Time, "like a star, unhasting, yet unresting," moved on. The keen
blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses,
and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies.
The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays
of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it "was well-nigh done";
and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the
dolphin-like death. The regal splendors of Southern springtime were
on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with
its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the
wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful
streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of
newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought
their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of
rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of
violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air. Beulah
sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her--a
volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous
descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume--the
glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered
she sat looking out, mute and motionless. The distant pinetops sang
their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the
soft violet sky. Around the columns of the little portico a
luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their
spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah's head, as she leaned it
against the pillar. The face wore a weary, suffering look; the
large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of
languor in every feature. A few months had strangely changed the
countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted
expression. The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and
the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue. Yet she had
never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the
usual routine of mental labor. Rigorously the tax was levied, no
matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed;
and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for
a reprieve. Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many
days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was
generally reclaimed from sleep. It was no mystery that she looked
ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent
glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and
the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of
hope which had risen in her cloudy sky. Mr. Arlington's brother had
taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy,
that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer
holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name. Beulah
rejoiced in her friend's happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest,
as in Pauline's case, thorns should spring up in paths where now
only blossoms were visible. Since that letter, so full of complaint
and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline. Many months had
elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence.
She had written several times, but received no answer, and
imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage.
Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had
died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs.
Lockhart must be with her daughter. Beulah half rose, then leaned
back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that
"still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills." Mrs.
Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her
own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due
the editor the next morning. She was rigidly punctual in handing in
her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from
the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the
gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow. She no longer
wrote incognito. By accident she was discovered as the authoress of
several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than
once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading
literati of the place. Her successful career thus far inflamed the
ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental
organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her
soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the
hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived,
as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame
suffered proportionably. The little gate opened and closed with a
creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and
saw her guardian before her. The light from the dining room fell on
his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and
inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had
induced this visit. He had never entered that gate before; and she
sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.
"Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you once more!"
He took her hands in his and looked at her gravely; then made her
sit down again on the step, and said:
"I suppose you would have died before you could get your consent to
send for me? It is well that you have somebody to look after you.
How long have you had this fever?"
"Fever! Why, sir, I have no fever," she replied, with some surprise.
"Oh, child! are you trying to destroy yourself by your obstinacy? If
so, like most other things you undertake, I suppose you will
succeed."
He held her hands and kept his finger on the quick bounding pulse.
Beulah had not seen him since the night of Cornelia's death, some
months before, and conjectured that Dr. Asbury had told him she was
not looking well.
She could not bear the steady, searching gaze of his luminous eyes,
and, moving restlessly, said:
"Sir, what induces you to suppose that I am sick? I have complained
of indisposition to no one."
"Of course you have not, for people are to believe that you are a
gutta-percha automaton."
She fancied his tone was slightly sneering; but his countenance wore
the expression of anxious, protecting interest which she had so
prized in days past, and, as her hands trembled in his clasp and his
firm hold tightened, she felt that it was useless to attempt to
conceal the truth longer.
"I didn't know I was feverish; but for some time I have daily grown
weaker; I tremble when I stand or walk, and am not able to sleep.
That is all."
He smiled down at her earnest face, and asked:
"Is that all, child? Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; all."
"And here you have been, with a continued, wasting nervous fever for
you know not how many days, yet keep on your round of labors without
cessation!"
He dropped her hands and folded his arms across his broad chest,
keeping his eyes upon her.
"I am not at all ill; but believe I need some medicine to strengthen
me."
"Yes, child; you do, indeed, need a medicine, but it is one you will
never take."
"Try me, sir," answered she, smiling.
"Try you? I might as well try to win an eagle from its lonely rocky
home. Beulah, you need rest. Rest for mind, body, and heart. But you
will not take it; oh, no, of course you won't!"
He passed his hand over his brow, and swept back the glossy chestnut
hair, as if it oppressed him.
"I would willingly take it, sir, if I could; but the summer vacation
is still distant, and, besides, my engagements oblige me to exert
myself. It is a necessity with me."
"Rather say sheer obstinacy," said he sternly.
"You are severe, sir," replied Beulah, lifting her head haughtily.
"No; I only call things by their proper names."
"Very well; if you prefer it, then, obstinacy compels me just now to
deny myself the rest you prescribe."
"Yes; rightly spoken; and it will soon compel you to a long rest, in
the quiet place where Cornelia waits for you. You are a mere shadow
now, and a few more months will complete your design. I have blamed
myself more than once that I did not suffer you to die with Lilly,
as you certainly would have done had I not tended you so closely.
Your death then would have saved me much care and sorrow, and you
many struggles."
There was a shadow on his face, and his voice had the deep, musical
tone which always made her heart thrill. Her eyelids drooped, as she
said sadly:
"You are unjust. We meet rarely enough, Heaven knows. Why do you
invariably make these occasions seasons of upbraiding, of taunts and
sneers. Sir, I owe you my life, and more than my life, and never can
I forget or cancel my obligations; but are you no longer my friend?"
His whole face lighted up; the firm mouth trembled.
"No, Beulah. I am no longer your friend."
She looked up at him, and a quiver crept across her lips. She had
never seen that eager expression in his stern face before. His dark,
fascinating eyes were full of pleading tenderness, and, as she
drooped her head on her lap, she knew that Clara was right, that she
was dearer to her guardian than anyone else. A half-smothered groan
escaped her, and there was a short pause.
Dr. Hartwell put his hands gently on her bowed head and lifted the
face.
"Child, does it surprise you?"
She said nothing, and, leaning her head against him, as she had
often done years before, he passed his hand caressingly over the
folds of hair, and added:
"You call me your guardian; make me such. I can no longer be only
your friend; I must either be more, or henceforth a stranger. My
life has been full of sorrow and bitterness, but you can bring
sunlight to my home and heart. You were too proud to be adopted.
Once I asked you to be my child. Ah! I did not know my own heart
then. Our separation during the yellow-fever season first taught me
how inexpressibly dear you were to me, how entirely you filled my
heart. Now I ask you to be my wife, to give yourself to me. Oh,
Beulah, come back to my cheerless home! Best your lonely heart, my
proud darling."
"Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah,
shuddering violently.
"Why not, my little Beulah?"
He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his
head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.
"Oh, sir, I would rather die! I should be miserable as your wife.
You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in
your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery.
You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude. Do not
ask this of me; we would both be wretched. You pity my loneliness
and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my
best friend; I love you as my protector. You are all I have on earth
to look to for sympathy and guidance. You are all I have; but I
cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!" She shrank away
from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of
hopeless suffering settled upon her face.
He withdrew his arm, and rose.
"Beulah, I have seen sunlit bubbles gliding swiftly on the bosom of
a clear brook and casting golden shadows down upon the pebbly bed.
Such a shadow you are now chasing--ah, child, the shadow of a gilded
bubble! Panting and eager, you clutch at it; the bubble dances on,
the shadow with it; and Beulah, you will never, never grasp it.
Ambition such as yours, which aims at literary fame, is the
deadliest foe to happiness. Man may content himself with the
applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect; but
woman's heart has holier idols. You cue young, and impulsive, and
aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the siren of antiquity; but
the months and years will surely come when, with wasted energies and
embittered heart, you are left to mourn your infatuation. I would
save you from this; but you will drain the very dregs rather than
forsake your tempting fiend, for such is ambition to the female
heart. Yes, you will spend the springtime of your life chasing a
painted specter, and go down to a premature grave, disappointed and
miserable. Poor child, it needs no prophetic vision to predict your
ill-starred career! Already the consuming fever has begun its march.
In far-distant lands, I shall have no tidings of you; but none will
be needed. Perhaps when I travel home to die your feverish dream
will have ended; or, perchance, sinking to eternal rest in some palm
grove of the far East, we shall meet no more. Since the day I took
you in my arms from Lilly's coffin you have been my only hope, my
all. You little knew how precious you were to me, nor what keen
suffering our estrangement cost me. Oh, child, I have loved you as
only a strong, suffering, passionate heart could love its last idol!
But I, too, chased a shadow. Experience should have taught me
wisdom. Now I am a gloomy, joyless man, weary of my home and
henceforth a wanderer. Asbury (if he lives) will be truly your
friend, and to him T shall commit the legacy which hitherto you have
refused to accept. Mr. Graham paid it into my hands after his last
unsatisfactory interview with you. The day may come when you will
need it. I shall send you some medicine which, for your own sake,
you had better take immediately; but you will never grow stronger
until you give yourself rest, relaxation, physically and mentally.
Remember, when your health is broken and all your hopes withered,
remember I warned you and would have saved you, and you would not."
He stooped and took his hat from the floor.
Beulah sat looking at him, stunned, bewildered, her tearless eyes
strained and frightened in their expression. The transient
illumination in his face had faded, like sunset tints, leaving dull,
leaden clouds behind. His compressed lips were firm again, and the
misty eyes became coldly glittering, as one sees stars brighten in a
frosty air.
He put on his hat, and they looked at each other fixedly.
"You are not in earnest? you are not going to quit your home?" cried
Beulah, in a broken, unsteady tone.
"Yes--going into the far East; to the ruined altars of Baalbec; to
Meroe, to Tartary, India, China, and only Fate knows where else.
Perhaps find a cool Nebo in some Himalayan range. Going? Yes. Did
you suppose I meant only to operate on your sympathies? I know you
too well. What is it to you whether I live or die? whether my weary
feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city
cemetery? Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting. I
shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits. Ah, child--"
"Oh, don't go! don't leave me! I beg, I implore you, not to leave
me. Oh, I am so desolate! don't forsake me! I could not bear to know
you were gone. Oh, don't leave me!" She sprang up, and, throwing her
arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened
child. But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as
he coldly answered:
"Once resolved, I never waver. So surely as I live I shall go. It
might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself. An hour ago
you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed. I should have
gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of
happiness in your love. Child, don't shiver and cling to me so.
Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no
leisure to regret my absence. Henceforth we are strangers."
"No; that shall never be. You do not mean it; you know it is
impossible. You know that I prize your friendship above every
earthly thing. You know that I look up to you as to no one else.
That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me! Oh,
sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don't cast
me off! Don't go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without
aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world! My heart dies
within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to
see you. Oh, my guardian, don't forsake me!"
She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms
firmly round his neck.
"I am not your guardian, Beulah. You refused to make me such. You
are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as
an authoress. I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but
perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I
have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in
a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will
divide us. And now, good-by. Make yourself a name; bind your aching
brow with the chaplet of fame, and see if ambition can fill your
heart. Good-by, dear child."
Gently he drew her arms from his neck, and took her face in his soft
palms. He looked at her a moment, sadly and earnestly, as if
striving to fix her features in the frame of memory; then bent his
head and pressed a long kiss on her lips. She put out her hands, but
he had gone, and, sinking down on the step, she hid her face in her
arms. A pall seemed suddenly thrown over the future, and the
orphaned heart shrank back from the lonely path where only specters
were visible. Never before had she realized how dear he was to her,
how large a share of her love he possessed, and now the prospect of
a long, perhaps final separation, filled her with a shivering,
horrible dread. We have seen that self-reliance was a powerful
element in her character, and she had learned, from painful
necessity, to depend as little as possible upon the sympathies of
others; but in this hour of anguish a sense of joyless isolation
conquered; her proud soul bowed down beneath the weight of
intolerable grief, and acknowledged itself not wholly independent of
the love and presence of her guardian.
Beulah went back to her desk, and, with tearless eyes, began the
allotted task of writing. The article was due, and must be finished;
was there not a long, dark future in which to mourn? The sketch was
designed to prove that woman's happiness was not necessarily
dependent on marriage. That a single life might be more useful, more
tranquil, more unselfish. Beulah had painted her heroine in glowing
tints, and triumphantly proved her theory correct, while to female
influence she awarded a sphere (exclusive of rostrums and all
political arenas) wide as the universe and high as heaven. Weary
work it all seemed to her now; but she wrote on and on, and finally
the last page was copied and the last punctuation mark affixed. She
wrapped up the manuscript, directed it to the editor, and then the
pen fell from her nerveless fingers and her head went down, with a
wailing cry, on her desk. There the morning sun flashed upon a white
face, tear-stained and full of keen anguish. How her readers would
have marveled at the sight! Ah, "Verily the heart knoweth its own
bitterness."