It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to
consciousness. For some moments after unclosing her eyes they
wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall
form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window. Gradually
memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of
that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her. The little table,
with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been
carried to a friendly shelter. Was it only yesterday evening, and
had she slept? The utter prostration which prevented her raising her
head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her "no." Too
feeble even to think, she moaned audibly. Dr. Hartwell turned and
looked at her. The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky
was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside. The fever had died out,
the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes
lusterless. She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect
indifference. He leaned over, and said eagerly:
"Beulah, do you know me?"
"Yes; I know you."
"How do you feel this morning?"
"I am very weak, and my head seems confused. How long have I been
here?"
"No matter, child, if you are better." He took out his watch, and,
after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a
potion. Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if
afraid of her own question:
"Have they buried her?"
"Yes; a week ago."
She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed;
then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow. Dr. Hartwell sat
down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said
gently:
"Beulah, you have been very ill. I scarcely thought you would
recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself,
for you are far too weak to bear it."
"Why didn't you let me die? Oh, it would have been a mercy!" She put
her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.
"Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little
friend, my child. Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to
me. When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know;
but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses
you. Will you try?"
The strong, stern man shuddered, as she looked up at him with an
expression of hopeless desolation, and said slowly:
"I have nothing but misery to think of."
"Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?"
For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her
cheeks, and she murmured:
"Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also. I
never loved anything but trouble came upon it."
Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned
to view some page in the history of his own life.
"Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant
young man before you are fairly out of short dresses. There, do not
talk any more, and don't cry. Try to sleep, and remember, child, you
are homeless and friendless no longer." He pressed her hand kindly,
and turned toward the door. It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.
"Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?" said she blandly.
"Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better. She has been
talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast." He put
both hands on his sister's shoulders, and looked down into her
beautiful eyes. She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle
around her lips.
"Ah! I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery. You
are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead." Her
voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.
"More wonderful still, May; I can read the living." His mustached
lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.
"Read the living? Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure
at this good news. Doubly good, because it secures Pauline's return
to-day. Dear child, I long to have her at home again." An expression
of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features. Her brother
kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy
auburn curls, he said, half musingly:
"Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint
on your hair."
"He has dealt quite as leniently with you. But how could I feel the
inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness? Cares and
sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you,
Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister."
"Have I indeed, May?"
"Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your
generosity, your--"
"Enough! Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not
for her sake, for your own. You and Pauline can aid me in making her
happy, if you will. And if not, remember, May, you know my nature.
Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet." He led
her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped
out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a
tiara in the early sunlight. Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the
two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning
against the wall, she muttered:
"It cannot be possible that that miserable beggar is to come between
Pauline and his property! Is he mad, to dream of making that little
outcast his heiress? Yet he meant it; I saw it in his eye; the
lurking devil that has slumbered since that evening, and that I
hoped would never gleam out at me again. Oh! we are a precious
family. Set the will of one against another, and all Pandemonium
can't crush either! Ten to one, Pauline will lose her wits too, and
be as hard to manage as Guy." Moody and perplexed, she walked on to
the dining room. Beulah had fallen into a heavy slumber of
exhaustion, and it was late in the day when she again unclosed her
eyes. Harriet sat sewing near her, but soon perceived that she was
awake, and immediately put aside her work.
"Aha! so you have come to your senses again, have you? How are you,
child?"
"I am weak."
"Which isn't strange, seeing that you haven't eat a teaspoonful in
more than a week. Now, look here, little one; I am ordered to nurse
and take charge of you till you are strong enough to look out for
yourself. So you must not object to anything I tell you to do."
Without further parley, she washed and wiped Beulah's face and
hands, shook up the pillows, and placed her comfortably on them. To
the orphan, accustomed all her life to wait upon others, there was
something singularly novel in being thus carefully handled; and,
nestling her head close to the pillows, she shut her eyes, lest the
tears that were gathering should become visible. Harriet quitted the
room for a short time, and returned with a salver containing some
refreshments.
"I can't eat anything. Thank you; but take it away." Beulah put her
hands over her face, but Harriet resolutely seated herself on the
side of the bed, lifted her up, and put a cup of tea to the
quivering lips.
"It is no use talking; master said you had to eat, and you might
just as well do it at once. Poor thing! you are hiding your eyes to
cry. Well, drink this tea and eat a little; you must, for folks
can't live forever without eating." There was no alternative, and
Beulah swallowed what was given her. Harriet praised her obedient
spirit, and busied herself about the room for some time. Finally,
stooping over the bed, she said abruptly:
"Honey, are you crying?"
There was no reply, and, kneeling down, she said cautiously:
"If you knew as much about this family as I do, you would cry, sure
enough, for something. My master says he has adopted you, and since
he has said it, everything will work for good to you. But, child,
there will come times when you need a friend besides master, and be
sure you come to me when you do. I won't say any more now; but
remember what I tell you when you get into trouble. Miss Pauline has
come, and if she happens to take a fancy to you (which I think she
won't), she will stand by you till the stars fall; and if she don't,
she will hate you worse than Satan himself for--" Harriet did not
complete the sentence, for she detected her master's step in the
passage, and resumed her work.
"How is she?"
"She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted."
"That will do. I will ring when you are needed."
Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the
child's head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.
"Beulah, are you following my directions?"
"Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable,
even to thank you."
"I do not wish you to thank me. All I desire is that you will keep
quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing
yourself into another fever. I know you have had a bitter lot in
life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better
not to dwell upon the past. Ah, child! it is well to live only in
the present, looking into the future. I promise you I will guard
you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I
think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful."
He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the
tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her
face. The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his
voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great
effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly:
"Oh, sir, how good you are! I am--very grateful--to you--indeed, I--
"
"There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be
cheerful. It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you
will always remain in my house."
How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when
hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet
was in the room. A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the
nurse and physician. One sunny afternoon she looped back the white
curtains, and sat down before the open window. Harriet had dressed
her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more
ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of
the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like
an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue. Her elbows rested on the
arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands.
Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on
a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street
stretched the west common. In the distance rose a venerable brick
building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked
only once, and knew it vas the asylum. It was the first time she had
seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no
longer be restrained. Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and
the frail form trembled violently. For nearly fourteen years that
brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better
things. With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself
to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in
the eternal love and goodness of God, had looked to him for relief
and reward. But the reward came not in the expected way. Hope died;
faith fainted; and bitterness and despair reigned in that once
loving and gentle soul. Her father had not been spared in answer to
her frantic prayers. Lilly had been taken, without even the sad
comfort of a farewell, and now, with the present full of anguish,
and the future shrouded in dark forebodings, she sobbed aloud:
"All alone! All alone! Oh, father! Oh, Lilly, Lilly!"
"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick
again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.
"Don't talk to me--don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.
"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and
you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"
"I did, and he has forgotten me."
"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you
wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait
until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"
"He never can give me back my dead."
"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a
blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think
of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and
nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky--"
She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to
come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly
upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly
over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a
fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The
leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down
on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.
"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it
were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the
windows.
Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene
had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and
an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last,
and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the
Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the
crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise.
As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on
those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the
paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own
age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.
"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you
are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"
The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed
curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily
Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her.
The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the
lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was
faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The
features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet
hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown
back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist;
her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore
the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked
a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah
shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her
face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The
expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept
over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form
of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to
address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently:
"Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your
entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy
this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner
on her daughter's arm.
"Oh, sink the buggy! What do I care if he does catch me here? I
shall stay till I make up my mind whether that little thing is a
ghost or not. So, mother, let me alone." She shook off the clasping
hand that sought to drag her away, and again fixed her attention on
Beulah.
"Willful girl! you will ruin everything yet. Pauline, follow me
instantly, I command you!" She was white with rage, but the daughter
gave no intimation of having heard the words; and, throwing her arm
about the girl's waist, Mrs. Chilton dragged her to the door. There
was a brief struggle at the threshold, and then both stood quiet
before the master of the house.
"What is all this confusion about? I ordered this portion of the
house kept silent, did I not?"
"Yes, Guy; and I hope you will forgive Pauline's thoughtlessness.
She blundered in here, and I have just been scolding her for
disobeying your injunctions."
"Uncle Guy, it was not thoughtlessness, at all; I came on purpose.
For a week I have been nearly dying with curiosity to see that
little skeleton you have shut up here, and I ran up to get a glimpse
of her. I don't see the harm of it; I haven't hurt her." Pauline
looked fearlessly up in her uncle's face, and planted herself firmly
in the door, as if resolved not to be ejected.
"Does this house belong to you or to me, Pauline?"
"To you, now; to me, some of these days, when you give it to me for
a bridal present."
His brow cleared, he looked kindly down into the frank, truthful
countenance, and said, with a half-smile:
"Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal
anticipations may prove an egregious failure. Do you understand me?"
"I have not finished the first. Mother played pirate, and carried me
off before I was half satisfied. Uncle Guy, take me under your flag,
do! I will not worry the little thing--I promise you I will not.
Can't I stay here a while?" He smiled, and put his hand on her head,
saying:
"I am inclined to try you. May, you can leave her here. I will send
her to you after a little." As he spoke, he drew her up to the
orphan. Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.
"Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my
adopted child, Beulah Benton. You are about the same age, and can
make each other happy, if you will. Beulah, shake hands with my
niece." She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly
clasped in Pauline's plump palm.
"Do stop crying, and look at me. I want to see you," said the
latter.
"I am not crying."
"Then what are you hiding your face for?"
"Because it is so ugly," answered the orphan sadly.
Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the
features to view. She gave them a searching examination, and then,
looking up at her uncle, said bluntly:
"She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her.
If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she
would pass well enough; don't you think so?"
Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor,
placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before. She did,
indeed, look "doleful," as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming,
lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.
"What have you been doing all day?" said the doctor kindly.
She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone:
"Thinking about my past life--all my misfortunes."
"You promised you would do so no more."
"Ah, sir! how can I help it?"
"Why, think of something pleasant, of course," interrupted Pauline.
"You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering," replied
Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance
before her--a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never
rippled.
"How came you so wise? I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody
else."
Beulah shook her head dubiously.
"Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you
be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not
been as happy as yours? Can't you love her?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively:
"I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit
looking so dismal and graveyardish. I don't know about loving her;
we shall see."
"You can go down to your mother now," said he gravely.
"That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!" cried she, saucily
shaking her curls over her face.
"Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off."
"Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow." She
reached the door, but looked back.
"Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?"
"No."
"Well, he will die if you don't do something for him. It is a shame
to forget him as you do!" said she indignantly.
"Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine."
"It is high time somebody interfered. Poor Charon! If Hal doesn't
take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if
I don't."
She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at
leisure. Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly:
"This large room does not suit you. Come, and I will show you your
own little room--one I have had arranged for you." She silently
complied, and, leading her through several passages, he opened the
door of the apartment assigned her. The walls were covered with blue
and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue,
matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and
tasteful expenditure. There was a small writing-desk near a handsome
case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up
to it. He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes
wandered curiously and admiringly around the room. They rested on a
painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the
design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows. It represented an
angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal,
and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a
distant steep. Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on;
some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in
the attitude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and
pale, haggard faces.
"Do you like it?" said Dr. Hartwell.
Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the
question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded
her earnestly. Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising
her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones:
"I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to
the resting-place."
Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once
more.
Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted
her face, and a musical voice said:
"Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea. Do you
feel strong enough?"
"Yes, sir." She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem
cheerful.
The study was an oblong room, and on one side book-shelves rose
almost to the ceiling. The opposite wall, between the windows, was
covered with paintings, and several statues stood in the recesses
near the chimney. Over the low marble mantelpiece hung a full-length
portrait, shrouded with black crape, and underneath was an
exquisitely chased silver case, containing a small Swiss clock. A
beautiful terra-cotta vase, of antique shape, stood on the hearth,
filled with choice and fragrant flowers, and near the window sat an
elegant rosewood melodeon. A circular table occupied the middle of
the room, and here the evening meal was already arranged. Beulah
glanced timidly around as her conductor seated her beside the urn,
and, seeing only cups for two persons, asked hesitatingly:
"Shall I make your tea now?"
"Yes; and remember, Beulah, I shall expect you to make it every
evening at this hour. Breakfast and dinner I take with my sister and
Pauline in the dining room, but my evenings are always spent here.
There, make another cup for yourself."
A long silence ensued. Dr. Hartwell seemed lost in reverie, for he
sat with his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and his head resting on
his hand. His features resumed their habitual expression of stern
rigidity, and as Beulah looked at him she could scarcely believe
that he was the same kind friend who had been so gentle and fatherly
in his manner. Intuitively she felt then that she had to deal with a
chaotic, passionate, and moody nature, and, as she marked the
knitting of his brows and the iron compression of his lips, her
heart was haunted by grave forebodings. While she sat pondering his
haughty, impenetrable appearance, a servant entered.
"Sir, there is a messenger at the door."
His master started slightly, pushed away his cup, and said:
"Is the buggy ready?"
"Yes, sir; waiting at the door--"
"Very well; I am coming."
The windows opened down to the floor, and led into a vine-covered
piazza. He stepped up to one and stood a moment, as if loath to quit
his sanctum; then, turning round, addressed Beulah:
"Ah, child, I had almost forgotten you. It is time you were asleep.
Do you know the way back to your room?"
"I can find it," said she, rising from the table.
"Good-night; let me see you at breakfast if you feel strong enough
to join us."
He opened the door for her, and, hurrying out, Beulah found her own
room without difficulty. Walking up to Harriet, whom she saw waiting
for her, she said in a grave, determined manner:
"You have been very kind to me since I came here, and I feel
grateful to you; but I have not been accustomed to have someone
always waiting on me, and in future I shall not want you. I can
dress myself without any assistance, so you need not come to me
night and morning."
"I am obeying master's orders. He said I was to 'tend to you,"
answered Harriet, wondering at the independent spirit evinced by the
newcomer.
"I do not want any tending, so you may leave me, if you please."
"Haven't you been here long enough to find out that you might as
well fight the waves of the sea as my master's will? Take care,
child, how you begin to countermand his orders, for I tell you now
there are some in this house who will soon make it a handle to turn
you out into the world again. Mind what I say."
"Do you mean that I am not wanted here?"
"I mean, keep your eyes open." Harriet vanished in the dark passage,
and Beulah locked the door, feeling that now she was indeed alone,
and could freely indulge the grief that had so long sought to veil
itself from curious eyes. Yet there was no disposition to cry. She
sat down on the bed and mused on the strange freak of fortune which
had so suddenly elevated the humble nurse into the possessor of that
elegantly furnished apartment. There was no elation in the quiet
wonder with which she surveyed the change in her position. She did
not belong there, she had no claim on the master of the house, and
she felt that she was trespassing on the rights of the beautiful
Pauline. Rapidly plans for the future were written in firm resolve.
She would thankfully remain under the roof that had so kindly
sheltered her, until she could qualify herself to teach. She would
ask Dr. Hartwell to give her an education, which, once obtained,
would enable her to repay its price. To her proud nature there was
something galling in the thought of dependence, and, throwing
herself on her knees for the first time in several weeks, she
earnestly besought the God of orphans to guide and assist her.