Beulah - Page 105/348

"Heaven preserve me from looking on life through your spectacles!"

cried she impetuously, stung by the contemptuous smile which curled

his lips. "Amen." Taking his hands from her shoulder, he threw

himself back into his chair. There was silence for some minutes, and

Beulah said: "I thought Mr. Lockhart was in Syria?"

"Oh, no; he wants a companion in his jaunt to the Holy Land. How

devoutly May will kneel on Olivet and Moriah! What pious tears will

stain her lovely cheek as she stands in the hall of Pilate, and

calls to mind all the thirty years' history! Oh, Percy is cruel to

subject her tender soul to such torturing associations! Beulah, go

and play something; no matter what. Anything to hush my cursing

mood. Go, child." He turned away his face to hide its bitterness,

and, seating herself at the melodeon, Beulah played a German air of

which he was very fond. At the conclusion he merely said: "Sing."

A plaintive prelude followed the command, and she sang. No

description could do justice to the magnificent voice, as it swelled

deep and full in its organ-like tones; now thrillingly low in its

wailing melody, and now ringing clear and sweet as silver bells.

There were soft, rippling notes that seemed to echo from the deeps

of her soul and voice its immensity. It was wonderful what compass

there was, what rare sweetness and purity too. It was a natural

gift, like that conferred on birds. Art could not produce it, but

practice and scientific culture had improved and perfected it. For

three years the best teachers had instructed her, and she felt that

now she was mistress of a spell which, once invoked, might easily

exorcise the evil spirit which had taken possession of her guardian.

She sang several of his favorite songs, then closed the melodeon and

went back to the fire. Dr. Hartwell's face lay against the purple

velvet lining of the chair, and the dark surface gave out the

contour with bold distinctness. His eyes were closed, and as Beulah

watched him she thought, "How inflexible he looks, how like a marble

image! The mouth seems as if the sculptor's chisel had just carved

it--so stern, so stony. Ah, he is not scornful now! he looks only

sad, uncomplaining, but very miserable. What has steeled his heart,

and made him so unrelenting, so haughty? What can have isolated him

so completely? Nature lavished on him every gift which could render

him the charm of social circles, yet he lives in the seclusion of

his own heart, independent of sympathy, contemptuous of the world he

was sent to improve and bless." These reflections were interrupted

by his opening his eyes and saying, in his ordinary, calm tone: "Thank you, Beulah. Did you finish that opera I spoke of some time

since?"