"He never can give me back my dead."
"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky—"
She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.
"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the windows.
Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last, and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise. As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.
"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"
The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her. The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist; her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently:
"Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner on her daughter's arm.
"Oh, sink the buggy! What do I care if he does catch me here? I shall stay till I make up my mind whether that little thing is a ghost or not. So, mother, let me alone." She shook off the clasping hand that sought to drag her away, and again fixed her attention on Beulah.
"Willful girl! you will ruin everything yet. Pauline, follow me instantly, I command you!" She was white with rage, but the daughter gave no intimation of having heard the words; and, throwing her arm about the girl's waist, Mrs. Chilton dragged her to the door. There was a brief struggle at the threshold, and then both stood quiet before the master of the house.
"What is all this confusion about? I ordered this portion of the house kept silent, did I not?"
"Yes, Guy; and I hope you will forgive Pauline's thoughtlessness. She blundered in here, and I have just been scolding her for disobeying your injunctions."
"Uncle Guy, it was not thoughtlessness, at all; I came on purpose. For a week I have been nearly dying with curiosity to see that little skeleton you have shut up here, and I ran up to get a glimpse of her. I don't see the harm of it; I haven't hurt her." Pauline looked fearlessly up in her uncle's face, and planted herself firmly in the door, as if resolved not to be ejected.
"Does this house belong to you or to me, Pauline?"
"To you, now; to me, some of these days, when you give it to me for a bridal present."
His brow cleared, he looked kindly down into the frank, truthful countenance, and said, with a half-smile:
"Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal anticipations may prove an egregious failure. Do you understand me?"
"I have not finished the first. Mother played pirate, and carried me off before I was half satisfied. Uncle Guy, take me under your flag, do! I will not worry the little thing—I promise you I will not. Can't I stay here a while?" He smiled, and put his hand on her head, saying:
"I am inclined to try you. May, you can leave her here. I will send her to you after a little." As he spoke, he drew her up to the orphan. Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.
"Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my adopted child, Beulah Benton. You are about the same age, and can make each other happy, if you will. Beulah, shake hands with my niece." She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly clasped in Pauline's plump palm.
"Do stop crying, and look at me. I want to see you," said the latter.
"I am not crying."
"Then what are you hiding your face for?"
"Because it is so ugly," answered the orphan sadly.
Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the features to view. She gave them a searching examination, and then, looking up at her uncle, said bluntly:
"She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her. If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she would pass well enough; don't you think so?"
Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor, placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before. She did, indeed, look "doleful," as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming, lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.
"What have you been doing all day?" said the doctor kindly.
She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone:
"Thinking about my past life—all my misfortunes."
"You promised you would do so no more."
"Ah, sir! how can I help it?"
"Why, think of something pleasant, of course," interrupted Pauline.
"You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering," replied Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance before her—a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never rippled.
"How came you so wise? I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody else."
Beulah shook her head dubiously.
"Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not been as happy as yours? Can't you love her?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively:
"I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit looking so dismal and graveyardish. I don't know about loving her; we shall see."
"You can go down to your mother now," said he gravely.
"That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!" cried she, saucily shaking her curls over her face.
"Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off."
"Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow." She reached the door, but looked back.
"Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?"
"No."
"Well, he will die if you don't do something for him. It is a shame to forget him as you do!" said she indignantly.
"Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine."
"It is high time somebody interfered. Poor Charon! If Hal doesn't take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if I don't."
She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at leisure. Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly:
"This large room does not suit you. Come, and I will show you your own little room—one I have had arranged for you." She silently complied, and, leading her through several passages, he opened the door of the apartment assigned her. The walls were covered with blue and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue, matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and tasteful expenditure. There was a small writing-desk near a handsome case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up to it. He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes wandered curiously and admiringly around the room. They rested on a painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows. It represented an angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal, and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a distant steep. Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on; some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in the attitude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and pale, haggard faces.
"Do you like it?" said Dr. Hartwell.
Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded her earnestly. Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones:
"I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to the resting-place."
Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once more.
Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted her face, and a musical voice said:
"Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea. Do you feel strong enough?"
"Yes, sir." She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem cheerful.
The study was an oblong room, and on one side book-shelves rose almost to the ceiling. The opposite wall, between the windows, was covered with paintings, and several statues stood in the recesses near the chimney. Over the low marble mantelpiece hung a full-length portrait, shrouded with black crape, and underneath was an exquisitely chased silver case, containing a small Swiss clock. A beautiful terra-cotta vase, of antique shape, stood on the hearth, filled with choice and fragrant flowers, and near the window sat an elegant rosewood melodeon. A circular table occupied the middle of the room, and here the evening meal was already arranged. Beulah glanced timidly around as her conductor seated her beside the urn, and, seeing only cups for two persons, asked hesitatingly:
"Shall I make your tea now?"
"Yes; and remember, Beulah, I shall expect you to make it everyevening at this hour. Breakfast and dinner I take with my sister andPauline in the dining room, but my evenings are always spent here.There, make another cup for yourself."
A long silence ensued. Dr. Hartwell seemed lost in reverie, for he sat with his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and his head resting on his hand. His features resumed their habitual expression of stern rigidity, and as Beulah looked at him she could scarcely believe that he was the same kind friend who had been so gentle and fatherly in his manner. Intuitively she felt then that she had to deal with a chaotic, passionate, and moody nature, and, as she marked the knitting of his brows and the iron compression of his lips, her heart was haunted by grave forebodings. While she sat pondering his haughty, impenetrable appearance, a servant entered.
"Sir, there is a messenger at the door."
His master started slightly, pushed away his cup, and said:
"Is the buggy ready?"
"Yes, sir; waiting at the door—"
"Very well; I am coming."
The windows opened down to the floor, and led into a vine-covered piazza. He stepped up to one and stood a moment, as if loath to quit his sanctum; then, turning round, addressed Beulah:
"Ah, child, I had almost forgotten you. It is time you were asleep.Do you know the way back to your room?"
"I can find it," said she, rising from the table.
"Good-night; let me see you at breakfast if you feel strong enough to join us."
He opened the door for her, and, hurrying out, Beulah found her own room without difficulty. Walking up to Harriet, whom she saw waiting for her, she said in a grave, determined manner:
"You have been very kind to me since I came here, and I feel grateful to you; but I have not been accustomed to have someone always waiting on me, and in future I shall not want you. I can dress myself without any assistance, so you need not come to me night and morning."
"I am obeying master's orders. He said I was to 'tend to you," answered Harriet, wondering at the independent spirit evinced by the newcomer.
"I do not want any tending, so you may leave me, if you please."
"Haven't you been here long enough to find out that you might as well fight the waves of the sea as my master's will? Take care, child, how you begin to countermand his orders, for I tell you now there are some in this house who will soon make it a handle to turn you out into the world again. Mind what I say."
"Do you mean that I am not wanted here?"
"I mean, keep your eyes open." Harriet vanished in the dark passage, and Beulah locked the door, feeling that now she was indeed alone, and could freely indulge the grief that had so long sought to veil itself from curious eyes. Yet there was no disposition to cry. She sat down on the bed and mused on the strange freak of fortune which had so suddenly elevated the humble nurse into the possessor of that elegantly furnished apartment. There was no elation in the quiet wonder with which she surveyed the change in her position. She did not belong there, she had no claim on the master of the house, and she felt that she was trespassing on the rights of the beautiful Pauline. Rapidly plans for the future were written in firm resolve. She would thankfully remain under the roof that had so kindly sheltered her, until she could qualify herself to teach. She would ask Dr. Hartwell to give her an education, which, once obtained, would enable her to repay its price. To her proud nature there was something galling in the thought of dependence, and, throwing herself on her knees for the first time in several weeks, she earnestly besought the God of orphans to guide and assist her.
"Do you wish her to commence school at once?"
"Not until her wardrobe has been replenished. I expect her clothes to be selected and made just as Pauline's are. Will you attend to this business, or shall I give directions to Harriet?"
"Certainly, Guy; I can easily arrange it. You intend to dress her just as I do Pauline?"
"As nearly as possible. Next week I wish her to begin school with Pauline, and Hansell will give her music lessons. Be so good as to see about her clothes immediately."
Dr. Hartwell drew on his gloves and left the room. His sister followed him to the door, where his buggy awaited him.
"Guy, did you determine about that little affair for Pauline? She has so set her heart on it."
"Oh, do as you please, May; only I am—"
"Stop, Uncle Guy! Wait a minute. May I have a birthday party? May I?" Almost out of breath, Pauline ran up the steps; her long hair floating over her face, which exercise had flushed to crimson.
"You young tornado! Look how you have crushed that cluster of heliotrope, rushing over the flower-beds as if there were no walks." He pointed with the end of his whip to a drooping spray of purple blossoms.
"Yes; but there are plenty more. I say, may I?—may I?" She eagerly caught hold of his coat.
"How long before your birthday?"
"Just a week from to-day. Do, please, let me have a frolic!"
"Poor child! you look as if you needed some relaxation," said he, looking down into her radiant face, with an expression of mock compassion.
"Upon my word, Uncle Guy, it is awfully dull here. If it were not for Charon and Mazeppa I should be moped to death. Do, pray, don't look at me as if you were counting the hairs in my eyelashes. Come, say yes: do, Uncle Guy."
"Take your hands off of my coat, and have as many parties as you like, provided you keep to your own side of the house. Don't come near my study with your Babel, and don't allow your company to demolish my flowers. Mind, not a soul is to enter the greenhouse. The parlors are at your service, but I will not have a regiment of wildcats tearing up and down my greenhouse and flower garden; mind that." He stepped into his buggy.
"Bravo! I have won my wager, and got the party too! Hugh Cluis bet me a papier-mache writing-desk that you would not give me a party. When I send his invitation I will write on the envelope 'the writing-desk is also expected.' Hey, shadow, where did you creep from?" She fixed her merry eyes on Beulah, who just then appeared on the terrace. Dr. Hartwell leaned from the buggy, and looked earnestly at the quiet little figure.
"Do you want anything, Beulah?"
"No, sir; I thought you had gone. May I open the gate for you?"
"Certainly, if you wish to do something for me." His pale features relaxed, and his whole face lighted up, like a sun-flushed cloud.
Beulah walked down the avenue, lined on either side with venerable poplars and cedars, and opened the large gate leading into the city. He checked his horse, and said:
"Thank you, my child. Now, how are you going to spend the day? Remember you commence with school duties next week; so make the best of your holiday."
"I have enough to occupy me to-day. Good-by, sir."
"Good-by, for an hour or so." He smiled kindly and drove on, while she walked slowly back to the house, wondering why smiles were such rare things in this world, when they cost so little, and yet are so very valuable to mourning hearts. Pauline sat on the steps with an open book in her hand. She looked up as Beulah approached, and exclaimed gayly:
"Aren't you glad I am to have my birthday frolic?"
"Yes; I am glad on your account," answered Beulah gravely.
"Can you dance all the fancy dances? I don't like any so well as the mazourka."
"I do not dance at all."
"Don't dance! Why, I have danced ever since I was big enough to crawl! What have you been doing all your life, that you don't know how to dance?"
"My feet have had other work to do," replied her companion; and, as the recollections of her early childhood flitted before her, the brow darkened.
"I suppose that is one reason you look so forlorn all the time. I will ask Uncle Guy to send you to the dancing school for—"
"Pauline, it is school-time, and you don't know one word of that Quackenbos; I would be ashamed to start from home as ignorant of my lessons as you are." Mrs. Chilton's head was projected from the parlor window, and the rebuke was delivered in no very gentle tone.
"Oh, I don't mind it at all; I have got used to it," answered the daughter, tossing up the book as she spoke.
"Get ready for school this minute!"
Pauline scampered into the house for her bonnet and sachel; and, fixing her eyes upon Beulah, Mrs. Chilton asked sternly:
"What are you doing out there? What did you follow my brother to the gate for? Answer me!"
"I merely opened the gate for him," replied the girl, looking steadily up at the searching eyes.
"There was a servant with him to do that. In future don't make yourself so conspicuous. You must keep away from the flower beds too. The doctor wishes no one prowling about them; he gave particular directions that no one should go there in his absence."
They eyed each other an instant; then, drawing up her slender form to its utmost height, Beulah replied proudly:
"Be assured, madam, I shall not trespass on forbidden ground!"
"Very well." The lace curtains swept back to their place—the fair face was withdrawn.
"She hates me," thought Beulah, walking on to her own room; "she hates me, and certainly I do not love her. I shall like Pauline very much, but her mother and I never will get on smoothly. What freezing eyes she has, and what a disagreeable look there is about her mouth whenever she sees me! She wishes me to remember all the time that I am poor, and that she is the mistress of this elegant house. Ah, I am not likely to forget it!" The old smile of bitterness crossed her face.
The days passed swiftly. Beulah spent most of her time in her own room, for Dr. Hartwell was sometimes absent all day, and she longed to escape his sister's icy espionage. When he was at home, and not engaged in his study, his manner was always kind and considerate; but she fancied he was colder and graver, and often his stern abstraction kept her silent when they were together. Monday was the birthday, and on Monday morning she expected to start to school. Madam St. Cymon's was the fashionable institution of the city, and thither, with Pauline, she was destined. Beulah rose early, dressed herself carefully, and, after reading a chapter in her Bible, and asking God's special guidance through the day, descended to the breakfast room. Dr. Hartwell sat reading a newspaper; he did not look up, and she quietly seated herself unobserved. Presently Mrs. Chilton entered and walked up to her brother.
"Good-morning, Guy. Are there no tidings of that vessel yet? I hear the Grahams are terribly anxious about it. Cornelia said her father was unable to sleep."
"No news yet; but, May, be sure you do not let—"
"Was it the 'Morning Star'? Is he lost?"
Beulah stood crouching at his side, with her hands extended pleadingly, and her white face convulsed.
"My child, do not look so wretched; the vessel that Eugene sailed in was disabled in a storm, and has not yet reached the place of destination. But there are numerous ways of accounting for the detention, and you must hope and believe that all is well until you know the contrary." He drew her to his side, and stroked her head compassionately.
"I knew it would be so," said she, in a strangely subdued, passionless tone.
"What do you mean, child?"
"Death and trouble come on everything I love."
"Perhaps at this very moment Eugene may be writing you an account of his voyage. I believe that we shall soon hear of his safe arrival. You need not dive down into my eyes in that way. I do believe it, for the vessel was seen after the storm, and, though far out of the right track, there is good reason to suppose she has put into some port to be repaired."
Beulah clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid phantom, and, while her heart seemed dying on the rack, she resolved not to despair till the certainty came.
"Time enough when there is no hope; I will not go out to meet sorrow." With a sudden, inexplicable revulsion of feeling she sank on her knees, and there beside her protector vehemently prayed Almighty God to guard and guide the tempest-tossed loved one. If her eyes had rested on the face of Deity, and she had felt his presence, her petition could not have been more importunately preferred. For a few moments Dr. Hartwell regarded her curiously; then his brow darkened, his lips curled sneeringly, and a mocking smile passed over his face. Mrs. Chilton smiled, too, but there was a peculiar gleam in her eyes, and an uplifting of her brows which denoted anything but pleasurable emotions. She moved away, and sat down at the head of the table. Dr. Hartwell put his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling girl, and asked, rather abruptly:
"Beulah, do you believe that the God you pray to hears you?"
"I do. He has promised to answer prayer."
"Then, get up and be satisfied, and eat your breakfast. You have asked him to save and protect Eugene, and, according to the Bible, He will certainly do it; so no more tears. If you believe in your God, what are you looking so wretched about?" There was something in all this that startled Beulah, and she looked up at him. His chilly smile pained her, and she rose quickly, while again and again his words rang in her ear. Yet, what was there so strange about this application of faith? True, the Bible declared that "whatsoever ye ask, believing, that ye shall receive," yet she had often prayed for blessings, and often been denied. Was it because she had not had the requisite faith, which should have satisfied her? Yet God knew that she had trusted him. With innate quickness of perception, she detected the tissued veil of irony which the doctor had wrapped about his attempted consolation, and she looked at him so intently, so piercingly, that he hastily turned away and seated himself at the table. Just then Pauline bounded into the room, exclaiming:
"Fourteen to-day! Only three more years at school, and then I shall step out a brilliant young lady, the—"
"There; be quiet; sit down. I would almost as soon select a small whirlwind for a companion. Can't you learn to enter a room without blustering like a March wind or a Texan norther?" asked her uncle.
"Have you all seen a ghost? You look as solemn as grave-diggers. What ails you, Beulah? Come along to breakfast. How nice you look in your new clothes!" Her eyes ran over the face and form of the orphan.
"Pauline, hush! and eat your breakfast. You annoy your uncle," said her mother severely.
"Oh, do, for gracious' sake, let me talk! I feel sometimes as if I should suffocate. Everything about this house is so demure, and silent, and solemn, and Quakerish, and hatefully prim. If ever I have a house of my own, I mean to paste in great letters over the doors and windows, 'Laughing and talking freely allowed!' This is my birthday, and I think I might stay at home. Mother, don't forget to have the ends of my sash fringed, and the tops of my gloves trimmed." Draining her small china cup, she sprang up from the table, but paused beside Beulah.
"By the by, what are you going to wear to-night, Beulah?"
"I shall not go into the parlors at all," answered the latter.
"Why not?" said Dr. Hartwell, looking suddenly up. He met the sad, suffering expression of the gray eyes, and bit his lip with vexation. She saw that he understood her feelings, and made no reply.
"I shall not like it, if you don't come to my party," said Pauline slowly; and as she spoke she took one of the orphan's hands.
"You are very kind, Pauline; but I do not wish to see strangers."
"But you never will know anybody if you make such a nun of yourself.Uncle Guy, tell her she must come down into the parlors to-night."
"Not unless she wishes to do so. But, Pauline, I am very glad that you have shown her you desire her presence." He put his hand on her curly head, and looked with more than usual affection at the bright, honest face.
"Beulah, you must get ready for school. Come down as soon as you can. Pauline will be waiting for you." Mrs. Chilton spoke in the calm, sweet tone peculiar to her and her brother, but to Beulah there was something repulsive in that even voice, and she hurried from the sound of it. Kneeling beside her bed, she again implored the Father to restore Eugene to her, and, crushing her grief and apprehension down into her heart, she resolved to veil it from strangers. As she walked on by Pauline's side, only the excessive paleness of her face and drooping of her eyelashes betokened her suffering.
Entering school is always a disagreeable ordeal, and to a sensitive nature, such as Beulah's, it was torturing. Madam St. Cymon was a good-natured, kind, little body, and received her with a warmth and cordiality which made amends in some degree for the battery of eyes she was forced to encounter.
"Ah, yes! the doctor called to see me about you—wants you to take the Latin course. For the present, my dear, you will sit with Miss Sanders. Clara, take this young lady with you."
The girl addressed looked at least sixteen years of age, and, rising promptly, she come forward and led Beulah to a seat at her desk, which was constructed for two persons. The touch of her fingers sent a thrill through Beulah's frame, and she looked at her very earnestly.
Clara Sanders was not a beauty in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but there was an expression of angelic sweetness and purity in her countenance which fascinated the orphan. She remarked the scrutiny of the young stranger, and, smiling good-humoredly, said, as she leaned over and arranged the desk:
"I am glad to have you with me, and dare say we shall get on very nicely together. You look ill."
"I have been ill recently and have not yet regained my strength. Can you tell me where I can find some water? I feel rather faint."
Her companion brought her a glass of water. She drank it eagerly, and, as Clara resumed her seat, said in a low voice:
"Oh, thank you! You are very kind."
"Not at all. If you feel worse you must let me know." She turned to her books and soon forgot the presence of the newcomer.
The latter watched her, and noticed now that she was dressed in deep mourning. Was she too an orphan, and had this circumstance rendered her so kindly sympathetic? The sweet, gentle face, with its soft, brown eyes, chained her attention, and in the shaping of the mouth there was something very like Lilly's. Soon Clara left her for recitation, and then she turned to the new books which madam had sent to her desk. Thus passed the morning, and she started when the recess bell rang its summons through the long room. Bustle, chatter, and confusion ensued. Pauline called to her to come into lunchroom, and touched her little basket as she spoke, but Beulah shook her head and kept her seat. Clara also remained.
"Pauline is calling you," said she gently.
"Yes, I hear; but I do not want anything." And Beulah rested her head on her hands.
"Don't you feel better than you did this morning?"
"Oh, I am well enough in body; a little weak, that is all."
"You look quite tired. Suppose you lean your head against me and take a short nap?"
"You are very good indeed; but I am not at all sleepy."
Clara was engaged in drawing, and, looking on, Beulah became interested in the progress of the sketch. Suddenly a hand was placed over the paper, and a tall, handsome girl, with black eyes and sallow complexion, exclaimed sharply:
"For Heaven's sake, Clara Sanders, do you expect to swim into the next world on a piece of drawing-paper? Come over to my seat and work out that eighth problem for me. I have puzzled over it all the morning, and can't get it right."
"I can show you here quite as well." Taking out her Euclid, she found and explained the obstinate problem.
"Thank you! I cannot endure mathematics, but father is bent upon my being 'thorough,' as he calls it. I think it is all thorough nonsense. Now, with you it is very different; you expect to be a teacher, and of course will have to acquire all these branches; but for my part I see no use in it. I shall be rejoiced when this dull school-work is over."
"Don't say that, Cornelia; I think our school days are the happiest, and feel sad when I remember that mine are numbered."
Here the bell announced recess over, and Cornelia moved away to her seat. A trembling hand sought Clara's arm.
"Is that Cornelia Graham?"
"Yes. Is she not very handsome?"
Beulah made no answer; she only remembered that this girl was Eugene's adopted sister, and, looking after the tall, queenly form, she longed to follow her and ask all the particulars of the storm. Thus ended the first dreaded day at school, and, on reaching home, Beulah threw herself on her bed with a low, wailing cry. The long- pent sorrow must have vent, and she sobbed until weariness sank her into a heavy sleep.
Far out in a billowy sea, strewed with wrecks, and hideous with the ghastly, upturned faces of floating corpses, she and Eugene were drifting—now clinging to each other—now tossed asunder by howling waves. Then came a glimmering sail on the wide waste of waters; a little boat neared them, and Lilly leaned over the side and held out tiny, dimpled hands to lift them in. They were climbing out of their watery graves, and Lilly's long, fair curls already touched their cheeks, when a strong arm snatched Lilly back, and struck them down into the roaring gulf, and above the white faces of the drifting dead stood Mrs. Grayson, sailing away with Lilly struggling in her arms. Eugene was sinking and Beulah could not reach him; he held up his arms imploringly toward her, and called upon her to save him, and then his head with its wealth of silken, brown locks disappeared. She ceased to struggle; she welcomed drowning now that he had gone to rest among coral temples. She sank down—down. The rigid corpses were no longer visible. She was in an emerald palace, and myriads of rosy shells paved the floors. At last she found Eugene reposing on a coral bank, and playing with pearls; she hastened to join him, and was just taking his hand when a horrible phantom, seizing him in its arms, bore him away, and, looking in its face, she saw that it was Mrs. Chilton. With a wild scream of terror, Beulah awoke. She was lying across the foot of the bed, and both hands were thrown up, grasping the post convulsively. The room was dark, save where the moonlight crept through the curtains and fell slantingly on the picture of Hope and the Pilgrims, and by that dim light she saw a tall form standing near her.
"Were you dreaming, Beulah, that you shrieked so wildly?"
The doctor lifted her up, and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Oh, Dr. Hartwell, I have had a horrible, horrible dream!" She shuddered, and clung to him tightly, as if dreading it might still prove a reality.
"Poor child! Come with me, and I will try to exorcise this evil spirit which haunts even your slumbers."
Keeping her hand in his, he led her down to his study, and seated her on a couch drawn near the window. The confused sound of many voices and the tread of dancing feet, keeping time to a band of music, came indistinctly from the parlors. Dr. Hartwell closed the door, to shut out the unwelcome sounds, and, seating himself before the melodeon, poured a flood of soothing, plaintive melody upon the air. Beulah sat entranced, while he played on and on, as if unconscious of her presence. Her whole being was inexpressibly thrilled; and, forgetting her frightful vision, her enraptured soul hovered on the very confines of fabled elysium. Sliding from the couch, upon her knees, she remained with her clasped hands pressed over her heart, only conscious of her trembling delight. Once or twice before she had felt thus, in watching a gorgeous sunset in the old pine grove; and now, as the musician seemed to play upon her heart-strings, calling thence unearthly tones, the tears rolled swiftly over her face. Images of divine beauty filled her soul, and nobler aspirations than she had ever known took possession of her. Soon the tears ceased, the face became calm, singularly calm; then lighted with an expression which nothing earthly could have kindled. It was the look of one whose spirit, escaping from gross bondage, soared into realms divine, and proclaimed itself God-born. Dr. Hartwell was watching her countenance, and, as the expression of indescribable joy and triumph flashed over it, he involuntarily paused. She waited till the last deep echoing tone died away, and then, approaching him, as he still sat before the instrument, she laid her hand on his knee, and said slowly:
"Oh, thank you! I can bear anything now."
"Can you explain to me how the music strengthened you? Try, will you?"
She mused for some moments, and answered thoughtfully:
"First, it made me forget the pain of my dream; then it caused me to think of the wonderful power which created music; and then, from remembering the infinite love and wisdom of the Creator, who has given man the power to call out this music, I thought how very noble man was, and what he was capable of doing; and, at last, I was glad because God has given me some of these powers; and, though I am ugly, and have been afflicted in losing my dear loved ones, yet I was made for God's glory in some way, and am yet to be shown the work he has laid out for me to do. Oh, sir! I can't explain it all to you, but I do know that God will prove to me that 'He doeth all things well.'"
She looked gravely up into the face beside her, and sought to read its baffling characters. He had leaned his elbow on the melodeon, and his wax-like fingers were thrust through his hair. His brow was smooth, and his mouth at rest, but the dark eyes, with their melancholy splendor, looked down at her moodily. They met her gaze steadily; and then she saw into the misty depths, and a shudder crept over her, as she fell on her knees, and said shiveringly:
"Oh, sir, can it be?"
He put his hand on her head, and asked quietly:
"Can what be, child?"
"Have you no God?"
His face grew whiter than was his wont. A scowl of bitterness settled on it, and the eyes burned with an almost unearthly brilliance, as he rose and walked away. For some time he stood before the window, with his arms folded; and, laying her head on the stool of the melodeon, Beulah knelt just as he left her It has been said, "Who can refute a sneer?" Rather ask, Who can compute its ruinous effects. To that kneeling figure came the thought, "If he, surrounded by wealth and friends, and blessings, cannot believe in God, what cause have I, poor, wretched, and lonely, to have faith in him?" The bare suggestion of the doubt stamped it on her memory, yet she shrank with horror from the idea, and an eager, voiceless prayer ascended from her heart that she might be shielded from such temptations in future. Dr. Hartwell touched her, and said, in his usual low, musical tones:
"It is time you were asleep. Do not indulge in any more horrible dreams, if you please. Good-night, Beulah. Whenever you feel that you would like to have some music, do not hesitate to ask me for it."
He held open the door for her to pass out. She longed to ask him what he lived for, if eternity had no joys for him; but, looking in his pale face, she saw from the lips and eyes that he would not suffer any questioning, and, awed by the expression of his countenance, she said "Good-night," and hurried away. The merry hum of childish voices again fell on her ear, and as she ascended the steps a bevy of white-clad girls emerged from a room near, and walked on just below her. Pauline's party was at its height. Beulah looked down on the fairy gossamer robes, and gayly tripping girls, and then hastened to her own room, while the thought presented itself:
"Why are things divided so unequally in this world? Why do some have all of joy, and some only sorrow's brimming cup to drain?" But the sweet voice of Faith answered, "What I do, thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter," and, trusting the promise, she was content to wait.
"Cornelia Graham, I want to know why you did not come to my party.You might at least have honored me with an excuse." Such wasPauline's salutation, the following day, when the girls gathered ingroups about the schoolroom.
"Why, Pauline, I did send an excuse; but it was addressed to your mother, and probably she forgot to mention it. You must acquit me of any such rudeness."
"Well, but why didn't you come? We had a glorious time. I have half a mind not to tell you what I heard said of you, but I believe you may have it second-hand. Fred Vincent was as grum as a preacher all the evening, and when I asked him what on earth made him so surly and owlish, he said, 'It was too provoking you would not come, for no one else could dance the schottisch to his liking.' Now there was a sweet specimen of manners for you! You had better teach your beau politeness."
Cornelia was leaning listlessly against Clara's desk, and Beulah fancied she looked very sad and abstracted. She colored at the jest, and answered contemptuously:
"He is no beau of mine, let me tell you; and as for manners, I commend him to your merciful tuition."
"But what was your excuse?" persisted Pauline.
"I should think you might conjecture that I felt no inclination to go to parties and dance when you know that we are all so anxious about my brother."
"Oh, I did not think of that!" cried the heedless girl, and quite as heedlessly she continued:
"I want to see that brother of yours. Uncle Guy says he is the handsomest boy in the city, and promises to make something extraordinary. Is he so very handsome?"
"Yes." The proud lip trembled.
"I heard Anne Vernon say she liked him better than all her other beaux, and that is great praise, coming from her queenship," said Emily Wood, who stood near.
Cornelia's eyes dilated angrily, as she answered with curling lips:
"Eugene one of her beaux! It is no such thing."
"You need not look so insulted. I suppose if the matter is such a delicate one with you, Anne will withdraw her claim," sneered Emily, happy in the opportunity afforded of wounding the haughty spirit whom all feared and few sympathized with.
Cornelia was about to retort, but madam's voice prevented, as, leaning from the platform opposite, she held out a note, and said:
"Miss Graham, a servant has just brought this for you."
The girl's face flushed and paled alternately, as she received the note and broke the seal with trembling fingers. Glancing over the contents, her countenance became irradiated, and she exclaimed joyfully:
"Good news! The 'Morning Star' has arrived at Amsterdam. Eugene is safe in Germany."
Beulah's head went down on her desk, and just audible were the words:
"My Father in Heaven, I thank thee!"
Only Clara and Cornelia heard the broken accents, and they looked curiously at the bowed figure, quivering with joy.
"Ah! I understand; this is the asylum Beulah I have often heard him speak of. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. You knew him very well, I suppose?" said Cornelia, addressing herself to the orphan, and crumpling the note between her fingers, while her eyes ran with haughty scrutiny over the dress and features before her.
"Yes, I knew him very well." Beulah felt the blood come into her cheeks, and she ill brooked the cold, searching look bent upon her.
"You are the same girl that he asked my father to send to the public school. How came you here?"
A pair of dark gray eyes met Cornelia's gaze, and seemed to answer defiantly, "What is it to you?"
"Has Dr. Hartwell adopted you? Pauline said so, but she is so heedless that I scarcely believed her, particularly when it seemed so very improbable."
"Hush, Cornelia! Why, you need Pauline's tuition about as much as Fred Vincent, I am disposed to think. Don't be so inquisitive; it pains her," remonstrated Clara, laying her arm around Beulah's shoulder as she spoke.
"Nonsense! She is not so fastidious, I will warrant. At least, she might answer civil questions."
"I always do," said Beulah.
Cornelia smiled derisively, and turned off, with the parting taunt:
"It is a mystery to me what Eugene can see in such a homely, unpolished specimen. He pities her, I suppose."
Clara felt a long shiver creep over the slight form, and saw the ashen hue that settled on her face, as if some painful wound had been inflicted. Stooping down, she whispered:
"Don't let it trouble you. Cornelia is hasty, but she is generous, too, and will repent her rudeness. She did not intend to pain you; it is only her abrupt way of expressing herself."
Beulah raised her head, and, putting back the locks of hair that had fallen over her brow, replied coldly:
"It is nothing new; I am accustomed to such treatment. Only professing to love Eugene I did not expect her to insult one whom he had commissioned her to assist, or at least sympathize with."
"Remember, Beulah, she is an only child, and her father's idol, and perhaps—"
"The very blessings that surround her should teach her to feel for the unfortunate and unprotected," interrupted the orphan.
"You will find that prosperity rarely has such an effect upon the heart of its favorite," answered Clara musingly.
"An unnecessary piece of information. I discovered that pleasant truth some time since," said Beulah bitterly.
"I don't know, Beulah; you are an instance to the contrary. Do not call yourself unfortunate, so long as Dr. Hartwell is your friend. Ah! you little dream how blessed you are."
Her voice took the deep tone of intense feeling, and a faint glow tinged her cheek.
"Yes, he is very kind, very good," replied the other, more gently.
"Kind! good! Is that all you can say of him?" The soft brown eyes kindled with unwonted enthusiasm.
"What more can I say of him than that he is good?" returned the orphan eagerly, while the conversation in the study, the preceding day, rushed to her recollection.
Clara looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then averting her head, answered evasively:
"Pardon me; I have no right to dictate the terms in which you should mention your benefactor." Beulah's intuitions were remarkably quick, and she asked slowly:
"Do you know him well?"
"Yes; oh, yes! very well indeed. Why do you ask?"
"And you like him very much?"
"Very much."
She saw the gentle face now, and saw that some sorrow had called tears to the eyes, and sent the blood coldly back to her heart.
"No one can like him as I do. You don't know how very kind he has been to me—me, the miserable, lonely orphan," murmured Beulah, as his smile and tones recurred to her.
"Yes, I can imagine, because I know his noble heart; and, therefore, child, I say you cannot realize how privileged you are."
The discussion was cut short by a call to recitation, and too calmly happy in the knowledge of Eugene's safety to ponder her companion's manner, Beulah sank into a reverie, in which Eugene, and Heidelberg, and long letters mingled pleasingly. Later in the day, as she and Pauline were descending the steps, the door of the primary department of the school opened, and a little girl, clad in deep black, started up the same flight of steps. Seeing the two above, she leaned against the wall, waiting for them to pass. Beulah stood still, and the sachel she carried fell unheeded from her hand, while a thrilling cry broke from the little girl's lips; and, springing up the steps, she threw herself into Beulah's arms.
"Dear Beulah! I have found you at last!" She covered the thin face with passionate kisses; then heavy sobs escaped her, and the two wept bitterly together.
"Beulah, I did love her very much; I did not forget what I promised you. She used to put her arms around my neck every night, and go to sleep close to me; and whenever she thought about you and cried, she always put her head in my lap. Indeed I did love her."
"I believe you, Claudy," poor Beulah groaned, in her anguish.
"They did not tell me she was dead; they said she was sick in another room! Oh, Beulah! why didn't you come to see us? Why didn't you come? When she was first taken sick she called for you all the time; and the evening they moved me into the next room she was asking for you. 'I want my sister Beulah! I want my Beulah!' was the last thing I heard her say; and when I cried for you, too, mamma said we were both crazy with fever. Oh!"—she paused and sobbed convulsively. Beulah raised her head, and, while the tears dried in her flashing eyes, said fiercely:
"Claudy, I did go to see you! On my knees, at Mrs. Grayson's front door, I prayed her to let me see you. She refused, and ordered me to come there no more! She would not suffer my sister to know that I was waiting there on my knees to see her dear, angel face. That was long before you were taken sick. She did not even send me word that Lilly was ill: I knew nothing of it till my darling was cold in her little shroud! Oh, Claudy! Claudy!"
She covered her face with her hands and tried to stifle the wail that crossed her lips. Claudia endeavored to soothe her, by winding her arms about her and kissing her repeatedly. Pauline had looked wonderingly on, during this painful reunion; and now drawing nearer, she said, with more gentleness than was her custom:
"Don't grieve so, Beulah. Wipe your eyes and come home; those girls yonder are staring at you."
"What business is it of yours?" began Claudia; but Beulah's sensitive nature shrank from observation, and, rising hastily, she took Claudia to her bosom, kissed her, and turned away.
"Oh, Beulah! shan't I see you again?" cried the latter, with streaming eyes.
"Claudia, your mamma would not be willing."
"I don't care what she thinks. Please come to see me—please, do! Beulah, you don't love me now, because Lilly is dead! Oh, I could not keep her—God took her!"
"Yes, I do love you, Claudy—more than ever; but you must come to see me. I cannot go to that house again. I can't see your mamma Grayson. Come and see me, darling!"
She drew her bonnet over her face and hurried out.
"Where do you live? I will come and see you!" cried Claudia, running after the retreating form.
"She lives at Dr. Hartwell's—that large, brick house, out on the edge of town; everybody knows the place."
Pauline turned back to give this piece of information, and then hastened on to join Beulah. She longed to inquire into all the particulars of the orphan's early life; but the pale, fixed face gave no encouragement to question, and they walked on in perfect silence until they reached the gate at the end of the avenue. Then Pauline asked energetically:
"Is that little one any kin to you?"
"No; I have no kin in this world," answered Beulah drearily.
Pauline shrugged her shoulders, and made no further attempt to elicit confidence. On entering the house, they encountered the doctor, who was crossing the hall. He stopped, and said:
"I have glad tidings for you, Beulah. The 'Morning Star' arrived safely at Amsterdam, and by this time Eugene is at Heidelberg."
Beulah stood very near him, and answered tremblingly:
"Yes, sir; I heard it at school."
He perceived that something was amiss, and, untying her bonnet, looked searchingly at the sorrow-stained face. She shut her eyes, and leaned her head against him.
"What is the matter, my child? I thought you would be very happy in hearing of Eugene's safety."
She was unable to reply just then; and Pauline, who stood swinging her sachel to and fro, volunteered an explanation.
"Uncle Guy, she is curious, that is all. As we were leaving school, she met a little girl on the steps, and they flew at each other, and cried, and kissed, and—you never saw anything like it! I thought the child must be a very dear relation; but she says she has no kin. I don't see the use of crying her eyes out, particularly when the little one is nothing to her."
Her uncle's countenance resumed its habitual severity, and, taking Beulah's hand, he led her into that quietest of all quiet places, his study. Seating himself, and drawing her to his side, he said:
"Was it meeting Claudia that distressed you so much? That child is very warmly attached to you. She raved about you constantly during her illness. So did Lilly. I did not understand the relationship then, or I should have interfered, and carried you to her. I called to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson last week, to remove the difficulties in the way of your intercourse with Claudia, but they were not at home. I will arrange matters so that you may be with Claudia as often as possible. You have been wronged, child, I know; but try to bury it; it is all past now." He softly smoothed back her hair as he spoke.
"No, sir; it never will be past; it will always be burning here in my heart."
"I thought you professed to believe in the Bible."
She looked up instantly, and answered:
"I do, sir. I do."
"Then your belief is perfectly worthless; for the Bible charges you to 'forgive and love your enemies,' and here you are trying to fan your hate into an everlasting flame."
She saw the scornful curl of his lips, and, sinking down beside him, she laid her head on his knee, and said hastily:
"I know it is wrong, sinful, to feel toward Mrs. Grayson as I do. Yes, sir; the Bible tells me it is very sinful; but I have been so miserable, I could not help hating her. But I will try to do so no more. I will ask God to help me forgive her."
His face flushed even to his temples, and then the blood receded, leaving it like sculptured marble. Unable or unwilling to answer, he put his hands on her head, softly, reverently, as though he touched something ethereal. He little dreamed that, even then, that suffering heart was uplifted to the Throne of Grace, praying the Father that she might so live and govern herself that he might come to believe the Bible, which her clear insight too surely told her he despised.
Oh! Protean temptation. Even as she knelt, with her protector's hands resting on her brow, ubiquitous evil suggested the thought: "Is he not kinder, and better, than anyone you ever knew? Has not Mrs. Grayson a pew in the most fashionable church? Did not Eugene tell you he saw her there, regularly, every Sunday? Professing Christianity, she injured you; rejecting it, he has guarded and most generously aided you. 'By their fruits ye shall judge.'" Very dimly all this passed through her mind. She was perplexed and troubled at the confused ideas veiling her trust.
"Beulah, I have an engagement, and must leave you. Stay here, if you like, or do as you please with yourself. I shall not be home to tea, so good-night." She looked pained, but remained silent. He smiled, and, drawing out his watch, said gayly:
"I verily believe you miss me when I leave you. Go, put on your other bonnet, and come down to the front door; I have nearly an hour yet, I see, and will give you a short ride. Hurry, child; I don't like to wait."
She was soon seated beside him in the buggy, and Mazeppa's swift feet had borne them some distance from home ere either spoke. The road ran near the bay, and while elegant residences lined one side, the other was bounded by a wide expanse of water, rippling, sparkling, glowing in the evening sunlight. Small sail boats, with their gleaming canvas, dotted the blue bosom of the bay; and the balmy breeze, fresh from the gulf, fluttered the bright pennons that floated from their masts. Beulah was watching the snowy wall of foam, piled on either side of the prow of a schooner, and thinking how very beautiful it was, when the buggy stopped suddenly, and Dr. Hartwell addressed a gentleman on horseback:
"Percy, you may expect me; I am coming as I promised."
"I was about to remind you of your engagement. But, Guy, whom have you there?"
"My protegee I told you of. Beulah, this is Mr. Lockhart."
The rider reined his horse near her side, and, leaning forward as he raised his hat, their eyes met. Both started visibly, and, extending his hand, Mr. Lockhart said eagerly:
"Ah, my little forest friend! I am truly glad to find you again."
She shook hands very quietly, but an expression of pleasure stole over her face. Her guardian observed it, and asked:
"Pray, Percy, what do you know of her?"
"That she sings very charmingly," answered his friend, smiling atBeulah.
"He saw me once when I was at the asylum," said she,
"And was singing part of the regime there?"
"No, Guy. She was wandering about the piney woods, near the asylum, with two beautiful elves, when I chanced to meet her. She was singing at the time. Beulah, I am glad to find you out again; and in future, when I pay the doctor long visits, I shall expect you to appear for my entertainment. Look to it, Guy, that she is present. But I am fatigued with my unusual exercise, and must return home. Good-by, Beulah; shake hands. I am going immediately to my room, Guy; so come as soon as you can." He rode slowly on, while Dr. Hartwell shook the reins, and Mazeppa sprang down the road again. Beulah had remarked a great alteration in Mr. Lockhart's appearance; he was much paler, and bore traces of recent and severe illness. His genial manner and friendly words had interested her, and, looking up at her guardian, she said timidly:
"Is he ill, sir?"
"He has been, and is yet quite feeble. Do you like him?"
"I know nothing of him, except that he spoke to me one evening some months ago. Does he live here, sir?"
"No; he has a plantation on the river, but is here on a visit occasionally. Much of his life has been spent in Europe, and thither he goes again very soon."
The sun had set. The bay seemed a vast sheet of fire, as the crimson clouds cast their shifting shadows on its bosom; and, forgetting everything else, Beulah leaned out of the buggy, and said almost unconsciously:
"How beautiful! how very beautiful!" Her lips were parted; her eyes clear and sparkling with delight. Dr. Hartwell sighed, and, turning from the bay road, approached his home. Beulah longed to speak to him of what was pressing on her heart; but, glancing at his countenance to see whether it was an auspicious time, she was deterred by the somber sternness which overshadowed it, and before she could summon courage to speak, they stopped at the front gate.
"Jump out, and go home; I have not time to drive in."
She got out of the buggy, and, looking up at him as he rose to adjust some part of the harness, said bravely:
"I am very much obliged to you for my ride. I have not had such a pleasure for years. I thank you very much."
"All very unnecessary, child. I am glad you enjoyed it."
He seated himself, and gathered up the reins, without looking at her. But she put her hand on the top of the wheel, and said in an apologetic tone:
"Excuse me, sir; but may I wait in your study till you come home? I want to ask you something." Her face flushed, and her voice trembled with embarrassment.
"It may be late before I come home to-night. Can't you tell me now what you want? I can wait."
"Thank you, sir; to-morrow will do as well, I suppose. I will not detain you." She opened the gate and entered the yard. Dr. Hartwell looked after her an instant, and called out, as he drove on:
"Do as you like, Beulah, about waiting for me. Of course the study is free to you at all times."
The walk, or rather carriage road, leading up to the house was bordered by stately poplars and cedars, whose branches interlaced overhead, and formed a perfect arch. Beulah looked up at the dark- green depths among the cedars, and walked on with a feeling of contentment, nay, almost of happiness, which was a stranger to her heart. In front of the house, and in the center of a grassy circle, was a marble basin, from which a fountain ascended. She sat down on the edge of the reservoir, and, taking off her bonnet, gave unrestrained license to her wandering thoughts. Wherever her eyes turned, verdure, flowers, statuary met her gaze; the air was laden with the spicy fragrance of jasmines, and the low, musical babble of the fountain had something very soothing in its sound. With her keen appreciation of beauty, there was nothing needed to enhance her enjoyment; and she ceased to remember her sorrows. Before long, however, she was startled by the sight of several elegantly dressed ladies emerging from the house; at the same instant a handsome carriage, which she had not previously observed, drove from a turn in the walk and drew up to the door to receive them. Mrs. Chilton stood on the steps, exchanging smiles and polite nothings, and, as one of the party requested permission to break a sprig of geranium growing near, she gracefully offered to collect a bouquet, adding, as she severed some elegant clusters of heliotrope and jasmine:
"Guy takes inordinate pride in his parterre, arranges and overlooks all the flowers himself. I often tell him I am jealous of my beautiful rivals; they monopolize his leisure so completely."
"Nonsense! we know to our cost that you of all others need fear rivalry from no quarter. There; don't break any more. What superb taste the doctor has! This lovely spot comes nearer my ideal of European elegance than any place I know at the South. I suppose the fascination of his home makes him such a recluse! Why doesn't he visit more? He neglects us shamefully! He is such a favorite in society too; only I believe everybody is rather afraid of him. I shall make a most desperate effort to charm him so soon as an opportunity offers. Don't tell him I said so though—'forewarned, forearmed.'" All this was very volubly uttered by a dashing, showy young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bearing unmistakable marks of belonging to beau monde. She extended a hand eased in white kid, for the flowers, and looked steadily at the lady of the house as she spoke.
"I shall not betray your designs, Miss Julia. Guy is a great lover of the beautiful, and I am not aware that anywhere in the book of fate is written the decree that he shall not marry again. Take care, you are tearing your lace point on that rose bush; let me disengage it." She stooped to rescue the cobweb wrapping, and, looking about her, Miss Julia exclaimed:
"Is that you, Pauline? Come and kiss me! Why, you look as unsociable as your uncle, sitting there all alone!"
She extended her hand toward Beulah, who, as may be supposed, made no attempt to approach her. Mrs. Chilton smiled, and, clasping the bracelet on her arm, discovered to her visitor the mistake.
"Pauline is not at home. That is a little beggarly orphan Guy took it into his head to feed and clothe, till some opportunity offered of placing her in a respectable home. I have teased him unmercifully about this display of taste; asked him what rank he assigned her in his catalogue of beautiful treasures." She laughed as if much amused.
"Oh, that reminds me that I heard some of the schoolgirls say that the doctor had adopted an orphan. I thought I would ask you about it. Mother here declared that she knew it could not be so; but I told her he was so very odd, there was no accounting for his notions. So he has not adopted her?"
"Pshaw! of course not! She was a wretched little object of charity, and Guy brought her here to keep her from starving. He picked her up at the hospital, I believe."
"I knew it must be a mistake. Come, Julia, remember you are going out to-night, and it is quite late. Do come very soon, my dear Mrs. Chilton." Mrs. Vincent, Miss Julia, and their companions entered the carriage, and were soon out of sight. Beulah still sat at the fountain. She would gladly have retreated on the appearance of the strangers, but could not effect an escape without attracting the attention she so earnestly desired to be spared, and therefore kept her seat. Every word of the conversation, which had been carried on in anything but a subdued tone, reached her, and though the head was unbowed as if she had heard nothing, her face was dyed with shame. Her heart throbbed violently, and as the words, "beggarly orphan," "wretched object of charity," fell on her ears, it seemed as if a fierce fire-bath had received her. As the carriage disappeared, Mrs. Chilton approached her, and, stung to desperation by the merciless taunts, she instantly rose and confronted her. Never had she seen the widow look so beautiful, and for a moment they eyed each other.
"What are you doing here, after having been told to keep out of sight?—answer me!" She spoke with the inflexible sternness of a mistress to an offending servant.