"Thank you!"

"Don't be hurt. But you are so cold, so freezing; you chill me."

"Do I? Dr. Hartwell (your Delphic oracle, it seems) says I am as fierce as a tropical tornado."

"I do not understand how you can bear to give up such an enchanting home, and go to hard work, as if you were driven to it from necessity."

"Do not go over all that beaten track again, if you please. It is not my home! I can be just as happy, nay, happier, in my little room."

"I doubt it," said Clara pertinaciously.

Stopping suddenly, and fixing her eyes steadily on her companion, Beulah hastily asked:

"Clara Sanders, why should you care if my guardian and I are separated?"

A burning blush dyed cheek and brow, as Clara drooped her head, and answered:

"Because he is my friend also, and I know that your departure will grieve him."

"You overestimate my worth and his interest. He is a man who lives in a world of his own and needs no society, save such as is afforded in his tasteful and elegant home. He loves books, flowers, music, paintings, and his dog! He is a stern man, and shares his griefs and joys with no one. All this I have told you before."

There was a long silence, broken at last by an exclamation from Beulah:

"Oh! how beautiful! how silent! how solemn! Look down the long dim aisles. It is an oratory where my soul comes to worship! Presently the breeze will rush up from the gulf, and sweep the green organ, and a melancholy chant will swell through these dusky arches. Oh, what are Gothic cathedrals and gilded shrines in comparison with these grand forest temples, where the dome is the bending vault of G.o.d's blue, and the columns are these everlasting pines!" She pointed to a thick clump of pines sloping down to a ravine.

The setting sun threw long quivering rays through the cl.u.s.tering boughs, and the broken beams, piercing the gloom beyond, showed the long aisles as in a "cathedral light."

As Clara looked down the dim glade, and then watched Beulah's parted lips and sparkling eyes, as she stood bending forward with rapturous delight written on every feature, she thought that she had indeed misjudged her in using the epithets "freezing and heartless."

"You are enthusiastic," said she gently.

"How can I help it? I love the grand and beautiful too well to offer a tribute of silent admiration. Oh, my homage is that of a whole heart!"

They reached home in the gloaming, and each retired to her own room.

For a mere trifle Beulah had procured the use of a melodeon, and now, after placing the drooping flowers in water, she sat down before the instrument and poured out the joy of her soul in song.

Sad memories no longer floated like corpses on the sea of the past; grim forebodings crouched among the mists of the future, and she sang song after song, exulting in the gladness of her heart. An a.n.a.lysis of these occasional hours of delight was as impossible as their creation. Sometimes she was conscious of their approach, while gazing up at the starry islets in the boundless lake of azure sky; or when a gorgeous sunset pageant was pa.s.sing away; sometimes from hearing a solemn chant in church, or a witching strain from a favorite opera. Sometimes from viewing dim old pictures; sometimes from reading a sublime pa.s.sage in some old English or German author.

It was a serene elevation of feeling; an unbounded peace; a chastened joyousness, which she was rarely able to a.n.a.lyze, but which isolated her for a time from all surrounding circ.u.mstances.

How long she sang on the present occasion she knew not, and only paused on hearing a heavy sob behind her. Turning round, she saw Clara sitting near, with her face in her hands. Kneeling beside her, Beulah wound her arms around her, and asked earnestly:

"What troubles you, my friend? May I not know?"

Clara dropped her head on Beulah's shoulder, and answered hesitatingly:

"The tones of your voice always sadden me. They are like organ notes, solemn and awful! Yes, awful; and yet very sweet--sweeter than any music I ever heard. Your singing fascinates me, yet, strange as it may seem, it very often makes me weep. There is an unearthliness, a spirituality that affects me singularly."

"I am glad that is all. I was afraid you were distressed about something. Here, take my rocking chair; I am going to read, and, if you like, you may have the benefit of my book."

"Beulah, do put away your books for one night, and let us have a quiet time. Don't study now. Come, sit here, and talk to me."

"Flatterer, do you pretend that you prefer my chattering to the wonderful words of a man who 'talked like an angel'? You must listen to the tale of that 'Ancient Mariner with glittering eye.'"

"Spare me that horrible ghostly story of vessels freighted with staring corpses! Ugh! it curdled the blood in my veins once, and I shut the book in disgust. Don't begin it now, for Heaven's sake!"

"Why, Clara! It is the most thrilling poem in the English language.

Each reperusal fascinates me more and more. It requires a dozen readings to initiate you fully into its weird, supernatural realms."

"Yes; and it is precisely for that reason that I don't choose to hear it. There is quite enough of the grim and hideous in reality without hunting it up in pages of fiction. When I read I desire to relax my mind, not put it on the rack, as your favorite books invariably do. Absolutely, Beulah, after listening to some of your pet authors, I feel as if I had been standing on my head. You need not look so coolly incredulous; it is a positive fact. As for that 'Ancient Mariner' you are so fond of, I am disposed to take the author's own opinion of it, as expressed in those lines addressed to himself."

"I suppose, then, you fancy 'Christabel' as little as the other, seeing that it is a tale of witchcraft. How would you relish that grand anthem to nature's G.o.d, written in the vale of Chamouni?"

"I never read it," answered Clara very quietly.

"What? Never read 'Sibylline Leaves'? Why, I will wager my head that you have pa.r.s.ed from them a thousand times! Never read that magnificent hymn before sunrise, in the midst of glaciers and snow- crowned, cloud-piercing peaks? Listen, then; and if you don't feel like falling upon your knees, you have not a spark of poetry in your soul!"

She drew the lamp close to her, and read aloud. Her finely modulated voice was peculiarly adapted to the task, and her expressive countenance faithfully depicted the contending emotions which filled her mind as she read. Clara listened with pleased interest, and, when the short poem was concluded, said:

"Thank you; it is beautiful. I have often seen extracts from it.

Still, there is a description of Mont Blanc in 'Manfred' which I believe I like quite as well."

"What? That witch fragment?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand 'Manfred.' Here and there are pa.s.sages in cipher. I read and catch a glimpse of hidden meaning; I read again, and it vanishes in mist. It seems to me a poem of symbols, dimly adumbrating truths, which my clouded intellect clutches at in vain.

I have a sort of shadowy belief that 'Astarte,' as in its ancient mythological significance, symbolizes nature. There is a dusky vein of mystery shrouding her, which favors my idea of her as representing the universe. Manfred, with daring hand, tore away that 'Veil of Isis' which no mortal had ever pierced before, and, maddened by the mockery of the stony features, paid the penalty of his sacrilegious rashness, and fled from the temple, striving to shake off the curse. My guardian has a curious print of 'Astarte,'

taken from some European Byronic gallery. I have studied it until almost it seemed to move and speak to me. She is clad in the ghostly drapery of the tomb, just as invoked by Nemesis, with trailing tresses, closed eyes, and folded hands. The features are dim, spectral, yet marvelously beautiful. Almost one might think the eyelids quivered, there is such an air of waking dreaminess. That this is a false and inadequate conception of Byron's 'Astarte' I feel a.s.sured, and trust that I shall yet find the key to this enigma. It interests me greatly, and, by some inexplicable process, whenever I sit pondering the mystery of Astarte, that wonderful creation in 'Shirley' presents itself. Astarte becomes in a trice that 'woman-t.i.tan' Nature, kneeling before the red hills of the west, at her evening prayers. I see her prostrate on the great steps of her altar, praying for a fair night, for mariners at sea, for lambs in moors, and unfledged birds in woods. Her robe of blue air spreads to the outskirts of the heath. A veil, white as an avalanche, sweeps from her head to her feet, and arabesques of lightning flame on its borders. I see her zone, purple, like the horizon; through its blush shines the star of evening. Her forehead has the expanse of a cloud, and is paler than the early moon, risen long before dark gathers. She reclines on the ridge of Stillbro- Moor, her mighty hands are joined beneath it. So kneeling, face to face, 'Nature speaks with G.o.d.' Oh! I would give twenty years of my life to have painted that t.i.tan's portrait. I would rather have been the author of this than have wielded the scepter of Zen.o.bia, in the palmiest days of Palmyra!"

She spoke rapidly, and with white lips that quivered. Clara looked at her wonderingly, and said hesitatingly:

"I don't understand the half of what you have been saying, It sounds to me very much as if you had stumbled into a lumber room of queer ideas; s.n.a.t.c.hed up a handful, all on different subjects, and woven them into a speech as incongruous as Joseph's variegated coat."

There was no reply. Beulah's hands were clasped on the table before her, and she leaned forward with eyes fixed steadily on the floor.

Clara waited a moment, and then continued:

"I never noticed any of the mysteries of 'Manfred' that seem to trouble you so much. I enjoy the fine pa.s.sages, and never think of the hidden meanings, as you call them; whereas it seems you are always plunging about in the dark, hunting you know not what. I am content to glide on the surface, and--"

"And live in the midst of foam and bubbles!" cried Beulah, with a gesture of impatience.

"Better that than grope among subterranean caverns, black and icy, as you are forever doing. You are even getting a weird, unearthly look. Sometimes, when I come in and find you, book in hand, with that far-off expression in your eyes, I really dislike to speak to you. There is no more color in your face and hands than in that wall yonder. You will dig your grave among books, if you don't take care.

There is such a thing as studying too much. Your mind is perpetually at work; all day you are thinking, thinking, thinking; and at night, since the warm weather has made me open the door between our rooms, I hear you talking earnestly and rapidly in your sleep. Last week I came in on tiptoe, and stood a few minutes beside your bed. The moon shone in through the window, and though you were fast asleep, I saw that you tossed your hands restlessly; while I stood there you spoke aloud, in an incoherent manner, of the 'Dream Fugue,' and 'Vision of Sudden Death,' and now and then you frowned, and sighed heavily, as if you were in pain. Music is a relaxation to most people, but it seems to put your thoughts on the rack. You will wear yourself out prematurely if you don't quit this constant studying."

She rose to go, and, glancing up at her, Beulah answered musingly:

"We are very unlike. The things that I love you shrink from as dull and tiresome. I live in a different world. Books are to me what family, and friends, and society are to other people. It may be that the isolation of my life necessitates this. Doubtless, you often find me abstracted. Are you going so soon? I had hoped we should spend a profitable evening, but it has slipped away, and I have done nothing. Good-night." She rose and gave the customary good-night kiss, and, as Clara retired to her own room, Beulah turned up the wick of her lamp and resumed her book. The gorgeous mazes of Coleridge no longer imprisoned her fancy; it wandered mid the silence, and desolation, and sand rivulets of the Thebaid desert; through the date groves of the lonely Laura; through the museums of Alexandria. Over the cool, crystal depths of "Hypatia" her thirsty spirit hung eagerly. In Philammon's intellectual nature she found a startling resemblance to her own. Like him, she had entered a forbidden temple, and learned to question; and the same "insatiable craving to know the mysteries of learning" was impelling her, with irresistible force, out into the world of philosophic inquiry. Hours fled on unnoted; with nervous haste the leaves were turned. The town clock struck three. As she finished the book and laid it on the table she bowed her head upon her hands. She was bewildered. Was Kingsley his own Raphael-Aben-Ezra? or did he heartily believe in the Christianity of which he had given so hideous a portraiture? Her brain whirled, yet there was a great dissatisfaction. She could not contentedly go back to the Laura with Philammon; "Hypatia" was not sufficiently explicit. She was dissatisfied; there was more than this Alexandrian ecstasy to which Hypatia was driven; but where, and how should she find it? Who would guide her? Was not her guardian, in many respects, as skeptical as Raphael himself? Dare she enter, alone and unaided, this Cretan maze of investigation, where all the wonderful lore of the gifted Hypatia had availed nothing? What was her intellect given her for, if not to be thus employed? Her head ached with the intensity of thought, and, as she laid it on her pillow and closed her eyes, day looked out over the eastern sky.

The ensuing week was one of anxious apprehension to all within the city. Harriet's words seemed prophetic; there was every intimation of a sickly season. Yellow fever had made its appearance in several sections of the town in its most malignant type. The board of health devised various schemes for arresting the advancing evil. The streets were powdered with lime and huge fires of tar kept constantly burning, yet daily, hourly, the fatality increased; and, as colossal ruin strode on, the terrified citizens fled in all directions. In ten days the epidemic began to make fearful havoc; all cla.s.ses and ages were a.s.sailed indiscriminately. Whole families were stricken down in a day, and not one member spared to aid the others. The exodus was only limited by impossibility; all who could abandoned their homes and sought safety in flight. These were the fortunate minority; and, as if resolved to wreak its fury on the remainder, the contagion spread into every quarter of the city. Not even physicians were spared; and those who escaped trembled in antic.i.p.ation of the fell stroke. Many doubted that it was yellow fever, and conjectured that the veritable plague had crossed the ocean. Of all Mrs. Hoyt's boarders, but half a dozen determined to hazard remaining in the infected region. These were Beulah, Clara, and four gentlemen. Gladly would Clara have fled to a place of safety, had it been in her power; but there was no one to accompany or watch over her, and as she was forced to witness the horrors of the season a sort of despair seemed to nerve her trembling frame.

Mrs. Watson had been among the first to leave the city. Madam St.

Cymon had disbanded her school; and, as only her three daughters continued to take music lessons, Beulah had ample leisure to contemplate the distressing scenes which surrounded her. At noon, one September day, she stood at the open window of her room. The air was intensely hot; the drooping leaves of the China trees were motionless; there was not a breath of wind stirring; and the sable plumes of the hea.r.s.es were still as their burdens. The brazen, glittering sky seemed a huge glowing furnace, breathing out only scorching heat. Beulah leaned out of the window, and, wiping away the heavy drops that stood on her brow, looked down the almost deserted street. Many of the stores were closed; whilom busy haunts were silent; and very few persons were visible, save the drivers of two hea.r.s.es and of a cart filled with coffins. The church bells tolled unceasingly, and the desolation, the horror, were indescribable, as the sable wings of the Destroyer hung over the doomed city. Out of her ten fellow-graduates, four slept in the cemetery. The night before she had watched beside another, and at dawn saw the limbs stiffen and the eyes grow sightless. Among her former schoolmates the contagion had been particularly fatal, and, fearless of danger, she had nursed two of them. As she stood fanning herself, Clara entered hurriedly, and, sinking into a chair, exclaimed, in accents of terror: