Beth Woodburn Part 4

"Perhaps fate may see fit to link them together," he said.

"Oh, no, I don't think so! I can't imagine it."

"Grafton's a fine fellow, isn't he?"

"I'm glad you like him so well, Clarence. He's just like my brother, you know. We had such an earnest talk Sunday night. He made me feel, oh, I don't know how. But do you know, my life isn't consecrated to G.o.d, Clarence; is yours?"

They were walking under the stars of the open night, and Clarence looked thoughtful for a moment, then answered unhesitatingly:

"No, Beth. I settled that long ago. I don't think we need to be consecrated. So long as we are Christians and live fairly consistent lives, I think that suffices. Of course, with people like Arthur Grafton it is different. But as for us we are consecrated to art, you know, in the shape of writing. Let us make the utmost of our talents."

"Yes, we are consecrated to art," said Beth with a sigh of relief, and began talking of Marie.

Since Beth was to leave home in the fall, she did not go away during the summer, and consequently saw much of Marie during the few weeks she stayed at Briarsfield. It is strange how every life we come in contact with leaves its impress upon ourselves! It was certainly so with Marie and Beth. Marie had seen so much of the world and of human life, and Beth had always lived so quietly there in her own village, that now a restlessness took possession of her to get away far beyond the horizon of Briarsfield.

The days pa.s.sed on as days will pa.s.s. Clarence was home most of the time, and he and Beth had many walks together in the twilight, and sometimes in the morning. What delightful walks they were in the cool of the early summer morning! There was one especially pretty spot where they used to rest along the country road-side. It was a little hill-top, with the ground sloping down on either side, then rising again in great forest-crowned hills. Two oak trees, side by side, shaded them as they watched the little clouds sailing over the harvest fields.

Arthur was with them a great deal of the summer, and Beth was occupied with preparations for leaving home. She used to talk to Arthur about Marie sometimes, but he disappointed her by his coldness. She fancied that he did not altogether approve of Marie.

CHAPTER V.

_"FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH."_

It came soon, her last Sabbath at home, and the sun was sinking in the west. Beth sat by her favorite window in the parlor. Do you remember that last Sabbath before you left home? Everything, the hills outside, the pictures on the walls, even the very furniture, looked at you in mute farewell. Beth leaned back in her rocker and looked through the open door into the kitchen with its maple floor, and the flames leaping up in the old cook-stove where the fire had been made for tea. She had always liked that stove with its cheery fire. Then she turned her eyes to the window and noted that the early September frost had browned her favorite meadow where the clover bloomed last June, and that the maples along the road where she went for the milk every evening, were now all decked in crimson and yellow.

Her father was sitting at the table reading, but when she looked around she saw his eyes were fixed upon her with a tender look. Poor father! He would miss her, she knew, though he tried not to let her see how much.

Aunt Prudence, too, dear old soul, seemed sorry to have her go, but she had her own peculiar way of expressing it, namely, by getting crosser every day. She did not approve of so much "larnin'" for girls, especially when Beth was "goin' to be married to that puny Mayfair."

Aunt Prudence always said her "say," as she expressed it, but she meant well and Beth understood.

Beth was not to go until Friday, and Clarence was to meet her at the station. He had been called away to the city with his father on business more than a week before. Arthur was with them to-day, but he was to leave on the early morning train to join a college mate. He was to be at Victoria University that winter and Beth expected to see him often.

They had an early supper, and the September sunset streamed through the open window on the old-fas.h.i.+oned china tea-set. Beth was disappointed after tea when her father's services were required immediately by a patient several miles away. Arthur and she sat down by that same old parlor window in the hush of the coming night; a few white clouds were spread like angel wings above and the early stars were s.h.i.+ning in the west. They were silent for a while. Arthur and Beth were often silent when together, but the silence was a pleasing, not an embarra.s.sing one.

"Are you sorry to leave home, Beth?" asked Arthur.

"Yes, I am; and would you believe it, I thought I'd be so glad to have a change, and yet it makes me sad now the time is drawing near."

They were silent again for a while.

"Arthur, do you know, I think it seems so hard for you to go away so far and be a missionary when you are so fond of home and home life."

He smiled tenderly upon her, but she did not know the meaning of that smile then as she knew a little later.

"It is my Father's will," he said with a sweeter, graver smile.

"Beth, do you not see how your talent could be used in the mission field?"

"He does not know I am going to marry Clarence," she thought with a smile, "and he is going to map out a life work for a maiden lady."

"No, I don't see how," she answered.

"You know there is a large proportion of the world that never read such a thing as a missionary book, and that if more such books were read, missions would be better supported. Now, if someone with bright talents were to write fascinating stories of Arabian life or life in Palestine, see how much interest would be aroused. But then you would need to live among the people and know their lives, and who would know them so well as a missionary?"

Beth smiled at his earnestness.

"Oh, no, Arthur; I couldn't do that."

His eyes filled in a moment with a sad, pleading look.

"Beth, can you refuse longer to surrender your life and your life's toil? Look, Beth," he said, pointing upward to the picture of Christ upon the wall, "can you refuse Him--can you refuse, Beth?"

"Oh, Arthur, don't," she said drooping her face.

"But I _must_, Beth! Will you enter your Father's service? Once again I ask you."

Her eyes were turned away and she answered nothing.

"Beth," he said softly, "I have a more selfish reason for urging you--for I love you, Beth. I have loved you since we were children together. Will you be my own--my wife? It is a holy service I ask you to share. Are you ready, Beth?"

Her pale face was hidden in her hands. He touched her hair reverently.

Tick! tick! tick! from the old clock in the silence. Then a crimson flush, and she rose with sudden violence.

"Oh, Arthur, what _can_ you mean? I thought--you seemed my brother almost--I thought you would always be that. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! how can you--how dare you talk so? I am Clarence Mayfair's promised wife."

"Clarence Mayfair's--" The words died away on his white lips. He leaned upon the mantel-piece, and Beth stood with her grey eyes fixed. His face was so deathly white. His eyes were shaded by his hand, and his brow bore the marks of strong agony. Oh, he was wounded! Those moments were awful in their silence. The darkness deepened in the old parlor. There was a sound of voices pa.s.sing in the street. The church bell broke the stillness. Softly the old calm crept over his brow, and he raised his face and looked at her with those great dark eyes--eyes of unfathomable tenderness and impenetrable fire, and she felt that her very soul stood naked before him. She trembled and sank on the couch at her side. His look was infinitely tender as he came toward her.

"I have hurt you--forgive me," he said gently, and he laid his hand on her head so reverently for a moment. His white lips murmured something, but she only caught the last words, "G.o.d bless you--forever. Good-bye, Beth--little Beth."

He smiled back upon her as he left the room, but she would rather he had looked sad. That smile--she could never forget it, with its wonderful sweetness and sorrow.

She sat motionless for a while after he left the room. She felt thrilled and numbed. There are moments in life when souls stand forth from their clayey frames and touch each other, forgetful of time and s.p.a.ce. It was one of those experiences that Beth had just pa.s.sed through. She went to her room and crouched down at her window beneath the stars of that autumn night. Poor Arthur! She was so sad over it all. And he had loved her! How strange! How could it have been? Loved her since they were children, he had said. She had never thought of love coming like that.

And they had played together upon that meadow out there. They had grown up together, and he had even lived in her home those few years before he went to college. No, she had never dreamed of marrying Arthur! But oh, he was wounded so! She had never seen him look like that before. And he had hoped that she would share his life and his labor. She thought how he had pictured her far away under the burning sun of Palestine, bathing his heated brow and cheering him for fresh effort. He had pictured, perhaps, a little humble home, quiet and peaceful, somewhere amid the snow-crested mountains of the East, where he would walk with her in the cool of night-fall, under the bright stars and clear sky of that distant land. Poor, mistaken Arthur! She was not fitted for such a life, she thought. They were never made for each other. Their ambitions were not the same. She had found her counterpart in Clarence, and he understood her as Arthur never could have done. Arthur was a grand, good, practical man, but there was nothing of the artist-soul in him, she thought. But she had hoped that he would always be her own and Clarence's friend. He was such a n.o.ble friend! And now her hope was crushed. She could never be the same to him again, she knew, and he had said farewell.

"Good-bye, Beth--little Beth," he had said, and she lingered over the last two words, "little Beth." Yes, she would be "little Beth" to him, forever now, the little Beth that he had loved and roamed with over meadow and woodland and wayside, in the sunny, bygone days.

"Good-bye, Beth--little Beth." Poor Arthur!

CHAPTER VI.

_'VARSITY._