"Fold that coat for me, my dear; there, give it to me; I believe
there is room in this trunk for it."
Mrs. Asbury took one of her husband's coats from Beulah's hand and
carefully packed it away.
"How long will you be absent, do you suppose?"
"Probably not longer than a month. The doctor thinks a few days at
Saratoga will invigorate him. If you had consented to go, we had
intended spending a week at Niagara. I am sorry you will not go,
Beulah; you would enjoy the trip, and, moreover, the change would
benefit you. Why do you so pertinaciously reject that legacy of
Cornelia's? The money has been in my husband's hands for some years
untouched, and Mr. Graham said, not long since, that you might just
as well accept it, for he would never receive a cent of it in
return. The original sum has been considerably augmented by
judicious investments, and would place you above the necessity of
labor, if you would accept it. Your refusal wounds Mr. Graham; he
told me so last week. It was Cornelia's particular request that you
should have that amount, and he is anxious to see you in possession
of it. I told him of your suggestion that he should add this legacy
to the sum already given to the asylum; but he vowed solemnly he
would have nothing to do with it. If you chose to give it to the
asylum, you could do so, of course; the money was yours. He never
would touch a cent of it. Beulah, if you will not think me
officious, I will say, candidly, that I think you ought to accept
it. That is, use it, for the legacy has been left, whether you
employ it or not."
Beulah looked grave and troubled, but made no reply.
Mrs. Asbury finished packing the trunk, locked it, and, turning
toward the door, said:
"I am going upstairs to see about the furniture in that room which
Georgia calls the 'Pitti Gallery.' Come with me, my dear."
She led the way, and Beulah followed, until they reached a large
apartment in the third story, the door of which Mrs. Asbury
unlocked. As they entered Beulah started on seeing the statuary and
paintings with which she was so familiar in former years; and in one
corner of the room stood the melodeon, carefully covered. A quantity
of tissue paper lay on the floor, and Mrs. Asbury began to cover the
paintings by pinning the sheets together. Beulah took off her gloves
and assisted; there was silence for some time; but, on lifting a
piece of drapery, Mrs. Asbury exposed the face of a portrait which
Beulah recognized, from the peculiarity of the frame, as the one
that had hung over the mantel in her guardian's study. Paper and
pins fell from her fingers, and, drawing a deep breath, she gazed
upon the face she had so long desired to see. She traced a slight
resemblance to Antoinette in the faultless features; the countenance
was surpassingly beautiful. It was a young, girlish face, sparkling
with joyousness, bewitching in its wonderful loveliness. The
eloquent eyes were strangely, almost wildly, brilliant, the full
crimson lips possessed that rare outline one sees in old pictures,
and the cheek, tinted like a sea-shell, rested on one delicate,
dimpled hand. Beulah looked, and grew dizzy. This was his wife; this
the portrait he had kept shrouded so long and so carefully. How he
must have worshiped that radiant young bride!
Mrs. Asbury noticed her emotion, and asked, with some surprise:
"Did you never see this before?"
"No; it was always covered, and hung too high for me to lift the
crape." Beulah's eyes were riveted on the canvas. Mrs. Asbury
watched her a moment, and said:
"It is an undetermined question in my mind whether beauty, such as
this, is not a curse. In this instance assuredly it proved so, for
it wrecked the happiness of both husband and wife. My dear child, do
you know your guardian's history?"
"I know nothing of him, save that he is my best friend."
"When I first saw Guy Hartwell he was one of the noblest men I ever
met, commanding universal admiration and esteem. It was before his
marriage. He was remarkably handsome, as you can readily imagine he
must have been, and his manners possessed a singular fascination for
all who came within the circle of his acquaintance. Even now, after
the lapse of ten years, I remember his musical, ringing laugh; a
laugh I have never heard since. His family were aristocratic and
wealthy, and Guy was his mother's idol. She was a haughty, imperious
woman, and her 'boy,' as she fondly termed him, was her pride. His
only sister (Mrs. Chilton, or, rather, Mrs. Lockhart) was his
senior, and he had a younger brother, Harry, who was extremely wild;
ran away from home and spent most of his time at sea. Guy was
naturally of a happy, genial temperament; fond of study; fond of
art, flowers, poetry, everything that was noble and beautiful, that
could minister to highly cultivated tastes. Mr. Chilton was
unfortunate in his speculations; lost his fortune, and died soon
after Pauline's birth, leaving his wife and child dependent on her
mother and brother. May and the old lady often disagreed, and only
Guy could harmonize their discords. During a visit to New Orleans he
accidentally met the original of this portrait; her family were
almost destitute, but he aided them very liberally. She was very
beautiful, and, in an unlucky hour, he determined to marry her. She
was a mere child, and he placed her for a while at a school, where
she enjoyed every educational advantage. He was completely
fascinated; seemed to think only of Creola, and hastened the
marriage. His mother and sister bitterly opposed the match,
ridiculed his humble and portionless bride; but he persisted, and
brought her here, a beautiful, heedless girl. Guy built that house,
and his mother and sister occupied one near him, which was burnt
before you knew anything about them. Of course his wife went
constantly into society, and, before six months elapsed, poor Guy
discovered that he had made a fatal mistake. She did not love him;
had married him merely for the sake of an elegant home, and money to
lavish as her childish whims dictated. Ah, Beulah! it makes my heart
ache to think of the change this discovery wrought in Guy's nature.
He was a proud man, naturally; but now he became repulsive, cold,
and austere. The revolution in his deportment and appearance was
almost incredible. His wife was recklessly imprudent, and launched
into the wildest excesses which society sanctioned. When he
endeavored to restrain her, she rebelled, and, without his
knowledge, carried on a flirtation with one whom she had known
previous to her marriage. I believe she was innocent in her folly,
and merely thoughtlessly fed her vanity with the adulation excited
by her beauty. Poor child! she might have learned discretion, but,
unfortunately, Mrs. Chilton had always detested her, and now,
watching her movements, she discovered Creola's clandestine meetings
with the gentleman whom her husband had forbidden her to recognize
as an acquaintance. Instead of exerting herself to rectify the
difficulties in her brother's home, she apparently exulted in the
possession of facts which allowed her to taunt him with his wife's
imprudence and indifference. He denied the truth of her assertions;
she dared him to watch her conduct, and obtained a note which
enabled him to return home one day at an unusually early hour and
meet the man he had denounced in his own parlor. Guy ordered him out
of the house, and, without addressing his wife, rode back to see his
patients; but that night he learned from her that before he ever met
her an engagement existed between herself and the man he so
detested. He was poor, and her mother had persuaded her to marry Guy
for his fortune. She seemed to grow frantic, cursed the hour of her
marriage, professed sincere attachment to the other, and, I firmly
believe, became insane from that moment. Then and there they parted.
Creola returned to her mother, but died suddenly a few weeks after
leaving her husband. They had been married but a year. I have always
thought her mind diseased, and it was rumored that her mother died
insane. Doubtless Guy's terrible rage drove her to desperation;
though he certainly had cause to upbraid. I have often feared that
he would meet the object of his hatred, and once, and only once
afterward, that man came to the city. Why, I never knew; but my
husband told me that he saw him at a concert here some years ago.
Poor Guy! how he suffered; yet how silently he bore it; how
completely he sheathed his heart of fire in icy vestments. He never
alluded to the affair in the remotest manner; never saw her after
that night. He was sitting in our library, waiting to see my
husband, when he happened to open the letter announcing her death. I
was the only person present, and noticed that a change passed over
his countenance; I spoke to him, but he did not reply; I touched
him, but he took no notice whatever, and sat for at least an hour
without moving a muscle or uttering a word. Finally George came and
spoke to him appealingly. He looked up and smiled. Oh, what a smile!
May I never see such another; it will haunt me while I live! Without
a word he folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and left
us. Soon after his mother died, and he went immediately to Europe.
He was absent two years, and came back so stern, so cynical, so
unlike his former self, I scarcely knew him. Mrs. Chilton took
charge of his house from the hour of his separation from Creola; but
they were not congenial. He was vastly her superior, save in
intellect, which none of the Hartwell family ever lacked. My husband
is very much attached to Guy; thinks he has not an equal, yet mourns
over the blight which fell upon him in the very morn of his glorious
manhood. About a year after his return from Europe he took you to
his house as an adopted child. I wondered at it, for I knew how
imbittered his whole soul had become. But the heart must have an
idol; he was desolate and miserable, and took you home to have
something to love and interest him. You never knew him in the prime
of his being, for, though comparatively young in years, he had grown
prematurely old in feeling before you saw him. Poor Guy! may a
merciful and loving God preserve him wherever he may be, and bring
him to a knowledge of that religion which alone can comfort a nature
like his--so noble, so gifted, yet so injured, so imbittered."
She brushed away the tears that stood on her cheeks, and looked
sorrowfully at the portrait of the unfortunate young wife.
Beulah sat with her face partially averted, and her eyes shaded with
her hand; once or twice her lips moved, and a shiver ran over her.
She looked up, and said abruptly:
"Leave the key of this room with me, will you? I should like to come
here occasionally."
"Certainly; come as often as you choose; and here on this bunch is
the key of the melodeon. Take it also; the instrument needs dusting,
I dare say, for it has never been opened since Guy left, nearly five
years ago. There, the clock struck two, and the boat leaves at four;
there, too, is my husband's step. Come, my dear; we must go down.
Take these keys until I return."
She gave them to her, and they descended to the dining room, where
the doctor awaited them.
"Beulah, what are you going to do with yourself next year? You must
not think of living in that cottage alone. Since Mrs. Williams'
death you should abandon the thought of keeping house. It will not
do, child, for you to live there by yourself." So said the doctor a
short time before he bade her adieu.
"I don't know yet what I shall do. I am puzzled about a home."
"You need not be. Come and live in my house, as I begged you to do
long ago. Alice and I will be heartily glad to have you. Child, why
should you hesitate?"
"I prefer a home of my own, if circumstances permitted it. You and
Mrs. Asbury have been very kind in tendering me a home in your
house, and I do most sincerely thank you both for your friendly
interest; but I--"
"Oh, Beulah, I should be so very glad to have you always with me! My
dear child, come."
Mrs. Asbury passed her arm affectionately around the girl's waist.
Beulah looked at her with trembling lips, and said hastily:
"Will you take me as a boarder?"
"I would rather take you as a friend--as a daughter."
"Not a bit of it, Alice. She shall pay the highest possible board.
Don't imagine, Miss Independence, that I expected for a moment to
offer you a home gratis. Pay board? That you shall; always in
advance, and candles, and fires, and the use of my library, and the
benefit of my explanations and conversation charged as 'extras,'"
cried the doctor, shaking his fist at her.
"Then, sir, I engage rooms."
"Will you really come, my child?" asked Mrs. Asbury, kissing the
orphan's pale cheek tenderly.
"Gladly, as a boarder, and very grateful for such a privilege."
"Beulah, on reflection, I think I can possibly take Charon for half-
price; though I must confess to numerous qualms of conscience at the
bare suggestion of receiving such an 'infernal' character into my
household."
"Thank you," said she, and saw them depart for Saratoga, whither
Georgia and Helen had preceded them. Several weeks elapsed without
her receiving any tidings, and then a letter came giving her
information of a severe illness which had attacked the doctor,
immediately after his arrival in New York. He was convalescing
rapidly when his wife wrote, and, in proof thereof, subjoined a
postscript, in his scrawling hand and wonted bantering style. Beulah
laughed over it, refolded the letter, and went into her little
garden to gather a bouquet for one of her pupils who had recently
been quite sick. She wore a white muslin apron over her black dress,
and soon filled it with verbena, roses, and geranium sprigs. Sitting
down on the steps, she began to arrange them, and soon became
absorbed in her occupation. Presently a shadow fell on the step; she
glanced up, and the flowers dropped from her fingers, while an
exclamation of surprise escaped her.
Mr. Lindsay held out his hand.
"After four years of absence, of separation, have you no word of
welcome?"
She gave him both hands, and said eagerly:
"Oh, yes; I am very glad to see you again; very glad that I have an
opportunity of congratulating you on your signal success. I am
heartily glad my friend is soon to enter Congressional halls. Accept
my most sincere congratulations on your election."
A sudden flush rose to his temples, and, clasping her hands tightly,
he exclaimed passionately:
"Oh, Beulah, your congratulations mock me. I come to offer you, once
more, my hand, my heart, my honors, if I have any. I have waited
patiently; no, not patiently, but still I have waited, for some
token of remembrance from you, and could bear my suspense no longer.
Will you share the position which has been accorded me recently?
Will you give me this hand which I desire more intensely than the
united honors of the universe beside? Beulah, has my devoted love
won me your affection? Will you go with me to Washington?"
"I cannot; I cannot!"
"Cannot? Oh, Beulah, I would make you a happy wife, if it cost me my
life!"
"No. I could not be happy as your wife. It is utterly impossible.
Mr. Lindsay, I told you long ago you could never be more than a
friend."
"And have years wrought no change in your heart?"
"Years have strengthened my esteem, my sincere friendship; but more
than this all time cannot accomplish."
"Your heart is tenacious of its idol," he answered moodily.
"It rebels, sir, now, as formerly, at the thought of linking my
destiny with that of one whom I never loved." Beulah spoke rapidly,
her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled with displeasure.
He looked at her and sighed deeply; then threw down a letter,
saying:
"Ah, Beulah, I understood long ago why you could not love me; but I
hoped years of absence would obliterate the memory that prevented my
winning you. I made unusual exertions to discover some trace of your
wandering guardian; have written constantly to my former banker in
Paris, to find some clew to his whereabouts. Through him I learn
that your friend was last heard of at Canton, and the supposition is
that he is no longer living. I do not wish to pain you, Beulah; but
I would fain show you how frail a hope you cling to. Believe me,
dear Beulah, I am not so selfish as to rejoice at his prolonged
absence. No, no. Love such as mine prizes the happiness of its
object above all other things. Were it in my power I would restore
him to you this moment. I had hoped you would learn to love me; but
I erred in judging your nature. Henceforth I will cast off this
hope, and school myself to regard you as my friend only. I have, at
least, deserved your friendship."
"And it is inalienably yours!" cried she very earnestly.
"In future, when toiling to discharge my duties, I may believe I
have one sincere friend, who will rejoice at my success?"
"Of this you may well rest assured. It seems a poor return, Mr.
Lindsay, for all you have tendered me; but it is the most I can
give, the most an honest heart will allow me to offer. Truly, you
may always claim my friendship and esteem, if it has any worth."
"I prize it far more than your hand unaccompanied by your heart.
Henceforth we will speak of the past no more; only let me be the
friend an orphan may require. You are to live in my uncle's house, I
believe; I am very glad you have decided to do so; this is not a
proper home for you now. How do you contrive to exorcise
loneliness?"
"I do not always succeed very well. My flowers are a great resource;
I don't know how I should live without them. My books, too, serve to
occupy my attention." She was making a great effort to seem
cheerful, but he saw that her smile was forced; and, with an
assurance that he would see her again before he went to Washington,
he shook hands cordially, and left her. She tied her bouquet, and
dispatched it to the sick child, with a few lines of kind
remembrance; then took the letter which Mr. Lindsay had thrown on
the steps, and opened it with trembling fingers.
"MR. R. LINDSAY
"Dear Sir: Yours of the 3d came to hand yesterday. As I wrote you
before, I accidentally learned that Dr. Hartwell had been in Canton;
but since that have heard nothing from him, and have been unable to
trace him further. Letters from Calcutta state that he left that
city, more than a year since, for China. Should I obtain any news of
him, rest assured it shall be immediately transmitted to you.
"Very respectfully,
"R. A. FIELDS."
She crumpled the sheet, and threw it from her; and if ever earnest,
heartspoken prayer availed, her sobbing cry to the God of travelers
insured his safety.