"What is the matter with you, Beulah? Are you sick?"
"No; I am as well as usual." She hastily averted her head.
"But something troubles you, child!"
"Yes; a great many things trouble me; but I am used to troubles, you know, and can cope with them unaided."
"Won't you tell me what they are, Beulah?"
"You cannot help me, or I would. One cause of sorrow, however, is the approaching death of a friend whom I shall miss and mourn. Cornelia Graham cannot live much longer. I saw her this evening, and found that she has become sadly altered."
"She is young to die," said the matron, with a sigh.
"Yes; only twenty-three."
"Perhaps her death will be the means of reclaiming my poor boy."
Beulah shook her head, and Mrs. Williams added:
"She has lived only for this world and its pleasures. Is she afraid of the world to come? Can she die peacefully?"
"She will die calmly, but not hopefully. She does not believe inChristianity."
She felt that the matron was searching her countenance, and was not surprised when she said falteringly:
"Neither do you believe in it. Oh, Beulah! I have known it since you came to reside under the same roof with me, and I have wept and prayed over you almost as much as over Eugene. When Sabbath after Sabbath passed, and you absented yourself from church, I knew something was wrong. Beulah, who has taught you infidelity? Oh, it would have been better that you too had followed Lilly, in the early days when you were pure in heart! Much as I love you, I would rather weep over your grave than know you had lived to forget God."
Beulah made no reply; and, passing her hands tenderly over the girl's head, she continued:
"When you came to me, a little child, I taught you your morning and evening prayers. Oh, Beulah! Beulah! now you lay down to sleep without a thought of prayer. My child, what is to become of you?"
"I don't know. But do not be distressed about me; I am trying to do my duty just as conscientiously as though I went to church."
"Don't deceive yourself, dear child. If you cease to pray and read your Bible, how are you to know what your duty is? How are you to keep yourself 'pure and unspotted from the world'? Beulah, a man without religion is to be pitied; but, oh! a Godless woman is a horror above all things. It is no marvel you look so anxious and hollow-eyed. You have forsaken the 'ways of pleasantness and the paths of peace.'"
"I am responsible to no one for my opinions."
"Yes, you are; responsible to God, for he has given truth to the world, and when you shut your eyes, and willingly walk in darkness, he will judge you accordingly. If you had lived in an Indian jungle, out of hearing of Gospel truth, then God would not have expected anything but idolatry from you; but you live in a Christian land; in the land of Bibles, and 'to whom much is given, much will be expected.' The people of this generation are running after new doctrines, and overtake much error. Beulah, since I have seen you sitting up nearly all night, pouring over books that rail at Jesus and his doctrines, I have repented the hour I first suggested your educating yourself to teach. If this is what all your learning has brought you to, it would have been better if you had been put out to learn millinery or mantua-making. Oh, my child, you have been my greatest pride, but now you are a grief to me!"
She took Beulah's hand in hers, and pressed her lips to it, while the tears fell thick and fast. The orphan was not unmoved; her lashes were heavy with unshed drops, but she said nothing.
"Beulah, I am fifty-five years old; I have seen a great deal of the world, and, I tell you, I have never yet known a happy man or woman who did not reverence God and religion. I can see that you are not happy. Child, you never will be so long as you wander away from God. I pray for you; but you must also pray for yourself. May God help you, my dear child!"
She left her, knowing her nature too well to hope to convince her of her error.
Beulah remained for some time in the same position, with her eyes fixed on the fire, and her forehead plowed by torturing thought. The striking of the clock roused her from her reverie, and, drawing a chair near her desk, she took up her pen to complete an article due the next day at the magazine office. Ah, how little the readers dreamed of the heavy heart that put aside its troubles to labor for their amusement! To-night she did not succeed as well as usual; her manuscript was blurred, and, forced to copy the greater part of it, the clock struck three before she laid her weary head on her pillow.
Mr. Graham sat by his daughter's bed, with his elbow resting on her pillow and his head drooped on his hand. It was noon, and sunshine sparkled out of doors; but here the heavy curtains swept across the windows and cast a lurid light over the sickroom. His heart ached as he looked upon the wreck of his once brilliant and beautiful child, and he shaded his face to conceal the tears which stole down his furrowed cheeks. The restless sufferer threw up her arms over the pillow, and, turning toward him, said in a voice sharpened by disease:
"Has mother gone? I want to say something to you."
"We are alone, my child; speak to me freely."
"There are a few things I wish to have arranged, and my time is short. You have never refused me any gratification I desired, and I know you will grant my last request. Father, if I were a bride to- day, what would be my portion of the estate? How much would you give me?"
"I would give every cent I possess to purchase you a life of happiness."
"You do not understand me. I have always been considered an heiress, and I want to know how much I would be entitled to, if I should live? Of course Eugene has an equal share. How much is it?"
"About eighty thousand dollars apiece, I suppose, leaving as much for your mother. Why do you ask, my daughter?"
"Eighty thousand dollars. How much good might be done with it, if judiciously distributed and invested! Father, I shall not live to squander it in frivolous amusements or superfluous luxuries. Are you willing that I should dispose of a portion of it before my death?"
"Yes, Cornelia, if it will afford you any gratification. My poor, afflicted child; how can I deny you anything you choose to ask?"
She put up one arm around his neck, and, drawing his head close to her, said earnestly:
"I only wish to use a part of it. Father, I want to leave Beulah about five thousand dollars. That sum will enable her to live more comfortably, and labor less, and I should like to feel, before I die, that I had been the means of assisting her. Will you invest that amount in stocks for her, or pay the money into her own hands? Will you see that it is arranged so that she will certainly receive it, no matter what happens?"
"Yes, I promise you that she shall have five thousand dollars, to dispose of as she thinks proper."
"She is proud, and will not receive it willingly; but you must arrange it so that she will be benefited by it. Father, can you do this for me?"
"Yes, without difficulty, I think."
"Let it be kept secret, will you?"
"Rest assured it shall have no unnecessary publicity."
"See that it is conveyed to her so securely that no quibbles of law can wrest it from her at any future day, for none of us knows what may happen."
"I promise you she shall have it if I live twelve hours longer."
"Then I want five thousand more given to the orphan asylum. Give it in your own name. You only have the right to give. Don't have my name mentioned in the matter. Will you promise me this also?"
"Yes; it shall all be done. Is there anything else?"
"Thank you, that is all, as regards money matters. Raise my pillow a little; there, that will do. Father, can't you do something to save Eugene? You must see now how reckless he is growing."
"Recently I have expostulated with him, and he seemed disposed to reform his habits. Acknowledged that his associations had been injurious, and regretted the excesses into which he had been led. He has been rather wild since he came from college; but I think, now he is married, he will sober down. That is one reason why I encouraged his marrying so early. Intemperance is his only fault, and I trust his good sense will soon lead him to correct it." A smothered sigh concluded the sentence.
"Father, Antoinette is not the woman to reform him. Don't trust to her influence; if you do, Eugene will be ruined. Watch over him closely yourself; try to win him away from the haunts of dissipation; I tell you now his wife will never do it. She has duped you and my mother as to her character, but you will find that she is as utterly heartless as her own mother was. I always opposed the match, because I probed her mask of dissimulation, and knew Eugene could not be happy with her. But the mistake is irretrievable, and it only remains for you to watch him the more carefully. Lift me, father; I can't breathe easily. There is the doctor on the steps; I am too tired to talk any more to-day."
One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time. It was twilight when she reached Mr. Graham's house and glided noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway. The bells were all muffled, and a solemn stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easychair. Her mother sat near her, with her face hid on her husband's bosom. Dr. Hartwell leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wandered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her sharpened features.
"Beulah, come close to me—close." She grasped her hands tightly, and Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.
"Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me free from pain, won't you? I have suffered for so many months and years. But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever?—is it forever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where grass and flowers will wave over me, and the sun shine down on me? Yes, it must be so. Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber? Abel was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened? No one. Earth is full of pale sleepers; and I am soon to join the silent band."
There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.
"Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so, you will—"
"Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say, they say! Yes. but I never believed them before, and I don't want to believe them now. I will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now. Beulah, I shall know very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted. Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am going; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, dark! You know what I mean. Don't live as I have, believing nothing. No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is because I believe in nothing that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is such a dark, dark, lonely way! If I had a friend to go with me I should not shrink back; but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going out into a great starless midnight." She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched Beulah's convulsively.
"Calm yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God will see that you were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will sink into quiet oblivion of all your griefs."
"Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, why was I ever created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to senseless dust? I never have been happy; I have always had aspirations after purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford me, and must they be lost in dead clay? Oh, Beulah, can you give me no comfort but this? Is this the sum of all your study, as well as mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can find out nothing. We are all blind; groping our way through mysterious paths, and now I am going into the last—the great mystery!"
She shook her head with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out some hideous specter. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful of some powerful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by the difficulty of breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sobs of the parents. Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and now and then her lips moved, but nothing intelligible escaped them. It was surprising how she seemed to rally sometimes, and breathe with perfect ease; then the paroxysms would come on more violent than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with her forehead resting on the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm hold of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still to watch the issue, for moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer. Beulah felt as if her heart were leaden, and a band of burning iron seemed drawn about her brow. Was this painful parting to be indeed eternal? Was there no future home for the dead of this world? Should the bands of love and friendship, thus rudely severed, be renewed no more? Was there no land where the broken links might be gathered up again? What did philosophy say of these grim hours of struggle and separation? Nothing—absolutely nothing! Was she to see her sister no more? Was a moldering mass of dust all that remained of the darling dead—the beautiful angel Lilly, whom she had so idolized? Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul, with its noble aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her brain was in a wild, maddening whirl; she could not weep; her eyes were dry and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured audibly:
"'For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.' Ah! what is its name? that 'continuing city'! Necropolis?" Again she remained for some time speechless.
Dr. Hartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow, and, opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an imploring gaze, which mutely said: "Can't you help me?" He leaned over, and answered it, sadly enough:
"Courage, Cornelia! It will very soon be over now. The worst is past, my friend."
"Yes; I know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?"
He came and stood near her; his face full of anguish, which could not vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she looked at him; a wailing cry broke from her lips; and, extending her arms toward him, she said sobbingly:
"Shall I see you no more—no more? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride, my dearest hope! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we now parted forever—forever!"
He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her; but, clinging to him, she said huskily:
"Eugene, with my last breath I implore you; forsake your intemperate companions. Shun them and their haunts. Let me die feeling that at least my dying prayer will save you! Oh, when I am gone; when I am silent in the graveyard, remember how the thought of your intemperance tortured me! Remember how I remonstrated and entreated you not to ruin yourself! Remember that I loved you above everything on earth; and that, in my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself! Oh, Eugene, for my sake! for my sake! quit the wine-cup, and leave drunkenness for others more degraded!—Promise me!—Where are you?— Oh, it is all cold and dark!—I can't see you!—Eugene, promise! promise!—Eugene—"
Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds; then the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene felt a long shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Cornelia Graham's soul was with its God.
Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and questioning, what an exit! Eugene lifted the attenuated form and placed it on the bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from the room; and, after some minutes, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied.
"Come, Beulah; she will want you no more."
She lifted a countenance so full of woe that, as he looked at her, the moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head, saying:
"Come with me, Beulah."
"And this is death? Oh, my God, save me from such a death!"
She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then, rising from her kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cushions. That long night of self-communion was never forgotten.
The day of the funeral was cold, dark, and dismal. A January wind howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the gloom. The parlors and sitting room were draped, and on the marble slab of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall. Once before Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded; and it seemed but yesterday that she stood beside Lilly's rigid form. She went in alone, and waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of conflicting sorrows in her oppressed heart; then lifted the covering and looked on the sleeper. Wan, waxen, and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of disease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless death. The black locks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful hands folded peacefully over the heart that should throb no more with the anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow and put the trembling mouth at rest, and every feature was in repose. In life she had never looked so placidly beautiful.
"What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries? She died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without hope and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery," thought Beulah, as she looked at the marble face and recalled the bitterness of its lifelong expression. Persons began to assemble; gradually the rooms filled. Beulah bent down and kissed the cold lips for the last time, and, lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner. She was very miserable, but her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious of what passed around her. She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved parents as in a painful dream; and when the solemn silence was broken she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head of the coffin; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from another world:
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; and he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!"
Cornelia had not believed; was she utterly lost? Beulah asked herself this question, and shrank from the answer. She did not believe; would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there but one salvation? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession formed, she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a carriage with Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in one corner, and the long line of carriages, extending for many squares, slowly wound through the streets. The wind wailed and sobbed, as if in sympathy, and the rain drizzled against the window glass. When the procession reached the cemetery, it was too wet to think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah could see the coffin borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice of the minister; and when the shrouded form of the only child was lowered into its final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her hands. Should they meet no more? Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had forborne to address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering form, and said gently:
"My dear Beulah, do not look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst of life we are in death; but God has given a promise to cheer us all in sad scenes like this. St. John was told to write, 'From henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from, their labors.'"
"And do you think she is lost forever because she did not believe?Do you? Can you?" cried Beulah vehemently.
"Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she entirely rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately; but only God knows the heart—only her Maker can judge her. I trust that even in the last hour the mists rolled from her mind."
Beulah knew better, but said nothing; it was enough to have witnessed that darkened soul's last hour on earth. As the carriage stopped at her door Mrs. Asbury said:
"My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to find what you are seeking so earnestly."
Beulah shrank back, and answered:
"No, no. No one can help me; I must help myself. Some other time I will come."
The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to her room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down on the rug before the fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as she was wont to do in childhood; and, as she remembered that the winter rain now beat pitilessly on the grave of one who had never known privation, nor aught of grief that wealth could shield her from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had philosophy hung in the sable chambers of the tomb? The soul was impotent to explain its origin—how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final destiny? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of 'ideas.' Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or develop them selves independently of experience? The affirmation or denial of this proposition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled with psychology; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect question further? Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores of Eternity?
Time, "like a star, unhasting, yet unresting," moved on. The keen blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses, and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies. The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it "was well-nigh done"; and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the dolphin-like death. The regal splendors of Southern springtime were on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air. Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her—a volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume—the glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered she sat looking out, mute and motionless. The distant pinetops sang their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the soft violet sky. Around the columns of the little portico a luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah's head, as she leaned it against the pillar. The face wore a weary, suffering look; the large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of languor in every feature. A few months had strangely changed the countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted expression. The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue. Yet she had never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the usual routine of mental labor. Rigorously the tax was levied, no matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed; and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for a reprieve. Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was generally reclaimed from sleep. It was no mystery that she looked ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of hope which had risen in her cloudy sky. Mr. Arlington's brother had taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy, that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name. Beulah rejoiced in her friend's happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest, as in Pauline's case, thorns should spring up in paths where now only blossoms were visible. Since that letter, so full of complaint and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline. Many months had elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence. She had written several times, but received no answer, and imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage. Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs. Lockhart must be with her daughter. Beulah half rose, then leaned back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that "still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills." Mrs. Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due the editor the next morning. She was rigidly punctual in handing in her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow. She no longer wrote incognito. By accident she was discovered as the authoress of several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading literati of the place. Her successful career thus far inflamed the ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived, as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame suffered proportionably. The little gate opened and closed with a creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and saw her guardian before her. The light from the dining room fell on his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had induced this visit. He had never entered that gate before; and she sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.
"Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you once more!"
He took her hands in his and looked at her gravely; then made her sit down again on the step, and said:
"I suppose you would have died before you could get your consent to send for me? It is well that you have somebody to look after you. How long have you had this fever?"
"Fever! Why, sir, I have no fever," she replied, with some surprise.
"Oh, child! are you trying to destroy yourself by your obstinacy? If so, like most other things you undertake, I suppose you will succeed."
He held her hands and kept his finger on the quick bounding pulse. Beulah had not seen him since the night of Cornelia's death, some months before, and conjectured that Dr. Asbury had told him she was not looking well.
She could not bear the steady, searching gaze of his luminous eyes, and, moving restlessly, said:
"Sir, what induces you to suppose that I am sick? I have complained of indisposition to no one."
"Of course you have not, for people are to believe that you are a gutta-percha automaton."
She fancied his tone was slightly sneering; but his countenance wore the expression of anxious, protecting interest which she had so prized in days past, and, as her hands trembled in his clasp and his firm hold tightened, she felt that it was useless to attempt to conceal the truth longer.
"I didn't know I was feverish; but for some time I have daily grown weaker; I tremble when I stand or walk, and am not able to sleep. That is all."
He smiled down at her earnest face, and asked:
"Is that all, child? Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; all."
"And here you have been, with a continued, wasting nervous fever for you know not how many days, yet keep on your round of labors without cessation!"
He dropped her hands and folded his arms across his broad chest, keeping his eyes upon her.
"I am not at all ill; but believe I need some medicine to strengthen me."
"Yes, child; you do, indeed, need a medicine, but it is one you will never take."
"Try me, sir," answered she, smiling.
"Try you? I might as well try to win an eagle from its lonely rocky home. Beulah, you need rest. Rest for mind, body, and heart. But you will not take it; oh, no, of course you won't!"
He passed his hand over his brow, and swept back the glossy chestnut hair, as if it oppressed him.
"I would willingly take it, sir, if I could; but the summer vacation is still distant, and, besides, my engagements oblige me to exert myself. It is a necessity with me."
"Rather say sheer obstinacy," said he sternly.
"You are severe, sir," replied Beulah, lifting her head haughtily.
"No; I only call things by their proper names."
"Very well; if you prefer it, then, obstinacy compels me just now to deny myself the rest you prescribe."
"Yes; rightly spoken; and it will soon compel you to a long rest, in the quiet place where Cornelia waits for you. You are a mere shadow now, and a few more months will complete your design. I have blamed myself more than once that I did not suffer you to die with Lilly, as you certainly would have done had I not tended you so closely. Your death then would have saved me much care and sorrow, and you many struggles."
There was a shadow on his face, and his voice had the deep, musical tone which always made her heart thrill. Her eyelids drooped, as she said sadly:
"You are unjust. We meet rarely enough, Heaven knows. Why do you invariably make these occasions seasons of upbraiding, of taunts and sneers. Sir, I owe you my life, and more than my life, and never can I forget or cancel my obligations; but are you no longer my friend?"
His whole face lighted up; the firm mouth trembled.
"No, Beulah. I am no longer your friend."
She looked up at him, and a quiver crept across her lips. She had never seen that eager expression in his stern face before. His dark, fascinating eyes were full of pleading tenderness, and, as she drooped her head on her lap, she knew that Clara was right, that she was dearer to her guardian than anyone else. A half-smothered groan escaped her, and there was a short pause.
Dr. Hartwell put his hands gently on her bowed head and lifted the face.
"Child, does it surprise you?"
She said nothing, and, leaning her head against him, as she had often done years before, he passed his hand caressingly over the folds of hair, and added:
"You call me your guardian; make me such. I can no longer be only your friend; I must either be more, or henceforth a stranger. My life has been full of sorrow and bitterness, but you can bring sunlight to my home and heart. You were too proud to be adopted. Once I asked you to be my child. Ah! I did not know my own heart then. Our separation during the yellow-fever season first taught me how inexpressibly dear you were to me, how entirely you filled my heart. Now I ask you to be my wife, to give yourself to me. Oh, Beulah, come back to my cheerless home! Best your lonely heart, my proud darling."
"Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah, shuddering violently.
"Why not, my little Beulah?"
He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.
"Oh, sir, I would rather die! I should be miserable as your wife. You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery. You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude. Do not ask this of me; we would both be wretched. You pity my loneliness and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my best friend; I love you as my protector. You are all I have on earth to look to for sympathy and guidance. You are all I have; but I cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!" She shrank away from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of hopeless suffering settled upon her face.
He withdrew his arm, and rose.
"Beulah, I have seen sunlit bubbles gliding swiftly on the bosom of a clear brook and casting golden shadows down upon the pebbly bed. Such a shadow you are now chasing—ah, child, the shadow of a gilded bubble! Panting and eager, you clutch at it; the bubble dances on, the shadow with it; and Beulah, you will never, never grasp it. Ambition such as yours, which aims at literary fame, is the deadliest foe to happiness. Man may content himself with the applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect; but woman's heart has holier idols. You cue young, and impulsive, and aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the siren of antiquity; but the months and years will surely come when, with wasted energies and embittered heart, you are left to mourn your infatuation. I would save you from this; but you will drain the very dregs rather than forsake your tempting fiend, for such is ambition to the female heart. Yes, you will spend the springtime of your life chasing a painted specter, and go down to a premature grave, disappointed and miserable. Poor child, it needs no prophetic vision to predict your ill-starred career! Already the consuming fever has begun its march. In far-distant lands, I shall have no tidings of you; but none will be needed. Perhaps when I travel home to die your feverish dream will have ended; or, perchance, sinking to eternal rest in some palm grove of the far East, we shall meet no more. Since the day I took you in my arms from Lilly's coffin you have been my only hope, my all. You little knew how precious you were to me, nor what keen suffering our estrangement cost me. Oh, child, I have loved you as only a strong, suffering, passionate heart could love its last idol! But I, too, chased a shadow. Experience should have taught me wisdom. Now I am a gloomy, joyless man, weary of my home and henceforth a wanderer. Asbury (if he lives) will be truly your friend, and to him T shall commit the legacy which hitherto you have refused to accept. Mr. Graham paid it into my hands after his last unsatisfactory interview with you. The day may come when you will need it. I shall send you some medicine which, for your own sake, you had better take immediately; but you will never grow stronger until you give yourself rest, relaxation, physically and mentally. Remember, when your health is broken and all your hopes withered, remember I warned you and would have saved you, and you would not." He stooped and took his hat from the floor.
Beulah sat looking at him, stunned, bewildered, her tearless eyes strained and frightened in their expression. The transient illumination in his face had faded, like sunset tints, leaving dull, leaden clouds behind. His compressed lips were firm again, and the misty eyes became coldly glittering, as one sees stars brighten in a frosty air.
He put on his hat, and they looked at each other fixedly.
"You are not in earnest? you are not going to quit your home?" criedBeulah, in a broken, unsteady tone.
"Yes—going into the far East; to the ruined altars of Baalbec; to Meroe, to Tartary, India, China, and only Fate knows where else. Perhaps find a cool Nebo in some Himalayan range. Going? Yes. Did you suppose I meant only to operate on your sympathies? I know you too well. What is it to you whether I live or die? whether my weary feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city cemetery? Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting. I shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits. Ah, child—"
"Oh, don't go! don't leave me! I beg, I implore you, not to leave me. Oh, I am so desolate! don't forsake me! I could not bear to know you were gone. Oh, don't leave me!" She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened child. But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as he coldly answered:
"Once resolved, I never waver. So surely as I live I shall go. It might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself. An hour ago you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed. I should have gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of happiness in your love. Child, don't shiver and cling to me so. Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no leisure to regret my absence. Henceforth we are strangers."
"No; that shall never be. You do not mean it; you know it is impossible. You know that I prize your friendship above every earthly thing. You know that I look up to you as to no one else. That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me! Oh, sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don't cast me off! Don't go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world! My heart dies within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to see you. Oh, my guardian, don't forsake me!"
She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms firmly round his neck.
"I am not your guardian, Beulah. You refused to make me such. You are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as an authoress. I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will divide us. And now, good-by. Make yourself a name; bind your aching brow with the chaplet of fame, and see if ambition can fill your heart. Good-by, dear child."
Gently he drew her arms from his neck, and took her face in his soft palms. He looked at her a moment, sadly and earnestly, as if striving to fix her features in the frame of memory; then bent his head and pressed a long kiss on her lips. She put out her hands, but he had gone, and, sinking down on the step, she hid her face in her arms. A pall seemed suddenly thrown over the future, and the orphaned heart shrank back from the lonely path where only specters were visible. Never before had she realized how dear he was to her, how large a share of her love he possessed, and now the prospect of a long, perhaps final separation, filled her with a shivering, horrible dread. We have seen that self-reliance was a powerful element in her character, and she had learned, from painful necessity, to depend as little as possible upon the sympathies of others; but in this hour of anguish a sense of joyless isolation conquered; her proud soul bowed down beneath the weight of intolerable grief, and acknowledged itself not wholly independent of the love and presence of her guardian.
Beulah went back to her desk, and, with tearless eyes, began the allotted task of writing. The article was due, and must be finished; was there not a long, dark future in which to mourn? The sketch was designed to prove that woman's happiness was not necessarily dependent on marriage. That a single life might be more useful, more tranquil, more unselfish. Beulah had painted her heroine in glowing tints, and triumphantly proved her theory correct, while to female influence she awarded a sphere (exclusive of rostrums and all political arenas) wide as the universe and high as heaven. Weary work it all seemed to her now; but she wrote on and on, and finally the last page was copied and the last punctuation mark affixed. She wrapped up the manuscript, directed it to the editor, and then the pen fell from her nerveless fingers and her head went down, with a wailing cry, on her desk. There the morning sun flashed upon a white face, tear-stained and full of keen anguish. How her readers would have marveled at the sight! Ah, "Verily the heart knoweth its own bitterness."
One afternoon in the following week Mrs. Williams sat wrapped up in the hall, watching Beulah's movements in the yard at the rear of the house. The whitewashed paling was covered with luxuriant raspberry vines, and in one corner of the garden was a bed of strawberry plants. Over this bed Beulah was bending with a basket nearly filled with the ripe scarlet berries. Stooping close to the plants she saw only the fruit she was engaged in picking; and when the basket was quite full she was suddenly startled by a merry laugh and a pair of hands clasped over her eyes.
"Who blindfolds me?" said she.
"Guess, you solemn witch!"
"Why, Georgia, of course."
The hands were removed, and Georgia Asbury's merry face greeted her.
"I am glad to see you, Georgia. Where is Helen?"
"Oh, gone to ride with one of her adorers; but I have brought somebody to see you who is worth the whole Asbury family. No less a personage than my famous cousin Reginald Lindsay, whom you have heard us speak of so often. Oh, how tempting those luscious berries are! Reginald and I intend to stay to tea, and father will perhaps come out in the carriage for us. Come, yonder is my cousin on the gallery looking at you, and pretending to talk to Mrs. Williams. He has read your magazine sketches and is very anxious to see you. How nice you look; only a little too statuish. Can't you get up a smile? That is better. Here, let me twine this cluster of wistaria in your hair; I stole it as I ran up the steps."
Beulah was clad in a pure white mull muslin, and wore a short black silk apron, confined at the waist by a heavy cord and tassel. Georgia fastened the purple blossoms in her silky hair, and they entered the house. Mr. Lindsay met them, and, as his cousin introduced him, Beulah looked at him, and met the earnest gaze of a pair of deep blue eyes which seemed to index a nature singularly tranquil. She greeted him quietly, and would have led the way to the front of the house; but Georgia threw herself down on the steps, and exclaimed eagerly:
"Do let us stay here; the air is so deliciously sweet and cool. Cousin, there is a chair. Beulah, you and I will stem these berries at once, so that they may be ready for tea."
She took the basket, and soon their fingers were stained with the rosy juice of the fragrant fruit. All restraint vanished; the conversation was gay, and spiced now and then with repartees which elicited Georgia's birdish laugh and banished for a time the weary, joyless expression of Beulah's countenance. The berries were finally arranged to suit Georgia's taste, and the party returned to the little parlor. Here Beulah was soon engaged by Mr. Lindsay in the discussion of some of the leading literary questions of the day. She forgot the great sorrow that brooded over her heart, a faint, pearly glow crept into her cheeks, and the mouth lost its expression of resolute endurance. She found Mr. Lindsay highly cultivated in his tastes, polished in his manners, and possessed of rare intellectual attainments, while the utter absence of egotism and pedantry impressed her with involuntary admiration. Extensive travel and long study had familiarized him with almost every branch of science and department of literature, and the ease and grace with which he imparted some information she desired respecting the European schools of art contrasted favorably with the confused account Eugene had rendered of the same subject. She remarked a singular composure of countenance, voice, and even position, which seemed idiosyncratic, and was directly opposed to the stern rigidity and cynicism of her guardian. She shrank from the calm, steadfast gaze of his eyes, which looked into hers with a deep yet gentle scrutiny, and resolved ere the close of the evening to sound him concerning some of the philosophic phases of the age. Had he escaped the upas taint of skepticism? An opportunity soon occurred to favor her wishes, for, chancing to allude to his visit to Rydal Mount, while in the lake region of England, the transition to a discussion of the metaphysical tone of the "Excursion" was quite easy.
"You seemed disposed, like Howitt, to accord it the title of 'Bible of Quakerism,'" said Mr. Lindsay, in answer to a remark of hers concerning its tendency.
"It is a fertile theme of disputation, sir, and, since critics are so divided in their verdicts, I may well be pardoned an opinion which so many passages seem to sanction. If Quakerism is belief in 'immediate inspiration,' which you will scarcely deny, then throughout the 'Excursion' Wordsworth seems its apostle."
"No; he stands as a high priest in the temple of nature, and calls mankind from scientific lore to offer their orisons there at his altar and receive passively the teachings of the material universe. Tells us,"
"'Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous forms of things,'"
"and promises, in nature, an unerring guide and teacher of truth. In his lines on revisiting the Wye, he declares himself,"
'"Well pleased to recognizeIn nature, and the language of the sense,The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart and soul,Of all my moral being.'"
"Quakerism rejects all extraneous aids to a knowledge of God; a silent band of friends sit waiting for the direct inspiration which alone can impart true light. Wordsworth made the senses, the appreciation of the beauty and sublimity of the universe, an avenue of light; while Quakerism, according to the doctrines of Fox and his early followers, is merely a form of mysticism nearly allied to the 'ecstasy' of Plotinus. The Quaker silences his reason, his every faculty, and in utter passivity waits for the infusion of divine light into his mind; the mystic of Alexandria, as far as possible, divests his intellect of all personality, and becomes absorbed in the Infinite intelligence from which it emanated."
Beulah knitted her brows, and answered musingly:
"And here, then, extremes meet. To know God we must be God. Mysticism and Pantheism link hands over the gulf which seemed to divide them."
"Miss Benton, is this view of the subject a novel one?" said he, looking at her very intently.
"No; a singular passage in the 'Biographia Literaria' suggested it to me long ago. But unwelcome hints are rarely accepted, you know."
"Why unwelcome in this case?"
She looked at him, but made no reply, and none was needed. He understood why, and said quietly yet impressively:
"It sets the seal of necessity upon Revelation. Not the mystical intuitions of the dreamers, who would fain teach of continued direct inspiration from God, even at the present time, but the revelation which began in Genesis and ended with John on Patmos. The very absurdities of philosophy are the most potent arguments in substantiating the claims of Christianity. Kant's theory that we can know nothing beyond ourselves gave the deathblow to philosophy. Mysticism contends that reason only darkens the mind, and consequently, discarding all reasoning processes, relies upon immediate revelation. But the extravagances of Swedenborg, and even of George Fox, prove the fallacy of the assumption of continued inspiration, and the only alternative is to rest upon the Christian Revelation, which has successfully defied all assaults."
There was an instantaneous flash of joy over Beulah's troubled face, and she said hastily:
"You have escaped the contagion, then? Such exemption is rare nowadays, for skepticism broods with sable wings over the age"
"It has always brooded where man essayed to lift the veil of Isis; to elucidate the arcana of the universe, to solve the unsolvable. Skepticism is the disease of minds which Christian faith alone can render healthy."
The thrust showed she was not invulnerable; but before she could reply, Georgia exclaimed:
"In the name of common sense, Reginald, what are you discoursing about so tiresomely? I suppose I am shamefully stupid, but I don't understand a word you two have been saying. When father and Beulah get on such dry, tedious subjects I always set up an opposition at the piano, which in this instance I am forced to do, from sheer necessity."
She raised the lid of the piano and rattled off a brilliant overture; then made Beulah join her in several instrumental duets. As the latter rose, Mr. Lindsay said, somewhat abruptly:
"I believe you sing. My cousins have been extolling your voice, andI have some curiosity to hear you. Will you gratify me?"
"Certainly, if you desire it."
She could not refrain from smiling at the perfect nonchalance of his manner, and, passing her fingers over the keys, sang a beautiful air from "Lucia." Her guest listened attentively, and, when the song was ended, approached the piano, and said, with some interest:
"I should prefer a simple ballad, if you will favor me with one."
"Something after the order of 'Lilly Dale,' Beulah. He hears nothing else in his country home," said Georgia teasingly.
He smiled, but did not contradict her, and Beulah sang that exquisite ballad, "Why Do Summer Roses Fade?" It was one of her guardian's favorite airs, and now his image was associated with the strain. Ere the first verse was finished, a deep, rich, manly voice, which had sometimes echoed through the study, seemed again to join hers, and, despite her efforts, her own tones trembled.
Soon after Beulah took her place at the tea table in the center of the room, and conversation turned on the delights of country life.
"Reginald, how do you manage to amuse yourself in that little town of yours?" asked Georgia, drawing the bowl of strawberries near and helping him bountifully.
"I might answer that I had passed the age when amusement was necessary, but I will not beg your question so completely. In the first place, I do not reside in town. My office is there, and during the day, when not absent at court, I am generally in my office; but evening always finds me at home. Once there, I have endless sources of amusement; my mother's flowers and birds, my farm affairs, my music, and my library, to say nothing of hunting and fishing. Remember, Georgia, that, as a class, lawyers are not addicted to what you call amusements."
"But after living in Europe, and traveling so much, I should think that plantation would be horribly dull. Do you never suffer from ennui, cut off as you are from all society?"
"Ennui is a disease of which I am yet happily ignorant. But for my mother I should feel the need of society; in a great measure her presence supplies it. I shall tell you no more, cousin mine, since you and Helen are to spend a portion of your summer with us, and can judge for yourselves of the attractions of my country home."
"Are you residing near Mr. Arlington?" said Beulah.
"Quite near; his plantation adjoins mine. Is he a friend of yours?"
"No; but I have a friend living this year in his family. MissSanders is governess for his children. You probably know her."
"Yes; I see her occasionally. Report says she is soon to become the bride of Richard Arlington."
A slight smile curved his lips as he watched Beulah's countenance. She offered no comment, and he perceived that the on dit was not new to her.
"Beulah, I suppose you have heard of Dr. Hartwell's intended journey to the East? What an oddity he is! Told me he contemplated renting a bungalow somewhere in heathendom, and turning either Brahmin or Parsee, he had not quite decided which. He has sold his beautiful place to the Farleys. The greenhouse plants he gave to mother, and all the statuary and paintings are to be sent to us until his return, which cannot be predicted with any certainty. Father frets a good deal over this freak, as he calls it, and says the doctor had much better stay at home and physic the sick. I thought it was a sudden whim; but he says he has contemplated the trip a long time. He is going immediately, I believe. It must be a trial to you," said the thoughtless girl.
"Yes; I cannot realize it yet," replied Beulah, struggling with herself for composure, and hastily setting down her teacup, which trembled violently. The shadows swept over her once more. Mr. Lindsay noticed her agitation, and, with delicate consideration, forbore to look at her. Georgia continued heedlessly:
"I wanted that melodeon that sits in his study; but, though the remainder of the furniture is to be auctioned off, he says he will not sell the melodeon, and requested my father to have it carefully locked up somewhere at home. I asked if I might not use it, and what do you suppose he said? That I might have his grand piano, if I would accept it, but that nobody was to touch his melodeon. I told him he ought to send the piano out to you, in his absence; but he looked cross, and said you would not use it if he did."
Poor Beulah! her lips quivered, and her fingers clasped each other tightly, but she said nothing. Just then she heard Dr. Asbury's quick step in the hall, and, to her infinite relief, he entered, accompanied by Helen. She saw that, though his manner was kind and bantering as usual, there was an anxious look on his benevolent face, and his heavy brows occasionally knitted. When he went into the adjoining room to see Mrs. Williams, she understood his glance, and followed him. He paused in the hall, and said eagerly:
"Has Hartwell been here lately?"
"Yes; he was here last week."
"Did he tell you of his whim about traveling East?"
"Yes; he told me."
"Beulah, take care what you are about! You are working mischief not easily rectified. Child, keep Guy at home!"
"He is master of his own movements, and you know his stubborn will.I would keep him here if I could; but I have no influence."
"All fiddlesticks! I know better! I am neither a bat nor a mole. Beulah, I warn you; I beg you, child, mind how you act. Once entirely estranged, all the steam of Christendom could not force him back. Don't let him go; if you do, the game is up, I tell you now. You will repent your own work, if you do not take care. I told him he was a fool to leave such a position as his and go to dodging robbers in Eastern deserts; whereupon he looked as bland and impenetrable as if I had compared him to Solomon. There, go back to your company, end mind what I say; don't let Guy go."
He left her; and, though she exerted herself to entertain her guests, Mr. Lindsay saw that her mind was troubled and her heart oppressed. He endeavored to divert her thoughts, by introducing various topics; and she talked and smiled, and even played and sang, yet the unlifting cloud lay on her brow. The evening seemed strangely long, and she accompanied her visitors to the door with a sensation of relief. At parting Mr. Lindsay took her hand, and said in a low voice:
"May I come whenever I am in your city?"
"Certainly; I shall be pleased to see you when you have leisure," she replied hurriedly.
"I shall avail myself of your permission, I assure you."
She had often heard Dr. Asbury speak with fond pride of this nephew; and, as Eugene had also frequently mentioned him in his early letters from Heidelberg, she felt that he was scarcely a stranger, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. To her, his parting words seemed merely polite, commonplace forms; and, with no thought of a future acquaintance, she dismissed him from her mind, which was too painfully preoccupied to dwell upon the circumstances of his visit.
A few days passed, and one Saturday morning she sat in the dining room, finishing a large drawing upon which she had for months expended all her leisure moments. It was designed from a description in "Queen Mab," and she took up her crayon to give the final touch, when heavy steps in the hall arrested her attention, and, glancing toward the door, she saw Hal, Dr. Hartwell's driver, with a wooden box on his shoulder and Charon by his side. The latter barked with delight, and sprang to meet the girl, who had hastily risen.
"How do you do, Miss Beulah? It is many a day since I have seen you, and you look worse of wear too. Haven't been sick, have you?" said Hal, sliding the box down on the floor.
"Not exactly sick, but not so well as usual," she answered, passing her trembling hands over the dog's head.
"Well, I don't see, for my part, what is to become of us all, now master's gone—"
"Gone!" echoed Beulah.
"Why, to be sure. He started to the plantation yesterday, to set things all in order there, and then he is going straight on to New York. The house looks desolate enough, and I feel like I was about to dig my own grave. Just before he left he called me into the study, and told me that, as soon as he had gone, I was to bring Charon over to you and ask you to keep him and take care of him. He tried to unlock the collar on his neck, but somehow the key would not turn. Master looked dreadful sad when he patted poor Char's head and let the brute put his paws on his shoulders for the last time. Just as the boat pushed off he called to me to be sure to bring him to you; so here he is; and, Miss Beulah, the poor fellow seems to know something is wrong; he whined all night, and ran over the empty house this morning, growling and snuffing. You are to keep him till master comes home; the Lord only knows when that will be. I tried to find out; but he looked for the world like one of them stone faces in the study, and gave me no satisfaction. Miss Beulah, Dr. Asbury was at the house just as I started, and he sent over this box to you. Told me to tell you that he had all the pictures moved to his house, but had not room to hang all, so he sent one over for you to take care of. Shall I take it out of the case?"
"Never mind, Hal; I can do that. Did your master leave no other message for me? was there no note?" She leaned heavily on a chair to support herself.
"None that I know of, except that you must be kind to Charon. I have no time to spare; Dr. Asbury needs me; so good-by, Miss Beulah. I will stop some day when I am passing, and see how the dog comes on. I know he will be satisfied with you."
The faithful servant touched his hat and withdrew. The storm of grief could no longer be repressed, and, sinking down on the floor, Beulah clasped her arms round Charon's neck and hid her face in his soft, curling hair, while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. She had not believed her guardian would leave without coming again, and had confidently expected him, and now he had gone. Perhaps forever; at best, for many years. She might never see him again, and this thought was more than she could endure. The proud restraint she was wont to impose upon her feelings all vanished, and in her despairing sorrow she wept and moaned as she had never done before, even when Lilly was taken from her. Charon crouched close to her, with a mute grief clearly written in his sober, sagacious countenance, and each clung to the other, as to a last stay and solace. He was a powerful animal, with huge limbs, and a think, shaggy covering, sable as midnight, without a speck of white about him. Around his neck was a silver chain, supporting a broad piece of plate, on which was engraved, in German letters, the single word, "Hartwell." How long she sat there Beulah knew not; but a growl roused her, and she saw Mrs. Williams looking sorrowfully at her.
"My child, what makes you moan and weep so bitterly."
"Oh, because I am so miserable; because I have lost my best friend; my only friend; my guardian. He has gone—gone! and I did not see him." With a stifled cry her face went down again.
The matron had never seen her so unnerved before, and wondered at the vehemence of her grief, but knew her nature too well to attempt consolation. Beulah lifted the box and retired to her own room, followed by Charon. Securing the door, she put the case on the table and looked at it wistfully. Were her conjectures, her hopes, correct? She raised the lid and unwrapped the frame, and there was the noble head of her guardian. She hung the portrait on a hook just above her desk, and then stood, with streaming eyes, looking up at it. It had been painted a few weeks after his marriage, and represented him in the full morning of manhood, ere his heart was embittered and his clear brow overshadowed. The artist had suffered a ray of sunshine to fall on the brown hair that rippled round his white temples with careless grace. There was no mustache to shade the sculptured lips, and they seemed about to part in one of those rare, fascinating smiles which Beulah had often watched for in vain. The matchless eyes looked down at her, with brooding tenderness in their hazel depths, and now seemed to question her uncontrollable grief. Yet she had pained him; had in part caused his exile from the home of his youth, and added another sorrow to those which now veiled that peerless face in gloom. He had placed his happiness in her hands; had asked her to be his wife. She looked at the portrait, and shuddered and moaned. She loved him above all others; loved him as a child adores its father; but how could she, who had so reverenced him, consent to become his wife? Besides, she could not believe he loved her. He liked her; pitied her isolation and orphanage; felt the need of her society, and wanted her always in his home. But she could not realize that he, who so worshiped beauty, could possibly love her. It was all like a hideous dream which morning would dispel; but there was the reality, and there was Charon looking steadily up at the portrait he was at no loss to recognize.
"Oh, if I could have seen him once more! If he had parted with me in kindness, it would not be so intolerable. But to remember his stern, sad face, as last I saw it; oh, how can I bear it I To have it haunting me through life, like a horrible specter; no friendly words to cherish; no final message; all gloom and anger. Oh, how shall I bear it!" And she fell on Charon's neck and wept bitterly.