Beulah - Page 41/348

Through quiet, woody dells roamed Beulah's spirit, and, hand in

hand, she and Lilly trod flowery paths and rested beside clear,

laughing brooks. Life, with its grim realities, seemed but a flying

mist. The orphan hovered on the confines of eternity's ocean, and

its silent waves almost laved the feet of the weary child. The room

was darkened, and the summer wind stole through the blinds

stealthily, as if awed by the solitude of the sick-chamber. Dr.

Hartwell sat by the low French bedstead, holding one emaciated hand

in his, counting the pulse which bounded so fiercely in the blue

veins. A fold of white linen containing crushed ice lay on her

forehead, and the hollow cheeks and thin lips were flushed to

vermilion hue. It was not scarlet, but brain fever, and this was the

fifth day that the sleeper had lain in a heavy stupor.

Dr. Hartwell put back the hand he held, and, stooping over, looked long and

anxiously at the flushed face. The breathing was deep and labored,

and, turning away, he slowly and noiselessly walked up and down the

floor. To have looked at him then, in his purple silk robe de

chambre, one would have scarcely believed that thirty years had

passed over his head. He was tall and broad-chested, his head

massive and well formed, his face a curious study. The brow was

expansive and almost transparent in its purity, the dark, hazel eyes

were singularly brilliant, while the contour of lips and chin was

partially concealed by a heavy mustache and board.

The first glance at his face impressed strangers by its extreme pallor, but in a

second look they were fascinated by the misty splendor of the eyes.

In truth, those were strange eyes of Guy Hartwell's. At times,

searching and glittering like polished steel; occasionally lighting

up with a dazzling radiance, and then as suddenly growing gentle,

hazy, yet luminous; resembling the clouded aspect of a star seen

through a thin veil of mist. His brown, curling hair was thrown back

from the face, and exposed the outline of the ample forehead.

Perhaps utilitarians would have carped at the feminine delicacy of

the hands, and certainly the fingers were slender and marvelously

white. On one hand he wore an antique ring, composed of a cameo

snake-head set round with diamonds. A proud, gifted, and miserable

man was Guy Hartwell, and his characteristic expression of stern

sadness might easily have been mistaken by casual observers for

bitter misanthropy.

I have said he was about thirty, and though the handsome face was

repellently cold and grave, it was difficult to believe that that

smooth, fair brow had been for so many years uplifted for the

handwriting of time. He looked just what he was, a baffling,

fascinating mystery. You felt that his countenance was a volume of

hieroglyphics which, could you decipher, would unfold the history of

a checkered and painful career. Yet the calm, frigid smile which sat

on his lip, and looked out defiantly from his deep-set eyes, seemed

to dare you to an investigation. Mere physical beauty cannot impart

the indescribable charm which his countenance possessed. Regularity

of features is a valuable auxiliary, but we look on sculptured

marble, perfect in its chiseled proportions, and feel that, after

all, the potent spell is in the raying out of the soul, that

imprisoned radiance which, in some instances, makes man indeed but

"little lower than the angels." He paused in his echoless tread, and

sat down once more beside his protegee. She had not changed her

position, and the long lashes lay heavily on the crimson cheeks. The

parched lips were parted, and, as he watched her, she murmured

aloud: "It is so sweet, Lilly; we will stay here always." A shadowy smile

crossed her face, and then a great agony seemed to possess her, for

she moaned long and bitterly. He tried to arouse her, and, for the

first time since the night she entered his house, she opened her

eyes and gazed vacantly at him.