Four years had passed since Eugene Graham returned to his home,
after his severe illness, and now, as he sits alone in his library,
with a bundle of legal documents before him, it is not difficult to
perceive that his promise has been held sacred. Through the
suggestion of Mr. Lindsay, and the persuasions of Beulah, he had
closely applied himself to the study of law immediately after his
recovery. Hopeless of happiness in his home, ambition became the
ruling passion, and scourged him on to unceasing exertion. The
aspirations of his boyhood revived; the memory of his humiliating
course goaded him to cover the past with the garlands of fame; and
consciousness of unusual talents assured him of final success. Mr.
Graham no longer opposed the design as formerly, but facilitated its
execution to the utmost of his ability. Under these circumstances,
it was not surprising that earnest application soon procured his
admission to the bar. His efforts were redoubled, and, ere long, his
eloquence obtained for him a connection with one of the most
prominent members of the profession. The world wondered at this
complete revolution; many doubted its continuance; but, step by
step, he climbed the ladder to eminence, and merited the applause
which the public lavished upon him. Success only inflamed his
ambition, and it became evident he aimed at political renown. Nature
had fitted him for the political arena, had endowed him with
oratorical powers of no ordinary stamp; and, though long dormant,
they were not impaired by his inertia. It was fortunate for him that
an exciting Presidential canvass afforded numerous opportunities for
the development of these, and at its close he found himself
possessed of an enviable reputation. To a certain extent, his wife
was elated with his success; she was proud of his acknowledged
talent; but her selfish nature was utterly incapable of the
tenderness and sincere affection he demanded. Their alienation was
complete. No bickerings disturbed the serene atmosphere of their
home, because mutual indifference precluded the necessity. Mrs.
Graham gave parties and attended them; rode, danced, spent her
summers at fashionable watering-places and her winters in a round of
folly and dissipation, while her husband pursued his profession,
careless of her movements and rarely in her company. In the lady's
conduct the circle in which she moved saw nothing reprehensible. She
dressed superbly, gave elegant entertainments, and was, par
excellence, the leader of bon-ton. True, she was quite as much of a
belle as any young lady in the city, and received the attentions and
flattery of gentlemen as unreservedly, nay, delightedly, as though
she had no neglected husband and child at home who had claims upon
her; put this sort of conjugal indifference was in vogue, and, as
she frowned down, or smiled up, some family laboriously toiling to
reach her circle, her "clique" blindly followed her example and
humored her whims. As regarded her deportment toward her husband,
one alteration was perceptible; she respected--almost feared him;
shrank from his presence, and generally contrived to fill the house
with company when she was, for short intervals, at home. He ceased
to upbraid, or even remonstrate; his days were spent in the
courtroom or his office, and his evenings in his library. She
dressed as extravagantly as she chose; he made no comments, paid her
accounts, and grew more taciturn and abstracted day by day.
Oh, woman! woman! when will you sever the fetters which fashion,
wealth, and worldliness have bound about you, and prove yourselves
worthy the noble mission for which you were created? How much longer
will heartless, soulless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters
waltz, moth-like, round the consuming flame of fashion; and, by
neglecting their duties and deserting their sphere, drive their
husbands, sons, and brothers out into the world, reckless and
depraved, with callous hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of
Mammon? God help the women of America! Grant them the true womanly
instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made "home" the Eden,
the acme of all human hopes and joys. Teach them that gilded
saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in
dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of
conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded
with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all
these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to
the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted!
Eugene Graham's love and tenderness were all bestowed on his
daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole
companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.
It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers,
necessary in a case to be defended the following day. The sunshine,
stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from
continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened,
vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope.
As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall;
the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of
rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish
voice asked eagerly:
"May I come now, father? Have you done writing? I won't make a
noise; indeed I won't!"
The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her,
saying:
"I have done writing; you may come now, my darling."
She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his
neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers
through his hair. She resembled him closely, having the same
classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes. He returned her
caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her
curls with a light, gentle touch. The evening was warm, and large
drops stood on his forehead. She noticed it, and, standing on his
knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away
the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so. A servant looked
in at the door.
"Did you ring, sir?"
"Yes; tell Philip I want my buggy."
"Oh, you are going to ride! Can I go? and will we go to see Aunt
Beulah--will we?" She looked at him earnestly.
"Would you like to go there, Cornelia?"
"Oh, yes! I always like to go there. I love her, she is so good!
Let's go to see her, won't you?"
"Yes; you shall go with me, my darling."
He bent down to kiss her coral lips, and just then Mrs. Graham swept
into the room. She was attired in an elegant riding habit of dark
purple, while a velvet hat of the same color, with a long, drooping
plume, shaded her face. Her hands were incased in delicate kid
gauntlets, which fitted with perfect exactness. She was a beautiful
woman, and the costume heightened her loveliness. She started
slightly on perceiving her husband, and said hastily:
"I thought you were at your office. Cornelia, what on earth have you
done with my riding whip? you mischievous little wretch! You lost it
once before. Go find it; I am waiting for it. Go this instant!"
"I don't know where it is," returned the child, making no effort to
leave her father's arms.
Eugene glanced up at his wife; his eyes wandered over her becoming
and beautiful dress, then went back to the sunny face of his child.
An angry flush dyed Antoinette's cheeks as she observed her
daughter's indifference.
"Where is my whip? I say. Flora saw you with it yesterday, whipping
that hobby-horse. I told you to keep your hands off of it, didn't I?
If you don't go and find it quick, I'll box you soundly, you
meddlesome little brat!"
"I haven't had it since you told me I shouldn't play with it. Flora
tells a story," answered Cornelia, sobbing.
"You did have it!" cried the angry mother, shaking her hand
threateningly.
"Did you see her with it?" asked Eugene, rising, with the child in
his arms.
"I know she had it!"
"Did you see her with it, I asked you?"
"No; but Flora did, and that is all the same; besides, I--"
"Here is the whip, ma'am. I found it last week in the hall, behind a
chair, and put it in the cane stand. The last time you went to ride,
you put it and your gloves on a chair in the hall, and went into the
parlor to see some company. Flora picked up the gloves and carried
them upstairs, but didn't see the whip."
John, the dining-room servant, handed her a small whip, with mother-
of-pearl handle, inlaid with gold.
"It is no such thing!" cried Mrs. Graham, gathering up the folds of
her habit and coloring with vexation.
John shrugged his shoulders and retired, and his mistress sailed out
to the front door, where her horse and her escort awaited her.
"Run and get your hat and cape, Cornelia; I see the buggy coming
round the corner."
Eugene wiped away the teardrops glittering on her rosy cheeks, and
she sprang off to obey him; while, in the interim, he sent for
Flora, and gave her to understand that he would allow no repetition
of the deception he had accidentally discovered. The maid retired,
highly incensed, of course, and resolved to wreak vengeance on both
John and Cornelia; and Eugene took his seat in the buggy in no
particularly amiable mood. They found Beulah in her little flower
gaiden, pruning some luxuriant geraniums. She threw down her knife
and hastened to meet them, and all three sat down on the steps.
Four years had brought sorrow to that cottage home; had hushed the
kind accents of the matron; stilled the true heart that throbbed so
tenderly for her orphan charge, and had seen her laid to rest in a
warm, grassy slope of the cemetery. She died peaceably three months
before the day of which I write; died exhorting Eugene and Beulah so
to pass the season of probation that they might be reunited beyond
the grave. In life she had humbly exemplified the teachings of our
Saviour, and her death was a triumphant attestation of the joy and
hope which only the Christian religion can afford in the final hour.
To Beulah this blow was peculiarly severe, and never had the sense
of her orphanage been more painfully acute than when she returned
from the funeral to her lonely home. But to sorrow her nature was
inured; she had learned to bear grief, and only her mourning dress
and subdued manner told how deeply she felt this trial. Now she took
Cornelia in her arms and kissed her fondly, while the child returned
her caresses with a warmth which proved how sincerely she loved her.
"May I have some flowers, auntie?" cried she, patting Beulah's pale
cheek with her plump, dimpled hands.
"Yes; just as many as you can carry home. Go gather some."
She sprang off, and the two sat watching the flutter of her white
dress among the flower-beds. She piled her little apron as full as
possible, and came back panting and delighted. Beulah looked down at
the beautiful beaming face, and, twining one of the silky curls over
her finger, said musingly:
"Eugene, she always reminds me of Lilly. Do you see the
resemblance?"
"Not in her features; in size and gay heedlessness of manner she is
like Lilly as I saw her last."
"Yes; Lilly's eyes were blue, and your child's are dark, like your
own; but she never comes up and puts her arms round my neck without
recalling bygone years. I could shut my eyes and fancy my lost
darling was once more mine. Ah! how carefully memory gathers up the
golden links of childhood and weaves the chain that binds our hearts
to the olden time! Sometimes I think I am only dreaming, and shall
wake to a happy reality. If I could have Lilly back, oh, what a
sunshine it would shed over my heart and life! But this may not be;
and I can only love Cornelia instead."
Her long, black lashes were weighed down with unshed tears, and
there was a touching sadness in her low voice. Cornelia stood by her
side, busily engaged in dressing Beulah's hair with some of the
roses and scarlet geranium she had gathered. She noticed the unusual
melancholy written in the quiet face, and said impatiently:
"With all my flowers you won't look gay! It must be this black
dress. Don't wear such ugly, dark things; I wish you wouldn't. I
want to see you look beautiful, like mother."
"Cornelia, go and break that cluster of yellow berries yonder," said
her father; and when she had left them he turned to his companion
and asked:
"Beulah, have you reflected on what I said the last time I saw you?"
"Yes, Eugene."
"With what result?"
"My former decision is only confirmed the more I ponder the
subject."
"You have seen nothing of Reginald, then? He was here, on some legal
business, last week."
"No; he has been in the city several times during the last four
years, but never comes here; and, except that one letter, which I
did not answer, I have heard nothing from him. I doubt whether we
ever meet again."
"You are a strange woman! Such devotion as his would have won any
other being. He is as much attached to you now as the day he first
offered you his hand. Upon my word, your obstinacy provokes me. He
is the noblest man I ever knew--everything that I should suppose a
woman of your nature would admire; and yet, year after year, you
remain apparently as indifferent as ever."
"And it were a miserable return for such unmerited love to marry him
merely from gratitude. I do admire him, but cannot marry him. I told
him so four years ago."
"But why did you not at least answer his letter?"
"Because his acceptance was made the condition of an answer; a
negative one was not expected, and I had no other to give."
"Pardon me, Beulah; but why do you not love him?"
"A strange question truly. My heart is not the tool of my will."
"Beulah, do you intend to spend your life solitary and joyless, cut
off, as you are here, from society, and dependent on books and music
for sympathy? Why will you not marry Reginald and make his home
happy?"
"Eugene, I have told you before that I could not accept him, and
told you why. Let the subject drop; it is an unpleasant one to me. I
am happier here than I could possibly be anywhere else. Think you I
would marry merely for an elegant home and an intellectual
companion? Never! I will live and die here in this little cottage
rather than quit it with such motives. You are mistaken in supposing
that Mr. Lindsay is still attached to me. It has been nearly two
years since he wrote that letter, and from Georgia I hear that the
world believes he is soon to marry a lady residing somewhere near
him. I think it more than probable the report is true, and hope most
sincerely it may be so. Now, Eugene, don't mention the subject
again, will you?"
"It is generally believed that he will be elected to Congress; next
month will decide it. The chances are all in his favor," persisted
Eugene.
"Yes; so I judged from the papers," said she coolly, and then added:
"And one day I hope to see you, or rather hear of you, in Washington
by his side. I believe I shall be gratified; and oh, Eugene, what a
proud moment it will be to me! How I shall rejoice in your merited
eminence."
Her face kindled as she spoke; but the shadows deepened in his
countenance, as he answered moodily:
"Perhaps I may; but fame and position cannot lighten a loaded heart
or kindle the sacred flame of love in a dreary home. When a man
blindly wrecks his happiness on the threshold of life by a fatal
marriage, no after exertion can atone or rectify the one mistake."
"Hush! she will hear you," said Beulah, pointing to the little girl,
who was slowly approaching them.
A bitter smile parted his lips.
"She is my all; yet precious as she is to my sad heart, I would
gladly lay her in her grave to-morrow sooner than see her live to
marry an uncongenial spirit, or know that her radiant face was
clouded with sorrow, like mine. God grant that her father's wretched
lot may warn her of the quicksands which nearly ingulfed him." He
took the child in his arms, as if to shield her from some impending
danger, and said hurriedly:
"Are you ready to go home?"
"Is it so very late?"
"It is time we were going back, I think."
Beulah tied on the hat and cape, which had been thrown aside, and
saw them ride away.
There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on
its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded
like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From
the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed
his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to God's
care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell
took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her
desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle
with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw
its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of
metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion
of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which
only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of
speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been
ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this,
under various fictitious signatures, was hers. She still studied and
wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame;
wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been
entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure
fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen
were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their
parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams'
death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred
remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of
the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as
assistant, but as principal in that department; and the increased
salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary.
Her intense love of beauty, whether found in nature or art, was a
constant source of pleasure; books, music, painting, flowers, all
contributed largely to her happiness. The grim puzzles of philosophy
no longer perplexed her mind; sometimes they thrust themselves
before her, threatening as the sphinx of old; but she knew that here
they were insolvable; that at least her reason was no Oedipus, and a
genuine philosophy induced her to put them aside, and, anchoring
her hopes of God and eternity in the religion of Christ, she drew
from the beautiful world in which she lived much pure enjoyment.
Once she had worshiped the universe; now she looked beyond the
wonderful temple whose architecture, from its lowest foundations of
rock to its starry dome of sky, proclaimed the God of revelation;
and, loving its beauty and grandeur, felt that it was but a home for
a season, where the soul could be fitted for yet more perfect
dwelling-places. Her face reflected the change which a calm reliance
on God had wrought in her feelings. The restless, anxious expression
had given place to quiet. The eyes had lost their strained, troubled
look; the brow was unruffled, the face serene. Serene, reader, but
not happy and sparkling as it might have been. All the shadows "were
not yet banished from her heart; there was one spectral form which
thrust itself continually before her and kept her cheek pale and
rendered her lip at times unsteady. She had struggled bravely
against this one remaining sorrow; but, as time rolled on, its power
and influence only increased. Even now, in this quiet hour, when a
holy hush had fallen on all nature, and twilight wrapped its soft,
purple veil around her, this haunting memory came to stir the depths
of her heart. Charon walked slowly up the steps, and, lying down at
her feet, nestled his head against her. Then fancy painted a dreary
picture, which
"Seemed all dark and red--a tract of sand,
And someone pacing there alone,
Who paced forever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low, large moon."
It was the thought of a lonely man, wandering without aim or goal in
far-distant deserts; away from home and friends; joyless, hopeless.
One who was dearer to her than all on earth beside; who had left her
in anger, and upon whose loved face she might look no more. For
three years no tidings had come of his wanderings; none knew his
fate; and, perhaps, even then his proud head lay low beneath the
palms of the Orient, or was pillowed on the coral crags of distant
seas. This thought was one she was unable to endure; her features
quivered, her hands grasped each other in a paroxysm of dread
apprehension, and, while a deep groan burst from her lips, she bowed
her face on. the head of his last charge, his parting gift. The
consciousness of his unbelief tortured her. Even in eternity they
might meet no more; and this fear cost her hours of agony, such as
no other trial had ever inflicted. From the moment of her return to
the Bible and to prayer this struggle began, and for three years she
had knelt, morning and evening, and entreated Almighty God to shield
and guide the wanderer; to scatter the mists of unbelief which
shrouded his mind. Constantly her prayers went up, mingled with
tears and sobs, and, as weary months wore on, the petitions grew
more impassioned. Her anxiety increased daily, and finally it became
the one intense, absorbing wish of her heart to see her guardian
again. His gloom, his bitterness were all forgotten; she only
remembered his unceasing care and kindness, his noble generosity,
his brilliant smile, which was bestowed only on her. Pressing her
face against Charon's head, she murmured pleadingly:
"Oh, Father, protect him from suffering and death! Guide him safely
home. Give me my guardian back. Oh, Father, give me my wandering
friend once more!"