"Fold that coat for me, my dear; there, give it to me; I believe
there is room in this trunk for it."
Mrs. Asbury took one of her husband's coats from Beulah's hand and
carefully packed it away.
"How long will you be absent, do you suppose?"
"Probably not longer than a month. The doctor thinks a few days at
Saratoga will invigorate him. If you had consented to go, we had
intended spending a week at Niagara. I am sorry you will not go,
Beulah; you would enjoy the trip, and, moreover, the change would
benefit you. Why do you so pertinaciously reject that legacy of
Cornelia's? The money has been in my husband's hands for some years
untouched, and Mr. Graham said, not long since, that you might just
as well accept it, for he would never receive a cent of it in
return. The original sum has been considerably augmented by
judicious investments, and would place you above the necessity of
labor, if you would accept it. Your refusal wounds Mr. Graham; he
told me so last week. It was Cornelia's particular request that you
should have that amount, and he is anxious to see you in possession
of it. I told him of your suggestion that he should add this legacy
to the sum already given to the asylum; but he vowed solemnly he
would have nothing to do with it. If you chose to give it to the
asylum, you could do so, of course; the money was yours. He never
would touch a cent of it. Beulah, if you will not think me
officious, I will say, candidly, that I think you ought to accept
it. That is, use it, for the legacy has been left, whether you
employ it or not."
Beulah looked grave and troubled, but made no reply.
Mrs. Asbury finished packing the trunk, locked it, and, turning
toward the door, said: "I am going upstairs to see about the furniture in that room which
Georgia calls the 'Pitti Gallery.' Come with me, my dear."
She led the way, and Beulah followed, until they reached a large
apartment in the third story, the door of which Mrs. Asbury
unlocked. As they entered Beulah started on seeing the statuary and
paintings with which she was so familiar in former years; and in one
corner of the room stood the melodeon, carefully covered. A quantity
of tissue paper lay on the floor, and Mrs. Asbury began to cover the
paintings by pinning the sheets together. Beulah took off her gloves
and assisted; there was silence for some time; but, on lifting a
piece of drapery, Mrs. Asbury exposed the face of a portrait which
Beulah recognized, from the peculiarity of the frame, as the one
that had hung over the mantel in her guardian's study. Paper and
pins fell from her fingers, and, drawing a deep breath, she gazed
upon the face she had so long desired to see. She traced a slight
resemblance to Antoinette in the faultless features; the countenance
was surpassingly beautiful. It was a young, girlish face, sparkling
with joyousness, bewitching in its wonderful loveliness. The
eloquent eyes were strangely, almost wildly, brilliant, the full
crimson lips possessed that rare outline one sees in old pictures,
and the cheek, tinted like a sea-shell, rested on one delicate,
dimpled hand. Beulah looked, and grew dizzy. This was his wife; this
the portrait he had kept shrouded so long and so carefully. How he
must have worshiped that radiant young bride!