Pansy Laurens had found that “friend in need” who is “a friend,
indeed,” when she became acquainted with Mrs. Beach, the invalid lady.
She took a deep, kindly interest in the lonely, friendless girl, and
during the few days when they stayed over at Louisville to recover from
the shock of the accident mastered much of her story.
She was surprised when she learned that the lovely girl was of the
working classes, for she had fancied that Pansy’s wonderful beauty had
descended from aristocratic, high-bred parentage, but Pansy proudly
undeceived her.
“My father was a mechanic, and my grandfather was a farmer. My mother
was a farmer’s daughter, too, so we were only plain, hard-working
people. I left the public school where I was educated as soon as my
father died, and worked in a tobacco factory three years.”
Mrs. Beach, who was a Southerner, and “a born aristocrat,” looked
honestly surprised, and spoke out frankly her astonishment.
“I thought,” she said, “that the girls employed in the tobacco
factories of the South were of a very low and ignorant class, indeed. I
have received that impression somehow.”
Pansy thought of Juliette Ives and the scorn she had displayed toward
her, and answered bitterly:
“Many have thought the same, Mrs. Beach; but in the three years I spent
in a tobacco factory I met many girls as beautiful, as refined, and
as good as are met with in the highest circles of what is called good
society. I cannot believe that nobility is only to be met with in the
ranks of the rich and well-born. The good and bad are met with in all
classes.”
“That is quite true, my child,” said the lady, to whom Pansy had not
confided the story of her cruel experience among the aristocrats of her
native city. She gazed admiringly at the flushed face of the excited
girl, and added: “I do not wish to flatter you, my dear girl, but I
will say frankly that both your mind and person fit you to adorn the
highest society. It would be an injustice to you to lower you to the
position of my personal attendant; therefore you shall remain with me
as my companion, and as soon as we reach San Diego, my destination, I
will try to secure some elderly woman as my maid.”
Pansy’s tears of gratitude amply thanked the noble woman for her
generous words, and she sighed to think that she dared not confide to
her the whole story of her life.
But she could not bring herself to repeat to a stranger, however
kindly, the sorrows of her unfortunate love affair.
“And, then, I dare not, for she would perhaps spurn me from her
presence, deeming me wicked where I was only unfortunate,” she thought
shrinkingly.
She had told Mrs. Beach that her name was Pansy Wilcox, and that she
had left home because her mother had married a man who was unkind to
his stepchildren. Mrs. Beach thought the reason was a fair one, and
did not blame the young girl much. She had some reason for knowing how
unpleasant a girl’s home could be made under such circumstances.
They safely reached San Diego, one of the most beautiful and romantic
places in California, and for a while Pansy was so enchanted with her
new home and its Italian-like surroundings that she ceased to grieve
for her native Richmond and the dear ones left behind. A new life
opened before her: one of comparative ease and luxury, compared to what
she had known, for with the gentle invalid lady her duties as companion
were usually light and pleasant. Mrs. Beach had soon found a clever
maid, and, as she rented a small furnished cottage near the beautiful
bay of San Diego, and hired two Chinese servants, life began to flow on
very smoothly and fairly to those who made up her household.
She had told Pansy very little about herself, save that she was a widow
with a fair income that would cease at her death.
“I have no relatives save a distant one of my husband, who will,
perhaps, be glad when I die, as he will then inherit the property,” she
said, adding: “But I mean to live as long as I can, and this charming
climate makes me feel almost as if I am going to get well again.”
“Heaven grant you may,” exclaimed Pansy, but when she looked at the wan
cheeks and sunken eyes of the hapless lady it seemed to her that Mrs.
Beach could not live much longer, even in this charming climate.
“And when she dies I shall be thrown homeless upon the world again,”
she thought, with a shudder of fear and terror.
Perhaps Mrs. Beach thought of this, too, for she took a deep interest
in her fair young companion. One day she said gravely to Pansy:
“Do you ever expect to marry, Pansy?”
Pansy grew crimson first, then deadly pale.
“No, never. I hate men!” she exclaimed, with such energy that Mrs.
Beach, a keen student of human nature, exclaimed:
“Ah, then, you have had a lover?”
Pansy saw that she had betrayed herself by her vehemence, and, hanging
her head bashful she sighed:
“Yes, I had a lover once, and he proved false to me. No one else shall
ever make love to me again.”
“Poor child!” said the lady compassionately. She remained silent a few
moments, then said: “I hope you will not think me a meddlesome old
lady, Pansy, but I have been thinking of your future. If I should die,
what would become of you?”
Pansy burst into passionate tears. “I should never find such a noble
friend again,” she sobbed.
“I have been thinking of that,” said Mrs. Beach, laying her thin hand
gently on the bowed head. “Your future has been on my mind for some
time. You ought to be learning something by which you could support
yourself. There are many avenues of support open to women now.”
“Oh, I know it, but I have had no chance to learn anything. Dear, noble
friend, if only you could suggest something!” cried Pansy gratefully.
“I will think over it a few days, and then advise you,” answered Mrs.
Beach gravely.
And at the end of a week she told Pansy that she believed that
typewriting would prove a remunerative business for a young girl.
“I will purchase a good machine, and you shall learn,” she said kindly.
“Oh, how kind you are to me! I wish I knew how to thank you for all
your goodness,” cried the poor girl, with tears of gratitude.
Mrs. Beach smiled and answered:
“Only stay with me while I live, Pansy, and I shall be well rewarded.
After all, my kindness to you is only a species of selfishness, for
I wish to have you with me. It brightens my lonely life to have the
beautiful face of a young girl about me all the time.”
They stayed in San Diego a year, and every month made the exquisite
place more dear to them. Pansy worked industriously at her typewriting
machine, and became quite proficient; but she did not neglect her kind
benefactress.
It was both her duty and her pleasure to add as much of happiness as
possible to the life of the suffering invalid. In doing so she reaped
the rich reward of those who try to lighten the sorrows of others, for
she had less time to think of her own, and in consequence was far less
unhappy.
There was not a day in which she did not thank Heaven for providing
such a safe haven for her when she had fled, frightened and despairing,
from her old home; not a day in which she did not pray for the dear
ones she had left behind. Most bitterly she repented the willfulness
that had led to all her sorrow.
“Had I only minded my mother, no harm would have come to me,” she
sighed over and over.
Suddenly over the calm, peaceful life they were leading in the little
cottage home fell a dark shadow.
Mrs. Beach had been failing for some time, and at last it became only
too evident to Pansy and the few friends they had made in San Diego
that her days were numbered. The invalid herself was not ignorant
of the fact, for after an interview with her physician one day she
sent for Pansy and gently broke the sad tidings that she had, in all
probability, but a few weeks to live.
“Do not grieve, my dear. You know I have been prepared for this some
time,” she said, with sweet resignation. “It only remains now for me to
make my arrangements for the end.”
Pansy’s irrepressible sobs drowned her voice for a while, but when the
agitated girl had grown calmer she continued:
“I have telegraphed for my husband’s cousin, who will inherit the
fortune whose income I am using, to come at once to San Diego; and he
will attend to all the final arrangements. I will be buried here, as
my husband was lost at sea many years ago, and it matters not to me
where my ashes repose, as they can never rest beside his. I wish, my
dear girl, that I had a fortune to leave you, more especially as the
man who will inherit mine does not need it, being already very wealthy.
But my husband’s wealth, as I never bore him any children, reverts by
his will to his own family.”