Beulah Part 72

"Which I don't believe a word of!" cried Beulah, appropriating the last as a lunge at her favorite absolutism. Rising, she placed her drawings in the portfolio, for the sun had crept round the corner of the gallery and was shining in her face.

Mr. Lindsay smiled, without replying, and gave his arm to a.s.sist Eugene into the house. They were comfortably seated in the dining room, and Beulah knew that the discussion was about to be renewed, when a carriage dashed up to the door. Eugene turned pale, and a sudden rigidity seized his features. Beulah gave her guest a quick, meaning glance, and retreated to the gallery, whither he instantly followed her, leaving Eugene to receive his wife without witnesses.

Leaning against one of the pillars, Beulah unfastened a wreath of blue convolvulus which Mrs. Williams had twined in her hair an hour before. The delicate petals were withered, and, with a suppressed sigh, she threw them away. Mr. Lindsay drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her, saying briefly:

"I was commissioned to give you this, and, knowing the contents, hope a favorable answer."

It was from Clara, urging her to come up the following week and officiate as bridesmaid at her wedding. She could return home with Helen and George Asbury. Beulah read the letter, smiled sadly, and put it in her pocket.

"Will you go?"

"No, sir."

"Why not? You need a change of air, and the trip would benefit you.

You do not probably know how much you have altered in appearance since I saw you. My uncle is coming out to persuade you to go. Can't I succeed without his aid?"

"I could not leave home now. Eugene's illness has prevented my accomplishing some necessary work, and as I consign him to other hands to-day, I must make amends for my long indolence. Thank you for taking charge of my letter; but I cannot think of going."

He perceived that no amount of persuasion would avail, and for an instant a look of annoyance crossed his face. But his brow cleared as he said, with a smile:

"For a year I have watched for your articles, and the magazine is a constant companion of my desk. Sometimes I am tempted to criticise your sketches; perhaps I may do so yet, and that in no Boswell spirit either."

"Doubtless, sir, you would find them very vulnerable to criticism, which nowadays has become a synonym for fault-finding; at least this carping proclivity characterizes the cla.s.s who seem desirous only of earning reputation as literary Jeffreys. I am aware, sir, that I am very vulnerable."

"Suppose, then, that at the next month's literary a.s.size (as you seem disposed to consider it), you find in some of the magazines a severe animadversion upon the spirit of your writings? Dare I do this, and still hope for your friendship?"

He watched her closely.

"Certainly, sir. I am not writing merely to see myself in print, nor wholly for remuneration in dollars and cents. I am earnestly searching for truth, and if in my articles you discover error and can correct it, I shall be glad to have you do so, provided you adopt the catholic spirit which should distinguish such undertakings. Now, if you merely intend to hold me up for ridicule as thoroughly as possible, I prefer that you let me and my articles rest; but a calm, dispa.s.sionate criticism I should not shrink from.

I write only what I believe, and if I am in error, I shall be glad to have it corrected."

"Miss Benton, may I venture to correct it without having recourse to the vehicle of public criticism? Will you permit me to discuss with you, here in your quiet home, those vital questions whose solution seems to engage your every thought?"

She drew back, and answered, with a dreary sort of smile:

"I am afraid you would derive little pleasure, and I less profit, from such disputation. I have learned from bitter experience that merely logical forms of argumentation do not satisfy the hungry soul. The rigid processes of Idealism annihilated the external world; and Hume proved that Mind was a like chimera; yet who was ever seriously converted by their incontrovertible reasoning? I have lost faith in ratiocination."

"Still you cling to opinions founded on its errors. Why not be consistent, and, in rejecting its most potent ally, reject the conclusions of Rationalism also?"

"Because I must believe something. Faith in some creed is an absolute necessity of human nature."

"You distinguish faith, then, from intellectual belief?"

"No; I compound them; my faith is based on mental conviction,"

replied Beulah, perceiving whither he was leading her, and resolved not to follow.

"And this conviction results from those same processes of ratiocination which you condemn as unworthy of credence, because subject to gross, sometimes ludicrous, perversions?"

"I am unable to detect any such perversion or inaccuracy in the cautious course of reasoning which has a.s.sisted me to my present belief."

"Pardon me; but does this fact convince you of the Infallibility of the course? Have you const.i.tuted your individual reason the sole judge?"

"Yes; there is no other left me."

"And your conclusions are true for you only, since the individual organism of your mind makes them so. To an intellect of a higher or lower grade these conclusions would be untenable, since the depressed or exalted reason judged them accordingly. You may cling to some doctrine as absolutely and necessarily true, yet to my mind it may seem a shallow delusion, like the vagaries of spirit- rappers."

"No; reasoning is often fallacious, but reason is divine; reasoning often clouds the truth, but reason, by spontaneous apperception, grasps truth," persisted Beulah unhesitatingly.

"Then truth has as many phases, and as antagonistic, as there are individuals in the universe. All men are prophets; all are alike inspired; all alike worthy of trust and credence. Spontaneous reason has grasped a number of oddly conflicting doctrines, let me tell you, and the reconciliation of these would be an undertaking to which the dozen labors of Hercules seem a farce."

"The superst.i.tions of various ages and nations are not valid arguments against the existence of universal and necessary principles."

"Why, then, have these principles produced no unanimity of faith?

The history of the human race is the history of the rise of one philosophy and religion from the ashes of its predecessor. There is one universal belief in the necessity of religion, and this belief built altars in the dawn of time; but your spontaneous reason is perpetually changing the idols on these altars. The G.o.d of one man's reason will not satisfy that of his neighbor."

Before Beulah could reply she heard Eugene calling her in the hall, and was hastening to meet him; but Mr. Lindsay caught her hand, and said: "You have not yet given me permission to intrude on your seclusion." She withdrew her hand instantly.

"When you have nothing else to occupy you, and wish to while away an hour in literary discussion, you will generally find me at home during vacation."

She walked on and joined Eugene in the hall. Antoinette stood in the door, and they merely exchanged bows, while Mr. Graham grasped her hand and earnestly thanked her for the many kindnesses she had rendered to his family. Beulah looked at the composed, beautiful face of the young wife, and then at the thin form of the husband, and said hastily:

"You owe me no thanks, sir; the claims of true friendship are imperative. In removing to his own house I trust Eugene's improvement may not be r.e.t.a.r.ded."

Antoinette tripped down the steps, and, gathering the flounces of her costly dress, seated herself in the carriage. Mr. Graham bit his lip, colored, and, after a cordial good-by, joined her. Eugene smiled bitterly, and, turning to Beulah, took both her hands in his, saying feelingly:

"Beulah, I leave your house a wiser, if not less miserable man. I am going to atone for the past; to prove to you that your faith in me is not altogether unmerited. If I am saved from ruin and disgrace I owe it to you; and to you I shall look for sympathy and encouragement. To you, my best friend, I shall often come for sisterly aid, when clouds gather black and stormy over my miserable home. G.o.d bless you, Beulah! I have promised reformation, and will keep my promise sacred if it cost me my life."

He raised her hand to his lips, and, linking his arm in Mr.

Lindsay's, left the house and entered the carriage, while the latter mounted his horse and rode slowly away.

"You look weary, child. You must give yourself some rest now," said Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes with the corner of her ap.r.o.n.

"Rest! Ah, yes; if I could find it," returned the girl, taking the comb from the back of her head and shaking down the folds of hair till it hung round her like a long mourning veil.

"Suppose you try to sleep some," suggested the matron.

"I have some work to do first," said she, drawing a long breath and wiping the dust from her desk.

Mrs. Williams withdrew; and, clasping her hands over her forehead, Beulah stood looking up, with dim eyes, at the cloudless face that smiled down on her, until she almost fancied the lips parted to address her.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

Mr. Lindsay's visits grew more frequent. At first Beulah wondered what brought him so often from his distant home to the city, and supposed it must be some legal business which engaged him; but gradually a different solution dawned upon her mind. She rejected it as the prompting of vanity, but again and again the supposition recurred. The imperturbable gravity and repose of his manner often disconcerted her. It was in vain that she resorted to sarcasm, and irony; he was incorrigibly unruffled; in vain she was cold, repellent, haughty; his quiet smile remained unaltered. His superior, and thoroughly cultivated intellect, and the unaffected simplicity of his manner, characterized by singular candor, rendered him an unusually agreeable companion; but Beulah rebelled against the un.o.btrusive yet constant care with which she fancied he watched her. The seclusion of her life, and the reserve of her nature, conspired to impart a degree of abruptness to her own manners; and to one who understood her character less than Reginald Lindsay there was an unhesitating sincerity of expression which might have been termed rudeness. The frequency of his visits attracted the attention of strangers; already the busy tongue of meddling gossip had connected their names; Dr. Asbury, too, bantered her unmercifully upon his nephew's constant pilgrimages to the city; and the result was that Mr. Lindsay's receptions grew colder and less flattering continually. From the first she had not encouraged his visits, and now she positively discouraged them by every intimation which the rules of etiquette justified her in offering. Yet she respected, esteemed, and in many things admired him; and readily confessed to her own heart that his society often gave her pleasure,

One winter evening she sat alone by the dining-room fire, with a newspaper in her hand, reading a notice of the last number of the magazine, in which one of her sketches was roughly handled. Of course she was no better pleased with the unflattering criticism than the majority of writers in such cases. She frowned, bit her lip, and wondered who could have written it. The review was communicated, and the paper had been sent to her by some unknown hand. Once more she read the article, and her brow cleared, while a smile broke over her face. She had recognized a particular dictum, and was no longer puzzled. Leaning her head on her palm, she sat looking into the fire, ruminating on the objections urged against her piece; it was the first time she had ever been unfavorably criticised, and this was sufficient food for thought.