Beulah - Page 49/348

"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick

again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.

"Don't talk to me--don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.

"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and

you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"

"I did, and he has forgotten me."

"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you

wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait

until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"

"He never can give me back my dead."

"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a

blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think

of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and

nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky--"

She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to

come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly

upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly

over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a

fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The

leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down

on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.

"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it

were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the

windows.

Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene

had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and

an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last,

and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the

Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the

crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise.

As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on

those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the

paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own

age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.

"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you

are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"

The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed

curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily

Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her.

The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the

lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was

faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The

features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet

hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown

back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist;

her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore

the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked

a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah

shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her

face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The

expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept

over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form

of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to

address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently: "Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your

entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy

this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner

on her daughter's arm.