Beulah - Page 270/348

Time, "like a star, unhasting, yet unresting," moved on. The keen

blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses,

and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies.

The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays

of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it "was well-nigh done";

and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the

dolphin-like death.

The regal splendors of Southern springtime were

on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with

its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the

wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful

streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of

newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought

their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of

rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of

violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air.

Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her--a

volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous

descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume--the

glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered

she sat looking out, mute and motionless. The distant pinetops sang

their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the

soft violet sky. Around the columns of the little portico a

luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their

spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah's head, as she leaned it

against the pillar. The face wore a weary, suffering look; the

large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of

languor in every feature. A few months had strangely changed the

countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted

expression. The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and

the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue. Yet she had

never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the

usual routine of mental labor. Rigorously the tax was levied, no

matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed;

and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for

a reprieve. Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many

days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was

generally reclaimed from sleep. It was no mystery that she looked

ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent

glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and

the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of

hope which had risen in her cloudy sky. Mr. Arlington's brother had

taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy,

that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer

holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name. Beulah

rejoiced in her friend's happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest,

as in Pauline's case, thorns should spring up in paths where now

only blossoms were visible. Since that letter, so full of complaint

and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline. Many months had

elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence.

She had written several times, but received no answer, and

imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage.

Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had

died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs.

Lockhart must be with her daughter. Beulah half rose, then leaned

back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that

"still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills." Mrs.

Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her

own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due

the editor the next morning. She was rigidly punctual in handing in

her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from

the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the

gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow. She no longer

wrote incognito. By accident she was discovered as the authoress of

several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than

once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading

literati of the place. Her successful career thus far inflamed the

ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental

organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her

soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the

hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived,

as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame

suffered proportionably. The little gate opened and closed with a

creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and

saw her guardian before her. The light from the dining room fell on

his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and

inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had

induced this visit. He had never entered that gate before; and she

sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.