Beulah Part 64

"She will die calmly, but not hopefully. She does not believe in Christianity."

She felt that the matron was searching her countenance, and was not surprised when she said falteringly:

"Neither do you believe in it. Oh, Beulah! I have known it since you came to reside under the same roof with me, and I have wept and prayed over you almost as much as over Eugene. When Sabbath after Sabbath pa.s.sed, and you absented yourself from church, I knew something was wrong. Beulah, who has taught you infidelity? Oh, it would have been better that you too had followed Lilly, in the early days when you were pure in heart! Much as I love you, I would rather weep over your grave than know you had lived to forget G.o.d."

Beulah made no reply; and, pa.s.sing her hands tenderly over the girl's head, she continued:

"When you came to me, a little child, I taught you your morning and evening prayers. Oh, Beulah! Beulah! now you lay down to sleep without a thought of prayer. My child, what is to become of you?"

"I don't know. But do not be distressed about me; I am trying to do my duty just as conscientiously as though I went to church."

"Don't deceive yourself, dear child. If you cease to pray and read your Bible, how are you to know what your duty is? How are you to keep yourself 'pure and unspotted from the world'? Beulah, a man without religion is to be pitied; but, oh! a G.o.dless woman is a horror above all things. It is no marvel you look so anxious and hollow-eyed. You have forsaken the 'ways of pleasantness and the paths of peace.'"

"I am responsible to no one for my opinions."

"Yes, you are; responsible to G.o.d, for he has given truth to the world, and when you shut your eyes, and willingly walk in darkness, he will judge you accordingly. If you had lived in an Indian jungle, out of hearing of Gospel truth, then G.o.d would not have expected anything but idolatry from you; but you live in a Christian land; in the land of Bibles, and 'to whom much is given, much will be expected.' The people of this generation are running after new doctrines, and overtake much error. Beulah, since I have seen you sitting up nearly all night, pouring over books that rail at Jesus and his doctrines, I have repented the hour I first suggested your educating yourself to teach. If this is what all your learning has brought you to, it would have been better if you had been put out to learn millinery or mantua-making. Oh, my child, you have been my greatest pride, but now you are a grief to me!"

She took Beulah's hand in hers, and pressed her lips to it, while the tears fell thick and fast. The orphan was not unmoved; her lashes were heavy with unshed drops, but she said nothing.

"Beulah, I am fifty-five years old; I have seen a great deal of the world, and, I tell you, I have never yet known a happy man or woman who did not reverence G.o.d and religion. I can see that you are not happy. Child, you never will be so long as you wander away from G.o.d.

I pray for you; but you must also pray for yourself. May G.o.d help you, my dear child!"

She left her, knowing her nature too well to hope to convince her of her error.

Beulah remained for some time in the same position, with her eyes fixed on the fire, and her forehead plowed by torturing thought. The striking of the clock roused her from her reverie, and, drawing a chair near her desk, she took up her pen to complete an article due the next day at the magazine office. Ah, how little the readers dreamed of the heavy heart that put aside its troubles to labor for their amus.e.m.e.nt! To-night she did not succeed as well as usual; her ma.n.u.script was blurred, and, forced to copy the greater part of it, the clock struck three before she laid her weary head on her pillow.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

Mr. Graham sat by his daughter's bed, with his elbow resting on her pillow and his head drooped on his hand. It was noon, and sunshine sparkled out of doors; but here the heavy curtains swept across the windows and cast a lurid light over the sickroom. His heart ached as he looked upon the wreck of his once brilliant and beautiful child, and he shaded his face to conceal the tears which stole down his furrowed cheeks. The restless sufferer threw up her arms over the pillow, and, turning toward him, said in a voice sharpened by disease:

"Has mother gone? I want to say something to you."

"We are alone, my child; speak to me freely."

"There are a few things I wish to have arranged, and my time is short. You have never refused me any gratification I desired, and I know you will grant my last request. Father, if I were a bride to- day, what would be my portion of the estate? How much would you give me?"

"I would give every cent I possess to purchase you a life of happiness."

"You do not understand me. I have always been considered an heiress, and I want to know how much I would be ent.i.tled to, if I should live? Of course Eugene has an equal share. How much is it?"

"About eighty thousand dollars apiece, I suppose, leaving as much for your mother. Why do you ask, my daughter?"

"Eighty thousand dollars. How much good might be done with it, if judiciously distributed and invested! Father, I shall not live to squander it in frivolous amus.e.m.e.nts or superfluous luxuries. Are you willing that I should dispose of a portion of it before my death?"

"Yes, Cornelia, if it will afford you any gratification. My poor, afflicted child; how can I deny you anything you choose to ask?"

She put up one arm around his neck, and, drawing his head close to her, said earnestly:

"I only wish to use a part of it. Father, I want to leave Beulah about five thousand dollars. That sum will enable her to live more comfortably, and labor less, and I should like to feel, before I die, that I had been the means of a.s.sisting her. Will you invest that amount in stocks for her, or pay the money into her own hands?

Will you see that it is arranged so that she will certainly receive it, no matter what happens?"

"Yes, I promise you that she shall have five thousand dollars, to dispose of as she thinks proper."

"She is proud, and will not receive it willingly; but you must arrange it so that she will be benefited by it. Father, can you do this for me?"

"Yes, without difficulty, I think."

"Let it be kept secret, will you?"

"Rest a.s.sured it shall have no unnecessary publicity."

"See that it is conveyed to her so securely that no quibbles of law can wrest it from her at any future day, for none of us knows what may happen."

"I promise you she shall have it if I live twelve hours longer."

"Then I want five thousand more given to the orphan asylum. Give it in your own name. You only have the right to give. Don't have my name mentioned in the matter. Will you promise me this also?"

"Yes; it shall all be done. Is there anything else?"

"Thank you, that is all, as regards money matters. Raise my pillow a little; there, that will do. Father, can't you do something to save Eugene? You must see now how reckless he is growing."

"Recently I have expostulated with him, and he seemed disposed to reform his habits. Acknowledged that his a.s.sociations had been injurious, and regretted the excesses into which he had been led. He has been rather wild since he came from college; but I think, now he is married, he will sober down. That is one reason why I encouraged his marrying so early. Intemperance is his only fault, and I trust his good sense will soon lead him to correct it." A smothered sigh concluded the sentence.

"Father, Antoinette is not the woman to reform him. Don't trust to her influence; if you do, Eugene will be ruined. Watch over him closely yourself; try to win him away from the haunts of dissipation; I tell you now his wife will never do it. She has duped you and my mother as to her character, but you will find that she is as utterly heartless as her own mother was. I always opposed the match, because I probed her mask of dissimulation, and knew Eugene could not be happy with her. But the mistake is irretrievable, and it only remains for you to watch him the more carefully. Lift me, father; I can't breathe easily. There is the doctor on the steps; I am too tired to talk any more to-day."

One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time.

It was twilight when she reached Mr. Graham's house and glided noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway. The bells were all m.u.f.fled, and a solemn stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easychair. Her mother sat near her, with her face hid on her husband's bosom. Dr. Hartwell leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wandered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands eagerly, while a shadowy smile pa.s.sed swiftly over her sharpened features.

"Beulah, come close to me--close." She grasped her hands tightly, and Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.

"Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me free from pain, won't you? I have suffered for so many months and years. But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever?--is it forever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where gra.s.s and flowers will wave over me, and the sun shine down on me? Yes, it must be so. Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber? Abel was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened? No one. Earth is full of pale sleepers; and I am soon to join the silent band."

There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.

"Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so, you will--"

"Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say, they say! Yes.

but I never believed them before, and I don't want to believe them now. I will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now.

Beulah, I shall know very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted.

Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am going; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, dark! You know what I mean.

Don't live as I have, believing nothing. No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is because I believe in nothing that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is such a dark, dark, lonely way! If I had a friend to go with me I should not shrink back; but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going out into a great starless midnight." She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched Beulah's convulsively.

"Calm yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, G.o.d will see that you were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will sink into quiet oblivion of all your griefs."

"Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, why was I ever created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to senseless dust? I never have been happy; I have always had aspirations after purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford me, and must they be lost in dead clay? Oh, Beulah, can you give me no comfort but this? Is this the sum of all your study, as well as mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can find out nothing. We are all blind; groping our way through mysterious paths, and now I am going into the last--the great mystery!"