"Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve! Indeed, I can remember
having been half wild with excitement. Yet now it all seems like a
flitting dream." Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.
"Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you," answered Beulah.
"How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?"
"Because it was "All dark and barren as a rainy sea."
"But you never talk about your parents?"
"I love my father's memory. Ah! it is enshrined in my heart's
holiest sanctuary. He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for
him bordered on idolatry."
"And your mother?"
"I knew little of her. She died before I was old enough to remember
much about her."
Her face was full of bitter recollections; her eyes seemed wandering
through some storehouse of sorrows. Clara feared her friend, much as
she loved her, and since the partial discovery of her skepticism she
had rather shunned her society. Now she watched the heavy brow and
deep, piercing eyes uneasily, and, gently withdrawing her arm, she
glided out of the room. The tide of life still swelled through the
streets, and, forcibly casting the load of painful reminiscences
from her, Beulah kept her eyes on the merry faces, and listened to
the gay, careless prattle of the excited children. The stately
rustle of brocaded silk caused her to look up, and Cornelia Graham
greeted her with: "I have come to take you home with me for the holidays."
"I can't go."
"Why not? You cling to this dark garret of yours as if it possessed
all the charms of Vaucluse."
"Diogenes loved his tub, you know," said Beulah quietly.
"An analogous case, truly. But, jesting aside, you must come,
Beulah. Eugene expects you; so do my parents; and, above all, I want
you. Come." Cornelia laid her hand on the girl's shoulders as she
spoke.
"You have been ill again," said Beulah, examining the sallow face.
"Not ill, but I shall be soon, I know. One of my old attacks is
coming on; I feel it; and Beulah, to be honest, which I can with you
(without casting pearls before swine), that very circumstance makes
me want you. I dined out to-day, and have just left the fashionable
crowd to come and ask you to spend the holidays with me. The house
will be gay. Antoinette intends to have a set of tableaux; but it is
probable I shall be confined to my room. Will you give your time to
a cross invalid, for such I certainly am? I would be stretched upon
St. Lawrence's gridiron before I could be brought to say as much to
anybody else. I am not accustomed to ask favors, Beulah; it has been
my habit to grant them. Nevertheless, I want you, and am not too
proud to come after you. Will you come?"