Part 71 (1/2)
”You know little of what oppresses me. It is the knowledge of my--of Antoinette's indifference which makes the future so joyless, so desolate. Beulah, this has caused my ruin. When I stood by Cornelia's coffin, and recalled her last frantic appeal; when I looked down at her cold face, and remembered her devoted love for her unworthy brother, I vowed never to touch wine again; to absent myself from the a.s.sociates who had led me to dissipation. Beulah, I was honest, and intended to reform from that hour. But Antoinette's avowed coldness, or, to call it by its proper name, heartless selfishness and fondness for admiration, first disgusted and then maddened me. I would have gladly spent my evenings quietly, in our elegant home; but she contrived to have it crowded with visitors as soulless and frivolous as herself. I remonstrated; she was sneering, defiant, and unyielding, and a.s.sured me she would 'amuse' herself as she thought proper; I followed her example, and went back to the reckless companions who continually beset my path. I was miserably deceived in Antoinette's character. She was very beautiful, and I was blind to her mental, nay, I may as well say it at once, her moral, defects. I believed she was warmly attached to me, and I loved her most devotedly. But no sooner were we married than I discovered my blind rashness. Cornelia warned me; but what man, fascinated by a beautiful girl, ever listened to counsels that opposed his heart? Antoinette is too intensely selfish to love anything or anybody but herself; she does not even love her child.
Strange as it may seem, she is too entirely engrossed by her weak fondness for display and admiration even to caress her babe. Except at breakfast and dinner we rarely meet, and then, unless company is present (which is generally the case), our intercourse is studiedly cold. Do you wonder that I am hopeless in view of a life pa.s.sed with such a companion? Oh, that I could blot out the last two years of my existence!”
He groaned, and shaded his face with his hands.
”But, Eugene, probably your reformation and altered course will win you your wife's love and reverence,” suggested Beulah, anxious to offer some incentive to exertion.
”I know her nature too well to hope that. A woman who prefers to dance and ride with gentlemen rather than remain in her luxurious home with her babe and her duties, cannot be won from her moth-like life. No, no! I despair of happiness from her society and affection, and, if at all, must derive it from other sources. My child is the one living blossom amidst all my withered hopes. She is the only treasure I have, except your friends.h.i.+p. She shall never blush for her father's degradation. Henceforth, though an unhappy man, I shall prove myself a temperate one. I cannot trust my child's education to Antoinette; she is unworthy the sacred charge; I must fit myself to form her character. Oh, Beulah, if I could make her such a woman as you are, then I could indeed bear my lot patiently! I named her Cornelia, but henceforth she shall be called Beulah also, in token of her father's grat.i.tude to his truest friend.”
”No, Eugene; call her not after me, lest some of my sorrows come upon her young head. Oh, no! name her not Beulah; let her be called Cornelia. I would not have her soul shrouded as mine has been.”
Beulah spoke vehemently, and, laying her hand on his arm, she added:
”Eugene, to-day you will leave me and go back to your own house, to your family; but before you go, I ask you, if not for your sake, for that of your child, to promise me solemnly that you will never again touch intoxicating drinks of any kind. Oh, will you promise? Will you reform entirely?”
There was a brief pause, and he answered slowly:
”I promise, Beulah. Nay, my friend, I swear I will abstain in future. Ah, I will never disgrace my angel child! Never, so help me Heaven!”
The sound of approaching steps interrupted the conversation, and, expecting to see Antoinette and her infant, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Beulah looked up quickly, and perceived Mr. Lindsay.
”Does my advent startle you, that you look so pale and breathless?”
said he, smiling as he took her hand.
”I am certainly very much surprised to see you here, sir.”
”And I am heartily glad you have come, Reginald,” cried Eugene, returning his friend's tight clasp.
”I intended coming to nurse you, Graham, as soon as I heard of the accident, but my mother's illness prevented my leaving home. I need not ask about your arm; I see it still requires cautious handling; but how are you otherwise? Regaining your strength, I hope?”
”Yes; gradually. I am better than I deserve to be, Reginald.”
”That remains to be proved in future, Graham. Come, get well as rapidly as possible; I have a plan to submit to you, the earliest day you are strong enough to discuss business topics. Miss Beulah, let me sharpen your pencil.”
He took it from her, trimmed it carefully, and handed it back; then drew her portfolio near him, and glanced over the numerous unfinished sketches.
”I have several books filled with European sketches which, I think, might afford you some pleasure. They were taken by different persons; and some of the views on the Rhine, and particularly some along the southern sh.o.r.e of Spain, are unsurpa.s.sed by any I have seen. You may receive them some day, after I return.”
”Thank you; I shall copy them with great pleasure.”
”I see you are not as much of a pyrrhonist in art as in philosophy,”
said Mr. Lindsay, watching her countenance as she bent over her drawing.
”Who told you, sir, that I was one in any department?” She looked up suddenly, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.
”There is no need to be told. I can readily perceive it.”
”Your penetration is at fault, then. Of all others, the charge of pyrrhonism is the last I merit.”
He smiled, and said quietly:
”What, then, is your aesthetic creed, if I may inquire?”