Beulah - Page 42/348

"Are you in pain, Beulah? Why do you moan so?"

"Eugene, I knew it would be so, when you left me."

"Don't you know me, Beulah?" He put his face close to hers.

"They killed her, Eugene! I told you they would; they are going to

bury her soon. But the grave can't hide her; I am going down with

her into the darkness--she would be frightened, you know." Making a

great effort, she sat upright. Dr. Hartwell put a glass containing

medicine to her lips; she shrank back and shuddered, then raised her

hand for the glass, and, looking fixedly at him, said: "Did Mrs.

Grayson say I must take it? Is it poison that kills quickly? There;

don't frown, Eugene, I will drink it all for you." She swallowed the

draught with a shiver. He laid her back on her pillow and renewed

the iced-cloth on her forehead; she did not move her burning eyes

from his face, and the refreshing coolness recalled the sad smile.

"Are we on the Alps, Eugene? I feel dizzy; don't let me fall. There

is a great chasm yonder. Oh, I know now; I am not afraid; Lilly is

down there--come on." Her arms drooped to her side, and she slept

again.

Evening shadows crept on; soon the room was dark. Harriet entered

with a shaded lamp, but her master motioned her out, and, throwing

open the blinds, suffered the pure moonlight to enter freely. The

window looked out on the flower garden, and the mingled fragrance of

roses, jasmines, honeysuckles, and dew-laden four-o'clocks enveloped

him as in a cloud of incense. A balmy moonlight June night in our

beautiful sunny South--who shall adequately paint its witchery? Dr.

Hartwell leaned his head against the window, and glanced down at the

parterre he had so fondly fostered. The golden moonlight mellowed

every object, and not the gorgeous pictures of Persian poets

surpassed the quiet scene that greeted the master. The shelled

serpentine walks were bordered with low, closely clipped cassina

hedges; clusters of white and rose oleander, scarlet geraniums,

roses of countless variety, beds of verbena of every hue, and

patches of brilliant annuals, all looked up smilingly at him. Just

beneath the window the clasping tendrils of a clematis were wound

about the pedestal of a marble Flora, and a cluster of the delicate

purple blossoms peeped through the fingers of the goddess. Further

off, a fountain flashed in the moonlight, murmuring musically in and

out of its reservoir, while the diamond spray bathed the sculptured

limbs of a Venus. The sea breeze sang its lullaby through the boughs

of a luxuriant orange tree near, and silence seemed guardian spirit

of the beautiful spot, when a whip-poor-will whirred through the

air, and, perching on the snowy brow of the Aphrodite, began his

plaintive night-hymn. In childhood Guy Hartwell had been taught by

his nurse to regard the melancholy chant as ominous of evil; but as

years threw their shadows over his heart, darkening the hopes of his

boyhood, the sad notes of the lonely bird became gradually soothing,

and now in the prime of life he loved to listen to the shy visitor,

and ceased to remember that it boded ill. With an ardent love for

the beautiful, in all its Protean phases, he enjoyed communion with

nature as only an imaginative, aesthetical temperament can. This

keen appreciation of beauty had been fostered by travel and study.

Over the vast studio of nature he had eagerly roamed; midnight had

seen him gazing enraptured on the loveliness of Italian scenery, and

found him watching the march of constellations from the lonely

heights of the Hartz; while the thunder tones of awful Niagara had

often hushed the tumults of his passionate heart, and bowed his

proud head in humble adoration. He had searched the storehouses of

art, and collected treasures that kindled divine aspirations in his

soul, and wooed him for a time from the cemetery of memory. With a

nature so intensely aesthetical, and taste so thoroughly cultivated,

he had, in a great measure, assimilated his home to the artistic

beau ideal. Now as he stood inhaling the perfumed air, he forgot the

little sufferer a few yards off--forgot that Azrail stood on the

threshold, beckoning her to brave the dark floods; and, as his whole

nature became permeated (so to speak) by the intoxicating beauty

that surrounded him, he extended his arms, and exclaimed

triumphantly: "Truly thou art my mother, dear old earth! I feel that I am indeed

nearly allied to thy divine beauty! Starry nights, and whispering

winds, and fragrant flowers! yea, and even the breath of the

tempest! all, all are parts of my being."