"Are you acquainted with the circumstances of his early life and

ill-fated marriage?" asked Clara, in a low, passionless tone.

"No; he never alluded to his marriage in any way. Long as I lived in

his house there was no mention of his wife's name, and I should

never have known of his marriage but from his sister."

"It was a most unhappy marriage," said Clara musingly.

"So I conjectured from his studious avoidance of all allusion to

it."

"His wife was very, very beautiful; I saw her once when I was a

child," continued Clara.

"Of course she must have been, for he could not love one who was

not."

"She lived but a few months; yet even in that short time they had

become utterly estranged, and she died of a broken heart. There is

some mystery connected with it; they were separated."

"Separated!" cried Beulah in amazement.

"Yes, separated; she died in New Orleans, I believe."

"And yet you profess to love him! A man who broke his wife's heart,"

said Beulah, with a touch of scorn.

"No; you do his noble nature injustice. He is incapable of such a

course. Even a censorious world acquitted him of unkindness."

"And heaped contumely on the unhappy victim, eh?" rejoined Beulah.

"Her conduct was not irreproachable, it has been whispered."

"Aye, whispered by slanderous tongues! Not openly avowed, to admit

of denial and refutation! I wonder the curse of Gomorrah does not

descend on this gossiping, libelous community."

"No one seems to know anything definite about the affair; though I

have often heard it commented upon and wondered over."

"Clara, let it be buried henceforth. Neither you nor I have any

right to discuss and censure what neither of us know anything about.

Dr. Hartwell has been my best and truest friend. I love and honor

him; his faults are his own, and only his Maker has the right to

balance his actions. Once for all, let the subject drop." Beulah

compressed her lips with an expression which her companion very well

understood. Soon after the latter withdrew, and, leaning her arms on

the table near her, Beulah sank into a reverie which was far from

pleasant. Dismissing the unsatisfactory theme of her guardian's

idiosyncrasies, her thoughts immediately reverted to Eugene, and the

revolution which five years had effected in his character.

In the afternoon of the following day she was engaged with her

drawing, when a succession of quick raps at her door forced an

impatient "Come in" from her lips. The door opened, and she rose

involuntarily as the queenly form of Cornelia Graham stood before

her. With a slow, stately tread she approached, and, extending her

hand, said unconcernedly: "I have waived ceremony, you see, and come up to your room."




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