Among the number of gentlemen whom Beulah occasionally met at Dr.
Asbury's house were two whose frequent visits and general demeanor
induced the impression that they were more than ordinarily
interested in the sisters. Frederick Vincent evinced a marked
preference for Georgia, while Horace Maxwell was conspicuously
attentive to Helen. The former was wealthy, handsome, indolent, and
self-indulgent; the latter rather superior, as to business habits,
which a limited purse peremptorily demanded. Doubtless both would
have passed as men of medium capacity, but certainly as nothing
more. In fine, they were fair samples, perfect types of the numerous
class of fashionable young men who throng all large cities. Good-
looking, vain, impudent, heartless, frivolous, and dissipated;
adepts at the gaming table and pistol gallery, ciphers in an
intelligent, refined assembly. They smoked the choicest cigars,
drank the most costly wines, drove the fastest horses, and were
indispensable at champagne and oyster suppers. They danced and
swore, visited and drank, with reckless indifference to every purer
and nobler aim. Notwithstanding manners of incorrigible effrontery
which characterized their clique, the ladies always received them
with marked expressions of pleasure, and the entree of the "first
circle" was certainly theirs. Dr. Asbury knew comparatively little
of the young men who visited so constantly at his house, but of the
two under discussion he chanced to know that they were by no means
models of sobriety, having met them late one night as they supported
each other's tottering forms homeward, after a card and wine party,
which ended rather disastrously for both. He openly avowed his
discontent at the intimacy their frequent visits induced, and
wondered how his daughters could patiently indulge in the heartless
chit-chat which alone could entertain them. But he was a fond,
almost doting father, and seemed to take it for granted that they
were mere dancing acquaintances, whose society must be endured. Mrs.
Asbury was not so blind, and discovered, with keen sorrow and
dismay, that Georgia was far more partial to Vincent than she had
dreamed possible. The mother's heart ached with dread lest her
child's affections were really enlisted, and, without her husband's
knowledge she passed many hours of bitter reflection as to the best
course she should pursue to arrest Vincent's intimacy at the house.
Only a woman knows woman's heart, and she felt that Georgia's
destiny would be decided by the measures she now employed. Ridicule,
invective, and even remonstrance she knew would only augment her
interest in one whom she considered unjustly dealt with. She was
thoroughly acquainted with the obstinacy which formed the stamen of
Georgia's character, and very cautiously the maternal guidance must
be given. She began by gravely regretting the familiar footing Mr.
Vincent had acquired in her family, and urged upon Georgia and Helen
the propriety of discouraging attentions that justified the world in
joining their names. This had very little effect. She was conscious
that because of his wealth Vincent was courted and flattered by the
most select and fashionable of her circle of acquaintances, and
knew, alas! that he was not more astray than the majority of the
class of young men to which he belonged. With a keen pang, she saw
that her child shrank from her, evaded her kind questions, and
seemed to plunge into the festivities of the season with unwonted
zest. From their birth she had trained her daughters to confide
unreservedly in her, and now to perceive the youngest avoiding her
caresses, or hurrying away from her anxious glance, was bitter
indeed. How her pure-hearted darling could tolerate the reckless,
frivolous being in whose society she seemed so well satisfied was a
painful mystery; but the startling reality looked her in the face,
and she resolved, at every hazard, to save her from the misery which
was in store for Fred Vincent's wife. Beulah's quick eye readily
discerned the state of affairs relative to Georgia and Vincent, and
she could with difficulty restrain an expression of the disgust a
knowledge of his character inspired. He was a brother of the Miss
Vincent she had once seen at Dr. Hartwell's, and probably this
circumstance increased her dislike. Vincent barely recognized her
when they chanced to meet, and, of all his antipathies, hatred of
Beulah predominated. He was perfectly aware that she despised his
weaknesses and detested his immoralities; and, while he shrank from
the steadfast gray eyes, calm but contemptuous, he hated her
heartily.
Cornelia Graham seemed for a time to have rallied all her strength,
and attended parties and kept her place at the opera with a
regularity which argued a complete recovery. Antoinette Dupres was
admired and nattered; the season was unusually gay. What if Death
had so lately held his awful assize in the city? Bereaved families
wrapped their sable garments about lonely hearts, and wept over the
countless mounds in the cemetery; but the wine-cup and song and
dance went their accustomed rounds in fashionable quarters, and
drink, dress, and be merry appeared the all-absorbing thought. Into
this gayety Eugene Graham eagerly plunged; night after night was
spent in one continued whirl; day by day he wandered further astray,
and ere long his visits to Beulah ceased entirely. Antoinette
thoroughly understood the game she had to play, and easily and
rapidly he fell into the snare. To win her seemed his only wish; and
not even Cornelia's keenly searching eyes could check his admiration
and devotion. January had gone; February drew near its close. Beulah
had not seen Eugene for many days and felt more than usually anxious
concerning him, for little intercourse now existed between Cornelia
and herself. One evening, however, as she stood before a glass and
arranged her hair with more than ordinary care, she felt that she
would soon have an opportunity of judging whether reports were true.
If he indeed rushed along the highway to ruin, one glance would
discover to her the fact. Dr. Asbury wished to give Pauline Chilton
a party, and his own and Mrs. Asbury's kind persuasions induced the
orphan to consent to attend. The evening had arrived. She put on her
simple Swiss muslin dress, without a wish for anything more costly,
and entered the carriage her friends had sent to convey her to the
house. The guests rapidly assembled; soon the rooms were thronged
with merry people, whose moving to and fro prevented regular
conversation. The brilliant chandeliers flashed down on rich silks
and satins, gossamer fabrics, and diamonds which blazed dazzlingly.
Pauline was superbly beautiful. Excitement lighted her eyes and
flushed her cheeks, until all paused to gaze at her transcendent
loveliness. It was generally known that ere many days her marriage
would take place, and people looked at her in her marvelous, queenly
beauty, and wondered what infatuation induced her to give her hand
to a minister, when she, of all others present, seemed made to move
in the gay scene where she reigned supreme. From a quiet seat near
the window Beulah watched her airy, graceful form glide through the
quadrille, and feared that in future years she would sigh for the
gayeties which in her destined lot would be withheld from her. She
tried to fancy the dazzling beauty metamorphosed into the staid
clergyman's wife, divested of satin and diamonds, and visiting the
squalid and suffering portion of her husband's flock. But the
contrast was too glaring, and she turned her head to watch for
Eugene's appearance. Before long she saw him cross the room with
Antoinette on his arm. The quadrille had ended, and as, at the
request of one of the guests, the band played a brilliant mazourka,
numerous couples took their places on the floor. Beulah had never
seen the mazourka danced in public; she knew that neither Helen nor
Georgia ever danced the so-called "fancy dances," and was not a
little surprised when the gentlemen encircled the waists of their
partners and whirled away. Her eyes followed Eugene's tall form, as
the circuit of the parlors was rapidly made, and he approached the
corner where she sat. He held his lovely partner close to his heart,
and her head drooped very contentedly on his shoulder. He was
talking to her as they danced, and his lips nearly touched her
glowing cheek. On they came, so close to Beulah that Antoinette's
gauzy dress floated against her, and, as the music quickened, faster
flew the dancers. Beulah looked on with a sensation of disgust which
might have been easily read in her countenance; verily she blushed
for her degraded sex, and, sick of the scene, left the window and
retreated to the library, where the more sedate portion of the
guests were discussing various topics. Here were Mr. and Mrs.
Grayson; Claudia was North, at school. Beulah found a seat near Mrs.
Asbury, and endeavored to banish the painful recollections which
Mrs. Grayson's face recalled. They had not met since the memorable
day when the orphan first found a guardian, and she felt that there
was still an unconquerable aversion in her heart which caused it to
throb heavily. She thought the time tediously long, and when at last
the signal for supper was given, felt relieved. As usual, there was
rushing and squeezing into the supper room, and, waiting until the
hall was comparatively deserted, she ran up to the dressing room for
her shawl, tired of the crowd and anxious to get home again. She
remembered that she had dropped her fan behind one of the sofas in
the parlor, and, as all were at supper, fancied she could obtain it
unobserved, and entered the room for that purpose. A gentleman stood
by the fire; but, without noticing him, she pushed the sofa aside,
secured her fan, and was turning away when a well-known voice
startled her.
"Beulah, where are you going?"
"Home, sir."
"What! so soon tired?"
"Yes; heartily tired," said she, wrapping her shawl about her.
"Have you spoken to Eugene to-night?"
"No."
Her guardian looked at her very intently, as if striving to read her
soul, and said slowly:
"Child, he and Antoinette are sitting in the front parlor. I
happened to overhear a remark as I passed them. He is an accepted
lover; they are engaged."
A quick shiver ran over Beulah's frame, and a dark frown furrowed
her pale brow, as she answered:
"I feared as much."
"Why should you fear, child? She is a beautiful heiress, and he
loves her," returned Dr. Hartwell, without taking his eyes from her
face.
"No; he thinks he loves her, but it is not so. He is fascinated by
her beauty; but I fear the day will come when, discovering her true
character, he will mourn his infatuation. I know his nature, and I
know, too, that she cannot make him happy."
She turned away; but he walked on with her to the carriage, handed
her in, and said "Good-night" as coldly as usual. Meantime, the
rattle of plates, jingle of forks and spoons, in the supper room,
would have rendered all conversation impossible had not the
elevation of voices kept pace with the noise and confusion. At one
end of the table Cornelia Graham stood talking to a distinguished
foreigner who was spending a few days in the city. He was a handsome
man, with fine colloquial powers, and seemed much interested in a
discussion which he and Cornelia carried on, relative to the society
of American cities as compared with European. A temporary lull in
the hum of voices allowed Cornelia to hear a remark made by a
gentleman quite near her.
"Miss Laura, who did you say that young lady was that Mrs. Asbury
introduced me to? The one with such magnificent hair and teeth?"
His companion was no other than Laura Martin, whose mother, having
built an elegant house and given several large parties, was now a
"fashionable," par excellence. Laura elevated her nose very
perceptibly, and answered:
"Oh, a mere nobody! Beulah Benton. I can't imagine how she contrived
to be invited here. She is a teacher in the public school, I
believe; but that is not the worst. She used to hire herself out as
a servant. Indeed, it is a fact, she was my little brother's nurse
some years ago. I think ma hired her for six dollars a month." She
laughed affectedly, and allowed her escort to fill her plate with
creams.
Cornelia grew white with anger, and the stranger asked, with a
smile, if he should consider this a sample of the society she
boasted of. Turning abruptly to Laura, she replied, with undisguised
contempt:
"The Fates forbid, Mr. Falconer, that you should judge American
society from some of the specimens you may see here to-night!
Misfortune placed Miss Benton, at an early age, in an orphan asylum,
and while quite young she left it to earn a support. Mrs. Martin
(this young lady's mother) hired her as a nurse; but she soon left
this position, qualified herself to teach, and now, with a fine
intellect thoroughly cultivated, is the pride of all who can
appreciate true nobility of soul and, of course, an object of envy
and detraction to her inferiors, especially to some of our
fashionable parvenus, whose self-interest prompts them to make money
alone the standard of worth, and who are in the habit of determining
the gentility of different persons by what they have, not what they
are."
Her scornful glance rested witheringly on Laura's face, and,
mortified and enraged, the latter took her companion's arm and moved
away.
"I have some desire to become acquainted with one who could deserve
such eulogy from you," answered the foreigner, somewhat amused at
the course the conversation had taken and quite satisfied that
Americans were accustomed to correct false impressions in rather an
abrupt manner.
"I will present you to her with great pleasure. She is not here; we
must search for her."
She took his arm, and they looked for Beulah from room to room;
finally, Dr. Hartwell informed Cornelia that she had gone home, and,
tired and out of humor, the latter excused herself and prepared to
follow her friend's example. Her father was deep in a game of whist,
her mother unwilling to return home so soon, and Eugene and
Antoinette--where were they? Dr. Hartwell saw her perplexed
expression, and asked:
"Whom are you looking for?"
"Eugene."
"He is with your cousin on the west gallery. I will conduct you to
them, if you wish it."
He offered his arm, and noticed the scowl that instantly darkened
her face. Unconsciously her fingers grasped his arm tightly, and she
walked on with a lowering brow. As they approached the end of the
gallery Cornelia saw that the two she sought stood earnestly
conversing. Eugene's arm passed round Antoinette's waist. Dr.
Hartwell watched his companion closely; the light from the window
gleamed over her face and showed it gray and rigid. Her white lips
curled as she muttered:
"Let us take another turn before I speak to them."
"Surely you are not surprised?"
"Oh, no! I am not blind!"
"It was an unlucky chance that threw your cousin in his path," said
the doctor composedly.
"Oh, it is merely another link in the chain of fatality which binds
my family to misfortune. She has all the family traits of the
Labords, and you know what they are," cried Cornelia.
He compressed his lips, and a lightning glance shot out from his
eyes; but he stilled the rising tempest, and replied coldly:
"Why, then, did you not warn him?"
"Warn him! So I did. But I might as well grasp at the stars yonder
as hope to influence him in this infatuation."
Once more they approached the happy pair, and, leaning forward,
Cornelia said hoarsely:
"Eugene, my father is engaged; come home with me."
He looked up, and answered carelessly: "Oh, you are leaving too
early. Can't you entertain yourself a little longer?"
"No, sir."
Her freezing tone startled him, and for the first time he noticed
the haggard face, with its expression of angry scorn. Her eyes were
fixed on Antoinette, who only smiled and looked triumphantly
defiant.
"Are you ill, Cornelia? Of course I will take you home if you really
desire it. Doctor, I must consign Miss Dupres to your care till I
return."
Eugene by no means relished the expression of his sister's
countenance. She bade Dr. Harwell adieu, passed her arm through her
brother's, and they proceeded to their carriage. The ride was short
and silent. On reaching home, Eugene conducted Cornelia into the
house, and was about to return when she said imperiously:
"A word with you before you go."
She entered the sitting room, threw her wrappings on a chair, and
began to divest herself of bracelets and necklace. Eugene lighted a
cigar and stood waiting to hear what she might choose to
communicate. Fastening her brilliant black eyes on his face, she
said sneeringly:
"Eugene Graham, did you learn dissimulation in the halls of
Heidelberg?"
"What do you mean, Cornelia?"
"Where did you learn to deceive one who believed you pure and
truthful as an archangel? Answer me that." Her whole face was a
glare of burning scorn.
"Insulting insinuations are unworthy of you and beneath my notice,"
he proudly replied.
"Well, then, take the more insulting truth! What crawling serpent of
temptation induced you to tell me you expected to marry Beulah? No
evasion! I will not be put off! Why did you deceive me with a
falsehood I was too stupidly trusting to discover until recently?"
"When I told you so I expected to marry Beulah; not so much because
I loved her, but because I supposed that she rather considered me
bound to her by early ties. I discovered, however, that her
happiness was not dependent on me, and therefore abandoned the
idea."
"And my peerless cousin is to be your bride, eh?"
"Yes; she has promised me her hand at an early day."
"No doubt. You don't deserve anything better. Beulah scorns you; I
see it in her eyes. Marry you! You! Oh, Eugene, she is far too
superior to you. You are blind now; but the day will surely come
when your charmer will, with her own hand, tear the veil from your
eyes, and you will curse your folly. It is of no use to tell you
that she is false, heartless, utterly unprincipled; you will not
believe it, of course, till you find out her miserable defects
yourself. I might thunder warnings in your ears from now till
doomsday, and you would not heed me. But whether I live to see it or
not, you will bitterly rue your infatuation. You will blush for the
name which, as your wife, Antoinette will disgrace. Now leave me."
She pointed to the door, and, too much incensed to reply, he quitted
the room with a suppressed oath, slamming the door behind him.
Cornelia went up to her own apartment and, without ringing for her
maid, took off the elegant dress she wore, and threw her dressing
gown round her. The diamond hairpins glowed like coals of fire in
her black braids, mocking the gray, bloodless face, and look of
wretchedness. She took out the jewels, laid them on her lap, and
suffered the locks of hair to fall upon her shoulders. Then great
hot tears rolled over her face; heavy sobs convulsed her frame, and,
bowing down her head, the haughty heiress wept passionately. Eugene
was the only being she really loved; for years her hopes and pride
had centered in him. Now down the long vista of coming time she
looked and saw him staggering on to ruin and disgrace. She knew her
own life would at best be short, and felt that now it had lost its
only interest, and she was ready to sink to her last rest rather
than witness his future career. This was the first time she had wept
since the days of early childhood; but she calmed the fearful
struggle in her heart, and, toward dawn, fell asleep, with a
repulsive sneer on her lips. The ensuing day she was forced to
listen to the complacent comments of her parents, who were well
pleased with the alliance. Antoinette was to return home
immediately, the marriage would take place in June, and they were
all to spend the summer at the North; after which it was suggested
that the young couple should reside with Mr. Graham. Cornelia was
standing apart when her mother made this proposition, and, turning
sharply toward the members of her family, the daughter exclaimed:
"Never! You all know that this match is utterly odious to me. Let
Eugene have a house of his own; I have no mind to have Antoinette
longer in my home. Nay, father; it will not be for a great while.
When I am gone they can come; I rather think I shall not long be in
their way. While I do live, let me be quiet, will you?"
Her burning yet sunken eyes ran over the group.
Eugene sprang up and left the room; Antoinette put her embroidered
handkerchief to dry eyes; Mrs. Graham looked distressed; and her
husband wiped his spectacles. But the mist was in his eyes, and
presently large drops fell over his cheeks as he looked at the face
and form of his only child.
Cornelia saw his emotion; the great floodgate of her heart seemed
suddenly lifted. She passed her white fingers over his gray hair,
and murmured brokenly:
"My father--my father! I have been a care and a sorrow to you all my
life; I am very wayward and exacting, but bear with your poor child;
my days are numbered. Father, when my proud head lies low in the
silent grave, then give others my place."
He took her in his arms and kissed her hollow cheek, saying
tenderly:
"My darling, you break my heart. Have you ever been denied a wish?
What is there that I can do to make you happy?"
"Give Eugene a house of his own, and let me be at peace in my home.
Will you do this for me?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, my father."
Disengaging his clasping arm, she left them.
A few days after the party at her house, Mrs. Asbury returned home
from a visit to the asylum (of which she had recently been elected a
manager). In passing the parlor door she heard suppressed voices,
looked in, and, perceiving Mr. Vincent seated near Georgia, retired,
without speaking, to her own room. Securing the door, she sank on
her knees, and besought an all-wise God to direct and aid her in her
course of duty. The time had arrived when she must hazard everything
to save her child from an ill-fated marriage; and though the
mother's heart bled she was firm in her resolve. When Mr. Vincent
took leave, and Georgia had returned to her room, Mrs. Asbury sought
her. She found her moody and disposed to evade her questions.
Passing her arm round her, she said very gently:
"My dear child, let there be perfect confidence between us. Am I not
more interested in your happiness than anyone else? My child, what
has estranged you of late?"
Georgia made no reply.
"What, but my love for you and anxiety for your happiness, could
induce me to object to your receiving Mr. Vincent's attentions?"
"You are prejudiced against him, and always were!"
"I judge the young man only from his conduct. You know--you are
obliged to know, that he is recklessly dissipated, selfish, and
immoral."
"He is no worse than other young men. I know very few who are not
quite as wild as he is. Beside, he has promised to sign the
temperance pledge if I will marry him."
"My child, you pain me beyond expression. Does the depravity which
prevails here sanction Vincent's dissipation? Oh, Georgia, has
association deprived you of horror of vice? Can you be satisfied
because others are quite as degraded? He does not mean what he
promises; it is merely to deceive you. His intemperate habits are
too confirmed to be remedied now; he began early, at college, and
has constantly grown worse."
"You are prejudiced," persisted Georgia, unable to restrain her
tears.
"If I am, it is because of his profligacy! Can you possibly be
attached to such a man?"
Georgia sobbed and cried heartily. Her good sense told her that her
mother was right, but it was difficult to relinquish the hope of
reforming him. As gently as possible, Mrs. Asbury dwelt upon his
utter worthlessness, and the misery and wretchedness which would
surely ensue from such a union. With streaming eyes, she implored
her to banish the thought, assuring her she would sooner see her in
her grave than the wife of a drunkard. And now the care of years was
to be rewarded; her firm but gentle reasoning prevailed. Georgia had
always reverenced her mother; she knew she was invariably guided by
principle; and now, as she listened to her earnest entreaties, all
her obstinacy melted away. Throwing herself into her mother's arms,
she begged her to forgive the pain and anxiety she had caused her.
Mrs. Asbury pressed her to her heart, and silently thanked God for
the success of her remonstrances. Of all this Dr. Asbury knew
nothing. When Mr. Vincent called the following day Georgia very
decidedly rejected him. Understanding from her manner that she meant
what she said, he became violently enraged; swore, with a solemn
oath, that he would make her repent her trifling; took his hat, and
left the house. This sufficed to remove any lingering tenderness
from Georgia's heart; and from that hour Fred Vincent darkened the
home circle no more.