Pansy Laurens had found that “friend in need” who is “a friend, indeed,” when she became acquainted with Mrs. Beach, the invalid lady. She took a deep, kindly interest in the lonely, friendless girl, and during the few days when they stayed over at Louisville to recover from the shock of the accident mastered much of her story.
She was surprised when she learned that the lovely girl was of the working classes, for she had fancied that Pansy’s wonderful beauty had descended from aristocratic, high-bred parentage, but Pansy proudly undeceived her.
“My father was a mechanic, and my grandfather was a farmer. My mother was a farmer’s daughter, too, so we were only plain, hard-working people. I left the public school where I was educated as soon as my father died, and worked in a tobacco factory three years.”
Mrs. Beach, who was a Southerner, and “a born aristocrat,” looked honestly surprised, and spoke out frankly her astonishment.
“I thought,” she said, “that the girls employed in the tobacco factories of the South were of a very low and ignorant class, indeed. I have received that impression somehow.”
Pansy thought of Juliette Ives and the scorn she had displayed toward her, and answered bitterly:
“Many have thought the same, Mrs. Beach; but in the three years I spent in a tobacco factory I met many girls as beautiful, as refined, and as good as are met with in the highest circles of what is called good society. I cannot believe that nobility is only to be met with in the ranks of the rich and well-born. The good and bad are met with in all classes.”
“That is quite true, my child,” said the lady, to whom Pansy had not confided the story of her cruel experience among the aristocrats of her native city. She gazed admiringly at the flushed face of the excited girl, and added: “I do not wish to flatter you, my dear girl, but I will say frankly that both your mind and person fit you to adorn the highest society. It would be an injustice to you to lower you to the position of my personal attendant; therefore you shall remain with me as my companion, and as soon as we reach San Diego, my destination, I will try to secure some elderly woman as my maid.”
Pansy’s tears of gratitude amply thanked the noble woman for her generous words, and she sighed to think that she dared not confide to her the whole story of her life.
But she could not bring herself to repeat to a stranger, however kindly, the sorrows of her unfortunate love affair.
“And, then, I dare not, for she would perhaps spurn me from her presence, deeming me wicked where I was only unfortunate,” she thought shrinkingly.
She had told Mrs. Beach that her name was Pansy Wilcox, and that she had left home because her mother had married a man who was unkind to his stepchildren. Mrs. Beach thought the reason was a fair one, and did not blame the young girl much. She had some reason for knowing how unpleasant a girl’s home could be made under such circumstances.
They safely reached San Diego, one of the most beautiful and romantic places in California, and for a while Pansy was so enchanted with her new home and its Italian-like surroundings that she ceased to grieve for her native Richmond and the dear ones left behind. A new life opened before her: one of comparative ease and luxury, compared to what she had known, for with the gentle invalid lady her duties as companion were usually light and pleasant. Mrs. Beach had soon found a clever maid, and, as she rented a small furnished cottage near the beautiful bay of San Diego, and hired two Chinese servants, life began to flow on very smoothly and fairly to those who made up her household.
She had told Pansy very little about herself, save that she was a widow with a fair income that would cease at her death.
“I have no relatives save a distant one of my husband, who will, perhaps, be glad when I die, as he will then inherit the property,” she said, adding: “But I mean to live as long as I can, and this charming climate makes me feel almost as if I am going to get well again.”
“Heaven grant you may,” exclaimed Pansy, but when she looked at the wan cheeks and sunken eyes of the hapless lady it seemed to her that Mrs. Beach could not live much longer, even in this charming climate.
“And when she dies I shall be thrown homeless upon the world again,” she thought, with a shudder of fear and terror.
Perhaps Mrs. Beach thought of this, too, for she took a deep interest in her fair young companion. One day she said gravely to Pansy:
“Do you ever expect to marry, Pansy?”
Pansy grew crimson first, then deadly pale.
“No, never. I hate men!” she exclaimed, with such energy that Mrs. Beach, a keen student of human nature, exclaimed:
“Ah, then, you have had a lover?”
Pansy saw that she had betrayed herself by her vehemence, and, hanging her head bashful she sighed:
“Yes, I had a lover once, and he proved false to me. No one else shall ever make love to me again.”
“Poor child!” said the lady compassionately. She remained silent a few moments, then said: “I hope you will not think me a meddlesome old lady, Pansy, but I have been thinking of your future. If I should die, what would become of you?”
Pansy burst into passionate tears. “I should never find such a noble friend again,” she sobbed.
“I have been thinking of that,” said Mrs. Beach, laying her thin hand gently on the bowed head. “Your future has been on my mind for some time. You ought to be learning something by which you could support yourself. There are many avenues of support open to women now.”
“Oh, I know it, but I have had no chance to learn anything. Dear, noble friend, if only you could suggest something!” cried Pansy gratefully.
“I will think over it a few days, and then advise you,” answered Mrs. Beach gravely.
And at the end of a week she told Pansy that she believed that typewriting would prove a remunerative business for a young girl.
“I will purchase a good machine, and you shall learn,” she said kindly.
“Oh, how kind you are to me! I wish I knew how to thank you for all your goodness,” cried the poor girl, with tears of gratitude.
Mrs. Beach smiled and answered:
“Only stay with me while I live, Pansy, and I shall be well rewarded. After all, my kindness to you is only a species of selfishness, for I wish to have you with me. It brightens my lonely life to have the beautiful face of a young girl about me all the time.”
They stayed in San Diego a year, and every month made the exquisite place more dear to them. Pansy worked industriously at her typewriting machine, and became quite proficient; but she did not neglect her kind benefactress.
It was both her duty and her pleasure to add as much of happiness as possible to the life of the suffering invalid. In doing so she reaped the rich reward of those who try to lighten the sorrows of others, for she had less time to think of her own, and in consequence was far less unhappy.
There was not a day in which she did not thank Heaven for providing such a safe haven for her when she had fled, frightened and despairing, from her old home; not a day in which she did not pray for the dear ones she had left behind. Most bitterly she repented the willfulness that had led to all her sorrow.
“Had I only minded my mother, no harm would have come to me,” she sighed over and over.
Suddenly over the calm, peaceful life they were leading in the little cottage home fell a dark shadow.
Mrs. Beach had been failing for some time, and at last it became only too evident to Pansy and the few friends they had made in San Diego that her days were numbered. The invalid herself was not ignorant of the fact, for after an interview with her physician one day she sent for Pansy and gently broke the sad tidings that she had, in all probability, but a few weeks to live.
“Do not grieve, my dear. You know I have been prepared for this some time,” she said, with sweet resignation. “It only remains now for me to make my arrangements for the end.”
Pansy’s irrepressible sobs drowned her voice for a while, but when the agitated girl had grown calmer she continued:
“I have telegraphed for my husband’s cousin, who will inherit the fortune whose income I am using, to come at once to San Diego; and he will attend to all the final arrangements. I will be buried here, as my husband was lost at sea many years ago, and it matters not to me where my ashes repose, as they can never rest beside his. I wish, my dear girl, that I had a fortune to leave you, more especially as the man who will inherit mine does not need it, being already very wealthy. But my husband’s wealth, as I never bore him any children, reverts by his will to his own family.”