"Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing
nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly
geranium, I know better. If you have concluded that you belong to
that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that
you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow
to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to
action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and
suffer others to minister to its needs? Don't talk to me about
woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to
repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don't want to hear
it; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and
lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like
one of those old pine trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if
you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself; battle with wind
and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the
storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a
woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, instead of showing that she
has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none."
"All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the
reality is quite another matter. A tame, joyless, hopeless time you
will have if you scorn good fortune, as you threaten, and go into
the world to support yourself," answered Clara impatiently.
"I would rather struggle with her for a crust than hang on her
garments asking a palace. I don't know what has come over you. You
are strangely changed!" cried Beulah, pressing her hands on her
friend's shoulders.
"The same change will come over you when you endure what I have.
With all your boasted strength, you are but a woman; have a woman's
heart, and one day will be unable to hush its hungry cries."
"Then I will crush it, so help me Heaven!" answered Beulah.
"No! sorrow will do that time enough; no suicidal effort will be
necessary." For the first time Beulah marked an expression of
bitterness in the usually gentle, quiet countenance. She was pained
more than she chose to evince, and, seeing Dr. Hartwell's carriage
at the door, prepared to return home.
"Tell him that I am very grateful for his kind offer; that his
friendly remembrance is dear to a bereaved orphan. Ah, Beulah! I
have known him from my childhood, and he has always been a friend as
well as a physician. During my mother's long illness he watched her
carefully and constantly, and when we tendered him the usual
recompense for his services he refused all remuneration, declaring
he had only been a friend. He knew we were poor, and could ill
afford any expense. Oh, do you wonder that I--Are you going
immediately? Come often when I get to a boarding house. Do, Beulah!
I am so desolate; so desolate!" She bowed her head on Beulah's
shoulder and wept unrestrainedly.