Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Masterful Style of Proposal
By Augusta Jane Evans (1835–1909)T
“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 sombre 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. She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe, rigid and woful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless seas, driving lonely barks down to ruin, and strewing the main with ghastly upturned faces. She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark hour of trial, and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that clustered about her. Then there came other sounds: Charon’s shrill, frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features, but Charon’s paws were on the shoulders, and his whine of delight ceased not. He fell down at his master’s feet and caressed them. Beulah looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her arms, with a wild, joyful cry:
“Come at last! Oh, thank God! Come at last!” Her face was radiant, her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.
Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to him, and her extended arms trembled: still he did not move, did not speak.
“Oh, I knew you would come; and, thank God, now you are here. Come home at last!”
She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck, and laid her head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the embrace, but looked down at the beaming face, and sighed; then he put his hand softly on her head, and smoothed the rippling hair. A brilliant smile broke over her features, as she felt the remembered touch of his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated in the low tones of deep gladness:
“I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me!”
“How did you know it, child?” he said, for the first time.
Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so longed to hear, and she answered, tremblingly:
“Because for weary years I have prayed for your return. Oh, only God knows how fervently I prayed; and He has heard me.”
She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her, clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her, and bending his head, kissed her passionately. Suddenly his arms relaxed their clasp; holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and said:
“Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you belong to that tyrant, Guy Hartwell? Quick, child, decide.”
“I have decided,” said she. Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.
“Well!”
“Well, if I am to have a tyrant, I believe I prefer belonging to you.”
He frowned. She smiled and looked up at him.
“Beulah, I don’t want a grateful wife. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung opposite. He drew back a step, and she saw the blood leave his lips, as he gazed upon it. Lifting his hand, he said sternly:
“Ah, what pale spectres that face calls up from the grim, gray ruins of memory! Doubtless you know my miserable history. I married her thinking I had won her love. She soon undeceived me. We separated. I once asked you to be my wife, and you told me you would rather die. Child, years have not dealt lightly with me since then. I am no longer a young man. Look here.” He threw off his hat, and passing his fingers through his curling hair, she saw, here and there, streaks of silver. He watched her as she noted it. She saw, too, how haggard he looked, now that the light fell full on his pale face. The splendid, dark eyes were unaltered, and as they looked down into hers, tears gathered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and throwing her arms again round his neck, she laid her face on his shoulder.
“Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you pity me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness? Answer me, Beulah.”
“Because you are my all.”
“How long have I been your all?”
“Oh, longer than I knew myself!” was the evasive reply.
He tried to look at her, but she pressed her face close to his shoulder, and would not suffer it.
“Beulah.”
“Sir.”
“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me, child! I want to know the truth, and you will not satisfy me.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified ambition cannot make you happy? Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Better than teaching school, and writing learned articles?”
“Rather better, I believe, sir.”
“Beulah.”
“Well, sir.”
“You have changed in many things, since we parted, nearly six years ago.”
“Yes, I thank God, I am changed. My infidelity was a source of many sorrows; but the clouds have passed from my mind; I have found the truth in Holy Writ.” Now she raised her head, and looked at him very earnestly.
“Child, does your faith make you happy?”
“Yes, the universe could not purchase it,” she answered solemnly.
There was a brief silence. He put both hands on her shoulders, and stooping down, kissed her brow.
“And you prayed for me, Beulah?”
“Yes, evening and morning. Prayed that you might be shielded from all dangers, and brought safely home. And there was one other thing which I prayed for not less fervently than for your return: that God would melt your hard, bitter heart, and give you a knowledge of the truth of the Christian religion. Oh, sir, I thought sometimes that possibly you might die in a far-off land, and then I should see you no more, in time or eternity! and oh, the thought nearly drove me wild! My guardian, my all, let me not have prayed in vain.” She clasped his hand in hers, and looked up pleadingly into the loved face; and, for the first time in her life, she saw tears glistening in the burning eyes. He said nothing, however; took her face in his hands, and scanned it earnestly, as if reading all that had passed during his long absence. Presently he asked:
“So you would not marry Lindsay, and go to Congress. Why not?”
“Who told you anything about him?”
“No matter. Why did not you marry him?”
“Because I did not love him.”
“He is a noble-hearted, generous man.”
“Yes, very; I do not know his superior.”
“What?”
“I mean what I say,” said she, firmly.
He smiled, one of his genial, irresistible smiles; and she smiled also, despite herself. “Give me your hand, Beulah.”
She did so very quietly.
“There—is it mine?”
“Yes, sir, if you want it.”
“And may I claim it as soon as I choose?”
“Yes, sir.”
She had never seen him look as he did then. His face kindled, as if in a broad flash of light; the eyes dazzled her, and she turned her face away, as he drew her once more to his bosom, and exclaimed:
“At last, then, after years of sorrow, and pain, and bitterness, I shall be happy in my own home; shall have a wife, a companion, who loves me for myself alone. Ah, Beulah, my idol, I will make you happy!”