Mr. Lindsay smiled, without replying, and gave his arm to assist
Eugene into the house. They were comfortably seated in the dining
room, and Beulah knew that the discussion was about to be renewed,
when a carriage dashed up to the door. Eugene turned pale, and a
sudden rigidity seized his features. Beulah gave her guest a quick,
meaning glance, and retreated to the gallery, whither he instantly
followed her, leaving Eugene to receive his wife without witnesses.
Leaning against one of the pillars, Beulah unfastened a wreath of
blue convolvulus which Mrs. Williams had twined in her hair an hour
before. The delicate petals were withered, and, with a suppressed
sigh, she threw them away. Mr. Lindsay drew a letter from his pocket
and handed it to her, saying briefly: "I was commissioned to give you this, and, knowing the contents,
hope a favorable answer."
It was from Clara, urging her to come up the following week and
officiate as bridesmaid at her wedding. She could return home with
Helen and George Asbury. Beulah read the letter, smiled sadly, and
put it in her pocket.
"Will you go?"
"No, sir."
"Why not? You need a change of air, and the trip would benefit you.
You do not probably know how much you have altered in appearance
since I saw you. My uncle is coming out to persuade you to go. Can't
I succeed without his aid?"
"I could not leave home now. Eugene's illness has prevented my
accomplishing some necessary work, and as I consign him to other
hands to-day, I must make amends for my long indolence. Thank you
for taking charge of my letter; but I cannot think of going."
He perceived that no amount of persuasion would avail, and for an
instant a look of annoyance crossed his face. But his brow cleared
as he said, with a smile: "For a year I have watched for your articles, and the magazine is a
constant companion of my desk. Sometimes I am tempted to criticise
your sketches; perhaps I may do so yet, and that in no Boswell
spirit either."
"Doubtless, sir, you would find them very vulnerable to criticism,
which nowadays has become a synonym for fault-finding; at least this
carping proclivity characterizes the class who seem desirous only of
earning reputation as literary Jeffreys. I am aware, sir, that I am
very vulnerable."
"Suppose, then, that at the next month's literary assize (as you
seem disposed to consider it), you find in some of the magazines a
severe animadversion upon the spirit of your writings? Dare I do
this, and still hope for your friendship?"