Beulah Part 58

"Oh, Eugene! be honest--be honest! Say at once you shunned me lest I should mark your altered habits in your altered face. But I know it all, notwithstanding. It is no secret that Eugene Graham has more than once lent his presence to midnight carousals over the wine-cup.

Once you were an example of temperance and rect.i.tude, but vice is fashionable and patronized in this city, and your a.s.sociates soon dragged you down from your proud height to their degraded level. The circle in which you move were not shocked at your fall. Ladies accustomed to hear of drunken revels ceased to attach disgrace to them, and you were welcomed and smiled upon, as though you were all a man should be. Oh, Eugene! I understand why you have carefully shunned one who has an unconquerable horror of that degradation into which you have fallen. I am your friend, your best and most disinterested friend. What do your fashionable acquaintances care that your moral character is impugned and your fair name tarnished?

Your dissipation keeps their brothers and lovers in countenance; your once n.o.ble, unsullied nature would shame their depravity. Do you remember one bright, moonlight night, about six years ago, when we sat in Mrs. Williams' room at the asylum and talked of our future? Then, with a soul full of pure aspirations, you said: 'Beulah, I have written "Excelsior" on my banner, and I intend, like that n.o.ble youth, to press forward over every obstacle, mounting at every step, until I too stand on the highest pinnacle and plant my banner where its glorious motto shall float over the world!'

'Excelsior!' Ah, my brother, that banner trails in the dust! Alpine heights tower far behind you, dim in the distance, and now with another motto--'Lower still'--you are rushing down to an awful gulf.

Oh, Eugene! do you intend to go on to utter ruin? Do you intend to wreck happiness, health, and character in the sea of reckless dissipation? Do you intend to spend your days in disgusting intoxication? I would you had a mother, whose prayers might save you, or a father, whose gray hairs you dared not dishonor, or a sister to win you back from ruin. Oh, that you and I had never, never left the sheltering walls of the asylum!"

She wept bitterly, and, more moved than he chose to appear, Eugene shaded his face with his fingers. Beulah placed her hand on his shoulder, and continued falteringly:

"Eugene, I am not afraid to tell you the unvarnished truth. You may get angry, and think it is no business of mine to counsel you, who are older and master of your own fate; but when we were children I talked to you freely, and why should I not now? True friendship strengthens with years, and shall I hesitate to speak to you of what gives me so much pain? In a very few days you are to be married.

Eugene, if the wine-cup is dearer to you than your beautiful bride, what prospect of happiness has either of you? I had hoped her influence would deter you from it, at least during her visit here; but if not then, how can her presence avail in future? Oh, for Heaven's sake! for Antoinette's, for your own, quit the ranks of ruin you are in, and come back to temperance and honor. You are bowing down Cornelia's proud head in humiliation and sorrow. Oh, Eugene, have mercy on yourself!"

He tried to look haughty and insulted, but it would not answer. Her pale face, full of earnest, tearful entreaty, touched his heart, not altogether indurated by profligate a.s.sociations. He knew she had not given an exaggerated account; he had imagined that she would not hear of his revels; but certainly she told only the truth. Yet he resolved not to admit the charge, and, shaking off her hand, answered proudly:

"If I am the degraded character you flatteringly p.r.o.nounce me, it should certainly render my society anything but agreeable to your fastidious taste. I shall not soon forget your unmerited insults."

He rose as he spoke.

"You are angry now, Eugene, because I have held up your own portrait for your inspection. You are piqued because I tell you the truth.

But when all this has subsided, and you think the matter calmly over, you will be forced to acknowledge that only the purest friendship could prompt me to remonstrate with you on your ruinous career. Of course, if you choose, you can soon wreck yourself; you are your own master; but the infatuation will recoil upon you. Your disgrace and ruin will not affect me, save that, as your friend, I should mourn your fall. Ah, Eugene, I have risked your displeasure-- I have proved my friendship!"

He took his hat and turned toward the door; but she placed herself before it, and, holding out both hands, exclaimed sorrowfully:

"Do not let us part in anger! I am an orphan without relatives or protectors, and from early years you have been a kind brother. At least, let us part as friends. I know that in future we shall be completely alienated, but your friend Beulah will always rejoice to hear of your welfare and happiness; and if her warning words, kindly meant, have no effect, and she hears, with keen regret, of your final ruin, she at least will feel that she honestly and anxiously did all in her power to save you. Good-by. Shake hands, Eugene, and bear with you to the altar my sincere wishes for your happiness."

She held out her hands entreatingly; but he took no notice of the movement, and, hurrying by, left the house. For a moment Beulah bowed her head and sobbed; then she brushed the tears from her cheek, and the black brows met in a heavy frown. True, she had not expected much else, yet she felt bitterly grieved, and it was many months are she ceased to remember the pain of this interview; notwithstanding the contempt she could not avoid feeling for his weakness.

The Grahams all accompanied Eugene, and, after the marriage, went North for the summer. A handsome house was erected near Mr. Graham's residence, and in the fall the young people were to take possession of it. Mr. Lockhart rallied sufficiently to be removed to his home "up the country," and, save Dr. Asbury's family, Beulah saw no one but Clara and her pupils. With July came the close of the session, and the young teacher was free again. One afternoon she put on her bonnet and walked to a distant section of the town to inquire after Kate Ellison (one of her a.s.sistant teachers), who, she happened to hear, was quite ill. She found her even worse than she had expected, and, on offering her services to watch over the sick girl, was anxiously requested to remain with her during the night. She dispatched a message to Mrs. Hoyt, cheerfully laid aside her bonnet, and took a seat near the sufferer, while the infirm mother retired to rest. The family were very poor, and almost entirely dependent on Kate's salary for a support. The house was small arid comfortless; the scanty furniture of the plainest kind. About dusk Beulah left her charge in a sound sleep, and, cautiously opening the blinds, seated herself on the window sill. The solitary candle on the table gave but a dim light, and she sat for a long time looking out into the street and up at the quiet, clear sky. A buggy drew up beneath the window--she supposed it was the family physician. Mrs. Ellison had not mentioned his coming, but of course it must be a physician, and sure enough there was a knock at the door. She straightened one or two chairs, picked up some articles of clothing scattered about the floor, and opened the door.

She knew not what doctor Mrs. Ellison employed, and, as her guardian entered, she drew back with a start of surprise. She had not seen him since the morning of Pauline's marriage, five months before, and then he had not noticed her. Now he stopped suddenly, looked at her a moment, and said, as if much chagrined:

"What are you doing here, Beulah?"

"Nursing Kate, sir. Don't talk so loud; she is asleep," answered Beulah rather frigidly.

She did not look at him, but knew his eyes were on her face, and presently he said:

"You are always where you ought not to be. That girl has typhus fever, and, ten to one, you will take it. In the name of common sense! why don't you let people take care of their own sick, and stay at home, instead of hunting up cases like a professed nurse? I suppose the first confirmed case of smallpox you hear of, you will hasten to offer your services. You don't intend to spend the night here, it is to be hoped?"

"Her mother has been sitting up so constantly that she is completely exhausted, and somebody must a.s.sist in nursing Kate. I did not know that she had any contagious disease; but if she has, I suppose I might as well run the risk as anybody else. It is but common humanity to aid the family."

"Oh! if you choose to risk your life it is your own affair. Do not imagine for an instant that I expected my advice to weigh an iota with you."

He walked off to Kate, felt her pulse, and, without waking her, proceeded to replenish the gla.s.s of medicine on the table. Beulah was in no mood to obtrude herself on his attention; she went to the window, and stood with her back to him. She could not tamely bear his taunting manner, yet felt that it was out of her power to retort, for she still reverenced him. She was surprised when he came up to her, and said abruptly:

"To-day I read an article in 'T----'s Magazine' called the 'Inner Life,' by 'Delta.'"

A deep crimson dyed her pale face an instant, and her lips curled ominously, as she replied, in a would-be indifferent tone:

"Well, sir?"

"It is not well, at all. It is very ill. It is most miserable!"

"Well! what do I care for the article in 'T----'s Magazine'? "These words were jerked out, as it were, with something like a sneer.

"You care more than you will ever be brought to confess. Have you read this precious 'Inner Life'?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Have you any idea who the author is?"

"Yes, sir; I know the author; but if it had been intended or desired that the public should know, also, the article would never have appeared over a fict.i.tious signature."

This "Inner Life," which she had written for the last number of the magazine, was an allegory, in which she boldly attempted to disprove the truth of the fact Tennyson has so inimitably embodied in "The Palace of Art," namely, that love of beauty and intellectual culture cannot satisfy the G.o.d-given aspirations of the soul. Her guardian fully comprehended the dawning, and as yet unacknowledged dread which prompted this article, and hastily laying his hand on her shoulder, he said:

"Ah, proud girl! you are struggling desperately with your heart.

You, too, have reared a 'palace' on dreary, almost inaccessible crags; and, because already you begin to weary of your isolation, you would fain hurl invectives at Tennyson, who explores your mansion, 'so royal, rich, and wide,' and discovers the grim specters that dwell with you! You were very miserable when you wrote that sketch; you are not equal to what you have undertaken. Child, this year of trial and loneliness has left its impress on your face. Are you not yet willing to give up the struggle?"

The moon had risen, and, as its light shone on her countenance, he saw a fierce blaze in her eyes he had never noticed there before.

She shook off his light touch, and answered:

"No! I will never give up!"

He smiled, and left her.

She remained with her sick friend until sunrise the next morning, and ere she left the house was rewarded by the a.s.surance that she was better. In a few days Kate was decidedly convalescent. Beulah did not take typhus fever.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The day was sullen, stormy, and dark. Gray, leaden clouds were scourged through the sky by a howling southeastern gale, and the lashed waters of the bay broke along the sh.o.r.e with a solemn, continued boom. The rain fell drearily, and sheet lightning, pale and constant, gave a ghastly hue to the scudding clouds. It was one of those lengthened storms which, during the month of August, are so prevalent along the Gulf coast. Clara Sanders sat near a window, bending over a piece of needlework, while, with her hands clasped behind her, Beulah walked up and down the floor. Their countenances contrasted vividly; Clara's sweet, placid face, with drooped eyelids and Madonna-like serenity; the soft, auburn hair curled about her cheeks, and the delicate lips in peaceful rest. And Beulah!--how shall I adequately paint the gloom and restlessness written in her stormy countenance? To tell you that her brow was bent and lowering, that her lips were now unsteady and now tightly compressed, and that her eyes were full of troubled shadows, would convey but a faint impression of the anxious discontent which seemed to have taken entire possession of her. Clara glanced at her, sighed, and went on with her work; she knew perfectly well she was in no humor for conversation. The rain increased until it fell in torrents, and the hoa.r.s.e thunder muttered a dismal accompaniment. It grew too dark to see the st.i.tches; Clara put by her work, and, folding her hands on her lap, sat looking out into the storm, listening to the roar of the rushing wind, as it bowed the treetops and uplifted the white- capped billows of the bay. Beulah paused beside the window, and said abruptly:

"It is typical of the individual, social, moral, and intellectual life. Look which way you will, you find antagonistic elements fiercely warring. There is a broken cog somewhere in the machinery of this plunging globe of ours. Everything organic, and inorganic, bears testimony to a miserable derangement. There is not a department of earth where harmony reigns. True, the stars are serene, and move in their everlasting orbits, with fixed precision, but they are not of earth; here there is nothing definite, nothing certain. The seasons are regular, but they are determined by other worlds. Verily, the contest is still fiercely waged between Ormuzd and Ahriman, and the last has the best of it, so far. The three thousand years of Ahriman seem dawning."

She resumed her walk, and, looking after her anxiously, Clara answered:

"But remember, the 'Zend-Avesta' promises that Ormuzd shall finally conquer and reign supreme. In this happy kingdom I love to trace the resemblance to the millennium which was shown St. John on lonely Patmos."

"It is small comfort to antic.i.p.ate a time of blessedness for future generations. What benefit is steam or telegraph to the moldering mummies of the catacombs? I want to know what good the millennium will do you and me when our dust is mingled with mother earth, in some silent necropolis?"

"Oh, Beulah, what ails you to-day? You look so gloomy and wretched.

It seems to me you have changed sadly of late. I knew that a life of labor such as you voluntarily a.s.sumed would chasten your spirit, but I did not expect this utter revolution of your natura so soon. Oh, have done with skepticism!"

"Faith in creeds is not to be put on and laid aside at will, like a garment. Granted that these same doctrines of Zoroaster are faint adumbrations of the Hebrew creed, the Gordian knot is by no means loosed. That prologue in 'Faust' horrified you yesterday; yet, upon my word, I don't see why; for very evidently it is taken from Job, and Faust is but an ideal Job, tempted in more subtle manner than by the loss of flocks, houses, and children. You believe that Satan was allowed to do his utmost to ruin Job, and Mephistopheles certainly set out on the same fiendish mission. Mephistopheles is not the defiant demon of Milton, but a powerful prince in the service of G.o.d. You need not shudder; I am giving no partial account; I merely repeat the opinion of many on this subject. It is all the same to me. Evil exists: that is the grim fact. As to its origin--I would about as soon set off to search for the city Asgard."

"Still, I would not give my faith for all your learning and philosophy. See what it has brought you to," answered Clara sorrowfully.

"Your faith! what does it teach you of this evil principle?"

retorted Beulah impatiently.