"Has mother gone? I want to say something to you."

"We are alone, my child; speak to me freely."

"There are a few things I wish to have arranged, and my time is short. You have never refused me any gratification I desired, and I know you will grant my last request. Father, if I were a bride to- day, what would be my portion of the estate? How much would you give me?"

"I would give every cent I possess to purchase you a life of happiness."

"You do not understand me. I have always been considered an heiress, and I want to know how much I would be entitled to, if I should live? Of course Eugene has an equal share. How much is it?"

"About eighty thousand dollars apiece, I suppose, leaving as much for your mother. Why do you ask, my daughter?"

"Eighty thousand dollars. How much good might be done with it, if judiciously distributed and invested! Father, I shall not live to squander it in frivolous amusements or superfluous luxuries. Are you willing that I should dispose of a portion of it before my death?"

"Yes, Cornelia, if it will afford you any gratification. My poor, afflicted child; how can I deny you anything you choose to ask?"

She put up one arm around his neck, and, drawing his head close to her, said earnestly:

"I only wish to use a part of it. Father, I want to leave Beulah about five thousand dollars. That sum will enable her to live more comfortably, and labor less, and I should like to feel, before I die, that I had been the means of assisting her. Will you invest that amount in stocks for her, or pay the money into her own hands? Will you see that it is arranged so that she will certainly receive it, no matter what happens?"

"Yes, I promise you that she shall have five thousand dollars, to dispose of as she thinks proper."

"She is proud, and will not receive it willingly; but you must arrange it so that she will be benefited by it. Father, can you do this for me?"

"Yes, without difficulty, I think."

"Let it be kept secret, will you?"

"Rest assured it shall have no unnecessary publicity."

"See that it is conveyed to her so securely that no quibbles of law can wrest it from her at any future day, for none of us knows what may happen."

"I promise you she shall have it if I live twelve hours longer."

"Then I want five thousand more given to the orphan asylum. Give it in your own name. You only have the right to give. Don't have my name mentioned in the matter. Will you promise me this also?"

"Yes; it shall all be done. Is there anything else?"

"Thank you, that is all, as regards money matters. Raise my pillow a little; there, that will do. Father, can't you do something to save Eugene? You must see now how reckless he is growing."

"Recently I have expostulated with him, and he seemed disposed to reform his habits. Acknowledged that his associations had been injurious, and regretted the excesses into which he had been led. He has been rather wild since he came from college; but I think, now he is married, he will sober down. That is one reason why I encouraged his marrying so early. Intemperance is his only fault, and I trust his good sense will soon lead him to correct it." A smothered sigh concluded the sentence.

"Father, Antoinette is not the woman to reform him. Don't trust to her influence; if you do, Eugene will be ruined. Watch over him closely yourself; try to win him away from the haunts of dissipation; I tell you now his wife will never do it. She has duped you and my mother as to her character, but you will find that she is as utterly heartless as her own mother was. I always opposed the match, because I probed her mask of dissimulation, and knew Eugene could not be happy with her. But the mistake is irretrievable, and it only remains for you to watch him the more carefully. Lift me, father; I can't breathe easily. There is the doctor on the steps; I am too tired to talk any more to-day."

One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time. It was twilight when she reached Mr. Graham's house and glided noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway. The bells were all muffled, and a solemn stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easychair. Her mother sat near her, with her face hid on her husband's bosom. Dr. Hartwell leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wandered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her sharpened features.

"Beulah, come close to me—close." She grasped her hands tightly, and Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.

"Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me free from pain, won't you? I have suffered for so many months and years. But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever?—is it forever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where grass and flowers will wave over me, and the sun shine down on me? Yes, it must be so. Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber? Abel was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened? No one. Earth is full of pale sleepers; and I am soon to join the silent band."

There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.

"Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so, you will—"

"Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say, they say! Yes. but I never believed them before, and I don't want to believe them now. I will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now. Beulah, I shall know very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted. Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am going; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, dark! You know what I mean. Don't live as I have, believing nothing. No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is because I believe in nothing that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is such a dark, dark, lonely way! If I had a friend to go with me I should not shrink back; but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going out into a great starless midnight." She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched Beulah's convulsively.

"Calm yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God will see that you were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will sink into quiet oblivion of all your griefs."

"Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, why was I ever created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to senseless dust? I never have been happy; I have always had aspirations after purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford me, and must they be lost in dead clay? Oh, Beulah, can you give me no comfort but this? Is this the sum of all your study, as well as mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can find out nothing. We are all blind; groping our way through mysterious paths, and now I am going into the last—the great mystery!"

She shook her head with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out some hideous specter. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful of some powerful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by the difficulty of breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sobs of the parents. Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and now and then her lips moved, but nothing intelligible escaped them. It was surprising how she seemed to rally sometimes, and breathe with perfect ease; then the paroxysms would come on more violent than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with her forehead resting on the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm hold of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still to watch the issue, for moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer. Beulah felt as if her heart were leaden, and a band of burning iron seemed drawn about her brow. Was this painful parting to be indeed eternal? Was there no future home for the dead of this world? Should the bands of love and friendship, thus rudely severed, be renewed no more? Was there no land where the broken links might be gathered up again? What did philosophy say of these grim hours of struggle and separation? Nothing—absolutely nothing! Was she to see her sister no more? Was a moldering mass of dust all that remained of the darling dead—the beautiful angel Lilly, whom she had so idolized? Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul, with its noble aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her brain was in a wild, maddening whirl; she could not weep; her eyes were dry and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured audibly:

"'For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.' Ah! what is its name? that 'continuing city'! Necropolis?" Again she remained for some time speechless.

Dr. Hartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow, and, opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an imploring gaze, which mutely said: "Can't you help me?" He leaned over, and answered it, sadly enough:

"Courage, Cornelia! It will very soon be over now. The worst is past, my friend."

"Yes; I know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?"

He came and stood near her; his face full of anguish, which could not vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she looked at him; a wailing cry broke from her lips; and, extending her arms toward him, she said sobbingly:

"Shall I see you no more—no more? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride, my dearest hope! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we now parted forever—forever!"

He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her; but, clinging to him, she said huskily:

"Eugene, with my last breath I implore you; forsake your intemperate companions. Shun them and their haunts. Let me die feeling that at least my dying prayer will save you! Oh, when I am gone; when I am silent in the graveyard, remember how the thought of your intemperance tortured me! Remember how I remonstrated and entreated you not to ruin yourself! Remember that I loved you above everything on earth; and that, in my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself! Oh, Eugene, for my sake! for my sake! quit the wine-cup, and leave drunkenness for others more degraded!—Promise me!—Where are you?— Oh, it is all cold and dark!—I can't see you!—Eugene, promise! promise!—Eugene—"

Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds; then the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene felt a long shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Cornelia Graham's soul was with its God.

Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and questioning, what an exit! Eugene lifted the attenuated form and placed it on the bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from the room; and, after some minutes, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied.

"Come, Beulah; she will want you no more."

She lifted a countenance so full of woe that, as he looked at her, the moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head, saying:

"Come with me, Beulah."

"And this is death? Oh, my God, save me from such a death!"

She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then, rising from her kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cushions. That long night of self-communion was never forgotten.

The day of the funeral was cold, dark, and dismal. A January wind howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the gloom. The parlors and sitting room were draped, and on the marble slab of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall. Once before Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded; and it seemed but yesterday that she stood beside Lilly's rigid form. She went in alone, and waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of conflicting sorrows in her oppressed heart; then lifted the covering and looked on the sleeper. Wan, waxen, and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of disease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless death. The black locks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful hands folded peacefully over the heart that should throb no more with the anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow and put the trembling mouth at rest, and every feature was in repose. In life she had never looked so placidly beautiful.

"What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries? She died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without hope and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery," thought Beulah, as she looked at the marble face and recalled the bitterness of its lifelong expression. Persons began to assemble; gradually the rooms filled. Beulah bent down and kissed the cold lips for the last time, and, lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner. She was very miserable, but her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious of what passed around her. She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved parents as in a painful dream; and when the solemn silence was broken she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head of the coffin; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from another world:

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; and he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!"

Cornelia had not believed; was she utterly lost? Beulah asked herself this question, and shrank from the answer. She did not believe; would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there but one salvation? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession formed, she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a carriage with Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in one corner, and the long line of carriages, extending for many squares, slowly wound through the streets. The wind wailed and sobbed, as if in sympathy, and the rain drizzled against the window glass. When the procession reached the cemetery, it was too wet to think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah could see the coffin borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice of the minister; and when the shrouded form of the only child was lowered into its final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her hands. Should they meet no more? Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had forborne to address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering form, and said gently:

"My dear Beulah, do not look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst of life we are in death; but God has given a promise to cheer us all in sad scenes like this. St. John was told to write, 'From henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from, their labors.'"

"And do you think she is lost forever because she did not believe? Do you? Can you?" cried Beulah vehemently.

"Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she entirely rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately; but only God knows the heart—only her Maker can judge her. I trust that even in the last hour the mists rolled from her mind."

Beulah knew better, but said nothing; it was enough to have witnessed that darkened soul's last hour on earth. As the carriage stopped at her door Mrs. Asbury said:

"My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to find what you are seeking so earnestly."

Beulah shrank back, and answered:

"No, no. No one can help me; I must help myself. Some other time I will come."

The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to her room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down on the rug before the fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as she was wont to do in childhood; and, as she remembered that the winter rain now beat pitilessly on the grave of one who had never known privation, nor aught of grief that wealth could shield her from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had philosophy hung in the sable chambers of the tomb? The soul was impotent to explain its origin—how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final destiny? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of 'ideas.' Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or develop them selves independently of experience? The affirmation or denial of this proposition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled with psychology; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect question further? Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores of Eternity?



CHAPTER XXXI.

Time, "like a star, unhasting, yet unresting," moved on. The keen blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses, and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies. The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it "was well-nigh done"; and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the dolphin-like death. The regal splendors of Southern springtime were on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air. Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her—a volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume—the glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered she sat looking out, mute and motionless. The distant pinetops sang their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the soft violet sky. Around the columns of the little portico a luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah's head, as she leaned it against the pillar. The face wore a weary, suffering look; the large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of languor in every feature. A few months had strangely changed the countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted expression. The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue. Yet she had never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the usual routine of mental labor. Rigorously the tax was levied, no matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed; and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for a reprieve. Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was generally reclaimed from sleep. It was no mystery that she looked ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of hope which had risen in her cloudy sky. Mr. Arlington's brother had taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy, that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name. Beulah rejoiced in her friend's happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest, as in Pauline's case, thorns should spring up in paths where now only blossoms were visible. Since that letter, so full of complaint and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline. Many months had elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence. She had written several times, but received no answer, and imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage. Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs. Lockhart must be with her daughter. Beulah half rose, then leaned back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that "still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills." Mrs. Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due the editor the next morning. She was rigidly punctual in handing in her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow. She no longer wrote incognito. By accident she was discovered as the authoress of several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading literati of the place. Her successful career thus far inflamed the ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her soul. Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another. She lived, as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame suffered proportionably. The little gate opened and closed with a creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and saw her guardian before her. The light from the dining room fell on his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had induced this visit. He had never entered that gate before; and she sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.

"Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you once more!"

He took her hands in his and looked at her gravely; then made her sit down again on the step, and said:

"I suppose you would have died before you could get your consent to send for me? It is well that you have somebody to look after you. How long have you had this fever?"

"Fever! Why, sir, I have no fever," she replied, with some surprise.

"Oh, child! are you trying to destroy yourself by your obstinacy? If so, like most other things you undertake, I suppose you will succeed."

He held her hands and kept his finger on the quick bounding pulse. Beulah had not seen him since the night of Cornelia's death, some months before, and conjectured that Dr. Asbury had told him she was not looking well.

She could not bear the steady, searching gaze of his luminous eyes, and, moving restlessly, said:

"Sir, what induces you to suppose that I am sick? I have complained of indisposition to no one."

"Of course you have not, for people are to believe that you are a gutta-percha automaton."

She fancied his tone was slightly sneering; but his countenance wore the expression of anxious, protecting interest which she had so prized in days past, and, as her hands trembled in his clasp and his firm hold tightened, she felt that it was useless to attempt to conceal the truth longer.

"I didn't know I was feverish; but for some time I have daily grown weaker; I tremble when I stand or walk, and am not able to sleep. That is all."

He smiled down at her earnest face, and asked:

"Is that all, child? Is that all?"

"Yes, sir; all."

"And here you have been, with a continued, wasting nervous fever for you know not how many days, yet keep on your round of labors without cessation!"

He dropped her hands and folded his arms across his broad chest, keeping his eyes upon her.

"I am not at all ill; but believe I need some medicine to strengthen me."

"Yes, child; you do, indeed, need a medicine, but it is one you will never take."

"Try me, sir," answered she, smiling.

"Try you? I might as well try to win an eagle from its lonely rocky home. Beulah, you need rest. Rest for mind, body, and heart. But you will not take it; oh, no, of course you won't!"

He passed his hand over his brow, and swept back the glossy chestnut hair, as if it oppressed him.

"I would willingly take it, sir, if I could; but the summer vacation is still distant, and, besides, my engagements oblige me to exert myself. It is a necessity with me."

"Rather say sheer obstinacy," said he sternly.

"You are severe, sir," replied Beulah, lifting her head haughtily.

"No; I only call things by their proper names."

"Very well; if you prefer it, then, obstinacy compels me just now to deny myself the rest you prescribe."

"Yes; rightly spoken; and it will soon compel you to a long rest, in the quiet place where Cornelia waits for you. You are a mere shadow now, and a few more months will complete your design. I have blamed myself more than once that I did not suffer you to die with Lilly, as you certainly would have done had I not tended you so closely. Your death then would have saved me much care and sorrow, and you many struggles."

There was a shadow on his face, and his voice had the deep, musical tone which always made her heart thrill. Her eyelids drooped, as she said sadly:

"You are unjust. We meet rarely enough, Heaven knows. Why do you invariably make these occasions seasons of upbraiding, of taunts and sneers. Sir, I owe you my life, and more than my life, and never can I forget or cancel my obligations; but are you no longer my friend?"

His whole face lighted up; the firm mouth trembled.

"No, Beulah. I am no longer your friend."

She looked up at him, and a quiver crept across her lips. She had never seen that eager expression in his stern face before. His dark, fascinating eyes were full of pleading tenderness, and, as she drooped her head on her lap, she knew that Clara was right, that she was dearer to her guardian than anyone else. A half-smothered groan escaped her, and there was a short pause.

Dr. Hartwell put his hands gently on her bowed head and lifted the face.

"Child, does it surprise you?"

She said nothing, and, leaning her head against him, as she had often done years before, he passed his hand caressingly over the folds of hair, and added:

"You call me your guardian; make me such. I can no longer be only your friend; I must either be more, or henceforth a stranger. My life has been full of sorrow and bitterness, but you can bring sunlight to my home and heart. You were too proud to be adopted. Once I asked you to be my child. Ah! I did not know my own heart then. Our separation during the yellow-fever season first taught me how inexpressibly dear you were to me, how entirely you filled my heart. Now I ask you to be my wife, to give yourself to me. Oh, Beulah, come back to my cheerless home! Best your lonely heart, my proud darling."

"Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah, shuddering violently.

"Why not, my little Beulah?"

He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.

"Oh, sir, I would rather die! I should be miserable as your wife. You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery. You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude. Do not ask this of me; we would both be wretched. You pity my loneliness and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my best friend; I love you as my protector. You are all I have on earth to look to for sympathy and guidance. You are all I have; but I cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!" She shrank away from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of hopeless suffering settled upon her face.

He withdrew his arm, and rose.

"Beulah, I have seen sunlit bubbles gliding swiftly on the bosom of a clear brook and casting golden shadows down upon the pebbly bed. Such a shadow you are now chasing—ah, child, the shadow of a gilded bubble! Panting and eager, you clutch at it; the bubble dances on, the shadow with it; and Beulah, you will never, never grasp it. Ambition such as yours, which aims at literary fame, is the deadliest foe to happiness. Man may content himself with the applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect; but woman's heart has holier idols. You cue young, and impulsive, and aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the siren of antiquity; but the months and years will surely come when, with wasted energies and embittered heart, you are left to mourn your infatuation. I would save you from this; but you will drain the very dregs rather than forsake your tempting fiend, for such is ambition to the female heart. Yes, you will spend the springtime of your life chasing a painted specter, and go down to a premature grave, disappointed and miserable. Poor child, it needs no prophetic vision to predict your ill-starred career! Already the consuming fever has begun its march. In far-distant lands, I shall have no tidings of you; but none will be needed. Perhaps when I travel home to die your feverish dream will have ended; or, perchance, sinking to eternal rest in some palm grove of the far East, we shall meet no more. Since the day I took you in my arms from Lilly's coffin you have been my only hope, my all. You little knew how precious you were to me, nor what keen suffering our estrangement cost me. Oh, child, I have loved you as only a strong, suffering, passionate heart could love its last idol! But I, too, chased a shadow. Experience should have taught me wisdom. Now I am a gloomy, joyless man, weary of my home and henceforth a wanderer. Asbury (if he lives) will be truly your friend, and to him T shall commit the legacy which hitherto you have refused to accept. Mr. Graham paid it into my hands after his last unsatisfactory interview with you. The day may come when you will need it. I shall send you some medicine which, for your own sake, you had better take immediately; but you will never grow stronger until you give yourself rest, relaxation, physically and mentally. Remember, when your health is broken and all your hopes withered, remember I warned you and would have saved you, and you would not." He stooped and took his hat from the floor.

Beulah sat looking at him, stunned, bewildered, her tearless eyes strained and frightened in their expression. The transient illumination in his face had faded, like sunset tints, leaving dull, leaden clouds behind. His compressed lips were firm again, and the misty eyes became coldly glittering, as one sees stars brighten in a frosty air.

He put on his hat, and they looked at each other fixedly.

"You are not in earnest? you are not going to quit your home?" cried Beulah, in a broken, unsteady tone.

"Yes—going into the far East; to the ruined altars of Baalbec; to Meroe, to Tartary, India, China, and only Fate knows where else. Perhaps find a cool Nebo in some Himalayan range. Going? Yes. Did you suppose I meant only to operate on your sympathies? I know you too well. What is it to you whether I live or die? whether my weary feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city cemetery? Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting. I shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits. Ah, child—"

"Oh, don't go! don't leave me! I beg, I implore you, not to leave me. Oh, I am so desolate! don't forsake me! I could not bear to know you were gone. Oh, don't leave me!" She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened child. But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as he coldly answered:

"Once resolved, I never waver. So surely as I live I shall go. It might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself. An hour ago you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed. I should have gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of happiness in your love. Child, don't shiver and cling to me so. Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no leisure to regret my absence. Henceforth we are strangers."

"No; that shall never be. You do not mean it; you know it is impossible. You know that I prize your friendship above every earthly thing. You know that I look up to you as to no one else. That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me! Oh, sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don't cast me off! Don't go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world! My heart dies within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to see you. Oh, my guardian, don't forsake me!"

She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms firmly round his neck.

"I am not your guardian, Beulah. You refused to make me such. You are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as an authoress. I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will divide us. And now, good-by. Make yourself a name; bind your aching brow with the chaplet of fame, and see if ambition can fill your heart. Good-by, dear child."

Gently he drew her arms from his neck, and took her face in his soft palms. He looked at her a moment, sadly and earnestly, as if striving to fix her features in the frame of memory; then bent his head and pressed a long kiss on her lips. She put out her hands, but he had gone, and, sinking down on the step, she hid her face in her arms. A pall seemed suddenly thrown over the future, and the orphaned heart shrank back from the lonely path where only specters were visible. Never before had she realized how dear he was to her, how large a share of her love he possessed, and now the prospect of a long, perhaps final separation, filled her with a shivering, horrible dread. We have seen that self-reliance was a powerful element in her character, and she had learned, from painful necessity, to depend as little as possible upon the sympathies of others; but in this hour of anguish a sense of joyless isolation conquered; her proud soul bowed down beneath the weight of intolerable grief, and acknowledged itself not wholly independent of the love and presence of her guardian.

Beulah went back to her desk, and, with tearless eyes, began the allotted task of writing. The article was due, and must be finished; was there not a long, dark future in which to mourn? The sketch was designed to prove that woman's happiness was not necessarily dependent on marriage. That a single life might be more useful, more tranquil, more unselfish. Beulah had painted her heroine in glowing tints, and triumphantly proved her theory correct, while to female influence she awarded a sphere (exclusive of rostrums and all political arenas) wide as the universe and high as heaven. Weary work it all seemed to her now; but she wrote on and on, and finally the last page was copied and the last punctuation mark affixed. She wrapped up the manuscript, directed it to the editor, and then the pen fell from her nerveless fingers and her head went down, with a wailing cry, on her desk. There the morning sun flashed upon a white face, tear-stained and full of keen anguish. How her readers would have marveled at the sight! Ah, "Verily the heart knoweth its own bitterness."



CHAPTER XXXII.

One afternoon in the following week Mrs. Williams sat wrapped up in the hall, watching Beulah's movements in the yard at the rear of the house. The whitewashed paling was covered with luxuriant raspberry vines, and in one corner of the garden was a bed of strawberry plants. Over this bed Beulah was bending with a basket nearly filled with the ripe scarlet berries. Stooping close to the plants she saw only the fruit she was engaged in picking; and when the basket was quite full she was suddenly startled by a merry laugh and a pair of hands clasped over her eyes.

"Who blindfolds me?" said she.

"Guess, you solemn witch!"

"Why, Georgia, of course."

The hands were removed, and Georgia Asbury's merry face greeted her.

"I am glad to see you, Georgia. Where is Helen?"

"Oh, gone to ride with one of her adorers; but I have brought somebody to see you who is worth the whole Asbury family. No less a personage than my famous cousin Reginald Lindsay, whom you have heard us speak of so often. Oh, how tempting those luscious berries are! Reginald and I intend to stay to tea, and father will perhaps come out in the carriage for us. Come, yonder is my cousin on the gallery looking at you, and pretending to talk to Mrs. Williams. He has read your magazine sketches and is very anxious to see you. How nice you look; only a little too statuish. Can't you get up a smile? That is better. Here, let me twine this cluster of wistaria in your hair; I stole it as I ran up the steps."

Beulah was clad in a pure white mull muslin, and wore a short black silk apron, confined at the waist by a heavy cord and tassel. Georgia fastened the purple blossoms in her silky hair, and they entered the house. Mr. Lindsay met them, and, as his cousin introduced him, Beulah looked at him, and met the earnest gaze of a pair of deep blue eyes which seemed to index a nature singularly tranquil. She greeted him quietly, and would have led the way to the front of the house; but Georgia threw herself down on the steps, and exclaimed eagerly:

"Do let us stay here; the air is so deliciously sweet and cool. Cousin, there is a chair. Beulah, you and I will stem these berries at once, so that they may be ready for tea."

She took the basket, and soon their fingers were stained with the rosy juice of the fragrant fruit. All restraint vanished; the conversation was gay, and spiced now and then with repartees which elicited Georgia's birdish laugh and banished for a time the weary, joyless expression of Beulah's countenance. The berries were finally arranged to suit Georgia's taste, and the party returned to the little parlor. Here Beulah was soon engaged by Mr. Lindsay in the discussion of some of the leading literary questions of the day. She forgot the great sorrow that brooded over her heart, a faint, pearly glow crept into her cheeks, and the mouth lost its expression of resolute endurance. She found Mr. Lindsay highly cultivated in his tastes, polished in his manners, and possessed of rare intellectual attainments, while the utter absence of egotism and pedantry impressed her with involuntary admiration. Extensive travel and long study had familiarized him with almost every branch of science and department of literature, and the ease and grace with which he imparted some information she desired respecting the European schools of art contrasted favorably with the confused account Eugene had rendered of the same subject. She remarked a singular composure of countenance, voice, and even position, which seemed idiosyncratic, and was directly opposed to the stern rigidity and cynicism of her guardian. She shrank from the calm, steadfast gaze of his eyes, which looked into hers with a deep yet gentle scrutiny, and resolved ere the close of the evening to sound him concerning some of the philosophic phases of the age. Had he escaped the upas taint of skepticism? An opportunity soon occurred to favor her wishes, for, chancing to allude to his visit to Rydal Mount, while in the lake region of England, the transition to a discussion of the metaphysical tone of the "Excursion" was quite easy.

"You seemed disposed, like Howitt, to accord it the title of 'Bible of Quakerism,'" said Mr. Lindsay, in answer to a remark of hers concerning its tendency.

"It is a fertile theme of disputation, sir, and, since critics are so divided in their verdicts, I may well be pardoned an opinion which so many passages seem to sanction. If Quakerism is belief in 'immediate inspiration,' which you will scarcely deny, then throughout the 'Excursion' Wordsworth seems its apostle."

"No; he stands as a high priest in the temple of nature, and calls mankind from scientific lore to offer their orisons there at his altar and receive passively the teachings of the material universe. Tells us,"

"'Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things,'"

"and promises, in nature, an unerring guide and teacher of truth. In his lines on revisiting the Wye, he declares himself,"

'"Well pleased to recognize In nature, and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart and soul, Of all my moral being.'"

"Quakerism rejects all extraneous aids to a knowledge of God; a silent band of friends sit waiting for the direct inspiration which alone can impart true light. Wordsworth made the senses, the appreciation of the beauty and sublimity of the universe, an avenue of light; while Quakerism, according to the doctrines of Fox and his early followers, is merely a form of mysticism nearly allied to the 'ecstasy' of Plotinus. The Quaker silences his reason, his every faculty, and in utter passivity waits for the infusion of divine light into his mind; the mystic of Alexandria, as far as possible, divests his intellect of all personality, and becomes absorbed in the Infinite intelligence from which it emanated."

Beulah knitted her brows, and answered musingly:

"And here, then, extremes meet. To know God we must be God. Mysticism and Pantheism link hands over the gulf which seemed to divide them."

"Miss Benton, is this view of the subject a novel one?" said he, looking at her very intently.

"No; a singular passage in the 'Biographia Literaria' suggested it to me long ago. But unwelcome hints are rarely accepted, you know."

"Why unwelcome in this case?"

She looked at him, but made no reply, and none was needed. He understood why, and said quietly yet impressively:

"It sets the seal of necessity upon Revelation. Not the mystical intuitions of the dreamers, who would fain teach of continued direct inspiration from God, even at the present time, but the revelation which began in Genesis and ended with John on Patmos. The very absurdities of philosophy are the most potent arguments in substantiating the claims of Christianity. Kant's theory that we can know nothing beyond ourselves gave the deathblow to philosophy. Mysticism contends that reason only darkens the mind, and consequently, discarding all reasoning processes, relies upon immediate revelation. But the extravagances of Swedenborg, and even of George Fox, prove the fallacy of the assumption of continued inspiration, and the only alternative is to rest upon the Christian Revelation, which has successfully defied all assaults."

There was an instantaneous flash of joy over Beulah's troubled face, and she said hastily:

"You have escaped the contagion, then? Such exemption is rare nowadays, for skepticism broods with sable wings over the age"

"It has always brooded where man essayed to lift the veil of Isis; to elucidate the arcana of the universe, to solve the unsolvable. Skepticism is the disease of minds which Christian faith alone can render healthy."

The thrust showed she was not invulnerable; but before she could reply, Georgia exclaimed:

"In the name of common sense, Reginald, what are you discoursing about so tiresomely? I suppose I am shamefully stupid, but I don't understand a word you two have been saying. When father and Beulah get on such dry, tedious subjects I always set up an opposition at the piano, which in this instance I am forced to do, from sheer necessity."

She raised the lid of the piano and rattled off a brilliant overture; then made Beulah join her in several instrumental duets. As the latter rose, Mr. Lindsay said, somewhat abruptly:

"I believe you sing. My cousins have been extolling your voice, and I have some curiosity to hear you. Will you gratify me?"

"Certainly, if you desire it."

She could not refrain from smiling at the perfect nonchalance of his manner, and, passing her fingers over the keys, sang a beautiful air from "Lucia." Her guest listened attentively, and, when the song was ended, approached the piano, and said, with some interest:

"I should prefer a simple ballad, if you will favor me with one."

"Something after the order of 'Lilly Dale,' Beulah. He hears nothing else in his country home," said Georgia teasingly.

He smiled, but did not contradict her, and Beulah sang that exquisite ballad, "Why Do Summer Roses Fade?" It was one of her guardian's favorite airs, and now his image was associated with the strain. Ere the first verse was finished, a deep, rich, manly voice, which had sometimes echoed through the study, seemed again to join hers, and, despite her efforts, her own tones trembled.

Soon after Beulah took her place at the tea table in the center of the room, and conversation turned on the delights of country life.

"Reginald, how do you manage to amuse yourself in that little town of yours?" asked Georgia, drawing the bowl of strawberries near and helping him bountifully.

"I might answer that I had passed the age when amusement was necessary, but I will not beg your question so completely. In the first place, I do not reside in town. My office is there, and during the day, when not absent at court, I am generally in my office; but evening always finds me at home. Once there, I have endless sources of amusement; my mother's flowers and birds, my farm affairs, my music, and my library, to say nothing of hunting and fishing. Remember, Georgia, that, as a class, lawyers are not addicted to what you call amusements."

"But after living in Europe, and traveling so much, I should think that plantation would be horribly dull. Do you never suffer from ennui, cut off as you are from all society?"

"Ennui is a disease of which I am yet happily ignorant. But for my mother I should feel the need of society; in a great measure her presence supplies it. I shall tell you no more, cousin mine, since you and Helen are to spend a portion of your summer with us, and can judge for yourselves of the attractions of my country home."

"Are you residing near Mr. Arlington?" said Beulah.

"Quite near; his plantation adjoins mine. Is he a friend of yours?"

"No; but I have a friend living this year in his family. Miss Sanders is governess for his children. You probably know her."

"Yes; I see her occasionally. Report says she is soon to become the bride of Richard Arlington."

A slight smile curved his lips as he watched Beulah's countenance. She offered no comment, and he perceived that the on dit was not new to her.

"Beulah, I suppose you have heard of Dr. Hartwell's intended journey to the East? What an oddity he is! Told me he contemplated renting a bungalow somewhere in heathendom, and turning either Brahmin or Parsee, he had not quite decided which. He has sold his beautiful place to the Farleys. The greenhouse plants he gave to mother, and all the statuary and paintings are to be sent to us until his return, which cannot be predicted with any certainty. Father frets a good deal over this freak, as he calls it, and says the doctor had much better stay at home and physic the sick. I thought it was a sudden whim; but he says he has contemplated the trip a long time. He is going immediately, I believe. It must be a trial to you," said the thoughtless girl.

"Yes; I cannot realize it yet," replied Beulah, struggling with herself for composure, and hastily setting down her teacup, which trembled violently. The shadows swept over her once more. Mr. Lindsay noticed her agitation, and, with delicate consideration, forbore to look at her. Georgia continued heedlessly:

"I wanted that melodeon that sits in his study; but, though the remainder of the furniture is to be auctioned off, he says he will not sell the melodeon, and requested my father to have it carefully locked up somewhere at home. I asked if I might not use it, and what do you suppose he said? That I might have his grand piano, if I would accept it, but that nobody was to touch his melodeon. I told him he ought to send the piano out to you, in his absence; but he looked cross, and said you would not use it if he did."

Poor Beulah! her lips quivered, and her fingers clasped each other tightly, but she said nothing. Just then she heard Dr. Asbury's quick step in the hall, and, to her infinite relief, he entered, accompanied by Helen. She saw that, though his manner was kind and bantering as usual, there was an anxious look on his benevolent face, and his heavy brows occasionally knitted. When he went into the adjoining room to see Mrs. Williams, she understood his glance, and followed him. He paused in the hall, and said eagerly:

"Has Hartwell been here lately?"

"Yes; he was here last week."

"Did he tell you of his whim about traveling East?"

"Yes; he told me."

"Beulah, take care what you are about! You are working mischief not easily rectified. Child, keep Guy at home!"

"He is master of his own movements, and you know his stubborn will. I would keep him here if I could; but I have no influence."

"All fiddlesticks! I know better! I am neither a bat nor a mole. Beulah, I warn you; I beg you, child, mind how you act. Once entirely estranged, all the steam of Christendom could not force him back. Don't let him go; if you do, the game is up, I tell you now. You will repent your own work, if you do not take care. I told him he was a fool to leave such a position as his and go to dodging robbers in Eastern deserts; whereupon he looked as bland and impenetrable as if I had compared him to Solomon. There, go back to your company, end mind what I say; don't let Guy go."

He left her; and, though she exerted herself to entertain her guests, Mr. Lindsay saw that her mind was troubled and her heart oppressed. He endeavored to divert her thoughts, by introducing various topics; and she talked and smiled, and even played and sang, yet the unlifting cloud lay on her brow. The evening seemed strangely long, and she accompanied her visitors to the door with a sensation of relief. At parting Mr. Lindsay took her hand, and said in a low voice:

"May I come whenever I am in your city?"

"Certainly; I shall be pleased to see you when you have leisure," she replied hurriedly.

"I shall avail myself of your permission, I assure you."

She had often heard Dr. Asbury speak with fond pride of this nephew; and, as Eugene had also frequently mentioned him in his early letters from Heidelberg, she felt that he was scarcely a stranger, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. To her, his parting words seemed merely polite, commonplace forms; and, with no thought of a future acquaintance, she dismissed him from her mind, which was too painfully preoccupied to dwell upon the circumstances of his visit.

A few days passed, and one Saturday morning she sat in the dining room, finishing a large drawing upon which she had for months expended all her leisure moments. It was designed from a description in "Queen Mab," and she took up her crayon to give the final touch, when heavy steps in the hall arrested her attention, and, glancing toward the door, she saw Hal, Dr. Hartwell's driver, with a wooden box on his shoulder and Charon by his side. The latter barked with delight, and sprang to meet the girl, who had hastily risen.

"How do you do, Miss Beulah? It is many a day since I have seen you, and you look worse of wear too. Haven't been sick, have you?" said Hal, sliding the box down on the floor.

"Not exactly sick, but not so well as usual," she answered, passing her trembling hands over the dog's head.

"Well, I don't see, for my part, what is to become of us all, now master's gone—"

"Gone!" echoed Beulah.

"Why, to be sure. He started to the plantation yesterday, to set things all in order there, and then he is going straight on to New York. The house looks desolate enough, and I feel like I was about to dig my own grave. Just before he left he called me into the study, and told me that, as soon as he had gone, I was to bring Charon over to you and ask you to keep him and take care of him. He tried to unlock the collar on his neck, but somehow the key would not turn. Master looked dreadful sad when he patted poor Char's head and let the brute put his paws on his shoulders for the last time. Just as the boat pushed off he called to me to be sure to bring him to you; so here he is; and, Miss Beulah, the poor fellow seems to know something is wrong; he whined all night, and ran over the empty house this morning, growling and snuffing. You are to keep him till master comes home; the Lord only knows when that will be. I tried to find out; but he looked for the world like one of them stone faces in the study, and gave me no satisfaction. Miss Beulah, Dr. Asbury was at the house just as I started, and he sent over this box to you. Told me to tell you that he had all the pictures moved to his house, but had not room to hang all, so he sent one over for you to take care of. Shall I take it out of the case?"

"Never mind, Hal; I can do that. Did your master leave no other message for me? was there no note?" She leaned heavily on a chair to support herself.

"None that I know of, except that you must be kind to Charon. I have no time to spare; Dr. Asbury needs me; so good-by, Miss Beulah. I will stop some day when I am passing, and see how the dog comes on. I know he will be satisfied with you."

The faithful servant touched his hat and withdrew. The storm of grief could no longer be repressed, and, sinking down on the floor, Beulah clasped her arms round Charon's neck and hid her face in his soft, curling hair, while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. She had not believed her guardian would leave without coming again, and had confidently expected him, and now he had gone. Perhaps forever; at best, for many years. She might never see him again, and this thought was more than she could endure. The proud restraint she was wont to impose upon her feelings all vanished, and in her despairing sorrow she wept and moaned as she had never done before, even when Lilly was taken from her. Charon crouched close to her, with a mute grief clearly written in his sober, sagacious countenance, and each clung to the other, as to a last stay and solace. He was a powerful animal, with huge limbs, and a think, shaggy covering, sable as midnight, without a speck of white about him. Around his neck was a silver chain, supporting a broad piece of plate, on which was engraved, in German letters, the single word, "Hartwell." How long she sat there Beulah knew not; but a growl roused her, and she saw Mrs. Williams looking sorrowfully at her.

"My child, what makes you moan and weep so bitterly."

"Oh, because I am so miserable; because I have lost my best friend; my only friend; my guardian. He has gone—gone! and I did not see him." With a stifled cry her face went down again.

The matron had never seen her so unnerved before, and wondered at the vehemence of her grief, but knew her nature too well to attempt consolation. Beulah lifted the box and retired to her own room, followed by Charon. Securing the door, she put the case on the table and looked at it wistfully. Were her conjectures, her hopes, correct? She raised the lid and unwrapped the frame, and there was the noble head of her guardian. She hung the portrait on a hook just above her desk, and then stood, with streaming eyes, looking up at it. It had been painted a few weeks after his marriage, and represented him in the full morning of manhood, ere his heart was embittered and his clear brow overshadowed. The artist had suffered a ray of sunshine to fall on the brown hair that rippled round his white temples with careless grace. There was no mustache to shade the sculptured lips, and they seemed about to part in one of those rare, fascinating smiles which Beulah had often watched for in vain. The matchless eyes looked down at her, with brooding tenderness in their hazel depths, and now seemed to question her uncontrollable grief. Yet she had pained him; had in part caused his exile from the home of his youth, and added another sorrow to those which now veiled that peerless face in gloom. He had placed his happiness in her hands; had asked her to be his wife. She looked at the portrait, and shuddered and moaned. She loved him above all others; loved him as a child adores its father; but how could she, who had so reverenced him, consent to become his wife? Besides, she could not believe he loved her. He liked her; pitied her isolation and orphanage; felt the need of her society, and wanted her always in his home. But she could not realize that he, who so worshiped beauty, could possibly love her. It was all like a hideous dream which morning would dispel; but there was the reality, and there was Charon looking steadily up at the portrait he was at no loss to recognize.

"Oh, if I could have seen him once more! If he had parted with me in kindness, it would not be so intolerable. But to remember his stern, sad face, as last I saw it; oh, how can I bear it I To have it haunting me through life, like a horrible specter; no friendly words to cherish; no final message; all gloom and anger. Oh, how shall I bear it!" And she fell on Charon's neck and wept bitterly.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

In the early days of summer Mr. and Mrs. Graham left the city for one of the fashionable watering-places on the Gulf, accompanied by Antoinette. Eugene remained, on some pretext of business, but promised to follow in a short time. The week subsequent to their departure saw a party of gentlemen assembled to dine at his house. The long afternoon wore away; still they sat round the table. The cloth had been removed, and only wine and cigars remained; bottle after bottle was emptied, and finally decanters were in requisition. The servants shrugged their shoulders, and looked on with amused expectancy. The conversation grew loud and boisterous, now and then flavored with oaths; twilight came on—the shutters were closed—the magnificent chandelier lighted. Eugene seized a crystal ice bowl, and was about to extract a lump of ice when it fell from his fingers and shivered to atoms. A roar of laughter succeeded the exploit, and, uncorking a fresh bottle of champagne, he demanded a song. Already a few of the guests were leaning on the table stupefied, but several began the strain. It was a genuine Bacchanalian ode, and the deafening shout rose to the frescoed ceiling as the revelers leaned forward and touched their glasses. Touched, did I say; it were better written clashed. There was a ringing chorus as crystal met crystal; glittering fragments flew in every direction; down ran the foaming wine, thick with splintered glass, on the rosewood table. But the strain was kept up; fresh glasses were supplied; fresh bottles drained; the waiters looked on, wondered where all this would end, and pointed to the ruin of the costly service. The brilliant gaslight shone on a scene of recklessness pitiable indeed. All were young men, and, except Eugene, all unmarried; but they seemed familiar with such occasions. One or two, thoroughly intoxicated, lay with their heads on the table, unconscious of what passed; others struggled to sit upright, yet the shout was still raised from time to time.

"Fill up, and let us have that glorious song from Lucrezia Borgia. Hey, Proctor!" cried Eugene.

"That is poor fun without Vincent. He sings it equal to Vestvali. Fill up there, Munroe, and shake up Cowdon. Come, begin, and—"

He raised his glass with a disgusting oath, and was about to commence, when Munroe said stammeringly:

"Where is Fred, anyhow? He is a devilish fine fellow for a frolic. I—"

"Why, gone to the coast with Graham's pretty wife. He is all devotion. They waltz and ride, and, in fine, he is her admirer par excellence. Stop your stupid stammering, and begin."

Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife's name, but the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too, raised his unsteady voice. Again and again the words were madly shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop. What a picture of degradation! Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed, burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands. Eugene attempted to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which seemed to suffocate him. Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party, laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way, grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed:

"Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and let us have a ride to cool us. Come. Munroe and Cowdon must look after the others. By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could not find fault with your cellar. Come."

Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door, where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel. It was a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver light over the silent earth. Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy, and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with difficulty hold until the riders were seated.

"Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30. What say you?"

"Done; 2.40 is the lowest."

"Phew! Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made of. Now, then, out with your watch."

He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow. Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph had taken the game entirely out of his master's hands. In vain the reins were tightened. Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell off. Still the frantic horse sped on. The mile post flashed by, but Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time. At this stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new impetus to Telegraph's flying feet. They were near a point in the road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking, doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed down the alley, heedless of Proctor's efforts to restrain him, and, turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city. Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins. On went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he plunged toward the bricks. The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on the pile. Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to the stable.

It was eleven o'clock, but Beulah was writing in her own room; and through the open window heard the thundering tramp, the rattle among the bricks, Proctor's furious curses, and surmised that some accident had happened. She sprang to the window, saw the buggy just as it was wheeled on, and hoped nothing was hurt. But Charon, who slept on the portico, leaped over the paling, ran around the bricks, and barked alarmingly. She unlocked the door, saw that no one was passing, and, opening the little gate, looked out. Charon stood watching a prostrate form, and she fearlessly crossed the street and bent over the body. One arm was crushed beneath him; the other thrown up over the face. She recognized the watch chain, which was of a curious pattern; and, for an instant, all objects swam before her. She felt faint; her heart seemed to grow icy and numb; but, with a great effort, she moved the arm, and looked on the face gleaming in the moonlight. Trembling like a weed in a wintry blast, she knelt beside him. He was insensible, but not dead; though it was evident there must have been some severe contusion about the head. She saw that no time should be lost, and, running into one of the neighboring houses, knocked violently. The noise of the horse and buggy had already aroused the inmates, and very soon the motionless form was borne into Beulah's little cottage and placed on a couch, while a messenger was dispatched for Dr. Asbury. Eugene remained just as they placed him; and, kneeling beside him, Beulah held his cold hands in hers, and watched, in almost breathless anxiety, for some return of animation. She knew that he was intoxicated; that this, and this only, caused the accident; and tears of shame and commiseration trickled down her cheeks. Since their parting interview, previous to his marriage, they had met but once, and then in silence, beside Cornelia in her dying hour. It was little more than a year since she had risked his displeasure, and remonstrated with him on his ruinous course; and that comparatively short period had wrought painful changes in his once noble, handsome face. She had hoped that Cornelia's dying prayer would save him; but now, alas, it was too apparent that the appeal had been futile. She knew not that his wife was absent, and determined to send for her as soon as possible. The long hour of waiting seemed an eternity; but at last Dr. Asbury came, and carefully examined the bruised limbs. Beulah grasped his arm.

"Oh! will he die?"

"I don't know, child; this arm is badly fractured, and I am afraid there is a severe injury on the back of the head. It won't do to move him home, so send Hal in from my buggy to help put him in bed. Have me some bandages at once, Beulah."

As they carried him into Mrs. Williams' room and prepared to set the fractured arm, he groaned, and for a moment struggled, then relapsed into a heavy stupor. Dr. Asbury carefully straightened and bandaged the limb, and washed the blood from his temples, where a gash had been inflicted in the fall.

"Will you go to his wife at once, sir, and inform her of his condition?" said Beulah, who stood by the blood-stained pillow, pale and anxious.

"Don't you know his wife is not here? She has gone for the summer. Wife! did I say? She does not deserve the sacred name! If he had had a wife he would never have come to this ruin and disgrace. It is nothing more than I expected when he married her. I could easily put her soul on the end of a lancet, and as for heart—she has none at all! She is a pretty flirt, fonder of admiration than of her husband. I will write by the earliest mail, informing Graham of the accident and its possible consequences, and perhaps respect for the opinion of the world may bring her home to him. Beulah, it is a difficult matter to believe that that drunken, stupid victim there is Eugene Graham, who promised to become an honor to his friends and his name. Satan must have established the first distillery; the institution smacks of the infernal! Child, keep ice upon that head, will you, and see that as soon as possible he takes a spoonful of the medicine I mixed just now. I am afraid it will be many days before he leaves this house. If he lives, the only consolation is that it may be a lesson and warning to him. I will be back in an hour or so. As for Proctor, whom I met limping home, it would have been a blessing to the other young men of the city, and to society generally, if he had never crawled out of the sand where he was thrown."

A little while after the silence was broken by a heavy sob, and, glancing up, Beulah perceived the matron standing near the bed, gazing at the sleeper.

"Oh, that he should come to this! I would ten thousand times rather he had died in his unstained boyhood."

"If he lives, this accident may be his salvation."

"God grant it may—God grant it may!"

Falling on her knees, the aged woman put up a prayer of passionate entreaty, that Almighty God would spare his life and save him from a drunkard's fate.

"If I, too, could pray for him, it might ease my aching heart," thought Beulah, as she listened to the imploring words of the matron.

And why not? Ah! the murky vapors of unbelief shrouded the All- Father from her wandering soul. Dawn looked in upon two sorrowing watchers beside that stupid slumberer, and showed that the physician's fears were realized; a raging fever had set in, and this night was but the commencement of long and weary vigils. About noon Beulah was crossing the hall with a bowl of ice in her hand, when someone at the door pronounced her name, and Proctor approached her, accompanied by Cowdon. She had once met the former at Mr. Graham's, and, having heard Cornelia regret the miserable influence he exerted over her brother, was prepared to receive him coldly.

"We have come to see Graham, madam," said he, shrinking from her sad, searching eyes, yet assuming an air of haughty indifference.

"You cannot see him, sir."

"But I tell you I must! I shall remove him to his own house, where he can be properly attended to. Where is he?"

"The physician particularly urged the necessity of keeping everything quiet. He shall not be disturbed; but, as he is unconscious, perhaps it will afford you some gratification to behold the ruin you have wrought. Gentlemen, here is your victim."

She opened the door and suffered them to stand on the threshold and look at the prostrate form, with the head enveloped in icy cloths and the face bloated and purplish from bruises and fever. Neither Proctor nor his companion could endure the smile of withering contempt which curled her lips as she pointed to the victim of their temptations and influence, and, with a half-suppressed imprecation, Proctor turned on his heel and left the house. Apparently this brief visit quite satisfied them, for it was not repeated. Days and nights of unremitted watching ensued; Eugene was wildly delirious, now singing snatches of drinking songs, and waving his hand, as if to his guests; and now bitterly upbraiding his wife for her heartlessness and folly. The confinement of his fractured arm frenzied him; often he struggled violently to free himself, fancying that he was incarcerated in some horrid dungeon. On the morning of the fourth day after the accident a carriage stopped at the cottage gate, and, springing out, Mr. Graham hurried into the house. As he entered the sickroom and caught sight of the tossing sufferer, a groan escaped him, and he covered his eyes an instant, as if to shut out the vision. Eugene imagined he saw one of the Heidelberg professors, and, laughing immoderately, began a rapid conversation in German. Mr. Graham could not conceal his emotion, and, fearing its effect on the excitable patient, Beulah beckoned him aside and warned him of the possible consequences. He grasped her hand, and asked the particulars of the occurrence, which had been mentioned to him vaguely. She told him the account given by Eugene's servants of the night's revel, and then the denouement in front of her door. In conclusion she said earnestly:

"Where is his wife? Why is she not here?"

"She seemed to think she could render no assistance; and, fearing that all would be over before we could get here, preferred my coming at once and writing to her of his condition. Ah! she is miserably fitted for such scenes as you must have witnessed." And the gray- haired man sighed heavily.

"What! can she bear to commit her husband to other hands at such a crisis as this? How can she live away from his side when every hour may be his last? Oh, is she indeed so utterly, utterly heartless, selfish, callous? Poor Eugene! Better find release from such a union in death than go through life bound to a wife so unblushingly indifferent!"

Her face was one flash of scorn and indignation, and, extending her hand toward the restless invalid, she continued in a lower tone:

"She has deserted her sacred post; but a truer, better friend, one who has always loved him as a brother, will supply her place. All that a sister's care can do, assuredly he shall have."

"You are very kind, Miss Beulah; my family are under lasting obligations to you for your generous attentions to that poor boy of ours, and I—"

"No. You understand little of the nature of our friendship. We were orphan children, warmly attached to each other, before you took him to a home of wealth and lavish indulgence. Were he my own brother, I could not feel more deeply interested in his welfare, and while he requires care and nursing I consider it my privilege to watch over and guard him. There is Dr. Asbury in the hall; he can tell you better than I of his probable recovery,"

Ah, reader, is

"Friendship but a name? A charm that lulls to Bleep, A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep?"

Mr. Graham remained at the cottage, and, having written to Antoinette of the imminent danger in which he found her husband, urged her to lose no time in joining him. Unluckily, he was ignorant of all the information which is so essential in the occupation of nursing. He was anxious to do everything in his power; but, like the majority of persons on such occasions, failed wretchedly in his attempts. Almost as restless and nervous as the sick man, he only increased the difficulties he would fain have remedied, and Beulah finally prevailed upon him to abandon his efforts and leave the room, where his constant movements annoyed and irritated the sufferer. Eugene recognized no one, but his eyes followed Beulah continually; and when his delirium was at its height only her voice and clasp of his hand could in any degree soothe him. In his ravings she noticed two constantly conflicting emotions: a stern bitterness of feeling toward his wife and an almost adoring fondness for his infant child. Of the latter he talked incessantly, and vowed that she, at least, should love him. As the weary days crept by Beulah started at every sound, fancying that the wife had certainly come; but hour after hour found only Mrs. Williams and the orphan guarding the deserted husband. Gradually the fever abated, and a death-like stupor succeeded. Mr. Graham stole about the house like a haunting spirit, miserable and useless, and in the solemn stillness of midnight only Beulah sat by the pillow, where a head now rested motionless as that of a corpse. Mrs. Williams was asleep on a couch at the opposite end of the room, and, in the dim, spectral light of the shaded lamp, the watcher and her charge looked unearthly. Faint from constant vigils, Beulah threw her arm on the bed and leaned her head upon it, keeping her eyes on the colorless face before her. Who that has watched over friends, hovering upon the borders of the spiritland, needs to be told how dreary was the heart of the solitary nurse? And to those who have not thus suffered and endured, no description would adequately portray the desolation and gloom.

The stars were waning, when Eugene moved, threw up his hand over the pillow, and, after a moment, opened his eyes. Beulah leaned forward, and he looked at her fixedly, as if puzzled; then said feebly:

"Beulah, is it you?"

A cry of joy rolled to her lips; but she hushed it, and answered tremblingly:

"Yes, Eugene; it is Beulah."

His eyes wandered about the room, and then rested again on her countenance, with a confused, perplexed expression.

"Am I at home? What is the matter?"

"Yes, Eugene; at home among your best friends. Don't talk any more; try to sleep again." With a great joy in her heart she extinguished the light, so that he could see nothing. After a few moments he said slowly:

"Beulah, did I dream I saw you? Beulah!" She felt his hand put out, as if to feel for her.

"No; I am sitting by you, but will not talk to you now. You must keep quiet."

There was a short silence.

"But where am I? Not at home, I know."

She did not reply, and he repeated the question more earnestly.

"You are in my house, Eugene; let that satisfy you."

His fingers closed over hers tightly, and soon he slept.

The sun was high in the sky when he again unclosed his eyes and found Dr. Asbury feeling his pulse. His mind was still bewildered, and he looked around him wonderingly.

"How do you feel, Graham?" said the doctor.

"Feel! as if I had been standing on my head. What is the matter with me, doctor? Have I been sick?"

"Well—yes; you have not been exactly well, and feel stupid after a long nap. Take a spoonful of this nectar I have prepared for you. No wry faces, man! It will clear your head."

Eugene attempted to raise himself, but fell back exhausted, while, for the first time, he noticed his arm firmly incased in wood and bandages.

"What have you been doing to my arm? Why, I can't move it. I should- -"

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, Graham; you injured it, and I bound it up, that is all. When gentlemen amuse themselves with such gymnastic feats as you performed, they must expect a little temporary inconvenience from crushed bones and overstrained muscles. Beulah, mind my directions about silence and quiet."

The doctor walked out to escape further questioning. Eugene looked at his useless, stiffened arm and then at Beulah, saying anxiously:

"What is the matter with me?"

"You were thrown out of a buggy and fractured your arm in the fall."

She thought it best to tell the truth at once.

Memory flew back to her deserted throne, and dimly the events of that evening's revel passed through his mind. A flush of shame rose to his temples, and, turning his head toward the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. Then Beulah heard a deep, shuddering sigh and a groan of remorseful agony. After a long silence, he said, in a tone of humiliation that drew tears to her eyes:

"How long have I been here?"

She told him the number of days, and he immediately asked,

"Have I been in any danger?"

"Yes; very great danger; out that has all passed now, and if you will only be composed and careful you will soon be strong again."

"I heard my father talking to you. Who else is here?"

He looked at her with eager interest.

"No one else, except our kind matron. Mr. Graham came as soon as the letter reached him, and has not left the house since."

A look of indescribable sorrow and shame swept over his countenance as he continued bitterly:

"And did Antoinette know all at once? Stop, Beulah; tell me the miserable truth. Did she know all and still remain away?"

"She knew all that had been communicated to Mr. Graham when he came; and he has written to her every day. He is now writing to inform her that you are better."

She shrank from giving the pain she was conscious her words inflicted.

"I deserve it all! Yes, ingratitude, indifference, and desertion! If I had died she would have heard it unmoved. Oh, Cornelia, Cornelia, it is a fearful retribution; more bitter than death!" Averting his face, his whole frame trembled with ill-concealed emotion.

"Eugene, you must compose yourself. Remember you jeopardize your life by this sort of excitement."

"Why didn't you let me die? What have I to live for? A name disgraced and a wife unloving and heartless! What has the future but wretchedness and shame?"

"Not unless you will it so. You should want to live to retrieve your character, to take an honorable position, which, hitherto, you have recklessly forfeited; to make the world respect you, your wife revere you, and your child feel that she may be proud of her father! Ah, Eugene, all this the future calls you to do."

He looked up at her as she stood beside him, pale, thin, and weary, and his feeble voice faltered, as he asked:

"Beulah, my best friend, my sister, do you quite despise me?"

She laid her hands softly on his, and, stooping down, pressed her lips to his forehead.

"Eugene, once I feared that you had fallen even below my pity; but now I believe you will redeem yourself. I hope that, thoroughly reformed, you will command the respect of all who know you and realize the proud aspirations I once indulged for you. That you can do this I feel assured; that you will, I do most sincerely trust. I have not yet lost faith in you, Eugene. I hope still."

She left him to ponder in solitude the humiliating result of his course of dissipation.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

The hours of gradual convalescence were very trying to Beulah, now that the sense of danger no longer nerved her to almost superhuman endurance and exertion. Mr. Graham waited until his adopted son was able to sit up, and then returned to the watering-place where his wife remained. Thus the entire charge of the invalid devolved on the tireless friends who had watched over him in the hour of peril. Beulah had endeavored to banish the sorrow that pressed so heavily on her heart, and to dispel the gloom and despondency which seemed to have taken possession of the deserted husband. She read, talked, sang to him, and constantly strove to cheer him by painting a future in which the past was to be effectually canceled. Though well-nigh exhausted by incessant care and loss of sleep, she never complained of weariness, and always forced a smile of welcome to her lips when the' invalid had his chair wheeled to her side, or tottered out into the dining room to join her. One morning in August she sat on the little gallery at the rear of the house, with a table before her, engaged in drawing some of the clusters of blue, white, and pink convolvulus which festooned the pillars and balustrade. Eugene sat near her, with his thin face leaning on his hand, his thoughts evidently far removed from flowers. His arm was still in a sling, and he looked emaciated and dejected. Mrs. Williams had been talking to him cheerfully about some money matters he had promised to arrange for her so soon as he was well enough to go to his office; but, gathering up her working materials, the old lady went into the kitchen, and the two sat for some time in silence. One of his long- drawn sighs arrested Beulah's attention, and she said kindly:

"What is the matter, brother mine? Are you tired of watching my clumsy fingers? Shall I finish that essay of Macaulay's you were so much interested in yesterday, or will you have another of Bryant's poems?" She laid down her pencil, quite ready to divert his mind by reading.

"No; do not quit your drawing; I should not enjoy even Macaulay to- day."

He threw his head back, and sighed again.

"Why, Eugene? Don't you feel as well as usual this morning? Remember your family will arrive to-day; you should be the happiest man living."

"Oh, Beulah! don't mock me. I cannot bear it. My life seems a hopeless blank."

"You ought not to talk so despondingly; you have everything to live for. House your energies. Be indeed a man. Conquer this weak, repining spirit. Don't you remember the motto on the tombstone at St. Gilgen?

"'Look not mournfully on the past—it comes not back; Enjoy the present—it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future With a manly heart, and without fear.'"

"You know little of what oppresses me. It is the knowledge of my—of Antoinette's indifference which makes the future so joyless, so desolate. Beulah, this has caused my ruin. When I stood by Cornelia's coffin, and recalled her last frantic appeal; when I looked down at her cold face, and remembered her devoted love for her unworthy brother, I vowed never to touch wine again; to absent myself from the associates who had led me to dissipation. Beulah, I was honest, and intended to reform from that hour. But Antoinette's avowed coldness, or, to call it by its proper name, heartless selfishness and fondness for admiration, first disgusted and then maddened me. I would have gladly spent my evenings quietly, in our elegant home; but she contrived to have it crowded with visitors as soulless and frivolous as herself. I remonstrated; she was sneering, defiant, and unyielding, and assured me she would 'amuse' herself as she thought proper; I followed her example, and went back to the reckless companions who continually beset my path. I was miserably deceived in Antoinette's character. She was very beautiful, and I was blind to her mental, nay, I may as well say it at once, her moral, defects. I believed she was warmly attached to me, and I loved her most devotedly. But no sooner were we married than I discovered my blind rashness. Cornelia warned me; but what man, fascinated by a beautiful girl, ever listened to counsels that opposed his heart? Antoinette is too intensely selfish to love anything or anybody but herself; she does not even love her child. Strange as it may seem, she is too entirely engrossed by her weak fondness for display and admiration even to caress her babe. Except at breakfast and dinner we rarely meet, and then, unless company is present (which is generally the case), our intercourse is studiedly cold. Do you wonder that I am hopeless in view of a life passed with such a companion? Oh, that I could blot out the last two years of my existence!"

He groaned, and shaded his face with his hands.

"But, Eugene, probably your reformation and altered course will win you your wife's love and reverence," suggested Beulah, anxious to offer some incentive to exertion.

"I know her nature too well to hope that. A woman who prefers to dance and ride with gentlemen rather than remain in her luxurious home with her babe and her duties, cannot be won from her moth-like life. No, no! I despair of happiness from her society and affection, and, if at all, must derive it from other sources. My child is the one living blossom amidst all my withered hopes. She is the only treasure I have, except your friendship. She shall never blush for her father's degradation. Henceforth, though an unhappy man, I shall prove myself a temperate one. I cannot trust my child's education to Antoinette; she is unworthy the sacred charge; I must fit myself to form her character. Oh, Beulah, if I could make her such a woman as you are, then I could indeed bear my lot patiently! I named her Cornelia, but henceforth she shall be called Beulah also, in token of her father's gratitude to his truest friend."

"No, Eugene; call her not after me, lest some of my sorrows come upon her young head. Oh, no! name her not Beulah; let her be called Cornelia. I would not have her soul shrouded as mine has been." Beulah spoke vehemently, and, laying her hand on his arm, she added:

"Eugene, to-day you will leave me and go back to your own house, to your family; but before you go, I ask you, if not for your sake, for that of your child, to promise me solemnly that you will never again touch intoxicating drinks of any kind. Oh, will you promise? Will you reform entirely?"

There was a brief pause, and he answered slowly:

"I promise, Beulah. Nay, my friend, I swear I will abstain in future. Ah, I will never disgrace my angel child! Never, so help me Heaven!"

The sound of approaching steps interrupted the conversation, and, expecting to see Antoinette and her infant, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Beulah looked up quickly, and perceived Mr. Lindsay.

"Does my advent startle you, that you look so pale and breathless?" said he, smiling as he took her hand.

"I am certainly very much surprised to see you here, sir."

"And I am heartily glad you have come, Reginald," cried Eugene, returning his friend's tight clasp.

"I intended coming to nurse you, Graham, as soon as I heard of the accident, but my mother's illness prevented my leaving home. I need not ask about your arm; I see it still requires cautious handling; but how are you otherwise? Regaining your strength, I hope?"

"Yes; gradually. I am better than I deserve to be, Reginald."

"That remains to be proved in future, Graham. Come, get well as rapidly as possible; I have a plan to submit to you, the earliest day you are strong enough to discuss business topics. Miss Beulah, let me sharpen your pencil."

He took it from her, trimmed it carefully, and handed it back; then drew her portfolio near him, and glanced over the numerous unfinished sketches.

"I have several books filled with European sketches which, I think, might afford you some pleasure. They were taken by different persons; and some of the views on the Rhine, and particularly some along the southern shore of Spain, are unsurpassed by any I have seen. You may receive them some day, after I return."

"Thank you; I shall copy them with great pleasure."

"I see you are not as much of a pyrrhonist in art as in philosophy," said Mr. Lindsay, watching her countenance as she bent over her drawing.

"Who told you, sir, that I was one in any department?" She looked up suddenly, with flashing eyes.

"There is no need to be told. I can readily perceive it."

"Your penetration is at fault, then. Of all others, the charge of pyrrhonism is the last I merit."

He smiled, and said quietly:

"What, then, is your aesthetic creed, if I may inquire?"

"It is nearly allied to Cousin's."

"I thought you had abjured eclecticism; yet Cousin is its apostle. Once admit his theory of the beautiful, and you cannot reject his psychology and ethics; nay, his theodicea."

"I do not desire to separate his system; as such I receive it."

Beulah compressed her lips firmly and looked at her interrogator half defiantly.

"You deliberately shut your eyes, then, to the goal his philosophy sets before you?"

"No; I am nearing the goal, looking steadily toward it." She spoke hastily, and with an involuntary wrinkling of her brow.

"And that goal is pantheism; draped gorgeously, but pantheism still," answered Mr. Lindsay, with solemn emphasis.

"No; his whole psychology is opposed to pantheism!" cried Beulah, pushing aside her drawing materials and meeting his eyes fixedly.

"You probably attach undue weight to his assertion that, although God passes into the universe, or therein manifests all the elements of his being, he is not 'exhausted in the act.' Now, granting, for the sake of argument, that God is not entirely absorbed in the universe, Cousin's pet doctrine of the 'Spontaneous Apperception of Absolute Truths' clearly renders man a modification of God. Difference in degree, you know, implies sameness of kind; from this there is no escape. He says, 'The God of consciousness is not a solitary sovereign, banished beyond creation, upon the throne of a silent eternity, and an absolute existence, which resembles existence in no respect whatever. He is a God, at once true and real, substance and cause, one and many, eternity and time, essence and life, end and middle; at the summit of existence and at its base, infinite and finite together; in a word, a Trinity; being at the same time God, Nature, and Humanity.' His separation of reason and reasoning, and the results of his boasted 'spontaneous apperception,' are very nearly allied to those of Schelling's 'Intellectual Intuition'; yet I suppose you would shrink from the 'absolute identity' of the latter?"

"You have not stated the question fairly, sir. He reiterates that the absolute belongs to none of us. We perceive truth, but do not create it!" retorted Beulah.

"You will perhaps remember his saying explicitly that we can comprehend the Absolute?"

"Yes; I recollect; and, moreover, he declares that 'we are conducted to God by a ray of his own being.'"

"Can limited faculties comprehend the infinite and eternal creator?"

"We do not attain a knowledge of him through finite channels. Cousin contends that it is by means of relation to the absolute that we know God."

"Then, to know the absolute, or God, you must be the absolute; or, in other words, God only can find God. This is the simple doctrine, when you unwind the veil he has cleverly hung over it. True, he denounces pantheism; but here is pantheism of the eclectic patent, differing from that of other systems only in subtlety of expression, wherein Cousin certainly excels. One of the most profound philosophical writers of the age, [Footnote: J. D. Moreil. "Speculative Philosophy of Europe."] and one whose opinion on this point certainly merits careful consideration, has remarked, in an analysis of Cousin's system, 'with regard to his notion of Deity, we have already shown how closely this verges upon the principle of Pantheism. Even if we admit that it is not a doctrine, like that of Spinoza, which identifies God with the abstract idea of substance; or even like that of Hegel, which regards Deity as synonymous with the absolute law and process of the universe; if we admit, in fact, that the Deity of Cousin possesses a conscious personality, yet still it is one which contains in itself the infinite personality and consciousness of every subordinate mind. God is the ocean—we are but the waves; the ocean may be one individuality, and each wave another; but still they are essentially one and the same. We see not how Cousin's Theism can possibly be consistent with any idea of moral evil; neither do we see how, starting from such a dogma, he can ever vindicate and uphold his own theory of human liberty. On such theistic principles all sin must be simply defect, and all defect must be absolutely fatuitous.' Eclecticism was a beautiful but frail levee, opposed to the swollen tide of skepticism, and, as in every other crevasse when swept away, it only caused the stream to rush on more madly."