Day after day passed monotonously, and, except a visit from Eugene,
there was no link added to the chain which bound Beulah to the past.
That brief visit encouraged and cheered the lonely heart, yearning
for affectionate sympathy, yet striving to hush the hungry cry and
grow contented with its lot. During the second week of her stay
little Johnny was taken sick, and he had become so fond of his new
attendant that no one else was permitted to hold him. Often she
paced the chamber floor for hours, lulling the fretful babe with
softly sung tunes of other days, and the close observer, who could
have peered at such times into the downcast eyes, might have easily
traced in the misty depths memories that nestled in her heart's
sanctuary. The infant soon recovered, and one warm, sunny afternoon,
when Mrs. Martin directed Beulah to draw him in his wicker carriage
up and down the pavement before the door, she could no longer
repress the request which had trembled on her lips more than once,
and asked permission to take her little charge to Mrs. Grayson's. A
rather reluctant assent was given, and soon the carriage was drawn
in the direction of Mr. Grayson's elegant city residence. A
marvelous change came over the wan face of the nurse as she paused
at the marble steps, guarded on either side by sculptured lions. "To
see Lilly." The blood sprang to her cheeks, and an eager look of
delight crept into the eyes. The door was partially opened by an
insolent-looking footman, whose hasty glance led him to suppose her
one of the numerous supplicants for charity, who generally left that
princely mansion as empty-handed as they came. He was about to close
the door; but, undaunted by this reception, she hastily asked to see
Mrs. Grayson and Lillian Benton.
"Mrs. Grayson is engaged, and there is no such person here as
Lillian Benton. Miss Lilly Grayson is my young mistress' name; but I
can tell you, her mamma don't suffer her to see the like of you; so
be off."
"Lilly is my sister, and I must see her. Tell Mrs. Grayson Beulah
Benton wishes to see her sister; and ask her also if Claudia may not
see me."
She dropped the tongue of the carriage, and the thin hands clutched
each other in an agony of dread, lest her petition should be
refused. The succeeding five minutes seemed an eternity to her, and,
as the door opened again, she leaned forward and held her breath,
like one whose fate was in the balance. Costly silk and dazzling
diamonds met her gaze. The settled lines of Mrs. Grayson's pretty
mouth indicated that she had a disagreeable duty to perform, yet had
resolved to do it at once, and set the matter forever at rest.
"You are Mrs. Martin's nurse, I believe, and the girl I saw at the
asylum?" said she frigidly.
"Yes, madam; I am Lilly's sister; you said I might come and see her.
Oh, if you only knew how miserable I have been since we were parted,
you would not look so coldly at me! Do, please, let me see her. Oh,
don't deny me!"
These words were uttered in a tone of imploring agony.
"I am very sorry you happen to be her sister, and I assure you,
child, it pains me to refuse you; but, when you remember the
circumstances, you ought not to expect to associate with her as you
used to do. She will be educated to move in a circle very far above
you; and you ought to be more than willing to give her up, when you
know how lucky she has been in securing a home of wealth. Besides,
she is getting over the separation very nicely indeed, and if she
were to see you even once it would make matters almost as bad as
ever. I dare say you are a good girl, and will not trouble me any
further. My husband and I are unwilling that you should see Lilly
again; and though I am very sorry I am forced to disappoint you, I
feel that I am doing right."
The petitioner fell on her knees, and, extending her arms, said
huskily:
"Oh, madam! are we to be parted forever? I pray you, in the name of
God, let me see her! let me see her!"
Mrs. Grayson was not a cruel woman, far from it, but she was
strangely weak and worldly. The idea of a hired nurse associating
familiarly with her adopted daughter was repulsive to her
aristocratic pride, and therefore she hushed the tones of true
womanly sympathy, and answered resolutely:
"It pains me to refuse you; but I have given good reasons, and
cannot think of changing my determination. I hope you will not annoy
me by any future efforts to enter my house. There is a present for
you. Good-evening."
She tossed a five-dollar gold piece toward the kneeling figure, and,
closing the door, locked it on the inside. The money rolled
ringingly down the steps, and the grating sound of the key, as it
was hurriedly turned, seemed typical of the unyielding lock which
now forever barred the child's hopes. The look of utter despair gave
place to an expression of indescribable bitterness. Springing from
her suppliant posture, she muttered with terrible emphasis:
"A curse on that woman and her husband! May God answer their prayers
as she has answered mine!"
Picking up the coin which lay glittering on the sidewalk, she threw
it forcibly against the door, and, as it rebounded into the street,
took the carriage tongue, and slowly retraced her steps. It was not
surprising that passers-by gazed curiously at the stony face, with
its large eyes, brimful of burning hate, as the injured orphan
walked mechanically on, unconscious that her lips were crushed till
purple drops oozed over them. The setting sun flashed his ruddy
beams caressingly over her brow, and whispering winds lifted
tenderly the clustering folds of jetty hair; but nature's pure-
hearted darling had stood over the noxious tarn, whence the
poisonous breath of a corrupt humanity rolled upward, and the once
sinless child inhaled the vapor until her soul was a great boiling
Marah. Ah, truly
"There are swift hours in life--strong, rushing hours--That do the
work of tempests in their might!"
Peaceful valleys, green and flowery, sleeping in loveliness, have
been unheaved, and piled in somber, jagged masses, against the sky,
by the fingering of an earthquake; and gentle, loving, trusting
hearts, over whose altars brooded the white-winged messengers of
God's peace, have been as suddenly transformed by a manifestation of
selfishness and injustice, into gloomy haunts of misanthropy. Had
Mrs. Grayson been arraigned for cruelty, or hard-heartedness, before
a tribunal of her equals (i. e., fashionable friends), the charge
would have been scornfully repelled, and unanimous would have been
her acquittal. "Hard-hearted! oh, no! she was only prudent and
wise." Who could expect her to suffer her pampered, inert darling to
meet and acknowledge as an equal the far less daintily fed and
elegantly clad sister, whom God called to labor for her frugal
meals? Ah, this fine-ladyism, this ignoring of labor, to which, in
accordance with the divine decree, all should be subjected: this
false-effeminacy, and miserable affectation of refinement, which
characterizes the age, is the unyielding lock on the wheels of
social reform and advancement.
Beulah took her charge home, and when dusk came on rocked him to
sleep, and snugly folded the covering of his crib over the little
throbbing heart, whose hours of trial were yet veiled by the
impenetrable curtain of futurity. Mrs. Martin and her elder children
had gone to a concert, and, of course, the nurse was to remain with
Johnny until his mother's return. Standing beside the crib, and
gazing down at the rosy cheeks and curling locks, nestled against
the pillow, Beulah's thoughts winged along the tear-stained past, to
the hour when Lilly had been placed in her arms, by emaciated hands
stiffening in death. For six years she had held, and hushed, and
caressed her dying father's last charge, and now strange, ruthless
fingers had torn the clinging heart-strings from the idol. There
were no sobs, nor groans, to voice the anguish of the desolate
orphan. The glittering eyes were tearless, but the brow was darkly
furrowed, the ashy lips writhed, and the folded hands were purple
from compression. Turning from the crib, she threw up the sash, and
seated herself on the window-sill. Below lay the city, with its
countless lamps gleaming in every direction, and stretching away on
the principal streets, like long processions; in the distance the
dark waters of the river, over which steamboat lights flashed now
and then like ignesfatui; and above her arched the dome of sky, with
its fiery fretwork. Never before had she looked up at the starry
groups without an emotion of exulting joy, of awful adoration. To
her worshiping gaze they had seemed glimpses of the spirit's home;
nay, loving eyes shining down upon her thorny pathway. But now, the
twinkling rays fell unheeded, impotent to pierce the sable clouds of
grief. She sat looking out into the night, with strained eyes that
seemed fastened upon a corpse. An hour passed thus, and, as the
clang of the town clock died away the shrill voice of the watchman
rang through the air:
"Nine o'clock; and all's well!"
Beulah lifted her head, and listened. "All's well!" The mockery
maddened her, and she muttered audibly:
"That is the sort of sympathy I shall have through life. I am to
hear that 'all is well' when my heart is dying, nay, dead within me!
Oh, if I could only die! What a calm, calm time I should have in my
coffin! Nobody to taunt me with my poverty and ugliness! Oh, what
did God make me for? The few years of my life have been full of
misery; I cannot remember one single day of pure happiness, for
there was always something to spoil what little joy I ever knew.
When I was born, why did not I die at once? And why did not God take
me instead of my dear, dear father? He should have been left with
Lilly, for people love the beautiful, but nobody will ever care for
me. I am of no use to anything, and so ugly that I hate myself. O
Lord, I don't want to live another day! I am sick of my life--take
me, take me!" But a feeble ray of comfort stole into her shivering
heart, as she bowed her head upon her hands; Eugene Graham loved
her; and the bleeding tendrils of affection henceforth clasped him
as their only support. She was aroused from her painful reverie by a
movement in the crib, and, hastening to her charge, was startled by
the appearance of the babe. The soft blue eyes were rolled up and
set, the face of a purplish hue, and the delicate limbs convulsed.
During her residence at the asylum she had more than once assisted
the matron in nursing children similarly affected; and now, calling
instantly for a tub of water, she soon immersed the rigid limbs in a
warm bath, while one of the waiters was dispatched for the family
physician. When Dr. Hartwell entered he found her standing with the
infant clasped in her arms, and, as his eyes rested curiously upon
her face, she forgot that he was a stranger, and, springing to meet
him, exclaimed:
"Oh, sir; will he die?"
With his fingers on the bounding pulse, he answered:
"He is very ill. Where is his mother? Who are you?"
"His mother is at a concert, and I am his nurse."
The spasms had ceased, but the twitching limbs told that they might
return any moment, and the physician immediately administered a
potion.
"How long will Mrs. Martin be absent?"
"It is uncertain. When shall I give the medicine again?"
"I shall remain until she comes home."
Beulah was pacing up and down the floor, with Johnny in her arms;
Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the
mantelpiece, and watching the slight form as it stole softly to and
fro. Gradually the child became quiet, but his nurse kept up her
walk. Dr. Hartwell said abruptly:
"Sit down, girl! you will walk yourself into a shadow."
She lifted her head, shook it in reply, and resumed her measured
tread.
"What is your name?"
"Beulah Benton."
"Beulah!" repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his
mustached lip. She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis:
"You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it.
Beulah! Beulah! Oh, my father! I have neither sunshine nor flowers,
nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle. You
ought to have called me Marah."
"You have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress' then?" said he, with a
searching glance.
Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by
painful reflection to frame an answer. The despairing expression
settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on
again.
"Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?"
"I was driven here by necessity."
"Where are your parents and friends?"
"I have none. I am alone in the world."
"How long have you been so dependent?"
She raised her hand deprecatingly, nay commandingly, as though she
had said:
"No more. You have not the right to question, nor I the will to
answer."
He marked the look of unconquerable grief, and, understanding her
gesture, made no more inquiries.
Soon after, Mrs. Martin returned, and, having briefly stated what
had occurred, and given directions for the child's treatment, he
withdrew. His low "good-night," gently spoken to the nurse, was only
acknowledged by a slight inclination of the head as he passed her.
Little Johnny was restless, and constantly threatened with a return
of the convulsions. His mother held him on her knee, and telling
Beulah she "had been a good, sensible girl to bathe him so
promptly," gave her permission to retire.
"I am not at all sleepy, and would rather stay here and nurse him.
He does not moan so much when I walk with him. Give him back to me."
"But you will be tired out."
"I shall not mind it." Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy,
and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless
tread. Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt
her babe's pulse, and assisted in giving the hourly potions, then
reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on. Once she
offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden.
A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair. Gradually
the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that
girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that
transformed them into mountains of topaz. Pausing by the window, and
gazing vacantly out, Beulah's eyes were suddenly riveted on the
gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood
watching the masses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and
floating slowly before the wind, until the "King of Day" flashed up
and dazzled her. Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a
servant, and starting up, exclaimed:
"Bless me! I have been asleep. Beulah, how is Johnny? You must be
tired to death."
"He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is
not so high. I will take care of him, and you had better take
another nap before breakfast."
Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse's injunction, and it was two hours
later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her
breakfast. But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and,
retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair.
Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on
her lips; and, too miserable to frame a petition, she returned to
the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night. Dr.
Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and,
without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and
walked to the window. While she stood there her eyes fell upon the
loved face of her best friend. Eugene Graham was crossing the
street. For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly
cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she
leaned forward to see whether he was coming in. The door bell rang,
and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes
fastened upon her. Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother's lap,
she merely said, "I will be back soon," and, darting down the steps,
met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and
hiding her face on his shoulder.
"What is the matter, Beulah? Do tell me," said he anxiously.
Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed
out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them.
Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word
"brutal" escaped his lips. He endeavored to comfort her by holding
out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and
his cheering words failed to call up a smile. They stood in the hall
near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left
the sickroom. Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped
forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand.
Beulah's countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning
away when the doctor addressed her:
"You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night. I know
from your looks that you did not close your eyes."
"I am no worse looking than usual, thank you," she replied icily,
drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene. The doctor left them, and,
as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely
again. Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply
wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to
shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain.
Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said
reprovingly:
"Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell. Politeness costs
nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with
ordinary civility."
Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor passed over her mouth, as she
answered meekly:
"I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or
speak to me."
"Why, pray?"
"Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see
it."
He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor
child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest assured Dr.
Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a
very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I
confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if
you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you.
But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly.
Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face
haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will
serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book"
in her hand, and drew on his gloves.
"Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer--just a little longer?
It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up
wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.
Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and
answered hurriedly:
"See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the
lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must
be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her
hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands
tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought,
and slowly remounted the stairs.