CHAPTER XXXI.

BEULAH WEARIED-HER AMBITION FOR FAME-DR. HARTWELL FINDS HER IN A NERVOUS FEVER-HE PROPOSES AND IS AGAIN REJECTED—'CHASING A PAINTED SPECTRE'PARTING FOR EVER.

IME, "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 28 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 splendours 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 new-born foliage, the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of rainbow, in the neighbouring gardens; and the faint, sweet odor of violet, jasmin, roses and honey-suckle, burdening the air. Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her-a volume of Ruskin; 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 pine-tops 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 wisteria 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 labour. 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

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mystery that she looked ill and spent. Now, as she sat watching the silver crescent glittering in the west, 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!"

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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 labours, 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 I 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 lonely rocky home. Beulah, you need rest. body and heart. But you will not take it;

you won't!"

an eagle from its Rest for mind, oh, no, of course

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 any one 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! Rest your lonely heart, my proud darling." "Impossible. Do not ask it. I cannot. I cannot," cried

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.

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'Beulah, I have seen sunlight 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 are young, and impulsive, and aspiring, and Fame beckons you on, like the syren 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 spectre, 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 into 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, or 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 I 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