Beulah - Page 210/348

On Sabbath morning Beulah sat beside the window, with her folded

hands resting on her lap. The day was cloudless and serene; the sky

of that intense melting blue which characterizes our clime. From

every quarter of the city brazen muezzins called worshipers to the

temple, and bands of neatly clad, happy children thronged the

streets, on their way to Sabbath school. Save these, and the pealing

bells, a hush pervaded all things, as though Nature were indeed "at

her prayers." Blessed be the hallowed influences which every sunny

Sabbath morn exerts! Blessed be the holy tones which at least once a

week call every erring child back to its Infinite Father! For some

time Beulah had absented herself from church, for she found that

instead of profiting by sermons she came home to criticise and

question. But early associations are strangely tenacious, and, as

she watched the children trooping to the house of God, there rushed

to her mind memories of other years, when the orphan bands from the

asylum regularly took their places in the Sabbath school. The hymns

she sang then rang again in her ears; long-forgotten passages of

Scripture, repeated then, seemed learned but yesterday. How often

had the venerable superintendent knelt and invoked special guidance

for the afflicted band from the God of orphans! Now she felt doubly

orphaned. In her intellectual pride, she frequently asserted that

she was "the star of her own destiny"; but this morning childish

memories prattled of the Star of Bethlehem, before which she once

bent the knee of adoration. Had it set forever, amid clouds of

superstition, sin, and infidelity? Glittering spires pointed to the

bending heavens, and answered: "It burns on forever, 'brighter and

brighter unto the perfect day'!" With a dull weight on her heart,

she took down her Bible and opened it indifferently at her book-

mark. It proved the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, and she read on

and on, until the bells warned her it was the hour of morning

service. She walked to church, not humbled and prepared to receive

the holy teachings of revelation, but with a defiant feeling in her

heart which she did not attempt or care to analyze. She was not

accustomed to attend Dr. Hew's church, but the sexton conducted her

to a pew, and as she seated herself the solemn notes of the organ

swelled through the vaulted aisles. The choir sang a magnificent

anthem from Haydn's "Creation," and then only the deep, thundering

peal of the organ fell on the dim, cool air. Beulah could bear no

more; as she lowered her veil, bitter tears gushed over her troubled

face. Just then she longed to fall on her knees before the altar and

renew the vows of her childhood; but this impulse very soon died

away, and, while the pews on every side rapidly filled, she watched

impatiently for the appearance of the minister. Immediately in front

of her sat Mr. and Mrs. Graham and Antoinette Dupres. Beulah was

pondering the absence of Cornelia and Eugene, when a full, manly

voice fell on her ear, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Mortimor

standing in the pulpit. He looked older than Pauline's description

had prepared her to expect, and the first impression was one of

disappointment. But the longer she watched the grave, quiet face the

more attractive it became. Certainly he was a handsome man, and,

judging from the contour of head and features, an intellectual one.

There was an absolute repose in the countenance which might have

passed with casual observers for inertia, indifference; but to the

practiced physiognomist it expressed the perfect peace of a mind and

heart completely harmonious. The voice was remarkably clear and well

modulated. His text was selected from the first and last chapters of

Ecclesiastes, and consisted of these verses: "For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge,

increaseth sorrow."