The day was dull, misty, and gusty. All the morning there had been a
driving southeasterly rain; but toward noon there was a lull. The
afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense clouds
drifted before the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from his
round of evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the asylum to see a
sick child, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother. Beulah
came home from school more than usually fatigued; one of the
assistant teachers was indisposed, and she had done double work to
relieve her. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an
article she had promised to complete before the end of the week. Her
head ached; the lines grew dim, and she laid aside her manuscript
and leaned her face on her palms. The beautiful lashes lay against
her brow, for the eyes were raised to the portrait above her desk,
and she gazed up at the faultless features with an expression of sad
hopelessness. Years had not filled the void in her heart with other
treasures. At this hour it ached with its own desolation, and,
extending her arms imploringly toward the picture, she exclaimed
sorrowfully:
"O my God, how long must I wait? Oh, how long!"
She opened the desk, and, taking out a key, left her room and slowly
ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her.
She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given into her
charge some time before, and, raising one of the windows, looped
back the heavy blue curtains which gave a somber hue to all within.
From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters
of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse
muttering as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of
the tempest. Gray clouds hung low, and scudded northward: everything
looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced
around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come
here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly. Here
were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with,
and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The
house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the
lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven
or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one
note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a
favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after
seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her
trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old
days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had
overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images
around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her
grief. She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an
intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe,
rigid and woeful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her
face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their
gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled
round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless
seas, driving lonely barks down to ruin and strewing the main with
ghastly upturned faces! She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark
hour of trial, and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that
clustered about her. Then there came other sounds: Charon's shrill,
frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that
peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a
tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features; but
Charon's paws were on the shoulders and his whine of delight ceased
not. He fell down at his master's feet and caressed them. Beulah
looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her
arms, with a wild, joyful cry.
"Come at last! Oh, thank God! Come at last!" Her face was radiant,
her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.
Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad
chest, Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to
him, and her extended arms trembled; still he did not move, did not
speak.
"Oh, I knew you would come; and, thank God, now you are here. Come
home at last!"
She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an
instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck and laid her
head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the
embrace, but looked down at the beaming face and sighed; then he put
his hand softly on her head, and smoothed the rippling hair. A
brilliant smile broke over her features, as she felt the remembered
touch of his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated in the low
tones of deep gladness:
"I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me!"
"How did you know it, child?" he said, for the first time.
Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so
longed to hear, and she answered tremblingly:
"Because for weary years I have prayed for your return. Oh, only God
knows how fervently I prayed! and he has heard me."
She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her,
clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her,
and, bending his head, kissed her passionately. Suddenly his arms
relaxed their clasp; holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and
said:
"Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you
belong to that tyrant Guy Hartwell? Quick, child; decide!"
"I have decided," said she. Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.
"Well?"
"Well, if I am to have a tyrant, I believe I prefer belonging to
you?"
He frowned. She smiled and looked up at him.
"Beulah, I don't want a grateful wife. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung
opposite. He drew back a step, and she saw the blood leave his lips,
as he gazed upon it. Lifting his hand, he said sternly:
"Ah, what pale specters that face calls up from the grim, gray ruins
of memory! Doubtless you know my miserable history. I married her,
thinking I had won her love. She soon undeceived me. We separated. I
once asked you to be my wife, and you told me you would rather die.
Child, years have not dealt lightly with me since then. I am no
longer a young man. Look here!" He threw off his hat, and, passing
his fingers through his curling hair, she saw, here and there,
streaks of silver. He watched her as she noted it. She saw, too, how
haggard he looked, now that the light fell full on his pale face.
The splendid, dark eyes were unaltered, and, as they looked down
into hers, tears gathered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and,
throwing her arms again round his neck, she laid her face on his
shoulder.
"Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you pity
me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness?
Answer me, Beulah."
"Because you are my all."
"How long have I been your all?"
"Oh, longer than I knew myself!" was the evasive reply.
He tried to look at her, but she pressed her face close to his
shoulder and would not suffer it.
"Beulah!"
"Sir."
"Oh, don't 'sir' me, child! I want to know the truth, and you will
not satisfy me."
"I have told you the truth."
"Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified
ambition cannot make you happy? Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Better than teaching school and writing learned articles?"
"Rather better, I believe, sir."
"Beulah!"
"Well, sir."
"You have changed in many things since we parted, nearly six years
ago!"
"Yes; I thank God, I am changed. My infidelity was a source of many
sorrows; but the clouds have passed from my mind; I have found the
truth in Holy Writ." Now she raised her head, and looked at him very
earnestly.
"Child, does your faith make you happy?"
"Yes; the universe could not purchase it," she answered solemnly.
There was a brief silence. He put both hands on her shoulders, and,
stooping down, kissed her brow.
"And you prayed for me, Beulah?"
"Yes; evening and morning. Prayed that you might be shielded from
all dangers and brought safely home. And there was one other thing
which I prayed for not less fervently than for your return: that God
would melt your hard, bitter heart, and give you a knowledge of the
truth of the Christian religion. Oh, sir, I thought sometimes that
possibly you might die in a far-off land, and then I should see you
no more, in time or eternity! and oh, the thought nearly drove me
wild! My guardian, my all, let me not have prayed in vain." She
clasped his hand in hers, and looked up pleadingly into the loved
face; and, for the first time in her life, she saw tears glistening
in the burning eyes. He said nothing, however; took her face in his
hands, and scanned it earnestly, as if reading all that had passed
during his long absence. Presently he asked:
"So you would not marry Lindsay and go to Congress. Why not?"
"Who told you anything about him?"
"No matter. Why did not you marry him?"
"Because I did not love him."
"He is a noble-hearted, generous man."
"Yes, very; I do not know his superior."
"What!"
"I mean what I say," said she firmly.
He smiled, one of his genial, irresistible smiles; and she smiled
also, despite herself. "Give me your hand, Beulah?"
She did so very quietly.
"There--is it mine?"
"Yes, sir; if you want it."
"And may I claim it as soon as I choose?"
"Yes, sir."
She had never seen him look as he did then. His face kindled, as if
in a broad flash of light; the eyes dazzled her, and she turned her
face away, as he drew her once more to his bosom, and exclaimed:
"At last, then, after years of sorrow, and pain, and bitterness, I
shall be happy in my own home; shall have a wife, a companion, who
loves me for myself alone. Ah, Beulah, my idol; I will make you
happy!"
The rain fell heavily, and it grew dark, for the night came rapidly
down. There was a furious ringing of the library bell; the doctor
had come home, and, as usual, wanted half a dozen things at once.
"Have you seen Dr. Asbury?"
"No. I came directly to the house; saw no one as I entered; and,
hearing the melodeon, followed the sound."
"What a joyful surprise it will be to him!" said Beulah, closing the
window and locking the melodeon. She led the way down the steps,
followed by her guardian and Charon. "Suppose you wait a while in
the music room? It adjoins the library, and you can see and hear
without being seen." suggested she, with her hand on the bolt of the
door. He assented, and stood near the threshold which connected the
rooms, while Beulah went into the library. The gas burned brightly,
and the doctor sat leaning far back in his armchair, with his feet
on an ottoman. His wife stood near him, stroking the gray hair from
his furrowed brow.
"Alice, I wish, dear, you would get me an iced lemonade, will you?"
"Let me make it for you," said Beulah, coming forward.
"Not you! At your peril, you touch it. You are overfond of the sour,
miss. Alice knows exactly how to suit me."
"So you have turned homeopathist? take acids to--"
"None of your observations, if you please. Just be good enough to
open the shutters, will you? It is as hot in this room as if the
equator ran between my feet and the wall. Charming weather, eh? And
still more charming prospect, that I shall have to go out into it
again before bedtime. One of my delectable patients has taken it
into his head to treat his wife and children to a rare show, in the
shape of a fit of mania-a-potu; and, ten to one, I shall have to
play spectator all night." He yawned as he spoke.
"You have an arduous time indeed," began Beulah; but he hastily put
in:
"Oh, of all poor devils, we pill-box gentry do have the hardest
times! I am sick of patients, sick of physic, sick of the very sound
of my own name."
"If my guardian were only here to relieve--"
"Confound your guardian! Don't mention him in my presence. He is a
simpleton. He is what the 'Ettrick Shepherd' calls a 'Sumph.' You
have no guardian, I can tell you that. Before this he has gone
through all the transmigrations of 'Indur,' and the final
metempsychosis, gave him to the world a Celestial. Yes, child; a
Celestial. I fancy him at this instant, with two long plaits of hair
trailing behind him, as, with all the sublime complacency of
Celestials, he stalks majestically along, picking tea leaves.
Confound your guardian. Mention his name to me again, at the peril
of having your board raised."
"George, what is the matter with you?" asked his wife, smiling as
she handed him the lemonade he had desired.
"This prating young woman is, as usual, trying to discourse of--
Alice, this is just right. Thank you, my dear." He drained the glass
and handed it back. Beulah stood so that the light shone full on her
face. He looked at her a moment, and exclaimed:
"Come here, child. What ails you? Why, bless my soul, Beulah, what
is the matter? I never saw the blood in your face before; and your
great, solemn eyes seem to be dancing a jig. What ails you, child?"
He grasped her hands eagerly.
"Nothing ails me; I am well--"
"I know better! Has Charon gone mad and bit you? Oho! by all the
dead gods of Greece, Guy has come home. Where is he? Where is he?"
He sprang up, nearly knocking his wife down, and looked around the
room. Dr. Hartwell emerged from the music room and advanced to meet
him.
"Oh, Guy! You heathen! you Philistine! you prodigal!"
He bounded over a chair and locked his arms round the tall form,
while his gray head dropped on his friend's shoulder. Beulah stole
out quickly, and, in the solitude of her own room, fell on her knees
and returned thanks to the God who hears and answers prayer.