"If our past and present shadows the future, I hope that my last sleep may be unbroken and eternal."
Beulah raised her head and glanced searchingly at her companion; then silently went on with her work.
"I understand your honest face. You think I have no cause to talk so. You see me surrounded by wealth,—petted, indulged in every whim,—and you fancy that I am a very enviable woman; but—"
"There you entirely mistake me," interrupted Beulah, with a cold smile.
"You think that I ought to be very happy and contented, and useful in the sphere in which I move; and regard me, I know, as a weak hypochondriac. Beulah, physicians told me, long ago, that I lived upon the very brink of the grave; that I might die at any moment, without warning. My grandmother and one of my uncles died suddenly with this disease of the heart, and the shadow of death seems continually around me; it will not be dispelled—it haunts me forever. 'Boast not thyself of to-morrow,' said the preacher; but I cannot even boast of to-day, or this hour. The world knows nothing of this; it has been carefully concealed by my parents; but I know it! and, Beulah, I feel as did that miserable, doomed prisoner of Poe's 'Pit and Pendulum,' who saw the pendulum, slowly but surely, sweeping down upon him. My life has been a great unfulfilled promise. With what are generally considered elements of happiness in my home, I have always been solitary and unsatisfied. Conscious of my feeble tenure on life, I early set out to anchor myself in a calm faith which would secure me a happy lot in eternity. My nature was strongly religious, and I longed to find hope and consolation in some of our churches. My parents always had a pew in the fashionable church in this city. You need not smile—I speak advisedly when I say 'fashionable' church; for, assuredly, fashion has crept into religion also, nowadays. From my childhood I was regularly dressed and taken to church; but I soon began to question the sincerity of the pastor and the consistency of the members. Sunday after Sunday I saw them in their pews, and week after week listened to their gossiping, slanderous chit-chat. Prominent members busied themselves about charitable associations, and headed subscription lists, and all the while set examples of frivolity, heartlessness, and what is softly termed 'fashionable excesses,' which shocked my ideas of Christian propriety and disgusted me with the mockery their lives presented. I watched the minister in his social relations, and, instead of reverencing him as a meek and holy man of God, I could not forbear looking with utter contempt upon his pompous, self- sufficient demeanor toward the mass of his flock; while to the most opulent and influential members he bowed down, with a servile, fawning sycophancy absolutely disgusting. I attended various churches, listening to sermons, and watching the conduct of the prominent professing Christians of each. Many gave most liberally to so-called religious causes and institutions, and made amends by heavily draining the purses of widows and orphans. Some affected an ascetical simplicity of dress, and yet hugged their purses where their Bibles should have been. It was all Mammon worship; some grossly palpable, some adroitly cloaked under solemn faces and severe observance of the outward ceremonials. The clergy, as a class, I found strangely unlike what I had expected. Instead of earnest zeal for the promotion of Christianity, I saw that the majority were bent only on the aggrandizement of their particular denomination. Verily, I thought in my heart, 'Is all this bickering the result of their religion? How these churches do hate each other!' According to each, salvation could only be found in their special tenets—within the pale of their peculiar organization; and yet, all professed to draw their doctrines from the same book; and, Beulah, the end of my search was that I scorned all creeds and churches, and began to find a faith outside of a revelation which gave rise to so much narrow-minded bigotry—so much pharisaism and delusion. Those who call themselves ministers of the Christian religion should look well to their commissions, and beware how they go out into the world, unless the seal of Jesus be indeed upon their brows. They offer themselves as the Pharos of the people, but ah! they sometimes wreck immortal souls by their unpardonable inconsistencies. For the last two years I have been groping my way after some system upon which I could rest the little time I have to live. Oh, I am heartsick and despairing!"
"What? already! Take courage, Cornelia; there is truth somewhere," answered Beulah, with kindling eyes.
"Where, where? Ah! that echo mocks you, turn which way you will. I sit like Raphael-Aben-Ezra—at the 'Bottom of the Abyss,' but, unlike him, I am no Democritus to jest over my position. I am too miserable to laugh, and my grim Emersonian fatalism gives me precious little comfort, though it is about the only thing that I do firmly believe in."
She stooped to pick up her necklace, shook it in the glow of the fire until a shower of rainbow hues flashed out, and, holding it up, asked contemptuously:
"What do you suppose this piece of extravagance cost?"
"I have no idea."
"Why, fifteen hundred dollars—that is all! Oh, what is the blaze of diamonds to a soul like mine, shrouded in despairing darkness, and hovering upon the very confines of eternity, if there be any!" She threw the costly gift on the table and wearily closed her eyes.
"You have become discouraged too soon, Cornelia. Your very anxiety to discover truth evinces its existence, for Nature always supplies the wants she creates!"
"You will tell me that this truth is to be found down in the depths of my own soul; for, no more than logic, has it ever been discovered 'parceled and labeled.' But how do I know that all truth is not merely subjective? Ages ago, skepticism intrenched itself in an impregnable fortress: 'There is no criterion of truth.' How do I know that my 'true,' 'good,' and 'beautiful' are absolutely so? My reason is no infallible plummet to sound the sea of phenomena and touch noumena. I tell you, Beulah, it is all—"
A hasty rap at the door cut short this discussion, and, as Eugene entered, the cloud on Cornelia's brow instantly lifted. His gay Christmas greeting and sunny, handsome face diverted her mind, and, as her hand rested on his arm, her countenance evinced a degree of intense love such as Beulah had supposed her incapable of feeling.
"It is very selfish, sister mine, to keep Beulah so constantly beside you, when we all want to see something of her."
"Was I ever anything else but selfish?"
"But I thought you prided yourself on requiring no society?"
"So I do, as regards society in general; but Beulah is an exception."
"You intend to come down to-night, do you not?"
"Not if I can avoid it. Eugene, take Beulah into the parlor, and ask Antoinette to sing. Afterward make Beulah sing, also, and be sure to leave all the doors open, so that I can hear. Mind, you must not detain her long."
Beulah would have demurred, but at this moment she saw Dr. Hartwell's buggy approaching the house. Her heart seemed to spring to her lips, and, feeling that after their last unsatisfactory interview she was in no mood to meet him, she quickly descended the steps, so blinded by haste that she failed to perceive the hand Eugene extended to assist her. The door-bell uttered a sharp peal as they reached the hall, and she had just time to escape into the parlor when the doctor was ushered in.
"What is the matter?" asked Eugene, observing the nervous flutter of her lips.
"Ask Miss Dupres to sing, will you?"
He looked at her curiously an instant, then turned away and persuaded the little beauty to sing.
She took her seat, and ran her jeweled fingers over the pearl keys with an air which very clearly denoted her opinion, of her musical proficiency.
"Well, sir, what will you have?"
"That favorite morceau from 'Linda.'"
"You have never heard it, I suppose," said she, glancing over her shoulder at the young teacher.
"Yes; I have heard it," answered Beulah, who could with difficulty repress a smile.
Antoinette half shrugged her shoulders, as if she thought the statement questionable, and began the song. Beulah listened attentively; she was conscious of feeling more than ordinary interest in this performance, and almost held her breath as the clear, silvery voice caroled through the most intricate passages. Antoinette had been thoroughly trained, and certainly her voice was remarkably sweet and flexible; but as she concluded the piece and fixed her eyes complacently on Beulah, the latter lifted her head in proud consciousness of superiority.
"Sing me something else," said she.
Antoinette bit her lips, and answered ungraciously:
"No; I shall have to sing to-night, and can't wear myself out."
"Now, Beulah, I shall hear you. I have sought an opportunity ever since I returned." Eugene spoke rather carelessly.
"Do you really wish to hear me, Eugene?"
"Of course I do," said he, with some surprise.
"And so do I," added Mrs. Graham, leaning against the piano, and exchanging glances with Antoinette.
Beulah looked up, and asked quietly:
"Eugene, shall I sing you a ballad? One of those simple old tunes we used to love so well in days gone by."
"No, no. Something operatic!" cried Antoinette, without giving him an opportunity to reply.
"Well, then, Miss Dupres; select something."
"Can't you favor us with 'Casta-Diva'?" returned the beauty,—with something very like a sneer.
Beulah's eyes gave a momentary flash; but by a powerful effort she curbed her anger and commenced the song.
It was amusing to mark the expression of utter astonishment which gradually overspread Antoinette's face, as the magnificent voice of her despised rival swelled in waves of entrancing melody through the lofty rooms. Eugene looked quite as much amazed. Beulah felt her triumph, and heartily enjoyed it. There was a sparkle in her eye and a proud smile on her lip, which she did not attempt to conceal. As she rose from the piano, Eugene caught her hand, and said eagerly:
"I never dreamed of your possessing such a voice. It is superb— perfectly magnificent! Why did not you tell me of it before?"
"You heard it long ago, in the olden time," said she, withdrawing her hand and looking steadily at him.
"Ah, but it has improved incredibly. You were all untutored then."
"It is the culture, then, not the voice itself? Eh, Eugene?"
"It is both. Who taught you?"
"I had several teachers, but owe what excellence I may possess to my guardian. He aided me more than all the instruction books that ever were compiled."
"You must come and practice with the musical people who meet here very frequently," said Mrs. Graham.
"Thank you, madam; I have other engagements which will prevent my doing so."
"Nonsense, Beulah; we have claims on you. I certainly have," answered Eugene.
"Have you? I was not aware of the fact."
There was a patronizing manner in all this which she felt no disposition to submit to.
"Most assuredly I have, Beulah; and mean to maintain them."
She perfectly understand the haughty expression of his countenance, and, moving toward the door, replied coldly:
"Another time, Eugene, we will discuss them."
"Where are you going?" inquired Mrs. Graham rather stiffly.
"To Cornelia. The doctor came down a few minutes since."
She did not pause to hear what followed, but ran up the steps, longing to get out of a house where she plainly perceived her presence was by no means desired. Cornelia sat with her head drooped on her thin hand, and, without looking up, said, more gently than was her custom:
"Why did you hurry back so soon?"
"Because the parlor was not particularly attractive."
There came the first good-humored laugh which Beulah had ever heard from Cornelia's lips, as the latter replied:
"What friends you and old growling Diogenes would have been! Pray, how did my cousin receive your performance!"
"Very much as if she wished me amid the ruins of Persepolis, where I certainly shall be before I inflict anything more upon her. Cornelia, do not ask or expect me to come here again, for I will not; of course, it is quite as palpable to you as to me that I am no favorite with your parents, and something still less with your cousin. Consequently, you need not expect to see me here again."
"Do not say so, Beulah; you must, you shall come, and I will see that no one dares interfere with my wishes. As for Antoinette, she is simply a vain idiot; you might just as well be told the truth, for doubtless you will see it for yourself. She is my mother's niece, an only child, and possessed of considerable wealth. I suppose it is rather natural that my parents should fondle the idea of her being Eugene's wife. They do not see how utterly unsuited they are. Eugene will, of course, inherit the fortune which I once imagined I should have the pleasure of squandering. My father and mother dread lest Eugene should return to his 'boyish fancy' (as you are pleased to term it), and look on you with jealous eyes. Oh, Mammon is the God of this generation. But, Beulah, you must not allow all this miserable maneuvering to keep you from me. If you do, I will very soon succeed in making this home of mine very unpleasant for Antoinette Dupres. When I am dead she can wheedle my family as successfully as they choose to permit; but while I do live she shall forbear. Poor, contemptible human nature! Verily, I rejoice sometimes when I remember that I shall not be burdened with any of it long." An angry spot burned on each pallid cheek, and the beautiful mouth curled scornfully.
"Do not excite yourself so unnecessarily, Cornelia. What you may or may not think of your relatives is no concern of mine. You have a carriage always at your command, and when you desire to see a real friend, you can visit me. Let this suffice for this subject. Suppose we have a game of chess or backgammon? What do you say?"
She wheeled a light table toward the hearth; but the invalid motioned it away, and answered moodily:
"I am in no humor for games. Sit down and tell me about your leavingDr. Hartwell's protection."
"I have nothing to tell."
"He is a singular being?"
Receiving no answer, she added impatiently:
"Don't you think so?"
"I do, in the sense of great superiority."
"The world is not so flattering in its estimate."
"No; for slander loves a lofty mark."
"Beulah Benton, do you mean that for me?"
"Not unless you feel that it applies to you particularly."
"If he is so faultless and unequaled, pray, why did not you remain in his house?"
"I am not in the habit of accounting to anyone for my motives or my actions." She lifted her slender form haughtily.
"In which case the public has a habit of supplying both."
"Then accept its fabrications."
"You need not be so fierce. I like Dr. Hartwell quite as well as you do, I dare say; but probably I know more of his history."
"It is all immaterial to me. Drop the subject, if you please, and let me read to you. I believe I came here for quiet companionship, not recrimination and cross-questioning."
"Beulah, the world says you are to marry your guardian. I do not ask from impertinent curiosity, but sincere friendship—is it true?"
"About as true as your notion of my marriage with Eugene. No; scarcely so plausible."
"Our families were connected, you know."
"No; I neither know, nor wish to know. He never alluded to his wife, or his history, and I have just now no desire to hear anything about the matter. He is the best friend I ever had; I want to honor and reverence him always; and, of course, the world's version of his domestic affairs does him injustice. So be good enough to say no more about him."
"Very well. On hearing your voice from the parlor he left a small parcel, which he requested me to give you. He laid it on the table, I believe; yes, there it is. Now read 'Egmont' to me, if you please."
Cornelia crossed the room, threw herself on a couch, and settled her pillow comfortably. Beulah took the parcel, which was carefully sealed, and wondered what it contained. It was heavy and felt hard. They had parted in anger; what could it possibly be? Cornelia's black eyes were on her countenance. She put the package in her pocket, seated herself by the couch, and commenced "Egmont." It was with a feeling of indescribable relief that the orphan awoke, at dawn the following morning, and dressed by the gray twilight. She had fallen asleep the night before amid the hum of voices, of laughter, and of dancing feet. Sounds of gayety, from the merry party below, had found their way to the chamber of the heiress, and when Beulah left her at midnight she was still wakeful and restless. The young teacher could not wait for the late breakfast of the luxurious Grahams, and, just as the first level ray of sunshine flashed up from the east, she tied on her bonnet and noiselessly entered Cornelia's room. The heavy curtains kept it close and dark, and on the hearth a taper burned with pale, sickly light. Cornelia slept soundly; but her breathing was heavy and irregular, and the face wore a scowl, as if some severe pain had distorted it. The ivory-like arms were thrown up over the head, and large drops glistened on the wan brow. Beulah stood beside the bed a few minutes; the apartment was furnished with almost Oriental splendor; but how all this satin, and rosewood, and silver, and marble mocked the restless, suffering sleeper! Beulah felt tears of compassion weighing down her lashes, as she watched the haggard countenance of this petted child of fortune; but, unwilling to rouse her, she silently stole down the steps. The hall was dark; the smell of gas almost stifling. Of course, the servants followed the example of their owners, and, as no one appeared, she unlocked the street door, and walked homeward with a sensation of pleasurable relief which impressed itself very legibly on her face. The sky was cloudless; the early risen run looked over the earth in dazzling radiance; and the cold, pure, wintry air made the blood tingle in Beulah's veins. A great, unspeakable joy filled her soul; the uplifted eyes beamed with gladness; her brave, hopeful spirit looked into the future with unquestioning trust; and, as the image of her unhappy friend flitted across her mind, she exclaimed:
"This world is lull of beauty, like other worlds above, And if we did our duty, it might be full of loe."
She ran up to her room, threw open the blinds, looped back the curtains, and drew that mysterious package from her pocket. She was very curious to see the contents, and broke the seal with trembling fingers. The outer wrappings fell off, and disclosed an oblong, papier-mache case. It opened with a spring, and revealed to her a beautiful watch and chain, bearing her name in delicate tracery. A folded slip of paper lay on the crimson velvet lining of the box, and, recognizing the characters, she hastily read this brief sentence:
"Wear it constantly, Beulah, to remind you that, in adversity, you still have
Tears gushed unrestrained, as she looked at the beautiful gift. Not for an instant did she dream, of accepting it, and she shrank shudderingly from widening the breach which already existed by a refusal. Locking up the slip of paper in her workbox, she returned the watch to its case and carefully retied the parcel. Long before she had wrapped the purse in paper and prevailed on Clara to give it to the doctor. He had received it without comment; but she could not return the watch in the same way, for Clara was now able to attend regularly to her school duties, and it was very uncertain when she would see him. Yet she felt comforted, for this gift assured her that, however coldly he chose to treat her when they met, he had not thrown her off entirely. With all her independence, she could not bear the thought of his utter alienation; and the consciousness of his remaining interest thrilled her heart with gladness.
One Saturday morning, some days subsequent to her visit to the Grahams, Beulah set off for the business part of the city. She was closely veiled, and carried under her shawl a thick roll of neatly written paper. A publishing house was the place of her destination; and, as she was ushered into a small back room, to await the leisure of the gentleman she wished to see, she could not forbear smiling at the novelty of her position and the audacity of the attempt she was about to make. There she sat in the editor's sanctum, trying to quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart. Presently a tall, spare man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and eyed her with a "what-do-you-want" sort of expression. His grizzled hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter. Beulah threw off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice:
"You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?"
He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at the back of his head.
"I came to offer you an article for the magazine." She threw down the roll of paper on a chair.
"Ah!—hem!—will you favor me with your name?"
"Beulah Benton, sir. One altogether unknown to fame."
He contracted his eyes, coughed, and said constrainedly:
"Are you a subscriber?"
"I am."
"What is the character of your manuscript?" He took it up as he spoke, and glanced over the pages.
"You can determine that from a perusal. If the sketch suits you, I should like to become a regular contributor."
A gleam of sunshine strayed over the countenance, and the editor answered, very benignly:
"If the article meets with our approbation, we shall be very happy to afford you a medium of publication in our journal. Can we depend on your punctuality?"
"I think so. What are your terms?"
"Terms, madam? I supposed that your contribution was gratuitous," said he very loftily.
"Then you are most egregiously mistaken! What do you imagine induces me to write?"
"Why, desire for fame, I suppose."
"Fame is rather unsatisfactory fare. I am poor, sir, and write to aid me in maintaining myself."
"Are you dependent solely on your own exertions, madam?"
"Yes."
"I am sorry I cannot aid you; but nowadays there are plenty of authors who write merely as a pastime, and we have as many contributions as we can well look over."
"I am to understand, then, that the magazine is supported altogether by gratuitous contributions?" said Beulah, unable to repress a smile.
"Why, you see, authorship has become a sort of luxury," was the hesitating reply.
"I think the last number of your magazine contained, among other articles in the 'Editor's Drawer,' an earnest appeal to Southern authors to come to the rescue of Southern periodicals?"
"True, madam. Southern intellect seems steeped in a lethargy from which we are most faithfully endeavoring to arouse it."
"The article to which I allude also animadverted severely upon the practice of Southern authors patronizing Northern publishing establishments?"
"Most certainly it treated the subject stringently." He moved uneasily.
"I believe the subscription is the same as that of the Northern periodicals?"
A very cold bow was the only answer.
"I happen to know that Northern magazines are not composed of gratuitous contributions; and it is no mystery why Southern authors are driven to Northern publishers. Southern periodicals are mediums only for those of elegant leisure, who can afford to write without remuneration. With the same subscription price, you cannot pay for your articles. It is no marvel that, under such circumstances, we have no Southern literature. Unluckily, I belong to the numerous class who have to look away from home for remuneration. Sir, I will not trouble you with my manuscript." Rising, she held out her hand for it; but the keen eyes had fallen upon a paragraph which seemed to interest the editor, and, knitting his brows, he said reluctantly:
"We have not been in the habit of paying for our articles; but I will look over this, and perhaps you can make it worth our while to pay you. The fact is, madam, we have more trash sent us than we can find room for; but if you can contribute anything of weight, why, it will make a difference, of course. I did not recognize you at first, but I now remember that I heard your valedictory to the graduating class of the public schools. If we should conclude to pay you for regular contributions, we wish nothing said about it."
"Very well. If you like the manuscript, and decide to pay me, you can address me a note through the post office. Should I write for the magazine I particularly desire not to be known." She lowered her veil, and most politely he bowed her out.
She was accustomed to spend a portion of each Saturday in practicing duets with Georgia Asbury, and thither she now directed her steps. Unluckily, the parlor was full of visitors, and, without seeing any of the family, she walked back into the music room. Here she felt perfectly at home, and, closing the door, forgot everything but her music. Taking no heed of the lapse of time, she played piece after piece, until startled by the clear tones of the doctor's voice. She looked up, and saw him standing in the door which opened into the library, taking off his greatcoat.
"Why Beulah, that room is as cold as a Texas norther! What on earth are you doing there without a fire? Come in here, child, and warm your frozen digits. Where are those two harum-scarum specimens of mine?"
"I believe they are still entertaining company, sir. The parlor was full when I came, and they know nothing of my being here." She sat down by the bright fire, and held her stiff fingers toward the glowing coals.
"Yes, confound their dear rattlepates; that is about the sum-total of their cogitations." He drew up his chair, put his feet on the fender of the grate, and, lighting his cigar, added:
"Is my spouse also in the parlor?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"Time was, Beulah, when Saturday was the great day of preparation for all housekeepers. Bless my soul! My mother would just about as soon have thought of anticipating the discovery of the open Polar Sea, by a trip thither, as going out to visit on Saturday. Why, from my boyhood, Saturday has been synonymous with scouring, window washing, pastry baking, stocking darning, and numerous other venerable customs, which this age is rapidly dispensing with. My wife had a lingering reverence for the duties of the day, and tried to excuse herself, but I suppose those pretty wax dolls of mine have coaxed her into 'receiving,' as they call it. Beulah, my wife is an exception; but the mass of married women nowadays, instead of being thorough housewives (as nature intended they should), are delicate, do-nothing, know-nothing, fine ladies. They have no duties. 'O tempora, O mores!'" He paused to relight his cigar, and, just then, Georgia came in, dressed very richly. He tossed the taper into the grate, and exclaimed, as she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him:
"You pretty imp; what is to pay now? Here Beulah has been sitting, nobody knows how long, in that frigid zone you call your music room. What are you rigged out in all that finery for?"
"We are going to dine out to-day, father. Beulah will excuse me, I know."
"Indeed! Dine where?"
"Mrs. Delmont came round this morning to invite us to dine with some of her young friends from New Orleans."
"Well, I shan't go, that is all."
"Oh, you are not expected, sir," laughed Georgia, brushing the gray locks from his ample forehead.
"Not expected, eh? Does your lady mother contemplate leaving me to discuss my dinner in doleful solitude?"
"No, mother has gone with Mrs. Rallston to see about some poor, starving family in the suburbs. She will be back soon, I dare say. Mrs. Delmont has sent her carriage, and Helen is waiting for me; so I must go. Beulah, I am very sorry, we have been cut out of our practicing. Don't go home; stay with mother to-day, and when I come back we will have a glorious time. Can't you now? There's a darling."
"Oh, you wheedling, hypocritical madcap, take yourself off! Of course Beulah will try to endure the stupid talk of a poor old man, whose daughters are too fashionable to look after him, and whose wife is so extremely charitable that she forgets it 'begins at home.' Clear out, you trial of paternal patience!" He kissed her rosy lips, and she hurried away, protesting that she would much prefer remaining at home.
"Beulah, I gave Hartwell that parcel you intrusted to me. He looked just as if I had plunged him into a snow-bank, but said nothing."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, don't thank me for playing go-between. I don't relish any such work. It is very evident that you two have quarreled. I would about as soon consult that poker as ask Hartwell what is to pay. Now, child, what is the matter?"
"Nothing new, sir. He has never forgiven me for turning teacher."
"Forgiven! Bless me, he is as spiteful as a Pequod!"
"Begging your pardon, Dr. Asbury, he is no such thing!" cried Beulah impetuously.
"Just what I might have expected. I am to understand, then, that you can abuse my partner sufficiently without any vituperative assistance from me?" He brushed the ashes from his cigar, and looked at her quizzically.
"Sir, it pains me to hear him spoken of so lightly."
"Lightly! Upon my word, I thought Indianic malice was rather a heavy charge. However, I can succeed better if you will allow—"
"Don't jest, sir. Please say no more about him."
His face became instantly grave, and he answered earnestly:
"Beulah, as a sincere friend, I would advise you not to alienate Hartwell. There are very few such men; I do not know his equal. He is interested in your welfare and happiness, and is the best friend you ever had or ever will have."
"I know it, and prize his friendship above all others."
"Then why did you return that watch? If he wished you to wear it, why should you refuse? Mark me, he said nothing about it to me; but I saw the watch, with your name engraved on the case, at the jewelry store where I bought one just like it for Georgia. I surmised it was that same watch, when you intrusted the package to me."
"I was already greatly indebted to him, and did not wish to increase the obligation."
"My child, under the circumstances, you were too fastidious. He was very much annoyed; though, as I told you before, he made no allusion to the subject."
"Yes; I knew he would be, and I am very sorry, but could not think of accepting it."
"Oh, you are well matched, upon my word!"
"What do you mean?"
"That you are both as proud as Lucifer and as savage as heathens.Child, I don't see what is to become of you."
"Every soul is the star of its own destiny," answered Beulah.
"Well, very sorry destinies the majority make, I can tell you. Have you seen Mrs. Lockhart and Pauline?"
"No. I was not aware that they were in the city."
"Lockhart's health is miserable. They are all at Hartwell's for a few weeks, I believe. Pauline has grown up a perfect Di Vernon beauty."
"I should like very much to see her. She is a generous, noble-souled girl."
"Yes; I rather think she is. Hartwell said the other day that Pauline was anxious to see you; and, since I think of it, I believe he asked me to tell you of her arrival. Now, I will wager my head that you intend to wait until she calls formally, which it is your place to do."
"Then, sir, expect immediate decapitation, for I shall go out to see her this very afternoon," replied Beulah.
"That is right, my dear child."
"Dr. Asbury, if you will not think me troublesome, I should like to tell you of some things that perplex me very much," said she hesitatingly.
"I shall be glad to hear whatever you have to say, and if I can possibly help you, rest assured I will. What perplexes you?"
"A great many things, sir. Of late, I have read several works that have unsettled my former faith, and, indeed, confused and darkened my mind most miserably, and I thought you might aid me in my search after truth."
He threw his cigar into the fire, and, while an expression of sorrow clouded his face, said, very gravely:
"Beulah, I am afraid I am one of the last persons to whom you should apply for assistance. Do the perplexities to which you allude involve religious questions?"
"Yes, sir; almost entirely."
"I am too unsettled myself to presume to direct others."
Beulah looked up in unfeigned astonishment.
"You certainly are not what is termed skeptical?"
"Most sincerely do I wish that I was not."
There was a short silence, broken by Beulah's saying, slowly and sorrowfully:
"You cannot aid me, then!"
"I am afraid not. When a young man I was thoroughly skeptical in my religious views (if I may be said to have had any). At the time of my marriage I was an infidel, and such the world still calls me. If I am not now, it is because my wife's unpretending consistent piety has taught me to revere the precepts of a revelation which I long ago rejected. Her pure religion makes me respect Christianity, which once I sneered at. I am forced to acknowledge the happy results of her faith, and I may yet be brought to yield up old prejudices and confess its divine origin. I am no atheist, thank God! never have been. But I tell you candidly, my doubts concerning the Bible make me an unsafe guide for a mind like yours. For some time I have marked the course of your reading, by the books I missed from my shelves, and have feared just what has happened. On one point my experience may be of value to you. What is comprised under the head of philosophical research will never aid or satisfy you. I am an old man, Beulah, and have studied philosophic works for many years; but, take my word for it, the mass of them are sheer humbug. From the beginning of the world philosophers have been investigating the countless mysteries which present themselves to every earnest mind; but the arcana are as inscrutable now as ever. I do not wish to discourage you, Beulah; nor do I desire to underrate human capabilities; but, in all candor, this kind of study does not pay. It has not repaid me—it has not satisfied Hartwell, who went deeper into metaphysics than anyone I know, and who now has less belief of any sort than anyone I ever wish to know. I would not advise you to prosecute this branch of study. I am content to acknowledge that of many things I know nothing, and never can be any wiser; but Guy Hartwell is too proud to admit his incapacity to grapple with some of these mysteries. Beulah, my wife is one of the happiest spirits I ever knew; she is a consistent Christian. When we were married, I watched her very closely. I tell you, child, I hoped very much that I should find some glaring incongruity in her conduct which would have sanctioned my skepticism. I was continually on the lookout for defects of character that might cast contempt on the religion she professed. I did not expect her to prove so pure-hearted, unselfish, humble, and genuinely pious as I found her. I do most sincerely revere such religion as hers. Ah! if it were not so rare I should never have been so skeptical. She has taught me that the precepts of the Bible do regulate the heart and purify the life; and to you, child, I will say, candidly, 'Almost she has persuaded me to be a Christian.' Whatever of—"
He said no more, for at this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Asbury entered. She welcomed Beulah with a cordial sincerity, singularly soothing to the orphan's heart, and, keeping her hand in a tight clasp, asked several questions, which her husband cut short by drawing her to his side.
"Where have you been straying to, madam?"
"Where you must stray to, sir, just as soon as you start out this evening on your round of visits."
She softly smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. She was a noble-looking woman, with a tranquil countenance that betokened a serene, cloudless soul; and as she stood beside her husband, his eyes rested on her face with an expression bordering on adoration. Beulah could not avoid wondering why such women were so very rare, and the thought presented itself with painful force, "If Cornelia Graham and I had had such mothers, we might both have been happier and better." Probably something of what crossed her mind crept into her countenance, for the doctor asked laughingly:
"In the name of Venus! what are you screwing up your lips and looking so ugly about?"
"I suppose one reason is that I must go home." She rose, with a suppressed sigh.
"I am disposed to think it much more probable that you were envying me my wife. Come, confess."
"I was wishing that I had such a mother."
With some sudden impulse she threw her arms round Mrs. Asbury's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder.
"Then let me be your mother, my dear child," said she, pressing the girl affectionately to her heart and kissing her pale cheek.
"Are you troubled about anything, my dear?" continued Mrs. Asbury, surprised at this manifestation of feeling in one usually so cold and reserved.
"An orphan heart mourns its dead idols," answered Beulah, raising her hand and withdrawing from the kind arm that encircled her. Mrs. Asbury interpreted a quick glance from her husband, and did not press the matter further; but, at parting, she accompanied Beulah to the front door, and earnestly assured her that if she could in any way advise or assist her she would consider it both a privilege and a pleasure to do so. Returning to the library, she laid her soft hand on her husband's arm, and said anxiously:
"George, what is the matter with her?"
"She is distressed, or, rather, perplexed, about her religious doubts, I inferred from what she said just before you came in. She has drifted out into a troubled sea of philosophy, I am inclined to think, and, not satisfied with what she has found, is now irresolute as to the proper course. Poor child, she is terribly in earnest about the matter." He sighed heavily.
His wife watched him eagerly.
"What did you tell her?"
"Not to come to me; that it would be a perfect exemplification of 'the blind leading the blind'; and when she learned my own state of uncertainty, she seemed to think so herself."
An expression of acute pain passed over her features; but, banishing it as speedily as possible, she answered very gently:
"Take care, my husband, lest by recapitulating your doubts you strengthen hers."
"Alice, I told her the whole truth. She is not a nature to be put off with halfway statements. Hartwell is an avowed infidel, and she knows it; yet I do not believe his views have weighed with her against received systems of faith. My dear Alice, this spirit of skepticism is scattered far and wide over the land; I meet with it often where I least expect it. It broods like a hideous nightmare over this age, and Beulah must pass through the same ordeal which is testing the intellectual portion of every community. But—there is that eternal door-bell. Let us have dinner, Alice; I must go out early this afternoon."
He took down a pair of scales and began to weigh some medicine. His wife wisely forbore to renew the discussion, and, ringing the bell for dinner, interested him with an account of her visit to a poor family who required his immediate attention.
With a heart unwontedly heavy Beulah prepared to call upon Pauline, later in the afternoon of the same day. It was not companionship she needed, for this was supplied by books, and the sensation of loneliness was one with which she had not yet been made acquainted; but she wanted a strong, healthy, cultivated intellect, to dash away the mists that were wreathing about her own mind. Already the lofty, imposing structure of self-reliance began to rock to its very foundations. She was nearly ready for her walk, when Mrs. Hoyt came in.
"Miss Beulah, there is a lady in the parlor waiting to see you."
"Is it Miss Graham?"
"No. She is a stranger, and gave no name."
Beulah descended to the parlor in rather an ungracious mood. As she entered a lady sprang to meet her, with both hands extended. She was superbly beautiful, with a complexion of dazzling whiteness, and clear, radiant, violet eyes, over which arched delicately penciled brows. The Grecian mouth and chin were faultlessly chiseled; the whole face was one of rare loveliness.
"You don't know me! For shame, Beulah, to forget old friends!"
"Oh, Pauline, is it you? I am very glad to see you."
"Don't say that for politeness' sake! Here I have been for ten days and you have not stirred a foot to see me."
"I didn't know you were in town till this morning, and just as you came I was putting on my bonnet to go and see you."
"Are you telling the truth?"
"Yes; positively I am."
"Well, I am glad you felt disposed to see me. After my uncle, you and Charon are all I cared anything about meeting here. Bless your dear, solemn, gray eyes! how often I have wanted to see you!"
The impulsive girl threw her arms round Beulah's neck, and kissed her repeatedly.
"Be quiet, and let me look at you. Oh, Pauline, how beautiful you have grown!" cried Beulah, who could not forbear expressing the admiration she felt.
"Yes; the artists in Florence raved considerably about ray beauty. I can't tell you the number of times I sat for my portrait. It is very pleasant to be pretty; I enjoy it amazingly," said she, with all the candor which had characterized her in childhood; and, with a vigorous squeeze of Beulah's hand, she continued:
"I was astonished when I came, and found that you had left UncleGuy, and were teaching little ragged, dirty children their A B C's.What possessed you to do such a silly thing?"
"Duty, my dear Pauline."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't begin about duty. Ernest—" She paused, a rich glow swept over her face, and, shaking back her curls, she added:
"You must quit all this. I say you must!"
"I see you are quite as reckless and scatter-brained as ever," answered Beulah, smiling at her authoritative tone.
"No; I positively am not the fool Uncle Guy used to think me. I have more sense than people give me credit for, though I dare say I shall find you very skeptical on the subject. Beulah, I know very well why you took it into your wise head to be a teacher. You were unwilling to usurp what you considered my place in Uncle Guy's home and heart. You need not straighten yourself in that ungraceful way. I know perfectly well it is the truth; but I am no poor, suffering, needy innocent, that you should look after. I am well provided for, and don't intend to take one cent of Uncle Guy's money, so you might just as well have the benefit of it. I know, too, that you and ma did not exactly adore each other. I understand all about that old skirmishing. But things have changed very much, Beulah; so you must quit this horrid nonsense about working and being independent."
"How you do rattle on about things you don't comprehend!" laughedBeulah.
"Come, don't set me down for a simpleton! I tell you I am in earnest! You must come back to Uncle Guy!"
"Pauline, it is worse than useless to talk of this matter. I decided long ago as to what I ought to do, and certainly shall not change my opinion now. Tell me what you saw in Europe."
"Why, has not Eugene told you all you wish to know? Apropos! I saw him at a party last night, playing the devoted to that little beauty, Netta Dupres. We were all in Paris at the same time. I don't fancy her; she is too insufferably vain and affected. It is my opinion that she is flirting with Eugene, which must be quite agreeable to you. Oh, I tell you, Beulah, I could easily put her mind, heart, and soul in my thimble!"
"I did not ask your estimate of Miss Dupres. I want to know something of your European tour. I see Eugene very rarely."
"Oh, of course we went to see all the sights, and very stupid it was. Mr. Lockhart scolded continually about my want of taste and appreciation, because I did not utter all the interjections of delight and astonishment over old, tumbledown ruins, and genuine 'masterpieces' of art, as he called them. Upon my word, I have been tired almost to death, when he and ma descanted by the hour on the 'inimitable, and transcendent, and entrancing' beauties and glories of old pictures, that were actually so black with age that they looked like daubs of tar, and I could not tell whether the figures were men or women, archangels or cow drivers. Some things I did enjoy; such as the Alps, and the Mediterranean, and St. Peter's, and Westminster Abbey, and some of the German cathedrals. But as to keeping my finger on the guide-book and committing all the ecstasy to memory, to spout out just at the exact moment when I saw nothing to deserve it, why, that is all fudge. I tell you there is nothing in all Europe equal to our Niagara! I was heartily glad to come home, though I enjoyed some things amazingly."
"How is Mr. Lockhart's health?"
"Very poor, I am sorry to say. He looks so thin and pale I often tell him he would make quite as good a pictured saint as any we saw abroad."
"How long will you remain here?"
"Till Uncle Guy thinks Mr. Lockhart is well enough to go to his plantation, I suppose."
"What makes you so restless, Pauline? Why don't you sit still?" asked Beulah, observing that her visitor twisted about as if uncomfortable.
"Because I want to tell you something, and really do not know how to begin," said she, laughing and blushing.
"I cannot imagine what should disconcert you, Pauline."
"Thank you. Truly, that is a flattering tribute to my sensibility.Beulah, can't you guess what I have to tell you?"
"Certainly not. But why should you hesitate to disclose it?"
"Simply because your tremendous gray eyes have such an owlish way of looking people out of countenance. Now, don't look quite through me, and I will pluck up my courage, and confess. Beulah—I am going to be married soon." She hid her crimsoned cheeks behind her hands.
"Married! impossible!" cried Beulah.
"But I tell you I am! Here is my engagement ring. Now, the most astonishing part of the whole affair is that my intended sovereign is a minister! A preacher, as solemn as Job!"
"You a minister's wife, Pauline! Oh, child, you are jesting!" saidBeulah, with an incredulous smile.
"No! absurd as it may seem, it is nevertheless true. I am to be married in March. Ma says I am a fool; Mr. Lockhart encourages and supports me; and Uncle Guy laughs heartily every time the affair is alluded to. At first, before we went to Europe, there was violent opposition from my mother, but she found I was in earnest, and now it is all settled for March. Uncle Guy knows Ernest Mortimor, and esteems him very highly, but thinks that I am the last woman in the United States who ought to be a minister's wife. I believe he told Ernest as much; but of course he did not believe him."
"Where does Mr. Mortimor reside?"
"In Georgia; has charge of a church there. He had a sister at the same school I attended in New York; and, during a visit to her, he says he met his evil-angel in me. He is about five years my senior; but he is here now, and you will have an opportunity of forming your own opinion of him."
"How long have you known him?"
"About two years. I am rather afraid of him, to tell you the honest truth. He is so grave, and has such rigid notions, that I wonder very much what ever induced his holiness to fancy such a heedless piece of womanhood as he is obliged to know I am; for I never put on any humility or sanctity. What do you think, Beulah? Uncle Guy coolly told me, this morning, in Ernest's presence, that he was only charmed by my pretty face, and that if I did not learn some common sense he would very soon repent his choice. Oh, the doleful warnings I have been favored with! But you shall all see that I am worthy of Mr. Mortimer's love."
Her beautiful face was radiant with hope; yet in the violet eyes there lurked unshed tears.
"I am very glad that you are so happy, Pauline; and, if you will, I am very sure you can make yourself all that Mr. Mortimor could desire."
"I am resolved I will. Yesterday he talked to me very seriously about the duties which he said would devolve on me. I tried to laugh him out of his sober mood, but he would talk about 'pastoral relations,' and what would be expected of a pastor's wife, until I was ready to cry with vexation. Ernest is not dependent on his salary; his father is considered wealthy, I believe, which fact reconciles ma in some degree. To-morrow he will preach in Dr. Hew's church, and you must go to hear him. I have never yet heard him preach, and am rather anxious to know what sort of sermons I am to listen to for the remainder of my life." She looked at her watch, and rose.
"I shall certainly go to hear him," answered Beulah.
"Of course you will, and after service you must go home and spend the day with me. Ma begs that you will not refuse to dine with her; and, as you are engaged all the week, Uncle Guy expects you also; that is, he told me to insist on your coming, but thought you would probably decline. Will you come? Do say yes."
"I don't know yet. I will see you at church."
Thus they parted.
On Sabbath morning Beulah sat beside the window, with her folded hands resting on her lap. The day was cloudless and serene; the sky of that intense melting blue which characterizes our clime. From every quarter of the city brazen muezzins called worshipers to the temple, and bands of neatly clad, happy children thronged the streets, on their way to Sabbath school. Save these, and the pealing bells, a hush pervaded all things, as though Nature were indeed "at her prayers." Blessed be the hallowed influences which every sunny Sabbath morn exerts! Blessed be the holy tones which at least once a week call every erring child back to its Infinite Father! For some time Beulah had absented herself from church, for she found that instead of profiting by sermons she came home to criticise and question. But early associations are strangely tenacious, and, as she watched the children trooping to the house of God, there rushed to her mind memories of other years, when the orphan bands from the asylum regularly took their places in the Sabbath school. The hymns she sang then rang again in her ears; long-forgotten passages of Scripture, repeated then, seemed learned but yesterday. How often had the venerable superintendent knelt and invoked special guidance for the afflicted band from the God of orphans! Now she felt doubly orphaned. In her intellectual pride, she frequently asserted that she was "the star of her own destiny"; but this morning childish memories prattled of the Star of Bethlehem, before which she once bent the knee of adoration. Had it set forever, amid clouds of superstition, sin, and infidelity? Glittering spires pointed to the bending heavens, and answered: "It burns on forever, 'brighter and brighter unto the perfect day'!" With a dull weight on her heart, she took down her Bible and opened it indifferently at her book- mark. It proved the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, and she read on and on, until the bells warned her it was the hour of morning service. She walked to church, not humbled and prepared to receive the holy teachings of revelation, but with a defiant feeling in her heart which she did not attempt or care to analyze. She was not accustomed to attend Dr. Hew's church, but the sexton conducted her to a pew, and as she seated herself the solemn notes of the organ swelled through the vaulted aisles. The choir sang a magnificent anthem from Haydn's "Creation," and then only the deep, thundering peal of the organ fell on the dim, cool air. Beulah could bear no more; as she lowered her veil, bitter tears gushed over her troubled face. Just then she longed to fall on her knees before the altar and renew the vows of her childhood; but this impulse very soon died away, and, while the pews on every side rapidly filled, she watched impatiently for the appearance of the minister. Immediately in front of her sat Mr. and Mrs. Graham and Antoinette Dupres. Beulah was pondering the absence of Cornelia and Eugene, when a full, manly voice fell on her ear, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Mortimor standing in the pulpit. He looked older than Pauline's description had prepared her to expect, and the first impression was one of disappointment. But the longer she watched the grave, quiet face the more attractive it became. Certainly he was a handsome man, and, judging from the contour of head and features, an intellectual one. There was an absolute repose in the countenance which might have passed with casual observers for inertia, indifference; but to the practiced physiognomist it expressed the perfect peace of a mind and heart completely harmonious. The voice was remarkably clear and well modulated. His text was selected from the first and last chapters of Ecclesiastes, and consisted of these verses:
"For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."
"And further, by these, my son, be admonished; of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man."
To the discourse which followed Beulah listened with the deepest interest. She followed the speaker over the desert of ancient Oriental systems, which he rapidly analyzed, and held up as empty shells; lifting the veil of soufism, he glanced at the mystical creed of Algazzali; and, in an epitomized account of the Grecian schools of philosophy, depicted the wild vagaries into which many had wandered, and the unsatisfactory results to which all had attained. Not content with these instances of the insufficiency and mocking nature of human wisdom and learning, he adverted to the destructive tendency of the Helvetian and D'Holbach systems, and, after a brief discussion of their ruinous tenets, dilated, with some erudition upon the conflicting and dangerous theories propounded by Germany. Then came the contemplation of Christianity, from it's rise among the fishermen of Galilee to its present summit of power. For eighteen hundred years it had been assaulted by infidelity, yet each century saw it advancing—a conquering colossus. Throughout the sermon the idea was maintained that human reason was utterly inadequate to discover to man his destiny, that human learning was a great cheat, and that only from the pages of Holy Writ could genuine wisdom be acquired. Men were to be as little children in order to be taught the truths of immortality. Certainly the reasoning was clear and forcible, the philosophic allusions seemed very apropos, and the language was elegant and impassioned. The closing hymn was sung; the organ hushed its worshiping tones; the benediction was pronounced; the congregation dispersed.
As Beulah descended the steps she found Pauline and Mrs. Lockhart waiting at the carriage for her. The latter greeted her with quite a show of cordiality; but the orphan shrank back from the offered kiss, and merely touched the extended hand. She had not forgotten the taunts and unkindness of other days; and, though not vindictive, she could not feign oblivion of the past, nor assume a friendly manner foreign to her. She took her seat in the carriage, and found it rather difficult to withdraw her fascinated eyes from Pauline's lovely face. She knew what was expected of her, however; and said, as they drove rapidly homeward:
"Mr. Mortimor seems to be a man of more than ordinary erudition."
"Did you like his sermon? Do you like him?" asked Pauline eagerly.
"I like him very much indeed; but do not like his sermon at all," answered Beulah bluntly.
"I am sure everybody seemed to be delighted with it," said Mrs.Lockhart.
"Doubtless the majority of his congregation were; and I was very much interested, though I do not accept his views. His delivery is remarkably impressive, and his voice is better adapted to the pulpit than any I have ever listened to." She strove to say everything favorable which, in candor, she could.
"Still you did not like his sermon?" said Pauline gravely.
"I cannot accept his conclusions."
"I liked the discourse particularly, Pauline. I wish Percy could have heard it," said Mrs. Lockhart.
The daughter took no notice whatever of this considerate speech, and sat quite still, looking more serious than Beulah had ever seen her. Conversation flagged, despite the young teacher's efforts, and she was heartily glad when the carriage entered the avenue. Her heart swelled as she caught sight of the noble old cedars, whose venerable heads seemed to bow in welcome, while the drooping branches held out their arms, as if to embrace her. Each tree was familiar; even the bright coral yaupon clusters were like dear friends greeting her after a long absence. She had never realized until now how much she loved this home of her early childhood, and large drops dimmed her eyes as she passed along the walks where she had so often wandered.
The carriage approached the house, and she saw her quondam guardian standing before the door. He was bare-headed, and the sunshine fell like a halo upon his brown, clustering hair, threading it with gold. He held, in one hand, a small basket of grain, from which he fed a flock of hungry pigeons. On every side they gathered about him—blue and white, brown and mottled—some fluttering down from the roof of the house; two or three, quite tame, perched on his arm, eating from the basket; and one, of uncommon beauty, sat on his shoulder, cooing softly. By his side stood Charon, looking gravely on, as if he, wise soul, thought this familiarity signally impudent. It was a singularly quiet, peaceful scene, which indelibly daguerreotyped itself on Beulah's memory. As the carriage whirled round the circle, and drew up at the door, the startled flock wheeled off; and, brushing the grain from his hands, Dr. Hartwell advanced to assist his sister. Pauline sprang out first, exclaiming:
"You abominable heathen! Why didn't you come to church? Even Dr.Asbury was out."
"Guy, you missed an admirable sermon," chimed in Mrs. Lockhart.
He was disengaging the fringe of Pauline's shawl, which caught the button of his coat, and, looking up as his sister spoke, his eyes met Beulah's anxious gaze. She had wondered very much how he would receive her. His countenance expressed neither surprise nor pleasure; he merely held out his hand to assist her, saying, in his usual grave manner:
"I am glad to see you, Beulah."
She looked up in his face for some trace of the old kindness; but the rare, fascinating smile and protective tenderness had utterly vanished. He returned her look with a calmly indifferent glance, which pained her more than any amount of sternness could have done. She snatched her hand from his, and, missing the carriage step, would have fallen, but he caught and placed her safely on the ground, saying coolly:
"Take care; you are awkward."
She followed Pauline up the steps, wishing herself at home in her little room. But her companion's gay chat diverted her mind, and she only remembered how very beautiful was the face she looked on.
They stood together before a mirror, smoothing their hair, and Beulah could not avoid contrasting the images reflected. One was prematurely grave and thoughtful in its expression—the other radiant with happy hopes. Pauline surmised what was passing in her friend's mind, and said merrily:
"For shame, Beulah! to envy me my poor estate of good looks! Why, I am all nose and eyes, curls, red lips, and cheeks; but you have an additional amount of brains to balance my gifts. Once I heard Uncle Guy say that you had more intellect than all the other women and children in the town! Come; Mr. Lockhart wants to see you very much."
She ran down the steps as heedlessly as in her childhood, and Beulah followed her more leisurely. In the study they found the remainder of the party; Mr. Lockhart was wrapt in a heavy dressing-gown, and reclined on the sofa. He welcomed Beulah very warmly, keeping her hand in his and making her sit down near him. He was emaciated, and a hacking cough prevented his taking any active part in the conversation. One glance at his sad face sufficed to show her that his days on earth were numbered, and the expression with which he regarded his wife told all the painful tale of an unhappy marriage. She was discussing the sermon, and declaring herself highly gratified at the impression which Mr. Mortimor had evidently made on his large and fashionable congregation. Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, listening in silence to his sister's remarks. The Atlantic might have rolled between them, for any interest he evinced in the subject. Pauline was restless and excited; finally she crossed the room, stood close to her uncle, and, carelessly fingering his watch chain, said earnestly: "Uncle Guy, what did Ernest mean, this morning, by a 'Fourieristic-phalanx?'"
"A land where learned men are captivated by blue eyes and rosy lips," answered the doctor, looking down into her sparkling face.
As they stood together Beulah remarked how very much Pauline resembled him. True, he was pale, and she was a very Hebe, but the dazzling transparency of the complexion was the same, the silky, nut-brown hair the same, and the classical chiseling of mouth and nose identical. Her eyes were "deeply, darkly," matchlessly blue, and his were hazel; her features were quivering with youthful joyousness and enthusiasm, his might have been carved in ivory, they seemed so inflexible; still they were alike. Pauline did not exactly relish the tone of his reply, and said hastily:
"Uncle Guy, I wish you would not treat me as if I were an idiot; or, what is not much better, a two-year-old child! How am I ever to learn any sense?"
"Indeed, I have no idea," said he, passing his soft hand over her glossy curls.
"You are very provoking! Do you want Ernest to think me a fool?"
"Have you waked to a consciousness of that danger?"
"Yes; and I want you to teach me something. Come, tell me what that thing is I asked you about."
"Tell you what?"
"Why, what a—a 'Fourieristic-phalanx' is?" said she earnestly.
Beulah could not avoid smiling, and wondered how he managed to look so very serious, as he replied:
"I know very little about the tactics of Fourieristic-phalanxes, but believe a phalange is a community or association of about eighteen hundred persons, who were supposed or intended to practice the Fourieristic doctrines. In fine, a phalange is a sort of French Utopia."
"And where is that, sir?" asked Pauline innocently, without taking her eyes from his face.
"Utopia is situated in No-country, and its chief city is on the banks of the river Waterless."
"Oh, Uncle Guy! how can you quiz me so unmercifully, when I ask you to explain things to me?"
"Why, Pauline, I am answering your questions correctly. Sir Thomas More professed to describe Utopia, which means No-place, and mentions a river Waterless. Don't look so desperately lofty. I will show you the book, if you are so incorrigibly stupid." He passed his arm round her as he spoke, and kept her close beside him.
"Mr. Lockhart, is he telling the truth?" cried she incredulously.
"Certainly he is," answered her stepfather, smiling.
"Oh, I don't believe either of you! You two think that I am simple enough to believe any absurdity you choose to tell me. Beulah, what is Utopia?"
"Just what your uncle told you. More used Greek words which signified nothing, in order to veil the satire."
"Oh, a satire! Now, what is the reason you could not say it was a satire, you wiseacre?"
"Because I gave you credit for some penetration, and at least common sense."
"Both of which I have proved myself devoid of, I suppose? Thank you." She threw her arms round his neck, kissed him once or twice, and laughingly added: "Come now, Uncle Guy, tell me what these 'phalanxes,' as you call them, have to do with Ernest's text?"