Beulah Part 41

"And these conjectures cloud your mind?" said Cornelia, with a half- smile breaking over her face.

"I did not say so; I merely gave it as an ill.u.s.tration of what you professed not to understand."

"I see your citadel of reserve and mistrust cannot be carried by storm," answered Cornelia petulantly.

Before Beulah could reply, a servant entered, and addressed Cornelia.

"Your mother wants to show your Paris hat and veil, and handsomest point-lace set, to Mrs. Vincent, and Miss Julia says, can't she run up and see you a minute?"

A sneering smile accompanied the contemptuous answer, which was delivered in no particularly gentle manner.

"This is the second time those 'particular friends' of ours have called to inspect my winter outfit. Take down my entire wardrobe to them: dresses, bonnets, mantles, laces, handkerchiefs, ribbons, shawls--nay, gloves and slippers, for there is a 'new style' of catch on one, and of bows and buckles on the other. Do you hear me, Mary? don't leave a rag of my French finery behind. Let the examination be sufficiently complete this time. Don't forget the Indian shawl and the opera cloak and hood, nor that ornamental comb, named after the last popular danseuse; and tell Miss Julia she will please excuse me--another time I will try to see her. Say I am engaged."

Some moments elapsed, during which Mary opened and shut a number of drawers and boxes, and finally disappeared, staggering beneath a load of silks, velvets, and laces. As the door closed behind her, Cornelia smoothed her brow, and said apologetically:

"Doubtless it seems a mere trifle of accommodation to display all that ma.s.s of finery to their eagerly curious eyes; but I a.s.sure you that, though I have not been at home quite a week, those things have vacated their places at least twenty times for inspection; and this ridiculous mania for the 'latest style' disgusts me beyond measure.

I tell you, the majority of the women in this town think of nothing else. I have not yet looked over my wardrobe myself. Mother selected it in Paris, and I did not trouble myself to examine it when it was unpacked."

Beulah smiled, but offered no comment. Cornelia suddenly sank back in her chair, and said hastily:

"Give me that vial on the bureau! Quick! quick!"

Beulah sprang up and handed her the vial, which she put to her lips.

She was ghastly pale, her features writhed, and heavy drops glistened on her brow, corrugated by severe pain.

"Can I do anything for you, Cornelia? Shall I call your mother?"

"No. You may fan me, if you will." She moaned and closed her eyes.

Beulah seized a fan, and did as requested, now and then wiping away the moisture which gathered around the lips and forehead. Gradually the paroxysm pa.s.sed off, and, opening her eyes, she said wearily:

"That will do, thank you. Now pour out a gla.s.s of water from the pitcher yonder."

Beulah handed her the draught, saying, with surprise:

"Sitting wrapped up by a fire and drinking ice-water!"

"Yes; I use ice-water the year round. Please touch the bellrope, will you?"

As Beulah resumed her seat, Cornelia added, with a forced laugh:

"You look as if you pitied me."

"I do, most sincerely. Do you suffer in this way often?"

"Yes--no--well, when I am prudent I don't." Then, turning to the servant, who stood at the door, she continued: "John, go to Dr.

Hartwell's office (not his house, mind you), and leave word that he must come here before night. Do you understand? Shut the door-stop!

send up some coal!"

She drew her chair closer to the fire, and, extending her slippered feet on the marble hearth, said:

"I have suffered more during the last three days than in six months before. Last night I did not close my eyes--and Dr. Hartwell must prepare me some medicine. What is the matter with Clara Sanders? She looks like an alabaster image!"

"She has never recovered entirely from that attack of yellow fever; and a day or two ago she took cold, and has had constant fever since. I suppose she will see the doctor while I am here. I feel anxious about her."

"She looks ethereal, as if refined for a translation to heaven,"

continued Cornelia musingly; then suddenly lifting her head, she listened an instant, and exclaimed angrily: "It is very strange that I am not to have an hour's peace and enjoyment with you, without--"

The door opened, and a graceful form and lovely face approached the fireplace. "Miss Benton, suffer me to introduce my cousin, Miss Dupres," said Cornelia very coldly.

The young lady just inclined her head, and proceeded to scan Beulah's countenance and dress, with a degree of cool impertinence which was absolutely amusing. Evidently, however, Cornelia saw nothing amusing in this ill-bred stare, for she pushed a light chair impatiently toward her, saying:

"Sit down, Antoinette!"

She threw herself into the seat with a sort of languid grace, and said, in the most musical of voices:

"Why would not you see Julia Vincent? She was so much disappointed."

"Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her. Be good enough to move your chair to one side, if you please," snapped Cornelia.

"That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you. We are all to spend the evening with her next week--you, and your brother, and I. A mere 'sociable,' she says." She had been admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky auburn curls. Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls--blank, soulless, expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of self-satisfaction. Beulah's quiet dignity failed to repel the continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her shawl, she rose.

"Don't go," said Cornelia earnestly.

"I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon."

"When will you come again?" Cornelia took her hand and pressed it warmly.

"I really do not know. I hope you will be better soon."

"Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening with us. What shall I tell him?"

"Nothing."

"I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this prison-house of mine. Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and sit with me?"

"That depends upon circ.u.mstances. If you are sick and lonely, I certainly will. Good-by."

"Good-by, Beulah." The haughty heiress drew the orphan's face down to hers and kissed her cordially. Not a little surprised by this unexpected demonstration of affection in one so cold and stately, Beulah bowed distantly to the cousin, who returned the salutation still more distantly, and, hastening down the steps, was glad to find herself once more under the dome of sky, gray and rainy though it was. The wind sighed and sobbed through the streets, and a few cold drops fell, as she approached Mrs. Hoyt's. Quickening her steps, she ran in by a side entrance, and was soon at Clara's room.

The door stood open, and, with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she entered, little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented herself with the hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table, preparing some medicine, and looked up involuntarily as she came in.

His eyes lightened instantly, but he merely said:

"Good-evening, Beulah."

The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and, crossing the room at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand.

"How are you, sir?"

He did not, take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said: