Beulah - Page 90/348

He walked on, and, glad to be released, Beulah hastened to her own

room, with a strange feeling of joy on entering it again. Harriet

welcomed her warmly, and, without alluding to her absence, assisted

in braiding the heavy masses of hair, which required arranging. Half

an hour after, Dr. Hartwell knocked at the door, and conducted her

downstairs. Mrs. Chilton rose and extended her hand, with an

amicable expression of countenance for which Beulah was not

prepared. She could not bring herself to accept the hand, but her

salutation was gravely polite.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Chilton."

Mr. Lockhart made room for her on the sofa; and, quietly ensconced

in one corner, she sat for some time so engaged in listening to the

general conversation that the bitter recollection of by-gone trials

was entirely banished. Dr. Hartwell and his friend were talking of

Europe, and the latter, after recounting much of interest in

connection with his former visits, said earnestly: "Go with me this time, Guy; one tour cannot have satiated you. It

will be double, nay, triple, enjoyment to have you along. It is, and

always has been, a mystery to me why you should persist in

practicing. You do not need the pecuniary aid; your income would

enable you to live just as you pleased. Life is short at best. Why

not glean all of pleasure that travel affords to a nature like

yours? Your sister was just telling me that in a few days she goes

North to place Pauline at some celebrated school, and, without her,

you will be desolate. Come, let's to Europe together. What do you

say?"

Dr. Hartwell received this intimation of his sister's plans without

the slightest token of surprise, and smiled sarcastically as he

replied: "Percy, I shall answer you in the words of a favorite author of the

day. He says, 'It is for want of self-culture that the superstition

of traveling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its

fascination for all educated Americans. He who travels to be amused,

or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from

himself, and grows old, even in youth, among--old things. In Thebes,

in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as

they. He carries ruins to ruins. Traveling is a fool's paradise. At

home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with

beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embark, and finally

wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad

self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I affect to be

intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not. My giant goes

with me wherever I go.' Percy, I endeavored to drown my giant in the

Mediterranean; to bury it forever beneath the green waters of Lago

Maggiore; to hurl it from solemn, icy, Alpine heights; to dodge it

in museums of art; but, as Emerson says, it clung to me with

unerring allegiance, and I came home. And now, daily and yearly, I

repeat the hopeless experiment, in my round of professional duties.

Yes, May and Pauline are going away, but I shall have Beulah to look

after, and I fancy time will not drag its wheels through coming

years. How soon do you think of leaving America? I have some

commissions for you when you start."