One day there came a letter postmarked from an inland town where
Beulah had no correspondent. The direction, however, was instantly
recognized, and she broke the seal hurriedly.
"What has become of you, Beulah? and what can have become of my two
letters which were never answered? Concluding you never received
them, I hazard a third attempt to reach you through the medium of
letters. You will readily perceive that we have removed to a distant
section of the State. Ernest was called to take charge of this
parish, and we are delightfully located here, within a few minutes'
walk of the church. Beulah, the storm which darkened over me, in the
first year of my marriage, has swept by, and it is all sunshine,
glorious sunshine, with me. You know my home was very unhappy for a
time. My husband's family caused misunderstandings between us,
influenced him against me, and made me very, very wretched. I could
not tolerate Lucy's presence with any degree of patience, yet she
would remain in our house. How it would have ended only Heaven
knows, had not my husband been suddenly taken very ill.
"It was on Sabbath morning. He was displeased with me because of
some of my disputes with his sister, and scarcely spoke to me before
he went into the pulpit. Lucy and I sat together in the rector's
pew, hating each other cordially; and when Ernest began the morning
service I noticed he looked pale and weary. Before it was concluded
he sank back exhausted, and was borne into the vestry room, covered
with blood. He had a severe hemorrhage from the throat, his
physician said, but Ernest thinks it was from his lungs. I was sure
he would die; and oh, Beulah, what agony I endured, as I sat beside
him and watched his ghastly face! But his illness was 'the blessing
in disguise'; he forgot all our disgraceful bickerings, and was
never satisfied unless I was with him. Lucy grumbled, and sneered,
and looked sour; but I had my husband's heart again, and determined
to keep it. As soon as he was strong enough I told him how wretched
I had been and how sincerely I desired to make him happy, if Lucy
would only not interfere. He saw that our domestic peace was
dependent upon the change, and from that hour his sister ceased
meddling with my affairs. What he said to her I never knew; but soon
after his recovery she returned to her parents, and I was left in
peace.
"I began in sober earnest to be all my husband wished me; read the
books he liked (though it was a terrible bore at first); read to
him; took part in all the societies connected with his church, and,
in short, became quite a demure pastor's wife. Occasionally my old
fondness for fun would break out, to the horror of some of his
antediluvian flock; but Ernest was very good, and bore patiently
with me, and now I am as prim and precise as any old maid of sixty.
At home I do as I like; that is, when Ernest likes it too. I sing,
and play, and romp with the dogs and kittens; but the moment the
door bell rings, lo! a demure matron receives her guests! Ernest's
health is quite restored, and I am as happy as the day is long. You
should see me working in my garden, and sometimes churning before
breakfast, to give Ernest a fresh glass of buttermilk. I would not
change places with an empress, I am so happy. My husband loves me
better than everything else beside, and what more could I desire?
"Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some
time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely
recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up,
churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my
voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live
with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge,
indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my
husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long
as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I
read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all
domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love;
whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further
argumentation on the subject.
"How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their
fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking
strawberries or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do,
Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if
I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years
since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing
from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must
have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to
see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle
Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell
me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives?
Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any
intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavor to believe so!
Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish
you were as happy as your friend,
"PAULINE."
Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from
Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married,
and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had
onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so
entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously
favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or
obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined,
and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering
iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year
rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections;
the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a
family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such
articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an
auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the
last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and
commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were
undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the
sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in
peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a
writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her
flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the
face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it
consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is
shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered
cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home!
the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must
relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would
this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to
reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless
orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had
closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was
without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as
she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away.
Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask:
"Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and
went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she
had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the
chrysanthemums were in all their glory--crimson, white, and orange.
She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long,
lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back
from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the
future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed:
"Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will
shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere
holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah,
truly, I can say:"
"'Let me, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to wait!'"
"Yes, learn to labor and to wait. The heart cries out fiercely for
its recompense; is loath to wait. But I can conquer even this. I
will be patient and hopeful. Duty is its own recompense."
Mrs. Asbury spared no exertion to make the orphan happy in her
house. She treated her with the gentle frankness which characterized
her deportment toward her daughters; and to identify her with her
own family, often requested her to assist in her household plans.
She thoroughly understood and appreciated Beulah's nature, and
perfect confidence existed between them. It was no sooner known that
Beulah was an inmate of the house than many persons, curious to see
one of whom rumor spoke so flatteringly, availed themselves of the
circumstance to make her acquaintance. Almost unconsciously, she
soon found herself the center of a circle of literary people whom
she had often heard of, but had never known previously. Gradually
her reserve melted away, and her fine colloquial powers developed
themselves; but she wearied of the visitors--wearied even of the
themes discussed, and, having passed her life in seclusion, found in
solitude a degree of enjoyment which society could not confer. Helen
had married a planter, and resided at some distance from the city,
but Georgia and her husband remained at home. Thus, imperceptibly,
time wore on. Eugene often came and spent an hour with Beulah; and,
still more frequently, Cornelia was sent to while away an evening
with her merry prattle. Very steadily Eugene advanced in his
profession; the applause of the world cheered him on, and an
enviable reputation was his at last. Grasping ambition lured him,
step by step; and it was evident that he aimed at a seat beside
Reginald Lindsay. Rejoiced at his entire reformation, and proud of
his success, Beulah constantly encouraged his aspirations.
Antoinette was as gay and indifferent as ever, and Eugene divided
his heart between his child and his ambition.
By a system of rigid economy in the disposal of her time, Beulah not
only attended to her school duties, her music, and her books, but
found leisure, after writing her magazine articles, to spend some
time each day with the family under whose roof she resided. Dr.
Asbury's health was rather feeble, and of late his eyes had grown so
dim as to prevent his reading or writing. This misfortune was to a
great extent counterbalanced by his wife's devoted attention, and
often Beulah shared the duties of the library. One bright Sunday
afternoon she walked out to the cemetery, which she visited
frequently. In one corner of a small lot, inclosed by a costly iron
railing, stood a beautiful marble monument, erected by Mr. Grayson
over Lilly's grave. It represented two angels bearing the child up
to its God. Just opposite, in the next lot, was a splendid mausoleum
of the finest white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name
"Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three." It was in the form of a
temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on
the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters,
"Silentio! silentio!" At the entrance stood two winged forms,
crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held
withered flowers. Beulah sat on the marble steps. Before her
stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their
polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors.
Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and
stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure. All was silent
and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly
as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them. Human
nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but
in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent
city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing. In a
neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected
over the remains of the friend of their childhood. Her labors ended,
the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia. Here winter
rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought
bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure. Mocking-birds sang cheerfully
in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled
walks, recalling the past. Here there was no gloom to affright the
timid soul; all was serene and inviting. Why should the living
shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful? And why should
death be invested with fictitious horrors? A procession entered one
of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner
of the burying-ground. The slow, measured tread of the horses, the
crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the
mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah's ears. Then the train
disappeared, and she was again in solitude. Looking up, her eyes
rested on the words above her: "Silentio! silentio!" They were
appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into
the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly. Years had passed since the
only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh
in Beulah's memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but
yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue
from the marble lips of the statues beside her: "For here we have no
continuing city, but seek one to come." With her cheek on her hand,
the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last
hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life,
during the season when she "was without God and without hope," she
saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror. Once she stood
on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered.
Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the
summons; but now it was otherwise.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and
whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
She believed; and, while a beautiful world linked her to life, and
duty called to constant and cheerful labor, death lost its hideous
aspect. With a firm faith in the Gospel of Christ, she felt that
earth with all its loveliness was but a probationary dwelling-place;
and that death was an angel of God, summoning the laborers to their
harvest home. She had often asked what is the aim and end of life?
One set of philosophers told her it was to be happy. Another
exclaimed it was to learn to endure with fortitude all ills. But
neither satisfied her; one promised too much, the other too little,
and only in revelation was an answer found. Yet how few pause to
ponder its significance! With the majority, life is the all: the
springtime, the holiday; and death the hated close of enjoyment.
They forget that
"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day."
The path of Christianity is neither all sunshine nor all shadow,
checkered certainly, but leading to a final abode of unimaginable
bliss; and, with the Bible to guide her, the orphan walked
fearlessly on, discharging her duties, and looking unto God and his
Christ to aid her. She sat on the steps of the sepulcher, watching
the last rays of the setting sun gild the monumental shafts that
pointed to heaven. Her grave face might have told the scrutinizing
observer of years of grief and struggle; but it also betokened an
earnest soul calmly trusting the wisdom and mercy of the All-Father.
She sighed as she thought of the gifted but unhappy woman who slept
near her, and, rising, walked on to Lilly's tomb. Ten years had
rolled their waves over her since that little form was placed here.
She looked down at the simple epitaph: "He taketh his young lambs
home." The cherub face seemed to beam upon her once more, and the
sweet, birdlike tones of her childish voice still lingered in the
secret cells of memory. She extended her arms, as if to clasp the
form borne up by the angels, and said tremulously:
"Lilly, my sister, my white-robed darling, but a little while and we
shall meet where orphanage is unknown! 'He doeth all things well!'
Ah, little sleeper, I can wait patiently for our reunion."
As she turned her steps homeward a shadowy smile stole over her
features, and the lines about her mouth resumed their wonted
composure.
"Beulah, father has been asking for you," said Georgia, who met her
on the staircase.
"I will go down to him immediately," was the cheerful answer, and,
putting away her bonnet and shawl, she went at once to the library.
The doctor was leaning very far back in his favorite chair, and she
saw at a glance he had fallen asleep.
Mrs. Asbury sat at a table, weighing out some medicine he had
directed sent to a patient. She looked up as Beulah entered, smiled,
and said in an undertone:
"My liege lord is indulging in a nap. Come to the fire, dear; you
look cold."
She left the room with the medicine, and Beulah stood before the
bright wood fire and watched the ruddy light flashing grotesquely
over the pictures on the wall. The gas had not yet been lighted; she
crossed the room, and sat down before the window. A red glow still
lingered in the west, and, one by one, the stars came swiftly out.
She took up a book she had been reading that morning; but it was too
dim to see the letters, and she contented herself with looking out
at the stars, brightening as the night deepened. "So should it be
with faith," thought she, "and yet, as troubles come thick and fast,
we are apt to despair." Mrs. Asbury came back and lighted the gas,
but Beulah was too much absorbed to notice it. The doctor waked, and
began to talk about the severity of the winter further north and the
suffering it produced among the poor. Presently he said:
"What has become of that child Beulah--do you know, Alice?"
"Yes; there she is by the window. You were asleep when she came in."
He looked round and called to her.
"What are you thinking about, Beulah? You look as cold as an
iceberg. Come to the fire. Warm hands and feet will aid your
philosophizing wonderfully."
"I am not philosophizing, sir," she replied, without rising.
"I will wager my elegant new edition of Coleridge against your old
one that you are! Now, out with your cogitations, you incorrigible
dreamer!"
"I have won your Coleridge. I was only thinking of that Talmudish
tradition regarding Sandalphon, the angel of prayer."
"What of him?"
"Why, that he stands at the gate of heaven, listens to the sounds
that ascend from earth, and, gathering all the prayers and
entreaties, as they are wafted from sorrowing humanity, they change
to flowers in his hands, and the perfume is borne into the celestial
city to God. Yesterday I read Longfellow's lines on this legend, and
suppose my looking up at the stars recalled it to my mind. But
Georgia told me you asked for me. Can I do anything for you, sir?
Are there any prescriptions you wish written off?" She came and
stood by his chair.
"No, thank you, child; but I should like to hear more of that book
you were reading to me last night--that is, if it will not weary
you, my child."
"Certainly not--here it is. I was waiting for you to ask me for more
of it. Shall I begin now, or defer it till after tea?"
"Now, if you please."
Mrs. Asbury seated herself on an ottoman at her husband's feet, and
threw her arm up over his knee; and, opening Butler's "Analogy,"
Beulah began to read where she left off the previous day, in the
chapter on "a future life."
With his hand resting on his wife's head, Dr. Asbury listened
attentively. At the conclusion of the chapter, she turned to the
dissertation on "personal identity," so nearly related to it, and
read it slowly and impressively.
"It is remarkably clear and convincing," said the doctor, when she
ceased.
"Yes; his argument that death, instead of being an abnormal event,
is as much a law of our nature as birth (because necessary to future
development), and that, as at maturity, we have perfections of which
we never dreamed in infancy, so death may put us in possession of
new powers, by releasing us from the chrysalis state, is one which
has peculiar significance to my mind. Had Cornelia Graham studied
it, she would never have been tortured by the thought of that
annihilation which she fancied awaited her. From childhood this
question of 'personal identity' has puzzled me; but, it seems to me,
this brief treatise of Butler is quite satisfactory. It should be a
text-book in all educational institutions; should be scattered far
and wide through the land."
Here the solemn tones of the church bells told that the hour of
evening service drew near. The doctor started, and said abruptly:
"Bless me! Alice, are we to have no tea to-night?"
"Yes; the tea bell rang some minutes ago; but Beulah had not quite
finished her chapter, and I would not interrupt."
As they walked on to the dining room he said:
"You two are going to church, I suppose?"
"No; I shall remain with you," answered his wife gently.
"You need not, my dear. I will go with you, if you prefer it."
Beulah did not look up, but she knew that true-hearted wife was
unspeakably happy; and understood why, during tea, she was so quiet,
so unwontedly silent.