Beulah frowned and looked up impatiently.
"Clara, I am not to be persuaded into anything. Leave me to myself.
You are kind, but mistaken."
"If I have said too much, forgive me; I was actuated by sincere affection and pity for your state of mind."
"I am not an object of pity by any means," replied Beulah very coldly.
Clara was unfortunate in her expressions; she seemed to think so, and turned away. But, conscious of having spoken hastily, Beulah caught her hand, and exclaimed frankly:
"Do not be hurt with me; I did not intend to wound you. Forgive me, Clara. Don"t go. When are you to leave for your new home?"
"Day after to-morrow. Mr. Arlington seems anxious that I should come immediately. He has three children--a son and two daughters. I hope they are amiable; I dread lest they prove unruly and spoiled. If so, woe to their governess."
"Does Mr. Arlington reside in the village to which you directed your letter?"
"No. He resides on his plantation, several miles from the village.
The prospect of being in the country is the only redeeming feature in the arrangement. I hope my health will be permanently restored by the change; but of the success of my plan only time can decide."
"And when shall we meet again?" said Beulah slowly.
"Perhaps henceforth our paths diverge widely. We may meet no more on earth; but, dear Beulah, there is a "peaceful sh.o.r.e, where billows never beat nor tempests roar," where a.s.suredly we shall spend an eternity together if we keep the faith here. Oh, if I thought our parting now was for all time I should mourn bitterly, very bitterly; but I will not believe it. The arms of our G.o.d support you. I shall always pray that he will guide and save you." She leaned forward, kissed Beulah"s forehead, and left the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
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 gra.s.s 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; b.a.l.l.s 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 pa.s.s its fingers over her heart; but here, too, sounds of gladness met her. The orphans were a.s.sembled 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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 n.o.ble tribute to the efficacy and untold blessings of the inst.i.tution. To many of them Beulah was well known. She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociates 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 n.o.bler nature will conquer."
"G.o.d 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 ap.r.o.n. 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."