"Cornelia did not leave the legacy to the Graysons."
"Were she living, she would commend the use I am about to make of
it. Will you give me five thousand dollars of it?"
"Oh, Beulah, you are a queer compound! a strange being!"
"Will you give me five thousand dollars of that money tomorrow?"
persisted Beulah, looking steadily at him.
"Yes, child; if you will have it so." His voice trembled, and he
looked at the orphan with moist eyes.
Mrs. Asbury had taken no part in the conversation, but her earnest
face attested her interest. Passing her arm around Beulah's waist,
she hastily kissed her brow, and only said: "God bless you, my dear, noble Beulah!"
"I do not see that I am at all magnanimous in giving away other
people's money. If I had earned it by hard labor, and then given it
to Claudy, there would have been some more show of generosity. Here
come Georgia and her husband; you do not need me to read this
evening, and I have work to do." She extricated herself from Mrs.
Asbury's clasping arm and retired to her own room. The following day
Claudia came to say that, as she knew not what else to do, she would
gladly accept the position mentioned as teacher of drawing and
painting. Mrs. Grayson's brother had come to take her home, but she
was unwilling to be separated from Claudia. Beulah no longer
hesitated, and the sum of five thousand dollars seemed to poor
Claudia a fortune indeed. She could not understand how the girl whom
she and her mother had insulted could possibly have the means of
making them so comparatively comfortable. Beulah briefly explained
the circumstances which had enabled her to assist them. The bulk of
the money remained in Dr. Asbury's hands, and Claudia was to apply
to him whenever she needed it. She and her mamma found a cheaper
boarding house, and Claudia's duties began at once. Mrs. Grayson was
overwhelmed with shame when the particulars were made known to her,
and tears of bitter mortification could not obliterate the memory of
the hour when she cruelly denied the prayer of the poor orphan to
whom she now owed the shelter above her head. Beulah did not see her
for many weeks subsequent; she knew how painful such a meeting would
be to the humbled woman, and, while she constantly cheered and
encouraged Claudia in her work, she studiously avoided Mrs.
Grayson's presence.
Thus the winter passed; and once more the glories of a Southern
spring were scattered over the land. To the Asburys Beulah was
warmly attached, and her residence with them was as pleasant as any
home could possibly have been which was not her own. They were all
that friends could be to an orphan; still, she regretted her little
cottage, and missed the home-feeling she had prized so highly. True,
she had constant access to the greenhouse, and was rarely without
her bouquet of choice flowers; but these could not compensate her
for the loss of her own little garden. She struggled bravely with
discontent; tried to look only on the sunshine in her path and to be
always cheerful. In this she partially succeeded. No matter how
lonely and sad she felt, she hid it carefully, and the evenings in
the library were never marred by words of repining or looks of
sorrow. To the close observer there were traces of grief in her
countenance; and sometimes when she sat sewing while Mrs. Asbury
read aloud, it was easy to see that her thoughts had wandered far
from that little room. Time had changed her singularly since the old
asylum days. She was now a finely formed, remarkably graceful woman,
with a complexion of dazzling transparency. She was always pale, but
the blue veins might be traced anywhere on her brow and temples; and
the dark, gray eyes, with their long, jetty, curling lashes,
possessed an indescribable charm, even for strangers. She had been
an ugly child, but certainly she was a noble-looking, if not
handsome, woman. To all but the family with whom she resided she was
rather reserved; and while the world admired and eulogized her
talents as a writer, she felt that, except Eugene, she had no
friends beyond the threshold of the house she lived in. As weeks and
months elapsed, and no news of her wandering guardian came, her hope
began to pale. For weary years it had burned brightly; but constant
disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart and crushing out
the holy spark. The heartstrings will bear rude shocks and sudden
rough handling, but the gradual tightening, the unremitted tension
of long, tediously rolling years, will in time accomplish what
fierce assaults cannot. Continually she prayed for his return; but,
despite her efforts, her faith grew fainter as each month crept by
and her smile became more constrained and joyless. She never spoke
of her anxiety, never alluded to him; but pressed her hands over her
aching heart and did her work silently--nay, cheerfully.