Beulah

"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 n.o.blest 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 grat.i.tude. 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d"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 fict.i.tious 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 a.s.sistant, but as princ.i.p.al 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pet.i.tions grew more impa.s.sioned. 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 n.o.ble 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!"

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

"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 which Georgia 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 quant.i.ty 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 a.s.sisted; 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 surpa.s.singly 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-sh.e.l.l, 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 c.r.a.pe." 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 a.s.suredly 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 n.o.blest 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 n.o.ble 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 dest.i.tute, 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 a.s.sertions; 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 pa.s.sed 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.