Beulah - Page 213/348

He was disengaging the fringe of Pauline's shawl, which caught the

button of his coat, and, looking up as his sister spoke, his eyes

met Beulah's anxious gaze. She had wondered very much how he would

receive her. His countenance expressed neither surprise nor

pleasure; he merely held out his hand to assist her, saying, in his

usual grave manner: "I am glad to see you, Beulah."

She looked up in his face for some trace of the old kindness; but

the rare, fascinating smile and protective tenderness had utterly

vanished. He returned her look with a calmly indifferent glance,

which pained her more than any amount of sternness could have done.

She snatched her hand from his, and, missing the carriage step,

would have fallen, but he caught and placed her safely on the

ground, saying coolly: "Take care; you are awkward."

She followed Pauline up the steps, wishing herself at home in her

little room. But her companion's gay chat diverted her mind, and she

only remembered how very beautiful was the face she looked on.

They stood together before a mirror, smoothing their hair, and

Beulah could not avoid contrasting the images reflected. One was

prematurely grave and thoughtful in its expression--the other

radiant with happy hopes. Pauline surmised what was passing in her

friend's mind, and said merrily: "For shame, Beulah! to envy me my poor estate of good looks! Why, I

am all nose and eyes, curls, red lips, and cheeks; but you have an

additional amount of brains to balance my gifts. Once I heard Uncle

Guy say that you had more intellect than all the other women and

children in the town! Come; Mr. Lockhart wants to see you very

much."

She ran down the steps as heedlessly as in her childhood, and Beulah

followed her more leisurely. In the study they found the remainder

of the party; Mr. Lockhart was wrapt in a heavy dressing-gown, and

reclined on the sofa. He welcomed Beulah very warmly, keeping her

hand in his and making her sit down near him. He was emaciated, and

a hacking cough prevented his taking any active part in the

conversation. One glance at his sad face sufficed to show her that

his days on earth were numbered, and the expression with which he

regarded his wife told all the painful tale of an unhappy marriage.

She was discussing the sermon, and declaring herself highly

gratified at the impression which Mr. Mortimor had evidently made on

his large and fashionable congregation. Dr. Hartwell stood on the

hearth, listening in silence to his sister's remarks. The Atlantic

might have rolled between them, for any interest he evinced in the

subject. Pauline was restless and excited; finally she crossed the

room, stood close to her uncle, and, carelessly fingering his watch

chain, said earnestly: "Uncle Guy, what did Ernest mean, this

morning, by a 'Fourieristic-phalanx?'"