"But you will be tired out."

"I shall not mind it." Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy, and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless tread. Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt her babe's pulse, and a.s.sisted in giving the hourly potions, then reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on. Once she offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden.

A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair. Gradually the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that transformed them into mountains of topaz. Pausing by the window, and gazing vacantly out, Beulah's eyes were suddenly riveted on the gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood watching the ma.s.ses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and floating slowly before the wind, until the "King of Day" flashed up and dazzled her. Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a servant, and starting up, exclaimed:

"Bless me! I have been asleep. Beulah, how is Johnny? You must be tired to death."

"He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is not so high. I will take care of him, and you had better take another nap before breakfast."

Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse's injunction, and it was two hours later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her breakfast. But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and, retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair.

Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on her lips; and, too miserable to frame a pet.i.tion, she returned to the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night. Dr.

Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and, without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and walked to the window. While she stood there her eyes fell upon the loved face of her best friend. Eugene Graham was crossing the street. For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she leaned forward to see whether he was coming in. The door bell rang, and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes fastened upon her. Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother's lap, she merely said, "I will be back soon," and, darting down the steps, met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder.

"What is the matter, Beulah? Do tell me," said he anxiously.

Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them.

Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word "brutal" escaped his lips. He endeavored to comfort her by holding out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and his cheering words failed to call up a smile. They stood in the hall near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left the sickroom. Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand.

Beulah's countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning away when the doctor addressed her:

"You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night. I know from your looks that you did not close your eyes."

"I am no worse looking than usual, thank you," she replied icily, drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene. The doctor left them, and, as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely again. Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain.

Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said reprovingly:

"Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell. Politeness costs nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with ordinary civility."

Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor pa.s.sed over her mouth, as she answered meekly:

"I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or speak to me."

"Why, pray?"

"Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see it."

He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest a.s.sured Dr.

Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you.

But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly.

Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book"

in her hand, and drew on his gloves.

"Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer--just a little longer?

It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.

Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and answered hurriedly:

"See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought, and slowly remounted the stairs.

CHAPTER V.

Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed, constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her, but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and while he slept she read. Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man pa.s.ses away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes.

Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page. At length she closed the book, and, pa.s.sing her hand wearily over her eyes, said audibly:

"Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret, and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton!

I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"

"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the doctor.

She started, looked up, and answered slowly:

"No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know."

"What made you think of him?"

"I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured marble, his bones were scattered, n.o.body knows where. I often think of him."

"Why?"

"Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to say, so do not question me."

He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's pulse, pointed to the crib, saying:

"You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep."

"No, I may as well hold him."

"Girl, will you follow my directions?" said he sharply.

Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features. The doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the gla.s.s on the table, put both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse. Her head was averted.

"Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?" She fixed her eyes proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted lips.

"Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at least five years?"

An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of death settled there.

"I am in earnest. He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long time."

She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper:

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure; his pa.s.sage is already engaged in a packet that will sail early next week. What will become of you in his absence?"

The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she fell forward against him.