One afternoon in the following week Mrs. Williams sat wrapped up in
the hall, watching Beulah's movements in the yard at the rear of the
house. The whitewashed paling was covered with luxuriant raspberry
vines, and in one corner of the garden was a bed of strawberry
plants. Over this bed Beulah was bending with a basket nearly filled
with the ripe scarlet berries. Stooping close to the plants she saw
only the fruit she was engaged in picking; and when the basket was
quite full she was suddenly startled by a merry laugh and a pair of
hands clasped over her eyes.
"Who blindfolds me?" said she.
"Guess, you solemn witch!"
"Why, Georgia, of course."
The hands were removed, and Georgia Asbury's merry face greeted her.
"I am glad to see you, Georgia. Where is Helen?"
"Oh, gone to ride with one of her adorers; but I have brought
somebody to see you who is worth the whole Asbury family. No less a
personage than my famous cousin Reginald Lindsay, whom you have
heard us speak of so often. Oh, how tempting those luscious berries
are! Reginald and I intend to stay to tea, and father will perhaps
come out in the carriage for us. Come, yonder is my cousin on the
gallery looking at you, and pretending to talk to Mrs. Williams. He
has read your magazine sketches and is very anxious to see you. How
nice you look; only a little too statuish. Can't you get up a smile?
That is better. Here, let me twine this cluster of wistaria in your
hair; I stole it as I ran up the steps."
Beulah was clad in a pure white mull muslin, and wore a short black
silk apron, confined at the waist by a heavy cord and tassel.
Georgia fastened the purple blossoms in her silky hair, and they
entered the house. Mr. Lindsay met them, and, as his cousin
introduced him, Beulah looked at him, and met the earnest gaze of a
pair of deep blue eyes which seemed to index a nature singularly
tranquil. She greeted him quietly, and would have led the way to the
front of the house; but Georgia threw herself down on the steps, and
exclaimed eagerly:
"Do let us stay here; the air is so deliciously sweet and cool.
Cousin, there is a chair. Beulah, you and I will stem these berries
at once, so that they may be ready for tea."
She took the basket, and soon their fingers were stained with the
rosy juice of the fragrant fruit. All restraint vanished; the
conversation was gay, and spiced now and then with repartees which
elicited Georgia's birdish laugh and banished for a time the weary,
joyless expression of Beulah's countenance. The berries were finally
arranged to suit Georgia's taste, and the party returned to the
little parlor. Here Beulah was soon engaged by Mr. Lindsay in the
discussion of some of the leading literary questions of the day. She
forgot the great sorrow that brooded over her heart, a faint, pearly
glow crept into her cheeks, and the mouth lost its expression of
resolute endurance. She found Mr. Lindsay highly cultivated in his
tastes, polished in his manners, and possessed of rare intellectual
attainments, while the utter absence of egotism and pedantry
impressed her with involuntary admiration. Extensive travel and long
study had familiarized him with almost every branch of science and
department of literature, and the ease and grace with which he
imparted some information she desired respecting the European
schools of art contrasted favorably with the confused account Eugene
had rendered of the same subject. She remarked a singular composure
of countenance, voice, and even position, which seemed
idiosyncratic, and was directly opposed to the stern rigidity and
cynicism of her guardian. She shrank from the calm, steadfast gaze
of his eyes, which looked into hers with a deep yet gentle scrutiny,
and resolved ere the close of the evening to sound him concerning
some of the philosophic phases of the age. Had he escaped the upas
taint of skepticism? An opportunity soon occurred to favor her
wishes, for, chancing to allude to his visit to Rydal Mount, while
in the lake region of England, the transition to a discussion of the
metaphysical tone of the "Excursion" was quite easy.
"You seemed disposed, like Howitt, to accord it the title of 'Bible
of Quakerism,'" said Mr. Lindsay, in answer to a remark of hers
concerning its tendency.
"It is a fertile theme of disputation, sir, and, since critics are
so divided in their verdicts, I may well be pardoned an opinion
which so many passages seem to sanction. If Quakerism is belief in
'immediate inspiration,' which you will scarcely deny, then
throughout the 'Excursion' Wordsworth seems its apostle."
"No; he stands as a high priest in the temple of nature, and calls
mankind from scientific lore to offer their orisons there at his
altar and receive passively the teachings of the material universe.
Tells us,"
"'Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things,'"
"and promises, in nature, an unerring guide and teacher of truth. In
his lines on revisiting the Wye, he declares himself,"
'"Well pleased to recognize
In nature, and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart and soul,
Of all my moral being.'"
"Quakerism rejects all extraneous aids to a knowledge of God; a
silent band of friends sit waiting for the direct inspiration which
alone can impart true light. Wordsworth made the senses, the
appreciation of the beauty and sublimity of the universe, an avenue
of light; while Quakerism, according to the doctrines of Fox and his
early followers, is merely a form of mysticism nearly allied to the
'ecstasy' of Plotinus. The Quaker silences his reason, his every
faculty, and in utter passivity waits for the infusion of divine
light into his mind; the mystic of Alexandria, as far as possible,
divests his intellect of all personality, and becomes absorbed in
the Infinite intelligence from which it emanated."
Beulah knitted her brows, and answered musingly:
"And here, then, extremes meet. To know God we must be God.
Mysticism and Pantheism link hands over the gulf which seemed to
divide them."
"Miss Benton, is this view of the subject a novel one?" said he,
looking at her very intently.
"No; a singular passage in the 'Biographia Literaria' suggested it
to me long ago. But unwelcome hints are rarely accepted, you know."
"Why unwelcome in this case?"
She looked at him, but made no reply, and none was needed. He
understood why, and said quietly yet impressively:
"It sets the seal of necessity upon Revelation. Not the mystical
intuitions of the dreamers, who would fain teach of continued direct
inspiration from God, even at the present time, but the revelation
which began in Genesis and ended with John on Patmos. The very
absurdities of philosophy are the most potent arguments in
substantiating the claims of Christianity. Kant's theory that we can
know nothing beyond ourselves gave the deathblow to philosophy.
Mysticism contends that reason only darkens the mind, and
consequently, discarding all reasoning processes, relies upon
immediate revelation. But the extravagances of Swedenborg, and even
of George Fox, prove the fallacy of the assumption of continued
inspiration, and the only alternative is to rest upon the Christian
Revelation, which has successfully defied all assaults."
There was an instantaneous flash of joy over Beulah's troubled face,
and she said hastily:
"You have escaped the contagion, then? Such exemption is rare
nowadays, for skepticism broods with sable wings over the age"
"It has always brooded where man essayed to lift the veil of Isis;
to elucidate the arcana of the universe, to solve the unsolvable.
Skepticism is the disease of minds which Christian faith alone can
render healthy."
The thrust showed she was not invulnerable; but before she could
reply, Georgia exclaimed:
"In the name of common sense, Reginald, what are you discoursing
about so tiresomely? I suppose I am shamefully stupid, but I don't
understand a word you two have been saying. When father and Beulah
get on such dry, tedious subjects I always set up an opposition at
the piano, which in this instance I am forced to do, from sheer
necessity."
She raised the lid of the piano and rattled off a brilliant
overture; then made Beulah join her in several instrumental duets.
As the latter rose, Mr. Lindsay said, somewhat abruptly:
"I believe you sing. My cousins have been extolling your voice, and
I have some curiosity to hear you. Will you gratify me?"
"Certainly, if you desire it."
She could not refrain from smiling at the perfect nonchalance of his
manner, and, passing her fingers over the keys, sang a beautiful air
from "Lucia." Her guest listened attentively, and, when the song was
ended, approached the piano, and said, with some interest:
"I should prefer a simple ballad, if you will favor me with one."
"Something after the order of 'Lilly Dale,' Beulah. He hears nothing
else in his country home," said Georgia teasingly.
He smiled, but did not contradict her, and Beulah sang that
exquisite ballad, "Why Do Summer Roses Fade?" It was one of her
guardian's favorite airs, and now his image was associated with the
strain. Ere the first verse was finished, a deep, rich, manly voice,
which had sometimes echoed through the study, seemed again to join
hers, and, despite her efforts, her own tones trembled.
Soon after Beulah took her place at the tea table in the center of
the room, and conversation turned on the delights of country life.
"Reginald, how do you manage to amuse yourself in that little town
of yours?" asked Georgia, drawing the bowl of strawberries near and
helping him bountifully.
"I might answer that I had passed the age when amusement was
necessary, but I will not beg your question so completely. In the
first place, I do not reside in town. My office is there, and during
the day, when not absent at court, I am generally in my office; but
evening always finds me at home. Once there, I have endless sources
of amusement; my mother's flowers and birds, my farm affairs, my
music, and my library, to say nothing of hunting and fishing.
Remember, Georgia, that, as a class, lawyers are not addicted to
what you call amusements."
"But after living in Europe, and traveling so much, I should think
that plantation would be horribly dull. Do you never suffer from
ennui, cut off as you are from all society?"
"Ennui is a disease of which I am yet happily ignorant. But for my
mother I should feel the need of society; in a great measure her
presence supplies it. I shall tell you no more, cousin mine, since
you and Helen are to spend a portion of your summer with us, and can
judge for yourselves of the attractions of my country home."
"Are you residing near Mr. Arlington?" said Beulah.
"Quite near; his plantation adjoins mine. Is he a friend of yours?"
"No; but I have a friend living this year in his family. Miss
Sanders is governess for his children. You probably know her."
"Yes; I see her occasionally. Report says she is soon to become the
bride of Richard Arlington."
A slight smile curved his lips as he watched Beulah's countenance.
She offered no comment, and he perceived that the on dit was not new
to her.
"Beulah, I suppose you have heard of Dr. Hartwell's intended journey
to the East? What an oddity he is! Told me he contemplated renting a
bungalow somewhere in heathendom, and turning either Brahmin or
Parsee, he had not quite decided which. He has sold his beautiful
place to the Farleys. The greenhouse plants he gave to mother, and
all the statuary and paintings are to be sent to us until his
return, which cannot be predicted with any certainty. Father frets a
good deal over this freak, as he calls it, and says the doctor had
much better stay at home and physic the sick. I thought it was a
sudden whim; but he says he has contemplated the trip a long time.
He is going immediately, I believe. It must be a trial to you," said
the thoughtless girl.
"Yes; I cannot realize it yet," replied Beulah, struggling with
herself for composure, and hastily setting down her teacup, which
trembled violently. The shadows swept over her once more. Mr.
Lindsay noticed her agitation, and, with delicate consideration,
forbore to look at her. Georgia continued heedlessly:
"I wanted that melodeon that sits in his study; but, though the
remainder of the furniture is to be auctioned off, he says he will
not sell the melodeon, and requested my father to have it carefully
locked up somewhere at home. I asked if I might not use it, and what
do you suppose he said? That I might have his grand piano, if I
would accept it, but that nobody was to touch his melodeon. I told
him he ought to send the piano out to you, in his absence; but he
looked cross, and said you would not use it if he did."
Poor Beulah! her lips quivered, and her fingers clasped each other
tightly, but she said nothing. Just then she heard Dr. Asbury's
quick step in the hall, and, to her infinite relief, he entered,
accompanied by Helen. She saw that, though his manner was kind and
bantering as usual, there was an anxious look on his benevolent
face, and his heavy brows occasionally knitted. When he went into
the adjoining room to see Mrs. Williams, she understood his glance,
and followed him. He paused in the hall, and said eagerly:
"Has Hartwell been here lately?"
"Yes; he was here last week."
"Did he tell you of his whim about traveling East?"
"Yes; he told me."
"Beulah, take care what you are about! You are working mischief not
easily rectified. Child, keep Guy at home!"
"He is master of his own movements, and you know his stubborn will.
I would keep him here if I could; but I have no influence."
"All fiddlesticks! I know better! I am neither a bat nor a mole.
Beulah, I warn you; I beg you, child, mind how you act. Once
entirely estranged, all the steam of Christendom could not force him
back. Don't let him go; if you do, the game is up, I tell you now.
You will repent your own work, if you do not take care. I told him
he was a fool to leave such a position as his and go to dodging
robbers in Eastern deserts; whereupon he looked as bland and
impenetrable as if I had compared him to Solomon. There, go back to
your company, end mind what I say; don't let Guy go."
He left her; and, though she exerted herself to entertain her
guests, Mr. Lindsay saw that her mind was troubled and her heart
oppressed. He endeavored to divert her thoughts, by introducing
various topics; and she talked and smiled, and even played and sang,
yet the unlifting cloud lay on her brow. The evening seemed
strangely long, and she accompanied her visitors to the door with a
sensation of relief. At parting Mr. Lindsay took her hand, and said
in a low voice:
"May I come whenever I am in your city?"
"Certainly; I shall be pleased to see you when you have leisure,"
she replied hurriedly.
"I shall avail myself of your permission, I assure you."
She had often heard Dr. Asbury speak with fond pride of this nephew;
and, as Eugene had also frequently mentioned him in his early
letters from Heidelberg, she felt that he was scarcely a stranger,
in the ordinary acceptation of the term. To her, his parting words
seemed merely polite, commonplace forms; and, with no thought of a
future acquaintance, she dismissed him from her mind, which was too
painfully preoccupied to dwell upon the circumstances of his visit.
A few days passed, and one Saturday morning she sat in the dining
room, finishing a large drawing upon which she had for months
expended all her leisure moments. It was designed from a description
in "Queen Mab," and she took up her crayon to give the final touch,
when heavy steps in the hall arrested her attention, and, glancing
toward the door, she saw Hal, Dr. Hartwell's driver, with a wooden
box on his shoulder and Charon by his side. The latter barked with
delight, and sprang to meet the girl, who had hastily risen.
"How do you do, Miss Beulah? It is many a day since I have seen you,
and you look worse of wear too. Haven't been sick, have you?" said
Hal, sliding the box down on the floor.
"Not exactly sick, but not so well as usual," she answered, passing
her trembling hands over the dog's head.
"Well, I don't see, for my part, what is to become of us all, now
master's gone--"
"Gone!" echoed Beulah.
"Why, to be sure. He started to the plantation yesterday, to set
things all in order there, and then he is going straight on to New
York. The house looks desolate enough, and I feel like I was about
to dig my own grave. Just before he left he called me into the
study, and told me that, as soon as he had gone, I was to bring
Charon over to you and ask you to keep him and take care of him. He
tried to unlock the collar on his neck, but somehow the key would
not turn. Master looked dreadful sad when he patted poor Char's head
and let the brute put his paws on his shoulders for the last time.
Just as the boat pushed off he called to me to be sure to bring him
to you; so here he is; and, Miss Beulah, the poor fellow seems to
know something is wrong; he whined all night, and ran over the empty
house this morning, growling and snuffing. You are to keep him till
master comes home; the Lord only knows when that will be. I tried to
find out; but he looked for the world like one of them stone faces
in the study, and gave me no satisfaction. Miss Beulah, Dr. Asbury
was at the house just as I started, and he sent over this box to
you. Told me to tell you that he had all the pictures moved to his
house, but had not room to hang all, so he sent one over for you to
take care of. Shall I take it out of the case?"
"Never mind, Hal; I can do that. Did your master leave no other
message for me? was there no note?" She leaned heavily on a chair to
support herself.
"None that I know of, except that you must be kind to Charon. I have
no time to spare; Dr. Asbury needs me; so good-by, Miss Beulah. I
will stop some day when I am passing, and see how the dog comes on.
I know he will be satisfied with you."
The faithful servant touched his hat and withdrew. The storm of
grief could no longer be repressed, and, sinking down on the floor,
Beulah clasped her arms round Charon's neck and hid her face in his
soft, curling hair, while her whole frame shook with convulsive
sobs. She had not believed her guardian would leave without coming
again, and had confidently expected him, and now he had gone.
Perhaps forever; at best, for many years. She might never see him
again, and this thought was more than she could endure. The proud
restraint she was wont to impose upon her feelings all vanished, and
in her despairing sorrow she wept and moaned as she had never done
before, even when Lilly was taken from her. Charon crouched close to
her, with a mute grief clearly written in his sober, sagacious
countenance, and each clung to the other, as to a last stay and
solace. He was a powerful animal, with huge limbs, and a think,
shaggy covering, sable as midnight, without a speck of white about
him. Around his neck was a silver chain, supporting a broad piece of
plate, on which was engraved, in German letters, the single word,
"Hartwell." How long she sat there Beulah knew not; but a growl
roused her, and she saw Mrs. Williams looking sorrowfully at her.
"My child, what makes you moan and weep so bitterly."
"Oh, because I am so miserable; because I have lost my best friend;
my only friend; my guardian. He has gone--gone! and I did not see
him." With a stifled cry her face went down again.
The matron had never seen her so unnerved before, and wondered at
the vehemence of her grief, but knew her nature too well to attempt
consolation. Beulah lifted the box and retired to her own room,
followed by Charon. Securing the door, she put the case on the table
and looked at it wistfully. Were her conjectures, her hopes,
correct? She raised the lid and unwrapped the frame, and there was
the noble head of her guardian. She hung the portrait on a hook just
above her desk, and then stood, with streaming eyes, looking up at
it. It had been painted a few weeks after his marriage, and
represented him in the full morning of manhood, ere his heart was
embittered and his clear brow overshadowed. The artist had suffered
a ray of sunshine to fall on the brown hair that rippled round his
white temples with careless grace. There was no mustache to shade
the sculptured lips, and they seemed about to part in one of those
rare, fascinating smiles which Beulah had often watched for in vain.
The matchless eyes looked down at her, with brooding tenderness in
their hazel depths, and now seemed to question her uncontrollable
grief. Yet she had pained him; had in part caused his exile from the
home of his youth, and added another sorrow to those which now
veiled that peerless face in gloom. He had placed his happiness in
her hands; had asked her to be his wife. She looked at the portrait,
and shuddered and moaned. She loved him above all others; loved him
as a child adores its father; but how could she, who had so
reverenced him, consent to become his wife? Besides, she could not
believe he loved her. He liked her; pitied her isolation and
orphanage; felt the need of her society, and wanted her always in
his home. But she could not realize that he, who so worshiped
beauty, could possibly love her. It was all like a hideous dream
which morning would dispel; but there was the reality, and there was
Charon looking steadily up at the portrait he was at no loss to
recognize.
"Oh, if I could have seen him once more! If he had parted with me in
kindness, it would not be so intolerable. But to remember his stern,
sad face, as last I saw it; oh, how can I bear it I To have it
haunting me through life, like a horrible specter; no friendly words
to cherish; no final message; all gloom and anger. Oh, how shall I
bear it!" And she fell on Charon's neck and wept bitterly.