"To see me!" repeated Clara in surprise, while a rosy tinge stole
into her wan face; "to see me! No! It must be you, Beulah."
"He said Miss Sanders," persisted the servant, and Clara left the
room.
Beulah looked after her with an expression of some surprise; then
continued penciling the chords of Sappho's lyre. A few minutes
elapsed, and Clara returned with flushed cheeks and a smile of
trembling joyousness.
"Beulah, do pin my mantle on straight. I am in such a hurry. Only
think how kind Dr. Hartwell is; he has come to take me out to ride;
says I look too pale, and he thinks a ride will benefit me. That
will do, thank you."
She turned away, but Beulah rose and called out: "Come back here and get my velvet mantle. It is quite cool, and it
will be a marvelous piece of management to ride out for your health
and come home with a cold. What! no gloves either! Upon my word,
your thoughts must be traveling over the bridge Shinevad."
"Sure enough; I had forgotten my gloves; I will get them as I go
down. Good-by." With the mantle on her arm she hurried away.
Beulah laid aside her drawing materials and prepared for her
customary evening walk. Her countenance was clouded, her lip
unsteady. Her guardian's studied coldness and avoidance pained her,
but it was not this which saddened her now. She felt that Clara was
staking the happiness of her life on the dim hope that her
attachment would be returned. She pitied the delusion and dreaded
the awakening to a true insight into his nature; to a consciousness
of the utter uncongeniality which, she fancied, barred all thought
of such a union. As she walked on these reflections gave place to
others entirely removed from Clara and her guardian; and, on
reaching the grove of pines opposite the asylum, where she had so
often wandered in days gone by, she paced slowly up and down the
"arched aisles," as she was wont to term them. It was a genuine
October afternoon, cool and sunny. The delicious haze of Indian
summer wrapped every distant object in its soft, purple veil; the
dim vistas of the forest ended in misty depths; the very air, in its
dreamy languor, resembled the atmosphere which surrounded "The mild-eyed, melancholy lotus-eaters"
of the far East. Through the openings, pale, golden poplars shook
down their dying leaves, and here and there along the ravine crimson
maples gleamed against the background of dark green pines. In every
direction bright-colored leaves, painted with "autumnal hectic,"
strewed the bier of the declining year. Beulah sat down on a tuft of
moss, and gathered clusters of golden-rod and purple and white
asters. She loved these wild wood-flowers much more than gaudy
exotics or rare hothouse plants. They linked her with the days of
her childhood, and now each graceful spray of golden-rod seemed a
wand of memory calling up bygone joys, griefs, and fancies. Ah, what
a hallowing glory invests our past, beckoning us back to the haunts
of the olden time! The paths our childish feet trod seem all angel-
guarded and thornless; the songs we sang then sweep the harp of
memory, making magical melody; the words carelessly spoken now
breathe a solemn, mysterious import; and faces that early went down
to the tomb smile on us still with unchanged tenderness. Aye, the
past, the long past, is all fairyland. Where our little feet were
bruised we now see only springing flowers; where childish lips drank
from some Marab verdure and garlands woo us back. Over the rustling
leaves a tiny form glided to Beulah's side; a pure infantine face
with golden curls looked up at her, and a lisping voice of unearthly
sweetness whispered in the autumn air. Here she had often brought
Lilly and filled her baby fingers with asters and goldenrod; and
gathered bright scarlet leaves to please her childish fancy. Bitter
waves had broken over her head since then; shadows had gathered
about her heart. Oh, how far off were the early years! How changed
she was; how different life and the world seemed to her now! The
flowery meadows were behind her, with the vestibule of girlhood, and
now she was a woman, with no ties to link her with any human being;
alone, and dependent only on herself. Verily she might have
exclaimed in the mournful words of Lamb: "All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."