One afternoon in October the indisposition of one of her music
pupils released Beulah earlier than usual, and she determined to
seize this opportunity and visit the asylum. Of the walk across the
common she never wearied; the grass had grown brown, and, save the
deep, changeless green of the ancient pines, only the hectic
coloring of the dying year met her eye. The day was cool and windy,
and the common presented a scene of boisterous confusion, which she
paused to contemplate. A number of boys had collected to play their
favorite games; balls flew in every direction and merry shouts rang
cheerily through the air. She looked on a few moments at their
careless, happy sports, and resumed her walk, feeling that their
joyousness was certainly contagious, she was so much lighter-hearted
from having watched their beaming faces and listened to their
ringing laughter.
As she drew near the asylum gate memory began to pass its fingers
over her heart; but here, too, sounds of gladness met her. The
orphans were assembled on the lawn in front of the building,
chatting as cheerfully as though they were all members of one
family. The little ones trundled hoops and chased each other up and
down the graveled walks; some of the boys tossed their balls, and a
few of the larger girls were tying up chrysanthemums to slender
stakes. They were dressed alike; all looked contented, neat, and
happy, and their rosy faces presented a noble tribute to the
efficacy and untold blessings of the institution. To many of them
Beulah was well known. She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and
assisted the girls in their work among the flowers, while the little
ones gathered around her, lisping their childish welcome and coaxing
her to join in their innocent games. The stately China trees, where,
in years gone by, Lilly and Claudy had watched the chirping robins,
were again clad in their rich, golden livery; and, as Beulah looked
up at the red brick walls that had sheltered her head in the early
days of orphanage, it seemed but yesterday that she trod these walks
and listened to the wintry wind sighing through these same loved
trees. The children told her that their matron had been sick and was
not yet quite well, and, needing no pilot, Beulah went through the
house in search of her. She found her at last in the storeroom,
giving out materials for the evening meal, and had an opportunity of
observing the change which had taken place in the last few months.
She was pale and thin, and her sharpened features wore a depressed,
weary expression; but, turning round, she perceived Beulah, and a
glad smile broke instantly over her countenance as she clasped the
girl's hand in both hers.
"Dear child, I have looked for you a long time. I did not think you
would wait so many weeks. Come in and sit down."
"I did not know you had been sick until I came and heard the
children speak of it. You should have sent met word. I see you have
not entirely recovered."
"No; I am quite feeble yet; but, in time, I hope I shall be well
again. Ah, Beulah, I have wanted to see you so much! so much! Child,
it seems to me I shall never get used to being separated from you."
Beulah sat on the sofa near her, and the matron's withered hands
were passed caressingly over the glossy bands of hair which lay on
the orphan's white temples.
"I love to come here occasionally; it does me good. But not too
often; that would be painful, you know."
Beulah spoke in a subdned voice, while memory painted the evening
when Eugene had sought her in this apartment and wiped away her
tears for Lilly's absence. Her features twitched as she thought of
the bitter changes that rolling years work, and she sighed
unconsciously. The matron's hands were still smoothing her hair, and
presently she said, with an anxious, scrutinizing look:
"Have you been sick since you were here last?"
"No. What makes you imagine such a thing?"
"Dear child, I do not imagine; I know you look worn and ill. Why,
Beulah, hold up your hand; there, see how transparent it is! Almost
like wax! Something ails you, child; that I know well enough."
"No, I assure you, I am not ill. Sometimes, of late, I have been
troubled with the old headaches you used to cure when I was a child;
but, on the whole, I am well."
"Beulah, they tell me Eugene is married," said the kind-hearted
woman, with another look at the quiet face beside her.
"Yes; he was married nearly five months ago." A tremor passed over
her lips as she spoke.
"Did you see his wife?"
"Yes; she is a very pretty woman. I may say, a beautiful woman; but
she does not suit him. At least, I am afraid she will not."
"Ah, I knew as much! I thought as much!" cried Mrs. Williams.
"Why?" asked Beulah wonderingly.
"Oh, money cloaks all faults, child. I knew he did not marry her for
love!"
Beulah started a little, and said hastily:
"You do him injustice--great injustice! Eugene was charmed by her
beauty, not her fortune?"
"Oh, heiresses are always beautiful and charming in the eyes of the
world! Beulah, do you know that I watched for Eugene, for days, and
weeks, and months after his return from Europe? I wanted to see him-
-oh, so much! I loved you both as though you were my own children. I
was so proud of that boy! I had raised him from a crawling infant,
and never dreamed that he would forget me. But he did not come. I
have not seen him since he left, six years ago, for Germany. Oh, the
boy has pained me--pained me! I loved him so much!"
Beulah's brow clouded heavily, as she said:
"It is better so--better that you should not see him. He is not what
he was when he quitted us."
"Is it true, then, that he drinks--that he is wild and dissipated? I
heard it once, but would not believe it. Oh, it can't be that Eugene
drinks?"
"Yes, he drinks--not to stupid intoxication, but too freely for his
health and character. He does not look like himself now."
Mrs. Williams bowed down her head and wept bitterly, while Beulah
continued sorrowfully:
"His adoption was his ruin. Had he remained dependent on his
individual exertions he would have grown up an honor to himself and
his friends. But Mr. Graham is considered very wealthy, and Eugene
weakly desisted from the honest labor which was his duty. His
fashionable associates have ruined him. In Europe he learned to
drink, and here his companions dragged him constantly into scenes of
dissipation. But I do not despair of him yet. It may be long before
he awakens from this infatuation; but I trust he will yet reform. I
cannot bear to think of him as a confirmed drunkard! Oh, no! no! I
may be wrong, but I still hope that his nobler nature will conquer."
"God help the boy! I have prayed for him for years, and I shall pray
for him still, though he has forgotten me."
She sobbed, and covered her face with her apron. A joyless smile
flitted over Beulah's fixed, grave features, as she said
encouragingly:
"He will come to see you when he returns from the North. He has not
forgotten you--that is impossible. Like me, he owes you too much."
"I shall leave here very soon," said Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes.
"Leave the asylum! for what?"
"I am getting old, child, and my health is none of the best. The
duties are very heavy here, and I am not willing to occupy the
position unless I could discharge all the duties faithfully. I have
sent in my resignation to the managers, and as soon as they succeed
in getting another matron, I shall leave the asylum. I am sorry to
be obliged to go; I have been here so long that I am very much
attached to the place and the children. But I am not able to do what
I have done, and I know it is right that I should give up the
position."
"What are you going to do?"
"I have means enough to live plainly the remainder of my life. I
intend to rent or buy a small house, and settle down and be quiet. I
feel now as if I should like to spend my days in peace."
"Do you intend to live alone?"
"Yes, child; except a servant, I suppose I shall be quite alone. But
you will come to see me often, and perhaps Eugene will remember me
some day, when he is in trouble."
"No, I shall not come to see you at all! I mean to come and live
with you--that is, if I may?" cried Beulah, springing up and laying
her hand on the matron's.
"God bless you, dear child; how glad I shall be!" She wound her arms
round the slender form, and laughed through her tears.
Beulah gently put back the gray locks that had fallen from the
border of her cap, and said hopefully:
"I am sick of boarding--sick of town! Let us get a nice little
house, where I can walk in and out to my school. Have you selected
any particular place?"
"No. I have looked at two or three, but none suited me exactly. Now
you can help me. I am so thankful you are going to be with me! Will
you come as soon as I can be released here?"
"Yes; just as soon as you are ready for me; and I think I know a
house for rent which will just suit us. Now I want it understood
that I am to pay the rent."
"Oh, no, child! I won't hear to it, for I am--"
"Very well, then; I will stay where I am."
"Oh, Beulah! you are not in earnest?"
"Yes, I am; so say no more about it. I will come on no other
condition. I will see the owner of the house, ascertain what I can
obtain it for, and send you word. Then you can look at it and
decide."
"I am quite willing to trust it to you, child; only I can't bear the
thought of your paying the rent for it. But we can arrange that
afterward."
"No; you must be perfectly satisfied with the house. I will go by
this evening and find out about it, so as to let you know at once.
Have you any idea when the 'board' will procure another matron?"
"They have advertised, and several persons applied, I believe, but
they were not exactly pleased with the applicants. I suppose,
however, that in a few days they will find a substitute for me."
"Well, be sure you get a good servant; and now I must go."
She put on her bonnet and shawl with unwonted haste, and ran down
the steps. In her frequent walks she had noticed two cottages in
course of erection, not very far from the pine grove in front of the
asylum, and now, crossing the common, she directed her steps toward
them. The lots were small, and belonged to Dr. Asbury, who said he
would build a couple of cottages for poor families to rent at cheap
rates. As Beulah approached the houses she saw the doctor's buggy
standing near the door, and, thinking it a good omen, quickened her
steps. Each building contained only three rooms and a hall, with a
gallery or rather portico in front. They were genuine cottages
ornes, built after Downing's plans, and presented a tasteful,
inviting appearance. The windows were arched and the woodwork
elaborately carved. Beulah pushed open the freshly painted gate, ran
up the steps and into the hall. The carpenters were still at work in
the kitchen, and, as she conjectured, here she found her friend,
giving some final directions. She looked round the snug little
kitchen, and, walking up to Dr. Asbury, who stood with his back to
the door, she shook his hand with a cheerful salutation.
"Halloo, Beulah! where did you drop from? Glad to see you. Glad to
see you. How came you prying into my new houses? Answer me that! Did
you see my spouse as you came through the hall?"
"No; I will go back and hunt for her--"
"You need not; there she comes down the steps of the house. She
would insist on seeing about some shelves for this precious kitchen;
thinks I am bound to put pantries, and closets, and shelves all over
the house, for my future tenants. I suppose before the first poor
family takes possession I shall be expected to fill the closet with
table linen and cutlery, and the larder with sugar, flour, and wax
candles. Look here, Mrs. Asbury, how many more shelves is this
kitchen to have?"
"It is well she has a conscience, sir, since nature denied you one,"
answered Beulah, whom Mrs. Asbury received very affectionately.
"Conscience! Bless my soul! she has none, as regards my unlucky
purse. Positively she wanted to know, just now, if I would not have
that little patch of ground between the house and the paling laid
off into beds; and if I would not plant a few rose bushes and vines,
for the first rascally set of children to tear up by the roots, just
as soon as their parents moved in. There's conscience for you with a
vengeance."
"And what did you say, sir?"
"What did I say? Why, just what every other meek husband says to
appeals which 'won't cost much, you know.' Of course I had no
opinion of my own. Madame, here, is infallible; so I am put down for
maybe a hundred dollars more. You need not have asked the result,
you true daughter of Eve; every one of you understand wheedling.
Those two mischievous imps of mine are almost as great adepts as
their mother. Hey, Beulah, no whispering there! You look as wise as
an owl. What am I to do next? Paper the walls and fresco the
ceilings? Out with it."
"I want to ask, sir, how much rent your conscience will allow you to
demand for this pigeon-box of a house?"
"Well, I had an idea of asking two hundred dollars for it. Cheap
enough at that. You may have it for two hundred," said he, with a
good-humored nod toward Beulah.
"Very well, I will take it at that, provided Mrs. Williams likes it
as well as I do. In a day or two I will determine."
"In the name of common sense, Beulah, what freak is this?" said the
doctor, looking at her with astonishment.
"I am going to live with the matron of the asylum, whom you know
very well. I think this house will suit us exactly, and the rent
suits my purse far better than a larger building would. I am tired
of boarding. I want a little home of my own, where, when the labors
of school are over, I can feel at ease. The walk twice a day will
benefit me, I feel assured. You need not look so dismal and
perplexed; I will make a capital tenant. Your door-facings shan't be
pencil-marked; your windows shan't be broken, nor your gate swung
off its hinges. As for those flowers you are so anxious to plant,
and that patch of ground you are so much interested in, it shall
blossom like the plain of Sharon."
He looked at her wistfully; took off his spectacles, wiped them with
the end of his coat, and said dubiously:
"What does Hartwell think of this project?"
"I have not consulted him."
"The plain English of which is that, whether he approves or
condemns, you are determined to carry out this new plan? Take care,
Beulah; remember the old adage about 'cutting off your nose to spite
your face.'"
"Rather malapropos. Dr. Asbury," said she indifferently.
"I am an old man, Beulah, and know something of life and the world."
"Nay, George; why dissuade her from this plan? If she prefers this
quiet little home to the cenfinement and bustle of a boarding house,
if she thinks she would be happier here with Mrs. Williams than in
the heart of the city, why should not she come? Suffer her to judge
for herself. I am disposed to applaud her choice," interrupted Mrs.
Asbury.
"Alice, do you suppose she will be satisfied to bury herself out
here, with an infirm old woman for a companion? Here she must have
an early breakfast, trudge through rain and cold into town; teach
stupid little brats till evening; then listen to others equally
stupid; thrum over music lessons, and, at last, tired out, drag
herself back here about dark, when it is too late to see whether her
garden is a cotton patch or a peach orchard! Will you please to tell
me what enjoyment there is for one of her temperament in such a
treadmill existence?"
"Your picture is all shadow. George; and, even if it were not, she
is the best judge of what will promote her happiness. Do not
discourage her. Ah, humble as the place is, I know how her heart
aches for a spot she can call 'home.' These three rooms will be a
haven of rest for her when the day is done. My dear Beulah, I trust
you may be very happy here, or wherever you decide to live; you
deserve to be."
"Thank you, madam, for your friendly sympathy. I am glad you approve
my design."
"Well, well; if you soon weary of this freak you can easily give up
the house, that is all. Now, Beulah, if you determine to take it,
rest assured I will gladly make any additions or alterations you may
suggest. I dare say I shall like you for a tenant. But see here,
Mrs. Asbury, I have patients to look after. Please to remember that
I am a professional character, consequently can call no moment my
own. What! another row of shelves round that side? This building
houses for rent is a ruinous speculation! Come, it is too late now
to go over the rooms again; to-morrow will do as well. Beulah, are
you going to play cook, too?"
"No, indeed! Mrs. Williams will find us a servant. Good-by. I will
decide about the house as soon as possible."
The following day she dispatched a note to the matron with
information concerning the house; and at the close of the week all
arrangements were completed, so that they might take possession as
soon as a new matron was secured. Thus the last of October glided
swiftly away, and one cold, clear day in November Beulah was
notified that Mrs. Williams was comfortably settled in the new home.
She went to school as usual, and when the recitations were ended,
started out with a glad heart and springing step. In half an hour
she reached the little white gate, and found Mrs. Williams waiting
there to welcome her. Everything was new and neat; the tastefully
selected carpets were not tapestry, but cheap ingrain; the snowy
curtains were of plain dimity, with rose-colored borders, and the
tea table held, instead of costly Sevres, simple white china, with a
band of gilt. A bright fire crackled and glowed in the chimney, and,
as Beulah stood on the hearth and glanced round the comfortable
little room, which was to be both parlor and dining room, she felt
her heart thrill with delight, and exclaimed:
"This is home! at last I feel that I have a home of my own. Not the
Rothschilds, in their palaces, are so happy as I!"
For years she had been a wanderer, with no hearthstone, and now, for
the first time since her father's death she was at home. Not the
home of adoption; nor the cheerless room of a boarding house, but
the humble home which labor and rigid economy had earned for her.
Her heart bounded with joy; an unwonted glow suffused her cheeks,
and her parted lips trembled. The evening passed quickly, and when
she retired to her own room she was surprised to find a handsome
rosewood bookcase and desk occupying one corner. She opened the
glass doors and saw her books carefully arranged on the shelves.
Could her guardian have sent it? No; since her refusal of the watch,
she felt sure he would not have offered it. A small note lay on the
shelf, and, recognizing the delicate handwriting, she read the
lines, containing these words:
"BEULAH: Accept the accompanying case and desk as a slight testimony
of the affection of
"Your sincere friend,
"ALICE ASBURY."
Tears sprang into her eyes as she opened the desk and discovered an
elegant pen and pencil and every convenience connected with writing.
Turning away, she saw beside the fire a large, deep easy-chair,
cushioned with purple morocco, and knew it was exactly like one she
had often seen in Dr. Asbury's library. On the back was pinned a
narrow slip of paper, and she read, in the doctor's scrawling,
quaint writing:
"Child, don't be too proud to use it."
She was not. Throwing herself into the luxurious chair, she broke
the seal of a letter received that day from Pauline Mortimor. Once
before, soon after her marriage, a few lines of gay greeting had
come, and then many months had elapsed. As she unfolded the sheet
she saw, with sorrow, that in several places it was blotted with
tears; and the contents, written in a paroxysm of passion, disclosed
a state of wretchedness which Beulah little suspected. Pauline's
impulsive, fitful nature was clearly indexed in the letter, and,
after a brief apology for her long silence, she wrote as follows:
"Oh, Beulah, I am so miserable; so very, very wretched Beulah,
Ernest does not love me! You will scarcely believe me, Oh, I hardly
know how to believe it myself! Uncle Guy was right; I do not suit
Ernest. But I loved him so very, very dearly, and thought him so
devoted to me. Fool that I was! my eyes are opened at last. Beulah,
it nearly drives me wild to think that I am bound to him for life,
an unloved wife. Not a year has passed since our marriage, yet
already he has tired of my 'pretty face.' Oh, Beulah, if I could
only come to you, and put my arms round your neck, and lay my poor,
weary head down on your shoulder, then I could tell you all--"
[Here several sentences were illegible from tears, and she could
only read what followed.]
"Since yesterday morning Ernest has not spoken to me. While I write
he is sitting in the next room, reading, as cold, indifferent, and
calm as if I were not perfectly wretched. He is tyrannical; and
because I do not humor all his whims, and have some will of my own,
he treats me with insulting indifference. He is angry now because I
resented some of his father's impertinent speeches about my dress.
This is not the first nor the second time that we have quarreled. He
has an old-maid sister who is forever meddling about my affairs and
sneering at my domestic arrangements; and because I finally told her
I believed I was mistress of my own house Ernest has never forgiven
me. Ellen (the sister I loved and went to school with) has married
and moved to a distant part of the State. The other members of his
family are bigoted, proud, and parsimonious, and they have chiefly
made the breach between us. Oh, Beulah, if I could only undo the
past, and be Pauline Chilton once more! Oh, if I could be free and
happy again! But there is no prospect of that. I am his wife, as he
told me yesterday, and suppose I must drag out a miserable
existence. Yet I will not be trampled on by his family! His sister
spends much of her time with us; reads to Ernest, talks to him about
things that she glories in telling me I don't understand the first
word of. Beulah, I was anxious to study and make myself a companion
for him; but, try as I may, Lucy contrives always to fret and thwart
me. Two days ago she nearly drove me beside myself with her sneers
and allusions to my great mental inferiority to Ernest (as if I were
not often enough painfully reminded of the fact without any of her
assistance!). I know I should not have said it, but I was too angry
to think of propriety, and told her that her presence in my home was
very disagreeable. Oh, if you could have seen her insulting smile,
as she answered that her 'noble brother needed her, and she felt it
a duty to remain with him.' Beulah, I love my husband; I would do
anything on earth to make him happy if we were left to ourselves,
but as to submitting to Lucy's arrogance and sneers, I will not!
Ernest requires me to apologize to his father and sister, and I told
him I would not! I would die first! He does not love me or he would
shield me from such trials. He thinks his sister is perfection, and
I tell you I do absolutely detest her. Now, Beulah, there is no one
else to whom I would mention my unhappiness. Mother does not suspect
it, and never shall, even when she visits me. Uncle Guy predicted
it, and I would not have him know it for the universe. But I can
trust you; I feel that you will sympathize with me, and I want you
to counsel me. Oh, tell me what I ought to do to rid myself of this
tormenting sister-in-law and father-in-law, and, I may say, all
Ernest's kin. Sometimes, when I think of the future, I absolutely
shudder; for if matters go on this way much longer I shall learn to
hate my husband too. He knew my disposition before he married me,
and has no right to treat me as he does. If it were only Ernest I
could bring myself to 'obey' him, for I love him very devotedly; but
as to being dictated to by all his relatives, I never will! Beulah,
burn this blurred letter; don't let anybody know how drearily I am
situated. I am too proud to have my misery published. To know that
people pitied me would kill me. I never can be happy again, but
perhaps you can help me to be less miserable. Do write to me! Oh,
how I wish you could come to me! I charge you, Beulah, don't let
Uncle Guy know that I am not happy. Good-by. Oh, if ever you marry,
be sure your husband has no old-maid sisters and no officious kin! I
am crying so that I can barely see the lines. Good-by, dear Beulah."
"PAULINE."
Beulah leaned forward and dropped the letter into the glowing mass
of coals. It shriveled, blazed, and vanished, and, with a heavy
sigh, she sat pondering the painful contents. What advice could she
possibly give that would remedy the trouble? She was aware that the
young wife must indeed have been "very wretched" before she could
consent to disclose her domestic feuds to another. Under happier
auspices she felt that Pauline would have made a devoted, gentle
wife, but feared it was now too late to mold her character in
conformity with her husband's wishes. "So much for a union of
uncongenial natures," thought Beulah, as she prepared to answer the
unlucky letter. As guardedly as possible she alluded to Mr. Mortimor
and his family, and urged Pauline to talk to her husband gently but
firmly, and assure him that the continued interference of his family
was unendurable. If her remonstrances proved futile, to do what she
considered due to herself as mistress of her own establishment, and
try not to notice the annoyances of others. Beulah felt and
acknowledged her inability to advise the young wife in the difficult
position in which she was placed, and closed by assuring her that
only her own good sense, guided by sincere love for her husband,
could rightly direct her course. She was warmly attached to Pauline,
and it was with a troubled heart that she addressed her reply.