“No, no. Impossible. I could not sing either now,” replied Beulah, averting her face.
“Why not now? They are the excelsior strains of struggling pilgrims. They were written for the dark hours of life.”
“They are a mockery to me. Ask me for anything else,” said she, compressing her lips.
Clara leaned her arm on the piano, and, looking sadly at her companion, said, as if with a painful effort:
“Beulah, in a little while we shall be separated, and only the All- Father knows whether we shall meet on earth again. My application for that situation as governess up the country brought me an answer to-day. I am to go very soon.”
Beulah made no reply, and Clara continued sorrowfully:
“It is very painful to leave my few remaining friends and go among perfect strangers, but it is best that I should.” She leaned her head on her hand, and wept.
“Why is it best?”
“Because here I am constantly reminded of other days and other hopes, now lying dead on my heart. But we will not speak of this. Of all my ties here, my love for you is now the strongest. Oh, Beulah, our friendship has been sacred, and I dread the loneliness which will be my portion when hundreds of miles lie between us! The links that bind orphan hearts like ours are more lasting than all others.”
“I shall be left entirely alone, if you accept this situation. You have long been my only companion. Don’t leave me, Clara,” murmured Beulah, while her lips writhed and quivered.
“You will have the Asburys still, and they are sincere friends.”
“Yes, friends, but not companions. What congeniality is there between those girls and myself? None. My isolation will be complete when you leave me.”
“Beulah, will you let me say what is in my heart?”
“Say it freely, my brown-eyed darling.”
“Well, then, Beulah; give it up; give it up. It will only bow down your heart with untold cares and sorrows.”
“Give up what?”
“This combat with loneliness and poverty.”
“I am not lonely,” answered Beulah, with a wintry smile.
“Oh, Beulah! yes, you are; wretchedly lonely. I have been but a poor companion for you; intellectually, you are far beyond me, and there has been little congeniality in our tastes and pursuits. I have always known this; and I know, too, that you never will be a happy woman until you have a companion equal in intellect, who understands and sympathizes with you. Ah, Beulah! with all your stubborn pride, and will, and mental endowments, you have a woman’s heart; and crush its impulses as you may, it will yet assert its sway. As I told you long ago, grammars, and geographies, and duty could not fill the void in my heart; and, believe me, neither will metaphysics and philosophy and literature satisfy you. Suppose you do attain celebrity as a writer. Can the plaudits of strangers bring back to your solitary hearth the loved dead, or cheer you in your hours of gloom? I too am an orphan; I speak of what I can appreciate. You are mistaken, Beulah, in thinking you can dispense with sympathy. You are not sufficient for yourself, as you have so proudly maintained. God has created us for companionship; it is a necessity of human nature.”
“Then why are you and I orphaned for all time?” asked Beulah coldly.
“The sablest clouds of sorrow have silver linings. Perhaps that you and I might turn more continually to the God of orphans. Beulah, God has not flooded earth with eternal sunlight. He knew that shadows were needed to chasten the spirits of his children, and teach them to look to him for the renewal of all blessings. But shadows are fleeting, and every season of gloom has its morning star. Oh, I thank God that his own hand arranged the chiaroscuro of earth!” She spoke earnestly; the expression of her eyes told that her thoughts had traveled into the dim, weird land of futurity. Beulah offered no comment; but the gloom deepened on her brow and her white fingers crept restlessly over the piano keys. After a moment’s silence, Clara continued:
“I would not regret our separation so much if I left you in the possession of Christian faith; armed with a perfect trust in the religion of Jesus Christ. Oh, Beulah, it makes my heart ache when I think of you, struggling so fiercely in the grasp of infidelity! Many times have I seen the light shining beneath your door, long after midnight, and wept over the conflict in which I knew you were engaged; and only God knows how often I have mingled your name in my prayers, entreating him to direct you in your search, to guide you safely through the paths of skepticism, and place your weary feet upon the ‘rock of ages.’ Oh, Beulah, do not make my prayers vain by your continued questioning! Come back to Christ and the Bible.” Tears glided down her cheeks as she passed her arm round her friend, and dropped her head on her shoulder. Beulah’s eyelids trembled an instant, but there was no moisture in the gray depths, as she answered:
“Thank you, Clara, for your interest. I am glad you have this faith you would fain lead me to. Not for worlds would I unsettle it, even if I could. You are comforted in your religion, and it is a priceless blessing to you. But I am sincere, even in my skepticism. I am honest; and God, if he sees my heart, sees that I am. I may be an infidel, as you call me, but, if so, I am an honest one; and if the Bible is all true, as you believe, God will judge my heart. But I shall not always be skeptical; I shall find the truth yet. I know it is a tedious journey I have set out on, and it may be my life will be spent in the search; but what of that, if at last I attain the goal? What if I only live to reach it? What will my life be to me without it?”
“And can you contentedly contemplate your future, passed as this last year has been?” cried Clara.
“Perhaps ‘contentedly’ is scarcely the right term. I shall not murmur, no matter how dreary the circumstances of my life may be, provided I succeed at last,” replied Beulah resolutely.
“Oh, Beulah, you make my heart ache!”
“Then try not to think of or care for me.”
“There is another heart, dear Beulah, a heart sad but noble, that you are causing bitter anguish. Are you utterly indifferent to this also?”
“All of the last exists merely in your imagination. We will say no more about it, if you please.”
She immediately began a brilliant overture, and Clara retreated to the window. With night the roar of the tempest increased; the rain fell with a dull, uninterrupted patter, the gale swept furiously on, and the heaving, foaming waters of the bay gleamed luridly beneath the sheet-lightning. Clara stood looking out, and before long Beulah joined her; then the former said suddenly:
“Do you remember that, about six years ago, a storm like this tossed the ‘Morning Star’ far from its destined track, and for many days it was unheard of? Do you remember, too, that it held one you loved; and that, in an agony of dread lest he should find a grave among coral beds, you bowed your knee in prayer to Almighty God, imploring him to calm the tempest, hush the gale, and save him who was so dear to you? Ah, Beulah, you distrusted human pilots then!”
As Beulah made no reply, she fancied she was pondering her words. But memory had flown back to the hour when she knelt in prayer for Eugene, and she thought she could far better have borne his death then, in the glorious springtime of his youth, than know that he had fallen from his noble height. Then she could have mourned his loss and cherished his memory ever after; now she could only pity and despise his folly. What was that early shipwreck she so much dreaded, in comparison with the sea of vice, whose every wave tossed him helplessly on to ruin. He had left her an earnest believer in religion; he came back scoffing at everything sacred. This much she had learned from Cornelia. Was there an intimate connection between the revolutions in his nature? Misled by her silence, Clara said eagerly:
“You were happy in that early faith. Oh, Beulah, you will never find another so holy, so comforting!”
Beulah frowned and looked up impatiently.
“Clara, I am not to be persuaded into anything. Leave me to myself. You are kind, but mistaken.”
“If I have said too much, forgive me; I was actuated by sincere affection and pity for your state of mind.”
“I am not an object of pity by any means,” replied Beulah very coldly.
Clara was unfortunate in her expressions; she seemed to think so, and turned away. But, conscious of having spoken hastily, Beulah caught her hand, and exclaimed frankly:
“Do not be hurt with me; I did not intend to wound you. Forgive me, Clara. Don’t go. When are you to leave for your new home?”
“Day after to-morrow. Mr. Arlington seems anxious that I should come immediately. He has three children–a son and two daughters. I hope they are amiable; I dread lest they prove unruly and spoiled. If so, woe to their governess.”
“Does Mr. Arlington reside in the village to which you directed your letter?”
“No. He resides on his plantation, several miles from the village. The prospect of being in the country is the only redeeming feature in the arrangement. I hope my health will be permanently restored by the change; but of the success of my plan only time can decide.”
“And when shall we meet again?” said Beulah slowly.
“Perhaps henceforth our paths diverge widely. We may meet no more on earth; but, dear Beulah, there is a ‘peaceful shore, where billows never beat nor tempests roar,’ where assuredly we shall spend an eternity together if we keep the faith here. Oh, if I thought our parting now was for all time I should mourn bitterly, very bitterly; but I will not believe it. The arms of our God support you. I shall always pray that he will guide and save you.” She leaned forward, kissed Beulah’s forehead, and left the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
One afternoon in October the indisposition of one of her music pupils released Beulah earlier than usual, and she determined to seize this opportunity and visit the asylum. Of the walk across the common she never wearied; the grass had grown brown, and, save the deep, changeless green of the ancient pines, only the hectic coloring of the dying year met her eye. The day was cool and windy, and the common presented a scene of boisterous confusion, which she paused to contemplate. A number of boys had collected to play their favorite games; balls flew in every direction and merry shouts rang cheerily through the air. She looked on a few moments at their careless, happy sports, and resumed her walk, feeling that their joyousness was certainly contagious, she was so much lighter-hearted from having watched their beaming faces and listened to their ringing laughter.
As she drew near the asylum gate memory began to pass its fingers over her heart; but here, too, sounds of gladness met her. The orphans were assembled on the lawn in front of the building, chatting as cheerfully as though they were all members of one family. The little ones trundled hoops and chased each other up and down the graveled walks; some of the boys tossed their balls, and a few of the larger girls were tying up chrysanthemums to slender stakes. They were dressed alike; all looked contented, neat, and happy, and their rosy faces presented a noble tribute to the efficacy and untold blessings of the institution. To many of them Beulah was well known. She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and assisted the girls in their work among the flowers, while the little ones gathered around her, lisping their childish welcome and coaxing her to join in their innocent games. The stately China trees, where, in years gone by, Lilly and Claudy had watched the chirping robins, were again clad in their rich, golden livery; and, as Beulah looked up at the red brick walls that had sheltered her head in the early days of orphanage, it seemed but yesterday that she trod these walks and listened to the wintry wind sighing through these same loved trees. The children told her that their matron had been sick and was not yet quite well, and, needing no pilot, Beulah went through the house in search of her. She found her at last in the storeroom, giving out materials for the evening meal, and had an opportunity of observing the change which had taken place in the last few months. She was pale and thin, and her sharpened features wore a depressed, weary expression; but, turning round, she perceived Beulah, and a glad smile broke instantly over her countenance as she clasped the girl’s hand in both hers.
“Dear child, I have looked for you a long time. I did not think you would wait so many weeks. Come in and sit down.”
“I did not know you had been sick until I came and heard the children speak of it. You should have sent met word. I see you have not entirely recovered.”
“No; I am quite feeble yet; but, in time, I hope I shall be well again. Ah, Beulah, I have wanted to see you so much! so much! Child, it seems to me I shall never get used to being separated from you.”
Beulah sat on the sofa near her, and the matron’s withered hands were passed caressingly over the glossy bands of hair which lay on the orphan’s white temples.
“I love to come here occasionally; it does me good. But not too often; that would be painful, you know.”
Beulah spoke in a subdned voice, while memory painted the evening when Eugene had sought her in this apartment and wiped away her tears for Lilly’s absence. Her features twitched as she thought of the bitter changes that rolling years work, and she sighed unconsciously. The matron’s hands were still smoothing her hair, and presently she said, with an anxious, scrutinizing look:
“Have you been sick since you were here last?”
“No. What makes you imagine such a thing?”
“Dear child, I do not imagine; I know you look worn and ill. Why, Beulah, hold up your hand; there, see how transparent it is! Almost like wax! Something ails you, child; that I know well enough.”
“No, I assure you, I am not ill. Sometimes, of late, I have been troubled with the old headaches you used to cure when I was a child; but, on the whole, I am well.”
“Beulah, they tell me Eugene is married,” said the kind-hearted woman, with another look at the quiet face beside her.
“Yes; he was married nearly five months ago.” A tremor passed over her lips as she spoke.
“Did you see his wife?”
“Yes; she is a very pretty woman. I may say, a beautiful woman; but she does not suit him. At least, I am afraid she will not.”
“Ah, I knew as much! I thought as much!” cried Mrs. Williams.
“Why?” asked Beulah wonderingly.
“Oh, money cloaks all faults, child. I knew he did not marry her for love!”
Beulah started a little, and said hastily:
“You do him injustice–great injustice! Eugene was charmed by her beauty, not her fortune?”
“Oh, heiresses are always beautiful and charming in the eyes of the world! Beulah, do you know that I watched for Eugene, for days, and weeks, and months after his return from Europe? I wanted to see him- -oh, so much! I loved you both as though you were my own children. I was so proud of that boy! I had raised him from a crawling infant, and never dreamed that he would forget me. But he did not come. I have not seen him since he left, six years ago, for Germany. Oh, the boy has pained me–pained me! I loved him so much!”
Beulah’s brow clouded heavily, as she said:
“It is better so–better that you should not see him. He is not what he was when he quitted us.”
“Is it true, then, that he drinks–that he is wild and dissipated? I heard it once, but would not believe it. Oh, it can’t be that Eugene drinks?”
“Yes, he drinks–not to stupid intoxication, but too freely for his health and character. He does not look like himself now.”
Mrs. Williams bowed down her head and wept bitterly, while Beulah continued sorrowfully:
“His adoption was his ruin. Had he remained dependent on his individual exertions he would have grown up an honor to himself and his friends. But Mr. Graham is considered very wealthy, and Eugene weakly desisted from the honest labor which was his duty. His fashionable associates have ruined him. In Europe he learned to drink, and here his companions dragged him constantly into scenes of dissipation. But I do not despair of him yet. It may be long before he awakens from this infatuation; but I trust he will yet reform. I cannot bear to think of him as a confirmed drunkard! Oh, no! no! I may be wrong, but I still hope that his nobler nature will conquer.”
“God help the boy! I have prayed for him for years, and I shall pray for him still, though he has forgotten me.”
She sobbed, and covered her face with her apron. A joyless smile flitted over Beulah’s fixed, grave features, as she said encouragingly:
“He will come to see you when he returns from the North. He has not forgotten you–that is impossible. Like me, he owes you too much.”
“I shall leave here very soon,” said Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes.
“Leave the asylum! for what?”
“I am getting old, child, and my health is none of the best. The duties are very heavy here, and I am not willing to occupy the position unless I could discharge all the duties faithfully. I have sent in my resignation to the managers, and as soon as they succeed in getting another matron, I shall leave the asylum. I am sorry to be obliged to go; I have been here so long that I am very much attached to the place and the children. But I am not able to do what I have done, and I know it is right that I should give up the position.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I have means enough to live plainly the remainder of my life. I intend to rent or buy a small house, and settle down and be quiet. I feel now as if I should like to spend my days in peace.”
“Do you intend to live alone?”
“Yes, child; except a servant, I suppose I shall be quite alone. But you will come to see me often, and perhaps Eugene will remember me some day, when he is in trouble.”
“No, I shall not come to see you at all! I mean to come and live with you–that is, if I may?” cried Beulah, springing up and laying her hand on the matron’s.
“God bless you, dear child; how glad I shall be!” She wound her arms round the slender form, and laughed through her tears.
Beulah gently put back the gray locks that had fallen from the border of her cap, and said hopefully:
“I am sick of boarding–sick of town! Let us get a nice little house, where I can walk in and out to my school. Have you selected any particular place?”
“No. I have looked at two or three, but none suited me exactly. Now you can help me. I am so thankful you are going to be with me! Will you come as soon as I can be released here?”
“Yes; just as soon as you are ready for me; and I think I know a house for rent which will just suit us. Now I want it understood that I am to pay the rent.”
“Oh, no, child! I won’t hear to it, for I am–“
“Very well, then; I will stay where I am.”
“Oh, Beulah! you are not in earnest?”
“Yes, I am; so say no more about it. I will come on no other condition. I will see the owner of the house, ascertain what I can obtain it for, and send you word. Then you can look at it and decide.”
“I am quite willing to trust it to you, child; only I can’t bear the thought of your paying the rent for it. But we can arrange that afterward.”
“No; you must be perfectly satisfied with the house. I will go by this evening and find out about it, so as to let you know at once. Have you any idea when the ‘board’ will procure another matron?”
“They have advertised, and several persons applied, I believe, but they were not exactly pleased with the applicants. I suppose, however, that in a few days they will find a substitute for me.”
“Well, be sure you get a good servant; and now I must go.”
She put on her bonnet and shawl with unwonted haste, and ran down the steps. In her frequent walks she had noticed two cottages in course of erection, not very far from the pine grove in front of the asylum, and now, crossing the common, she directed her steps toward them. The lots were small, and belonged to Dr. Asbury, who said he would build a couple of cottages for poor families to rent at cheap rates. As Beulah approached the houses she saw the doctor’s buggy standing near the door, and, thinking it a good omen, quickened her steps. Each building contained only three rooms and a hall, with a gallery or rather portico in front. They were genuine cottages ornes, built after Downing’s plans, and presented a tasteful, inviting appearance. The windows were arched and the woodwork elaborately carved. Beulah pushed open the freshly painted gate, ran up the steps and into the hall. The carpenters were still at work in the kitchen, and, as she conjectured, here she found her friend, giving some final directions. She looked round the snug little kitchen, and, walking up to Dr. Asbury, who stood with his back to the door, she shook his hand with a cheerful salutation.
“Halloo, Beulah! where did you drop from? Glad to see you. Glad to see you. How came you prying into my new houses? Answer me that! Did you see my spouse as you came through the hall?”
“No; I will go back and hunt for her–“
“You need not; there she comes down the steps of the house. She would insist on seeing about some shelves for this precious kitchen; thinks I am bound to put pantries, and closets, and shelves all over the house, for my future tenants. I suppose before the first poor family takes possession I shall be expected to fill the closet with table linen and cutlery, and the larder with sugar, flour, and wax candles. Look here, Mrs. Asbury, how many more shelves is this kitchen to have?”
“It is well she has a conscience, sir, since nature denied you one,” answered Beulah, whom Mrs. Asbury received very affectionately.
“Conscience! Bless my soul! she has none, as regards my unlucky purse. Positively she wanted to know, just now, if I would not have that little patch of ground between the house and the paling laid off into beds; and if I would not plant a few rose bushes and vines, for the first rascally set of children to tear up by the roots, just as soon as their parents moved in. There’s conscience for you with a vengeance.”
“And what did you say, sir?”
“What did I say? Why, just what every other meek husband says to appeals which ‘won’t cost much, you know.’ Of course I had no opinion of my own. Madame, here, is infallible; so I am put down for maybe a hundred dollars more. You need not have asked the result, you true daughter of Eve; every one of you understand wheedling. Those two mischievous imps of mine are almost as great adepts as their mother. Hey, Beulah, no whispering there! You look as wise as an owl. What am I to do next? Paper the walls and fresco the ceilings? Out with it.”
“I want to ask, sir, how much rent your conscience will allow you to demand for this pigeon-box of a house?”
“Well, I had an idea of asking two hundred dollars for it. Cheap enough at that. You may have it for two hundred,” said he, with a good-humored nod toward Beulah.
“Very well, I will take it at that, provided Mrs. Williams likes it as well as I do. In a day or two I will determine.”
“In the name of common sense, Beulah, what freak is this?” said the doctor, looking at her with astonishment.
“I am going to live with the matron of the asylum, whom you know very well. I think this house will suit us exactly, and the rent suits my purse far better than a larger building would. I am tired of boarding. I want a little home of my own, where, when the labors of school are over, I can feel at ease. The walk twice a day will benefit me, I feel assured. You need not look so dismal and perplexed; I will make a capital tenant. Your door-facings shan’t be pencil-marked; your windows shan’t be broken, nor your gate swung off its hinges. As for those flowers you are so anxious to plant, and that patch of ground you are so much interested in, it shall blossom like the plain of Sharon.”
He looked at her wistfully; took off his spectacles, wiped them with the end of his coat, and said dubiously:
“What does Hartwell think of this project?”
“I have not consulted him.”
“The plain English of which is that, whether he approves or condemns, you are determined to carry out this new plan? Take care, Beulah; remember the old adage about ‘cutting off your nose to spite your face.'”
“Rather malapropos. Dr. Asbury,” said she indifferently.
“I am an old man, Beulah, and know something of life and the world.”
“Nay, George; why dissuade her from this plan? If she prefers this quiet little home to the cenfinement and bustle of a boarding house, if she thinks she would be happier here with Mrs. Williams than in the heart of the city, why should not she come? Suffer her to judge for herself. I am disposed to applaud her choice,” interrupted Mrs. Asbury.
“Alice, do you suppose she will be satisfied to bury herself out here, with an infirm old woman for a companion? Here she must have an early breakfast, trudge through rain and cold into town; teach stupid little brats till evening; then listen to others equally stupid; thrum over music lessons, and, at last, tired out, drag herself back here about dark, when it is too late to see whether her garden is a cotton patch or a peach orchard! Will you please to tell me what enjoyment there is for one of her temperament in such a treadmill existence?”
“Your picture is all shadow. George; and, even if it were not, she is the best judge of what will promote her happiness. Do not discourage her. Ah, humble as the place is, I know how her heart aches for a spot she can call ‘home.’ These three rooms will be a haven of rest for her when the day is done. My dear Beulah, I trust you may be very happy here, or wherever you decide to live; you deserve to be.”
“Thank you, madam, for your friendly sympathy. I am glad you approve my design.”
“Well, well; if you soon weary of this freak you can easily give up the house, that is all. Now, Beulah, if you determine to take it, rest assured I will gladly make any additions or alterations you may suggest. I dare say I shall like you for a tenant. But see here, Mrs. Asbury, I have patients to look after. Please to remember that I am a professional character, consequently can call no moment my own. What! another row of shelves round that side? This building houses for rent is a ruinous speculation! Come, it is too late now to go over the rooms again; to-morrow will do as well. Beulah, are you going to play cook, too?”
“No, indeed! Mrs. Williams will find us a servant. Good-by. I will decide about the house as soon as possible.”
The following day she dispatched a note to the matron with information concerning the house; and at the close of the week all arrangements were completed, so that they might take possession as soon as a new matron was secured. Thus the last of October glided swiftly away, and one cold, clear day in November Beulah was notified that Mrs. Williams was comfortably settled in the new home. She went to school as usual, and when the recitations were ended, started out with a glad heart and springing step. In half an hour she reached the little white gate, and found Mrs. Williams waiting there to welcome her. Everything was new and neat; the tastefully selected carpets were not tapestry, but cheap ingrain; the snowy curtains were of plain dimity, with rose-colored borders, and the tea table held, instead of costly Sevres, simple white china, with a band of gilt. A bright fire crackled and glowed in the chimney, and, as Beulah stood on the hearth and glanced round the comfortable little room, which was to be both parlor and dining room, she felt her heart thrill with delight, and exclaimed:
“This is home! at last I feel that I have a home of my own. Not the Rothschilds, in their palaces, are so happy as I!”
For years she had been a wanderer, with no hearthstone, and now, for the first time since her father’s death she was at home. Not the home of adoption; nor the cheerless room of a boarding house, but the humble home which labor and rigid economy had earned for her. Her heart bounded with joy; an unwonted glow suffused her cheeks, and her parted lips trembled. The evening passed quickly, and when she retired to her own room she was surprised to find a handsome rosewood bookcase and desk occupying one corner. She opened the glass doors and saw her books carefully arranged on the shelves. Could her guardian have sent it? No; since her refusal of the watch, she felt sure he would not have offered it. A small note lay on the shelf, and, recognizing the delicate handwriting, she read the lines, containing these words:
“BEULAH: Accept the accompanying case and desk as a slight testimony of the affection of
“Your sincere friend,
“ALICE ASBURY.”
Tears sprang into her eyes as she opened the desk and discovered an elegant pen and pencil and every convenience connected with writing. Turning away, she saw beside the fire a large, deep easy-chair, cushioned with purple morocco, and knew it was exactly like one she had often seen in Dr. Asbury’s library. On the back was pinned a narrow slip of paper, and she read, in the doctor’s scrawling, quaint writing:
“Child, don’t be too proud to use it.”
She was not. Throwing herself into the luxurious chair, she broke the seal of a letter received that day from Pauline Mortimor. Once before, soon after her marriage, a few lines of gay greeting had come, and then many months had elapsed. As she unfolded the sheet she saw, with sorrow, that in several places it was blotted with tears; and the contents, written in a paroxysm of passion, disclosed a state of wretchedness which Beulah little suspected. Pauline’s impulsive, fitful nature was clearly indexed in the letter, and, after a brief apology for her long silence, she wrote as follows:
“Oh, Beulah, I am so miserable; so very, very wretched Beulah, Ernest does not love me! You will scarcely believe me, Oh, I hardly know how to believe it myself! Uncle Guy was right; I do not suit Ernest. But I loved him so very, very dearly, and thought him so devoted to me. Fool that I was! my eyes are opened at last. Beulah, it nearly drives me wild to think that I am bound to him for life, an unloved wife. Not a year has passed since our marriage, yet already he has tired of my ‘pretty face.’ Oh, Beulah, if I could only come to you, and put my arms round your neck, and lay my poor, weary head down on your shoulder, then I could tell you all–“
[Here several sentences were illegible from tears, and she could only read what followed.]
“Since yesterday morning Ernest has not spoken to me. While I write he is sitting in the next room, reading, as cold, indifferent, and calm as if I were not perfectly wretched. He is tyrannical; and because I do not humor all his whims, and have some will of my own, he treats me with insulting indifference. He is angry now because I resented some of his father’s impertinent speeches about my dress. This is not the first nor the second time that we have quarreled. He has an old-maid sister who is forever meddling about my affairs and sneering at my domestic arrangements; and because I finally told her I believed I was mistress of my own house Ernest has never forgiven me. Ellen (the sister I loved and went to school with) has married and moved to a distant part of the State. The other members of his family are bigoted, proud, and parsimonious, and they have chiefly made the breach between us. Oh, Beulah, if I could only undo the past, and be Pauline Chilton once more! Oh, if I could be free and happy again! But there is no prospect of that. I am his wife, as he told me yesterday, and suppose I must drag out a miserable existence. Yet I will not be trampled on by his family! His sister spends much of her time with us; reads to Ernest, talks to him about things that she glories in telling me I don’t understand the first word of. Beulah, I was anxious to study and make myself a companion for him; but, try as I may, Lucy contrives always to fret and thwart me. Two days ago she nearly drove me beside myself with her sneers and allusions to my great mental inferiority to Ernest (as if I were not often enough painfully reminded of the fact without any of her assistance!). I know I should not have said it, but I was too angry to think of propriety, and told her that her presence in my home was very disagreeable. Oh, if you could have seen her insulting smile, as she answered that her ‘noble brother needed her, and she felt it a duty to remain with him.’ Beulah, I love my husband; I would do anything on earth to make him happy if we were left to ourselves, but as to submitting to Lucy’s arrogance and sneers, I will not! Ernest requires me to apologize to his father and sister, and I told him I would not! I would die first! He does not love me or he would shield me from such trials. He thinks his sister is perfection, and I tell you I do absolutely detest her. Now, Beulah, there is no one else to whom I would mention my unhappiness. Mother does not suspect it, and never shall, even when she visits me. Uncle Guy predicted it, and I would not have him know it for the universe. But I can trust you; I feel that you will sympathize with me, and I want you to counsel me. Oh, tell me what I ought to do to rid myself of this tormenting sister-in-law and father-in-law, and, I may say, all Ernest’s kin. Sometimes, when I think of the future, I absolutely shudder; for if matters go on this way much longer I shall learn to hate my husband too. He knew my disposition before he married me, and has no right to treat me as he does. If it were only Ernest I could bring myself to ‘obey’ him, for I love him very devotedly; but as to being dictated to by all his relatives, I never will! Beulah, burn this blurred letter; don’t let anybody know how drearily I am situated. I am too proud to have my misery published. To know that people pitied me would kill me. I never can be happy again, but perhaps you can help me to be less miserable. Do write to me! Oh, how I wish you could come to me! I charge you, Beulah, don’t let Uncle Guy know that I am not happy. Good-by. Oh, if ever you marry, be sure your husband has no old-maid sisters and no officious kin! I am crying so that I can barely see the lines. Good-by, dear Beulah.”
“PAULINE.”
Beulah leaned forward and dropped the letter into the glowing mass of coals. It shriveled, blazed, and vanished, and, with a heavy sigh, she sat pondering the painful contents. What advice could she possibly give that would remedy the trouble? She was aware that the young wife must indeed have been “very wretched” before she could consent to disclose her domestic feuds to another. Under happier auspices she felt that Pauline would have made a devoted, gentle wife, but feared it was now too late to mold her character in conformity with her husband’s wishes. “So much for a union of uncongenial natures,” thought Beulah, as she prepared to answer the unlucky letter. As guardedly as possible she alluded to Mr. Mortimor and his family, and urged Pauline to talk to her husband gently but firmly, and assure him that the continued interference of his family was unendurable. If her remonstrances proved futile, to do what she considered due to herself as mistress of her own establishment, and try not to notice the annoyances of others. Beulah felt and acknowledged her inability to advise the young wife in the difficult position in which she was placed, and closed by assuring her that only her own good sense, guided by sincere love for her husband, could rightly direct her course. She was warmly attached to Pauline, and it was with a troubled heart that she addressed her reply.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Grahams were all at home again, and Eugene and his bride had been for several weeks fairly settled in their elegant new house. Beulah had seen none of the family since their return, for her time was nearly all occupied, and as soon as released from school she gladly hurried out to her little home. One evening as she left the academy Mr. Graham’s spirited horses dashed up to the gate, and the coachman handed her a note. It was from Mrs. Graham.
“MISS BENTON:
“Cornelia is quite indisposed, and begs that you will call and see her this afternoon. As it threatens rain, I send the carriage.
“S. GRAHAM.”
Beulah crumpled the note between her fingers, and hesitated. The coachman perceived her irresolution, and hastened to say:
“You needn’t be afraid of the horses, miss. Miss Nett’ rides so much they are tamed down.”
“I am not at all afraid of the horses. Has Cornelia been sick since her return from the North?”
“Why, miss, she came home worse than ever. She has not been downstairs since. She is sick all the time now.”
Beulah hesitated no longer. Mrs. Graham met her at the door, and greeted her more cordially than she had done on any previous occasion. She looked anxious and weary, and said, as she led the way to her daughter’s apartment:
“We are quite uneasy about Cornelia; you will find her sadly altered.” She ushered Beulah into the room, then immediately withdrew.
Cornelia was propped up by cushions and pillows in her easy-chair; her head was thrown back, and her gaze appeared to be riveted on a painting which hung opposite. Beulah stood beside her a moment, unnoticed, and saw with painful surprise the ravages which disease had made in the once beautiful face and queenly form. The black, shining hair was cut short, and clustered in thick, wavy locks about the wan brow, now corrugated as by some spasm of pain. The cheeks were hollow and ghastly pale; the eyes sunken, but unnaturally large and brilliant; and the colorless lips compressed as though to bear habitual suffering. Her wasted hands, grasping the arms of the chair, might have served as a model for a statue of death, so thin, pale, almost transparent. Beulah softly touched one of them, and said:
“Cornelia, you wished to see me.”
The invalid looked at her intently, and smiled.
“I thought you would come. Ah, Beulah, do you recognize this wreck as your former friend?”
“I was not prepared to find you so changed; for until this afternoon I was not aware your trip had been so fruitless. Do you suffer much?”
“Suffer! Yes; almost all the time. But it is not the bodily torture that troubles me so much–I could bear that in silence. It is my mind, Beulah; my mind.”
She pointed to a chair; Beulah drew it near her, and Cornelia continued:
“I thought I should die suddenly; but it is to be otherwise The torture is slow, lingering. I shall never leave this house again, except to go to my final home. Beulah, I have wanted to see you very much; I thought you would hear of my illness and come. How calm and pale you are! Give me your hand. Ah, cool and pleasant; mine parched with fever. And you have a little home of your own, I hear. How have things gone with you since we parted? Are you happy?”
“My little home is pleasant, and my wants are few,” replied Beulah.
“Have you seen Eugene recently?”
“Not since his marriage.”
A bitter laugh escaped Cornelia’s lips, as she writhed an instant, and then said:
“I knew how it would be. I shall not live to see the end, but you will. Ha, Beulah! already he has discovered his mistake. I did not expect it so soon; I fancied Antoinette had more policy. She has dropped the mask. He sees himself wedded to a woman completely devoid of truth; he knows her now as she is–as I tried to show him she was before it was too late; and, Beulah, as I expected, he has grown reckless–desperate. Ah, if you could have witnessed a scene at the St. Nicholas, in New York, not long since, you would have wept over him. He found his bride heartless; saw that she preferred the society of other gentlemen to his; that she lived only for the adulation of the crowd; and one evening, on coming home to the hotel, found she had gone to the opera with a party she knew he detested. Beulah, it sickens me when I think of his fierce railings, and anguish, and scorn. He drank in mad defiance, and when she returned greeted her with imprecations that would have bowed any other woman, in utter humiliation, into the dust. She laughed derisively, told him he might amuse himself as he chose, she would not heed his wishes as regarded her own movements. Luckily, my parents knew nothing of it; they little suspected, nor do they now know, why I was taken so alarmingly ill before dawn. I am glad I am to go so soon. I could not endure to witness his misery and disgrace.”
She closed her eyes and groaned.
“What induced her to marry him?” asked Beulah.
“Only her own false heart knows. But I have always believed she was chiefly influenced by a desire to escape from the strict discipline to which her father subjected her at home. Her mother was anything but a model of propriety; and her mother’s sister, who was Dr. Hartwell’s wife, was not more exemplary. My uncle endeavored to curb Antoinette’s dangerous fondness for display and dissipation, and she fancied that, as Eugene’s wife, she could freely plunge into gayeties which were sparingly allowed her at home. I know she does not love Eugene; she never did; and, assuredly, his future is dark enough. I believe, if she could reform him she would not; his excesses sanction, or at least in some degree palliate, hers. Oh, Beulah, I see no hope for him!”
“Have you talked to him kindly, Cornelia? Have you faithfully exerted your influence to check him in his route to ruin?”
“Talked to him? Aye; entreated, remonstrated, upbraided, used every argument at my command. But I might as well talk to the winds and hope to hush their fury. I shall not stay to see his end; I shall soon be silent and beyond all suffering. Death is welcome, very welcome.”
Her breathing was quick and difficult, and two crimson spots burned on her sallow cheeks. Her whole face told of years of bitterness, and a grim defiance of death, which sent a shudder through Beulah, as she listened to the panting breath. Cornelia saturated her handkerchief with some delicate perfume from a crystal vase, and, passing it over her face, continued:
“They tell me it is time I should be confirmed; talk vaguely of seeing preachers, and taking the sacrament, and preparing myself, as if I could be frightened into religion and the church. My mother seems just to have waked up to a knowledge of my spiritual condition, as she calls it. Ah, Beulah, it is all dark before me; black, black as midnight! I am going down to an eternal night; down to annihilation. Yes, Beulah; soon I shall descend into what Schiller’s Moor calls the ‘nameless yonder.’ Before long I shall have done with mystery; shall be sunk into unbroken rest.” A ghastly smile parted her lips as she spoke.
“Cornelia, do you fear death?”
“No; not exactly. I am glad I am so soon to be rid of my vexed, joyless life; but you know it is all a dark mystery; and sometimes, when I recollect how I felt in my childhood, I shrink from the final dissolution. I have no hopes of a blissful future, such as cheer some people in their last hour. Of what comes after death I know and believe nothing. Occasionally I shiver at the thought of annihilation; but if, after all, revelation is true, I have something worse than annihilation to fear. You know the history of my skepticism; it is the history of hundreds in this age. The inconsistencies of professing Christians disgusted me. Perhaps I was wrong to reject the doctrines because of their abuse; but it is too late now for me to consider that. I narrowly watched the conduct of some of the members of the various churches, and, as I live, Beulah, I have never seen but one who practiced the precepts of Christ. I concluded she would have been just what she was without religious aids. One of my mother’s intimate friends was an ostentatious, pharisaical Christian; gave alms, headed charity lists; was remarkably punctual in her attendance at church, and apparently very devout; yet I accidentally found out that she treated a poor seamstress (whom she hired for a paltry sum) in a manner that shocked my ideas of consistency, of common humanity. The girl was miserably poor, and had aged parents and brothers and sisters dependent on her exertions; but her Christian employer paid her the lowest possible price, and trampled on her feelings as though she had been a brute. Oh, the hollowness of the religion I saw practiced! I sneered at everything connected with churches, and heard no more sermons, which seemed only to make hypocrites and pharisees of the congregation. I have never known but one exception. Mrs. Asbury is a consistent Christian. I have watched her, under various circumstances; I have tempted her, in divers ways, to test her, and to-day, skeptic as I am, I admire and revere that noble woman. If all Christians set an example as pure and bright as hers, there were less infidelity and atheism in the land. If I had known even half a dozen such I might have had a faith to cheer me in the hour of my struggle. She used to talk gently to me in days past, but I would not heed her. She often comes to see me now; and though I do not believe the words of comfort that fall from her lips, still they soothe me; and I love to have her sit near me, that I may look at her sweet, holy face, so full of winning purity. Beulah, a year ago we talked of these things. I was then, as now, hopeless of creeds, of truth, but you were sure you would find the truth. I looked at you eagerly when you came in, knowing I could read the result in your countenance. Ah, there is no peace written there! Where is your truth? Show it to me.”
She twined her thin, hot fingers round Beulah’s cold hand, and spoke in a weary tone. The orphan’s features twitched an instant, and her old troubled look came back, as she said:
“I wish I could help you, Cornelia. It must be terrible, indeed, to stand on the brink of the grave and have no belief in anything. I would give more than I possess to be able to assist you, but I cannot; I have no truth to offer you; I have yet discovered nothing for myself. I am not so sanguine as I was a year ago, but I still hope that I shall succeed.”
“You will not; you will not. It is all mocking mystery, and no more than the aggregated generations of the past can you find any solution.”
Cornelia shook her head, and leaned back in her chair.
“Philosophy promises one,” replied Beulah resolutely.
“Philosophy! Take care! That hidden rock stranded me. Listen to me. Philosophy, or, what is nowadays its synonym, metaphysical systems, are worse than useless. They will make you doubt your own individual existence, if that be possible. I am older than you; I am a sample of the efficacy of such systems. Oh, the so-called philosophers of this century and the last are crowned heads of humbuggery! Adepts in the famous art of”
“‘Wrapping nonsense round, With pomp and darkness, till it seems profound.'”
“They mock earnest, enquiring minds with their refined, infinitesimal, homeopathic ‘developments’ of deity; metaphysical wolves in Socratic cloaks. Oh, they have much to answer for! ‘Spring of philosophy!’ ha! ha! They have made a frog pond of it, in which to launch their flimsy, painted toy barks. Have done with them, Beulah, or you will be miserably duped.”
“Have you lost faith in Emerson and Theodore Parker?” asked Beulah.
“Yes; lost faith in everything and everybody, except Mrs. Asbury. Emerson’s atheistic fatalism is enough to unhinge human reason; he is a great and, I believe, an honest thinker, and of his genius I have the profoundest admiration. An intellectual Titan, he wages a desperate war with received creeds, and, rising on the ruins of systems, struggles to scale the battlements of truth. As for Parker, a careful perusal of his works was enough to disgust me. But no more of this, Beulah–so long as you have found nothing to rest upon. I had hoped much from your earnest search; but since it has been futile, let the subject drop. Give me that glass of medicine. Dr. Hartwell was here just before you came. He is morose and haggard; what ails him?”
“I really don’t know. I have not seen him for several months–not since August, I believe.”
“So I supposed, as I questioned him about you; and he seemed ignorant of your movements. Beulah, does not life look dreary and tedious when you anticipate years of labor and care? Teaching is not child’s sport. Are you not already weary in spirit?”
“No, I am not weary; neither does life seem joyless. I know that I shall have to labor for a support; but necessity always supplies strength. I have many, very many sources of happiness, and look forward, hopefully, to a life of usefulness.”
“Do you intend to teach all your days? Are you going to wear out your life over primers and slates?”
“Perhaps so. I know not how else I shall more easily earn a subsistence.”
“I trust you will marry, and be exempted from that dull, tedious routine,” said Cornelia, watching her countenance.
Beulah made a gesture of impatience.
“That is a mode of exemption so extremely remote that I never consider it. I do not find teaching so disagreeable as you imagine, and dare say at fifty (if I live that long) I shall still be in a schoolroom. Remember the trite line:”
“‘I dreamed, and thought that life was beauty I woke, and found that life was duty'”
“Labor, mental and physical, is the heritage of humanity, and happiness is inseparably bound up with the discharge of duty. It is a divine decree that all should work, and a compliance with that decree insures a proper development of the moral, intellectual, and physical nature.”
“You are brave, Beulah, and have more of hope in your nature than I. For twenty-three years I have been a petted child; but life has given me little enjoyment. Often have I asked, Why was I created? for what am I destined? I have been like a gilded bubble, tossed about by every breath! Oh, Beulah! often, in the desolation of my heart, I have recalled that grim passage of Pollok’s, and that that verily I was that
“‘Atom which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not To build creation with, but back again To nothing threw, and left it in the void, With everlasting sense, that once it was!'”
“My life has not been useful, it has been but joyless, and clouded with the shadow of death from my childhood.”
Her voice was broken, and tears trickled over her emaciated face. She put up her thin hand and brushed them away, as if ashamed of her emotion.
“Sometimes I think if I could only live, and be strong, I would make myself useful in the world–would try to be less selfish and exacting, but all regrets are vain, and the indulged child of luxury must take her place in the pale realms of death along with the poverty-stricken and laboring. Beulah, I was in pain last night, and could not sleep, and for hours I seemed to hear the words of that horrible vision: ‘And he saw how world after world shook off its glimmering souls upon the sea of Death, as a water-bubble scatters swimming lights on the waves.’ Oh! my mind is clouded and my heart hopeless, it is dismal to stand alone as I do, and confront the final issue, without belief in anything. Sometimes, when the paroxysms are severe and prolonged, I grow impatient of the tedious delay, and would spring, open-armed, to meet Death, the deliverer.”
Beulah was deeply moved, and answered, with a faltering voice and trembling lip:
“I wish I could comfort and cheer you; but I cannot–I cannot! If the hand of disease placed me to-day on the brink beside you, I should be as hopeless as you. Oh, Cornelia! it makes my heart ache to look at you now, and I would give my life to be able to stand where you do, with a calm trust in the God of Israel; but–“
“Then be warned by my example. In many respects we resemble each other; our pursuits have been similar. Beulah, do not follow me to the end! Take my word for it, all is dark and grim.”
She sank back, too much exhausted to continue the conversation, and Beulah rose to go.
“Can’t you stay with me?” said the feeble girl.
“No; my companionship is no benefit to you now. If I could help you I would not leave you at all.”
She pressed her lips to the forehead furrowed by suffering, and hastened away.
It was dusk when she reached home, and, passing the dining room, where the tea table awaited her arrival, she sought her own apartment. A cheerful fire blazed in welcome; but just now all things were somber to her vision, and she threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Like a haunting specter, Cornelia’s haggard countenance pursued her, and a dull foreboding pointed to a coming season when she, too, would quit earth in hopeless uncertainty. She thought of her guardian and his skeptical misanthropy. He had explored every by-path of speculation, and after years of study and investigation had given up in despair, and settled down into a refined pantheism. Could she hope to succeed better? Was her intellect so vastly superior to those who for thousands of years had puzzled by midnight lamps over these identical questions of origin and destiny? What was the speculation of all ages, from Thales to Comte, to the dying girl she had just left? Poor Beulah! For the first time her courage forsook her, and bitter tears gushed over her white cheeks. There was no stony bitterness in her face, but an unlifting shadow that mutely revealed the unnumbered hours of strife and desolation which were slowly bowing that brave heart to the dust. She shuddered, as now, in self- communion, she felt that atheism, grim and murderous, stood at the entrance of her soul, and threw its benumbing shadow into the inmost recesses. Unbelief hung its murky vapors about her heart, curtaining it from the sunshine of God’s smile. It was not difficult to trace her gradual progress if so she might term her unsatisfactory journey. Rejecting literal revelation, she was perplexed to draw the exact line of demarcation between myths and realities; then followed doubts as to the necessity, and finally as to the probability and possibility, of an external, verbal revelation. A revealed code or system was antagonistic to the doctrines of rationalism; her own consciousness must furnish the necessary data. But how far was “individualism” allowable? And here the hydra of speculation reared its horrid head; if consciousness alone furnished truth, it was but true for her, true according to the formation of her mind, but not absolutely true. Admit the supremacy of the individual reason, and she could not deny “that the individual mind is the generating principle of all human knowledge; that the soul of man is like the silkworm, which weaves its universe out of its own being; that the whole mass of knowledge to which we can ever attain lies potentially within us from the beginning; that all truth is nothing more than a self-development.”
She became entangled in the finely spun webs of ontology, and knew not what she believed. Her guardian’s words rang in her ears like a knell. “You must accept either utter skepticism, or absolute, consistent pantheism.”
A volume which she had been reading the night before lay on the table, and she opened it at the following passage:
“Every being is sufficient to itself; that is, every being is, in and by itself, infinite: has its God, its highest conceivable being, in itself. The object of any subject is nothing else than the subject’s own nature taken objectively. Such as are a man’s thoughts and dispositions, such is his God! Consciousness of God is self- consciousness; by his God, you know the man, and by the man, his God: the two are identical! Religion is merely the consciousness which a man has of his own, not limited, but infinite, nature; it is an early form of self-knowledge. God is the objective nature of the understanding.”
Thus much Feuerbach offered her. She put down the book and leaned her head wearily on her hands. A light touch on her arm caused her to glance up, and Mrs. Williams’ anxious face looked down at her.
“What is the matter with you, Beulah? Are you sick?”
“No; I am as well as usual.” She hastily averted her head.
“But something troubles you, child!”
“Yes; a great many things trouble me; but I am used to troubles, you know, and can cope with them unaided.”
“Won’t you tell me what they are, Beulah?”
“You cannot help me, or I would. One cause of sorrow, however, is the approaching death of a friend whom I shall miss and mourn. Cornelia Graham cannot live much longer. I saw her this evening, and found that she has become sadly altered.”
“She is young to die,” said the matron, with a sigh.
“Yes; only twenty-three.”
“Perhaps her death will be the means of reclaiming my poor boy.”
Beulah shook her head, and Mrs. Williams added:
“She has lived only for this world and its pleasures. Is she afraid of the world to come? Can she die peacefully?”
“She will die calmly, but not hopefully. She does not believe in Christianity.”
She felt that the matron was searching her countenance, and was not surprised when she said falteringly:
“Neither do you believe in it. Oh, Beulah! I have known it since you came to reside under the same roof with me, and I have wept and prayed over you almost as much as over Eugene. When Sabbath after Sabbath passed, and you absented yourself from church, I knew something was wrong. Beulah, who has taught you infidelity? Oh, it would have been better that you too had followed Lilly, in the early days when you were pure in heart! Much as I love you, I would rather weep over your grave than know you had lived to forget God.”
Beulah made no reply; and, passing her hands tenderly over the girl’s head, she continued:
“When you came to me, a little child, I taught you your morning and evening prayers. Oh, Beulah! Beulah! now you lay down to sleep without a thought of prayer. My child, what is to become of you?”
“I don’t know. But do not be distressed about me; I am trying to do my duty just as conscientiously as though I went to church.”
“Don’t deceive yourself, dear child. If you cease to pray and read your Bible, how are you to know what your duty is? How are you to keep yourself ‘pure and unspotted from the world’? Beulah, a man without religion is to be pitied; but, oh! a Godless woman is a horror above all things. It is no marvel you look so anxious and hollow-eyed. You have forsaken the ‘ways of pleasantness and the paths of peace.'”
“I am responsible to no one for my opinions.”
“Yes, you are; responsible to God, for he has given truth to the world, and when you shut your eyes, and willingly walk in darkness, he will judge you accordingly. If you had lived in an Indian jungle, out of hearing of Gospel truth, then God would not have expected anything but idolatry from you; but you live in a Christian land; in the land of Bibles, and ‘to whom much is given, much will be expected.’ The people of this generation are running after new doctrines, and overtake much error. Beulah, since I have seen you sitting up nearly all night, pouring over books that rail at Jesus and his doctrines, I have repented the hour I first suggested your educating yourself to teach. If this is what all your learning has brought you to, it would have been better if you had been put out to learn millinery or mantua-making. Oh, my child, you have been my greatest pride, but now you are a grief to me!”
She took Beulah’s hand in hers, and pressed her lips to it, while the tears fell thick and fast. The orphan was not unmoved; her lashes were heavy with unshed drops, but she said nothing.
“Beulah, I am fifty-five years old; I have seen a great deal of the world, and, I tell you, I have never yet known a happy man or woman who did not reverence God and religion. I can see that you are not happy. Child, you never will be so long as you wander away from God. I pray for you; but you must also pray for yourself. May God help you, my dear child!”
She left her, knowing her nature too well to hope to convince her of her error.
Beulah remained for some time in the same position, with her eyes fixed on the fire, and her forehead plowed by torturing thought. The striking of the clock roused her from her reverie, and, drawing a chair near her desk, she took up her pen to complete an article due the next day at the magazine office. Ah, how little the readers dreamed of the heavy heart that put aside its troubles to labor for their amusement! To-night she did not succeed as well as usual; her manuscript was blurred, and, forced to copy the greater part of it, the clock struck three before she laid her weary head on her pillow.
CHAPTER XXX.
Mr. Graham sat by his daughter’s bed, with his elbow resting on her pillow and his head drooped on his hand. It was noon, and sunshine sparkled out of doors; but here the heavy curtains swept across the windows and cast a lurid light over the sickroom. His heart ached as he looked upon the wreck of his once brilliant and beautiful child, and he shaded his face to conceal the tears which stole down his furrowed cheeks. The restless sufferer threw up her arms over the pillow, and, turning toward him, said in a voice sharpened by disease:
“Has mother gone? I want to say something to you.”
“We are alone, my child; speak to me freely.”
“There are a few things I wish to have arranged, and my time is short. You have never refused me any gratification I desired, and I know you will grant my last request. Father, if I were a bride to- day, what would be my portion of the estate? How much would you give me?”
“I would give every cent I possess to purchase you a life of happiness.”
“You do not understand me. I have always been considered an heiress, and I want to know how much I would be entitled to, if I should live? Of course Eugene has an equal share. How much is it?”
“About eighty thousand dollars apiece, I suppose, leaving as much for your mother. Why do you ask, my daughter?”
“Eighty thousand dollars. How much good might be done with it, if judiciously distributed and invested! Father, I shall not live to squander it in frivolous amusements or superfluous luxuries. Are you willing that I should dispose of a portion of it before my death?”
“Yes, Cornelia, if it will afford you any gratification. My poor, afflicted child; how can I deny you anything you choose to ask?”
She put up one arm around his neck, and, drawing his head close to her, said earnestly:
“I only wish to use a part of it. Father, I want to leave Beulah about five thousand dollars. That sum will enable her to live more comfortably, and labor less, and I should like to feel, before I die, that I had been the means of assisting her. Will you invest that amount in stocks for her, or pay the money into her own hands? Will you see that it is arranged so that she will certainly receive it, no matter what happens?”
“Yes, I promise you that she shall have five thousand dollars, to dispose of as she thinks proper.”
“She is proud, and will not receive it willingly; but you must arrange it so that she will be benefited by it. Father, can you do this for me?”
“Yes, without difficulty, I think.”
“Let it be kept secret, will you?”
“Rest assured it shall have no unnecessary publicity.”
“See that it is conveyed to her so securely that no quibbles of law can wrest it from her at any future day, for none of us knows what may happen.”
“I promise you she shall have it if I live twelve hours longer.”
“Then I want five thousand more given to the orphan asylum. Give it in your own name. You only have the right to give. Don’t have my name mentioned in the matter. Will you promise me this also?”
“Yes; it shall all be done. Is there anything else?”
“Thank you, that is all, as regards money matters. Raise my pillow a little; there, that will do. Father, can’t you do something to save Eugene? You must see now how reckless he is growing.”
“Recently I have expostulated with him, and he seemed disposed to reform his habits. Acknowledged that his associations had been injurious, and regretted the excesses into which he had been led. He has been rather wild since he came from college; but I think, now he is married, he will sober down. That is one reason why I encouraged his marrying so early. Intemperance is his only fault, and I trust his good sense will soon lead him to correct it.” A smothered sigh concluded the sentence.
“Father, Antoinette is not the woman to reform him. Don’t trust to her influence; if you do, Eugene will be ruined. Watch over him closely yourself; try to win him away from the haunts of dissipation; I tell you now his wife will never do it. She has duped you and my mother as to her character, but you will find that she is as utterly heartless as her own mother was. I always opposed the match, because I probed her mask of dissimulation, and knew Eugene could not be happy with her. But the mistake is irretrievable, and it only remains for you to watch him the more carefully. Lift me, father; I can’t breathe easily. There is the doctor on the steps; I am too tired to talk any more to-day.”
One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time. It was twilight when she reached Mr. Graham’s house and glided noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway. The bells were all muffled, and a solemn stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easychair. Her mother sat near her, with her face hid on her husband’s bosom. Dr. Hartwell leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wandered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her sharpened features.
“Beulah, come close to me–close.” She grasped her hands tightly, and Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.
“Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me free from pain, won’t you? I have suffered for so many months and years. But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever?–is it forever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where grass and flowers will wave over me, and the sun shine down on me? Yes, it must be so. Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber? Abel was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened? No one. Earth is full of pale sleepers; and I am soon to join the silent band.”
There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.
“Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so, you will–“
“Ha, but you don’t believe that, Beulah. They say, they say! Yes. but I never believed them before, and I don’t want to believe them now. I will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now. Beulah, I shall know very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted. Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am going; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, dark! You know what I mean. Don’t live as I have, believing nothing. No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is because I believe in nothing that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is such a dark, dark, lonely way! If I had a friend to go with me I should not shrink back; but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going out into a great starless midnight.” She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched Beulah’s convulsively.
“Calm yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God will see that you were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will sink into quiet oblivion of all your griefs.”
“Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, why was I ever created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to senseless dust? I never have been happy; I have always had aspirations after purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford me, and must they be lost in dead clay? Oh, Beulah, can you give me no comfort but this? Is this the sum of all your study, as well as mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can find out nothing. We are all blind; groping our way through mysterious paths, and now I am going into the last–the great mystery!”
She shook her head with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out some hideous specter. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful of some powerful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by the difficulty of breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sobs of the parents. Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and now and then her lips moved, but nothing intelligible escaped them. It was surprising how she seemed to rally sometimes, and breathe with perfect ease; then the paroxysms would come on more violent than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with her forehead resting on the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm hold of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still to watch the issue, for moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer. Beulah felt as if her heart were leaden, and a band of burning iron seemed drawn about her brow. Was this painful parting to be indeed eternal? Was there no future home for the dead of this world? Should the bands of love and friendship, thus rudely severed, be renewed no more? Was there no land where the broken links might be gathered up again? What did philosophy say of these grim hours of struggle and separation? Nothing–absolutely nothing! Was she to see her sister no more? Was a moldering mass of dust all that remained of the darling dead–the beautiful angel Lilly, whom she had so idolized? Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul, with its noble aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her brain was in a wild, maddening whirl; she could not weep; her eyes were dry and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured audibly:
“‘For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.’ Ah! what is its name? that ‘continuing city’! Necropolis?” Again she remained for some time speechless.
Dr. Hartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow, and, opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an imploring gaze, which mutely said: “Can’t you help me?” He leaned over, and answered it, sadly enough:
“Courage, Cornelia! It will very soon be over now. The worst is past, my friend.”
“Yes; I know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?”
He came and stood near her; his face full of anguish, which could not vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she looked at him; a wailing cry broke from her lips; and, extending her arms toward him, she said sobbingly:
“Shall I see you no more–no more? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride, my dearest hope! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we now parted forever–forever!”
He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her; but, clinging to him, she said huskily:
“Eugene, with my last breath I implore you; forsake your intemperate companions. Shun them and their haunts. Let me die feeling that at least my dying prayer will save you! Oh, when I am gone; when I am silent in the graveyard, remember how the thought of your intemperance tortured me! Remember how I remonstrated and entreated you not to ruin yourself! Remember that I loved you above everything on earth; and that, in my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself! Oh, Eugene, for my sake! for my sake! quit the wine-cup, and leave drunkenness for others more degraded!–Promise me!–Where are you?– Oh, it is all cold and dark!–I can’t see you!–Eugene, promise! promise!–Eugene–“
Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds; then the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene felt a long shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Cornelia Graham’s soul was with its God.
Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and questioning, what an exit! Eugene lifted the attenuated form and placed it on the bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from the room; and, after some minutes, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied.
“Come, Beulah; she will want you no more.”
She lifted a countenance so full of woe that, as he looked at her, the moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head, saying:
“Come with me, Beulah.”
“And this is death? Oh, my God, save me from such a death!”
She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then, rising from her kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cushions. That long night of self-communion was never forgotten.
The day of the funeral was cold, dark, and dismal. A January wind howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the gloom. The parlors and sitting room were draped, and on the marble slab of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall. Once before Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded; and it seemed but yesterday that she stood beside Lilly’s rigid form. She went in alone, and waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of conflicting sorrows in her oppressed heart; then lifted the covering and looked on the sleeper. Wan, waxen, and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of disease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless death. The black locks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful hands folded peacefully over the heart that should throb no more with the anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow and put the trembling mouth at rest, and every feature was in repose. In life she had never looked so placidly beautiful.
“What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries? She died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without hope and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery,” thought Beulah, as she looked at the marble face and recalled the bitterness of its lifelong expression. Persons began to assemble; gradually the rooms filled. Beulah bent down and kissed the cold lips for the last time, and, lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner. She was very miserable, but her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious of what passed around her. She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved parents as in a painful dream; and when the solemn silence was broken she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head of the coffin; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from another world:
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; and he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!”
Cornelia had not believed; was she utterly lost? Beulah asked herself this question, and shrank from the answer. She did not believe; would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there but one salvation? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession formed, she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a carriage with Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in one corner, and the long line of carriages, extending for many squares, slowly wound through the streets. The wind wailed and sobbed, as if in sympathy, and the rain drizzled against the window glass. When the procession reached the cemetery, it was too wet to think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah could see the coffin borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice of the minister; and when the shrouded form of the only child was lowered into its final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her hands. Should they meet no more? Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had forborne to address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering form, and said gently:
“My dear Beulah, do not look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst of life we are in death; but God has given a promise to cheer us all in sad scenes like this. St. John was told to write, ‘From henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from, their labors.'”
“And do you think she is lost forever because she did not believe? Do you? Can you?” cried Beulah vehemently.
“Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she entirely rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately; but only God knows the heart–only her Maker can judge her. I trust that even in the last hour the mists rolled from her mind.”
Beulah knew better, but said nothing; it was enough to have witnessed that darkened soul’s last hour on earth. As the carriage stopped at her door Mrs. Asbury said:
“My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to find what you are seeking so earnestly.”
Beulah shrank back, and answered:
“No, no. No one can help me; I must help myself. Some other time I will come.”
The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to her room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down on the rug before the fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as she was wont to do in childhood; and, as she remembered that the winter rain now beat pitilessly on the grave of one who had never known privation, nor aught of grief that wealth could shield her from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had philosophy hung in the sable chambers of the tomb? The soul was impotent to explain its origin–how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final destiny? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of ‘ideas.’ Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or develop them selves independently of experience? The affirmation or denial of this proposition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled with psychology; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect question further? Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores of Eternity?
CHAPTER XXXI.
Time, “like a star, unhasting, yet unresting,” moved on. The keen blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses, and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies. The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it “was well-nigh done”; and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the dolphin-like death. The regal splendors of Southern springtime were on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air. Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her–a volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume–the glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered she sat looking out, mute and motionless. The distant pinetops sang their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the soft violet sky. Around the columns of the little portico a luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah’s head, as she leaned it against the pillar. The face wore a weary, suffering look; the large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of languor in every feature. A few months had strangely changed the countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted expression. The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue. Yet she had never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the usual routine of mental labor. Rigorously the tax was levied, no matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed; and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for a reprieve. Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was generally reclaimed from sleep. It was no mystery that she looked ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of hope which had risen in her cloudy sky. Mr. Arlington’s brother had taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy, that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name. Beulah rejoiced in her friend’s happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest, as in Pauline’s case, thorns should spring up in paths where now only blossoms were visible. Since that letter, so full of complaint and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline. Many months had elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence. She had written several times, but received no answer, and imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage. Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs. Lockhart must be with her daughter. Beulah half rose, then leaned back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that “still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills.” Mrs. Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due the editor the next morning. She was rigidly punctual in handing in her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow. She no longer wrote incognito. By accident she was discovered as the authoress of several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading literati of the place. Her successful career thus far inflamed the ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived, as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame suffered proportionably. The little gate opened and closed with a creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and saw her guardian before her. The light from the dining room fell on his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had induced this visit. He had never entered that gate before; and she sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.
“Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you once more!”
He took her hands in his and looked at her gravely; then made her sit down again on the step, and said:
“I suppose you would have died before you could get your consent to send for me? It is well that you have somebody to look after you. How long have you had this fever?”
“Fever! Why, sir, I have no fever,” she replied, with some surprise.
“Oh, child! are you trying to destroy yourself by your obstinacy? If so, like most other things you undertake, I suppose you will succeed.”
He held her hands and kept his finger on the quick bounding pulse. Beulah had not seen him since the night of Cornelia’s death, some months before, and conjectured that Dr. Asbury had told him she was not looking well.
She could not bear the steady, searching gaze of his luminous eyes, and, moving restlessly, said:
“Sir, what induces you to suppose that I am sick? I have complained of indisposition to no one.”
“Of course you have not, for people are to believe that you are a gutta-percha automaton.”
She fancied his tone was slightly sneering; but his countenance wore the expression of anxious, protecting interest which she had so prized in days past, and, as her hands trembled in his clasp and his firm hold tightened, she felt that it was useless to attempt to conceal the truth longer.
“I didn’t know I was feverish; but for some time I have daily grown weaker; I tremble when I stand or walk, and am not able to sleep. That is all.”
He smiled down at her earnest face, and asked:
“Is that all, child? Is that all?”
“Yes, sir; all.”
“And here you have been, with a continued, wasting nervous fever for you know not how many days, yet keep on your round of labors without cessation!”
He dropped her hands and folded his arms across his broad chest, keeping his eyes upon her.
“I am not at all ill; but believe I need some medicine to strengthen me.”
“Yes, child; you do, indeed, need a medicine, but it is one you will never take.”
“Try me, sir,” answered she, smiling.
“Try you? I might as well try to win an eagle from its lonely rocky home. Beulah, you need rest. Rest for mind, body, and heart. But you will not take it; oh, no, of course you won’t!”
He passed his hand over his brow, and swept back the glossy chestnut hair, as if it oppressed him.
“I would willingly take it, sir, if I could; but the summer vacation is still distant, and, besides, my engagements oblige me to exert myself. It is a necessity with me.”
“Rather say sheer obstinacy,” said he sternly.
“You are severe, sir,” replied Beulah, lifting her head haughtily.
“No; I only call things by their proper names.”
“Very well; if you prefer it, then, obstinacy compels me just now to deny myself the rest you prescribe.”
“Yes; rightly spoken; and it will soon compel you to a long rest, in the quiet place where Cornelia waits for you. You are a mere shadow now, and a few more months will complete your design. I have blamed myself more than once that I did not suffer you to die with Lilly, as you certainly would have done had I not tended you so closely. Your death then would have saved me much care and sorrow, and you many struggles.”
There was a shadow on his face, and his voice had the deep, musical tone which always made her heart thrill. Her eyelids drooped, as she said sadly:
“You are unjust. We meet rarely enough, Heaven knows. Why do you invariably make these occasions seasons of upbraiding, of taunts and sneers. Sir, I owe you my life, and more than my life, and never can I forget or cancel my obligations; but are you no longer my friend?”
His whole face lighted up; the firm mouth trembled.
“No, Beulah. I am no longer your friend.”
She looked up at him, and a quiver crept across her lips. She had never seen that eager expression in his stern face before. His dark, fascinating eyes were full of pleading tenderness, and, as she drooped her head on her lap, she knew that Clara was right, that she was dearer to her guardian than anyone else. A half-smothered groan escaped her, and there was a short pause.
Dr. Hartwell put his hands gently on her bowed head and lifted the face.
“Child, does it surprise you?”
She said nothing, and, leaning her head against him, as she had often done years before, he passed his hand caressingly over the folds of hair, and added:
“You call me your guardian; make me such. I can no longer be only your friend; I must either be more, or henceforth a stranger. My life has been full of sorrow and bitterness, but you can bring sunlight to my home and heart. You were too proud to be adopted. Once I asked you to be my child. Ah! I did not know my own heart then. Our separation during the yellow-fever season first taught me how inexpressibly dear you were to me, how entirely you filled my heart. Now I ask you to be my wife, to give yourself to me. Oh, Beulah, come back to my cheerless home! Best your lonely heart, my proud darling.”
“Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot! I cannot!” cried Beulah, shuddering violently.
“Why not, my little Beulah?”
He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.
“Oh, sir, I would rather die! I should be miserable as your wife. You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery. You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude. Do not ask this of me; we would both be wretched. You pity my loneliness and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my best friend; I love you as my protector. You are all I have on earth to look to for sympathy and guidance. You are all I have; but I cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!” She shrank away from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of hopeless suffering settled upon her face.
He withdrew his arm, and rose.
“Beulah, I have seen sunlit bubbles gliding swiftly on the bosom of a clear brook and casting golden shadows down upon the pebbly bed. Such a shadow you are now chasing–ah, child, the shadow of a gilded bubble! Panting and eager, you clutch at it; the bubble dances on, the shadow with it; and Beulah, you will never, never grasp it. Ambition such as yours, which aims at literary fame, is the deadliest foe to happiness. Man may content himself with the applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect; but woman’s heart has holier idols. You cue young, and impulsive, and aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the siren of antiquity; but the months and years will surely come when, with wasted energies and embittered heart, you are left to mourn your infatuation. I would save you from this; but you will drain the very dregs rather than forsake your tempting fiend, for such is ambition to the female heart. Yes, you will spend the springtime of your life chasing a painted specter, and go down to a premature grave, disappointed and miserable. Poor child, it needs no prophetic vision to predict your ill-starred career! Already the consuming fever has begun its march. In far-distant lands, I shall have no tidings of you; but none will be needed. Perhaps when I travel home to die your feverish dream will have ended; or, perchance, sinking to eternal rest in some palm grove of the far East, we shall meet no more. Since the day I took you in my arms from Lilly’s coffin you have been my only hope, my all. You little knew how precious you were to me, nor what keen suffering our estrangement cost me. Oh, child, I have loved you as only a strong, suffering, passionate heart could love its last idol! But I, too, chased a shadow. Experience should have taught me wisdom. Now I am a gloomy, joyless man, weary of my home and henceforth a wanderer. Asbury (if he lives) will be truly your friend, and to him T shall commit the legacy which hitherto you have refused to accept. Mr. Graham paid it into my hands after his last unsatisfactory interview with you. The day may come when you will need it. I shall send you some medicine which, for your own sake, you had better take immediately; but you will never grow stronger until you give yourself rest, relaxation, physically and mentally. Remember, when your health is broken and all your hopes withered, remember I warned you and would have saved you, and you would not.” He stooped and took his hat from the floor.
Beulah sat looking at him, stunned, bewildered, her tearless eyes strained and frightened in their expression. The transient illumination in his face had faded, like sunset tints, leaving dull, leaden clouds behind. His compressed lips were firm again, and the misty eyes became coldly glittering, as one sees stars brighten in a frosty air.
He put on his hat, and they looked at each other fixedly.
“You are not in earnest? you are not going to quit your home?” cried Beulah, in a broken, unsteady tone.
“Yes–going into the far East; to the ruined altars of Baalbec; to Meroe, to Tartary, India, China, and only Fate knows where else. Perhaps find a cool Nebo in some Himalayan range. Going? Yes. Did you suppose I meant only to operate on your sympathies? I know you too well. What is it to you whether I live or die? whether my weary feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city cemetery? Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting. I shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits. Ah, child–“
“Oh, don’t go! don’t leave me! I beg, I implore you, not to leave me. Oh, I am so desolate! don’t forsake me! I could not bear to know you were gone. Oh, don’t leave me!” She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened child. But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as he coldly answered:
“Once resolved, I never waver. So surely as I live I shall go. It might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself. An hour ago you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed. I should have gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of happiness in your love. Child, don’t shiver and cling to me so. Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no leisure to regret my absence. Henceforth we are strangers.”
“No; that shall never be. You do not mean it; you know it is impossible. You know that I prize your friendship above every earthly thing. You know that I look up to you as to no one else. That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me! Oh, sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don’t cast me off! Don’t go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world! My heart dies within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to see you. Oh, my guardian, don’t forsake me!”
She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms firmly round his neck.
“I am not your guardian, Beulah. You refused to make me such. You are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as an authoress. I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will divide us. And now, good-by. Make yourself a name; bind your aching brow with the chaplet of fame, and see if ambition can fill your heart. Good-by, dear child.”
Gently he drew her arms from his neck, and took her face in his soft palms. He looked at her a moment, sadly and earnestly, as if striving to fix her features in the frame of memory; then bent his head and pressed a long kiss on her lips. She put out her hands, but he had gone, and, sinking down on the step, she hid her face in her arms. A pall seemed suddenly thrown over the future, and the orphaned heart shrank back from the lonely path where only specters were visible. Never before had she realized how dear he was to her, how large a share of her love he possessed, and now the prospect of a long, perhaps final separation, filled her with a shivering, horrible dread. We have seen that self-reliance was a powerful element in her character, and she had learned, from painful necessity, to depend as little as possible upon the sympathies of others; but in this hour of anguish a sense of joyless isolation conquered; her proud soul bowed down beneath the weight of intolerable grief, and acknowledged itself not wholly independent of the love and presence of her guardian.
Beulah went back to her desk, and, with tearless eyes, began the allotted task of writing. The article was due, and must be finished; was there not a long, dark future in which to mourn? The sketch was designed to prove that woman’s happiness was not necessarily dependent on marriage. That a single life might be more useful, more tranquil, more unselfish. Beulah had painted her heroine in glowing tints, and triumphantly proved her theory correct, while to female influence she awarded a sphere (exclusive of rostrums and all political arenas) wide as the universe and high as heaven. Weary work it all seemed to her now; but she wrote on and on, and finally the last page was copied and the last punctuation mark affixed. She wrapped up the manuscript, directed it to the editor, and then the pen fell from her nerveless fingers and her head went down, with a wailing cry, on her desk. There the morning sun flashed upon a white face, tear-stained and full of keen anguish. How her readers would have marveled at the sight! Ah, “Verily the heart knoweth its own bitterness.”
CHAPTER XXXII.
One afternoon in the following week Mrs. Williams sat wrapped up in the hall, watching Beulah’s movements in the yard at the rear of the house. The whitewashed paling was covered with luxuriant raspberry vines, and in one corner of the garden was a bed of strawberry plants. Over this bed Beulah was bending with a basket nearly filled with the ripe scarlet berries. Stooping close to the plants she saw only the fruit she was engaged in picking; and when the basket was quite full she was suddenly startled by a merry laugh and a pair of hands clasped over her eyes.
“Who blindfolds me?” said she.
“Guess, you solemn witch!”