Beulah Part 80

"It would make them very comfortable," continued she thoughtfully.

"Make them very comfortable!" repeated the doctor, throwing his cigar into the grate, and turning suddenly toward her.

"Yes--Claudia and Mrs. Grayson."

"Beulah Benton! are you going insane, I should like to know? Here you are, working hard every day of your life, and do you suppose I shall suffer you to give that legacy (nearly nine thousand dollars!) to support two broken-down fashionables in idleness? Who ever heard of such a piece of business since the world began? I will not consent to it! I tell you now, the money shall not leave my hands for any such purpose."

"I don't want it myself. I never shall touch a dollar of it for my own use," said she resolutely.

"All very fine now. But wait till you get superannuated, or such a cripple with rheumatism that you can't hobble to that schoolhouse, which you seem to love better than your own soul. Wait till then, I say, and see whether some of this money will not be very acceptable."

"That time will never come, sir; never!" answered Beulah, laughing.

"Beulah Benton, you are a simpleton!" said he, looking affectionately at her from beneath his s.h.a.ggy brows.

"I want that money, sir."

"You shall not have one cent of it. The idea of your playing Lady Bountiful to the Graysons! Pshaw! not a picayune shall you have."

"Oh, sir, it would make me so very happy to aid them. You cannot conceive how much pleasure it would afford me."

"Look here, child; all that sort of angelic disinterestedness sounds very well done up in a novel, but the reality is quite another matter. Mrs. Grayson treated you like a brute; and it is not to be expected that you will have any extraordinary degree of affection for her. Human nature is spiteful and unforgiving; and as for your piling coals of fire on her head to the amount of nine thousand dollars, that is being entirely too magnanimous!"

"I want to make Mrs. Grayson amends, sir. Once, when I was maddened by sorrow and pain, I said something which I always repented bitterly." As Beulah spoke, a cloud swept across her face.

"What was it, child? what did you say?"

"I cursed her! besought G.o.d to punish her severely for her unkindness to me. I hardly knew what I was saying; but even then it shocked me, and I prayed G.o.d to forgive my pa.s.sion. I shudder when I remember it. I have forgiven her heartlessness long ago; and now, sir, I want you to give me that money. If it is mine at all, it is mine to employ as I choose."

"Cornelia did not leave the legacy to the Graysons."

"Were she living, she would commend the use I am about to make of it. Will you give me five thousand dollars of it?"

"Oh, Beulah, you are a queer compound! a strange being!"

"Will you give me five thousand dollars of that money tomorrow?"

persisted Beulah, looking steadily at him.

"Yes, child; if you will have it so." His voice trembled, and he looked at the orphan with moist eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had taken no part in the conversation, but her earnest face attested her interest. Pa.s.sing her arm around Beulah's waist, she hastily kissed her brow, and only said:

"G.o.d bless you, my dear, n.o.ble Beulah!"

"I do not see that I am at all magnanimous in giving away other people's money. If I had earned it by hard labor, and then given it to Claudy, there would have been some more show of generosity. Here come Georgia and her husband; you do not need me to read this evening, and I have work to do." She extricated herself from Mrs.

Asbury's clasping arm and retired to her own room. The following day Claudia came to say that, as she knew not what else to do, she would gladly accept the position mentioned as teacher of drawing and painting. Mrs. Grayson's brother had come to take her home, but she was unwilling to be separated from Claudia. Beulah no longer hesitated, and the sum of five thousand dollars seemed to poor Claudia a fortune indeed. She could not understand how the girl whom she and her mother had insulted could possibly have the means of making them so comparatively comfortable. Beulah briefly explained the circ.u.mstances which had enabled her to a.s.sist them. The bulk of the money remained in Dr. Asbury's hands, and Claudia was to apply to him whenever she needed it. She and her mamma found a cheaper boarding house, and Claudia's duties began at once. Mrs. Grayson was overwhelmed with shame when the particulars were made known to her, and tears of bitter mortification could not obliterate the memory of the hour when she cruelly denied the prayer of the poor orphan to whom she now owed the shelter above her head. Beulah did not see her for many weeks subsequent; she knew how painful such a meeting would be to the humbled woman, and, while she constantly cheered and encouraged Claudia in her work, she studiously avoided Mrs.

Grayson's presence.

Thus the winter pa.s.sed; and once more the glories of a Southern spring were scattered over the land. To the Asburys Beulah was warmly attached, and her residence with them was as pleasant as any home could possibly have been which was not her own. They were all that friends could be to an orphan; still, she regretted her little cottage, and missed the home-feeling she had prized so highly. True, she had constant access to the greenhouse, and was rarely without her bouquet of choice flowers; but these could not compensate her for the loss of her own little garden. She struggled bravely with discontent; tried to look only on the sunshine in her path and to be always cheerful. In this she partially succeeded. No matter how lonely and sad she felt, she hid it carefully, and the evenings in the library were never marred by words of repining or looks of sorrow. To the close observer there were traces of grief in her countenance; and sometimes when she sat sewing while Mrs. Asbury read aloud, it was easy to see that her thoughts had wandered far from that little room. Time had changed her singularly since the old asylum days. She was now a finely formed, remarkably graceful woman, with a complexion of dazzling transparency. She was always pale, but the blue veins might be traced anywhere on her brow and temples; and the dark, gray eyes, with their long, jetty, curling lashes, possessed an indescribable charm, even for strangers. She had been an ugly child, but certainly she was a n.o.ble-looking, if not handsome, woman. To all but the family with whom she resided she was rather reserved; and while the world admired and eulogized her talents as a writer, she felt that, except Eugene, she had no friends beyond the threshold of the house she lived in. As weeks and months elapsed, and no news of her wandering guardian came, her hope began to pale. For weary years it had burned brightly; but constant disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart and crushing out the holy spark. The heartstrings will bear rude shocks and sudden rough handling, but the gradual tightening, the unremitted tension of long, tediously rolling years, will in time accomplish what fierce a.s.saults cannot. Continually she prayed for his return; but, despite her efforts, her faith grew fainter as each month crept by and her smile became more constrained and joyless. She never spoke of her anxiety, never alluded to him; but pressed her hands over her aching heart and did her work silently--nay, cheerfully.

CHAPTER XL.

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 a.s.sistant 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 ma.n.u.script 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 G.o.d, 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionately. 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.