Beth Woodburn Page 11

  CHAPTER XI.

  _LOVE._

  In the soft flush of the following spring Beth returned to the parsonageat Briarsfield. It was so nice to see the open country again after thecity streets. Mr. Perth met her at the station just as the sun wassetting, and there was a curious smile on his face. He was a littlesilent on the way home, as if he had something on his mind; butevidently it was nothing unpleasant. The parsonage seemed hidden amongthe apple-blossoms, and Mrs. Perth came down the walk to meet them,looking so fair and smiling, and why--she had something white in herarms! Beth bounded forward to meet her.

  "Why, May, where did you--whose baby?" asked Beth, breathless andsmiling.

  "Who does she look like?"

  The likeness to May Perth on the little one-month-old face wasunmistakable.

  "You naughty puss, why didn't you tell me when you wrote?"

  "Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr. Perth. "Handsome baby, isn'tit? Just like her mother!"

  "What are you going to call her?"

  "Beth." And May kissed her fondly as she led her in.

  What a pleasant week that was! Life may be somewhat desert-like, butthere is many a sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade by therippling water, with the flowers and the birds about us.

  One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by herself down toward thelake, and past the old Mayfair home. The family were still in Europe,and the place, she heard, was to be sold. The afternoon sunshine wasbeating on the closed shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn andterraces, and the weeds grew tall in the flower-beds. Deserted andsilent! Silent as that past she had buried in her soul. Silent as thosefirst throbs of her child-heart that she had once fancied meant love.

  That evening she and May sat by the window watching the sunset cast itsglories over the lake, a great sheet of flame, softened by a wrapping ofthin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling, fiery, triumphant,but half hidden by this hazy veil of mortality.

  "Are you going to write another story, Beth?"

  "Yes, I thought one out last fall. I shall write it as soon as I amrested."

  "What is it--a love story?"

  "Yes, it's natural to me to write of love; and yet--I have never beenseriously in love."

  May laughed softly.

  "Do you know, I am beginning to long to love truly. I want to taste thedeep of life, even if it brings me pain."

  It was a momentary restlessness, and she recalled these words beforelong.

  Mr. Perth joined them just then. He was going away for a week's holidayon the following day.

  "I suppose you have a supply for Sunday," said Mrs. Perth.

  "Yes, I have. I think he'll be a very good one. He's a volunteermissionary."

  "Where is he going?" asked Beth.

  "I don't know."

  "I should like to meet him," and Beth paused before she continued, in aquiet tone, "I am going to be a missionary myself."

  "Beth!" exclaimed Mrs. Perth.

  "I thought you were planning this," said Mr. Perth.

  "Thought so? How could you tell?" asked Beth.

  "I saw it working in your mind. You are easily read. Where are yougoing?"

  "I haven't decided yet. I only just decided to go lately--one Sundayafternoon this spring. I used to hate the idea."

  Perhaps it was this little talk that made her think of Arthur again thatnight. Why had he never sent her one line, one word of sympathy in hersorrow? He was very unkind, when her father had loved him so. Was thatwhat love meant?

  The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and Beth did not even ask hisname, as she supposed it would be unfamiliar to her. The old churchseemed so home-like that Sunday. The first sacred notes echoed softlydown the aisles; the choir took their places; then there was a moment'ssolemn hush,--and Arthur! Why, that was Arthur going up into the pulpit!She could hardly repress a cry of surprise. For the moment she forgotall her coldness and indifference, and looked at him intently. He seemedchanged, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but there was a delicatefineness about him she had never seen before, particularly in his eyes,a mystery of pain and sweetness, blended and ripened into a more perfectmanhood. Was it because Arthur preached that sermon she thought it sogrand? No, everybody seemed touched. And this was the small boy who hadgone hazel-nutting with her, who had heard her geography, and, barefoot,carried her through the brook. But that was long, long ago. They hadchanged since then. Before she realized it, the service was over, andthe people were streaming through the door-way where Arthur stoodshaking hands with the acquaintances of his childhood. There was asoothed, calm expression on Beth's brow, and her eyes met Arthur's as hetouched her hand. May thought she seemed a trifle subdued that day,especially toward evening. Beth had a sort of feeling that night thatshe would have been content to sit there at the church window for alltime. There was a border of white lilies about the altar, a sprinklingof early stars in the evening sky; solemn hush and sacred music within,and the cry of some stray night-bird without. There were gems of poetryin that sermon, too; little gleanings from nature here and there. Thenshe remembered how she had once said Arthur had not an artist-soul. Wasshe mistaken? Was he one of those men who bury their sentiments underthe practical duties of every-day life? Perhaps so.

  The next day she and May sat talking on the sofa by the window.

  "Don't you think, May, I should make a mistake if I married a man whohad no taste for literature and art?"

  "Yes, I do. I believe in the old German proverb, 'Let like and like matetogether.'"

  Was that a shadow crossed Beth's face?

  "But, whatever you do, Beth, don't marry a man who is all moonshine. Aman may be literary in his tastes and yet not be devoted to a literarylife. I think the greatest genius is sometimes silent; but, even whensilent, he inspires others to climb the heights that duty forbade him toclimb himself."

  "You've deep thoughts in your little head, May." And Beth bent over, inlover-like fashion, to kiss the little white hand, but May had droppedinto one of her light-hearted, baby moods, and playfully withdrew it.

  "Don't go mooning like that, kissing my dirty little hands! One wouldthink you had been falling in love."

  Beth went for another stroll that evening. She walked past the dear oldhouse on the hill-top. The shutters were no longer closed; last summer'sflowers were blooming again by the pathway; strange children stoppedtheir play to look at her as she passed, and there were sounds of mirthand music within. Yes, that was the old home--home no longer now! Therewas her own old window, the white roses drooping about it in the earlydew.

  "Oh, papa! papa! look down on your little Beth!" These words were in hereyes as she lifted them to the evening sky, her tears falling silently.She was following the old path by the road-side, where she used to gofor the milk every evening, when a firm step startled her.

  "Arthur! Good evening. I'm so glad to see you again!"

  She looked beautiful for a moment, with the tears hanging from herlashes, and the smile on her face.

  "I called to see you at the parsonage, but you were just going up thestreet, so I thought I might be pardoned for coming too."

  They were silent for a few moments. It was so like old times to bewalking there together. The early stars shone faintly; but the cloudswere still pink in the west; not a leaf stirred, not a breath; no soundsave a night-bird calling to its mate in the pine-wood yonder, and thebleat of lambs in the distance. Presently Arthur broke the silence withsweet, tender words of sorrow for her loss.

  "I should have written to you if I had known, but I was sick in thehospital, and I didn't--"

  "Sick in the hospital! Why, Arthur, have you been ill? What was thematter?"

  "A light typhoid fever. I went to the Wesleyan College, at Montreal,after that, so I didn't even know you had come back to college."

  "To the Wesleyan? I thought you were so attached to Victoria! Whatevermade you leave it, Arthur?"

  He flushed slightly, and evaded her question.

 
; "Do you know, it was so funny, Arthur, you roomed in the very housewhere I boarded last fall, and I never knew a thing about it tillafterward? Wasn't it odd we didn't meet?"

  Again he made some evasive reply, and she had an odd sensation, as ofsomething cold passing between them. He suddenly became formal, and theyturned back again at the bridge where they used to sit fishing, andwhere Beth never caught anything (just like a girl); they always went toArthur's hook. The two forgot their coldness as they walked back, andBeth was disappointed that Arthur had an engagement and could not comein. They lingered a moment at the gate as he bade her good-night. Adelicate thrill, a something sweet and new and strange, possessed her ashe pressed her hand! Their eyes met for a moment.

  "Good-bye for to-night, Beth."

  May was singing a soft lullaby as she came up the walk. Only a moment!Yet what a revelation a moment may bring to these hearts of ours! Alook, a touch, and something live is throbbing within! We cannot speakit. We dare not name it. For, oh, hush, 'tis a sacred hour in a woman'slife.

  Beth went straight to her room, and sat by the open window in thestar-light. Some boys were singing an old Scotch ballad as they passedin the street below; the moon was rising silvery above the blue Erie;the white petals of apple-blossoms floated downward in the night air,and in it all she saw but one face--a face with great, dark, tendereyes, that soothed her with their silence. Soothed? Ah, yes! She feltlike a babe to-night, cradled in the arms of something, she knew notwhat--something holy, eternal and calm. And _this_ was love. She hadcraved it often--wondered how it would come to her--and it was justArthur, after all, her childhood's friend, Arthur--but yet how changed!He was not the same. She felt it dimly. The Arthur of her girlhood wasgone. They were man and woman now. She had not known this Arthur as hewas now. A veil seemed to have been suddenly drawn from his face, andshe saw in him--her ideal. There were tears in her eyes as she gazedheavenward. She had thought to journey to heathen lands alone,single-handed to fight the battle, and now--"Arthur--Arthur!" she calledin a soft, sweet whisper as she drooped her smiling face. What matteredall her blind shilly-shally fancies about his nature not being poetic?There was more poetry buried in that heart of his than she had everdreamed. "I can never, never marry Arthur!" she had often told herself.She laughed now as she thought of it, and it was late before she slept,for she seemed to see those eyes looking at her in the darkness--sofamiliar, yet so new and changed! She awoke for a moment in the greylight just before dawn, and she could see him still; her hand yetthrilled from his touch. She heard the hoarse whistle of a steamer onthe lake; the rooks were cawing in the elm-tree over the roof, and shefell asleep again.

  "Good-morning, Rip Van Winkle," said May, when she entered thebreakfast-room.

  "Why, is that clock--just look at the time! I forgot to wind my watchlast night, and I hadn't the faintest idea what time it was when I gotup this morning!"

  "Good-bye for to-night, Beth," he had said, and he was going awayto-morrow morning, so he would surely come to-day. No wonder she wentabout with an absent smile on her face, and did everything in thecraziest possible way. It was so precious, this newly-found secret ofhers! She knew her own heart now. There was no possibility of hermisunderstanding herself in the future. The afternoon was wearing away,and she sat waiting and listening. Ding! No, that was only abeggar-woman at the door. Ding, again! Yes, that was Arthur! Then shegrew frightened. How could she look into his eyes? He would read hersecret there. He sat down before her, and a formal coldness seemed toparalyze them both.

  "I have come to bid you good-bye, Miss Woodburn!"

  Miss Woodburn! He had never called her that before. How cold his voicesounded in her ears!

  "Are you going back to Victoria College?" she asked.

  "No, to the Wesleyan. Are you going to spend your summer inBriarsfield?"

  "Most of it. I am going back to Toronto for a week or two before'Varsity opens. My friend Miss de Vere is staying with some friendsthere. She is ill and--"

  "Do you still call her your friend?" he interrupted, with a sarcasticsmile.

  "Why, yes!" she answered wonderingly, never dreaming that he hadwitnessed that same scene in the Mayfair home.

  "You are faithful, Beth," he said, looking graver. Then he talkedsteadily of things in which neither of them had any interest. How coldand unnatural it all was! Beth longed to give way to tears. In a fewminutes he rose to go. He was going! Arthur was going! She dared notlook into his face as he touched her hand coldly.

  "Good-bye, Miss Woodburn. I wish you every success next winter."

  She went back to the parlor and watched him--under the apple trees,white with blossom, through the gate, past the old church, around thecorner--he was gone! The clock ticked away in the long, silent parlor;the sunshine slept on the grass outside; the butterflies were flittingfrom flower to flower, and laughing voices passed in the street, but herheart was strangely still. A numb, voiceless pain! What did it mean?Had Arthur changed? Once he had loved her. "God have pity!" her whitelips murmured. And yet that look, that touch last night--what did itmean? What folly after all! A touch, a smile, and she had woven her fondhopes together. Foolish woman-heart, building her palace on the sandsfor next day's tide to sweep away! Yet how happy she had been lastnight! A thrill, a throb, a dream of bliss; crushed now, all but thememory! The years might bury it all in silence, but she could never,never forget. She had laid her plans for life, sweet, unselfish plansfor uplifting human lives. Strange lands, strange scenes, strange faceswould surround her. She would toil and smile on others, "but oh, Arthur,Arthur--"

  All through the long hours of that night she lay watching; she could notsleep. Arthur was still near, the same hills surrounding them both. Thestars were shining and the hoarse whistle of the steamers rent thenight. Perhaps they would never be so near again. Would they ever meet,she wondered. Perhaps not! Another year, and he would be gone far acrossthe seas, and then, "Good-bye, Arthur! Good-bye! God be with you!"

  CHAPTER XII.

  _FAREWELL._

  Beth's summer at Briarsfield parsonage passed quietly and sweetly. Shehad seemed a little sad at first, and May, with her woman's instinct,read more of her story than she thought, but she said nothing, thoughshe doubled her little loving attentions. The love of woman for woman ispassing sweet.

  But let us look at Beth as she sits in the shadow of the trees in theparsonage garden. It was late in August, and Beth was waiting for May tocome out. Do you remember the first time we saw her in the shadow of thetrees on the lawn at home? It is only a little over two years ago, butyet how much she has changed! You would hardly recognize the immaturegirl in that gentle, sweet-faced lady in her dark mourning dress. Theold gloom had drifted from her brow, and in its place was sunlight, notthe sunlight of one who had never known suffering, but the gentler,sweeter light of one who had triumphed over it. It was a face that wouldhave attracted you, that would have attracted everyone, in fact, fromthe black-gowned college professor to the small urchin shouting in thestreet. To the rejoicing it said, "Let me laugh with you, for life issweet;" to the sorrowing, "I understand, I have suffered, too. I knowwhat you feel." Just then her sweet eyes were raised to heaven in holythought, "Dear heavenly Father, thou knowest everything--how I lovedhim. Thy will be done. Oh, Jesus, my tender One, thou art so sweet! Thoudost understand my woman's heart and satisfy even its sweet longings.Resting in Thy sweet presence what matter life's sorrows!"

  She did not notice the lattice gate open and a slender, fair-haired manpause just inside to watch her. It was Clarence Mayfair. There was atouching expression on his face as he looked at her. Yes, she wasbeautiful, he thought. It was not a dream, the face that he had carriedin his soul since that Sunday night last fall. Beth Woodburn wasbeautiful. She was a woman now. She was only a child when they playedtheir little drama of love there in Briarsfield. The play was past now;he loved her as a man can love but one woman. And now--a shadow crossedhis face--perhaps it was too late!

  "Clarence!" exclaimed Beth, as he
advanced, "I'm glad to see you." Andshe held out her hand with an air of graceful dignity.

  "You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I suppose. I was so surprisedto see you," she continued.

  "Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham's."

  She noticed as he talked that he looked healthier, stronger and moremanly. Altogether she thought him improved.

  "Your father and mother are still in England, I suppose," said she.

  "Yes, they intend to stay with their relatives this winter. As for me, Ishall go back to 'Varsity and finish my course."

  "Oh, are you going to teach?"

  "Yes; there's nothing else before me," he answered, in a discouragedtone.

  She understood. She had heard of his father's losses, and, what grievedher still more, she had heard that Clarence was turning out a literaryfailure. He had talent, but he had not the fresh, original genius thatthis age of competition demands. Poor Clarence! She was sorry for him.

  "You have been all summer in Briarsfield?" he asked.

  "Yes, but I am going to Toronto to-morrow morning."

  "Yes, I know. Miss de Vere told me she had sent for you."

  "Oh, you have seen her then!"

  "Yes, I saw her yesterday. Poor girl, she'll not last long. Consumptionhas killed all the family."

  Beth wondered if he loved Marie, and she looked at him, with her gentle,sympathetic eyes. He caught her look and winced under it. She gazed awayat the glimpse of lake between the village roofs for a moment.

  "Beth, have you forgotten the past?" he asked, in a voice abrupt butgentle.

  She started. She had never seen his face look so expressive. The tearsrose to her eyes as she drooped her flushing face.

  "No, I have not forgotten."

  "Beth, I did not love you then; I did not know what love meant--"

  "Oh, don't speak of it! It would have been a terrible mistake!"

  "But, Beth, can you never forgive the past? I love you _now_--I haveloved you since--"

  "Oh, hush, Clarence! You _must_ not speak of love!" And she buried herface in her hands and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward slightlytoward him, a tender look in her eyes.

  "I love another," she said, in a low gentle voice.

  He shielded his eyes for a moment with his fair delicate hand. It was ahard moment for them both.

  "I am so sorry, Clarence. I know what you feel. I am sorry we ever met."

  He looked at her with a smile on his saddened face.

  "I feared it was so; but I had rather love you in vain than to win thelove of any other woman. Good-bye, Beth."

  "Good-bye."

  He lingered a moment as he touched her hand in farewell.

  "God bless you," she said, softly.

  He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and she sat watching the fleecyclouds and snatches of lake between the roofs. Poor Clarence! Did lovemean to him what it meant to her? Ah, yes! she had seen the pain writtenon his brow. Poor Clarence! That night she craved a blessing upon him asshe knelt beside her bed. Just then he was wandering about theweed-grown lawns of his father's house, which looked more desolate thanever in the light of the full moon. It was to be sold the followingspring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side. Right thereon that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and butfor that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been? Andyet it was better so--better for _her_--God bless her. And the thoughtof her drew him heavenward that night.

  The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie. She was in apensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-landsstretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlightshining through their boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion in afew hours' travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by theantics of a negro family at the other end of the car. A portly coloredwoman presided over them; she had "leben chilen, four dead and gone toglory," as she explained to everyone who questioned her.

  It was about two o'clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr ofelectric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the citystreet would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves butfor her thoughts of Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city tospend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she wasstaying with her friends, the Bartrams. Beth was, indeed, struck by thechange in her friend when she entered the room. She lay there so frailand shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, thoughflushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was anindefinable gentleness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as shestooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very considerate, and left themalone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking moodthat day. Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content tohold Beth's hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears thatgathered silently. Bright, sparkling Marie! They had not been wont toassociate tears with her in the past. It was a pleasant room she had,suggestive of her taste--soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, atall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen'sPark through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat byMarie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to thebells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted withpleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes anda half smile on her lips.

  "Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were sosweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hairsoftly with her frail, wasted hand.

  "Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breathfailed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile."It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I feltsomehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hardat first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His willbe done.'"

  Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.

  "Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear.You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and--andClarence. I was a treacherous friend to you, Beth, to ever let him speakof love to me. I was a traitor to--"

  "Oh, hush! Marie, darling, don't talk so," Beth pleaded in a sobbingtone.

  "I _must_ speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous to you. But when you knowwhat I suffered--" Her breath failed again for a moment. "I _loved_him, Beth," she whispered.

  "Marie!" There was silence for a moment, broken only by Marie's laboredbreathing. "I loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It was only afancy of his. I had charmed him for the time, but I knew when I was gonehis heart would go back to you--and now, Beth, I am dying slowly, I askbut one thing more. I have sent for Clarence. Let everything beforgotten now; let me see you happy together just as it was before."

  "Oh, hush, Marie! It cannot be. It can never be. You know I told youlast fall that I did not love him."

  "Ah, but that is your pride, Beth; all your pride! Listen to me, Beth.If I had ten years more to live, I would give them all to see you bothhappy and united."

  Beth covered her face with her hands, as her tears flowed silently.

  "Marie, I must tell you all," she said, as she bent over her. "I loveanother: I love Arthur!"

  "Arthur Grafton!" Marie exclaimed, and her breath came in quick, shortgasps, and there was a pained look about her closed eyes. Bethunderstood she was grieved for the disappointment of the man she loved.

  "And you, Beth--are you happy? Does he--Arthur, I mean--love you?" sheasked, with a smile.

  "No. He loved me once, the summer before I came to college, but he ischanged now. He was in Briarsfield this summer for a few days, but I sawhe was changed. He was not like the same Arthur--so changed and cold."She sat with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay watching her."Only once I thought he loved me," she continued; "one night when helooked at me and touched my hand. But the next day he was cold again,and I knew then that he didn't love me any more."

 
; Marie lay for a few moments with a very thoughtful look in her eyes, butshe made no remark, and, after a while, she slept from weakness andexhaustion.

  Beth went out for a few hours next morning, and found her very muchweaker when she returned. Mrs. Bartram said she had tired herselfwriting a letter. She had a wide-awake air as if she were watching forsomething, and her ear seemed to catch every step on the stair-way. Itwas toward the close of day.

  "Hark! who's that?" she asked, starting.

  "Only Mrs. Bartram. Rest, dearest," said Beth.

  But the brilliant eyes were fixed on the door, and a moment laterClarence entered the room. Marie still held Beth's hand, but her darkeyes were fixed on Clarence with a look never to be forgotten.

  "You have come at last," she said, then fell back on her pillowsexhausted, but smiling, her eyes closed.

  He stood holding the frail hand she had stretched out to him, then thedark eyes opened slowly, and she gazed on him with a yearning look.

  "Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall die happier," she said, softly."Oh, Clarence, I loved you! I loved you! It can do no harm to tell younow. Kiss me just once. In a moment I shall be with my God."

  Beth had glided from the room, and left her alone with the man sheloved; but in a few minutes he called her and Mrs. Bartram to thebed-side. Marie was almost past speaking, but she stretched forth herarms to Beth and drew her young head down upon her breast. There wassilence for a few minutes, broken only by Marie's hoarse breathing.

  "Jesus, my Redeemer," her pale lips murmured faintly, then theheart-throbs beneath Beth's ear were still; the slender hand fellhelpless on the counterpane; the brilliant eyes were closed; Marie wasgone!

  When Beth came to look at her again she lay smiling in her white,flowing garment, a single lily in her clasped hands. Poor Marie! She hadloved and suffered, and now it was ended. Aye, but she had done morethan suffer. She had refused the man she loved for his sake and for thesake of another. Her sacrifice had been in vain, but the love thatsacrificed itself--was that vain? Ah, no! Sweet, brave Marie!

  Her friends thought it a strange request of hers to be buried atBriarsfield, but it was granted. Her vast wealth--as she had diedchildless--went, by the provisions of her father's will, to a distantcousin, but her jewels she left to Beth. The following afternoon Mr.Perth read the funeral service, and they lowered the lovely burden inthe shadow of the pines at the corner of the Briarsfield church-yard.There in that quiet village she had first seen him she loved. After allher gay social life she sought its quiet at last, and the stars of thatsummer night looked down on her new-made grave.

  The following day Mr. Perth laid a colored envelope from a largepublishing firm in Beth's lap. They had accepted her last story for agood round sum, accompanied by most flattering words of encouragement.As she read the commendatory words, she smiled at the thought of havingat least one talent to use in her Master's service. Yes, Beth Woodburnof Briarsfield would be famous after all. It was no vain dream of herchildhood.

  Four weeks passed and Beth had finished her preparations for returningto college in the fall. In a few weeks she would be leaving May and thedear old parsonage, but she would be glad to be back at 'Varsity again.There came a day of heavy rain, and she went out on an errand of charityfor May. When she returned, late in the afternoon, she heard Mr. Perthtalking to someone in the study, but that was nothing unusual. The rainwas just ceasing, and the sun suddenly broke through the clouds, fillingall the west with glory. Beth went down into the garden to drink in thebeauty. Rugged clouds stood out like hills of fire fringed with gold,and the great sea of purple and crimson overhead died away in the softflush of the east, while the wet foliage of the trees and gardens shonelike gold beneath the clouds. It was glorious! She had never seenanything like it before. Look! there were two clouds of flame partingabout the sunset like a gateway into the beyond, and within all lookedpeaceful and golden. Somehow it made her think of Marie. Poor Marie!Why had Clarence's love for her been unreal? Why could she not havelived and they been happy together? Love and suffering! And what hadlove brought to her? Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Perhaps hewas happiest of all. He seemed to have forgotten. But she--ah, she couldnever forget! Yet, "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Thysight." And she pulled a bunch of fall flowers from the bush at herside, careless of the rain-drops that shook on her bare head as shetouched the branches. She did not know that she was being observed fromthe study window.

  "She is going to be a missionary, isn't she?" said the stranger who wastalking to Mr. Perth.

  "Yes; she hasn't decided her field yet, but she will make a grand onewherever she goes. She's a noble girl; I honor her."

  "Yes, she is very noble," said the stranger slowly, as he looked at her.She would have recognized his voice if she had been within hearing, butshe only pulled another spray of blossoms, without heeding the sound ofthe study door shutting and a step approaching her on the gravelledwalk.

  "Beth."

  "Arthur! Why, I--I thought you were in Montreal!"

  "So, I was. I just got there a few days ago, but I turned around andcame back to-day to scold you for getting your feet wet standing therein the wet grass. I knew you didn't know how to take care of yourself."There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Didn't I always take careof you when you were little?"

  "Yes, and a nice tyrant you were!" she said, laughing, when she hadrecovered from her surprise, "always scolding and preaching at me."

  He seemed inclined to talk lightly at first, and then grew suddenlysilent as they went into the drawing-room. Beth felt as though he wereregarding her with a sort of protecting air. What did it mean? What hadbrought him here so suddenly? She was growing embarrassed at hissilence, when she suddenly plunged into conversation about Montreal, theWesleyan College, and other topics that were farthest away from herpresent thought and interest.

  "Beth," said Arthur suddenly, interrupting the flow of her remarks in agentle tone, "Beth, why did you not tell me last summer that you weregoing to be a missionary?"

  She seemed startled for a moment, as he looked into her flushed face.

  "Oh, I don't know. I--I meant to. I meant to tell you that afternoon youcame here before you went away, but I didn't know you were going sosoon, and I didn't tell you somehow. Who told you?"

  "Marie de Vere told me," he said, gently. "She wrote to me just a fewhours before she died; but I didn't get the letter till yesterday. Sheleft it with Clarence, and he couldn't find me at first."

  They looked at each other a moment in silence, and there was a tendersmile in his eyes. Then a sudden flush crimsoned her cheek. How much didhe know? Had Marie told him that she--

  "Beth, why did you not tell me before that you were free--that you werenot another's promised wife?" His voice was gentle, very gentle. Herface drooped, and her hand trembled as it lay on her black dress. Herose and bent over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His touchthrilled her, soothed her, but she dare not raise her eyes.

  "I--I--didn't know it mattered--that; you cared," she stammered.

  "Didn't know I cared!" he exclaimed; then, in a softer tone, "Beth, didyou think I had forgotten--that I could forget? I love you, Beth. Canyou ever love me enough to be my wife?"

  She could not speak, but in her upturned face he read her answer, andhis lips touched her brow reverently. Closer, closer to his breast hedrew her. Soul open to soul, heart beating against heart! The old clockticked in the stillness, and the crimson glow of the sunset wasreflected on the parlor wall. Oh, what joy was this suddenly breakingthrough the clouds upon them! Beth was the first to break the silence.

  "Oh, Arthur, I love you so! I love you so!" she said, twining her armspassionately about his neck, as her tears fell upon his breast. It wasthe long pent-up cry of her loving womanhood.

  "But Arthur, why were you so cold and strange that day we parted lastsummer?"

  "I thought you were another's intended wife. I tried to hide my lovefrom you." His voice shook slightly as
he answered.

  One long, lingering look into each other's eyes, and, with one thought,they knelt together beside the old couch and gave thanks to theall-loving Father who had guided their paths together.

  That night Beth lay listening as the autumn wind shook the elm-treeover the roof and drifted the clouds in dark masses across the starrysky. But the winds might rage without--aye, the storms might beat down,if they would, what did it matter? Arthur was near, and the Divinepresence was bending over her with its shielding love. "Oh, God, Thouart good!" She was happy--oh, so happy! And she fell asleep with a smileon her face.

  The autumn passed--such a gloriously happy autumn--and Christmas eve hadcome. The snow lay white and cold on the fields and hills aboutBriarsfield, but in the old church all was warmth and light. A group ofvillagers were gathered inside, most of them from curiosity, and beforethe altar Arthur and Beth were standing side by side. Beth looked verybeautiful as she stood there in her white bridal robes. The church wasstill, sacredly still, but for the sound of Mr. Perth's earnest voice;and in the rear of the crowd was one face, deadly pale, but calm. It wasClarence. How pure she looked, he thought. Pure as the lilies hanging inclusters above her head! Was she of the earth--clay, like these othersabout her? The very tone of her voice seemed to have caught a note fromabove. No, he had never been worthy of her! Weak, fickle, wave-tossedsoul that he was! A look of humiliation crossed his face, then a look ofhope. If he had never been worthy of her hand he would be worthy atleast to have loved her in vain. He would be what she would have had himbe. It was over; the last words were said; the music broke forth, andthe little gold band gleamed on Beth's fair hand as it lay on Arthur'sarm. He led her down the aisle, smiling and happy. Oh, joy! joyeverlasting! joy linking earth to heaven! They rested that night inBeth's old room at the parsonage, and as the door closed behind themthey knelt together--man and wife. Sacred hour!

  Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas eve was one who saw thelight shine from their window as he passed and blessed them. He carrieda bunch of lilies in his hand as he made his way to a long white moundin the church-yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them in the snow,the pure white snow--pure as the dead whose grave it covered! pure asthe vows he had heard breathed that night!

  * * * * *

  Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning back in a rocker by thewindow, in the soft bright moonlight of Palestine. And what have theyears brought to Beth? She is famous now. Her novels are among the mostsuccessful of the day. She has marked out a new line of work, and thedark-eyed Jewish characters in her stories have broadened the sympathiesof her world of readers. But the years have brought her somethingbesides literary fame and success in the mission-field. By her side is alittle white cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleep upon thepillow, one hand, thrown back over his dark curls--her little Arthur.

  There is a step beside her, and her husband bends over her with a lovinglook.

  "It is seven years to-night since we were married, Beth."

  There are tears in her smiling eyes as she looks up into his face.

  "And you have never regretted?" he asks.

  "Oh, Arthur! How could I?" and she hides her face on his breast.

  "My wife! my joy!" he whispers, as he draws her closer.

  "Arthur, do you remember what a silly, silly girl I used to be when Ithought you had not enough of the artist-soul to understand my nature?And here, if I hadn't had you to criticise and encourage me, I'd neverhave succeeded as well as I have."

  He only kisses her for reply, and they look out over the flat-roofedcity in the moonlight. Peace! peace! sweet peace! "Not as the worldgiveth, give I unto you." And the stars are shining down upon them intheir love. And so, dear Beth, farewell!

  The evening shadows lengthen as I write, but there is another to whom wemust bid farewell. It is Clarence. Father and mother are both dead, andin one of the quiet parts of Toronto he lives, unmarried, in hiscomfortable rooms. The years have brought him a greater measure ofsuccess than once he had hoped. The sorrow he has so bravely hidden hasperhaps enabled him to touch some chord in the human hearts of hisreaders. At any rate, he has a good round income now. Edith's childrencome often to twine their arms about his neck; but there are otherchildren who love him, too. Down in the dark, narrow streets of the citythere is many a bare, desolate home that he has cheered with warmth andcomfort, many a humble fireside where the little ones listen for hisstep, many little hands and feet protected from the cold by hisbenefactions. But no matter how lowly the house, he always leaves behindsome trace of his artistic nature--a picture or a bunch of flowers,something suggestive of the beautiful, the ideal. Sometimes, when thelittle ones playing about him lisp their childish praises, a softnessfills his eyes and he thinks of one who is far away. Blessed be herfootsteps! But he is not sad long. No, he is the genial, jolly bachelor,whom everybody loves, so unlike the Clarence of long ago; and sofarewell, brave heart--fare thee well!