Beulah - Page 325/348

"Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some

time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely

recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up,

churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my

voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live

with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge,

indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my

husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long

as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I

read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all

domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love;

whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further

argumentation on the subject.

"How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their

fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking

strawberries or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do,

Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if

I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years

since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing

from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must

have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to

see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle

Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell

me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives?

Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any

intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavor to believe so!

Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish

you were as happy as your friend, "PAULINE."

Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from

Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married,

and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had

onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so

entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously

favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or

obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined,

and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering

iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year

rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections;

the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a

family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such

articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an

auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the

last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and

commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were

undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the

sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in

peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a

writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her

flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the

face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it

consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is

shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered

cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home!

the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must

relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would

this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to

reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless

orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had

closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was

without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as

she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away.

Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask: "Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and

went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she

had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the

chrysanthemums were in all their glory--crimson, white, and orange.

She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long,

lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back

from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the

future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed: "Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will

shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere

holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah,

truly, I can say:"