"'Let me, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to wait!'"
"Yes, learn to labor and to wait. The heart cries out fiercely for
its recompense; is loath to wait. But I can conquer even this. I
will be patient and hopeful. Duty is its own recompense."
Mrs. Asbury spared no exertion to make the orphan happy in her
house. She treated her with the gentle frankness which characterized
her deportment toward her daughters; and to identify her with her
own family, often requested her to assist in her household plans.
She thoroughly understood and appreciated Beulah's nature, and
perfect confidence existed between them. It was no sooner known that
Beulah was an inmate of the house than many persons, curious to see
one of whom rumor spoke so flatteringly, availed themselves of the
circumstance to make her acquaintance. Almost unconsciously, she
soon found herself the center of a circle of literary people whom
she had often heard of, but had never known previously. Gradually
her reserve melted away, and her fine colloquial powers developed
themselves; but she wearied of the visitors--wearied even of the
themes discussed, and, having passed her life in seclusion, found in
solitude a degree of enjoyment which society could not confer. Helen
had married a planter, and resided at some distance from the city,
but Georgia and her husband remained at home. Thus, imperceptibly,
time wore on. Eugene often came and spent an hour with Beulah; and,
still more frequently, Cornelia was sent to while away an evening
with her merry prattle. Very steadily Eugene advanced in his
profession; the applause of the world cheered him on, and an
enviable reputation was his at last. Grasping ambition lured him,
step by step; and it was evident that he aimed at a seat beside
Reginald Lindsay. Rejoiced at his entire reformation, and proud of
his success, Beulah constantly encouraged his aspirations.
Antoinette was as gay and indifferent as ever, and Eugene divided
his heart between his child and his ambition.
By a system of rigid economy in the disposal of her time, Beulah not
only attended to her school duties, her music, and her books, but
found leisure, after writing her magazine articles, to spend some
time each day with the family under whose roof she resided. Dr.
Asbury's health was rather feeble, and of late his eyes had grown so
dim as to prevent his reading or writing. This misfortune was to a
great extent counterbalanced by his wife's devoted attention, and
often Beulah shared the duties of the library. One bright Sunday
afternoon she walked out to the cemetery, which she visited
frequently. In one corner of a small lot, inclosed by a costly iron
railing, stood a beautiful marble monument, erected by Mr. Grayson
over Lilly's grave. It represented two angels bearing the child up
to its God. Just opposite, in the next lot, was a splendid mausoleum
of the finest white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name
"Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three." It was in the form of a
temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on
the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters,
"Silentio! silentio!" At the entrance stood two winged forms,
crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held
withered flowers. Beulah sat on the marble steps. Before her
stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their
polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors.
Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and
stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure. All was silent
and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly
as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them. Human
nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but
in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent
city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing. In a
neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected
over the remains of the friend of their childhood. Her labors ended,
the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia. Here winter
rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought
bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure. Mocking-birds sang cheerfully
in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled
walks, recalling the past. Here there was no gloom to affright the
timid soul; all was serene and inviting. Why should the living
shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful? And why should
death be invested with fictitious horrors? A procession entered one
of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner
of the burying-ground. The slow, measured tread of the horses, the
crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the
mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah's ears. Then the train
disappeared, and she was again in solitude. Looking up, her eyes
rested on the words above her: "Silentio! silentio!" They were
appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into
the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly. Years had passed since the
only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh
in Beulah's memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but
yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue
from the marble lips of the statues beside her: "For here we have no
continuing city, but seek one to come." With her cheek on her hand,
the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last
hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life,
during the season when she "was without God and without hope," she
saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror. Once she stood
on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered.
Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the
summons; but now it was otherwise.