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.