Mr. Beecher sat with a saucer of uncut gems by him on
the table. He ran his hand through them from time to time, held them up
to the light, admiring them and speaking of their beauty and color as
eloquently as an hour before he had spoken of sin and death and
redemption.
He asked me to choose a stone, and I selected an aquamarine, and he had
it splendidly mounted for me in Venetian style to wear in "The Merchant
of Venice." Once when he was ill, he told me, his wife had some few
score of his jewels set up in lead--a kind of small stained-glass
window--and hung up opposite his bed. "It did me more good than the
doctor's visits," he laughed out!
Mrs. Beecher was very remarkable. She had a way of lowering her head and
looking at you with a strange intentness--gravely--kindly and quietly.
At her husband she looked a world of love, of faith, of undying
devotion. She was fond of me, although I was told she disliked women
generally and had been brought up to think all actresses children of
Satan. Obedience to the iron rules which had always surrounded her had
endowed her with extraordinary self-control. She would not allow herself
ever to feel heat or cold, and could stand any pain or discomfort
without a word of complaint.
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