Beulah by Augusta J. Evans (page 9)

“Why, Georgia, of course.”

The hands were removed, and Georgia Asbury’s merry face greeted her.

“I am glad to see you, Georgia. Where is Helen?”

“Oh, gone to ride with one of her adorers; but I have brought somebody to see you who is worth the whole Asbury family. No less a personage than my famous cousin Reginald Lindsay, whom you have heard us speak of so often. Oh, how tempting those luscious berries are! Reginald and I intend to stay to tea, and father will perhaps come out in the carriage for us. Come, yonder is my cousin on the gallery looking at you, and pretending to talk to Mrs. Williams. He has read your magazine sketches and is very anxious to see you. How nice you look; only a little too statuish. Can’t you get up a smile? That is better. Here, let me twine this cluster of wistaria in your hair; I stole it as I ran up the steps.”

Beulah was clad in a pure white mull muslin, and wore a short black silk apron, confined at the waist by a heavy cord and tassel. Georgia fastened the purple blossoms in her silky hair, and they entered the house. Mr. Lindsay met them, and, as his cousin introduced him, Beulah looked at him, and met the earnest gaze of a pair of deep blue eyes which seemed to index a nature singularly tranquil. She greeted him quietly, and would have led the way to the front of the house; but Georgia threw herself down on the steps, and exclaimed eagerly:

“Do let us stay here; the air is so deliciously sweet and cool. Cousin, there is a chair. Beulah, you and I will stem these berries at once, so that they may be ready for tea.”

She took the basket, and soon their fingers were stained with the rosy juice of the fragrant fruit. All restraint vanished; the conversation was gay, and spiced now and then with repartees which elicited Georgia’s birdish laugh and banished for a time the weary, joyless expression of Beulah’s countenance. The berries were finally arranged to suit Georgia’s taste, and the party returned to the little parlor. Here Beulah was soon engaged by Mr. Lindsay in the discussion of some of the leading literary questions of the day. She forgot the great sorrow that brooded over her heart, a faint, pearly glow crept into her cheeks, and the mouth lost its expression of resolute endurance. She found Mr. Lindsay highly cultivated in his tastes, polished in his manners, and possessed of rare intellectual attainments, while the utter absence of egotism and pedantry impressed her with involuntary admiration. Extensive travel and long study had familiarized him with almost every branch of science and department of literature, and the ease and grace with which he imparted some information she desired respecting the European schools of art contrasted favorably with the confused account Eugene had rendered of the same subject. She remarked a singular composure of countenance, voice, and even position, which seemed idiosyncratic, and was directly opposed to the stern rigidity and cynicism of her guardian. She shrank from the calm, steadfast gaze of his eyes, which looked into hers with a deep yet gentle scrutiny, and resolved ere the close of the evening to sound him concerning some of the philosophic phases of the age. Had he escaped the upas taint of skepticism? An opportunity soon occurred to favor her wishes, for, chancing to allude to his visit to Rydal Mount, while in the lake region of England, the transition to a discussion of the metaphysical tone of the “Excursion” was quite easy.

“You seemed disposed, like Howitt, to accord it the title of ‘Bible of Quakerism,'” said Mr. Lindsay, in answer to a remark of hers concerning its tendency.

“It is a fertile theme of disputation, sir, and, since critics are so divided in their verdicts, I may well be pardoned an opinion which so many passages seem to sanction. If Quakerism is belief in ‘immediate inspiration,’ which you will scarcely deny, then throughout the ‘Excursion’ Wordsworth seems its apostle.”

“No; he stands as a high priest in the temple of nature, and calls mankind from scientific lore to offer their orisons there at his altar and receive passively the teachings of the material universe. Tells us,”

“‘Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things,'”

“and promises, in nature, an unerring guide and teacher of truth. In his lines on revisiting the Wye, he declares himself,”

‘”Well pleased to recognize
In nature, and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart and soul, Of all my moral being.'”

“Quakerism rejects all extraneous aids to a knowledge of God; a silent band of friends sit waiting for the direct inspiration which alone can impart true light. Wordsworth made the senses, the appreciation of the beauty and sublimity of the universe, an avenue of light; while Quakerism, according to the doctrines of Fox and his early followers, is merely a form of mysticism nearly allied to the ‘ecstasy’ of Plotinus. The Quaker silences his reason, his every faculty, and in utter passivity waits for the infusion of divine light into his mind; the mystic of Alexandria, as far as possible, divests his intellect of all personality, and becomes absorbed in the Infinite intelligence from which it emanated.”

Beulah knitted her brows, and answered musingly:

“And here, then, extremes meet. To know God we must be God. Mysticism and Pantheism link hands over the gulf which seemed to divide them.”

“Miss Benton, is this view of the subject a novel one?” said he, looking at her very intently.

“No; a singular passage in the ‘Biographia Literaria’ suggested it to me long ago. But unwelcome hints are rarely accepted, you know.”

“Why unwelcome in this case?”

She looked at him, but made no reply, and none was needed. He understood why, and said quietly yet impressively:

“It sets the seal of necessity upon Revelation. Not the mystical intuitions of the dreamers, who would fain teach of continued direct inspiration from God, even at the present time, but the revelation which began in Genesis and ended with John on Patmos. The very absurdities of philosophy are the most potent arguments in substantiating the claims of Christianity. Kant’s theory that we can know nothing beyond ourselves gave the deathblow to philosophy. Mysticism contends that reason only darkens the mind, and consequently, discarding all reasoning processes, relies upon immediate revelation. But the extravagances of Swedenborg, and even of George Fox, prove the fallacy of the assumption of continued inspiration, and the only alternative is to rest upon the Christian Revelation, which has successfully defied all assaults.”

There was an instantaneous flash of joy over Beulah’s troubled face, and she said hastily:

“You have escaped the contagion, then? Such exemption is rare nowadays, for skepticism broods with sable wings over the age”

“It has always brooded where man essayed to lift the veil of Isis; to elucidate the arcana of the universe, to solve the unsolvable. Skepticism is the disease of minds which Christian faith alone can render healthy.”

The thrust showed she was not invulnerable; but before she could reply, Georgia exclaimed:

“In the name of common sense, Reginald, what are you discoursing about so tiresomely? I suppose I am shamefully stupid, but I don’t understand a word you two have been saying. When father and Beulah get on such dry, tedious subjects I always set up an opposition at the piano, which in this instance I am forced to do, from sheer necessity.”

She raised the lid of the piano and rattled off a brilliant overture; then made Beulah join her in several instrumental duets. As the latter rose, Mr. Lindsay said, somewhat abruptly:

“I believe you sing. My cousins have been extolling your voice, and I have some curiosity to hear you. Will you gratify me?”

“Certainly, if you desire it.”

She could not refrain from smiling at the perfect nonchalance of his manner, and, passing her fingers over the keys, sang a beautiful air from “Lucia.” Her guest listened attentively, and, when the song was ended, approached the piano, and said, with some interest:

“I should prefer a simple ballad, if you will favor me with one.”

“Something after the order of ‘Lilly Dale,’ Beulah. He hears nothing else in his country home,” said Georgia teasingly.

He smiled, but did not contradict her, and Beulah sang that exquisite ballad, “Why Do Summer Roses Fade?” It was one of her guardian’s favorite airs, and now his image was associated with the strain. Ere the first verse was finished, a deep, rich, manly voice, which had sometimes echoed through the study, seemed again to join hers, and, despite her efforts, her own tones trembled.

Soon after Beulah took her place at the tea table in the center of the room, and conversation turned on the delights of country life.

“Reginald, how do you manage to amuse yourself in that little town of yours?” asked Georgia, drawing the bowl of strawberries near and helping him bountifully.

“I might answer that I had passed the age when amusement was necessary, but I will not beg your question so completely. In the first place, I do not reside in town. My office is there, and during the day, when not absent at court, I am generally in my office; but evening always finds me at home. Once there, I have endless sources of amusement; my mother’s flowers and birds, my farm affairs, my music, and my library, to say nothing of hunting and fishing. Remember, Georgia, that, as a class, lawyers are not addicted to what you call amusements.”

“But after living in Europe, and traveling so much, I should think that plantation would be horribly dull. Do you never suffer from ennui, cut off as you are from all society?”

“Ennui is a disease of which I am yet happily ignorant. But for my mother I should feel the need of society; in a great measure her presence supplies it. I shall tell you no more, cousin mine, since you and Helen are to spend a portion of your summer with us, and can judge for yourselves of the attractions of my country home.”

“Are you residing near Mr. Arlington?” said Beulah.

“Quite near; his plantation adjoins mine. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No; but I have a friend living this year in his family. Miss Sanders is governess for his children. You probably know her.”

“Yes; I see her occasionally. Report says she is soon to become the bride of Richard Arlington.”

A slight smile curved his lips as he watched Beulah’s countenance. She offered no comment, and he perceived that the on dit was not new to her.

“Beulah, I suppose you have heard of Dr. Hartwell’s intended journey to the East? What an oddity he is! Told me he contemplated renting a bungalow somewhere in heathendom, and turning either Brahmin or Parsee, he had not quite decided which. He has sold his beautiful place to the Farleys. The greenhouse plants he gave to mother, and all the statuary and paintings are to be sent to us until his return, which cannot be predicted with any certainty. Father frets a good deal over this freak, as he calls it, and says the doctor had much better stay at home and physic the sick. I thought it was a sudden whim; but he says he has contemplated the trip a long time. He is going immediately, I believe. It must be a trial to you,” said the thoughtless girl.

“Yes; I cannot realize it yet,” replied Beulah, struggling with herself for composure, and hastily setting down her teacup, which trembled violently. The shadows swept over her once more. Mr. Lindsay noticed her agitation, and, with delicate consideration, forbore to look at her. Georgia continued heedlessly:

“I wanted that melodeon that sits in his study; but, though the remainder of the furniture is to be auctioned off, he says he will not sell the melodeon, and requested my father to have it carefully locked up somewhere at home. I asked if I might not use it, and what do you suppose he said? That I might have his grand piano, if I would accept it, but that nobody was to touch his melodeon. I told him he ought to send the piano out to you, in his absence; but he looked cross, and said you would not use it if he did.”

Poor Beulah! her lips quivered, and her fingers clasped each other tightly, but she said nothing. Just then she heard Dr. Asbury’s quick step in the hall, and, to her infinite relief, he entered, accompanied by Helen. She saw that, though his manner was kind and bantering as usual, there was an anxious look on his benevolent face, and his heavy brows occasionally knitted. When he went into the adjoining room to see Mrs. Williams, she understood his glance, and followed him. He paused in the hall, and said eagerly:

“Has Hartwell been here lately?”

“Yes; he was here last week.”

“Did he tell you of his whim about traveling East?”

“Yes; he told me.”

“Beulah, take care what you are about! You are working mischief not easily rectified. Child, keep Guy at home!”

“He is master of his own movements, and you know his stubborn will. I would keep him here if I could; but I have no influence.”

“All fiddlesticks! I know better! I am neither a bat nor a mole. Beulah, I warn you; I beg you, child, mind how you act. Once entirely estranged, all the steam of Christendom could not force him back. Don’t let him go; if you do, the game is up, I tell you now. You will repent your own work, if you do not take care. I told him he was a fool to leave such a position as his and go to dodging robbers in Eastern deserts; whereupon he looked as bland and impenetrable as if I had compared him to Solomon. There, go back to your company, end mind what I say; don’t let Guy go.”

He left her; and, though she exerted herself to entertain her guests, Mr. Lindsay saw that her mind was troubled and her heart oppressed. He endeavored to divert her thoughts, by introducing various topics; and she talked and smiled, and even played and sang, yet the unlifting cloud lay on her brow. The evening seemed strangely long, and she accompanied her visitors to the door with a sensation of relief. At parting Mr. Lindsay took her hand, and said in a low voice:

“May I come whenever I am in your city?”

“Certainly; I shall be pleased to see you when you have leisure,” she replied hurriedly.

“I shall avail myself of your permission, I assure you.”

She had often heard Dr. Asbury speak with fond pride of this nephew; and, as Eugene had also frequently mentioned him in his early letters from Heidelberg, she felt that he was scarcely a stranger, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. To her, his parting words seemed merely polite, commonplace forms; and, with no thought of a future acquaintance, she dismissed him from her mind, which was too painfully preoccupied to dwell upon the circumstances of his visit.

A few days passed, and one Saturday morning she sat in the dining room, finishing a large drawing upon which she had for months expended all her leisure moments. It was designed from a description in “Queen Mab,” and she took up her crayon to give the final touch, when heavy steps in the hall arrested her attention, and, glancing toward the door, she saw Hal, Dr. Hartwell’s driver, with a wooden box on his shoulder and Charon by his side. The latter barked with delight, and sprang to meet the girl, who had hastily risen.

“How do you do, Miss Beulah? It is many a day since I have seen you, and you look worse of wear too. Haven’t been sick, have you?” said Hal, sliding the box down on the floor.

“Not exactly sick, but not so well as usual,” she answered, passing her trembling hands over the dog’s head.

“Well, I don’t see, for my part, what is to become of us all, now master’s gone–“

“Gone!” echoed Beulah.

“Why, to be sure. He started to the plantation yesterday, to set things all in order there, and then he is going straight on to New York. The house looks desolate enough, and I feel like I was about to dig my own grave. Just before he left he called me into the study, and told me that, as soon as he had gone, I was to bring Charon over to you and ask you to keep him and take care of him. He tried to unlock the collar on his neck, but somehow the key would not turn. Master looked dreadful sad when he patted poor Char’s head and let the brute put his paws on his shoulders for the last time. Just as the boat pushed off he called to me to be sure to bring him to you; so here he is; and, Miss Beulah, the poor fellow seems to know something is wrong; he whined all night, and ran over the empty house this morning, growling and snuffing. You are to keep him till master comes home; the Lord only knows when that will be. I tried to find out; but he looked for the world like one of them stone faces in the study, and gave me no satisfaction. Miss Beulah, Dr. Asbury was at the house just as I started, and he sent over this box to you. Told me to tell you that he had all the pictures moved to his house, but had not room to hang all, so he sent one over for you to take care of. Shall I take it out of the case?”

“Never mind, Hal; I can do that. Did your master leave no other message for me? was there no note?” She leaned heavily on a chair to support herself.

“None that I know of, except that you must be kind to Charon. I have no time to spare; Dr. Asbury needs me; so good-by, Miss Beulah. I will stop some day when I am passing, and see how the dog comes on. I know he will be satisfied with you.”

The faithful servant touched his hat and withdrew. The storm of grief could no longer be repressed, and, sinking down on the floor, Beulah clasped her arms round Charon’s neck and hid her face in his soft, curling hair, while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. She had not believed her guardian would leave without coming again, and had confidently expected him, and now he had gone. Perhaps forever; at best, for many years. She might never see him again, and this thought was more than she could endure. The proud restraint she was wont to impose upon her feelings all vanished, and in her despairing sorrow she wept and moaned as she had never done before, even when Lilly was taken from her. Charon crouched close to her, with a mute grief clearly written in his sober, sagacious countenance, and each clung to the other, as to a last stay and solace. He was a powerful animal, with huge limbs, and a think, shaggy covering, sable as midnight, without a speck of white about him. Around his neck was a silver chain, supporting a broad piece of plate, on which was engraved, in German letters, the single word, “Hartwell.” How long she sat there Beulah knew not; but a growl roused her, and she saw Mrs. Williams looking sorrowfully at her.

“My child, what makes you moan and weep so bitterly.”

“Oh, because I am so miserable; because I have lost my best friend; my only friend; my guardian. He has gone–gone! and I did not see him.” With a stifled cry her face went down again.

The matron had never seen her so unnerved before, and wondered at the vehemence of her grief, but knew her nature too well to attempt consolation. Beulah lifted the box and retired to her own room, followed by Charon. Securing the door, she put the case on the table and looked at it wistfully. Were her conjectures, her hopes, correct? She raised the lid and unwrapped the frame, and there was the noble head of her guardian. She hung the portrait on a hook just above her desk, and then stood, with streaming eyes, looking up at it. It had been painted a few weeks after his marriage, and represented him in the full morning of manhood, ere his heart was embittered and his clear brow overshadowed. The artist had suffered a ray of sunshine to fall on the brown hair that rippled round his white temples with careless grace. There was no mustache to shade the sculptured lips, and they seemed about to part in one of those rare, fascinating smiles which Beulah had often watched for in vain. The matchless eyes looked down at her, with brooding tenderness in their hazel depths, and now seemed to question her uncontrollable grief. Yet she had pained him; had in part caused his exile from the home of his youth, and added another sorrow to those which now veiled that peerless face in gloom. He had placed his happiness in her hands; had asked her to be his wife. She looked at the portrait, and shuddered and moaned. She loved him above all others; loved him as a child adores its father; but how could she, who had so reverenced him, consent to become his wife? Besides, she could not believe he loved her. He liked her; pitied her isolation and orphanage; felt the need of her society, and wanted her always in his home. But she could not realize that he, who so worshiped beauty, could possibly love her. It was all like a hideous dream which morning would dispel; but there was the reality, and there was Charon looking steadily up at the portrait he was at no loss to recognize.

“Oh, if I could have seen him once more! If he had parted with me in kindness, it would not be so intolerable. But to remember his stern, sad face, as last I saw it; oh, how can I bear it I To have it haunting me through life, like a horrible specter; no friendly words to cherish; no final message; all gloom and anger. Oh, how shall I bear it!” And she fell on Charon’s neck and wept bitterly.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

In the early days of summer Mr. and Mrs. Graham left the city for one of the fashionable watering-places on the Gulf, accompanied by Antoinette. Eugene remained, on some pretext of business, but promised to follow in a short time. The week subsequent to their departure saw a party of gentlemen assembled to dine at his house. The long afternoon wore away; still they sat round the table. The cloth had been removed, and only wine and cigars remained; bottle after bottle was emptied, and finally decanters were in requisition. The servants shrugged their shoulders, and looked on with amused expectancy. The conversation grew loud and boisterous, now and then flavored with oaths; twilight came on–the shutters were closed–the magnificent chandelier lighted. Eugene seized a crystal ice bowl, and was about to extract a lump of ice when it fell from his fingers and shivered to atoms. A roar of laughter succeeded the exploit, and, uncorking a fresh bottle of champagne, he demanded a song. Already a few of the guests were leaning on the table stupefied, but several began the strain. It was a genuine Bacchanalian ode, and the deafening shout rose to the frescoed ceiling as the revelers leaned forward and touched their glasses. Touched, did I say; it were better written clashed. There was a ringing chorus as crystal met crystal; glittering fragments flew in every direction; down ran the foaming wine, thick with splintered glass, on the rosewood table. But the strain was kept up; fresh glasses were supplied; fresh bottles drained; the waiters looked on, wondered where all this would end, and pointed to the ruin of the costly service. The brilliant gaslight shone on a scene of recklessness pitiable indeed. All were young men, and, except Eugene, all unmarried; but they seemed familiar with such occasions. One or two, thoroughly intoxicated, lay with their heads on the table, unconscious of what passed; others struggled to sit upright, yet the shout was still raised from time to time.

“Fill up, and let us have that glorious song from Lucrezia Borgia. Hey, Proctor!” cried Eugene.

“That is poor fun without Vincent. He sings it equal to Vestvali. Fill up there, Munroe, and shake up Cowdon. Come, begin, and–“

He raised his glass with a disgusting oath, and was about to commence, when Munroe said stammeringly:

“Where is Fred, anyhow? He is a devilish fine fellow for a frolic. I–“

“Why, gone to the coast with Graham’s pretty wife. He is all devotion. They waltz and ride, and, in fine, he is her admirer par excellence. Stop your stupid stammering, and begin.”

Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife’s name, but the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too, raised his unsteady voice. Again and again the words were madly shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop. What a picture of degradation! Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed, burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands. Eugene attempted to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which seemed to suffocate him. Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party, laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way, grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed:

“Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and let us have a ride to cool us. Come. Munroe and Cowdon must look after the others. By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could not find fault with your cellar. Come.”

Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door, where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel. It was a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver light over the silent earth. Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy, and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with difficulty hold until the riders were seated.

“Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30. What say you?”

“Done; 2.40 is the lowest.”

“Phew! Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made of. Now, then, out with your watch.”

He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow. Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph had taken the game entirely out of his master’s hands. In vain the reins were tightened. Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell off. Still the frantic horse sped on. The mile post flashed by, but Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time. At this stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new impetus to Telegraph’s flying feet. They were near a point in the road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking, doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed down the alley, heedless of Proctor’s efforts to restrain him, and, turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city. Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins. On went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he plunged toward the bricks. The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on the pile. Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to the stable.

It was eleven o’clock, but Beulah was writing in her own room; and through the open window heard the thundering tramp, the rattle among the bricks, Proctor’s furious curses, and surmised that some accident had happened. She sprang to the window, saw the buggy just as it was wheeled on, and hoped nothing was hurt. But Charon, who slept on the portico, leaped over the paling, ran around the bricks, and barked alarmingly. She unlocked the door, saw that no one was passing, and, opening the little gate, looked out. Charon stood watching a prostrate form, and she fearlessly crossed the street and bent over the body. One arm was crushed beneath him; the other thrown up over the face. She recognized the watch chain, which was of a curious pattern; and, for an instant, all objects swam before her. She felt faint; her heart seemed to grow icy and numb; but, with a great effort, she moved the arm, and looked on the face gleaming in the moonlight. Trembling like a weed in a wintry blast, she knelt beside him. He was insensible, but not dead; though it was evident there must have been some severe contusion about the head. She saw that no time should be lost, and, running into one of the neighboring houses, knocked violently. The noise of the horse and buggy had already aroused the inmates, and very soon the motionless form was borne into Beulah’s little cottage and placed on a couch, while a messenger was dispatched for Dr. Asbury. Eugene remained just as they placed him; and, kneeling beside him, Beulah held his cold hands in hers, and watched, in almost breathless anxiety, for some return of animation. She knew that he was intoxicated; that this, and this only, caused the accident; and tears of shame and commiseration trickled down her cheeks. Since their parting interview, previous to his marriage, they had met but once, and then in silence, beside Cornelia in her dying hour. It was little more than a year since she had risked his displeasure, and remonstrated with him on his ruinous course; and that comparatively short period had wrought painful changes in his once noble, handsome face. She had hoped that Cornelia’s dying prayer would save him; but now, alas, it was too apparent that the appeal had been futile. She knew not that his wife was absent, and determined to send for her as soon as possible. The long hour of waiting seemed an eternity; but at last Dr. Asbury came, and carefully examined the bruised limbs. Beulah grasped his arm.

“Oh! will he die?”

“I don’t know, child; this arm is badly fractured, and I am afraid there is a severe injury on the back of the head. It won’t do to move him home, so send Hal in from my buggy to help put him in bed. Have me some bandages at once, Beulah.”

As they carried him into Mrs. Williams’ room and prepared to set the fractured arm, he groaned, and for a moment struggled, then relapsed into a heavy stupor. Dr. Asbury carefully straightened and bandaged the limb, and washed the blood from his temples, where a gash had been inflicted in the fall.

“Will you go to his wife at once, sir, and inform her of his condition?” said Beulah, who stood by the blood-stained pillow, pale and anxious.

“Don’t you know his wife is not here? She has gone for the summer. Wife! did I say? She does not deserve the sacred name! If he had had a wife he would never have come to this ruin and disgrace. It is nothing more than I expected when he married her. I could easily put her soul on the end of a lancet, and as for heart–she has none at all! She is a pretty flirt, fonder of admiration than of her husband. I will write by the earliest mail, informing Graham of the accident and its possible consequences, and perhaps respect for the opinion of the world may bring her home to him. Beulah, it is a difficult matter to believe that that drunken, stupid victim there is Eugene Graham, who promised to become an honor to his friends and his name. Satan must have established the first distillery; the institution smacks of the infernal! Child, keep ice upon that head, will you, and see that as soon as possible he takes a spoonful of the medicine I mixed just now. I am afraid it will be many days before he leaves this house. If he lives, the only consolation is that it may be a lesson and warning to him. I will be back in an hour or so. As for Proctor, whom I met limping home, it would have been a blessing to the other young men of the city, and to society generally, if he had never crawled out of the sand where he was thrown.”

A little while after the silence was broken by a heavy sob, and, glancing up, Beulah perceived the matron standing near the bed, gazing at the sleeper.

“Oh, that he should come to this! I would ten thousand times rather he had died in his unstained boyhood.”

“If he lives, this accident may be his salvation.”

“God grant it may–God grant it may!”

Falling on her knees, the aged woman put up a prayer of passionate entreaty, that Almighty God would spare his life and save him from a drunkard’s fate.

“If I, too, could pray for him, it might ease my aching heart,” thought Beulah, as she listened to the imploring words of the matron.

And why not? Ah! the murky vapors of unbelief shrouded the All- Father from her wandering soul. Dawn looked in upon two sorrowing watchers beside that stupid slumberer, and showed that the physician’s fears were realized; a raging fever had set in, and this night was but the commencement of long and weary vigils. About noon Beulah was crossing the hall with a bowl of ice in her hand, when someone at the door pronounced her name, and Proctor approached her, accompanied by Cowdon. She had once met the former at Mr. Graham’s, and, having heard Cornelia regret the miserable influence he exerted over her brother, was prepared to receive him coldly.

“We have come to see Graham, madam,” said he, shrinking from her sad, searching eyes, yet assuming an air of haughty indifference.

“You cannot see him, sir.”

“But I tell you I must! I shall remove him to his own house, where he can be properly attended to. Where is he?”

“The physician particularly urged the necessity of keeping everything quiet. He shall not be disturbed; but, as he is unconscious, perhaps it will afford you some gratification to behold the ruin you have wrought. Gentlemen, here is your victim.”

She opened the door and suffered them to stand on the threshold and look at the prostrate form, with the head enveloped in icy cloths and the face bloated and purplish from bruises and fever. Neither Proctor nor his companion could endure the smile of withering contempt which curled her lips as she pointed to the victim of their temptations and influence, and, with a half-suppressed imprecation, Proctor turned on his heel and left the house. Apparently this brief visit quite satisfied them, for it was not repeated. Days and nights of unremitted watching ensued; Eugene was wildly delirious, now singing snatches of drinking songs, and waving his hand, as if to his guests; and now bitterly upbraiding his wife for her heartlessness and folly. The confinement of his fractured arm frenzied him; often he struggled violently to free himself, fancying that he was incarcerated in some horrid dungeon. On the morning of the fourth day after the accident a carriage stopped at the cottage gate, and, springing out, Mr. Graham hurried into the house. As he entered the sickroom and caught sight of the tossing sufferer, a groan escaped him, and he covered his eyes an instant, as if to shut out the vision. Eugene imagined he saw one of the Heidelberg professors, and, laughing immoderately, began a rapid conversation in German. Mr. Graham could not conceal his emotion, and, fearing its effect on the excitable patient, Beulah beckoned him aside and warned him of the possible consequences. He grasped her hand, and asked the particulars of the occurrence, which had been mentioned to him vaguely. She told him the account given by Eugene’s servants of the night’s revel, and then the denouement in front of her door. In conclusion she said earnestly:

“Where is his wife? Why is she not here?”

“She seemed to think she could render no assistance; and, fearing that all would be over before we could get here, preferred my coming at once and writing to her of his condition. Ah! she is miserably fitted for such scenes as you must have witnessed.” And the gray- haired man sighed heavily.

“What! can she bear to commit her husband to other hands at such a crisis as this? How can she live away from his side when every hour may be his last? Oh, is she indeed so utterly, utterly heartless, selfish, callous? Poor Eugene! Better find release from such a union in death than go through life bound to a wife so unblushingly indifferent!”

Her face was one flash of scorn and indignation, and, extending her hand toward the restless invalid, she continued in a lower tone:

“She has deserted her sacred post; but a truer, better friend, one who has always loved him as a brother, will supply her place. All that a sister’s care can do, assuredly he shall have.”

“You are very kind, Miss Beulah; my family are under lasting obligations to you for your generous attentions to that poor boy of ours, and I–“

“No. You understand little of the nature of our friendship. We were orphan children, warmly attached to each other, before you took him to a home of wealth and lavish indulgence. Were he my own brother, I could not feel more deeply interested in his welfare, and while he requires care and nursing I consider it my privilege to watch over and guard him. There is Dr. Asbury in the hall; he can tell you better than I of his probable recovery,”

Ah, reader, is

“Friendship but a name?
A charm that lulls to Bleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep?”

Mr. Graham remained at the cottage, and, having written to Antoinette of the imminent danger in which he found her husband, urged her to lose no time in joining him. Unluckily, he was ignorant of all the information which is so essential in the occupation of nursing. He was anxious to do everything in his power; but, like the majority of persons on such occasions, failed wretchedly in his attempts. Almost as restless and nervous as the sick man, he only increased the difficulties he would fain have remedied, and Beulah finally prevailed upon him to abandon his efforts and leave the room, where his constant movements annoyed and irritated the sufferer. Eugene recognized no one, but his eyes followed Beulah continually; and when his delirium was at its height only her voice and clasp of his hand could in any degree soothe him. In his ravings she noticed two constantly conflicting emotions: a stern bitterness of feeling toward his wife and an almost adoring fondness for his infant child. Of the latter he talked incessantly, and vowed that she, at least, should love him. As the weary days crept by Beulah started at every sound, fancying that the wife had certainly come; but hour after hour found only Mrs. Williams and the orphan guarding the deserted husband. Gradually the fever abated, and a death-like stupor succeeded. Mr. Graham stole about the house like a haunting spirit, miserable and useless, and in the solemn stillness of midnight only Beulah sat by the pillow, where a head now rested motionless as that of a corpse. Mrs. Williams was asleep on a couch at the opposite end of the room, and, in the dim, spectral light of the shaded lamp, the watcher and her charge looked unearthly. Faint from constant vigils, Beulah threw her arm on the bed and leaned her head upon it, keeping her eyes on the colorless face before her. Who that has watched over friends, hovering upon the borders of the spiritland, needs to be told how dreary was the heart of the solitary nurse? And to those who have not thus suffered and endured, no description would adequately portray the desolation and gloom.

The stars were waning, when Eugene moved, threw up his hand over the pillow, and, after a moment, opened his eyes. Beulah leaned forward, and he looked at her fixedly, as if puzzled; then said feebly:

“Beulah, is it you?”

A cry of joy rolled to her lips; but she hushed it, and answered tremblingly:

“Yes, Eugene; it is Beulah.”

His eyes wandered about the room, and then rested again on her countenance, with a confused, perplexed expression.

“Am I at home? What is the matter?”

“Yes, Eugene; at home among your best friends. Don’t talk any more; try to sleep again.” With a great joy in her heart she extinguished the light, so that he could see nothing. After a few moments he said slowly:

“Beulah, did I dream I saw you? Beulah!” She felt his hand put out, as if to feel for her.

“No; I am sitting by you, but will not talk to you now. You must keep quiet.”

There was a short silence.

“But where am I? Not at home, I know.”

She did not reply, and he repeated the question more earnestly.

“You are in my house, Eugene; let that satisfy you.”

His fingers closed over hers tightly, and soon he slept.

The sun was high in the sky when he again unclosed his eyes and found Dr. Asbury feeling his pulse. His mind was still bewildered, and he looked around him wonderingly.

“How do you feel, Graham?” said the doctor.

“Feel! as if I had been standing on my head. What is the matter with me, doctor? Have I been sick?”

“Well–yes; you have not been exactly well, and feel stupid after a long nap. Take a spoonful of this nectar I have prepared for you. No wry faces, man! It will clear your head.”

Eugene attempted to raise himself, but fell back exhausted, while, for the first time, he noticed his arm firmly incased in wood and bandages.

“What have you been doing to my arm? Why, I can’t move it. I should- -“

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Graham; you injured it, and I bound it up, that is all. When gentlemen amuse themselves with such gymnastic feats as you performed, they must expect a little temporary inconvenience from crushed bones and overstrained muscles. Beulah, mind my directions about silence and quiet.”

The doctor walked out to escape further questioning. Eugene looked at his useless, stiffened arm and then at Beulah, saying anxiously:

“What is the matter with me?”

“You were thrown out of a buggy and fractured your arm in the fall.”

She thought it best to tell the truth at once.

Memory flew back to her deserted throne, and dimly the events of that evening’s revel passed through his mind. A flush of shame rose to his temples, and, turning his head toward the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. Then Beulah heard a deep, shuddering sigh and a groan of remorseful agony. After a long silence, he said, in a tone of humiliation that drew tears to her eyes:

“How long have I been here?”

She told him the number of days, and he immediately asked,

“Have I been in any danger?”

“Yes; very great danger; out that has all passed now, and if you will only be composed and careful you will soon be strong again.”

“I heard my father talking to you. Who else is here?”

He looked at her with eager interest.

“No one else, except our kind matron. Mr. Graham came as soon as the letter reached him, and has not left the house since.”

A look of indescribable sorrow and shame swept over his countenance as he continued bitterly:

“And did Antoinette know all at once? Stop, Beulah; tell me the miserable truth. Did she know all and still remain away?”

“She knew all that had been communicated to Mr. Graham when he came; and he has written to her every day. He is now writing to inform her that you are better.”

She shrank from giving the pain she was conscious her words inflicted.

“I deserve it all! Yes, ingratitude, indifference, and desertion! If I had died she would have heard it unmoved. Oh, Cornelia, Cornelia, it is a fearful retribution; more bitter than death!” Averting his face, his whole frame trembled with ill-concealed emotion.

“Eugene, you must compose yourself. Remember you jeopardize your life by this sort of excitement.”

“Why didn’t you let me die? What have I to live for? A name disgraced and a wife unloving and heartless! What has the future but wretchedness and shame?”

“Not unless you will it so. You should want to live to retrieve your character, to take an honorable position, which, hitherto, you have recklessly forfeited; to make the world respect you, your wife revere you, and your child feel that she may be proud of her father! Ah, Eugene, all this the future calls you to do.”

He looked up at her as she stood beside him, pale, thin, and weary, and his feeble voice faltered, as he asked:

“Beulah, my best friend, my sister, do you quite despise me?”

She laid her hands softly on his, and, stooping down, pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Eugene, once I feared that you had fallen even below my pity; but now I believe you will redeem yourself. I hope that, thoroughly reformed, you will command the respect of all who know you and realize the proud aspirations I once indulged for you. That you can do this I feel assured; that you will, I do most sincerely trust. I have not yet lost faith in you, Eugene. I hope still.”

She left him to ponder in solitude the humiliating result of his course of dissipation.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The hours of gradual convalescence were very trying to Beulah, now that the sense of danger no longer nerved her to almost superhuman endurance and exertion. Mr. Graham waited until his adopted son was able to sit up, and then returned to the watering-place where his wife remained. Thus the entire charge of the invalid devolved on the tireless friends who had watched over him in the hour of peril. Beulah had endeavored to banish the sorrow that pressed so heavily on her heart, and to dispel the gloom and despondency which seemed to have taken possession of the deserted husband. She read, talked, sang to him, and constantly strove to cheer him by painting a future in which the past was to be effectually canceled. Though well-nigh exhausted by incessant care and loss of sleep, she never complained of weariness, and always forced a smile of welcome to her lips when the’ invalid had his chair wheeled to her side, or tottered out into the dining room to join her. One morning in August she sat on the little gallery at the rear of the house, with a table before her, engaged in drawing some of the clusters of blue, white, and pink convolvulus which festooned the pillars and balustrade. Eugene sat near her, with his thin face leaning on his hand, his thoughts evidently far removed from flowers. His arm was still in a sling, and he looked emaciated and dejected. Mrs. Williams had been talking to him cheerfully about some money matters he had promised to arrange for her so soon as he was well enough to go to his office; but, gathering up her working materials, the old lady went into the kitchen, and the two sat for some time in silence. One of his long- drawn sighs arrested Beulah’s attention, and she said kindly:

“What is the matter, brother mine? Are you tired of watching my clumsy fingers? Shall I finish that essay of Macaulay’s you were so much interested in yesterday, or will you have another of Bryant’s poems?” She laid down her pencil, quite ready to divert his mind by reading.

“No; do not quit your drawing; I should not enjoy even Macaulay to- day.”

He threw his head back, and sighed again.

“Why, Eugene? Don’t you feel as well as usual this morning? Remember your family will arrive to-day; you should be the happiest man living.”

“Oh, Beulah! don’t mock me. I cannot bear it. My life seems a hopeless blank.”

“You ought not to talk so despondingly; you have everything to live for. House your energies. Be indeed a man. Conquer this weak, repining spirit. Don’t you remember the motto on the tombstone at St. Gilgen?

“‘Look not mournfully on the past–it comes not back; Enjoy the present–it is thine.
Go forth to meet the shadowy future With a manly heart, and without fear.'”

“You know little of what oppresses me. It is the knowledge of my–of Antoinette’s indifference which makes the future so joyless, so desolate. Beulah, this has caused my ruin. When I stood by Cornelia’s coffin, and recalled her last frantic appeal; when I looked down at her cold face, and remembered her devoted love for her unworthy brother, I vowed never to touch wine again; to absent myself from the associates who had led me to dissipation. Beulah, I was honest, and intended to reform from that hour. But Antoinette’s avowed coldness, or, to call it by its proper name, heartless selfishness and fondness for admiration, first disgusted and then maddened me. I would have gladly spent my evenings quietly, in our elegant home; but she contrived to have it crowded with visitors as soulless and frivolous as herself. I remonstrated; she was sneering, defiant, and unyielding, and assured me she would ‘amuse’ herself as she thought proper; I followed her example, and went back to the reckless companions who continually beset my path. I was miserably deceived in Antoinette’s character. She was very beautiful, and I was blind to her mental, nay, I may as well say it at once, her moral, defects. I believed she was warmly attached to me, and I loved her most devotedly. But no sooner were we married than I discovered my blind rashness. Cornelia warned me; but what man, fascinated by a beautiful girl, ever listened to counsels that opposed his heart? Antoinette is too intensely selfish to love anything or anybody but herself; she does not even love her child. Strange as it may seem, she is too entirely engrossed by her weak fondness for display and admiration even to caress her babe. Except at breakfast and dinner we rarely meet, and then, unless company is present (which is generally the case), our intercourse is studiedly cold. Do you wonder that I am hopeless in view of a life passed with such a companion? Oh, that I could blot out the last two years of my existence!”

He groaned, and shaded his face with his hands.

“But, Eugene, probably your reformation and altered course will win you your wife’s love and reverence,” suggested Beulah, anxious to offer some incentive to exertion.

“I know her nature too well to hope that. A woman who prefers to dance and ride with gentlemen rather than remain in her luxurious home with her babe and her duties, cannot be won from her moth-like life. No, no! I despair of happiness from her society and affection, and, if at all, must derive it from other sources. My child is the one living blossom amidst all my withered hopes. She is the only treasure I have, except your friendship. She shall never blush for her father’s degradation. Henceforth, though an unhappy man, I shall prove myself a temperate one. I cannot trust my child’s education to Antoinette; she is unworthy the sacred charge; I must fit myself to form her character. Oh, Beulah, if I could make her such a woman as you are, then I could indeed bear my lot patiently! I named her Cornelia, but henceforth she shall be called Beulah also, in token of her father’s gratitude to his truest friend.”

“No, Eugene; call her not after me, lest some of my sorrows come upon her young head. Oh, no! name her not Beulah; let her be called Cornelia. I would not have her soul shrouded as mine has been.” Beulah spoke vehemently, and, laying her hand on his arm, she added:

“Eugene, to-day you will leave me and go back to your own house, to your family; but before you go, I ask you, if not for your sake, for that of your child, to promise me solemnly that you will never again touch intoxicating drinks of any kind. Oh, will you promise? Will you reform entirely?”

There was a brief pause, and he answered slowly:

“I promise, Beulah. Nay, my friend, I swear I will abstain in future. Ah, I will never disgrace my angel child! Never, so help me Heaven!”

The sound of approaching steps interrupted the conversation, and, expecting to see Antoinette and her infant, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Beulah looked up quickly, and perceived Mr. Lindsay.

“Does my advent startle you, that you look so pale and breathless?” said he, smiling as he took her hand.

“I am certainly very much surprised to see you here, sir.”

“And I am heartily glad you have come, Reginald,” cried Eugene, returning his friend’s tight clasp.

“I intended coming to nurse you, Graham, as soon as I heard of the accident, but my mother’s illness prevented my leaving home. I need not ask about your arm; I see it still requires cautious handling; but how are you otherwise? Regaining your strength, I hope?”

“Yes; gradually. I am better than I deserve to be, Reginald.”

“That remains to be proved in future, Graham. Come, get well as rapidly as possible; I have a plan to submit to you, the earliest day you are strong enough to discuss business topics. Miss Beulah, let me sharpen your pencil.”

He took it from her, trimmed it carefully, and handed it back; then drew her portfolio near him, and glanced over the numerous unfinished sketches.

“I have several books filled with European sketches which, I think, might afford you some pleasure. They were taken by different persons; and some of the views on the Rhine, and particularly some along the southern shore of Spain, are unsurpassed by any I have seen. You may receive them some day, after I return.”

“Thank you; I shall copy them with great pleasure.”

“I see you are not as much of a pyrrhonist in art as in philosophy,” said Mr. Lindsay, watching her countenance as she bent over her drawing.

“Who told you, sir, that I was one in any department?” She looked up suddenly, with flashing eyes.

“There is no need to be told. I can readily perceive it.”

“Your penetration is at fault, then. Of all others, the charge of pyrrhonism is the last I merit.”

He smiled, and said quietly:

“What, then, is your aesthetic creed, if I may inquire?”

“It is nearly allied to Cousin’s.”

“I thought you had abjured eclecticism; yet Cousin is its apostle. Once admit his theory of the beautiful, and you cannot reject his psychology and ethics; nay, his theodicea.”

“I do not desire to separate his system; as such I receive it.”

Beulah compressed her lips firmly and looked at her interrogator half defiantly.

“You deliberately shut your eyes, then, to the goal his philosophy sets before you?”

“No; I am nearing the goal, looking steadily toward it.” She spoke hastily, and with an involuntary wrinkling of her brow.

“And that goal is pantheism; draped gorgeously, but pantheism still,” answered Mr. Lindsay, with solemn emphasis.

“No; his whole psychology is opposed to pantheism!” cried Beulah, pushing aside her drawing materials and meeting his eyes fixedly.

“You probably attach undue weight to his assertion that, although God passes into the universe, or therein manifests all the elements of his being, he is not ‘exhausted in the act.’ Now, granting, for the sake of argument, that God is not entirely absorbed in the universe, Cousin’s pet doctrine of the ‘Spontaneous Apperception of Absolute Truths’ clearly renders man a modification of God. Difference in degree, you know, implies sameness of kind; from this there is no escape. He says, ‘The God of consciousness is not a solitary sovereign, banished beyond creation, upon the throne of a silent eternity, and an absolute existence, which resembles existence in no respect whatever. He is a God, at once true and real, substance and cause, one and many, eternity and time, essence and life, end and middle; at the summit of existence and at its base, infinite and finite together; in a word, a Trinity; being at the same time God, Nature, and Humanity.’ His separation of reason and reasoning, and the results of his boasted ‘spontaneous apperception,’ are very nearly allied to those of Schelling’s ‘Intellectual Intuition’; yet I suppose you would shrink from the ‘absolute identity’ of the latter?”

“You have not stated the question fairly, sir. He reiterates that the absolute belongs to none of us. We perceive truth, but do not create it!” retorted Beulah.

“You will perhaps remember his saying explicitly that we can comprehend the Absolute?”

“Yes; I recollect; and, moreover, he declares that ‘we are conducted to God by a ray of his own being.'”

“Can limited faculties comprehend the infinite and eternal creator?”

“We do not attain a knowledge of him through finite channels. Cousin contends that it is by means of relation to the absolute that we know God.”

“Then, to know the absolute, or God, you must be the absolute; or, in other words, God only can find God. This is the simple doctrine, when you unwind the veil he has cleverly hung over it. True, he denounces pantheism; but here is pantheism of the eclectic patent, differing from that of other systems only in subtlety of expression, wherein Cousin certainly excels. One of the most profound philosophical writers of the age, [Footnote: J. D. Moreil. “Speculative Philosophy of Europe.”] and one whose opinion on this point certainly merits careful consideration, has remarked, in an analysis of Cousin’s system, ‘with regard to his notion of Deity, we have already shown how closely this verges upon the principle of Pantheism. Even if we admit that it is not a doctrine, like that of Spinoza, which identifies God with the abstract idea of substance; or even like that of Hegel, which regards Deity as synonymous with the absolute law and process of the universe; if we admit, in fact, that the Deity of Cousin possesses a conscious personality, yet still it is one which contains in itself the infinite personality and consciousness of every subordinate mind. God is the ocean–we are but the waves; the ocean may be one individuality, and each wave another; but still they are essentially one and the same. We see not how Cousin’s Theism can possibly be consistent with any idea of moral evil; neither do we see how, starting from such a dogma, he can ever vindicate and uphold his own theory of human liberty. On such theistic principles all sin must be simply defect, and all defect must be absolutely fatuitous.’ Eclecticism was a beautiful but frail levee, opposed to the swollen tide of skepticism, and, as in every other crevasse when swept away, it only caused the stream to rush on more madly.”

He watched her closely as he spoke, and observed the quiver of her long, curling lashes; he saw, too, that she was resolved not to surrender, and waited for an explicit defense; but here Eugene interrupted.

“All this tweedledum and tweedledee reminds me of Heidelberg days, when a few of us roamed about the Odenwald, chopping off flowers with our canes and discussing philosophy. Rare jargon we made of it; talking of cosmothetie idealism or hypothetical dualism, of noetic and dianoetic principles, of hylozoism and hypostasis, and demonstrating the most undemonstrable propositions by appeals to the law of contradiction or of excluded middle. I fancied then that I was growing very learned–wondered whether Beulah here would be able to keep up with me, and really thought I understood what I discoursed about so logically.”

“You can at least console yourself, Graham, by determining that

“‘You know what’s what, and that’s as high As metaphysic wit can fly.'”

I imagine there are very few of us who would agree with some of our philosophers, that ‘the pursuit of truth is far more important than the attainment thereof’–that philosophizing is more valuable than philosophy. To be conversant with the abstractions which, in the hands of some metaphysical giants, have rendered both mind and matter like abstractions, is a course of proceeding I should scarcely indorse; and the best antidote I remember just now to any such web-spinning proclivities is a persual of the three first lectures of Sidney Smith on ‘Moral Philosophy.’ In recapitulating the tenets of the schools, he says: ‘The speculations of many of the ancients on the human understanding are so confused, and so purely hypothetical, that their greatest admirers are not agreed upon their meaning; and whenever we can procure a plain statement of their doctrines, all other modes of refuting them appear to be wholly superfluous.’ Miss Beulah, I especially commend you to these humorous lectures.” He bowed to her with easy grace.

“I have them, sir–have read them with great pleasure,” said Beulah, smiling at his droll manner of mingled reserve and freedom.

“What an exalted estimate that same incorrigible Sidney must have placed upon the public taste of this republican land of ours? In one of his lectures on ‘the beauty of form,’ I remember he says: ‘A chin ending in a very sharp angle would be a perfect deformity. A man whose chin terminated in a point would be under the immediate necessity of retiring to America–he would be such a perfect horror!’ Decidedly flattering to our national type of beauty.” As Eugene spoke, his lips wore a smile more akin to those of his boyhood than any Beulah had seen since his return from Europe.

“Yes; that was to show the influence of custom, be it remembered; and, in the same connection, he remarks, honestly enough, that he ‘hardly knows what a Grecian face is; but thinks it very probable that if the elegant arts had been transmitted to us from the Chinese, instead of the Greeks, that singular piece of deformity–a Chinese nose–would have been held in high estimation.’ It was merely association.”

“Which I don’t believe a word of!” cried Beulah, appropriating the last as a lunge at her favorite absolutism. Rising, she placed her drawings in the portfolio, for the sun had crept round the corner of the gallery and was shining in her face.

Mr. Lindsay smiled, without replying, and gave his arm to assist Eugene into the house. They were comfortably seated in the dining room, and Beulah knew that the discussion was about to be renewed, when a carriage dashed up to the door. Eugene turned pale, and a sudden rigidity seized his features. Beulah gave her guest a quick, meaning glance, and retreated to the gallery, whither he instantly followed her, leaving Eugene to receive his wife without witnesses. Leaning against one of the pillars, Beulah unfastened a wreath of blue convolvulus which Mrs. Williams had twined in her hair an hour before. The delicate petals were withered, and, with a suppressed sigh, she threw them away. Mr. Lindsay drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her, saying briefly:

“I was commissioned to give you this, and, knowing the contents, hope a favorable answer.”

It was from Clara, urging her to come up the following week and officiate as bridesmaid at her wedding. She could return home with Helen and George Asbury. Beulah read the letter, smiled sadly, and put it in her pocket.

“Will you go?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not? You need a change of air, and the trip would benefit you. You do not probably know how much you have altered in appearance since I saw you. My uncle is coming out to persuade you to go. Can’t I succeed without his aid?”

“I could not leave home now. Eugene’s illness has prevented my accomplishing some necessary work, and as I consign him to other hands to-day, I must make amends for my long indolence. Thank you for taking charge of my letter; but I cannot think of going.”

He perceived that no amount of persuasion would avail, and for an instant a look of annoyance crossed his face. But his brow cleared as he said, with a smile:

“For a year I have watched for your articles, and the magazine is a constant companion of my desk. Sometimes I am tempted to criticise your sketches; perhaps I may do so yet, and that in no Boswell spirit either.”

“Doubtless, sir, you would find them very vulnerable to criticism, which nowadays has become a synonym for fault-finding; at least this carping proclivity characterizes the class who seem desirous only of earning reputation as literary Jeffreys. I am aware, sir, that I am very vulnerable.”

“Suppose, then, that at the next month’s literary assize (as you seem disposed to consider it), you find in some of the magazines a severe animadversion upon the spirit of your writings? Dare I do this, and still hope for your friendship?”

He watched her closely.

“Certainly, sir. I am not writing merely to see myself in print, nor wholly for remuneration in dollars and cents. I am earnestly searching for truth, and if in my articles you discover error and can correct it, I shall be glad to have you do so, provided you adopt the catholic spirit which should distinguish such undertakings. Now, if you merely intend to hold me up for ridicule as thoroughly as possible, I prefer that you let me and my articles rest; but a calm, dispassionate criticism I should not shrink from. I write only what I believe, and if I am in error, I shall be glad to have it corrected.”

“Miss Benton, may I venture to correct it without having recourse to the vehicle of public criticism? Will you permit me to discuss with you, here in your quiet home, those vital questions whose solution seems to engage your every thought?”

She drew back, and answered, with a dreary sort of smile:

“I am afraid you would derive little pleasure, and I less profit, from such disputation. I have learned from bitter experience that merely logical forms of argumentation do not satisfy the hungry soul. The rigid processes of Idealism annihilated the external world; and Hume proved that Mind was a like chimera; yet who was ever seriously converted by their incontrovertible reasoning? I have lost faith in ratiocination.”

“Still you cling to opinions founded on its errors. Why not be consistent, and, in rejecting its most potent ally, reject the conclusions of Rationalism also?”

“Because I must believe something. Faith in some creed is an absolute necessity of human nature.”

“You distinguish faith, then, from intellectual belief?”

“No; I compound them; my faith is based on mental conviction,” replied Beulah, perceiving whither he was leading her, and resolved not to follow.

“And this conviction results from those same processes of ratiocination which you condemn as unworthy of credence, because subject to gross, sometimes ludicrous, perversions?”

“I am unable to detect any such perversion or inaccuracy in the cautious course of reasoning which has assisted me to my present belief.”

“Pardon me; but does this fact convince you of the Infallibility of the course? Have you constituted your individual reason the sole judge?”

“Yes; there is no other left me.”

“And your conclusions are true for you only, since the individual organism of your mind makes them so. To an intellect of a higher or lower grade these conclusions would be untenable, since the depressed or exalted reason judged them accordingly. You may cling to some doctrine as absolutely and necessarily true, yet to my mind it may seem a shallow delusion, like the vagaries of spirit- rappers.”

“No; reasoning is often fallacious, but reason is divine; reasoning often clouds the truth, but reason, by spontaneous apperception, grasps truth,” persisted Beulah unhesitatingly.

“Then truth has as many phases, and as antagonistic, as there are individuals in the universe. All men are prophets; all are alike inspired; all alike worthy of trust and credence. Spontaneous reason has grasped a number of oddly conflicting doctrines, let me tell you, and the reconciliation of these would be an undertaking to which the dozen labors of Hercules seem a farce.”

“The superstitions of various ages and nations are not valid arguments against the existence of universal and necessary principles.”

“Why, then, have these principles produced no unanimity of faith? The history of the human race is the history of the rise of one philosophy and religion from the ashes of its predecessor. There is one universal belief in the necessity of religion, and this belief built altars in the dawn of time; but your spontaneous reason is perpetually changing the idols on these altars. The God of one man’s reason will not satisfy that of his neighbor.”

Before Beulah could reply she heard Eugene calling her in the hall, and was hastening to meet him; but Mr. Lindsay caught her hand, and said: “You have not yet given me permission to intrude on your seclusion.” She withdrew her hand instantly.

“When you have nothing else to occupy you, and wish to while away an hour in literary discussion, you will generally find me at home during vacation.”

She walked on and joined Eugene in the hall. Antoinette stood in the door, and they merely exchanged bows, while Mr. Graham grasped her hand and earnestly thanked her for the many kindnesses she had rendered to his family. Beulah looked at the composed, beautiful face of the young wife, and then at the thin form of the husband, and said hastily:

“You owe me no thanks, sir; the claims of true friendship are imperative. In removing to his own house I trust Eugene’s improvement may not be retarded.”

Antoinette tripped down the steps, and, gathering the flounces of her costly dress, seated herself in the carriage. Mr. Graham bit his lip, colored, and, after a cordial good-by, joined her. Eugene smiled bitterly, and, turning to Beulah, took both her hands in his, saying feelingly:

“Beulah, I leave your house a wiser, if not less miserable man. I am going to atone for the past; to prove to you that your faith in me is not altogether unmerited. If I am saved from ruin and disgrace I owe it to you; and to you I shall look for sympathy and encouragement. To you, my best friend, I shall often come for sisterly aid, when clouds gather black and stormy over my miserable home. God bless you, Beulah! I have promised reformation, and will keep my promise sacred if it cost me my life.”

He raised her hand to his lips, and, linking his arm in Mr. Lindsay’s, left the house and entered the carriage, while the latter mounted his horse and rode slowly away.

“You look weary, child. You must give yourself some rest now,” said Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“Rest! Ah, yes; if I could find it,” returned the girl, taking the comb from the back of her head and shaking down the folds of hair till it hung round her like a long mourning veil.

“Suppose you try to sleep some,” suggested the matron.

“I have some work to do first,” said she, drawing a long breath and wiping the dust from her desk.

Mrs. Williams withdrew; and, clasping her hands over her forehead, Beulah stood looking up, with dim eyes, at the cloudless face that smiled down on her, until she almost fancied the lips parted to address her.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Mr. Lindsay’s visits grew more frequent. At first Beulah wondered what brought him so often from his distant home to the city, and supposed it must be some legal business which engaged him; but gradually a different solution dawned upon her mind. She rejected it as the prompting of vanity, but again and again the supposition recurred. The imperturbable gravity and repose of his manner often disconcerted her. It was in vain that she resorted to sarcasm, and irony; he was incorrigibly unruffled; in vain she was cold, repellent, haughty; his quiet smile remained unaltered. His superior, and thoroughly cultivated intellect, and the unaffected simplicity of his manner, characterized by singular candor, rendered him an unusually agreeable companion; but Beulah rebelled against the unobtrusive yet constant care with which she fancied he watched her. The seclusion of her life, and the reserve of her nature, conspired to impart a degree of abruptness to her own manners; and to one who understood her character less than Reginald Lindsay there was an unhesitating sincerity of expression which might have been termed rudeness. The frequency of his visits attracted the attention of strangers; already the busy tongue of meddling gossip had connected their names; Dr. Asbury, too, bantered her unmercifully upon his nephew’s constant pilgrimages to the city; and the result was that Mr. Lindsay’s receptions grew colder and less flattering continually. From the first she had not encouraged his visits, and now she positively discouraged them by every intimation which the rules of etiquette justified her in offering. Yet she respected, esteemed, and in many things admired him; and readily confessed to her own heart that his society often gave her pleasure,

One winter evening she sat alone by the dining-room fire, with a newspaper in her hand, reading a notice of the last number of the magazine, in which one of her sketches was roughly handled. Of course she was no better pleased with the unflattering criticism than the majority of writers in such cases. She frowned, bit her lip, and wondered who could have written it. The review was communicated, and the paper had been sent to her by some unknown hand. Once more she read the article, and her brow cleared, while a smile broke over her face. She had recognized a particular dictum, and was no longer puzzled. Leaning her head on her palm, she sat looking into the fire, ruminating on the objections urged against her piece; it was the first time she had ever been unfavorably criticised, and this was sufficient food for thought.

Mr. Lindsay came in and stood near her unobserved. They had not met for several weeks, and she was not aware that he was in the city. Charon, who lay on the rug at her feet, growled, and she looked round.

“Good-evening,” said her visitor, extending his hand.

She did not accept it; but merely inclined her head, saying:

“Ah, how do you do, sir?”

He laid a package on the table, drew a chair near the hearth without looking at her, and, calling to Charon, patted his huge head kindly.

“What have you there, Miss Beulah? Merely a newspaper; it seems to interest you intensely. May I see it?”

“I am certainly very much obliged to you, sir, for the chivalrous spirit in which you indited your criticism. I was just pondering it when you entered.”

She smiled as she spoke, and shook the paper at him.

“I thought I had feigned a style you would not recognize,” he answered quite unconcernedly.

“You succeeded admirably, with the exception of one pet phrase, which betrayed you. Next time, recollect that you are very partial to some particular expressions, with which I happen to be acquainted; and avoid their introduction.”

“I rather think I shall not repeat the experiment; especially as my arguments seem to have failed signally in their design. Are you quite sure that you understand my review perfectly?”

He looked a little curious–she fancied disappointed–and she replied laughingly:

“Oh, I think I do; it is not so very abstruse.”

He leaned forward, took the paper from her, before she was aware of his intention, and threw it into the fire.

She looked surprised, and he offered his hand once more.

“Are we still friends? Will you shake hands with your reviewer?”

She unhesitatingly put her hand in his, and answered:

“Friendship is not a gossamer thread, to be severed by a stroke of the pen.”

She endeavored to withdraw her fingers, but he held them firmly, while his blue eyes rested upon her with an expression she by no means liked. Her black brows met in a heavy frown, and her lips parted angrily. He saw it, and instantly released her hand.

“Miss Beulah, my uncle commissioned me to say to you that he received a letter to-day from Dr. Hartwell. It was written during his voyage down the Red Sea, and contained a long farewell, as inland travel would afford no facilities for writing.”

He noted the tight clasp in which her fingers locked each other, and the livid paleness of her lips and brow, as the long lashes drooped and she sat silently listening. Charon laid his head on her knee and looked up at her. There was a brief silence, and Mr. Lindsay added slowly:

“My uncle fears he will never return. Do you cherish the hope?”

“Yes; he will come back, if his life is spared. It may be many years; but he will come, he will come.”

Their eyes met; there was a long, searching look from Mr. Lindsay; she did not shrink from the scrutiny. An expression of keen sorrow swept over his face, but he conquered his emotion, took the parcel he had brought, and, unwrapping a book, said, in his usual quiet tone:

“When I saw you last you were regretting your inability to procure Sir William Hamilton’s ‘Philosophy of the Conditioned,’ and I have taken the liberty of bringing you my own copy. Read it at your leisure; I shall not need it again soon. I do not offer it as a system which will satisfy your mind, by solving all your problems; but I do most earnestly commend his ‘Philosophy of the Conditioned,’ as the surest antidote to the abstractions in which your speculation has involved you. The most erudite scholar of the age, and one of the finest metaphysical minds the world has ever known, he expressly sums up his vast philosophic researches with the humble confession: ‘There are two sorts of ignorances; we philosophize to escape ignorance, and the consummation of our philosophy is ignorance; we start from the one, we repose in the other; they are the goals from which, and to which, we tend; and the pursuit of knowledge is but a course between two ignorances, as human life is itself only a traveling from grave to grave. The highest reach of human science is the scientific recognition of human ignorance.’ Like you, Miss Beulah, I set out to discover some system where no mysteries existed; where I should only believe what I could clearly comprehend. ‘Yes,’ said I proudly, ‘I will believe nothing that I cannot understand.’ I wandered on until, like you, I stood in a wide waste, strewn with the wreck of beliefs. My pride asserted that my reason was the only and sufficient guide, and whither did it lead me? Into vagaries more inexplicable than aught I fled from in Revelation. It was easier to believe that, ‘in the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth,’ than that the glorious universe looked to chance as its sole architect, or that it was a huge lumbering machine of matter, grinding out laws. I saw that I was the victim of a miserable delusion in supposing my finite faculties could successfully grapple with the mysteries of the universe. I found that to receive the attempted solutions of philosophy required more faith than Revelation, and my proud soul humbled itself and rested in the Bible. My philosophic experience had taught me that if mankind were to have any knowledge of their origin, their destiny, their God, it must be revealed by that God, for man could never discover aught for himself. There are mysteries in the Bible which I cannot explain; but it bears incontrovertible marks of divine origin, and as such I receive it. I can sooner believe the Mosaic revelation than the doctrine which tells you that you are part of God and capable of penetrating to absolute truth. To quote the expressive language of an acute critic (whose well-known latitudinarianism and disbelief in the verbal inspiration of Scripture give peculiar weight to his opinion on this subject), ‘when the advocates of this natural, spontaneous inspiration will come forth from their recesses of thought and deliver prophecies as clear as those of the Hebrew seer; when they shall mold the elements of nature to their will; when they shall speak with the sublime authority of Jesus of Nazareth; and with the same infinite ease, rising beyond all the influence of time, place, and circumstances, explain the past and unfold the future; when they die for the truth they utter, and rise again as witnesses to its divinity; then we may begin to place them on the elevation which they so thoughtlessly claim. But until they either prove these facts to be delusions, or give their parallel in themselves, the world may well laugh at their ambition and trample their spurious inspiration beneath its feet.’ There is an infinite, eternal, and loving God; I am a finite creature, unable to comprehend him, and knowing him only through his own revelation. This very revelation is insufficient for our aspiring souls, I grant; but it declares emphatically that here ‘we see through a glass darkly.’ Better this than the starless night in which you grope, without a promise of the dawn of eternity, where all mystery shall be explained. Are you not weary of fruitless, mocking speculation?” He looked at her anxiously.

She raised her colorless face, and said drearily, as she passed her hand over her forehead:

“Weary? Ah, yes; weary as the lonely mariner, tempest-tossed on some pathless ocean, without chart or compass. In my sky, even the star of hope is shrouded. Weary? Yes; in body and mind.”

“Then humble your proud intellect; confess your ignorance and inability, and rest in God and Christianity.”

She made an impatient gesture, and, turning away, he walked up and down the floor. For some moments neither spoke. Finally he approached her, and continued:

“There is strange significance in the Mosaic record of the Fall. Longing for the fruits of knowledge, whereby the mysteries of God would be revealed, cost man Eden. The first pair ate, knowledge mocked them, and only the curse remained. That primeval curse of desiring to know all things descended to all posterity, and at this instant you exemplify its existence. Ah! you must humble your intellect if you would have it exalted; must be willing to be guided along unknown paths by other light than that of reason if you would be happy. Well might Sir William Hamilton exclaim: ‘It is this powerful tendency of the most vigorous minds to transcend the sphere of our faculties, which makes a “learned ignorance” the most difficult acquirement, perhaps indeed the consummation of knowledge.'”

He sighed as he uttered these words; she said nothing; and, putting his hand gently upon hers, as they lay folded on the table beside her, he added sadly:

“I had hoped that I could aid you; but I see my efforts are useless; you will not be guided nor influenced by others; are determined to wander on in ever-deepening night, solitary and restless! God help you, Beulah!”

A shudder ran over her; but she made no reply.

He took her cold hands in his.

“And now we part. Since the evening I first saw you with your basket of strawberries, I have cherished the hope that I might one day be more than a friend. You have constantly shown me that I was nothing more to you; I have seen it all along, but still I hoped; and, notwithstanding your coldness, I shall continue to hope. My love is too entirely yours to be readily effaced. I can wait patiently. Beulah, you do not love me now; perhaps never can; but I shall at least cling to the hope. I shall not come again; shall not weary you with professions and attentions. I know your nature, and even had I the power would not persuade you to give me your hand now. But time may change your feelings; on this frail tenure I rest my hopes. Meantime, should circumstances occur which demand the aid or counsel of devoted friendship, may I ask you to feel no hesitancy in claiming any assistance I can render? And, Beulah, at any instant, a line, a word can recall me. The separation will be very painful to me; but I cannot longer obtrude myself on your presence. If, as I earnestly hope, the hour, however distant, should come when you desire to see me, oh, Beulah, how gladly will I hasten to you–“

“We can never be more than friends; never!” cried Beulah.

“You think so now, and perhaps I am doomed to disappointment; but, without your sanction, I shall hope it. Good-by.” He pressed his lips to her hand and walked away.

Beulah heard the closing of the little gate, and then, for the first time, his meaning flashed upon her mind. He believed she loved her guardian; fancied that long absence would obliterate his image from her heart, and that, finally, grown indifferent to one who might never return, she would give her love to him whose constancy merited it. Genuine delicacy of feeling prevented his expressing all this; but she was conscious now that only this induced his unexpected course toward herself. A burning flush suffused her face as she exclaimed:

“Oh, how unworthy I am of such love as his! how utterly undeserving!”

Soon after, opening the book he had brought at the place designated, she drew the lamp near her and began its perusal. Hour after hour glided away, and not until the last page was concluded did she lay it aside. The work contained very little that was new; the same trains of thought had passed through her mind more than once before; but here they were far more clearly and forcibly expressed.

She drew her chair to the window, threw up the sash, and looked out. It was wintry midnight, and the sky blazed with its undying watch- fires. This starry page was the first her childish intellect had puzzled over. She had, from early years, gazed up into the glittering temple of night, and asked: “Whence came yon silent worlds, floating in solemn grandeur along the blue, waveless ocean of space? Since the universe sprang phoenix-like from that dim chaos, which may have been but the charnel-house of dead worlds, those unfading lights have burned on, bright as when they sang together at the creation. And I have stretched out my arms helplessly to them, and prayed to hear just once their unceasing chant of praise to the Lord of Glory. Will they shine on forever? or are they indeed God’s light-bearers, set to illumine the depths of space and blaze a path along which the soul may travel to its God? Will they one day flicker and go out?” To every thoughtful mind these questions propound themselves, and Beulah especially had essayed to answer them. Science had named the starry hosts, and computed their movements with wonderful skill; but what could it teach her of their origin and destiny? Absolutely nothing. And how stood her investigations in the more occult departments of psychology and ontology? An honest seeker of truth, what had these years of inquiry and speculation accomplished? Let her answer as, with face bowed on her palms, her eyes roved over the midnight sky.

“Once I had some principles, some truths clearly defined; but now I know nothing distinctly, believe nothing. The more I read and study the more obscure seem the questions I am toiling to answer. Is this increasing intricacy the reward of an earnestly inquiring mind? Is this to be the end of all my glorious aspirations? Have I come to this? ‘Thus far, and no farther.’ I have stumbled on these boundaries many times, and now must I rest here? Oh, is this my recompense? Can this be all? All!” Smothered sobs convulsed her frame.

She had long before rejected a “revealed code” as unnecessary; the next step was to decipher nature’s symbols, and thus grasp God’s hidden laws; but here the old trouble arose. How far was “individualism” allowable and safe? To reconcile the theories of rationalism, she felt, was indeed a herculean task, and she groped on into deeper night. Now and then her horizon was bestarred, and, in her delight, she shouted, “Eureka!” But when the telescope of her infallible reason was brought to bear upon the coldly glittering points, they flickered and went out. More than once a flaming comet, of German manufacture, trailed in glory athwart her dazzled vision; but close observation resolved the gilded nebula, and the nucleus mocked her. Doubt engendered doubt; the death of one difficulty was the instant birth of another. Wave after wave of skepticism surged over her soul, until the image of a great personal God was swept from its altar. But atheism never yet usurped the sovereignty of the human mind; in all ages, moldering vestiges of protean deism confront the giant specter, and every nation under heaven has reared its fane to the “unknown God.” Beulah had striven to enthrone in her desecrated soul the huge, dim, shapeless phantom of pantheism, and had turned eagerly to the system of Spinoza. The heroic grandeur of the man’s life and character had strangely fascinated her; but now, that idol of a “substance, whose two infinite attributes were extension and thought,” mocked her; and she hurled it from its pedestal, and looked back wistfully to the pure faith of her childhood. A Godless world; a Godless woman. She took up the lamp and retired to her own room. On all sides books greeted her; here was the varied lore of dead centuries; here she had held communion with the great souls entombed in these dusty pages. Here, wrestling alone with those grim puzzles, she had read out the vexed and vexing questions, in this debating club of the moldering dead, and endeavored to make them solve them. These well-worn volumes, with close “marginalias,” echoed her inquiries, but answered them not to her satisfaction. Was her life to be thus passed in feverish toil and ended as by a leap out into a black, shoreless abyss? Like a spent child she threw her arms on the mantelpiece and wept uncontrollably, murmuring:

“Oh, better die now than live as I have lived, in perpetual stragglings! What is life worth without peace of mind, without hope; and what hope have I? Diamonded webs of sophistry can no longer entangle; like Noah’s dove, my soul has fluttered among them, striving in vain for a sure hold to perch upon; but, unlike it, I have no ark to flee to. Weary and almost hopeless, I would fain believe that this world is indeed as a deluge, and in it there is no ark of refuge but the Bible. It is true, I did not see this souls’ ark constructed; I know nothing of the machinery employed; and no more than Noah’s dove can I explore and fully understand its secret chambers; yet, all untutored, the exhausted bird sought safety in the incomprehensible, and was saved. As to the mysteries of revelation and inspiration, why, I meet mysteries, turn which way I will. Man, earth, time, eternity, God, are all inscrutable mysteries My own soul is a mystery unto itself, and so long as I am impotent to fathom its depths, how shall I hope to unfold the secrets of the universe?”

She had rejected Christian theism, because she could not understand how God had created the universe out of nothing. True, “with God, all things are possible”; but she could not understand this creation out of nothing, and therefore would not believe it. Yet (oh, inconsistency of human reasoning!) she had believed that the universe created laws; that matter gradually created mind. This was the inevitable result of pantheism; for, according to geology, there was a primeval period when neither vegetable nor animal life existed; when the earth was a huge mass of inorganic matter. Of two incomprehensibilities, which was the most plausible? To-night this question recurred to her mind with irresistible force, and, as her eyes wandered over the volumes she had so long consulted, she exclaimed:

“Oh, philosophy! thou hast mocked my hungry soul; thy gilded fruits have crumbled to ashes in my grasp. In lieu of the holy faith of my girlhood, thou hast given me but dim, doubtful conjecture, cold metaphysical abstractions, intangible shadows, that flit along my path, and lure me on to deeper morasses. Oh, what is the shadow of death, in comparison with the starless night which has fallen upon me, even in the morning of my life! My God, save me! Give me light! Of myself I can know nothing!”

Her proud intellect was humbled, and, falling on her knees, for the first time in many months, a sobbing prayer went up to the throne of the living God; while the vast clockwork of stars looked in on a pale brow and lips, where heavy drops of moisture glistened.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Four years had passed since Eugene Graham returned to his home, after his severe illness, and now, as he sits alone in his library, with a bundle of legal documents before him, it is not difficult to perceive that his promise has been held sacred. Through the suggestion of Mr. Lindsay, and the persuasions of Beulah, he had closely applied himself to the study of law immediately after his recovery. Hopeless of happiness in his home, ambition became the ruling passion, and scourged him on to unceasing exertion. The aspirations of his boyhood revived; the memory of his humiliating course goaded him to cover the past with the garlands of fame; and consciousness of unusual talents assured him of final success. Mr. Graham no longer opposed the design as formerly, but facilitated its execution to the utmost of his ability. Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that earnest application soon procured his admission to the bar. His efforts were redoubled, and, ere long, his eloquence obtained for him a connection with one of the most prominent members of the profession. The world wondered at this complete revolution; many doubted its continuance; but, step by step, he climbed the ladder to eminence, and merited the applause which the public lavished upon him. Success only inflamed his ambition, and it became evident he aimed at political renown. Nature had fitted him for the political arena, had endowed him with oratorical powers of no ordinary stamp; and, though long dormant, they were not impaired by his inertia. It was fortunate for him that an exciting Presidential canvass afforded numerous opportunities for the development of these, and at its close he found himself possessed of an enviable reputation. To a certain extent, his wife was elated with his success; she was proud of his acknowledged talent; but her selfish nature was utterly incapable of the tenderness and sincere affection he demanded. Their alienation was complete. No bickerings disturbed the serene atmosphere of their home, because mutual indifference precluded the necessity. Mrs. Graham gave parties and attended them; rode, danced, spent her summers at fashionable watering-places and her winters in a round of folly and dissipation, while her husband pursued his profession, careless of her movements and rarely in her company. In the lady’s conduct the circle in which she moved saw nothing reprehensible. She dressed superbly, gave elegant entertainments, and was, par excellence, the leader of bon-ton. True, she was quite as much of a belle as any young lady in the city, and received the attentions and flattery of gentlemen as unreservedly, nay, delightedly, as though she had no neglected husband and child at home who had claims upon her; put this sort of conjugal indifference was in vogue, and, as she frowned down, or smiled up, some family laboriously toiling to reach her circle, her “clique” blindly followed her example and humored her whims. As regarded her deportment toward her husband, one alteration was perceptible; she respected–almost feared him; shrank from his presence, and generally contrived to fill the house with company when she was, for short intervals, at home. He ceased to upbraid, or even remonstrate; his days were spent in the courtroom or his office, and his evenings in his library. She dressed as extravagantly as she chose; he made no comments, paid her accounts, and grew more taciturn and abstracted day by day.

Oh, woman! woman! when will you sever the fetters which fashion, wealth, and worldliness have bound about you, and prove yourselves worthy the noble mission for which you were created? How much longer will heartless, soulless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters waltz, moth-like, round the consuming flame of fashion; and, by neglecting their duties and deserting their sphere, drive their husbands, sons, and brothers out into the world, reckless and depraved, with callous hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of Mammon? God help the women of America! Grant them the true womanly instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made “home” the Eden, the acme of all human hopes and joys. Teach them that gilded saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted! Eugene Graham’s love and tenderness were all bestowed on his daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.

It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers, necessary in a case to be defended the following day. The sunshine, stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened, vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope. As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall; the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish voice asked eagerly:

“May I come now, father? Have you done writing? I won’t make a noise; indeed I won’t!”

The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her, saying:

“I have done writing; you may come now, my darling.”

She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers through his hair. She resembled him closely, having the same classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes. He returned her caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her curls with a light, gentle touch. The evening was warm, and large drops stood on his forehead. She noticed it, and, standing on his knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so. A servant looked in at the door.

“Did you ring, sir?”

“Yes; tell Philip I want my buggy.”

“Oh, you are going to ride! Can I go? and will we go to see Aunt Beulah–will we?” She looked at him earnestly.

“Would you like to go there, Cornelia?”

“Oh, yes! I always like to go there. I love her, she is so good! Let’s go to see her, won’t you?”

“Yes; you shall go with me, my darling.”

He bent down to kiss her coral lips, and just then Mrs. Graham swept into the room. She was attired in an elegant riding habit of dark purple, while a velvet hat of the same color, with a long, drooping plume, shaded her face. Her hands were incased in delicate kid gauntlets, which fitted with perfect exactness. She was a beautiful woman, and the costume heightened her loveliness. She started slightly on perceiving her husband, and said hastily:

“I thought you were at your office. Cornelia, what on earth have you done with my riding whip? you mischievous little wretch! You lost it once before. Go find it; I am waiting for it. Go this instant!”

“I don’t know where it is,” returned the child, making no effort to leave her father’s arms.

Eugene glanced up at his wife; his eyes wandered over her becoming and beautiful dress, then went back to the sunny face of his child.

An angry flush dyed Antoinette’s cheeks as she observed her daughter’s indifference.

“Where is my whip? I say. Flora saw you with it yesterday, whipping that hobby-horse. I told you to keep your hands off of it, didn’t I? If you don’t go and find it quick, I’ll box you soundly, you meddlesome little brat!”

“I haven’t had it since you told me I shouldn’t play with it. Flora tells a story,” answered Cornelia, sobbing.

“You did have it!” cried the angry mother, shaking her hand threateningly.

“Did you see her with it?” asked Eugene, rising, with the child in his arms.

“I know she had it!”

“Did you see her with it, I asked you?”

“No; but Flora did, and that is all the same; besides, I–“

“Here is the whip, ma’am. I found it last week in the hall, behind a chair, and put it in the cane stand. The last time you went to ride, you put it and your gloves on a chair in the hall, and went into the parlor to see some company. Flora picked up the gloves and carried them upstairs, but didn’t see the whip.”