Three years passed swiftly, unmarked by any incidents of interest,
and one dreary night in December Beulah sat in Dr. Hartwell's study,
wondering what detained him so much, later than usual. The lamp
stood on the tea-table, and the urn awaited the master's return. The
room, with its books, statues, paintings, and melodeon, was
unaltered, but time had materially changed the appearance of the
orphan. She had grown tall, and the mazarine blue merino dress
fitted the slender form with scrupulous exactness. The luxuriant
black hair was combed straight back from the face, and wound into a
circular knot, which covered the entire back of the head, and gave a
classical outline to the whole. The eyelashes were longer and
darker, the complexion had lost its sickly hue, and, though there
was no bloom on the cheeks, they were clear and white. I have spoken
before of the singular conformation of the massive brow, and now the
style in which she wore her hair fully exposed the outline. The
large gray eyes had lost their look of bitterness, but more than
ever they were grave, earnest, restless, and searching; indexing a
stormy soul. The whole countenance betokened that rare combination
of mental endowments, that habitual train of deep, concentrated
thought, mingled with somewhat dark passion, which characterizes the
eagerly inquiring mind that struggles to lift itself far above
common utilitarian themes. The placid element was as wanting in her
physiognomy as in her character, and even the lines of the mouth
gave evidence of strength and restlessness, rather than peace.
Before her lay a book on geometry, and, engrossed by study, she was
unobservant of Dr. Hartwell's entrance. Walking up to the grate, he
warmed his fingers, and then, with his hands behind him, stood still
on the rug, regarding his protegee attentively. He looked precisely
as he had done more than three years before, when he waited at Mrs.
Martin's, watching little Johnny and his nurse. The colorless face
seemed as if chiseled out of ivory, and stern gravity, blended with
bitterness, was enthroned on the lofty, unfurrowed brow. He looked
at the girl intently, as he would have watched a patient to whom he
had administered a dubious medicine and felt some curiosity
concerning the result.
"Beulah, put up your book and make the tea, will you?"
She started up, and, seating herself before the urn, said joyfully: "Good-evening! I did not know you had come home. You look cold,
sir."
"Yes, it is deucedly cold; and, to mend the matter, Mazeppa must
needs slip on the ice in the gutter and lame himself. Knew, too, I
should want him again to-night." He drew a chair to the table and
received his tea from her hand, for it was one of his whims to
dismiss Mrs. Watson and the servants at this meal, and have only
Beulah present.