"German proficiency is not the question, sir."

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, pa.s.sing his fingers through his hair, replied:

"You intend to annihilate that plebeian project of his, then?"

"His own will must govern him, sir; over that I have no power."

"Still you will use your influence in favor of a learned profession?"

"Yes, sir; if I have any."

"Take care your ambitious pride does not ruin you both. There is the buggy. Be so good as to give me my fur gauntlets out of the drawer of my desk. That will do; come."

The ride was rather silent. Beulah spoke several times, but was answered in a manner which informed her that her guardian was in a gloomy mood and did not choose to talk. He was to her as inexplicable as ever. She felt that the barrier which divided them, instead of melting away with long and intimate acquaintance, had strengthened and grown impenetrable. Kind but taciturn, she knew little of his opinions on any of the great questions which began to agitate her own mind. For rather more than three years they had spent their evenings together; she in studying, he in reading or writing. Of his past life she knew absolutely nothing, for no unguarded allusion to it ever escaped his lips. As long as she had lived in his house, he had never mentioned his wife's name, and but for his sister's words she would have been utterly ignorant of his marriage. Whether the omission was studied, or merely the result of abstraction, she could only surmise. Once, when sitting around the fire, a piece of c.r.a.pe fell upon the hearth from the shrouded portrait. He stooped down, picked it up, and, without glancing at the picture, threw the fragment into the grate. She longed to see the covered face, but dared not unfasten the sable folds, which had grown rusty with age. Sometimes she fancied her presence annoyed him; but if she absented herself at all during the evening he invariably inquired the cause. He had most scrupulously avoided all reference to matters of faith; she had endeavored several times to direct the conversation to religious topics, but he adroitly eluded her efforts, and abstained from any such discussion; and though on Sabbath she generally accompanied Mrs. Watson to church, he never alluded to it. Occasionally, when more than ordinarily fatigued by the labors of the day, he had permitted her to read aloud to him from some of his favorite volumes, and these brief glimpses had given her an intense longing to pursue the same paths of investigation. She revered and admired him; nay, she loved him; but it was more earnest grat.i.tude than genuine affection. Love casteth out fear, and most certainly she feared him. She had entered her seventeenth year, and, feeling that she was no longer a child, her pride sometimes rebelled at the calm, commanding manner he maintained toward her.

They found Clara kneeling beside her insensible grandfather, while two or three middle-aged ladies sat near the hearth, talking in undertones. Beulah put her arms tenderly around her friend ere she was aware of her presence, and the cry of blended woe and gladness with which Clara threw herself on Beulah's bosom told her how well- timed that presence was. Three years of teaching and care had worn the slight young form, and given a troubled, strained, weary look to the fair face. Thin, pale, and tearful, she clung to Beulah, and asked, in broken accents, what would become of her when the aged sleeper was no more.

"Our good G.o.d remains to you, Clara. I was a shorn lamb, and he tempered the winds for me. I was very miserable, but he did not forsake me."

Clara looked at the tall form of the physician, and, while her eyes rested upon him with a species of fascination, she murmured:

"Yes, you have been blessed indeed! You have him. He guards and cares for your happiness; but I, oh, I am alone!"

"You told me he had promised to be your friend. Best a.s.sured he will prove himself such," answered Beulah, watching Clara's countenance as she spoke.

"Yes, I know; but--" She paused, and averted her head, for just then he drew near and said gravely:

"Beulah, take Miss Clara to her own room, and persuade her to rest.

I shall remain probably all night; at least until some change takes place."

"Don't send me away," pleaded Clara mournfully.

"Go, Beulah; it is for her own good." She saw that he was unrelenting, and complied without opposition. In the seclusion of her room she indulged in a pa.s.sionate burst of grief, and, thinking it was best thus vented, Beulah paced up and down the floor, listening now to the convulsive sobs, and now to the rain which pelted the window-panes. She was two years younger than her companion, yet felt that she was immeasurably stronger. Often during their acquaintance a painful suspicion had crossed her mind; as often she had banished it, but now it haunted her with a pertinacity which she could not subdue. While her feet trod the chamber floor, memory trod the chambers of the past, and gathered up every link which could strengthen the chain of evidence. Gradually dim conjecture became sad conviction, and she was conscious of a degree of pain and sorrow for which she could not readily account. If Clara loved Dr. Hartwell, why should it grieve her? Her step grew nervously rapid, and the eyes settled upon the carpet with a fixedness of which she was unconscious. Suppose he was double her age, if Clara loved him notwithstanding, what business was it of hers? Besides, no one would dream of the actual disparity in years, for he was a very handsome man, and certainly did not look more than ten years older. True, Clara was not very intellectual, and he was particularly fond of literary pursuits; but had not she heard him say that it was a singular fact in anthropology that men selected their opposites for wives? She did not believe her guardian ever thought of Clara save when in her presence. But how did she know anything about his thoughts and fancies, his likes and dislikes? He had never even spoken of his marriage--was it probable that the subject of a second love would have escaped him? All this pa.s.sed rapidly in her mind, and when Clara called her to sit down on the couch beside her, she started as from a painful dream. While her friend talked sadly of the future, Beulah a.n.a.lyzed her features, and came to the conclusion that it would be a very easy matter to love her; the face was so sweet and gentle, the manner so graceful, the tone so musical and winning. Absorbed in thought, neither noted the lapse of time. Midnight pa.s.sed; two o'clock came; and then at three a knock startled the watchers. Clara sprang to the door; Dr.

Hartwell pointed to the sickroom, and said gently:

"He has ceased to suffer. He is at rest."

She looked at him vacantly an instant, and whispered, under her breath: "He is not dead?"

He did not reply, and, with a frightened expression, she glided into the chamber of death, calling piteously on the sleeper to come back and shield her. Beulah would have followed, but the doctor detained her.

"Not yet, child. Not yet."

As if unconscious of the act, he pa.s.sed his arm around her shoulders, and drew her close to him. She looked up in astonishment, but his eyes were fixed on the kneeling figure in the room opposite, and she saw that, just then, he was thinking of anything else than her presence.

"Are you going home now, sir?"

"Yes; but you must stay with that poor girl yonder. Can't you prevail on her to come and spend a few days with you?"

"I rather think not," answered Beulah, resolved not to try.

"You look pale, my child. Watching is not good for you. It is a long time since you have seen death. Strange that people will not see it as it is. Pa.s.sing strange."

"What do you mean?" said she, striving to interpret the smile that wreathed his lips.

"You will not believe if I tell you. 'Life is but the germ of Death, and Death the development of a higher Life.'"

"Higher in the sense of heavenly immortality?"

"You may call it heavenly if you choose. Stay here till the funeral is over, and I will send for you. Are you worn out, child?" He had withdrawn his arm, and now looked anxiously at her colorless face.

"No, sir."

"Then why are you so very pale?"

"Did you ever see me, sir, when I was anything else?"

"I have seen you look less ghostly. Good-by." He left the house without even shaking hands.

The day which succeeded was very gloomy, and, after the funeral rites had been performed, and the second day looked in, Beulah's heart rejoiced at the prospect of returning home. Clara shrank from the thought of being left alone, the little cottage was so desolate.

She would give it up now, of course, and find a cheap boarding house; but the furniture must be rubbed and sent down to an auction room, and she dreaded the separation from all the objects which linked her with the past.

"Clara, I have been commissioned to invite you to spend several days with me, until you can select a boarding house. Dr. Hartwell will be glad to have you come."

"Did he say so?" asked the mourner, shading her face with her hand.

"He told me I must bring you home with me," answered Beulah.

"Oh, how good, how n.o.ble he is! Beulah, you are lucky, lucky indeed." She dropped her head on her arms.

"Clara, I believe there is less difference in our positions than you seem to imagine. We are both orphans, and in about a year I too shall be a teacher. Dr. Hartwell is my guardian and protector, but he will be a kind friend to you also."

"Beulah, you are mad to dream of leaving him and turning teacher! I am older than you, and have traveled over the very track that you are so eager to set out upon. Oh, take my advice; stay where you are! Would you leave summer sunshine for the icebergs of Arctic night? Silly girl, appreciate your good fortune."

"Can it be possible, Clara, that you are fainting so soon? Where are all your firm resolves? If it is your duty, what matter the difficulties?" She looked down pityingly on her companion, as in olden time one of the athletae might have done upon a drooping comrade.

"Necessity knows no conditions, Beulah. I have no alternative but to labor in that horrible treadmill round, day after day. You are more fortunate; can have a home of elegance, luxury, and--"

"And dependence! Would you be willing to change places with me, and indolently wait for others to maintain you?" interrupted Beulah, looking keenly at the wan, yet lovely, face before her.

"Ah, gladly, if I had been selected as you were. Once I too felt hopeful and joyous; but now life is dreary, almost a burden. Be warned, Beulah; don't suffer your haughty spirit to make you reject the offered home that may be yours."

There was a strong approach to contempt in the expression with which Beulah regarded her, as the last words were uttered, and she answered coldly:

"You are less a woman than I thought you, if you would be willing to live on the bounty of others when a little activity would enable you to support yourself."

"Ah, Beulah! it is not only the bread you eat, or the clothes that you wear; it is sympathy and kindness, love and watchfulness. It is this that a woman wants. Oh, was her heart made, think you, to be filled with grammars and geographies and copy-books? Can the feeling that you are independent and doing your duty satisfy the longing for other idols? Oh, Duty is an icy shadow! It will freeze you. It cannot fill the heart's sanctuary. Woman was intended as a pet plant, to be guarded and cherished; isolated and uncared for, she droops, languishes, and dies." Ah! the dew-sparkle had exhaled and the morning glory had vanished; the noontide heat of the conflict was creeping on, and she was sinking down, impotent to continue the struggle.

"Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly geranium, I know better. If you have concluded that you belong to that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain pa.s.sive and suffer others to minister to its needs? Don't talk to me about woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don't want to hear it; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like one of those old pine trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself; battle with wind and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a woman bemoaning the weakness of her s.e.x, instead of showing that she has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none."