Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days
and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were
never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed,
constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her
former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her,
but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her
own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick
child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her
knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and
while he slept she read. Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given
her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering
monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded
by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man passes away; his name perishes
from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told,
and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad
comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind
was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes.
Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the
back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page. At
length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her
eyes, said audibly:
"Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret,
and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton!
I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on
your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"
"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the
doctor.
She started, looked up, and answered slowly:
"No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know."
"What made you think of him?"
"I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured
marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where. I often think
of him."
"Why?"
"Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I
feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed
her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to
say, so do not question me."
He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's
pulse, pointed to the crib, saying:
"You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep."
"No, I may as well hold him."
"Girl, will you follow my directions?" said he sharply.
Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy
in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features. The
doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the glass on the table, put
both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse. Her head was
averted.
"Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?" She fixed her eyes
proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted
lips.
"Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at
least five years?"
An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of
death settled there.
"I am in earnest. He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long
time."
She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoarse whisper:
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure; his passage is already engaged in a packet that will
sail early next week. What will become of you in his absence?"
The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she
fell forward against him.
Guy Hartwell placed the slight, attenuated form on the sofa, and
stood with folded arms looking down at the colorless face. His high
white brow clouded, and a fierce light kindled in his piercing dark
eyes, as through closed teeth came the rather indistinct words:
"It is madness to indulge the thought; I was a fool to dream of it.
She would prove heartless, like all of her sex, and repay me with
black ingratitude. Let her fight the battle of life unaided."
He sprinkled a handful of water on the upturned face, and in a few
minutes saw the eyelids tremble, and knew from the look of suffering
that with returning consciousness came the keen pangs of grief. She
covered her face with her hands, and, after a little while, asked:
"Shall I ever see him again?"
"He will come here to-night to tell you about his trip. But what
will become of you in his absence?--answer me that!"
"God only knows!"
Dr. Hartwell wrote the directions for Johnny's medicine, and,
placing the slip of paper on the glass, took his hat and left the
room. Beulah sat with her head pressed against the foot of the crib-
-stunned, taking no note of the lapse of time.
"Twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad."
The room had grown dark, save where a mellow ray stole through the
western window. Beulah rose mechanically, lighted the lamp, and
shaded it so as to shield the eyes of the sleeping boy. The door was
open, and, glancing up, she saw Eugene on the threshold. Her arms
were thrown around him, with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.
"Oh, Eugene! please don't leave me! Whom have I in the world but
you?"
"Beulah, dear, I must go. Only think of the privilege of being at a
German university! I never dreamed of such a piece of good luck.
Don't cry so; I shall come back some of these days, such an erudite,
such an elegant young man, you will hardly know me. Only five years.
I am almost seventeen now; time passes very quickly, and you will
scarcely miss me before I shall be at home again."
He lifted up her face, and laughed gayly as he spoke.
"When are you to go?"
"The vessel sails Wednesday--three days from now. I shall be very
busy until then. Beulah, what glorious letters I shall write you
from the Old World! I am to see all Europe before I return; that is,
my father says I shall. He is coming on, in two or three years, with
Cornelia, and we are all to travel together. Won't it be glorious?"
"Yes, for you. But, Eugene, my heart seems to die when I think of
those coming five years. How shall I live without you? Oh, what
shall I do?"
"There, Beulah! do not look so wretched. You will have a thousand
things to divert your mind. My father says he will see that you are
sent to the public school. You know the tuition is free, and he
thinks he can find some good, kind family, where you will be taken
care of till your education is finished. Your studies will occupy
you closely, and you will have quite enough to think of, without
troubling yourself about my absence. Of course you will write to me
constantly, and each letter will be like having a nice, quiet chat
together. Oh. dear! can't you get up a smile, and look less forlorn?
You never would look on the bright side."
"Because I never had any to look on, except you and Lilly; and when
you are gone, everything will be dark--dark!" she groaned, and
covered her face with her hands.
"Not unless you determine to make it so. If I did not know that my
father would attend to your education, I should not be so delighted
to go. Certainly, Beulah, in improving yourself, you will have very
little leisure to sit down and repine that your lot is not among the
brightest. Do try to hope that things may change for the better. If
they do not, why, I shall not spend eternity in Europe; and when I
come home, of course I shall take care of you myself." She stood
with one hand resting on his arm, and while he talked on,
carelessly, of her future, she fixed her eyes on his countenance,
thinking of the desolate hours in store for her, when the mighty
Atlantic billows surged between her and the noble, classic face she
loved so devotedly. A shadowy panorama of coming years glided before
her, and trailing clouds seemed gathered about the path her little
feet must tread. A vague foreboding discovered to her the
cheerlessness, and she shivered in anticipating the dreariness that
awaited her. But there was time enough for the raging of the storm;
why rush so eagerly to meet it? She closed her eyes to shut out the
grim vision, and listened resolutely to the plans suggested for her
approval. When Eugene rose to say "good-night," it was touching to
note the efforts she made to appear hopeful; the sob swallowed, lest
it should displease him; the trembling lips forced into a smile, and
the heavy eyelids lifted bravely to meet his glance. When the door
closed after his retreating form, the hands were clasped
convulsively, and the white, tearless face, mutely revealed the
desolation which that loving heart locked in its darkened chambers.