"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?"