barren as a rainy sea."

"But you never talk about your parents?"

"I love my father's memory. Ah! it is enshrined in my heart's
holiest sanctuary. He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for
him bordered on idolatry."

"And your mother?"

"I knew little of her. She died before I was old enough to remember
much about her."

Her face was full of bitter recollections; her eyes seemed wandering
through some storehouse of sorrows. Clara feared her friend, much as
she loved her, and since the partial discovery of her skepticism she
had rather shunned her society. Now she watched the heavy brow and
deep, piercing eyes uneasily, and, gently withdrawing her arm, she
glided out of the room. The tide of life still swelled through the
streets, and, forcibly casting the load of painful reminiscences
from her, Beulah kept her eyes on the merry faces, and listened to
the gay, careless prattle of the excited children. The stately
rustle of brocaded silk caused her to look up, and Cornelia Graham
greeted her with:

"I have come to take you home with me for the holidays."

"I can't go."

"Why not? You cling to this dark garret of yours as if it possessed
all the charms of Vaucluse."

"Diogenes loved his tub, you know," said Beulah quietly.

"An analogous case, truly. But, jesting aside, you must come,
Beulah. Eugene expects you; so do my parents; and, above all, I want
you. Come." Cornelia laid her hand on the girl's shoulders as she
spoke.

"You have been ill again," said Beulah, examining the sallow face.

"Not ill, but I shall be soon, I know. One of my old attacks is
coming on; I feel it; and Beulah, to be honest, which I can with you
(without casting pearls before swine), that very circumstance makes
me want you. I dined out to-day, and have just left the fashionable
crowd to come and ask you to spend the holidays with me. The house
will be gay. Antoinette intends to have a set of tableaux; but it is
probable I shall be confined to my room. Will you give your time to
a cross invalid, for such I certainly am? I would be stretched upon
St. Lawrence's gridiron before I could be brought to say as much to
anybody else. I am not accustomed to ask favors, Beulah; it has been
my habit to grant them. Nevertheless, I want you, and am not too
proud to come after you. Will you come?"

"Yes, if I may remain with you altogether."

"Thank you. Come, get ready, quick! Give me a fan." Sinking into a
chair, she wiped away the cold drops which had collected about her
brow.

"Cornelia, I have only one day's leisure. School begins again day
after to-morrow."

"Well, well; one day, then. Be quick!"

In a few moments Beulah was ready; and, after informing Clara and
Mrs. Hoyt of her intended absence, the two entered Mr. Graham's
elegant carriage. The gas was now lighted, and the spirited horses
dashed along through streets brilliantly illuminated and thronged
with happy people.

"What a Babel! About equal to Constantinople, and its dog-
orchestra," muttered Cornelia, as the driver paused to allow one of
the military companies to pass. The martial music, together with the
hubbub which otherwise prevailed, alarmed the horses, and they
plunged violently. The driver endeavored to back out into an alley;
but, in the attempt, the carriage was whirled round, the coachman
jerked over the dashboard into the gutter, and the frightened
animals dashed at furious speed down the main street. Luckily the
top was thrown back, making the carriage open, and, springing
forward to the post so unceremoniously vacated by the driver, Beulah
snatched the reins, which were just within her reach. Curb the
rushing horses she did not hope to do; but, by cautious energy,
succeeded in turning them sufficiently aside to avoid coming in
collision with several other carriages. The street was full of
vehicles, and though, as may well be imagined, there was every
effort made to give the track, the carriage rushed against the
bright yellow wheels of a light buggy in which two young men were
trying to manage a fast trotter. There was a terrible smash of
wheels, the young gentlemen were suddenly landed in the mud, and
their emancipated steed galloped on, with the wreck of the buggy at
his heels. Men, women, and children gathered on the corners to
witness the denouement. Drays, carts, and wagons were seized with a
simultaneous stampede, which soon cleared the middle of the street,
and, uninjured by the collision, our carriage flew on. Cornelia sat
on the back seat, ghastly pale and motionless, expecting every
minute to be hurled out, while Beulah stood up in front, reins in
hand, trying to guide the maddened horses. Her bonnet fell off; the
motion loosened her comb, and down came her long, heavy hair in
black, blinding folds. She shook it all back from her face, and soon
saw that this reckless game of dodging vehicles could not last much
longer. Straight ahead, at the end of the street, was the wharf,
crowded with cotton bales, barrels, and a variety of freight; just
beyond was the river. A number of gentlemen stood on a neighboring
corner, and with one impulse they rushed forward with extended arms.
On sprang the horses almost upon them; eager hands grasped at the
bits.

"Stand back-all of you! You might as well catch at the winds!"
shouted Beulah, and, with one last effort, she threw, her whole
weight on the reins and turned the horses into a cross street. The
wheels struck the curbstone, the carriage tilted, rocked, fell back
again, and on they went for three squares more, when the horses
stopped short before the livery stable where they were kept.
Embossed with foam, and panting like stags at bay, they were seized
by a dozen hands.

"By all the gods of Greece! you have had a flying trip of it!" cried
Dr. Asbury, with one foot on the carriage step and both hands
extended, while his gray hair hung in confusion about his face. He
had followed them for at least half a dozen blocks, and was pale
with anxiety.

"See about Cornelia," said Beulah, seating herself for the first
time and twisting up the veil of hair which swept round her form.

"Cornelia has fainted! Halloo, there! some water! quick!" said the
doctor, stepping into the carriage and attempting to lift the
motionless figure. But Cornelia opened her eyes, and answered
unsteadily:

"No! carry me home! Dr. Asbury, take me home!"

The brilliant eyes closed, a sort of spasm distorted her features,
and she sank back once more, rigid and seemingly lifeless. Dr.
Asbury took the reins firmly in his hands, seated himself, and,
speaking gently to the trembling horses, started homeward. They
plunged violently at first, but he used the whip unsparingly, and in
a few moments they trotted briskly along. Mrs. Graham and her niece
had not yet reached home, but Mr. Graham met the carriage at the
door, with considerable agitation and alarm in his usually
phlegmatic countenance. As Cornelia's colorless face met his view,
he threw up his hands, staggered back, and exclaimed:

"My God! is she dead? I knew it would end this way some day!"

"Nonsense, Graham! She is frightened out of her wits--that is all.
These Yankee horses of yours have been playing the very deuce. Clear
the way there, all of you!"

Lifting Cornelia in his strong arms, Dr. Asbury carried her up to
her own room and placed her on a sofa. Having known her from
childhood, and treated her so often in similar attacks, he
immediately administered some medicine, and ere long had the
satisfaction of seeing the rigid aspect leave her face. She sat up,
and, without a word, began to take off her kid gloves, which fitted
tightly. Suddenly looking up at her father, who was anxiously
regarding her, she said abruptly:

"There are no more like her. She kept me from making a simpleton of
myself."

"Whom do you mean, my dear?"

"Whom? whom? Why, Beulah Benton, of course! Where is she? Come out
of that corner, you quaint, solemn statue!" She held out her hand,
and a warm, glad smile broke over her pallid face as Beulah
approached her.

"You certainly created a very decided sensation. Beulah made quite a
passable Medea, with her inky hair trailing over the back of the
seat, and her little hands grasping the reins with desperate energy.
By Phoebus! you turned that corner at the bank like an electric
bolt. Shake hands, Beulah! After this you will do in any emergency."
The doctor looked at her with an expression of paternal pride and
affection.

"I feel very grateful to you," began Mr. Graham; but Beulah cut
short his acknowledgments by saying hastily:

"Sir, I did nothing at all; Dr. Asbury is resolved to make a heroine
of me, that is all. You owe me nothing."

At this moment the coachman limped into the room, with garments
dabbled with mud, and inquired anxiously whether the young ladies
were hurt.

"No, you son of Pluto; not hurt at all, thanks to your careful
driving," answered the doctor, putting his hands in his pockets and
eying the discomfited coachman humorously.

"Were you hurt by your fall?" asked Beulah.

"Considerable bumped and thumped, but not much hurt, thank you,
miss. I was awfully scared when I rose out of that choking gutter,
and saw you standing up, and the horses flying like ole Satan
himself was after them. I am marvelous glad nothing was hurt. And
now, master, sir, I want you to go to the mayor and have this 'ere
firecracker business stopped. A parcel of rascally boys set a match
to a whole pack and flung 'em right under Andrew Jackson's feet! Of
course I couldn't manage him after that. I 'clare to gracious! it's
a sin and a shame the way the boys in this town do carry on
Christmas times and, indeed, every other time!" Wilson hobbled out,
grumbling audibly.

"Beulah, you must come and spend Christmas at my house. The girls
and my wife were talking about it to-day, and concluded to send the
carriage for you early in the morning." The doctor drew on his
gloves as he spoke.

"They may spare themselves the trouble, sir; she spends it with me,"
answered Cornelia.

"With you! After such a frolic as you two indulged in this evening,
you ought not to be trusted together. If I had not been so anxious
about you I could have laughed heartily at the doleful countenances
of those two young gents, as they picked themselves up out of the
mud. Such rueful plight as their lemon-colored gloves were in! I
will send Hartwell to see you to-morrow, Cornelia. A merry Christmas
to you all, in spite of your Mazeppa episode." His good-humored
countenance vanished.

"There comes Antoinette ejaculating up the steps. Father, tell her I
do not want to see her, or anybody else. Don't let her come in
here!" cried Cornelia, with a nervous start, as voices were heard in
the passage.

Mr. Graham, who felt a certain awe of his willful child,
notwithstanding his equable temper, immediately withdrew. His wife
hastened into the room, and, with trembling lips touched her
daughter's cheek and brow, exclaiming:

"Oh, my child, what a narrow escape! It is horrible to think of--
horrible!"

"Not at all, mother, seeing that nothing was hurt in the least. I
was sick, any way, as I told you. Don't you see Beulah sitting
there?"

Mrs. Graham welcomed her guest cordially.

"You have a great deal of presence of mind, I believe, Miss Beulah?
You are fortunate."

"I thanked my stars that Antoinette was not in the carriage; for
most certainly she would have made matters worse, by screaming like
an idiot and jumping out. Beulah taught me common sense," answered
Cornelia, unclasping a bracelet and tossing a handful of jewelry
across the room to her dressing table.

"You underrate yourself, my dear," said her mother, a little
proudly.

"Not at all. Humility, genuine or feigned, is not one of our family
traits. Mother, will you send up tea for us? We want a quiet time;
at least, I do, and Beulah will stay with me."

"But, my love, it is selfish to exclude the balance of the family.
Why not come down to the sitting room, where we can all be
together?" pleaded the mother.

"Because I prefer staying just where I am. Beulah, put down that
window, will you? Mary must think that I have been converted into a
Polar bear; and, mother, have some coal brought up. If there is any
truth in the metempsychosis of the Orient, I certainly was a palm
tree or a rhinoceros in the last stage of my existence." She
shivered, and wrapped a heavy shawl up to her very chin.

"May I come in?" asked Eugene, at the door.

"No; go and sing duets with Netta, and amuse yourself downstairs,"
said she shortly, while a frown darkened her face.

Nevertheless he came in, shook hands with Beulah, and, leaning over
the back of Cornelia's chair, asked tenderly:

"How is my sister? I heard on the street that you were injured."

"Oh, I suppose the whole city will be bemoaning my tragic fate. I am
not at all hurt, Eugene."

"You have had one of those attacks, though; I see from your face.
Has it passed off entirely?"

"No; and I want to be quiet. Beulah is going to read me to sleep
after a while. You may go down now."

"Beulah, you will be with us to-morrow, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I am obliged to dine out; I shall be at home, however,
most of the day. I called the other evening, but you were not at
home."

"Yes; I was sorry I did not see you," said Beulah, looking steadily
at his flushed face and sparkling eyes.

"Dine out, Eugene! For what, I should like to know?" cried Cornelia,
raising herself in her chair and fixing her eyes impatiently upon
him. "Henderson and Milbank are both here, you know, and I could not
refuse to join them in a Christmas dinner."

"Then why did you not invite them to dine at your own house?" Her
voice was angry; her glance searching.

"The party was made up before I knew anything about it. They will
all be here in the evening."

"I doubt it!" said she sneeringly. The flush deepened on his cheek
and he bit his lip; then, turning suddenly to Beulah, he said, as he
suffered his eyes to wander over her plain, fawn-colored merino
dress:

"You have not yet heard Netta sing, I believe!"

"No."

"Where is she, Cornelia?"

"I have no idea."

"I hope my sister will be well enough to take part in the tableaux
to-morrow evening." Taking her beautifully molded hand, he looked at
her anxiously. Her piercing, black eyes were riveted on his
countenance, as she answered:

"I don't know, Eugene; I have long since abandoned the hope of ever
being well again. Perhaps I may be able to get down to the parlors.
There is Antoinette in the passage. Good-night." She motioned him
away.

He kissed her tenderly, shook hands a second time with Beulah, and
left the room. Cornelia bowed her head on her palms; and, though her
features were concealed, Beulah thought she moaned, as if in pain.

"Cornelia, are you ill again? What can I do for you?"

The feeble woman lifted her haggard face, and answered:

"What can you do? That remains to be seen. Something must be done.
Beulah, I may die at any hour, and you must save him."

"What do you mean?" Beulah's heart throbbed painfully as she asked
this simple question.

"You know very well what I mean! Oh, Beulah! Beulah! it bows my
proud spirit into the dust!" Again she averted her head; there was a
short silence. Beulah leaned her face on her hand, and then Cornelia
continued:

"Did you detect it when he first came home?"

"Yes."

"Oh, it is like a hideous nightmare! I cannot realize that Eugene,
so noble, so pure, so refined, could ever have gone to the excesses
he has been guilty of. He left home all that he should be; but five
years abroad have strangely changed him. My parents will not see it;
my mother says 'All young men are wild at first'; and my father
shuts his eyes to his altered habits. Eugene constantly drinks too
much. I have never seen him intoxicated. I don't know that he has
been since he joined us in Italy; but I dread continually lest his
miserable associates lead him further astray. I had hoped that, in
leaving his companions at the university, he had left temptation
too; but the associates he has found here are even worse. I hope I
shall be quiet in my grave before I see him drunk. It would kill me,
I verily believe, to know that he had so utterly degraded himself."

She shaded her face with her hands, and Beulah replied hastily:

"He surely cannot fall so low! Eugene will never reel home, an
unconscious drunkard! Oh, no, it is impossible! impossible! The
stars in heaven will fall first!"

"Do you believe what you say?"

"I hope it; and hope engenders faith," answered Beulah.

A bitter smile curled Cornelia's lips, and, sinking back in her
chair, she continued:

"Where excessive drinking is not considered a disgrace, young men
indulge without a thought of the consequences. Instead of excluding
them from genteel circles, their dissipation is smoothed over, or
unnoticed; and it has become so prevalent in this city that of all
the gentlemen whom I meet in so-called fashionable society, there
are very few who abstain from the wine-cup. I have seen them at
parties, staggering through a quadrille, or talking the most
disgusting nonsense to girls, who have long since ceased to regard
dissipation as a stigma upon the names and characters of their
friends. I tell you the dissipation of the young men here is
sickening to think of. Since I came home I have been constantly
reminded of it; and oh, Eugene is following in their disgraceful
steps! Beulah, if the wives, and mothers, and sisters did their
duty, all this might be remedied. If they carefully and constantly
strove to shield their sons and brothers from temptation they might
preserve them from the fatal habit, which, once confirmed, it is
almost impossible to eradicate. But alas! they smile as sweetly upon
the reckless, intoxicated beaux as if they were what men should be.
I fancied that I could readily redeem Eugene from his dangerous
lapses, but my efforts are rendered useless by the temptations which
assail him from every quarter. He shuns me; hourly the barriers
between us strengthen. Beulah, I look to you. He loves you, and your
influence might prevail, if properly directed. You must save him!
You must!"

"I have not the influence you ascribe to me," answered Beulah.

"Do not say so! do not say so! Are you not to be his wife one day?"
She stood up, and heavy drops glistened on her pale forehead.

"His wife! Cornelia Graham, are you mad?" cried Beulah, lifting her
head proudly, and eying her companion with unfeigned astonishment,
while her eyes burned ominously.

"He told me that he expected to marry