Beulah - Page 148/348

"To see me!" repeated Clara in surprise, while a rosy tinge stole

into her wan face; "to see me! No! It must be you, Beulah."

"He said Miss Sanders," persisted the servant, and Clara left the

room.

Beulah looked after her with an expression of some surprise; then

continued penciling the chords of Sappho's lyre. A few minutes

elapsed, and Clara returned with flushed cheeks and a smile of

trembling joyousness.

"Beulah, do pin my mantle on straight. I am in such a hurry. Only

think how kind Dr. Hartwell is; he has come to take me out to ride;

says I look too pale, and he thinks a ride will benefit me. That

will do, thank you."

She turned away, but Beulah rose and called out: "Come back here and get my velvet mantle. It is quite cool, and it

will be a marvelous piece of management to ride out for your health

and come home with a cold. What! no gloves either! Upon my word,

your thoughts must be traveling over the bridge Shinevad."

"Sure enough; I had forgotten my gloves; I will get them as I go

down. Good-by." With the mantle on her arm she hurried away.

Beulah laid aside her drawing materials and prepared for her

customary evening walk. Her countenance was clouded, her lip

unsteady. Her guardian's studied coldness and avoidance pained her,

but it was not this which saddened her now. She felt that Clara was

staking the happiness of her life on the dim hope that her

attachment would be returned. She pitied the delusion and dreaded

the awakening to a true insight into his nature; to a consciousness

of the utter uncongeniality which, she fancied, barred all thought

of such a union. As she walked on these reflections gave place to

others entirely removed from Clara and her guardian; and, on

reaching the grove of pines opposite the asylum, where she had so

often wandered in days gone by, she paced slowly up and down the

"arched aisles," as she was wont to term them. It was a genuine

October afternoon, cool and sunny. The delicious haze of Indian

summer wrapped every distant object in its soft, purple veil; the

dim vistas of the forest ended in misty depths; the very air, in its

dreamy languor, resembled the atmosphere which surrounded "The mild-eyed, melancholy lotus-eaters"

of the far East. Through the openings, pale, golden poplars shook

down their dying leaves, and here and there along the ravine crimson

maples gleamed against the background of dark green pines. In every

direction bright-colored leaves, painted with "autumnal hectic,"

strewed the bier of the declining year. Beulah sat down on a tuft of

moss, and gathered clusters of golden-rod and purple and white

asters. She loved these wild wood-flowers much more than gaudy

exotics or rare hothouse plants. They linked her with the days of

her childhood, and now each graceful spray of golden-rod seemed a

wand of memory calling up bygone joys, griefs, and fancies. Ah, what

a hallowing glory invests our past, beckoning us back to the haunts

of the olden time! The paths our childish feet trod seem all angel-

guarded and thornless; the songs we sang then sweep the harp of

memory, making magical melody; the words carelessly spoken now

breathe a solemn, mysterious import; and faces that early went down

to the tomb smile on us still with unchanged tenderness. Aye, the

past, the long past, is all fairyland. Where our little feet were

bruised we now see only springing flowers; where childish lips drank

from some Marab verdure and garlands woo us back. Over the rustling

leaves a tiny form glided to Beulah's side; a pure infantine face

with golden curls looked up at her, and a lisping voice of unearthly

sweetness whispered in the autumn air. Here she had often brought

Lilly and filled her baby fingers with asters and goldenrod; and

gathered bright scarlet leaves to please her childish fancy. Bitter

waves had broken over her head since then; shadows had gathered

about her heart. Oh, how far off were the early years! How changed

she was; how different life and the world seemed to her now! The

flowery meadows were behind her, with the vestibule of girlhood, and

now she was a woman, with no ties to link her with any human being;

alone, and dependent only on herself. Verily she might have

exclaimed in the mournful words of Lamb: "All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."