"Do not be at all uneasy, my dear, dove-eyed Clara. I can take care of myself."
CHAPTER XIX.
It was the middle of November, and the absentees who had spent their summer at the North were all at home again. Among these were Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters; and only a few days after their return they called to see Beulah. She found them polished, cultivated, and agreeable; and when, at parting, the mother kindly pressed her hand and cordially invited her to visit them often and sociably, she felt irresistibly drawn toward her, and promised to do so. Ere long there came a friendly note, requesting her to spend the evening with them; and thus, before she had known them many weeks, Beulah found herself established on the familiar footing of an old friend. Universally esteemed and respected, Dr. Asbury's society was sought by the most refined circle of the city, and his house was a favorite resort for the intellectual men and women of the community. Occupying an enviable position in his profession, he still found leisure to devote much of his attention to strictly literary topics, and the honest frankness and cordiality of his manners, blended with the instructive tone of his conversation, rendered him a general favorite. Mrs. Asbury merited the elevated position which she so ably filled as the wife of such a man. While due attention was given to the education and rearing of her daughters, she admirably discharged the claims of society, and, by a consistent adherence to the principles of the religion she professed, checked by every means within her power the frivolous excesses and dangerous extremes which prevailed throughout the fashionable circles in which she moved. Zealously, yet unostentatiously, she exerted herself in behalf of the various charitable institutions organized to ameliorate the sufferings of the poor in their midst; and while as a Christian she conformed to the outward observances of her church, she faithfully inculcated and practiced at home the pure precepts of a religion whose effects should be the proper regulation of the heart and charity toward the world. Her parlors were not the favorite rendezvous where gossips met to retail slander. Refined, dignified, gentle, and hospitable, she was a woman too rarely, alas! met with, in so-called fashionable circles. Her husband's reputation secured them the acquaintance of all distinguished strangers, and made their house a great center of attraction. Beulah fully enjoyed and appreciated the friendship thus tendered her, and soon looked upon Dr. Asbury and his noble wife as counselors to whom in any emergency she could unhesitatingly apply. They based their position in society on their own worth, not the extrinsic appendages of wealth and fashion, and readily acknowledged the claims of all who (however humble their abode or avocation) proved themselves worthy of respect and esteem. In their intercourse with the young teacher there was an utter absence of that contemptible supercilious condescension which always characterizes an ignorant and parvenu aristocracy. They treated her as an equal in intrinsic worth, and prized her as a friend. Helen Asbury was older than Beulah and Georgia somewhat younger. They were sweet-tempered, gay girls, lacking their parent's intellectual traits, but sufficiently well-informed and cultivated to constitute them agreeable companions. Of their father's extensive library they expressed themselves rather afraid, and frequently bantered Beulah about the grave books she often selected from it. Beulah found her school duties far less irksome than she had expected, for she loved children, and soon became interested in the individual members of her classes. From eight o'clock until three she was closely occupied; then the labors of the day were over, and she spent her evenings much as she had been wont ere the opening of the session. Thus November glided quickly away, and the first of December greeted her ere she dreamed of its approach. The Grahams had not returned, though daily expected; and, notwithstanding two months had elapsed without Eugene's writing, she looked forward with intense pleasure to his expected arrival. There was one source of constant pain for her in Dr. Hartwell's continued and complete estrangement. Except a cold, formal bow in passing there was no intercourse whatever; and she sorrowed bitterly over this seeming indifference in one to whom she owed so much and was so warmly attached. Remotely connected with this cause of disquiet was the painful change in Clara. Like a lily suddenly transplanted to some arid spot, she had seemed to droop since the week of her ride. Gentle, but hopeless and depressed, she went, day after day, to her duties at Madam St. Cymon's school, and returned at night wearied, silent, and wan. Her step grew more feeble, her face thinner and paler. Often Beulah gave up her music and books, and devoted the evenings to entertaining and interesting her; but there was a constraint and reserve about her which could not be removed.
One evening, on returning from a walk with Helen Asbury, Beulah ran into her friend's room with a cluster of flowers. Clara sat by the fire, with a piece of needlework in her hand; she looked listless and sad. Beulah threw the bright golden and crimson chrysanthemums in her lap, and, stooping down, kissed her warmly, saying:
"How is your troublesome head? Here is a flowery cure for you."
"My head does not ache quite so badly. Where did you find these beautiful chrysanthemums?" answered Clara languidly.
"I stopped to get a piece of music from Georgia, and Helen cut them for me. Oh, what blessed things flowers are! They have been well styled, 'God's undertones of encouragement to the children of earth.'"
She was standing on the hearth, warming her fingers. Clara looked up at the dark, clear eye and delicate, fixed lips before her, and sighed involuntarily. Beulah knelt on the carpet, and, throwing one arm around her companion, said earnestly:
"My dear Clara, what saddens you to-night? Can't you tell me?"
A hasty knock at the door gave no time for an answer. A servant looked in.