Beulah - Page 254/348

The Grahams were all at home again, and Eugene and his bride had

been for several weeks fairly settled in their elegant new house.

Beulah had seen none of the family since their return, for her time

was nearly all occupied, and as soon as released from school she

gladly hurried out to her little home. One evening as she left the

academy Mr. Graham's spirited horses dashed up to the gate, and the

coachman handed her a note. It was from Mrs. Graham.

"MISS BENTON: "Cornelia is quite indisposed, and begs that you will call and see

her this afternoon. As it threatens rain, I send the carriage.

"S. GRAHAM."

Beulah crumpled the note between her fingers, and hesitated. The

coachman perceived her irresolution, and hastened to say: "You needn't be afraid of the horses, miss. Miss Nett' rides so much

they are tamed down."

"I am not at all afraid of the horses. Has Cornelia been sick since

her return from the North?"

"Why, miss, she came home worse than ever. She has not been

downstairs since. She is sick all the time now."

Beulah hesitated no longer. Mrs. Graham met her at the door, and

greeted her more cordially than she had done on any previous

occasion. She looked anxious and weary, and said, as she led the way

to her daughter's apartment: "We are quite uneasy about Cornelia; you will find her sadly

altered." She ushered Beulah into the room, then immediately

withdrew.

Cornelia was propped up by cushions and pillows in her easy-chair;

her head was thrown back, and her gaze appeared to be riveted on a

painting which hung opposite. Beulah stood beside her a moment,

unnoticed, and saw with painful surprise the ravages which disease

had made in the once beautiful face and queenly form. The black,

shining hair was cut short, and clustered in thick, wavy locks about

the wan brow, now corrugated as by some spasm of pain. The cheeks

were hollow and ghastly pale; the eyes sunken, but unnaturally large

and brilliant; and the colorless lips compressed as though to bear

habitual suffering. Her wasted hands, grasping the arms of the

chair, might have served as a model for a statue of death, so thin,

pale, almost transparent. Beulah softly touched one of them, and

said: "Cornelia, you wished to see me."

The invalid looked at her intently, and smiled.

"I thought you would come. Ah, Beulah, do you recognize this wreck

as your former friend?"

"I was not prepared to find you so changed; for until this afternoon

I was not aware your trip had been so fruitless. Do you suffer

much?"