Beulah

"I will test your love of Jean Paul. Give me that large volume in crimson binding on the second shelf. No--further on; that is it."

He turned over the leaves for a few minutes, and, with a finger still on the page, put it into her hand, saying:

"Begin here at "I went through the worlds," and read down to "when I awoke.""

She sat down and read. He put his hand carelessly over his eyes, and watched her curiously through his fingers. It was evident that she soon became intensely interested. He could see the fierce throbbing of a vein in her throat and the tight clutching of her fingers. Her eyebrows met in the wrinkling forehead, and the lips were compressed severely. Gradually the flush faded from her cheek, an expression of pain and horror swept over her stormy face, and, rising hastily, she exclaimed:

"False! false! "That everlasting storm which no one guides" tells me in thunder tones that there is a home of rest in the presence of the infinite Father! Oh, chance does not roam, like a destroying angel, through that "snow-powder of stars!" The love of our G.o.d is over all his works as a mantle! Though you should "take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea," lo! he is there! The sorrowing children of the universe are not orphans!

Neither did Richter believe it; well might he declare that with this sketch he would "terrify himself" and vanquish the specter of Atheism! Oh, sir! the dear G.o.d stretches his arm about each and all of us! "When the sorrow-laden lays himself, with a galled back, into the earth, to sleep till a fairer morning," it is not true that "he awakens in a stormy chaos, in an everlasting midnight!" It is not true! He goes home to his loved dead, and spends a blissful eternity in the kingdom of Jehovah, where death is no more, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!""

She laid the volume on his knee, and tears which would not be restrained rolled swiftly over her cheeks.

He looked at her mournfully, and took her hand in his.

"My child, do you believe all this as heartily as you did when a little girl? Is your faith in your religion unshaken?"

He felt her fingers close over his spasmodically, as she hastily replied:

"Of course, of course! What could shake a faith which years should strengthen?"

But the shiver which crept through her frame denied her a.s.sertion, and with a keen pang he saw the footprints of the Destroyer. She must not know, however, that he doubted her words, and, with an effort, he said:

"I am glad, Beulah; and if you would continue to believe, don"t read my books promiscuously. There are many on those shelves yonder which I would advise you never to open. Be warned in time, my child."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from his, and answered proudly:

"Sir, think you I could be satisfied with a creed which I could not bear to have investigated? If I abstained from reading your books, dreading lest my faith be shaken, then I could no longer confide in that faith. Christianity has triumphed over the subtleties of infidelity for eighteen hundred years. What have I to fear?"

"Beulah, do you want to be just what I am? Without belief in any creed! hopeless of eternity as of life! Do you want to be like me?

If not, keep your hands off of my books! Good night; it is time for you to be asleep."

He motioned her away, and, too much pained to reply, she silently withdrew.

CHAPTER XV.

The day had been clear, though cold, and late in the afternoon Beulah wrapped a shawl about her, and ran out into the front yard for a walk. The rippling tones of the fountain were hushed; the shrubs were bare, and, outside the greenhouse, not a flower was to be seen. Even the hardy chrysanthemums were brown and shriveled.

Here vegetation slumbered in the grave of winter. The hedges were green, and occasional clumps of ca.s.sina bent their branches beneath the weight of coral fruitage. Tall poplars lifted their leafless arms helplessly toward the sky, and threw grotesque shadows on the ground beneath, while the wintry wind chanted a mournful dirge through the somber foliage of the aged, solemn cedars. Noisy flocks of robins fluttered among the trees, eating the ripe, red yaupon berries, and now and then parties of pigeons circled round and round the house. Charon lay on the doorstep, blinking at the setting sun, with his sage face dropped on his paws. Afar off was heard the hum of the city; but here all was quiet and peaceful. Beulah looked over the beds, lately so brilliant and fragrant in their wealth of floral beauty; at the bare gray poplars, whose musical rustling had so often hushed her to sleep in cloudless summer nights, and an expression of serious thoughtfulness settled on her face. Many months before she had watched the opening spring in this same garden. Had seen young leaves and delicate blossoms bud out from naked stems, had noted their rich luxuriance as the summer heat came on--their mature beauty; and when the first breath of autumn sighed through the land she saw them flush and decline, and gradually die and rustle down to their graves. Now, where green boughs and perfumed petals had gayly looked up in the sunlight, all was desolate. The piercing northern wind seemed to whisper as it pa.s.sed, "Life is but the germ of death, and death the development of a higher life." Was the cycle eternal then? Were the beautiful ephemeras she had loved so dearly gone down into the night of death, but for a season, to be born again, in some distant springtime, mature, and return, as before, to the charnel-house? Were the threescore and ten years of human life a.n.a.logous? Life, too, had its springtime, its summer of maturity, its autumnal decline, and its wintry night of death. Were the cold sleepers in the neighboring cemetery waiting, like those dead flowers, for the tireless processes of nature, whereby their dust was to be reanimated, remolded, lighted with a soul, and set forward for another journey of threescore and ten years of life and labor? Men lived and died; their ashes enriched Mother Earth; new creations sprang, phoenix- like, from the sepulcher of the old. Another generation trod life"s path in the dim footprints of their predecessors, and that, too, vanished in the appointed process, mingling dust with dust, that Protean matter might hold the even tenor of its way, in accordance with the oracular decrees of Isis. Was it true that, since the original Genesis, "nothing had been gained, and nothing lost?" Was earth, indeed, a monstrous Kronos? If so, was not she as old as creation? To how many other souls had her body given shelter? How was her ident.i.ty to be maintained? True, she had read that ident.i.ty was housed in "consciousness," not bones and muscles? But could there be consciousness without bones and muscles? She drew her shawl closely around her, and looked up at the cloudless sea of azure. The sun had sunk below the horizon; the birds had all gone to rest; Charon had sought the study rug; even the distant hum of the city was no longer heard. "The silver sparks of stars were rising on the altar of the east, and falling down in the red sea of the west."

Beulah was chilled; there were cold thoughts in her mind--icy specters in her heart; and she quickened her pace up and down the avenue, dusky beneath the ancient gloomy cedars. One idea haunted her: aside from revelation, what proof had she that, unlike those moldering flowers, her spirit should never die? No trace was to be found of the myriads of souls who had preceded her. Where were the countless hosts? Were life and death balanced? was her own soul chiliads old, forgetting its former existences, save as dim, undefinable reminiscences, flashed fitfully upon it? If so, was it a progression? How did she know that her soul had not entered her body fresh from the release of the hangman, instead of coming down on angel wings from its starry home, as she had loved to think? A pa.s.sage which she had read many weeks before flashed upon her mind: "Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the dead children. After a time uprises the everlasting sun; and the mother starts up at the summons of the heavenly dawn, with a resurrection of her ancient bloom. And her children? Yes, but they must wait a while!" This resurrection was springtime, beckoning dormant beauty from the icy arms of winter; how long must the children wait for the uprising of the morning star of eternity? From childhood these unvoiced queries had perplexed her mind, and, strengthening with her growth, now cried out peremptorily for answers. With shuddering dread she strove to stifle the spirit which, once thoroughly awakened, threatened to explore every nook and cranny of mystery. She longed to talk freely with her guardian regarding many of the suggestions which puzzled her, but shrank instinctively from broaching such topics. Now, in her need, the sublime words of Job came to her: "Oh, that my words were now written! oh, that they were printed in a book; for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see G.o.d." Handel"s "Messiah" had invested this pa.s.sage with resistless grandeur, and, leaving the cold, dreary garden, she sat down before the melodeon and sang a portion of the Oratorio. The sublime strains seemed to bear her worshiping soul up to the presence-chamber of Deity, and exultingly she repeated the concluding words:

"For now is Christ risen from the dead: The first-fruits of them that sleep."

The triumph of faith shone in her kindled eyes, though glittering drops fell on the ivory keys, and the whole countenance bespoke a heart resting in the love of the Father. While her fingers still rolled waves of melody through the room, Dr. Hartwell entered, with a parcel in one hand and a magnificent cl.u.s.ter of greenhouse flowers in the other. He laid the latter before Beulah, and said:

"I want you to go with me to-night to hear Sontag. The concert commences at eight o"clock, and you have no time to spare. Here are some flowers for your hair; arrange it as you have it now; and here, also, a pair of white gloves. When you are ready, come down and make my tea."

"Thank you, sir, for remembering me so kindly, and supplying all my wants so--"

"Beulah, there are tears on your lashes. What is the matter?"

interrupted the doctor, pointing to the drops which had fallen on the rosewood frame of the melodeon.

"Is it not enough to bring tears to my eyes when I think of all your kindness?" She hurried away without suffering him to urge the matter.

The prospect of hearing Sontag gave her exquisite pleasure, and she dressed with trembling eagerness, while Harriet leaned on the bureau and wondered what would happen next. Except to attend church and visit Clara and Mrs. Williams, Beulah had never gone out before; and the very seclusion in which she lived rendered this occasion one of interest and importance. As she took her cloak and ran downstairs the young heart throbbed violently. Would her fastidious guardian be satisfied with her appearance? She felt the blood gush over her face as she entered the room; but he did not look at her, continued to read the newspaper he held, and said, from behind the extended sheet:

"I will join you directly."

She poured out the tea with an unsteady hand. Dr. Hartwell took his silently; and, as both rose from the table, handed her a paper, saying:

"The carriage is not quite ready yet. There is a programme."

As she glanced over it he scanned her closely, and an expression of satisfaction settled on his features. She wore a dark blue silk (one he had given her some weeks before), which exquisitely fitted her slender, graceful figure, and was relieved by a lace collar, fastened with a handsome cameo pin, also his gift. The glossy black hair was brushed straight back from the face, in accordance with the prevailing style, and wound into a knot at the back of the head. On either side of this knot she wore a superb white camellia, which contrasted well with the raven hair. Her face was pale, but the expression was one of eager expectation. As the carriage rattled up to the door he put his hand on her shoulder, and said:

"You look very well to-night, my child. Those white j.a.ponicas become you."

She breathed freely once more.

At the door of the concert hall he gave her his arm, and, while the pressure of the crowd detained them a moment at the entrance, she clung to him with a feeling of dependence utterly new to her. The din of voices, the dazzling glare of the gas-lights bewildered her, and she walked on mechanically, till the doctor entered his seat and placed her beside him. The brilliant chandeliers shone down on elegant dresses, glittering diamonds, and beautiful women, and, looking forward, Beulah was reminded of the glowing descriptions in the "Arabian Nights." She observed that many curious eyes were bent upon her, and ere she had been seated five minutes more than one lorgnette was leveled at her. Everybody knew Dr. Hartwell, and she saw him constantly returning the bows of recognition which a.s.sailed him from the ladies in their vicinity. Presently he leaned his head on his hand, and she could not forbear smiling at the ineffectual attempts made to arrest his attention. The hall was crowded, and, as the seats filled to their utmost capacity she was pressed against her guardian. He looked down at her, and whispered:

"Very democratic. Eh, Beulah?"

She smiled, and was about to reply, when her attention was attracted by a party which just then took their places immediately in front of her. It consisted of an elderly gentleman and two ladies, one of whom Beulah instantly recognized as Cornelia Graham. She was now a n.o.ble-looking, rather than beautiful, woman; and the incipient pride, so apparent in girlhood, had matured into almost repulsive hauteur. She was very richly dressed, and her brilliant black eyes wandered indifferently over the room, as though such a.s.semblages had lost their novelty and interest for her. Chancing to look back, she perceived Dr. Hartwell, bowed, and said with a smile:

"Pray, do not think me obstinate. I had no wish to come, but father insisted."

"I am glad you feel well enough to be here," was his careless reply.

Cornelia"s eyes fell upon the quiet figure at his side, and, as Beulah me her steady gaze, she felt something of her old dislike warming in her eyes. They had never met since the morning of Cornelia"s contemptuous treatment at Madam St. Cymon"s; and now, to Beulah"s utter astonishment, she deliberately turned round, put out her white-gloved hand over the back of the seat, and said energetically:

"How are you, Beulah? You have altered so materially that I scarcely knew you."

Beulah"s nature was generous; she was glad to forget old injuries, and, as their hands met in a friendly clasp, she answered:

"You have changed but little."

"And that for the worse, as people have a pleasant way of telling me. Beulah, I want to know honestly if my rudeness caused you to leave madam"s school?"

"That was not my only reason," replied Beulah very candidly.

At this moment a burst of applause greeted the appearance of the cantatrice, and all conversation was suspended. Beulah listened to the warbling of the queen of song with a thrill of delight.

Pa.s.sionately fond of music, she appreciated the brilliant execution and entrancing melody as probably very few in that crowded house could have done. With some of the pieces selected she was familiar, and others she had long desired to hear. She was unconscious of the steady look with which her guardian watched her, as, with parted lips, she leaned eagerly forward to catch every note. When Sontag left the stage, and the hum of conversation was heard once more, Beulah looked up, with a long sigh of delight, and murmured:

"Oh, sir! isn"t she a glorious woman?"

"Miss Graham is speaking to you," said he coolly.