“You know little of what oppresses me.  It is the knowledge of my—­of Antoinette’s indifference which makes the future so joyless, so desolate.  Beulah, this has caused my ruin.  When I stood by Cornelia’s coffin, and recalled her last frantic appeal; when I looked down at her cold face, and remembered her devoted love for her unworthy brother, I vowed never to touch wine again; to absent myself from the associates who had led me to dissipation.  Beulah, I was honest, and intended to reform from that hour.  But Antoinette’s avowed coldness, or, to call it by its proper name, heartless selfishness and fondness for admiration, first disgusted and then maddened me.  I would have gladly spent my evenings quietly, in our elegant home; but she contrived to have it crowded with visitors as soulless and frivolous as herself.  I remonstrated; she was sneering, defiant, and unyielding, and assured me she would ‘amuse’ herself as she thought proper; I followed her example, and went back to the reckless companions who continually beset my path.  I was miserably deceived in Antoinette’s character.  She was very beautiful, and I was blind to her mental, nay, I may as well say it at once, her moral, defects.  I believed she was warmly attached to me, and I loved her most devotedly.  But no sooner were we married than I discovered my blind rashness.  Cornelia warned me; but what man, fascinated by a beautiful girl, ever listened to counsels that opposed his heart?  Antoinette is too intensely selfish to love anything or anybody but herself; she does not even love her child.  Strange as it may seem, she is too entirely engrossed by her weak fondness for display and admiration even to caress her babe.  Except at breakfast and dinner we rarely meet, and then, unless company is present (which is generally the case), our intercourse is studiedly cold.  Do you wonder that I am hopeless in view of a life passed with such a companion?  Oh, that I could blot out the last two years of my existence!”

He groaned, and shaded his face with his hands.

“But, Eugene, probably your reformation and altered course will win you your wife’s love and reverence,” suggested Beulah, anxious to offer some incentive to exertion.

“I know her nature too well to hope that.  A woman who prefers to dance and ride with gentlemen rather than remain in her luxurious home with her babe and her duties, cannot be won from her moth-like life.  No, no!  I despair of happiness from her society and affection, and, if at all, must derive it from other sources.  My child is the one living blossom amidst all my withered hopes.  She is the only treasure I have, except your friendship.  She shall never blush for her father’s degradation.  Henceforth, though an unhappy man, I shall prove myself a temperate one.  I cannot trust my child’s education to Antoinette; she is unworthy the sacred charge; I must fit myself to form her character.  Oh, Beulah, if I could make her such a woman as you are, then I could indeed bear my lot patiently!  I named her Cornelia, but henceforth she shall be called Beulah also, in token of her father’s gratitude to his truest friend.”