"Oh, philosophy! thou hast mocked my hungry soul; thy gilded fruits have crumbled to ashes in my grasp. In lieu of the holy faith of my girlhood, thou hast given me but dim, doubtful conjecture, cold metaphysical abstractions, intangible shadows, that flit along my path, and lure me on to deeper morasses. Oh, what is the shadow of death, in comparison with the starless night which has fallen upon me, even in the morning of my life! My God, save me! Give me light! Of myself I can know nothing!"
Her proud intellect was humbled, and, falling on her knees, for the first time in many months, a sobbing prayer went up to the throne of the living God; while the vast clockwork of stars looked in on a pale brow and lips, where heavy drops of moisture glistened.
Four years had passed since Eugene Graham returned to his home, after his severe illness, and now, as he sits alone in his library, with a bundle of legal documents before him, it is not difficult to perceive that his promise has been held sacred. Through the suggestion of Mr. Lindsay, and the persuasions of Beulah, he had closely applied himself to the study of law immediately after his recovery. Hopeless of happiness in his home, ambition became the ruling passion, and scourged him on to unceasing exertion. The aspirations of his boyhood revived; the memory of his humiliating course goaded him to cover the past with the garlands of fame; and consciousness of unusual talents assured him of final success. Mr. Graham no longer opposed the design as formerly, but facilitated its execution to the utmost of his ability. Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that earnest application soon procured his admission to the bar. His efforts were redoubled, and, ere long, his eloquence obtained for him a connection with one of the most prominent members of the profession. The world wondered at this complete revolution; many doubted its continuance; but, step by step, he climbed the ladder to eminence, and merited the applause which the public lavished upon him. Success only inflamed his ambition, and it became evident he aimed at political renown. Nature had fitted him for the political arena, had endowed him with oratorical powers of no ordinary stamp; and, though long dormant, they were not impaired by his inertia. It was fortunate for him that an exciting Presidential canvass afforded numerous opportunities for the development of these, and at its close he found himself possessed of an enviable reputation. To a certain extent, his wife was elated with his success; she was proud of his acknowledged talent; but her selfish nature was utterly incapable of the tenderness and sincere affection he demanded. Their alienation was complete. No bickerings disturbed the serene atmosphere of their home, because mutual indifference precluded the necessity. Mrs. Graham gave parties and attended them; rode, danced, spent her summers at fashionable watering-places and her winters in a round of folly and dissipation, while her husband pursued his profession, careless of her movements and rarely in her company. In the lady's conduct the circle in which she moved saw nothing reprehensible. She dressed superbly, gave elegant entertainments, and was, par excellence, the leader of bon-ton. True, she was quite as much of a belle as any young lady in the city, and received the attentions and flattery of gentlemen as unreservedly, nay, delightedly, as though she had no neglected husband and child at home who had claims upon her; put this sort of conjugal indifference was in vogue, and, as she frowned down, or smiled up, some family laboriously toiling to reach her circle, her "clique" blindly followed her example and humored her whims. As regarded her deportment toward her husband, one alteration was perceptible; she respected—almost feared him; shrank from his presence, and generally contrived to fill the house with company when she was, for short intervals, at home. He ceased to upbraid, or even remonstrate; his days were spent in the courtroom or his office, and his evenings in his library. She dressed as extravagantly as she chose; he made no comments, paid her accounts, and grew more taciturn and abstracted day by day.
Oh, woman! woman! when will you sever the fetters which fashion, wealth, and worldliness have bound about you, and prove yourselves worthy the noble mission for which you were created? How much longer will heartless, soulless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters waltz, moth-like, round the consuming flame of fashion; and, by neglecting their duties and deserting their sphere, drive their husbands, sons, and brothers out into the world, reckless and depraved, with callous hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of Mammon? God help the women of America! Grant them the true womanly instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made "home" the Eden, the acme of all human hopes and joys. Teach them that gilded saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted! Eugene Graham's love and tenderness were all bestowed on his daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.
It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers, necessary in a case to be defended the following day. The sunshine, stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened, vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope. As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall; the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish voice asked eagerly:
"May I come now, father? Have you done writing? I won't make a noise; indeed I won't!"
The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her, saying:
"I have done writing; you may come now, my darling."
She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers through his hair. She resembled him closely, having the same classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes. He returned her caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her curls with a light, gentle touch. The evening was warm, and large drops stood on his forehead. She noticed it, and, standing on his knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so. A servant looked in at the door.
"Did you ring, sir?"
"Yes; tell Philip I want my buggy."
"Oh, you are going to ride! Can I go? and will we go to see AuntBeulah—will we?" She looked at him earnestly.
"Would you like to go there, Cornelia?"
"Oh, yes! I always like to go there. I love her, she is so good!Let's go to see her, won't you?"
"Yes; you shall go with me, my darling."
He bent down to kiss her coral lips, and just then Mrs. Graham swept into the room. She was attired in an elegant riding habit of dark purple, while a velvet hat of the same color, with a long, drooping plume, shaded her face. Her hands were incased in delicate kid gauntlets, which fitted with perfect exactness. She was a beautiful woman, and the costume heightened her loveliness. She started slightly on perceiving her husband, and said hastily:
"I thought you were at your office. Cornelia, what on earth have you done with my riding whip? you mischievous little wretch! You lost it once before. Go find it; I am waiting for it. Go this instant!"
"I don't know where it is," returned the child, making no effort to leave her father's arms.
Eugene glanced up at his wife; his eyes wandered over her becoming and beautiful dress, then went back to the sunny face of his child.
An angry flush dyed Antoinette's cheeks as she observed her daughter's indifference.
"Where is my whip? I say. Flora saw you with it yesterday, whipping that hobby-horse. I told you to keep your hands off of it, didn't I? If you don't go and find it quick, I'll box you soundly, you meddlesome little brat!"
"I haven't had it since you told me I shouldn't play with it. Flora tells a story," answered Cornelia, sobbing.
"You did have it!" cried the angry mother, shaking her hand threateningly.
"Did you see her with it?" asked Eugene, rising, with the child in his arms.
"I know she had it!"
"Did you see her with it, I asked you?"
"No; but Flora did, and that is all the same; besides, I—"
"Here is the whip, ma'am. I found it last week in the hall, behind a chair, and put it in the cane stand. The last time you went to ride, you put it and your gloves on a chair in the hall, and went into the parlor to see some company. Flora picked up the gloves and carried them upstairs, but didn't see the whip."
John, the dining-room servant, handed her a small whip, with mother- of-pearl handle, inlaid with gold.
"It is no such thing!" cried Mrs. Graham, gathering up the folds of her habit and coloring with vexation.
John shrugged his shoulders and retired, and his mistress sailed out to the front door, where her horse and her escort awaited her.
"Run and get your hat and cape, Cornelia; I see the buggy coming round the corner."
Eugene wiped away the teardrops glittering on her rosy cheeks, and she sprang off to obey him; while, in the interim, he sent for Flora, and gave her to understand that he would allow no repetition of the deception he had accidentally discovered. The maid retired, highly incensed, of course, and resolved to wreak vengeance on both John and Cornelia; and Eugene took his seat in the buggy in no particularly amiable mood. They found Beulah in her little flower gaiden, pruning some luxuriant geraniums. She threw down her knife and hastened to meet them, and all three sat down on the steps.
Four years had brought sorrow to that cottage home; had hushed the kind accents of the matron; stilled the true heart that throbbed so tenderly for her orphan charge, and had seen her laid to rest in a warm, grassy slope of the cemetery. She died peaceably three months before the day of which I write; died exhorting Eugene and Beulah so to pass the season of probation that they might be reunited beyond the grave. In life she had humbly exemplified the teachings of our Saviour, and her death was a triumphant attestation of the joy and hope which only the Christian religion can afford in the final hour.
To Beulah this blow was peculiarly severe, and never had the sense of her orphanage been more painfully acute than when she returned from the funeral to her lonely home. But to sorrow her nature was inured; she had learned to bear grief, and only her mourning dress and subdued manner told how deeply she felt this trial. Now she took Cornelia in her arms and kissed her fondly, while the child returned her caresses with a warmth which proved how sincerely she loved her.
"May I have some flowers, auntie?" cried she, patting Beulah's pale cheek with her plump, dimpled hands.
"Yes; just as many as you can carry home. Go gather some."
She sprang off, and the two sat watching the flutter of her white dress among the flower-beds. She piled her little apron as full as possible, and came back panting and delighted. Beulah looked down at the beautiful beaming face, and, twining one of the silky curls over her finger, said musingly:
"Eugene, she always reminds me of Lilly. Do you see the resemblance?"
"Not in her features; in size and gay heedlessness of manner she is like Lilly as I saw her last."
"Yes; Lilly's eyes were blue, and your child's are dark, like your own; but she never comes up and puts her arms round my neck without recalling bygone years. I could shut my eyes and fancy my lost darling was once more mine. Ah! how carefully memory gathers up the golden links of childhood and weaves the chain that binds our hearts to the olden time! Sometimes I think I am only dreaming, and shall wake to a happy reality. If I could have Lilly back, oh, what a sunshine it would shed over my heart and life! But this may not be; and I can only love Cornelia instead."
Her long, black lashes were weighed down with unshed tears, and there was a touching sadness in her low voice. Cornelia stood by her side, busily engaged in dressing Beulah's hair with some of the roses and scarlet geranium she had gathered. She noticed the unusual melancholy written in the quiet face, and said impatiently:
"With all my flowers you won't look gay! It must be this black dress. Don't wear such ugly, dark things; I wish you wouldn't. I want to see you look beautiful, like mother."
"Cornelia, go and break that cluster of yellow berries yonder," said her father; and when she had left them he turned to his companion and asked:
"Beulah, have you reflected on what I said the last time I saw you?"
"Yes, Eugene."
"With what result?"
"My former decision is only confirmed the more I ponder the subject."
"You have seen nothing of Reginald, then? He was here, on some legal business, last week."
"No; he has been in the city several times during the last four years, but never comes here; and, except that one letter, which I did not answer, I have heard nothing from him. I doubt whether we ever meet again."
"You are a strange woman! Such devotion as his would have won any other being. He is as much attached to you now as the day he first offered you his hand. Upon my word, your obstinacy provokes me. He is the noblest man I ever knew—everything that I should suppose a woman of your nature would admire; and yet, year after year, you remain apparently as indifferent as ever."
"And it were a miserable return for such unmerited love to marry him merely from gratitude. I do admire him, but cannot marry him. I told him so four years ago."
"But why did you not at least answer his letter?"
"Because his acceptance was made the condition of an answer; a negative one was not expected, and I had no other to give."
"Pardon me, Beulah; but why do you not love him?"
"A strange question truly. My heart is not the tool of my will."
"Beulah, do you intend to spend your life solitary and joyless, cut off, as you are here, from society, and dependent on books and music for sympathy? Why will you not marry Reginald and make his home happy?"
"Eugene, I have told you before that I could not accept him, and told you why. Let the subject drop; it is an unpleasant one to me. I am happier here than I could possibly be anywhere else. Think you I would marry merely for an elegant home and an intellectual companion? Never! I will live and die here in this little cottage rather than quit it with such motives. You are mistaken in supposing that Mr. Lindsay is still attached to me. It has been nearly two years since he wrote that letter, and from Georgia I hear that the world believes he is soon to marry a lady residing somewhere near him. I think it more than probable the report is true, and hope most sincerely it may be so. Now, Eugene, don't mention the subject again, will you?"
"It is generally believed that he will be elected to Congress; next month will decide it. The chances are all in his favor," persisted Eugene.
"Yes; so I judged from the papers," said she coolly, and then added: "And one day I hope to see you, or rather hear of you, in Washington by his side. I believe I shall be gratified; and oh, Eugene, what a proud moment it will be to me! How I shall rejoice in your merited eminence."
Her face kindled as she spoke; but the shadows deepened in his countenance, as he answered moodily:
"Perhaps I may; but fame and position cannot lighten a loaded heart or kindle the sacred flame of love in a dreary home. When a man blindly wrecks his happiness on the threshold of life by a fatal marriage, no after exertion can atone or rectify the one mistake."
"Hush! she will hear you," said Beulah, pointing to the little girl, who was slowly approaching them.
A bitter smile parted his lips.
"She is my all; yet precious as she is to my sad heart, I would gladly lay her in her grave to-morrow sooner than see her live to marry an uncongenial spirit, or know that her radiant face was clouded with sorrow, like mine. God grant that her father's wretched lot may warn her of the quicksands which nearly ingulfed him." He took the child in his arms, as if to shield her from some impending danger, and said hurriedly:
"Are you ready to go home?"
"Is it so very late?"
"It is time we were going back, I think."
Beulah tied on the hat and cape, which had been thrown aside, and saw them ride away.
There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to God's care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this, under various fictitious signatures, was hers. She still studied and wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame; wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams' death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as assistant, but as principal in that department; and the increased salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary. Her intense love of beauty, whether found in nature or art, was a constant source of pleasure; books, music, painting, flowers, all contributed largely to her happiness. The grim puzzles of philosophy no longer perplexed her mind; sometimes they thrust themselves before her, threatening as the sphinx of old; but she knew that here they were insolvable; that at least her reason was no Oedipus, and a genuine philosophy induced her to put them aside, and, anchoring her hopes of God and eternity in the religion of Christ, she drew from the beautiful world in which she lived much pure enjoyment. Once she had worshiped the universe; now she looked beyond the wonderful temple whose architecture, from its lowest foundations of rock to its starry dome of sky, proclaimed the God of revelation; and, loving its beauty and grandeur, felt that it was but a home for a season, where the soul could be fitted for yet more perfect dwelling-places. Her face reflected the change which a calm reliance on God had wrought in her feelings. The restless, anxious expression had given place to quiet. The eyes had lost their strained, troubled look; the brow was unruffled, the face serene. Serene, reader, but not happy and sparkling as it might have been. All the shadows "were not yet banished from her heart; there was one spectral form which thrust itself continually before her and kept her cheek pale and rendered her lip at times unsteady. She had struggled bravely against this one remaining sorrow; but, as time rolled on, its power and influence only increased. Even now, in this quiet hour, when a holy hush had fallen on all nature, and twilight wrapped its soft, purple veil around her, this haunting memory came to stir the depths of her heart. Charon walked slowly up the steps, and, lying down at her feet, nestled his head against her. Then fancy painted a dreary picture, which
"Seemed all dark and red—a tract of sand,And someone pacing there alone,Who paced forever in a glimmering land,Lit with a low, large moon."
It was the thought of a lonely man, wandering without aim or goal in far-distant deserts; away from home and friends; joyless, hopeless. One who was dearer to her than all on earth beside; who had left her in anger, and upon whose loved face she might look no more. For three years no tidings had come of his wanderings; none knew his fate; and, perhaps, even then his proud head lay low beneath the palms of the Orient, or was pillowed on the coral crags of distant seas. This thought was one she was unable to endure; her features quivered, her hands grasped each other in a paroxysm of dread apprehension, and, while a deep groan burst from her lips, she bowed her face on. the head of his last charge, his parting gift. The consciousness of his unbelief tortured her. Even in eternity they might meet no more; and this fear cost her hours of agony, such as no other trial had ever inflicted. From the moment of her return to the Bible and to prayer this struggle began, and for three years she had knelt, morning and evening, and entreated Almighty God to shield and guide the wanderer; to scatter the mists of unbelief which shrouded his mind. Constantly her prayers went up, mingled with tears and sobs, and, as weary months wore on, the petitions grew more impassioned. Her anxiety increased daily, and finally it became the one intense, absorbing wish of her heart to see her guardian again. His gloom, his bitterness were all forgotten; she only remembered his unceasing care and kindness, his noble generosity, his brilliant smile, which was bestowed only on her. Pressing her face against Charon's head, she murmured pleadingly:
"Oh, Father, protect him from suffering and death! Guide him safely home. Give me my guardian back. Oh, Father, give me my wandering friend once more!"
"Fold that coat for me, my dear; there, give it to me; I believe there is room in this trunk for it."
Mrs. Asbury took one of her husband's coats from Beulah's hand and carefully packed it away.
"How long will you be absent, do you suppose?"
"Probably not longer than a month. The doctor thinks a few days at Saratoga will invigorate him. If you had consented to go, we had intended spending a week at Niagara. I am sorry you will not go, Beulah; you would enjoy the trip, and, moreover, the change would benefit you. Why do you so pertinaciously reject that legacy of Cornelia's? The money has been in my husband's hands for some years untouched, and Mr. Graham said, not long since, that you might just as well accept it, for he would never receive a cent of it in return. The original sum has been considerably augmented by judicious investments, and would place you above the necessity of labor, if you would accept it. Your refusal wounds Mr. Graham; he told me so last week. It was Cornelia's particular request that you should have that amount, and he is anxious to see you in possession of it. I told him of your suggestion that he should add this legacy to the sum already given to the asylum; but he vowed solemnly he would have nothing to do with it. If you chose to give it to the asylum, you could do so, of course; the money was yours. He never would touch a cent of it. Beulah, if you will not think me officious, I will say, candidly, that I think you ought to accept it. That is, use it, for the legacy has been left, whether you employ it or not."
Beulah looked grave and troubled, but made no reply.
Mrs. Asbury finished packing the trunk, locked it, and, turning toward the door, said:
"I am going upstairs to see about the furniture in that room whichGeorgia calls the 'Pitti Gallery.' Come with me, my dear."
She led the way, and Beulah followed, until they reached a large apartment in the third story, the door of which Mrs. Asbury unlocked. As they entered Beulah started on seeing the statuary and paintings with which she was so familiar in former years; and in one corner of the room stood the melodeon, carefully covered. A quantity of tissue paper lay on the floor, and Mrs. Asbury began to cover the paintings by pinning the sheets together. Beulah took off her gloves and assisted; there was silence for some time; but, on lifting a piece of drapery, Mrs. Asbury exposed the face of a portrait which Beulah recognized, from the peculiarity of the frame, as the one that had hung over the mantel in her guardian's study. Paper and pins fell from her fingers, and, drawing a deep breath, she gazed upon the face she had so long desired to see. She traced a slight resemblance to Antoinette in the faultless features; the countenance was surpassingly beautiful. It was a young, girlish face, sparkling with joyousness, bewitching in its wonderful loveliness. The eloquent eyes were strangely, almost wildly, brilliant, the full crimson lips possessed that rare outline one sees in old pictures, and the cheek, tinted like a sea-shell, rested on one delicate, dimpled hand. Beulah looked, and grew dizzy. This was his wife; this the portrait he had kept shrouded so long and so carefully. How he must have worshiped that radiant young bride!
Mrs. Asbury noticed her emotion, and asked, with some surprise:
"Did you never see this before?"
"No; it was always covered, and hung too high for me to lift the crape." Beulah's eyes were riveted on the canvas. Mrs. Asbury watched her a moment, and said:
"It is an undetermined question in my mind whether beauty, such as this, is not a curse. In this instance assuredly it proved so, for it wrecked the happiness of both husband and wife. My dear child, do you know your guardian's history?"
"I know nothing of him, save that he is my best friend."
"When I first saw Guy Hartwell he was one of the noblest men I ever met, commanding universal admiration and esteem. It was before his marriage. He was remarkably handsome, as you can readily imagine he must have been, and his manners possessed a singular fascination for all who came within the circle of his acquaintance. Even now, after the lapse of ten years, I remember his musical, ringing laugh; a laugh I have never heard since. His family were aristocratic and wealthy, and Guy was his mother's idol. She was a haughty, imperious woman, and her 'boy,' as she fondly termed him, was her pride. His only sister (Mrs. Chilton, or, rather, Mrs. Lockhart) was his senior, and he had a younger brother, Harry, who was extremely wild; ran away from home and spent most of his time at sea. Guy was naturally of a happy, genial temperament; fond of study; fond of art, flowers, poetry, everything that was noble and beautiful, that could minister to highly cultivated tastes. Mr. Chilton was unfortunate in his speculations; lost his fortune, and died soon after Pauline's birth, leaving his wife and child dependent on her mother and brother. May and the old lady often disagreed, and only Guy could harmonize their discords. During a visit to New Orleans he accidentally met the original of this portrait; her family were almost destitute, but he aided them very liberally. She was very beautiful, and, in an unlucky hour, he determined to marry her. She was a mere child, and he placed her for a while at a school, where she enjoyed every educational advantage. He was completely fascinated; seemed to think only of Creola, and hastened the marriage. His mother and sister bitterly opposed the match, ridiculed his humble and portionless bride; but he persisted, and brought her here, a beautiful, heedless girl. Guy built that house, and his mother and sister occupied one near him, which was burnt before you knew anything about them. Of course his wife went constantly into society, and, before six months elapsed, poor Guy discovered that he had made a fatal mistake. She did not love him; had married him merely for the sake of an elegant home, and money to lavish as her childish whims dictated. Ah, Beulah! it makes my heart ache to think of the change this discovery wrought in Guy's nature. He was a proud man, naturally; but now he became repulsive, cold, and austere. The revolution in his deportment and appearance was almost incredible. His wife was recklessly imprudent, and launched into the wildest excesses which society sanctioned. When he endeavored to restrain her, she rebelled, and, without his knowledge, carried on a flirtation with one whom she had known previous to her marriage. I believe she was innocent in her folly, and merely thoughtlessly fed her vanity with the adulation excited by her beauty. Poor child! she might have learned discretion, but, unfortunately, Mrs. Chilton had always detested her, and now, watching her movements, she discovered Creola's clandestine meetings with the gentleman whom her husband had forbidden her to recognize as an acquaintance. Instead of exerting herself to rectify the difficulties in her brother's home, she apparently exulted in the possession of facts which allowed her to taunt him with his wife's imprudence and indifference. He denied the truth of her assertions; she dared him to watch her conduct, and obtained a note which enabled him to return home one day at an unusually early hour and meet the man he had denounced in his own parlor. Guy ordered him out of the house, and, without addressing his wife, rode back to see his patients; but that night he learned from her that before he ever met her an engagement existed between herself and the man he so detested. He was poor, and her mother had persuaded her to marry Guy for his fortune. She seemed to grow frantic, cursed the hour of her marriage, professed sincere attachment to the other, and, I firmly believe, became insane from that moment. Then and there they parted. Creola returned to her mother, but died suddenly a few weeks after leaving her husband. They had been married but a year. I have always thought her mind diseased, and it was rumored that her mother died insane. Doubtless Guy's terrible rage drove her to desperation; though he certainly had cause to upbraid. I have often feared that he would meet the object of his hatred, and once, and only once afterward, that man came to the city. Why, I never knew; but my husband told me that he saw him at a concert here some years ago. Poor Guy! how he suffered; yet how silently he bore it; how completely he sheathed his heart of fire in icy vestments. He never alluded to the affair in the remotest manner; never saw her after that night. He was sitting in our library, waiting to see my husband, when he happened to open the letter announcing her death. I was the only person present, and noticed that a change passed over his countenance; I spoke to him, but he did not reply; I touched him, but he took no notice whatever, and sat for at least an hour without moving a muscle or uttering a word. Finally George came and spoke to him appealingly. He looked up and smiled. Oh, what a smile! May I never see such another; it will haunt me while I live! Without a word he folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and left us. Soon after his mother died, and he went immediately to Europe. He was absent two years, and came back so stern, so cynical, so unlike his former self, I scarcely knew him. Mrs. Chilton took charge of his house from the hour of his separation from Creola; but they were not congenial. He was vastly her superior, save in intellect, which none of the Hartwell family ever lacked. My husband is very much attached to Guy; thinks he has not an equal, yet mourns over the blight which fell upon him in the very morn of his glorious manhood. About a year after his return from Europe he took you to his house as an adopted child. I wondered at it, for I knew how imbittered his whole soul had become. But the heart must have an idol; he was desolate and miserable, and took you home to have something to love and interest him. You never knew him in the prime of his being, for, though comparatively young in years, he had grown prematurely old in feeling before you saw him. Poor Guy! may a merciful and loving God preserve him wherever he may be, and bring him to a knowledge of that religion which alone can comfort a nature like his—so noble, so gifted, yet so injured, so imbittered."
She brushed away the tears that stood on her cheeks, and looked sorrowfully at the portrait of the unfortunate young wife.
Beulah sat with her face partially averted, and her eyes shaded with her hand; once or twice her lips moved, and a shiver ran over her. She looked up, and said abruptly:
"Leave the key of this room with me, will you? I should like to come here occasionally."
"Certainly; come as often as you choose; and here on this bunch is the key of the melodeon. Take it also; the instrument needs dusting, I dare say, for it has never been opened since Guy left, nearly five years ago. There, the clock struck two, and the boat leaves at four; there, too, is my husband's step. Come, my dear; we must go down. Take these keys until I return."
She gave them to her, and they descended to the dining room, where the doctor awaited them.
"Beulah, what are you going to do with yourself next year? You must not think of living in that cottage alone. Since Mrs. Williams' death you should abandon the thought of keeping house. It will not do, child, for you to live there by yourself." So said the doctor a short time before he bade her adieu.
"I don't know yet what I shall do. I am puzzled about a home."
"You need not be. Come and live in my house, as I begged you to do long ago. Alice and I will be heartily glad to have you. Child, why should you hesitate?"
"I prefer a home of my own, if circumstances permitted it. You and Mrs. Asbury have been very kind in tendering me a home in your house, and I do most sincerely thank you both for your friendly interest; but I—"
"Oh, Beulah, I should be so very glad to have you always with me! My dear child, come."
Mrs. Asbury passed her arm affectionately around the girl's waist.Beulah looked at her with trembling lips, and said hastily:
"Will you take me as a boarder?"
"I would rather take you as a friend—as a daughter."
"Not a bit of it, Alice. She shall pay the highest possible board. Don't imagine, Miss Independence, that I expected for a moment to offer you a home gratis. Pay board? That you shall; always in advance, and candles, and fires, and the use of my library, and the benefit of my explanations and conversation charged as 'extras,'" cried the doctor, shaking his fist at her.
"Then, sir, I engage rooms."
"Will you really come, my child?" asked Mrs. Asbury, kissing the orphan's pale cheek tenderly.
"Gladly, as a boarder, and very grateful for such a privilege."
"Beulah, on reflection, I think I can possibly take Charon for half- price; though I must confess to numerous qualms of conscience at the bare suggestion of receiving such an 'infernal' character into my household."
"Thank you," said she, and saw them depart for Saratoga, whither Georgia and Helen had preceded them. Several weeks elapsed without her receiving any tidings, and then a letter came giving her information of a severe illness which had attacked the doctor, immediately after his arrival in New York. He was convalescing rapidly when his wife wrote, and, in proof thereof, subjoined a postscript, in his scrawling hand and wonted bantering style. Beulah laughed over it, refolded the letter, and went into her little garden to gather a bouquet for one of her pupils who had recently been quite sick. She wore a white muslin apron over her black dress, and soon filled it with verbena, roses, and geranium sprigs. Sitting down on the steps, she began to arrange them, and soon became absorbed in her occupation. Presently a shadow fell on the step; she glanced up, and the flowers dropped from her fingers, while an exclamation of surprise escaped her.
Mr. Lindsay held out his hand.
"After four years of absence, of separation, have you no word of welcome?"
She gave him both hands, and said eagerly:
"Oh, yes; I am very glad to see you again; very glad that I have an opportunity of congratulating you on your signal success. I am heartily glad my friend is soon to enter Congressional halls. Accept my most sincere congratulations on your election."
A sudden flush rose to his temples, and, clasping her hands tightly, he exclaimed passionately:
"Oh, Beulah, your congratulations mock me. I come to offer you, once more, my hand, my heart, my honors, if I have any. I have waited patiently; no, not patiently, but still I have waited, for some token of remembrance from you, and could bear my suspense no longer. Will you share the position which has been accorded me recently? Will you give me this hand which I desire more intensely than the united honors of the universe beside? Beulah, has my devoted love won me your affection? Will you go with me to Washington?"
"I cannot; I cannot!"
"Cannot? Oh, Beulah, I would make you a happy wife, if it cost me my life!"
"No. I could not be happy as your wife. It is utterly impossible. Mr. Lindsay, I told you long ago you could never be more than a friend."
"And have years wrought no change in your heart?"
"Years have strengthened my esteem, my sincere friendship; but more than this all time cannot accomplish."
"Your heart is tenacious of its idol," he answered moodily.
"It rebels, sir, now, as formerly, at the thought of linking my destiny with that of one whom I never loved." Beulah spoke rapidly, her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled with displeasure.
He looked at her and sighed deeply; then threw down a letter, saying:
"Ah, Beulah, I understood long ago why you could not love me; but I hoped years of absence would obliterate the memory that prevented my winning you. I made unusual exertions to discover some trace of your wandering guardian; have written constantly to my former banker in Paris, to find some clew to his whereabouts. Through him I learn that your friend was last heard of at Canton, and the supposition is that he is no longer living. I do not wish to pain you, Beulah; but I would fain show you how frail a hope you cling to. Believe me, dear Beulah, I am not so selfish as to rejoice at his prolonged absence. No, no. Love such as mine prizes the happiness of its object above all other things. Were it in my power I would restore him to you this moment. I had hoped you would learn to love me; but I erred in judging your nature. Henceforth I will cast off this hope, and school myself to regard you as my friend only. I have, at least, deserved your friendship."
"And it is inalienably yours!" cried she very earnestly.
"In future, when toiling to discharge my duties, I may believe I have one sincere friend, who will rejoice at my success?"
"Of this you may well rest assured. It seems a poor return, Mr. Lindsay, for all you have tendered me; but it is the most I can give, the most an honest heart will allow me to offer. Truly, you may always claim my friendship and esteem, if it has any worth."
"I prize it far more than your hand unaccompanied by your heart. Henceforth we will speak of the past no more; only let me be the friend an orphan may require. You are to live in my uncle's house, I believe; I am very glad you have decided to do so; this is not a proper home for you now. How do you contrive to exorcise loneliness?"
"I do not always succeed very well. My flowers are a great resource; I don't know how I should live without them. My books, too, serve to occupy my attention." She was making a great effort to seem cheerful, but he saw that her smile was forced; and, with an assurance that he would see her again before he went to Washington, he shook hands cordially, and left her. She tied her bouquet, and dispatched it to the sick child, with a few lines of kind remembrance; then took the letter which Mr. Lindsay had thrown on the steps, and opened it with trembling fingers.
"Dear Sir: Yours of the 3d came to hand yesterday. As I wrote you before, I accidentally learned that Dr. Hartwell had been in Canton; but since that have heard nothing from him, and have been unable to trace him further. Letters from Calcutta state that he left that city, more than a year since, for China. Should I obtain any news of him, rest assured it shall be immediately transmitted to you.
"Very respectfully,
She crumpled the sheet, and threw it from her; and if ever earnest, heartspoken prayer availed, her sobbing cry to the God of travelers insured his safety.
One day there came a letter postmarked from an inland town where Beulah had no correspondent. The direction, however, was instantly recognized, and she broke the seal hurriedly.
"What has become of you, Beulah? and what can have become of my two letters which were never answered? Concluding you never received them, I hazard a third attempt to reach you through the medium of letters. You will readily perceive that we have removed to a distant section of the State. Ernest was called to take charge of this parish, and we are delightfully located here, within a few minutes' walk of the church. Beulah, the storm which darkened over me, in the first year of my marriage, has swept by, and it is all sunshine, glorious sunshine, with me. You know my home was very unhappy for a time. My husband's family caused misunderstandings between us, influenced him against me, and made me very, very wretched. I could not tolerate Lucy's presence with any degree of patience, yet she would remain in our house. How it would have ended only Heaven knows, had not my husband been suddenly taken very ill.
"It was on Sabbath morning. He was displeased with me because of some of my disputes with his sister, and scarcely spoke to me before he went into the pulpit. Lucy and I sat together in the rector's pew, hating each other cordially; and when Ernest began the morning service I noticed he looked pale and weary. Before it was concluded he sank back exhausted, and was borne into the vestry room, covered with blood. He had a severe hemorrhage from the throat, his physician said, but Ernest thinks it was from his lungs. I was sure he would die; and oh, Beulah, what agony I endured, as I sat beside him and watched his ghastly face! But his illness was 'the blessing in disguise'; he forgot all our disgraceful bickerings, and was never satisfied unless I was with him. Lucy grumbled, and sneered, and looked sour; but I had my husband's heart again, and determined to keep it. As soon as he was strong enough I told him how wretched I had been and how sincerely I desired to make him happy, if Lucy would only not interfere. He saw that our domestic peace was dependent upon the change, and from that hour his sister ceased meddling with my affairs. What he said to her I never knew; but soon after his recovery she returned to her parents, and I was left in peace.
"I began in sober earnest to be all my husband wished me; read the books he liked (though it was a terrible bore at first); read to him; took part in all the societies connected with his church, and, in short, became quite a demure pastor's wife. Occasionally my old fondness for fun would break out, to the horror of some of his antediluvian flock; but Ernest was very good, and bore patiently with me, and now I am as prim and precise as any old maid of sixty. At home I do as I like; that is, when Ernest likes it too. I sing, and play, and romp with the dogs and kittens; but the moment the door bell rings, lo! a demure matron receives her guests! Ernest's health is quite restored, and I am as happy as the day is long. You should see me working in my garden, and sometimes churning before breakfast, to give Ernest a fresh glass of buttermilk. I would not change places with an empress, I am so happy. My husband loves me better than everything else beside, and what more could I desire?
"Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up, churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge, indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love; whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further argumentation on the subject.
"How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking strawberries or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do, Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives? Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavor to believe so! Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish you were as happy as your friend,
Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married, and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined, and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections; the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home! the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away. Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask:
"Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the chrysanthemums were in all their glory—crimson, white, and orange. She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long, lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed:
"Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah, truly, I can say:"
"'Let me, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate,Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor, and to wait!'"
"Yes, learn to labor and to wait. The heart cries out fiercely for its recompense; is loath to wait. But I can conquer even this. I will be patient and hopeful. Duty is its own recompense."
Mrs. Asbury spared no exertion to make the orphan happy in her house. She treated her with the gentle frankness which characterized her deportment toward her daughters; and to identify her with her own family, often requested her to assist in her household plans. She thoroughly understood and appreciated Beulah's nature, and perfect confidence existed between them. It was no sooner known that Beulah was an inmate of the house than many persons, curious to see one of whom rumor spoke so flatteringly, availed themselves of the circumstance to make her acquaintance. Almost unconsciously, she soon found herself the center of a circle of literary people whom she had often heard of, but had never known previously. Gradually her reserve melted away, and her fine colloquial powers developed themselves; but she wearied of the visitors—wearied even of the themes discussed, and, having passed her life in seclusion, found in solitude a degree of enjoyment which society could not confer. Helen had married a planter, and resided at some distance from the city, but Georgia and her husband remained at home. Thus, imperceptibly, time wore on. Eugene often came and spent an hour with Beulah; and, still more frequently, Cornelia was sent to while away an evening with her merry prattle. Very steadily Eugene advanced in his profession; the applause of the world cheered him on, and an enviable reputation was his at last. Grasping ambition lured him, step by step; and it was evident that he aimed at a seat beside Reginald Lindsay. Rejoiced at his entire reformation, and proud of his success, Beulah constantly encouraged his aspirations. Antoinette was as gay and indifferent as ever, and Eugene divided his heart between his child and his ambition.
By a system of rigid economy in the disposal of her time, Beulah not only attended to her school duties, her music, and her books, but found leisure, after writing her magazine articles, to spend some time each day with the family under whose roof she resided. Dr. Asbury's health was rather feeble, and of late his eyes had grown so dim as to prevent his reading or writing. This misfortune was to a great extent counterbalanced by his wife's devoted attention, and often Beulah shared the duties of the library. One bright Sunday afternoon she walked out to the cemetery, which she visited frequently. In one corner of a small lot, inclosed by a costly iron railing, stood a beautiful marble monument, erected by Mr. Grayson over Lilly's grave. It represented two angels bearing the child up to its God. Just opposite, in the next lot, was a splendid mausoleum of the finest white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name "Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three." It was in the form of a temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters, "Silentio! silentio!" At the entrance stood two winged forms, crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held withered flowers. Beulah sat on the marble steps. Before her stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors. Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure. All was silent and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them. Human nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing. In a neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected over the remains of the friend of their childhood. Her labors ended, the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia. Here winter rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure. Mocking-birds sang cheerfully in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled walks, recalling the past. Here there was no gloom to affright the timid soul; all was serene and inviting. Why should the living shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful? And why should death be invested with fictitious horrors? A procession entered one of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner of the burying-ground. The slow, measured tread of the horses, the crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah's ears. Then the train disappeared, and she was again in solitude. Looking up, her eyes rested on the words above her: "Silentio! silentio!" They were appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly. Years had passed since the only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh in Beulah's memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue from the marble lips of the statues beside her: "For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come." With her cheek on her hand, the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life, during the season when she "was without God and without hope," she saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror. Once she stood on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered. Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the summons; but now it was otherwise.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
She believed; and, while a beautiful world linked her to life, and duty called to constant and cheerful labor, death lost its hideous aspect. With a firm faith in the Gospel of Christ, she felt that earth with all its loveliness was but a probationary dwelling-place; and that death was an angel of God, summoning the laborers to their harvest home. She had often asked what is the aim and end of life? One set of philosophers told her it was to be happy. Another exclaimed it was to learn to endure with fortitude all ills. But neither satisfied her; one promised too much, the other too little, and only in revelation was an answer found. Yet how few pause to ponder its significance! With the majority, life is the all: the springtime, the holiday; and death the hated close of enjoyment. They forget that
"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act that each to-morrowFind us further than to-day."
The path of Christianity is neither all sunshine nor all shadow, checkered certainly, but leading to a final abode of unimaginable bliss; and, with the Bible to guide her, the orphan walked fearlessly on, discharging her duties, and looking unto God and his Christ to aid her. She sat on the steps of the sepulcher, watching the last rays of the setting sun gild the monumental shafts that pointed to heaven. Her grave face might have told the scrutinizing observer of years of grief and struggle; but it also betokened an earnest soul calmly trusting the wisdom and mercy of the All-Father. She sighed as she thought of the gifted but unhappy woman who slept near her, and, rising, walked on to Lilly's tomb. Ten years had rolled their waves over her since that little form was placed here. She looked down at the simple epitaph: "He taketh his young lambs home." The cherub face seemed to beam upon her once more, and the sweet, birdlike tones of her childish voice still lingered in the secret cells of memory. She extended her arms, as if to clasp the form borne up by the angels, and said tremulously:
"Lilly, my sister, my white-robed darling, but a little while and we shall meet where orphanage is unknown! 'He doeth all things well!' Ah, little sleeper, I can wait patiently for our reunion."
As she turned her steps homeward a shadowy smile stole over her features, and the lines about her mouth resumed their wonted composure.
"Beulah, father has been asking for you," said Georgia, who met her on the staircase.
"I will go down to him immediately," was the cheerful answer, and, putting away her bonnet and shawl, she went at once to the library. The doctor was leaning very far back in his favorite chair, and she saw at a glance he had fallen asleep.
Mrs. Asbury sat at a table, weighing out some medicine he had directed sent to a patient. She looked up as Beulah entered, smiled, and said in an undertone:
"My liege lord is indulging in a nap. Come to the fire, dear; you look cold."
She left the room with the medicine, and Beulah stood before the bright wood fire and watched the ruddy light flashing grotesquely over the pictures on the wall. The gas had not yet been lighted; she crossed the room, and sat down before the window. A red glow still lingered in the west, and, one by one, the stars came swiftly out. She took up a book she had been reading that morning; but it was too dim to see the letters, and she contented herself with looking out at the stars, brightening as the night deepened. "So should it be with faith," thought she, "and yet, as troubles come thick and fast, we are apt to despair." Mrs. Asbury came back and lighted the gas, but Beulah was too much absorbed to notice it. The doctor waked, and began to talk about the severity of the winter further north and the suffering it produced among the poor. Presently he said:
"What has become of that child Beulah—do you know, Alice?"
"Yes; there she is by the window. You were asleep when she came in."
He looked round and called to her.
"What are you thinking about, Beulah? You look as cold as an iceberg. Come to the fire. Warm hands and feet will aid your philosophizing wonderfully."
"I am not philosophizing, sir," she replied, without rising.
"I will wager my elegant new edition of Coleridge against your old one that you are! Now, out with your cogitations, you incorrigible dreamer!"
"I have won your Coleridge. I was only thinking of that Talmudish tradition regarding Sandalphon, the angel of prayer."
"What of him?"
"Why, that he stands at the gate of heaven, listens to the sounds that ascend from earth, and, gathering all the prayers and entreaties, as they are wafted from sorrowing humanity, they change to flowers in his hands, and the perfume is borne into the celestial city to God. Yesterday I read Longfellow's lines on this legend, and suppose my looking up at the stars recalled it to my mind. But Georgia told me you asked for me. Can I do anything for you, sir? Are there any prescriptions you wish written off?" She came and stood by his chair.
"No, thank you, child; but I should like to hear more of that book you were reading to me last night—that is, if it will not weary you, my child."
"Certainly not—here it is. I was waiting for you to ask me for more of it. Shall I begin now, or defer it till after tea?"
"Now, if you please."
Mrs. Asbury seated herself on an ottoman at her husband's feet, and threw her arm up over his knee; and, opening Butler's "Analogy," Beulah began to read where she left off the previous day, in the chapter on "a future life."
With his hand resting on his wife's head, Dr. Asbury listened attentively. At the conclusion of the chapter, she turned to the dissertation on "personal identity," so nearly related to it, and read it slowly and impressively.
"It is remarkably clear and convincing," said the doctor, when she ceased.
"Yes; his argument that death, instead of being an abnormal event, is as much a law of our nature as birth (because necessary to future development), and that, as at maturity, we have perfections of which we never dreamed in infancy, so death may put us in possession of new powers, by releasing us from the chrysalis state, is one which has peculiar significance to my mind. Had Cornelia Graham studied it, she would never have been tortured by the thought of that annihilation which she fancied awaited her. From childhood this question of 'personal identity' has puzzled me; but, it seems to me, this brief treatise of Butler is quite satisfactory. It should be a text-book in all educational institutions; should be scattered far and wide through the land."
Here the solemn tones of the church bells told that the hour of evening service drew near. The doctor started, and said abruptly:
"Bless me! Alice, are we to have no tea to-night?"
"Yes; the tea bell rang some minutes ago; but Beulah had not quite finished her chapter, and I would not interrupt."
As they walked on to the dining room he said:
"You two are going to church, I suppose?"
"No; I shall remain with you," answered his wife gently.
"You need not, my dear. I will go with you, if you prefer it." Beulah did not look up, but she knew that true-hearted wife was unspeakably happy; and understood why, during tea, she was so quiet, so unwontedly silent.