Several tedious weeks had rolled away since Eugene Graham left his
sunny Southern home to seek learning in the venerable universities
of the Old World. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had
clothed the earth with verdure, and enameled it with flowers of
every hue, scattering her treasures before the rushing car of
summer. During the winter scarlet fever had hovered threateningly
over the city, but, as the spring advanced, hopes were entertained
that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it was announced that
the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant form, in the
house adjoining Mrs. Martin's, she determined to send her children
immediately out of town. A relative living at some distance up the
river happened to be visiting her at the time, and, as she intended
returning home the following day, kindly offered to take charge of
the children until all traces of the disease had vanished. To this
plan Beulah made no resistance, though the memory of her little
sister haunted her hourly. What could she do? Make one last attempt
to see her, and if again refused then it mattered not whither she
went. When the preparations for their journey had been completed,
and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw
bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson's residence. The sun was low in
the sky, and the evening breeze, rippling the waters of the bay,
stirred the luxuriant foliage of the ancient China trees that
bordered the pavements. The orphan's heart was heavy with undefined
dread; such a dread as had oppressed her the day of her separation
from her sister.
"Coming events cast their shadows before,"
and she was conscious that the sunset glow could not dispel the
spectral gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head
bowed, like one stooping from an impending blow, and when at last
the crouching lions confronted her she felt as if her heart had
suddenly frozen. There stood the doctor's buggy. She sprang up the
steps, and stretched out her hand for the bolt of the door. Long
streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She stood still a
moment, then threw open the door and rushed in. The hall floor was
covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her save the
stirring of the China trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade
to ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape
fastened to the parlor door, and, pushing it ajar, she looked in.
The furniture was draped; even the mirrors and pictures; and on a
small oblong table in the center of the room lay a shrouded form. An
over-powering perfume of crushed flowers filled the air, and Beulah
stood on the threshold, with her hands extended, and her eyes fixed
upon the table. There were two children; Lilly might yet live, and
an unvoiced prayer went up to God that the dead might be Claudia.
Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her curse:
"May God answer their prayers as they answered mine." With rigid
limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hand on the velvet
pall; with closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and
looked. There lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah! how
matchlessly beautiful, wrapped in her last sleep! The bright golden
curls glittered around the snowy brow, and floated like wandering
sunlight over the arms and shoulders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped
each other as in life, and the delicately chiseled lips were just
parted, as though the sleeper whispered. Beulah's gaze dwelt upon
this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildly up, and,
with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet
cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it
rested there she never knew. Earth seemed to pass away; darkness
closed over her, and for a time she had no pain, no sorrow; she and
Lilly were together. All was black, and she had no feeling. Then she
was lifted, and the motion aroused her torpid faculties; she moaned
and opened her eyes. Dr. Hartwell was placing her on a sofa, and
Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a handkerchief over her eyes.
With returning consciousness came a raving despair; Beulah sprang
from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and, laying one
clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other
fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically:
"You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you took my
darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye, my prayer! I knelt
and prayed you, in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to
let me hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and forehead, and
little slender hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer; you taunted
me with my poverty, and locked me from my darling, my Lilly, my all!
Oh, woman! you drove me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha!
Has your wealth and splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me, I
feel as if I could curse you eternally. Could you not have sent for
me before she died? Oh, if I could only have taken her in my arms,
and seen her soft angel eyes looking up to me, and felt her little
arms around my neck, and heard her say 'sister' for the last time!
Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made you less
fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? 'Such measure as
ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your
heart trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!"
Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were
fastened on the young sleeper; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a
frightened child, left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and,
crossing her arms on the table, bowed her head; now and then broken,
wailing tones passed the white lips. Dr. Hartwell stood in a recess
of the window, with folded arms and tightly compressed mouth,
watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward her, then drew
back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though he
scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away,
and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet,
with its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black
hair veiled the bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and
the thin hands, and a look of remorseful agony swept over his
countenance. A deadly pallor settled on cheek and brow, as, with an
expression of iron resolve, he retraced his steps, and, putting his
hand on the orphan's shoulder, said gently:
"Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child."
She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.
"Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very
ill with it. If you stay here you will certainly take it yourself."
"I hope I shall take it."
He laid his fingers on the pale, high brow, and, softly drawing back
the thick hair, said earnestly: "Beulah, come home with me. Be my
child; my daughter."
Again her hand was raised to put him aside.
"No. You too would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in the
grave with Lilly. They cannot separate us there." He lifted her
head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered kindly:
"I promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy.
Come to me, child." She shook her head with a moan. Passing his arm
around her, he raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head
against him.
"Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely,
earth's bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of
its fairy-like future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggle so.
You must come with me, my child." He took her in his strong arms,
and bore her out of the house of death. His buggy stood at the door,
and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy who accompanied him
to "drive home." Beulah offered no resistance; she hid her face in
her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what passed.
She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her
wretchedness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the
buggy, carried up a flight of steps, and then a flood of light
flashed through the fingers upon her closed eyelids. Dr. Hartwell
placed his change on a sofa, and rank the bell. The summons was
promptly answered by a negro woman of middle age. She stood at the
door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on the floor, and
his brows knitted.
"Master, did you ring?"
"Yes; tell my sister to come to me."
He took a turn across the floor, and paused by the open window. As
the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed
deeply. The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps
thirty-five years, entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with
a profusion of short chestnut curls about her face. With her hand
resting on the door, she said, in a calm, clear tone:
"Well, Guy."
He started, and, turning from the window, approached her.
"May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible.
Will you see that a hot footbath is provided? When it is ready, send
Harriet for her."
His sister's lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on
the sofa, and said coldly:
"What freak now, Guy?"
For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly.
"I intend to adopt that poor little orphan; that is all!"
"Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?" said she sneeringly.
"No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding house." He folded
his arms, and again they looked at each other.
"I thought you had had quite enough of protegees." She nervously
clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet.
"Take care, May Ohilton! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once
more, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector.
Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed?" He was
very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm and
subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell walked
up and down the room for a while, now and then looking sadly at the
young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands
over her face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered:
"Will you trust me, Beulah?"
She made no answer; but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she
shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been
arranged, as he had directed. However surprised she might have been
at this sudden advent of the simply clad orphan in her master's
study, there was not the faintest indication of it in her
impenetrable countenance. Not even the raising of an eyebrow.
"Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed; and, when she is in
bed, come for some medicine."
Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah:
"Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof,
where no more cruel injustice can assail you."
He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah
accompanied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form.
The room to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and
lighted by an elegant colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs.
Chilton stood near an armchair, looking moody and abstracted.
Harriet carefully undressed the poor mourner, and, wrapping a shawl
about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed her feet. Mrs.
Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When the little
dripping feet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an
infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the
study, and administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her
finger on the girl's wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and,
turning unconcernedly toward Mrs. Chilton, said:
"Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. I am
to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl."
"Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother
directed. My head aches miserably, or I should remain myself."
She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the
pillow and examined the orphan's countenance. The eyes were closed,
but scalding tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands
were clasped over the brow, as if to still its throbbings. Harriet's
face softened, and she said kindly:
"Poor thing! what ails you? What makes you cry so?"
Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured:
"I am so miserable! I want to die, and God will not take me."
"Don't say that till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever.
If you have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you;
and if you haven't, why, it's all for the best. It is a bad plan to
fly in the Almighty's face that way, and tell him what he shall do
and what he shan't."
This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah's ears, and
Harriet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her
grief, but she perceived her master standing beside her, and
immediately moved away from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he
counted the pulse several times. The result seemed to trouble him,
and he stood for some minutes watching the motionless form.
"Harriet, bring me a glass of ice-water."
Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he
said tenderly:
"My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I
know; but remember that, though Lilly has been taken from you, from
this day you have a friend, a home, a guardian."
Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head,
and put the sparkling draught to Beulah's parched lips. Without
unclosing her eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and, laying the
head back on the pillow, he drew an armchair before the window at
the further end of the room, and seated himself.