Part 75 (1/2)
”Beulah, have you reflected on what I said the last time I saw you?”
”Yes, Eugene.”
”With what result?”
”My former decision is only confirmed the more I ponder the subject.”
”You have seen nothing of Reginald, then? He was here, on some legal business, last week.”
”No; he has been in the city several times during the last four years, but never comes here; and, except that one letter, which I did not answer, I have heard nothing from him. I doubt whether we ever meet again.”
”You are a strange woman! Such devotion as his would have won any other being. He is as much attached to you now as the day he first offered you his hand. Upon my word, your obstinacy provokes me. He is the n.o.blest man I ever knew--everything that I should suppose a woman of your nature would admire; and yet, year after year, you remain apparently as indifferent as ever.”
”And it were a miserable return for such unmerited love to marry him merely from grat.i.tude. I do admire him, but cannot marry him. I told him so four years ago.”
”But why did you not at least answer his letter?”
”Because his acceptance was made the condition of an answer; a negative one was not expected, and I had no other to give.”
”Pardon me, Beulah; but why do you not love him?”
”A strange question truly. My heart is not the tool of my will.”
”Beulah, do you intend to spend your life solitary and joyless, cut off, as you are here, from society, and dependent on books and music for sympathy? Why will you not marry Reginald and make his home happy?”
”Eugene, I have told you before that I could not accept him, and told you why. Let the subject drop; it is an unpleasant one to me. I am happier here than I could possibly be anywhere else. Think you I would marry merely for an elegant home and an intellectual companion? Never! I will live and die here in this little cottage rather than quit it with such motives. You are mistaken in supposing that Mr. Lindsay is still attached to me. It has been nearly two years since he wrote that letter, and from Georgia I hear that the world believes he is soon to marry a lady residing somewhere near him. I think it more than probable the report is true, and hope most sincerely it may be so. Now, Eugene, don't mention the subject again, will you?”
”It is generally believed that he will be elected to Congress; next month will decide it. The chances are all in his favor,” persisted Eugene.
”Yes; so I judged from the papers,” said she coolly, and then added: ”And one day I hope to see you, or rather hear of you, in Was.h.i.+ngton by his side. I believe I shall be gratified; and oh, Eugene, what a proud moment it will be to me! How I shall rejoice in your merited eminence.”
Her face kindled as she spoke; but the shadows deepened in his countenance, as he answered moodily:
”Perhaps I may; but fame and position cannot lighten a loaded heart or kindle the sacred flame of love in a dreary home. When a man blindly wrecks his happiness on the threshold of life by a fatal marriage, no after exertion can atone or rectify the one mistake.”
”Hus.h.!.+ she will hear you,” said Beulah, pointing to the little girl, who was slowly approaching them.
A bitter smile parted his lips.
”She is my all; yet precious as she is to my sad heart, I would gladly lay her in her grave to-morrow sooner than see her live to marry an uncongenial spirit, or know that her radiant face was clouded with sorrow, like mine. G.o.d grant that her father's wretched lot may warn her of the quicksands which nearly ingulfed him.” He took the child in his arms, as if to s.h.i.+eld her from some impending danger, and said hurriedly:
”Are you ready to go home?”
”Is it so very late?”
”It is time we were going back, I think.”
Beulah tied on the hat and cape, which had been thrown aside, and saw them ride away.
There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to G.o.d's care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this, under various fict.i.tious signatures, was hers. She still studied and wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame; wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams'
death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as a.s.sistant, but as princ.i.p.al in that department; and the increased salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary.