Day after day passed monotonously, and, except a visit from Eugene, there was no link added to the chain which bound Beulah to the past. That brief visit encouraged and cheered the lonely heart, yearning for affectionate sympathy, yet striving to hush the hungry cry and grow contented with its lot. During the second week of her stay little Johnny was taken sick, and he had become so fond of his new attendant that no one else was permitted to hold him. Often she paced the chamber floor for hours, lulling the fretful babe with softly sung tunes of other days, and the close observer, who could have peered at such times into the downcast eyes, might have easily traced in the misty depths memories that nestled in her heart's sanctuary. The infant soon recovered, and one warm, sunny afternoon, when Mrs. Martin directed Beulah to draw him in his wicker carriage up and down the pavement before the door, she could no longer repress the request which had trembled on her lips more than once, and asked permission to take her little charge to Mrs. Grayson's. A rather reluctant assent was given, and soon the carriage was drawn in the direction of Mr. Grayson's elegant city residence. A marvelous change came over the wan face of the nurse as she paused at the marble steps, guarded on either side by sculptured lions. "To see Lilly." The blood sprang to her cheeks, and an eager look of delight crept into the eyes. The door was partially opened by an insolent-looking footman, whose hasty glance led him to suppose her one of the numerous supplicants for charity, who generally left that princely mansion as empty-handed as they came. He was about to close the door; but, undaunted by this reception, she hastily asked to see Mrs. Grayson and Lillian Benton.
"Mrs. Grayson is engaged, and there is no such person here as Lillian Benton. Miss Lilly Grayson is my young mistress' name; but I can tell you, her mamma don't suffer her to see the like of you; so be off."
"Lilly is my sister, and I must see her. Tell Mrs. Grayson Beulah Benton wishes to see her sister; and ask her also if Claudia may not see me."
She dropped the tongue of the carriage, and the thin hands clutched each other in an agony of dread, lest her petition should be refused. The succeeding five minutes seemed an eternity to her, and, as the door opened again, she leaned forward and held her breath, like one whose fate was in the balance. Costly silk and dazzling diamonds met her gaze. The settled lines of Mrs. Grayson's pretty mouth indicated that she had a disagreeable duty to perform, yet had resolved to do it at once, and set the matter forever at rest.
"You are Mrs. Martin's nurse, I believe, and the girl I saw at the asylum?" said she frigidly.
"Yes, madam; I am Lilly's sister; you said I might come and see her. Oh, if you only knew how miserable I have been since we were parted, you would not look so coldly at me! Do, please, let me see her. Oh, don't deny me!"
These words were uttered in a tone of imploring agony.
"I am very sorry you happen to be her sister, and I assure you, child, it pains me to refuse you; but, when you remember the circumstances, you ought not to expect to associate with her as you used to do. She will be educated to move in a circle very far above you; and you ought to be more than willing to give her up, when you know how lucky she has been in securing a home of wealth. Besides, she is getting over the separation very nicely indeed, and if she were to see you even once it would make matters almost as bad as ever. I dare say you are a good girl, and will not trouble me any further. My husband and I are unwilling that you should see Lilly again; and though I am very sorry I am forced to disappoint you, I feel that I am doing right."
The petitioner fell on her knees, and, extending her arms, said huskily:
"Oh, madam! are we to be parted forever? I pray you, in the name ofGod, let me see her! let me see her!"
Mrs. Grayson was not a cruel woman, far from it, but she was strangely weak and worldly. The idea of a hired nurse associating familiarly with her adopted daughter was repulsive to her aristocratic pride, and therefore she hushed the tones of true womanly sympathy, and answered resolutely:
"It pains me to refuse you; but I have given good reasons, and cannot think of changing my determination. I hope you will not annoy me by any future efforts to enter my house. There is a present for you. Good-evening."
She tossed a five-dollar gold piece toward the kneeling figure, and, closing the door, locked it on the inside. The money rolled ringingly down the steps, and the grating sound of the key, as it was hurriedly turned, seemed typical of the unyielding lock which now forever barred the child's hopes. The look of utter despair gave place to an expression of indescribable bitterness. Springing from her suppliant posture, she muttered with terrible emphasis:
"A curse on that woman and her husband! May God answer their prayers as she has answered mine!"
Picking up the coin which lay glittering on the sidewalk, she threw it forcibly against the door, and, as it rebounded into the street, took the carriage tongue, and slowly retraced her steps. It was not surprising that passers-by gazed curiously at the stony face, with its large eyes, brimful of burning hate, as the injured orphan walked mechanically on, unconscious that her lips were crushed till purple drops oozed over them. The setting sun flashed his ruddy beams caressingly over her brow, and whispering winds lifted tenderly the clustering folds of jetty hair; but nature's pure- hearted darling had stood over the noxious tarn, whence the poisonous breath of a corrupt humanity rolled upward, and the once sinless child inhaled the vapor until her soul was a great boiling Marah. Ah, truly
"There are swift hours in life—strong, rushing hours—That do the work of tempests in their might!"
Peaceful valleys, green and flowery, sleeping in loveliness, have been unheaved, and piled in somber, jagged masses, against the sky, by the fingering of an earthquake; and gentle, loving, trusting hearts, over whose altars brooded the white-winged messengers of God's peace, have been as suddenly transformed by a manifestation of selfishness and injustice, into gloomy haunts of misanthropy. Had Mrs. Grayson been arraigned for cruelty, or hard-heartedness, before a tribunal of her equals (i. e., fashionable friends), the charge would have been scornfully repelled, and unanimous would have been her acquittal. "Hard-hearted! oh, no! she was only prudent and wise." Who could expect her to suffer her pampered, inert darling to meet and acknowledge as an equal the far less daintily fed and elegantly clad sister, whom God called to labor for her frugal meals? Ah, this fine-ladyism, this ignoring of labor, to which, in accordance with the divine decree, all should be subjected: this false-effeminacy, and miserable affectation of refinement, which characterizes the age, is the unyielding lock on the wheels of social reform and advancement.
Beulah took her charge home, and when dusk came on rocked him to sleep, and snugly folded the covering of his crib over the little throbbing heart, whose hours of trial were yet veiled by the impenetrable curtain of futurity. Mrs. Martin and her elder children had gone to a concert, and, of course, the nurse was to remain with Johnny until his mother's return. Standing beside the crib, and gazing down at the rosy cheeks and curling locks, nestled against the pillow, Beulah's thoughts winged along the tear-stained past, to the hour when Lilly had been placed in her arms, by emaciated hands stiffening in death. For six years she had held, and hushed, and caressed her dying father's last charge, and now strange, ruthless fingers had torn the clinging heart-strings from the idol. There were no sobs, nor groans, to voice the anguish of the desolate orphan. The glittering eyes were tearless, but the brow was darkly furrowed, the ashy lips writhed, and the folded hands were purple from compression. Turning from the crib, she threw up the sash, and seated herself on the window-sill. Below lay the city, with its countless lamps gleaming in every direction, and stretching away on the principal streets, like long processions; in the distance the dark waters of the river, over which steamboat lights flashed now and then like ignesfatui; and above her arched the dome of sky, with its fiery fretwork. Never before had she looked up at the starry groups without an emotion of exulting joy, of awful adoration. To her worshiping gaze they had seemed glimpses of the spirit's home; nay, loving eyes shining down upon her thorny pathway. But now, the twinkling rays fell unheeded, impotent to pierce the sable clouds of grief. She sat looking out into the night, with strained eyes that seemed fastened upon a corpse. An hour passed thus, and, as the clang of the town clock died away the shrill voice of the watchman rang through the air:
"Nine o'clock; and all's well!"
Beulah lifted her head, and listened. "All's well!" The mockery maddened her, and she muttered audibly:
"That is the sort of sympathy I shall have through life. I am to hear that 'all is well' when my heart is dying, nay, dead within me! Oh, if I could only die! What a calm, calm time I should have in my coffin! Nobody to taunt me with my poverty and ugliness! Oh, what did God make me for? The few years of my life have been full of misery; I cannot remember one single day of pure happiness, for there was always something to spoil what little joy I ever knew. When I was born, why did not I die at once? And why did not God take me instead of my dear, dear father? He should have been left with Lilly, for people love the beautiful, but nobody will ever care for me. I am of no use to anything, and so ugly that I hate myself. O Lord, I don't want to live another day! I am sick of my life—take me, take me!" But a feeble ray of comfort stole into her shivering heart, as she bowed her head upon her hands; Eugene Graham loved her; and the bleeding tendrils of affection henceforth clasped him as their only support. She was aroused from her painful reverie by a movement in the crib, and, hastening to her charge, was startled by the appearance of the babe. The soft blue eyes were rolled up and set, the face of a purplish hue, and the delicate limbs convulsed. During her residence at the asylum she had more than once assisted the matron in nursing children similarly affected; and now, calling instantly for a tub of water, she soon immersed the rigid limbs in a warm bath, while one of the waiters was dispatched for the family physician. When Dr. Hartwell entered he found her standing with the infant clasped in her arms, and, as his eyes rested curiously upon her face, she forgot that he was a stranger, and, springing to meet him, exclaimed:
"Oh, sir; will he die?"
With his fingers on the bounding pulse, he answered:
"He is very ill. Where is his mother? Who are you?"
"His mother is at a concert, and I am his nurse."
The spasms had ceased, but the twitching limbs told that they might return any moment, and the physician immediately administered a potion.
"How long will Mrs. Martin be absent?"
"It is uncertain. When shall I give the medicine again?"
"I shall remain until she comes home."
Beulah was pacing up and down the floor, with Johnny in her arms; Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and watching the slight form as it stole softly to and fro. Gradually the child became quiet, but his nurse kept up her walk. Dr. Hartwell said abruptly:
"Sit down, girl! you will walk yourself into a shadow."
She lifted her head, shook it in reply, and resumed her measured tread.
"What is your name?"
"Beulah Benton."
"Beulah!" repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his mustached lip. She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis:
"You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it. Beulah! Beulah! Oh, my father! I have neither sunshine nor flowers, nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle. You ought to have called me Marah."
"You have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress' then?" said he, with a searching glance.
Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by painful reflection to frame an answer. The despairing expression settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on again.
"Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?"
"I was driven here by necessity."
"Where are your parents and friends?"
"I have none. I am alone in the world."
"How long have you been so dependent?"
She raised her hand deprecatingly, nay commandingly, as though she had said:
"No more. You have not the right to question, nor I the will to answer."
He marked the look of unconquerable grief, and, understanding her gesture, made no more inquiries.
Soon after, Mrs. Martin returned, and, having briefly stated what had occurred, and given directions for the child's treatment, he withdrew. His low "good-night," gently spoken to the nurse, was only acknowledged by a slight inclination of the head as he passed her. Little Johnny was restless, and constantly threatened with a return of the convulsions. His mother held him on her knee, and telling Beulah she "had been a good, sensible girl to bathe him so promptly," gave her permission to retire.
"I am not at all sleepy, and would rather stay here and nurse him.He does not moan so much when I walk with him. Give him back to me."
"But you will be tired out."
"I shall not mind it." Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy, and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless tread. Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt her babe's pulse, and assisted in giving the hourly potions, then reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on. Once she offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden. A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair. Gradually the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that transformed them into mountains of topaz. Pausing by the window, and gazing vacantly out, Beulah's eyes were suddenly riveted on the gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood watching the masses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and floating slowly before the wind, until the "King of Day" flashed up and dazzled her. Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a servant, and starting up, exclaimed:
"Bless me! I have been asleep. Beulah, how is Johnny? You must be tired to death."
"He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is not so high. I will take care of him, and you had better take another nap before breakfast."
Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse's injunction, and it was two hours later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her breakfast. But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and, retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair. Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on her lips; and, too miserable to frame a petition, she returned to the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night. Dr. Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and, without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and walked to the window. While she stood there her eyes fell upon the loved face of her best friend. Eugene Graham was crossing the street. For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she leaned forward to see whether he was coming in. The door bell rang, and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes fastened upon her. Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother's lap, she merely said, "I will be back soon," and, darting down the steps, met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder.
"What is the matter, Beulah? Do tell me," said he anxiously.
Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them. Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word "brutal" escaped his lips. He endeavored to comfort her by holding out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and his cheering words failed to call up a smile. They stood in the hall near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left the sickroom. Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand. Beulah's countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning away when the doctor addressed her:
"You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night. I know from your looks that you did not close your eyes."
"I am no worse looking than usual, thank you," she replied icily, drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene. The doctor left them, and, as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely again. Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain. Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said reprovingly:
"Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell. Politeness costs nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with ordinary civility."
Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor passed over her mouth, as she answered meekly:
"I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or speak to me."
"Why, pray?"
"Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see it."
He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest assured Dr. Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you. But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly. Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book" in her hand, and drew on his gloves.
"Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer—just a little longer? It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.
Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and answered hurriedly:
"See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought, and slowly remounted the stairs.
Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed, constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her, but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and while he slept she read. Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes. Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page. At length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her eyes, said audibly:
"Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret, and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton! I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"
"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the doctor.
She started, looked up, and answered slowly:
"No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know."
"What made you think of him?"
"I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where. I often think of him."
"Why?"
"Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to say, so do not question me."
He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's pulse, pointed to the crib, saying:
"You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep."
"No, I may as well hold him."
"Girl, will you follow my directions?" said he sharply.
Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features. The doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the glass on the table, put both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse. Her head was averted.
"Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?" She fixed her eyes proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted lips.
"Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at least five years?"
An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of death settled there.
"I am in earnest. He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long time."
She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoarse whisper:
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure; his passage is already engaged in a packet that will sail early next week. What will become of you in his absence?"
The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she fell forward against him.
Guy Hartwell placed the slight, attenuated form on the sofa, and stood with folded arms looking down at the colorless face. His high white brow clouded, and a fierce light kindled in his piercing dark eyes, as through closed teeth came the rather indistinct words:
"It is madness to indulge the thought; I was a fool to dream of it. She would prove heartless, like all of her sex, and repay me with black ingratitude. Let her fight the battle of life unaided."
He sprinkled a handful of water on the upturned face, and in a few minutes saw the eyelids tremble, and knew from the look of suffering that with returning consciousness came the keen pangs of grief. She covered her face with her hands, and, after a little while, asked:
"Shall I ever see him again?"
"He will come here to-night to tell you about his trip. But what will become of you in his absence?—answer me that!"
"God only knows!"
Dr. Hartwell wrote the directions for Johnny's medicine, and, placing the slip of paper on the glass, took his hat and left the room. Beulah sat with her head pressed against the foot of the crib- -stunned, taking no note of the lapse of time.
"Twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad."
The room had grown dark, save where a mellow ray stole through the western window. Beulah rose mechanically, lighted the lamp, and shaded it so as to shield the eyes of the sleeping boy. The door was open, and, glancing up, she saw Eugene on the threshold. Her arms were thrown around him, with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.
"Oh, Eugene! please don't leave me! Whom have I in the world but you?"
"Beulah, dear, I must go. Only think of the privilege of being at a German university! I never dreamed of such a piece of good luck. Don't cry so; I shall come back some of these days, such an erudite, such an elegant young man, you will hardly know me. Only five years. I am almost seventeen now; time passes very quickly, and you will scarcely miss me before I shall be at home again."
He lifted up her face, and laughed gayly as he spoke.
"When are you to go?"
"The vessel sails Wednesday—three days from now. I shall be very busy until then. Beulah, what glorious letters I shall write you from the Old World! I am to see all Europe before I return; that is, my father says I shall. He is coming on, in two or three years, with Cornelia, and we are all to travel together. Won't it be glorious?"
"Yes, for you. But, Eugene, my heart seems to die when I think of those coming five years. How shall I live without you? Oh, what shall I do?"
"There, Beulah! do not look so wretched. You will have a thousand things to divert your mind. My father says he will see that you are sent to the public school. You know the tuition is free, and he thinks he can find some good, kind family, where you will be taken care of till your education is finished. Your studies will occupy you closely, and you will have quite enough to think of, without troubling yourself about my absence. Of course you will write to me constantly, and each letter will be like having a nice, quiet chat together. Oh. dear! can't you get up a smile, and look less forlorn? You never would look on the bright side."
"Because I never had any to look on, except you and Lilly; and when you are gone, everything will be dark—dark!" she groaned, and covered her face with her hands.
"Not unless you determine to make it so. If I did not know that my father would attend to your education, I should not be so delighted to go. Certainly, Beulah, in improving yourself, you will have very little leisure to sit down and repine that your lot is not among the brightest. Do try to hope that things may change for the better. If they do not, why, I shall not spend eternity in Europe; and when I come home, of course I shall take care of you myself." She stood with one hand resting on his arm, and while he talked on, carelessly, of her future, she fixed her eyes on his countenance, thinking of the desolate hours in store for her, when the mighty Atlantic billows surged between her and the noble, classic face she loved so devotedly. A shadowy panorama of coming years glided before her, and trailing clouds seemed gathered about the path her little feet must tread. A vague foreboding discovered to her the cheerlessness, and she shivered in anticipating the dreariness that awaited her. But there was time enough for the raging of the storm; why rush so eagerly to meet it? She closed her eyes to shut out the grim vision, and listened resolutely to the plans suggested for her approval. When Eugene rose to say "good-night," it was touching to note the efforts she made to appear hopeful; the sob swallowed, lest it should displease him; the trembling lips forced into a smile, and the heavy eyelids lifted bravely to meet his glance. When the door closed after his retreating form, the hands were clasped convulsively, and the white, tearless face, mutely revealed the desolation which that loving heart locked in its darkened chambers.
Several tedious weeks had rolled away since Eugene Graham left his sunny Southern home to seek learning in the venerable universities of the Old World. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had clothed the earth with verdure, and enameled it with flowers of every hue, scattering her treasures before the rushing car of summer. During the winter scarlet fever had hovered threateningly over the city, but, as the spring advanced, hopes were entertained that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it was announced that the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant form, in the house adjoining Mrs. Martin's, she determined to send her children immediately out of town. A relative living at some distance up the river happened to be visiting her at the time, and, as she intended returning home the following day, kindly offered to take charge of the children until all traces of the disease had vanished. To this plan Beulah made no resistance, though the memory of her little sister haunted her hourly. What could she do? Make one last attempt to see her, and if again refused then it mattered not whither she went. When the preparations for their journey had been completed, and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson's residence. The sun was low in the sky, and the evening breeze, rippling the waters of the bay, stirred the luxuriant foliage of the ancient China trees that bordered the pavements. The orphan's heart was heavy with undefined dread; such a dread as had oppressed her the day of her separation from her sister.
"Coming events cast their shadows before,"
and she was conscious that the sunset glow could not dispel the spectral gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head bowed, like one stooping from an impending blow, and when at last the crouching lions confronted her she felt as if her heart had suddenly frozen. There stood the doctor's buggy. She sprang up the steps, and stretched out her hand for the bolt of the door. Long streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She stood still a moment, then threw open the door and rushed in. The hall floor was covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her save the stirring of the China trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade to ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape fastened to the parlor door, and, pushing it ajar, she looked in. The furniture was draped; even the mirrors and pictures; and on a small oblong table in the center of the room lay a shrouded form. An over-powering perfume of crushed flowers filled the air, and Beulah stood on the threshold, with her hands extended, and her eyes fixed upon the table. There were two children; Lilly might yet live, and an unvoiced prayer went up to God that the dead might be Claudia. Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her curse: "May God answer their prayers as they answered mine." With rigid limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hand on the velvet pall; with closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and looked. There lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah! how matchlessly beautiful, wrapped in her last sleep! The bright golden curls glittered around the snowy brow, and floated like wandering sunlight over the arms and shoulders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped each other as in life, and the delicately chiseled lips were just parted, as though the sleeper whispered. Beulah's gaze dwelt upon this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildly up, and, with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it rested there she never knew. Earth seemed to pass away; darkness closed over her, and for a time she had no pain, no sorrow; she and Lilly were together. All was black, and she had no feeling. Then she was lifted, and the motion aroused her torpid faculties; she moaned and opened her eyes. Dr. Hartwell was placing her on a sofa, and Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a handkerchief over her eyes. With returning consciousness came a raving despair; Beulah sprang from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and, laying one clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically:
"You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you took my darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye, my prayer! I knelt and prayed you, in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to let me hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and forehead, and little slender hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer; you taunted me with my poverty, and locked me from my darling, my Lilly, my all! Oh, woman! you drove me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha! Has your wealth and splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me, I feel as if I could curse you eternally. Could you not have sent for me before she died? Oh, if I could only have taken her in my arms, and seen her soft angel eyes looking up to me, and felt her little arms around my neck, and heard her say 'sister' for the last time! Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made you less fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? 'Such measure as ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your heart trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!"
Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were fastened on the young sleeper; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a frightened child, left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and, crossing her arms on the table, bowed her head; now and then broken, wailing tones passed the white lips. Dr. Hartwell stood in a recess of the window, with folded arms and tightly compressed mouth, watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward her, then drew back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though he scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away, and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet, with its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black hair veiled the bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and the thin hands, and a look of remorseful agony swept over his countenance. A deadly pallor settled on cheek and brow, as, with an expression of iron resolve, he retraced his steps, and, putting his hand on the orphan's shoulder, said gently:
"Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child."
She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.
"Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very ill with it. If you stay here you will certainly take it yourself."
"I hope I shall take it."
He laid his fingers on the pale, high brow, and, softly drawing back the thick hair, said earnestly: "Beulah, come home with me. Be my child; my daughter."
Again her hand was raised to put him aside.
"No. You too would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in the grave with Lilly. They cannot separate us there." He lifted her head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered kindly:
"I promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy. Come to me, child." She shook her head with a moan. Passing his arm around her, he raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head against him.
"Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely, earth's bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of its fairy-like future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggle so. You must come with me, my child." He took her in his strong arms, and bore her out of the house of death. His buggy stood at the door, and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy who accompanied him to "drive home." Beulah offered no resistance; she hid her face in her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what passed. She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her wretchedness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the buggy, carried up a flight of steps, and then a flood of light flashed through the fingers upon her closed eyelids. Dr. Hartwell placed his change on a sofa, and rank the bell. The summons was promptly answered by a negro woman of middle age. She stood at the door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on the floor, and his brows knitted.
"Master, did you ring?"
"Yes; tell my sister to come to me."
He took a turn across the floor, and paused by the open window. As the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed deeply. The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps thirty-five years, entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with a profusion of short chestnut curls about her face. With her hand resting on the door, she said, in a calm, clear tone:
"Well, Guy."
He started, and, turning from the window, approached her.
"May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible.Will you see that a hot footbath is provided? When it is ready, sendHarriet for her."
His sister's lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on the sofa, and said coldly:
"What freak now, Guy?"
For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly.
"I intend to adopt that poor little orphan; that is all!"
"Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?" said she sneeringly.
"No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding house." He folded his arms, and again they looked at each other.
"I thought you had had quite enough of protegees." She nervously clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet.
"Take care, May Ohilton! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once more, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector. Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed?" He was very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm and subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell walked up and down the room for a while, now and then looking sadly at the young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands over her face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered:
"Will you trust me, Beulah?"
She made no answer; but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been arranged, as he had directed. However surprised she might have been at this sudden advent of the simply clad orphan in her master's study, there was not the faintest indication of it in her impenetrable countenance. Not even the raising of an eyebrow.
"Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed; and, when she is in bed, come for some medicine."
Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah:
"Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof, where no more cruel injustice can assail you."
He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah accompanied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form. The room to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and lighted by an elegant colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs. Chilton stood near an armchair, looking moody and abstracted. Harriet carefully undressed the poor mourner, and, wrapping a shawl about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed her feet. Mrs. Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When the little dripping feet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the study, and administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her finger on the girl's wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and, turning unconcernedly toward Mrs. Chilton, said:
"Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. I am to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl."
"Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother directed. My head aches miserably, or I should remain myself."
She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the pillow and examined the orphan's countenance. The eyes were closed, but scalding tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands were clasped over the brow, as if to still its throbbings. Harriet's face softened, and she said kindly:
"Poor thing! what ails you? What makes you cry so?"
Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured:
"I am so miserable! I want to die, and God will not take me."
"Don't say that till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever. If you have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you; and if you haven't, why, it's all for the best. It is a bad plan to fly in the Almighty's face that way, and tell him what he shall do and what he shan't."
This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah's ears, and Harriet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her grief, but she perceived her master standing beside her, and immediately moved away from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he counted the pulse several times. The result seemed to trouble him, and he stood for some minutes watching the motionless form.
"Harriet, bring me a glass of ice-water."
Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he said tenderly:
"My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I know; but remember that, though Lilly has been taken from you, from this day you have a friend, a home, a guardian."
Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head, and put the sparkling draught to Beulah's parched lips. Without unclosing her eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and, laying the head back on the pillow, he drew an armchair before the window at the further end of the room, and seated himself.
Through quiet, woody dells roamed Beulah's spirit, and, hand in hand, she and Lilly trod flowery paths and rested beside clear, laughing brooks. Life, with its grim realities, seemed but a flying mist. The orphan hovered on the confines of eternity's ocean, and its silent waves almost laved the feet of the weary child. The room was darkened, and the summer wind stole through the blinds stealthily, as if awed by the solitude of the sick-chamber. Dr. Hartwell sat by the low French bedstead, holding one emaciated hand in his, counting the pulse which bounded so fiercely in the blue veins. A fold of white linen containing crushed ice lay on her forehead, and the hollow cheeks and thin lips were flushed to vermilion hue. It was not scarlet, but brain fever, and this was the fifth day that the sleeper had lain in a heavy stupor. Dr. Hartwell put back the hand he held, and, stooping over, looked long and anxiously at the flushed face. The breathing was deep and labored, and, turning away, he slowly and noiselessly walked up and down the floor. To have looked at him then, in his purple silk robe de chambre, one would have scarcely believed that thirty years had passed over his head. He was tall and broad-chested, his head massive and well formed, his face a curious study. The brow was expansive and almost transparent in its purity, the dark, hazel eyes were singularly brilliant, while the contour of lips and chin was partially concealed by a heavy mustache and board. The first glance at his face impressed strangers by its extreme pallor, but in a second look they were fascinated by the misty splendor of the eyes. In truth, those were strange eyes of Guy Hartwell's. At times, searching and glittering like polished steel; occasionally lighting up with a dazzling radiance, and then as suddenly growing gentle, hazy, yet luminous; resembling the clouded aspect of a star seen through a thin veil of mist. His brown, curling hair was thrown back from the face, and exposed the outline of the ample forehead. Perhaps utilitarians would have carped at the feminine delicacy of the hands, and certainly the fingers were slender and marvelously white. On one hand he wore an antique ring, composed of a cameo snake-head set round with diamonds. A proud, gifted, and miserable man was Guy Hartwell, and his characteristic expression of stern sadness might easily have been mistaken by casual observers for bitter misanthropy.
I have said he was about thirty, and though the handsome face was repellently cold and grave, it was difficult to believe that that smooth, fair brow had been for so many years uplifted for the handwriting of time. He looked just what he was, a baffling, fascinating mystery. You felt that his countenance was a volume of hieroglyphics which, could you decipher, would unfold the history of a checkered and painful career. Yet the calm, frigid smile which sat on his lip, and looked out defiantly from his deep-set eyes, seemed to dare you to an investigation. Mere physical beauty cannot impart the indescribable charm which his countenance possessed. Regularity of features is a valuable auxiliary, but we look on sculptured marble, perfect in its chiseled proportions, and feel that, after all, the potent spell is in the raying out of the soul, that imprisoned radiance which, in some instances, makes man indeed but "little lower than the angels." He paused in his echoless tread, and sat down once more beside his protegee. She had not changed her position, and the long lashes lay heavily on the crimson cheeks. The parched lips were parted, and, as he watched her, she murmured aloud:
"It is so sweet, Lilly; we will stay here always." A shadowy smile crossed her face, and then a great agony seemed to possess her, for she moaned long and bitterly. He tried to arouse her, and, for the first time since the night she entered his house, she opened her eyes and gazed vacantly at him.
"Are you in pain, Beulah? Why do you moan so?"
"Eugene, I knew it would be so, when you left me."
"Don't you know me, Beulah?" He put his face close to hers.
"They killed her, Eugene! I told you they would; they are going to bury her soon. But the grave can't hide her; I am going down with her into the darkness—she would be frightened, you know." Making a great effort, she sat upright. Dr. Hartwell put a glass containing medicine to her lips; she shrank back and shuddered, then raised her hand for the glass, and, looking fixedly at him, said: "Did Mrs. Grayson say I must take it? Is it poison that kills quickly? There; don't frown, Eugene, I will drink it all for you." She swallowed the draught with a shiver. He laid her back on her pillow and renewed the iced-cloth on her forehead; she did not move her burning eyes from his face, and the refreshing coolness recalled the sad smile. "Are we on the Alps, Eugene? I feel dizzy; don't let me fall. There is a great chasm yonder. Oh, I know now; I am not afraid; Lilly is down there—come on." Her arms drooped to her side, and she slept again.
Evening shadows crept on; soon the room was dark. Harriet entered with a shaded lamp, but her master motioned her out, and, throwing open the blinds, suffered the pure moonlight to enter freely. The window looked out on the flower garden, and the mingled fragrance of roses, jasmines, honeysuckles, and dew-laden four-o'clocks enveloped him as in a cloud of incense. A balmy moonlight June night in our beautiful sunny South—who shall adequately paint its witchery? Dr. Hartwell leaned his head against the window, and glanced down at the parterre he had so fondly fostered. The golden moonlight mellowed every object, and not the gorgeous pictures of Persian poets surpassed the quiet scene that greeted the master. The shelled serpentine walks were bordered with low, closely clipped cassina hedges; clusters of white and rose oleander, scarlet geraniums, roses of countless variety, beds of verbena of every hue, and patches of brilliant annuals, all looked up smilingly at him. Just beneath the window the clasping tendrils of a clematis were wound about the pedestal of a marble Flora, and a cluster of the delicate purple blossoms peeped through the fingers of the goddess. Further off, a fountain flashed in the moonlight, murmuring musically in and out of its reservoir, while the diamond spray bathed the sculptured limbs of a Venus. The sea breeze sang its lullaby through the boughs of a luxuriant orange tree near, and silence seemed guardian spirit of the beautiful spot, when a whip-poor-will whirred through the air, and, perching on the snowy brow of the Aphrodite, began his plaintive night-hymn. In childhood Guy Hartwell had been taught by his nurse to regard the melancholy chant as ominous of evil; but as years threw their shadows over his heart, darkening the hopes of his boyhood, the sad notes of the lonely bird became gradually soothing, and now in the prime of life he loved to listen to the shy visitor, and ceased to remember that it boded ill. With an ardent love for the beautiful, in all its Protean phases, he enjoyed communion with nature as only an imaginative, aesthetical temperament can. This keen appreciation of beauty had been fostered by travel and study. Over the vast studio of nature he had eagerly roamed; midnight had seen him gazing enraptured on the loveliness of Italian scenery, and found him watching the march of constellations from the lonely heights of the Hartz; while the thunder tones of awful Niagara had often hushed the tumults of his passionate heart, and bowed his proud head in humble adoration. He had searched the storehouses of art, and collected treasures that kindled divine aspirations in his soul, and wooed him for a time from the cemetery of memory. With a nature so intensely aesthetical, and taste so thoroughly cultivated, he had, in a great measure, assimilated his home to the artistic beau ideal. Now as he stood inhaling the perfumed air, he forgot the little sufferer a few yards off—forgot that Azrail stood on the threshold, beckoning her to brave the dark floods; and, as his whole nature became permeated (so to speak) by the intoxicating beauty that surrounded him, he extended his arms, and exclaimed triumphantly:
"Truly thou art my mother, dear old earth! I feel that I am indeed nearly allied to thy divine beauty! Starry nights, and whispering winds, and fragrant flowers! yea, and even the breath of the tempest! all, all are parts of my being."
"Guy, there is a messenger waiting at the door to see you. Some patient requires prompt attendance." Mrs. Chilton stood near the window, and the moonlight flashed over her handsome face. Her brother frowned and motioned her away, but, smiling quietly, she put her beautifully molded hand on his shoulder, and said:
"I am sorry I disturbed your meditations, but if you will practice— "
"Who sent for me?"
"I really don't know."
"Will you be good enough to inquire?"
"Certainly." She glided gracefully from the room.
The whip-poor-will flew from his marble perch, and, as the mournful tones died away, the master sighed, and returned to the bedside of his charge. He renewed the ice on her brow, and soon after his sister re-entered.
"Mr. Vincent is very sick, and you are wanted immediately."
"Very well." He crossed the room and rang the bell.
"Guy, are you sure that girl has not scarlet fever?"
"May, I have answered that question at least twice a day for nearly a week."
"But you should sympathize with a mother's anxiety. I dread to expose Pauline to danger."
"Then let her remain where she is."
"But I prefer having her come home, if I could feel assured that girl has only brain fever."
"Then, once for all, there is no scarlet fever in the house."
He took a vial from his pocket, and poured a portion of its contents into the glass, which he placed on a stand by Beulah's bed; then, turning to Harriet, who had obeyed his summons, he directed her to administer the medicine hourly.
"Guy, you may give your directions to me, for I shall stay with the child to-night." As she spoke, she seated herself at the foot of the bed.
"Harriet, hand me the candle in the hall." She did so; and, as her master took it from her hand, he said abruptly:
"Tell Hal to bring my buggy round, and then you may go to bed. I will ring if you are wanted." He waited until she was out of hearing, and, walking up to his sister, held the candle so that the light fell full upon her face.
"May, can I trust you?"
"Brother, you are cruelly unjust." She covered her face with her lace handkerchief.
"Am I, indeed?"
"Yes, you wrong me hourly, with miserable suspicions. Guy, remember that I have your blood in my veins, and it will not always tamely bear insult, even from you." She removed the handkerchief, and shook back her glossy curls, while her face grew still paler than was its wont.
"Insult! May, can the unvarnished truth be such?"
They eyed each other steadily, and it was apparent that each iron will was mated.
"Guy, you shall repent this."
"Perhaps so. You have made me repent many things."
"Do you mean to say that—"
"I mean to say, that since you have at last offered to assist in nursing that unconscious child, I wish you to give the medicine hourly. The last potion was at eight o'clock." He placed the candle so as to shade the light from the sick girl, and left the room. Mrs. Chilton sat for some time as he had left her with her head leaning on her hand, her thoughts evidently perplexed and bitter. At length she rose and stood close to Beulah, looking earnestly at her emaciated face. She put her fingers on the burning temples and wrist, and counted accurately the pulsations of the lava tide, then bent her queenly head, and listened to the heavily drawn breathing. A haughty smile lit her fine features as she said complacently: "A mere tempest in a teacup. Pshaw, this girl will not mar my projects long. By noon tomorrow she will be in eternity. I thought, the first time I saw her ghostly face, she would trouble me but a short season. What paradoxes men are! What on earth possessed Guy, with his fastidious taste, to bring to his home such an ugly, wasted, sallow little wretch? I verily believe, as a family, we are beset by evil angels." Drawing out her watch, she saw that the hand had passed nine. Raising the glass to her lips, she drank the quantity prescribed for the sufferer, and was replacing it on the stand, when Beulah's large, eloquent eyes startled her.
"Well, child, what do you want?" said she, trembling, despite her assumed indifference. Beulah looked at her vacantly, then threw her arms restlessly over the pillow, and slept again. Mrs. Chilton drew up a chair, seated herself, and sank into a reverie of some length. Ultimately she was aroused by perceiving her brother beside her, and said hastily:
"How is Mr. Vincent? Not dangerously ill, I hope!"
"Tomorrow will decide that. It is now ten minutes past ten; how many potions have you given?"
"Two," answered she firmly.
"Thank you, May. I will relieve you now. Good-night."
"But you are worn out, and I am not. Let me sit up. I will wake you if any change occurs."
"Thank you, I prefer watching tonight. Take that candle, and leave it on the table in the hall. I need nothing but moonlight. Leave the door open." As the flickering light vanished, he threw himself into the chair beside the bed.
It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to consciousness. For some moments after unclosing her eyes they wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window. Gradually memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her. The little table, with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been carried to a friendly shelter. Was it only yesterday evening, and had she slept? The utter prostration which prevented her raising her head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her "no." Too feeble even to think, she moaned audibly. Dr. Hartwell turned and looked at her. The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside. The fever had died out, the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes lusterless. She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect indifference. He leaned over, and said eagerly:
"Beulah, do you know me?"
"Yes; I know you."
"How do you feel this morning?"
"I am very weak, and my head seems confused. How long have I been here?"
"No matter, child, if you are better." He took out his watch, and, after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a potion. Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if afraid of her own question:
"Have they buried her?"
"Yes; a week ago."
She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed; then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow. Dr. Hartwell sat down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said gently:
"Beulah, you have been very ill. I scarcely thought you would recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself, for you are far too weak to bear it."
"Why didn't you let me die? Oh, it would have been a mercy!" She put her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.
"Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little friend, my child. Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to me. When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know; but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses you. Will you try?"
The strong, stern man shuddered, as she looked up at him with an expression of hopeless desolation, and said slowly:
"I have nothing but misery to think of."
"Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?"
For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her cheeks, and she murmured:
"Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also. I never loved anything but trouble came upon it."
Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned to view some page in the history of his own life.
"Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant young man before you are fairly out of short dresses. There, do not talk any more, and don't cry. Try to sleep, and remember, child, you are homeless and friendless no longer." He pressed her hand kindly, and turned toward the door. It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.
"Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?" said she blandly.
"Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better. She has been talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast." He put both hands on his sister's shoulders, and looked down into her beautiful eyes. She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle around her lips.
"Ah! I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery. You are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead." Her voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.
"More wonderful still, May; I can read the living." His mustached lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.
"Read the living? Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure at this good news. Doubly good, because it secures Pauline's return to-day. Dear child, I long to have her at home again." An expression of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features. Her brother kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy auburn curls, he said, half musingly:
"Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint on your hair."
"He has dealt quite as leniently with you. But how could I feel the inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness? Cares and sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you, Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister."
"Have I indeed, May?"
"Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your generosity, your—"
"Enough! Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not for her sake, for your own. You and Pauline can aid me in making her happy, if you will. And if not, remember, May, you know my nature. Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet." He led her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a tiara in the early sunlight. Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning against the wall, she muttered:
"It cannot be possible that that miserable beggar is to come between Pauline and his property! Is he mad, to dream of making that little outcast his heiress? Yet he meant it; I saw it in his eye; the lurking devil that has slumbered since that evening, and that I hoped would never gleam out at me again. Oh! we are a precious family. Set the will of one against another, and all Pandemonium can't crush either! Ten to one, Pauline will lose her wits too, and be as hard to manage as Guy." Moody and perplexed, she walked on to the dining room. Beulah had fallen into a heavy slumber of exhaustion, and it was late in the day when she again unclosed her eyes. Harriet sat sewing near her, but soon perceived that she was awake, and immediately put aside her work.
"Aha! so you have come to your senses again, have you? How are you, child?"
"I am weak."
"Which isn't strange, seeing that you haven't eat a teaspoonful in more than a week. Now, look here, little one; I am ordered to nurse and take charge of you till you are strong enough to look out for yourself. So you must not object to anything I tell you to do." Without further parley, she washed and wiped Beulah's face and hands, shook up the pillows, and placed her comfortably on them. To the orphan, accustomed all her life to wait upon others, there was something singularly novel in being thus carefully handled; and, nestling her head close to the pillows, she shut her eyes, lest the tears that were gathering should become visible. Harriet quitted the room for a short time, and returned with a salver containing some refreshments.
"I can't eat anything. Thank you; but take it away." Beulah put her hands over her face, but Harriet resolutely seated herself on the side of the bed, lifted her up, and put a cup of tea to the quivering lips.
"It is no use talking; master said you had to eat, and you might just as well do it at once. Poor thing! you are hiding your eyes to cry. Well, drink this tea and eat a little; you must, for folks can't live forever without eating." There was no alternative, and Beulah swallowed what was given her. Harriet praised her obedient spirit, and busied herself about the room for some time. Finally, stooping over the bed, she said abruptly:
"Honey, are you crying?"
There was no reply, and, kneeling down, she said cautiously:
"If you knew as much about this family as I do, you would cry, sure enough, for something. My master says he has adopted you, and since he has said it, everything will work for good to you. But, child, there will come times when you need a friend besides master, and be sure you come to me when you do. I won't say any more now; but remember what I tell you when you get into trouble. Miss Pauline has come, and if she happens to take a fancy to you (which I think she won't), she will stand by you till the stars fall; and if she don't, she will hate you worse than Satan himself for—" Harriet did not complete the sentence, for she detected her master's step in the passage, and resumed her work.
"How is she?"
"She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted."
"That will do. I will ring when you are needed."
Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the child's head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.
"Beulah, are you following my directions?"
"Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable, even to thank you."
"I do not wish you to thank me. All I desire is that you will keep quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing yourself into another fever. I know you have had a bitter lot in life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better not to dwell upon the past. Ah, child! it is well to live only in the present, looking into the future. I promise you I will guard you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful."
He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her face. The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly:
"Oh, sir, how good you are! I am—very grateful—to you—indeed, I— "
"There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be cheerful. It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you will always remain in my house."
How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet was in the room. A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the nurse and physician. One sunny afternoon she looped back the white curtains, and sat down before the open window. Harriet had dressed her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue. Her elbows rested on the arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands. Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street stretched the west common. In the distance rose a venerable brick building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked only once, and knew it vas the asylum. It was the first time she had seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no longer be restrained. Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and the frail form trembled violently. For nearly fourteen years that brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better things. With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in the eternal love and goodness of God, had looked to him for relief and reward. But the reward came not in the expected way. Hope died; faith fainted; and bitterness and despair reigned in that once loving and gentle soul. Her father had not been spared in answer to her frantic prayers. Lilly had been taken, without even the sad comfort of a farewell, and now, with the present full of anguish, and the future shrouded in dark forebodings, she sobbed aloud:
"All alone! All alone! Oh, father! Oh, Lilly, Lilly!"
"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.
"Don't talk to me—don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.
"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"
"I did, and he has forgotten me."
"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"