"Do you wish her to commence school at once?"
"Not until her wardrobe has been replenished. I expect her clothes
to be selected and made just as Pauline's are. Will you attend to
this business, or shall I give directions to Harriet?"
"Certainly, Guy; I can easily arrange it. You intend to dress her
just as I do Pauline?"
"As nearly as possible. Next week I wish her to begin school with
Pauline, and Hansell will give her music lessons. Be so good as to
see about her clothes immediately."
Dr. Hartwell drew on his gloves and left the room. His sister
followed him to the door, where his buggy awaited him.
"Guy, did you determine about that little affair for Pauline? She
has so set her heart on it."
"Oh, do as you please, May; only I am--"
"Stop, Uncle Guy! Wait a minute. May I have a birthday party? May
I?" Almost out of breath, Pauline ran up the steps; her long hair
floating over her face, which exercise had flushed to crimson.
"You young tornado! Look how you have crushed that cluster of
heliotrope, rushing over the flower-beds as if there were no walks."
He pointed with the end of his whip to a drooping spray of purple
blossoms.
"Yes; but there are plenty more. I say, may I?--may I?" She eagerly
caught hold of his coat.
"How long before your birthday?"
"Just a week from to-day. Do, please, let me have a frolic!"
"Poor child! you look as if you needed some relaxation," said he,
looking down into her radiant face, with an expression of mock
compassion.
"Upon my word, Uncle Guy, it is awfully dull here. If it were not
for Charon and Mazeppa I should be moped to death. Do, pray, don't
look at me as if you were counting the hairs in my eyelashes. Come,
say yes: do, Uncle Guy."
"Take your hands off of my coat, and have as many parties as you
like, provided you keep to your own side of the house. Don't come
near my study with your Babel, and don't allow your company to
demolish my flowers. Mind, not a soul is to enter the greenhouse.
The parlors are at your service, but I will not have a regiment of
wildcats tearing up and down my greenhouse and flower garden; mind
that." He stepped into his buggy.
"Bravo! I have won my wager, and got the party too! Hugh Cluis bet
me a papier-mache writing-desk that you would not give me a party.
When I send his invitation I will write on the envelope 'the
writing-desk is also expected.' Hey, shadow, where did you creep
from?" She fixed her merry eyes on Beulah, who just then appeared on
the terrace. Dr. Hartwell leaned from the buggy, and looked
earnestly at the quiet little figure.
"Do you want anything, Beulah?"
"No, sir; I thought you had gone. May I open the gate for you?"
"Certainly, if you wish to do something for me." His pale features
relaxed, and his whole face lighted up, like a sun-flushed cloud.
Beulah walked down the avenue, lined on either side with venerable
poplars and cedars, and opened the large gate leading into the city.
He checked his horse, and said:
"Thank you, my child. Now, how are you going to spend the day?
Remember you commence with school duties next week; so make the best
of your holiday."
"I have enough to occupy me to-day. Good-by, sir."
"Good-by, for an hour or so." He smiled kindly and drove on, while
she walked slowly back to the house, wondering why smiles were such
rare things in this world, when they cost so little, and yet are so
very valuable to mourning hearts. Pauline sat on the steps with an
open book in her hand. She looked up as Beulah approached, and
exclaimed gayly:
"Aren't you glad I am to have my birthday frolic?"
"Yes; I am glad on your account," answered Beulah gravely.
"Can you dance all the fancy dances? I don't like any so well as the
mazourka."
"I do not dance at all."
"Don't dance! Why, I have danced ever since I was big enough to
crawl! What have you been doing all your life, that you don't know
how to dance?"
"My feet have had other work to do," replied her companion; and, as
the recollections of her early childhood flitted before her, the
brow darkened.
"I suppose that is one reason you look so forlorn all the time. I
will ask Uncle Guy to send you to the dancing school for--"
"Pauline, it is school-time, and you don't know one word of that
Quackenbos; I would be ashamed to start from home as ignorant of my
lessons as you are." Mrs. Chilton's head was projected from the
parlor window, and the rebuke was delivered in no very gentle tone.
"Oh, I don't mind it at all; I have got used to it," answered the
daughter, tossing up the book as she spoke.
"Get ready for school this minute!"
Pauline scampered into the house for her bonnet and sachel; and,
fixing her eyes upon Beulah, Mrs. Chilton asked sternly:
"What are you doing out there? What did you follow my brother to the
gate for? Answer me!"
"I merely opened the gate for him," replied the girl, looking
steadily up at the searching eyes.
"There was a servant with him to do that. In future don't make
yourself so conspicuous. You must keep away from the flower beds
too. The doctor wishes no one prowling about them; he gave
particular directions that no one should go there in his absence."
They eyed each other an instant; then, drawing up her slender form
to its utmost height, Beulah replied proudly:
"Be assured, madam, I shall not trespass on forbidden ground!"
"Very well." The lace curtains swept back to their place--the fair
face was withdrawn.
"She hates me," thought Beulah, walking on to her own room; "she
hates me, and certainly I do not love her. I shall like Pauline very
much, but her mother and I never will get on smoothly. What freezing
eyes she has, and what a disagreeable look there is about her mouth
whenever she sees me! She wishes me to remember all the time that I
am poor, and that she is the mistress of this elegant house. Ah, I
am not likely to forget it!" The old smile of bitterness crossed her
face.
The days passed swiftly. Beulah spent most of her time in her own
room, for Dr. Hartwell was sometimes absent all day, and she longed
to escape his sister's icy espionage. When he was at home, and not
engaged in his study, his manner was always kind and considerate;
but she fancied he was colder and graver, and often his stern
abstraction kept her silent when they were together. Monday was the
birthday, and on Monday morning she expected to start to school.
Madam St. Cymon's was the fashionable institution of the city, and
thither, with Pauline, she was destined. Beulah rose early, dressed
herself carefully, and, after reading a chapter in her Bible, and
asking God's special guidance through the day, descended to the
breakfast room. Dr. Hartwell sat reading a newspaper; he did not
look up, and she quietly seated herself unobserved. Presently Mrs.
Chilton entered and walked up to her brother.
"Good-morning, Guy. Are there no tidings of that vessel yet? I hear
the Grahams are terribly anxious about it. Cornelia said her father
was unable to sleep."
"No news yet; but, May, be sure you do not let--"
"Was it the 'Morning Star'? Is he lost?"
Beulah stood crouching at his side, with her hands extended
pleadingly, and her white face convulsed.
"My child, do not look so wretched; the vessel that Eugene sailed in
was disabled in a storm, and has not yet reached the place of
destination. But there are numerous ways of accounting for the
detention, and you must hope and believe that all is well until you
know the contrary." He drew her to his side, and stroked her head
compassionately.
"I knew it would be so," said she, in a strangely subdued,
passionless tone.
"What do you mean, child?"
"Death and trouble come on everything I love."
"Perhaps at this very moment Eugene may be writing you an account of
his voyage. I believe that we shall soon hear of his safe arrival.
You need not dive down into my eyes in that way. I do believe it,
for the vessel was seen after the storm, and, though far out of the
right track, there is good reason to suppose she has put into some
port to be repaired."
Beulah clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some
horrid phantom, and, while her heart seemed dying on the rack, she
resolved not to despair till the certainty came.
"Time enough when there is no hope; I will not go out to meet
sorrow." With a sudden, inexplicable revulsion of feeling she sank
on her knees, and there beside her protector vehemently prayed
Almighty God to guard and guide the tempest-tossed loved one. If her
eyes had rested on the face of Deity, and she had felt his presence,
her petition could not have been more importunately preferred. For a
few moments Dr. Hartwell regarded her curiously; then his brow
darkened, his lips curled sneeringly, and a mocking smile passed
over his face. Mrs. Chilton smiled, too, but there was a peculiar
gleam in her eyes, and an uplifting of her brows which denoted
anything but pleasurable emotions. She moved away, and sat down at
the head of the table. Dr. Hartwell put his hand on the shoulder of
the kneeling girl, and asked, rather abruptly:
"Beulah, do you believe that the God you pray to hears you?"
"I do. He has promised to answer prayer."
"Then, get up and be satisfied, and eat your breakfast. You have
asked him to save and protect Eugene, and, according to the Bible,
He will certainly do it; so no more tears. If you believe in your
God, what are you looking so wretched about?" There was something in
all this that startled Beulah, and she looked up at him. His chilly
smile pained her, and she rose quickly, while again and again his
words rang in her ear. Yet, what was there so strange about this
application of faith? True, the Bible declared that "whatsoever ye
ask, believing, that ye shall receive," yet she had often prayed for
blessings, and often been denied. Was it because she had not had the
requisite faith, which should have satisfied her? Yet God knew that
she had trusted him. With innate quickness of perception, she
detected the tissued veil of irony which the doctor had wrapped
about his attempted consolation, and she looked at him so intently,
so piercingly, that he hastily turned away and seated himself at the
table. Just then Pauline bounded into the room, exclaiming:
"Fourteen to-day! Only three more years at school, and then I shall
step out a brilliant young lady, the--"
"There; be quiet; sit down. I would almost as soon select a small
whirlwind for a companion. Can't you learn to enter a room without
blustering like a March wind or a Texan norther?" asked her uncle.
"Have you all seen a ghost? You look as solemn as grave-diggers.
What ails you, Beulah? Come along to breakfast. How nice you look in
your new clothes!" Her eyes ran over the face and form of the
orphan.
"Pauline, hush! and eat your breakfast. You annoy your uncle," said
her mother severely.
"Oh, do, for gracious' sake, let me talk! I feel sometimes as if I
should suffocate. Everything about this house is so demure, and
silent, and solemn, and Quakerish, and hatefully prim. If ever I
have a house of my own, I mean to paste in great letters over the
doors and windows, 'Laughing and talking freely allowed!' This is my
birthday, and I think I might stay at home. Mother, don't forget to
have the ends of my sash fringed, and the tops of my gloves
trimmed." Draining her small china cup, she sprang up from the
table, but paused beside Beulah.
"By the by, what are you going to wear to-night, Beulah?"
"I shall not go into the parlors at all," answered the latter.
"Why not?" said Dr. Hartwell, looking suddenly up. He met the sad,
suffering expression of the gray eyes, and bit his lip with
vexation. She saw that he understood her feelings, and made no
reply.
"I shall not like it, if you don't come to my party," said Pauline
slowly; and as she spoke she took one of the orphan's hands.
"You are very kind, Pauline; but I do not wish to see strangers."
"But you never will know anybody if you make such a nun of yourself.
Uncle Guy, tell her she must come down into the parlors to-night."
"Not unless she wishes to do so. But, Pauline, I am very glad that
you have shown her you desire her presence." He put his hand on her
curly head, and looked with more than usual affection at the bright,
honest face.
"Beulah, you must get ready for school. Come down as soon as you
can. Pauline will be waiting for you." Mrs. Chilton spoke in the
calm, sweet tone peculiar to her and her brother, but to Beulah
there was something repulsive in that even voice, and she hurried
from the sound of it. Kneeling beside her bed, she again implored
the Father to restore Eugene to her, and, crushing her grief and
apprehension down into her heart, she resolved to veil it from
strangers. As she walked on by Pauline's side, only the excessive
paleness of her face and drooping of her eyelashes betokened her
suffering.
Entering school is always a disagreeable ordeal, and to a sensitive
nature, such as Beulah's, it was torturing. Madam St. Cymon was a
good-natured, kind, little body, and received her with a warmth and
cordiality which made amends in some degree for the battery of eyes
she was forced to encounter.
"Ah, yes! the doctor called to see me about you--wants you to take
the Latin course. For the present, my dear, you will sit with Miss
Sanders. Clara, take this young lady with you."
The girl addressed looked at least sixteen years of age, and, rising
promptly, she come forward and led Beulah to a seat at her desk,
which was constructed for two persons. The touch of her fingers sent
a thrill through Beulah's frame, and she looked at her very
earnestly.
Clara Sanders was not a beauty in the ordinary acceptation of the
term, but there was an expression of angelic sweetness and purity in
her countenance which fascinated the orphan. She remarked the
scrutiny of the young stranger, and, smiling good-humoredly, said,
as she leaned over and arranged the desk:
"I am glad to have you with me, and dare say we shall get on very
nicely together. You look ill."
"I have been ill recently and have not yet regained my strength. Can
you tell me where I can find some water? I feel rather faint."
Her companion brought her a glass of water. She drank it eagerly,
and, as Clara resumed her seat, said in a low voice:
"Oh, thank you! You are very kind."
"Not at all. If you feel worse you must let me know." She turned to
her books and soon forgot the presence of the newcomer.
The latter watched her, and noticed now that she was dressed in deep
mourning. Was she too an orphan, and had this circumstance rendered
her so kindly sympathetic? The sweet, gentle face, with its soft,
brown eyes, chained her attention, and in the shaping of the mouth
there was something very like Lilly's. Soon Clara left her for
recitation, and then she turned to the new books which madam had
sent to her desk. Thus passed the morning, and she started when the
recess bell rang its summons through the long room. Bustle, chatter,
and confusion ensued. Pauline called to her to come into lunchroom,
and touched her little basket as she spoke, but Beulah shook her
head and kept her seat. Clara also remained.
"Pauline is calling you," said she gently.
"Yes, I hear; but I do not want anything." And Beulah rested her
head on her hands.
"Don't you feel better than you did this morning?"
"Oh, I am well enough in body; a little weak, that is all."
"You look quite tired. Suppose you lean your head against me and
take a short nap?"
"You are very good indeed; but I am not at all sleepy."
Clara was engaged in drawing, and, looking on, Beulah became
interested in the progress of the sketch. Suddenly a hand was placed
over the paper, and a tall, handsome girl, with black eyes and
sallow complexion, exclaimed sharply:
"For Heaven's sake, Clara Sanders, do you expect to swim into the
next world on a piece of drawing-paper? Come over to my seat and
work out that eighth problem for me. I have puzzled over it all the
morning, and can't get it right."
"I can show you here quite as well." Taking out her Euclid, she
found and explained the obstinate problem.
"Thank you! I cannot endure mathematics, but father is bent upon my
being 'thorough,' as he calls it. I think it is all thorough
nonsense. Now, with you it is very different; you expect to be a
teacher, and of course will have to acquire all these branches; but
for my part I see no use in it. I shall be rejoiced when this dull
school-work is over."
"Don't say that, Cornelia; I think our school days are the happiest,
and feel sad when I remember that mine are numbered."
Here the bell announced recess over, and Cornelia moved away to her
seat. A trembling hand sought Clara's arm.
"Is that Cornelia Graham?"
"Yes. Is she not very handsome?"
Beulah made no answer; she only remembered that this girl was
Eugene's adopted sister, and, looking after the tall, queenly form,
she longed to follow her and ask all the particulars of the storm.
Thus ended the first dreaded day at school, and, on reaching home,
Beulah threw herself on her bed with a low, wailing cry. The long-
pent sorrow must have vent, and she sobbed until weariness sank her
into a heavy sleep.
Far out in a billowy sea, strewed with wrecks, and hideous with the
ghastly, upturned faces of floating corpses, she and Eugene were
drifting--now clinging to each other--now tossed asunder by howling
waves. Then came a glimmering sail on the wide waste of waters; a
little boat neared them, and Lilly leaned over the side and held out
tiny, dimpled hands to lift them in. They were climbing out of their
watery graves, and Lilly's long, fair curls already touched their
cheeks, when a strong arm snatched Lilly back, and struck them down
into the roaring gulf, and above the white faces of the drifting
dead stood Mrs. Grayson, sailing away with Lilly struggling in her
arms. Eugene was sinking and Beulah could not reach him; he held up
his arms imploringly toward her, and called upon her to save him,
and then his head with its wealth of silken, brown locks
disappeared. She ceased to struggle; she welcomed drowning now that
he had gone to rest among coral temples. She sank down--down. The
rigid corpses were no longer visible. She was in an emerald palace,
and myriads of rosy shells paved the floors. At last she found
Eugene reposing on a coral bank, and playing with pearls; she
hastened to join him, and was just taking his hand when a horrible
phantom, seizing him in its arms, bore him away, and, looking in its
face, she saw that it was Mrs. Chilton. With a wild scream of
terror, Beulah awoke. She was lying across the foot of the bed, and
both hands were thrown up, grasping the post convulsively. The room
was dark, save where the moonlight crept through the curtains and
fell slantingly on the picture of Hope and the Pilgrims, and by that
dim light she saw a tall form standing near her.
"Were you dreaming, Beulah, that you shrieked so wildly?"
The doctor lifted her up, and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Oh, Dr. Hartwell, I have had a horrible, horrible dream!" She
shuddered, and clung to him tightly, as if dreading it might still
prove a reality.
"Poor child! Come with me, and I will try to exorcise this evil
spirit which haunts even your slumbers."
Keeping her hand in his, he led her down to his study, and seated
her on a couch drawn near the window. The confused sound of many
voices and the tread of dancing feet, keeping time to a band of
music, came indistinctly from the parlors. Dr. Hartwell closed the
door, to shut out the unwelcome sounds, and, seating himself before
the melodeon, poured a flood of soothing, plaintive melody upon the
air. Beulah sat entranced, while he played on and on, as if
unconscious of her presence. Her whole being was inexpressibly
thrilled; and, forgetting her frightful vision, her enraptured soul
hovered on the very confines of fabled elysium. Sliding from the
couch, upon her knees, she remained with her clasped hands pressed
over her heart, only conscious of her trembling delight. Once or
twice before she had felt thus, in watching a gorgeous sunset in the
old pine grove; and now, as the musician seemed to play upon her
heart-strings, calling thence unearthly tones, the tears rolled
swiftly over her face. Images of divine beauty filled her soul, and
nobler aspirations than she had ever known took possession of her.
Soon the tears ceased, the face became calm, singularly calm; then
lighted with an expression which nothing earthly could have kindled.
It was the look of one whose spirit, escaping from gross bondage,
soared into realms divine, and proclaimed itself God-born. Dr.
Hartwell was watching her countenance, and, as the expression of
indescribable joy and triumph flashed over it, he involuntarily
paused. She waited till the last deep echoing tone died away, and
then, approaching him, as he still sat before the instrument, she
laid her hand on his knee, and said slowly:
"Oh, thank you! I can bear anything now."
"Can you explain to me how the music strengthened you? Try, will
you?"
She mused for some moments, and answered thoughtfully:
"First, it made me forget the pain of my dream; then it caused me to
think of the wonderful power which created music; and then, from
remembering the infinite love and wisdom of the Creator, who has
given man the power to call out this music, I thought how very noble
man was, and what he was capable of doing; and, at last, I was glad
because God has given me some of these powers; and, though I am
ugly, and have been afflicted in losing my dear loved ones, yet I
was made for God's glory in some way, and am yet to be shown the
work he has laid out for me to do. Oh, sir! I can't explain it all
to you, but I do know that God will prove to me that 'He doeth all
things well.'"
She looked gravely up into the face beside her, and sought to read
its baffling characters. He had leaned his elbow on the melodeon,
and his wax-like fingers were thrust through his hair. His brow was
smooth, and his mouth at rest, but the dark eyes, with their
melancholy splendor, looked down at her moodily. They met her gaze
steadily; and then she saw into the misty depths, and a shudder
crept over her, as she fell on her knees, and said shiveringly:
"Oh, sir, can it be?"
He put his hand on her head, and asked quietly:
"Can what be, child?"
"Have you no God?"
His face grew whiter than was his wont. A scowl of bitterness
settled on it, and the eyes burned with an almost unearthly
brilliance, as he rose and walked away. For some time he stood
before the window, with his arms folded; and, laying her head on the
stool of the melodeon, Beulah knelt just as he left her It has been
said, "Who can refute a sneer?" Rather ask, Who can compute its
ruinous effects. To that kneeling figure came the thought, "If he,
surrounded by wealth and friends, and blessings, cannot believe in
God, what cause have I, poor, wretched, and lonely, to have faith in
him?" The bare suggestion of the doubt stamped it on her memory, yet
she shrank with horror from the idea, and an eager, voiceless prayer
ascended from her heart that she might be shielded from such
temptations in future. Dr. Hartwell touched her, and said, in his
usual low, musical tones:
"It is time you were asleep. Do not indulge in any more horrible
dreams, if you please. Good-night, Beulah. Whenever you feel that
you would like to have some music, do not hesitate to ask me for
it."
He held open the door for her to pass out. She longed to ask him
what he lived for, if eternity had no joys for him; but, looking in
his pale face, she saw from the lips and eyes that he would not
suffer any questioning, and, awed by the expression of his
countenance, she said "Good-night," and hurried away. The merry hum
of childish voices again fell on her ear, and as she ascended the
steps a bevy of white-clad girls emerged from a room near, and
walked on just below her. Pauline's party was at its height. Beulah
looked down on the fairy gossamer robes, and gayly tripping girls,
and then hastened to her own room, while the thought presented
itself:
"Why are things divided so unequally in this world? Why do some have
all of joy, and some only sorrow's brimming cup to drain?" But the
sweet voice of Faith answered, "What I do, thou knowest not now, but
thou shalt know hereafter," and, trusting the promise, she was
content to wait.