The day was dull, misty, and gusty. All the morning there had been a
driving southeasterly rain; but toward noon there was a lull. The
afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense clouds
drifted before the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from his
round of evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the asylum to see a
sick child, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother. Beulah
came home from school more than usually fatigued; one of the
assistant teachers was indisposed, and she had done double work to
relieve her. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an
article she had promised to complete before the end of the week.
Her head ached; the lines grew dim, and she laid aside her manuscript
and leaned her face on her palms. The beautiful lashes lay against
her brow, for the eyes were raised to the portrait above her desk,
and she gazed up at the faultless features with an expression of sad
hopelessness. Years had not filled the void in her heart with other
treasures. At this hour it ached with its own desolation, and,
extending her arms imploringly toward the picture, she exclaimed
sorrowfully: "O my God, how long must I wait? Oh, how long!"
She opened the desk, and, taking out a key, left her room and slowly
ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her.
She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given into her
charge some time before, and, raising one of the windows, looped
back the heavy blue curtains which gave a somber hue to all within.
From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters
of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse
muttering as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of
the tempest. Gray clouds hung low, and scudded northward: everything
looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced
around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come
here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly.
Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with,
and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The
house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the
lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven
or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one
note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a
favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after
seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her
trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old
days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had
overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images
around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her
grief.