Beulah - Page 175/348

It was Christmas Eve--cold, cloudy, and damp. The store windows were

gay with every conceivable and inconceivable device for attracting

attention. Parents, nurses, and porters hurried along with

mysterious looking bundles and important countenances. Crowds of

curious, merry children thronged the sidewalks; here a thinly clad,

meager boy, looked, with longing eyes and empty pockets, at pyramids

of fruit and sweetmeats; and there a richly dressed group chattered

like blackbirds, and occasionally fired a pack of crackers, to the

infinite dismay of horses and drivers. Little chaps just out of

frocks rushed about, with their round, rosy faces hid under

grotesque masks; and shouts of laughter, and the squeak of penny

trumpets, and mutter of miniature drums swelled to a continuous din,

which would have been quite respectable even on the plain of Shinar.

The annual jubilee had come, and young and old seemed determined to

celebrate it with due zeal. From her window Beulah looked down on

the merry groups, and involuntarily contrasted the bustling, crowded

streets with the silence and desolation which had reigned over the

same thoroughfares only a few months before. One brief year ago

childish voices prattled of Santa Claus and gift stockings, and

little feet pattered along these same pavements, with tiny hands

full of toys. Fond parents, too, had gone eagerly in and out of

these gay shops, hunting presents for their darlings. Where were

they? children and parents? Ah! a cold, silent band of sleepers in

yonder necropolis, where solemn cedars were chanting an everlasting

dirge. Death's harvest time was in all seasons; when would her own

throbbing pulses be stilled and her questioning tones hushed? Might

not the summons be on that very wintry blast which rushed over her

hot brow? And if it should be so? Beulah pressed her face closer to

the window, and thought it was too inconceivable that she also

should die. She knew it was the common birthright, the one

unchanging heritage of all humanity; yet long vistas of life opened

before her, and though, like a pall, the shadow of the tomb hung

over the end, it was very distant, very dim.

"What makes you look so solemn?" asked Clara, who had been busily

engaged in dressing a doll for one of Mrs. Hoyt's children.

"Because I feel solemn, I suppose."

Clara came up and, passing her arm round Beulah's shoulder, gazed

down into the noisy street. She still wore mourning, and the

alabaster fairness of her complexion contrasted vividly with the

black bombazine dress. Though thin and pale, there was an

indescribable expression of peace on the sweet face; a calm, clear

light of contentment in the mild, brown eyes. The holy serenity of

the countenance was rendered more apparent by the restless, stormy

visage of her companion. Every passing cloud of perplexed thought

cast its shadow over Beulah's face, and on this occasion she looked

more than usually grave.