Beulah - Page 36/348

Several tedious weeks had rolled away since Eugene Graham left his

sunny Southern home to seek learning in the venerable universities

of the Old World. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had

clothed the earth with verdure, and enameled it with flowers of

every hue, scattering her treasures before the rushing car of

summer. During the winter scarlet fever had hovered threateningly

over the city, but, as the spring advanced, hopes were entertained

that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it was announced that

the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant form, in the

house adjoining Mrs. Martin's, she determined to send her children

immediately out of town. A relative living at some distance up the

river happened to be visiting her at the time, and, as she intended

returning home the following day, kindly offered to take charge of

the children until all traces of the disease had vanished.

To this plan Beulah made no resistance, though the memory of her little

sister haunted her hourly. What could she do? Make one last attempt

to see her, and if again refused then it mattered not whither she

went. When the preparations for their journey had been completed,

and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw

bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson's residence. The sun was low in

the sky, and the evening breeze, rippling the waters of the bay,

stirred the luxuriant foliage of the ancient China trees that

bordered the pavements. The orphan's heart was heavy with undefined

dread; such a dread as had oppressed her the day of her separation

from her sister.

"Coming events cast their shadows before," and she was conscious that the sunset glow could not dispel the

spectral gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head

bowed, like one stooping from an impending blow, and when at last

the crouching lions confronted her she felt as if her heart had

suddenly frozen. There stood the doctor's buggy. She sprang up the

steps, and stretched out her hand for the bolt of the door. Long

streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She stood still a

moment, then threw open the door and rushed in. The hall floor was

covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her save the

stirring of the China trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade

to ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape

fastened to the parlor door, and, pushing it ajar, she looked in.

The furniture was draped; even the mirrors and pictures; and on a

small oblong table in the center of the room lay a shrouded form. An

over-powering perfume of crushed flowers filled the air, and Beulah

stood on the threshold, with her hands extended, and her eyes fixed

upon the table. There were two children; Lilly might yet live, and

an unvoiced prayer went up to God that the dead might be Claudia.

Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her curse:

"May God answer their prayers as they answered mine." With rigid

limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hand on the velvet

pall; with closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and

looked. There lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah! how

matchlessly beautiful, wrapped in her last sleep! The bright golden

curls glittered around the snowy brow, and floated like wandering

sunlight over the arms and shoulders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped

each other as in life, and the delicately chiseled lips were just

parted, as though the sleeper whispered. Beulah's gaze dwelt upon

this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildly up, and,

with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet

cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it

rested there she never knew. Earth seemed to pass away; darkness

closed over her, and for a time she had no pain, no sorrow; she and

Lilly were together. All was black, and she had no feeling. Then she

was lifted, and the motion aroused her torpid faculties; she moaned

and opened her eyes. Dr. Hartwell was placing her on a sofa, and

Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a handkerchief over her eyes.

With returning consciousness came a raving despair; Beulah sprang

from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and, laying one

clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other

fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically: "You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you took my

darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye, my prayer! I knelt

and prayed you, in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to

let me hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and forehead, and

little slender hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer; you taunted

me with my poverty, and locked me from my darling, my Lilly, my all!

Oh, woman! you drove me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha!

Has your wealth and splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me, I

feel as if I could curse you eternally. Could you not have sent for

me before she died? Oh, if I could only have taken her in my arms,

and seen her soft angel eyes looking up to me, and felt her little

arms around my neck, and heard her say 'sister' for the last time!

Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made you less

fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? 'Such measure as

ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your

heart trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!"