Beulah - Page 273/348

"Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah,

shuddering violently.

"Why not, my little Beulah?"

He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his

head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.

"Oh, sir, I would rather die! I should be miserable as your wife.

You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in

your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery.

You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude. Do not

ask this of me; we would both be wretched. You pity my loneliness

and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my

best friend; I love you as my protector. You are all I have on earth

to look to for sympathy and guidance. You are all I have; but I

cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!" She shrank away

from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of

hopeless suffering settled upon her face.

He withdrew his arm, and rose.

"Beulah, I have seen sunlit bubbles gliding swiftly on the bosom of

a clear brook and casting golden shadows down upon the pebbly bed.

Such a shadow you are now chasing--ah, child, the shadow of a gilded

bubble! Panting and eager, you clutch at it; the bubble dances on,

the shadow with it; and Beulah, you will never, never grasp it.

Ambition such as yours, which aims at literary fame, is the

deadliest foe to happiness. Man may content himself with the

applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect; but

woman's heart has holier idols. You cue young, and impulsive, and

aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the siren of antiquity; but

the months and years will surely come when, with wasted energies and

embittered heart, you are left to mourn your infatuation. I would

save you from this; but you will drain the very dregs rather than

forsake your tempting fiend, for such is ambition to the female

heart. Yes, you will spend the springtime of your life chasing a

painted specter, and go down to a premature grave, disappointed and

miserable. Poor child, it needs no prophetic vision to predict your

ill-starred career! Already the consuming fever has begun its march.

In far-distant lands, I shall have no tidings of you; but none will

be needed. Perhaps when I travel home to die your feverish dream

will have ended; or, perchance, sinking to eternal rest in some palm

grove of the far East, we shall meet no more. Since the day I took

you in my arms from Lilly's coffin you have been my only hope, my

all. You little knew how precious you were to me, nor what keen

suffering our estrangement cost me. Oh, child, I have loved you as

only a strong, suffering, passionate heart could love its last idol!

But I, too, chased a shadow. Experience should have taught me

wisdom. Now I am a gloomy, joyless man, weary of my home and

henceforth a wanderer. Asbury (if he lives) will be truly your

friend, and to him T shall commit the legacy which hitherto you have

refused to accept. Mr. Graham paid it into my hands after his last

unsatisfactory interview with you. The day may come when you will

need it. I shall send you some medicine which, for your own sake,

you had better take immediately; but you will never grow stronger

until you give yourself rest, relaxation, physically and mentally.

Remember, when your health is broken and all your hopes withered,

remember I warned you and would have saved you, and you would not."

He stooped and took his hat from the floor.