"Are you acquainted with the circumstances of his early life and
ill-fated marriage?" asked Clara, in a low, passionless tone.
"No; he never alluded to his marriage in any way. Long as I lived in
his house there was no mention of his wife's name, and I should
never have known of his marriage but from his sister."
"It was a most unhappy marriage," said Clara musingly.
"So I conjectured from his studious avoidance of all allusion to
it."
"His wife was very, very beautiful; I saw her once when I was a
child," continued Clara.
"Of course she must have been, for he could not love one who was
not."
"She lived but a few months; yet even in that short time they had
become utterly estranged, and she died of a broken heart. There is
some mystery connected with it; they were separated."
"Separated!" cried Beulah in amazement.
"Yes, separated; she died in New Orleans, I believe."
"And yet you profess to love him! A man who broke his wife's heart,"
said Beulah, with a touch of scorn.
"No; you do his noble nature injustice. He is incapable of such a
course. Even a censorious world acquitted him of unkindness."
"And heaped contumely on the unhappy victim, eh?" rejoined Beulah.
"Her conduct was not irreproachable, it has been whispered."
"Aye, whispered by slanderous tongues! Not openly avowed, to admit
of denial and refutation! I wonder the curse of Gomorrah does not
descend on this gossiping, libelous community."
"No one seems to know anything definite about the affair; though I
have often heard it commented upon and wondered over."
"Clara, let it be buried henceforth. Neither you nor I have any
right to discuss and censure what neither of us know anything about.
Dr. Hartwell has been my best and truest friend. I love and honor
him; his faults are his own, and only his Maker has the right to
balance his actions. Once for all, let the subject drop." Beulah
compressed her lips with an expression which her companion very well
understood. Soon after the latter withdrew, and, leaning her arms on
the table near her, Beulah sank into a reverie which was far from
pleasant. Dismissing the unsatisfactory theme of her guardian's
idiosyncrasies, her thoughts immediately reverted to Eugene, and the
revolution which five years had effected in his character.
In the afternoon of the following day she was engaged with her
drawing, when a succession of quick raps at her door forced an
impatient "Come in" from her lips. The door opened, and she rose
involuntarily as the queenly form of Cornelia Graham stood before
her. With a slow, stately tread she approached, and, extending her
hand, said unconcernedly: "I have waived ceremony, you see, and come up to your room."