Maud Petitt - Beth Woodburn

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Beth did not go home at Thanksgiving that year, and she almost regretted
it the evening before. She was a little homesick for "daddy," and to
dispel her loneliness she shut up her books and went to bed early. Her
head had scarcely touched the pillow when, hark! there was a sound of
music in the drawing-room down-stairs. She rose in bed to listen, it was
so like Arthur's music. She was not at all familiar with the piece, but
it thrilled her somehow. There was a succession, of sweet, mellow notes
at first; then higher, higher, higher, broader, deeper, fuller, it was
bearing her very soul away! Then sweeter, softer, darker, tint of gold
and touch of shadow, the tears were standing in her eyes! Clearer again,
and more triumphant! Her lips parted as she listened. One sweet
prolonged swell, and it died away. She listened for more, but all was
silent. She looked out of the window at the stars in the clear sky, and
the dark shadow of St. Michael's tower on the snow-covered college roof,
then fell back among the pillows to sleep and dream.

She was walking again on the old path by the road-side at home, just as
she used to go every evening for the milk. The dusk was deepening and
she began to hurry, when she noticed a tall, dark figure ahead. As she
drew nearer she recognized Arthur's broad shoulders and well-set head.
Then a strange, indefinable fear seized her. She did not want to
overtake him, to meet him face to face. She tried to slacken her steps,
but a mysterious, resistless wind seemed to bear her forward against her
will. Not a leaf stirred. All was still around her, and yet that
uncanny, spirit-like wind urged her on. She struggled, and although
Arthur never looked back, she felt that he knew all about her struggles.
At last she made one mighty effort and tore herself free. She took the
path on the other side of the road. It was all quiet there, and she
walked on slowly. The darkness grew thicker, and she lost sight of
Arthur. Then the country became quite new to her. There were bridges
every little way--old rickety bridges, that creaked beneath her step,
with holes where she caught her feet, and she could hear the great wild
torrents rushing below in the darkness. She grew frightened. Oh, how she
wished Arthur were there! Then suddenly it grew lighter, and she saw
that her path was turning, and lo! there was Arthur! A moment more and
their paths would meet. He reached the spot a few steps before her, and
turning, looked at her just once, but she saw in his look that he knew
all that had passed in her heart. "Follow me," he said, with a tender
look; and she followed in silence where the path led between the steep,
high banks, where strange flowers were clinging in the dim light. She
was quite content now, not frightened any longer. Then the bank opened
by their pathway, and he led her into a strange, sandy, desert-looking
place. They entered a shadowy tent, and in the dim light she could see
strange faces, to whom Arthur was talking. No one noticed her, but she
did not feel slighted, for though he did not look at her, she felt that
he was thinking of her. Then suddenly the strange faces vanished, and
she was alone with Arthur. He came toward her with such a beautiful
smile, and there was something in his hand of bright gold--the brightest
gold she had ever seen. It was a golden spear with a tiny ring on one
end and a mass of chain hanging to it; but lo! when she looked around
her she saw it had filled the place with a beautiful mystic light, a
golden halo. Then he drew her nearer, nearer to his bosom, and in a
moment she felt the spear point touch her heart! An instant of pain,
then it pierced her with a deep, sweet thrill. She felt it even to her
finger tips. She awoke with a start, but she could almost feel that
thrill even after she was awake. She could not sleep again quickly, but
lay watching the stars and the moonlight growing paler on her book-case.
Sleep came at length, and when she awoke again it was at the sound of
Mr. Owen's jolly "Heigho! Everybody up! Everybody up!" This was a way he
had of waking the children in good time for breakfast, and it had the
merit of always arousing the boarders, too. Beth naturally supposed that
the musician she had heard the night before had been a caller, and so
made no enquiries.

The following Sunday evening Beth went to church alone. It was only
three or four blocks up to the Central, and Beth was never timid. She
did not look around the church much, or she would have recognized a
familiar face on the east side. It was Clarence Mayfair's; he was paler
than usual, and his light curly hair looked almost artificial in the
gaslight. There was something sadder and more manly in his expression,
and his eyes were fixed on Beth with a reverent look. How pure she was,
he thought, how serene; her brow looked as though an angel-hand had
smoothed it in her slumber. She seemed to breathe a benediction on
everything around her; she reminded him of an image of an angel bending
in prayer, that he had seen in one of the old cathedral windows across
the sea. And yet, after knowing a woman like that, he had fancied he
could--even fancied he did--love Marie de Vere. What folly had blinded
him then, he wondered? Marie had her charms, to be sure, with those
dark, bewitching eyes of hers, so kind and sympathetic, so bright and
witty and entertaining. But there was something about Marie that was
fleeting, something about Beth that was abiding; Marie's charms
bewitched while she was present and were soon forgotten, but Beth's
lingered in the memory and deepened with the years. It was well, after
all, he thought, that Marie had refused his offer of marriage that
morning he received Beth's note, and went to her in the heat of his
passion. He was but a boy then, and yet it was only a few months ago.
What was it that had changed him from boyhood to manhood so suddenly? He
did not try to answer the question, but only felt conscious of the
change within. He realized now that he had never known what it meant to
love. Marie had shed her lustre on him as she passed; Beth he had never
fully comprehended. He had a dim feeling that she was somehow too high
for him. But would this reverence he felt for her ripen into love with
the maturer years of his manhood? We never can tell the changes that
time will weave in these hearts of ours. It is to be feared Clarence was
not a very attentive listener throughout the service that night. At the
close he waited for Beth in the moonlight outside, but she did not
notice him till he was right beside her.

"Clarence!" she exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. "Why, I thought
you were in England."

"So I was; but I am back, you see."

"I thought you were going to take a year at Cambridge."

"I did intend to, but I found it too expensive. Besides, I thought I
wouldn't bother finishing my course. I am doing some work along the
journalistic line at present. I just came to Toronto last night, and
intend to leave Tuesday or Wednesday."

In the first moment of her surprise she had forgotten everything except
that Clarence was an old friend from home; but now, as he walked beside
her, it all came back like a flash--the memory of that night last summer
when she had seen him last. She grew suddenly silent and embarrassed.
She longed to ask him about Marie; she wondered if they were engaged,
and if so where she was, but she soon controlled herself and asked him
about his trip to England, about his mother, about his work, about Edith
and everything else of possible or impossible interest. She was
relieved, without knowing why, that it was only a few blocks to her
boarding-place. He lingered a moment as he said good-night, and
something in his look touched her a little. Only the stirring of old
memories. She hardly knew whether she was pleased or not to meet him
again; but as she entered her room in the darkness her dream seemed to
flash across her memory and a tender voice said, "Follow me."

Clarence strolled a little way into the park, pondering on the past. He
had never asked Beth for an explanation of her farewell note. He
naturally supposed that Arthur Grafton had gone directly to her that
night and caused the rupture. He wondered if Arthur were in love with
her. Then he turned suddenly and walked back by St. Mary's Street to
Yonge. The street was almost deserted; there was only one figure in
sight, a tall man drawing nearer. There was No.----, where he had left
Beth at the door. He had just passed a few more doors when a familiar
voice startled him. It was Arthur Grafton! Clarence felt ill at ease for
a moment, but Arthur's tone was so kind it dispelled his embarrassment.
They talked for a few moments, then parted; and Clarence, looking back a
moment later, saw Arthur ring the bell at Beth's boarding-place. A
peculiar look, almost a sneer, crossed his face for a moment.

"Ah, he is going in to spend the evening with his beloved," he thought.

And Clarence resolved, then and there, not to call on Beth the following
day, as he had intended.

But Arthur proceeded absently to the room Marie had formerly occupied,
without the slightest idea that Beth had lived in the house with him
nearly two months. It was strange, but though he had seen all the other
girls in the house he had never seen Beth. He had not enquired her
address the year before, not wishing to know. He wished to have nothing
to do with Clarence Mayfair's promised wife. She was nothing to him.
Should he encourage the love he felt for another's wife? No! He had
loved with all the strength of that love that comes but once to any
human heart, and he had suffered as only the strong and silent can
suffer; but he had resolved to bury his pain, and it had given his face
a sterner look. So he lay down to rest that night all unconscious that
Beth was in the room just overhead; that he had heard her footsteps
daily, even listened to her humming little airs to unrecognizable tunes;
but the sight of Clarence Mayfair had aroused the past, and he did not
sleep till late.

The following afternoon, as Beth sat studying in her room after
lectures, she heard a faint tap at her door, a timid knock that in some
way seemed to appeal strangely to her. She opened the door--and there
stood Marie! In the first moment of her surprise Beth forgot everything
that had separated them, and threw both arms about her in the old
child-like way. She seated her in the rocker by the window and they
talked of various things for a while, but Beth noticed, now and then,
an uneasy look in her eyes.

"She has come to tell me she is going to marry Clarence, and she finds
it difficult, poor girl," thought Beth, with a heart full of sympathy.

"Beth," said Marie at last, "I have wronged you. I have come here to ask
you to forgive me."

Beth belonged to the kind of people who are always silent in
emergencies, so she only looked at her with her great tender eyes, in
which there was no trace of resentment.

"I came between you and Clarence Mayfair. He never loved me. It was only
a fancy. I amused and interested him, I suppose. That was all. He is
true to you in the depths of his heart, Beth. It was my fault--all my
fault. He never loved me. It was you he loved, but I encouraged him. It
was wrong, I know."

Something seemed to choke her for a moment.

"Will you forgive me, Beth? Can you ever forgive?"

She was leaning forward gracefully, her fur cape falling back from her
shoulders and her dark eyes full of tears.

Beth threw both arms about her old friend tenderly, forgetting all the
bitter thoughts she had once had.

"Oh, Marie, dear, I love you--I love you still. Of course I forgive
you."

Then Beth told her all the story of the past, and of that night when she
had learned that Clarence did not love her, of her wounded vanity, her
mistaken belief in the genuineness of her own love for him, and her
gradual awakening to the fact that it was not love after all.

"Then it wasn't Mr. Grafton at all who made the trouble?" interrupted
Marie.

"Mr. Grafton? Why, no! What could he have to do with it?"

"Oh, nothing. We thought, at least Clarence thought, he made the
trouble."

Beth looked mystified, but Marie only continued in a softened tone:

"I am afraid you don't know your own heart, dear Beth. You will come
together again, and all will be forgotten."

"No, Marie, never! The past was folly. All is better as it is."

A pained look that Beth could not fathom drifted across Marie's brow.
"You think so now, but you will change," she said.

A knock at the door interrupted them just then, as Mrs. Owen announced a
friend of Beth's.

Marie kissed her gently.

"Good-bye, Beth," she said in her sweet low voice, and there was a
tender sadness in her dark eyes. Beth did not know its meaning at the
time, but a day was coming when she would know.

Beth saw nothing more of Clarence during his few days in the city. She
wondered sometimes if Marie had seen him, but though they saw each other
occasionally during the rest of the winter, neither of them mentioned
his name.

That week had seemed eventful in Beth's eyes, but it was more eventful
even than she thought. The following Saturday, after tea, as Beth and
Mabel Clayton were going back upstairs, Beth had seated Mabel by force
on the first step of the second flight to tell her some funny little
story. Beth was in one of her merry moods that night. Beth was not a
wit, but she had her vein of mirth, and the girls used to say she was
growing livelier every day. The gas was not lighted in the hall, but
Beth had left her door open and the light shone out on the head of the
stairs. A moment later they started up with their arms about each
other's waist.

"Oh, Beth, I left that note-book down stairs. Wait, I'll bring it up to
you."

Beth waited, standing in the light as her friend scampered down again.
She heard the door of Marie's old room open, and a tall man stepped into
the hall, but as it was dark below she could not see his face. She
wondered, though, why he stood so still, and she had a consciousness
that someone was looking at her.

Arthur Grafton--for it was he--stood for a moment as if stunned. There
she was--Beth Woodburn! The woman he--hush! Clarence Mayfair's promised
wife! She looked even beautiful as she stood there in the light, with a
smile on her face and a pure white chrysanthemum at her throat.

"You needn't hurry so, Mabel dear. I can wait," she said as her friend
approached.

It was over a year since he had heard that voice, and he had tried to
believe his heart was deadened to its influence; but now to-night, at
the first sound, it thrilled him again with its old-time music. A moment
later she closed her door and the hall was dark, and his heart began to
beat faster now that he grasped the truth. He turned again to his room,
filled with the soft radiance of moonlight. He leaned back in his study
chair, his eyes closed; he could hear the students of St. Michael's
chanting an evening hymn, and an occasional cab rattled past in the
street below. He noted it as we note all little details in our moments
of high excitement. Then a smile gradually lighted up his face. Oh,
sweet love! For one moment it seemed to be mastering him. She was there.
Hark! Was that her footstep overhead? Oh, to be near her--to touch her
hand just once!

Then a stern, dark frown settled on his brow. He rose and paced the room
with a sort of frenzied step. What is she to you--Clarence Mayfair's
promised wife? Arthur Grafton, what is she to you? Oh, that love, deep
and passionate, that comes to us but once! That heart-cry of a strong
soul for the one being it has enshrined! Sometimes it is gratified and
bears in after years its fruits, whether sweet or bitter; or again, it
is crushed--blighted in one moment, perhaps--and we go forth as usual
trying to smile, and the world never knows, never dreams. A few years
pass and our hearts grow numb to the pain, and we say we have
forgotten--that love can grow cold. Cold? Yes; but the cold ashes will
lie there in the heart--the dust of our dead ideal! Would such a fate be
Arthur's? No. There was no room in that great pulsing heart of his for
anything that was cold--no room for the chill of forgetfulness. Strive
as he might, he knew he could never forget. What then remained? Even in
that hour a holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to bear the
burdens and sorrows of others, he had learned to cast all his care upon
One who had never forsaken him--even his unrequited love. He laid it on
the altar of his God, to bloom afresh, a beauteous flower transplanted
by the River of Life, beyond the blight of envy and of care--beyond, yet
near enough to earth to scatter its fragrance in blessings down upon the
head of her whom he--loved! Dare he say that word? Yes, in a sweeter,
holier sense than before, as one might love the beings of another world.
His face was quite calm as he turned on the light to resume his studies,
but before beginning his work he looked a little sadly around the room.
Yes, he had spent pleasant hours there, but he must leave, now. It was
better that the same roof should not shelter them both. He did not wish
to see Beth Woodburn again; and he just remembered that a friend of his
was going to vacate a room on the other side of the park. He would take
it early next week.

It was a week later, one afternoon, just before tea, that Beth and Mabel
Clayton were sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs. Owen.

"Do you know any of the girls over at the college who would like to get
a room, Miss Clayton?"

"No, but I might find some one."

"Mr. Grafton has moved out of his room for some reason, I don't know
what."

"Mr.--whom did you say?" asked Beth.

"Mr. Grafton. Did you know him? A tall, dark fellow! Goes to Victoria.
Quite good-looking!"

"Why, surely, can it be Arthur Grafton! That's just who it is! Why, how
funny we never met each other coming in and out!"

"Did you know him, Beth?" asked Mabel. "I met him once or twice in the
halls, but I didn't know you knew him."

"Yes, I have known him ever since we were children."

"Oh, then you have heard him play," said Mrs. Owens. "He played for us
Thanksgiving eve. He's a splendid musician."

Beth felt just a tinge of disappointment that night as she passed the
closed door of the room Arthur had occupied. She wondered why he never
tried to find her. It was unkind of him to break the old friendship so
coldly. It was not her fault she could not love him, she thought. She
could never, never do that! In fact, she did not believe she would ever
love any man.

"Some people are not made for marriage, and I think I'm one of them."
And Beth sighed faintly and fell asleep.

CHAPTER X.

_DEATH._

Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It was
just after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedly
cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the holly
over the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the storm
that raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the wind
came howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, and
peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.

"Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."

Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed her father a plate of
fruit-cake she had made herself.

"It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eat
every bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"

They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten
was amusing itself by scattering the shells over the carpet.

Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.

"You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem to
hurt you."

"I believe it agrees with me, father."

"Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I was
hoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."

"No, I never saw him once."

"Never saw him once!"

He looked at her a little sternly.

"Beth, what is the matter between you and Arthur?"

Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth drooped her head, but the bell had
attracted her father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her head into
the parlor in her unceremonious way.

"Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is wuss, an' his wife's took
down, too. They think he's dyin'."

"Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this dreadful storm. Let me go
with you."

"Nonsense, child! I must go. It's a matter of life and death, perhaps.
Help me on with my coat, daughter, please, I've been out in worse storms
than this."

Beth thought her father looked so brave and noble in that big otter
overcoat, and his long white beard flowing down. She opened the door for
him, and the hall light shone out into the snow. She shuddered as she
saw him staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back into the
parlor. It seemed lonely there, and she went on to the kitchen, where
Aunt Prudence was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always a cheerful
place at Christmas time. Beth's fears seemed quieted, and she went back
to the parlor to fix another branch of holly about a picture. Ding! Was
any one else sick, she wondered, as she went to answer the bell. She
opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth! It was really she, looking
so frail and fair in her furs.

"Why, May, dear! What are you doing out in this storm?"

"Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried to laugh, but the attempt
was not exactly a success.

Beth took her in to the fire, removed her wraps, all matted with snow,
and called to Aunt Prudence for some hot tea.

"Is your father out to-night, Beth?" asked May.

"Yes, he went away out to the Browns'. But wherever have you been?"

"I've been taking some Christmas things to a poor family about two miles
out in the country, and I didn't think the storm so very bad when I
started; but I'm like the Irishman with his children, I've 'more'n I
want'--of sleet, at any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."

"Mr. Perth away! Where?"

"Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two weddings. They are friends of ours,
and we didn't like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she continued,
with a sweet, affected little pout; "he'll not get back till afternoon,
and it's Christmas, too."

"Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right here with us to-night, and for
dinner to-morrow. Isn't that just fine!" Beth was dancing around her in
child-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted, smiling at her pleasure; and they
sat on the couch, chatting.

"Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the Browns'."

"Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."

"Oh, isn't it dreadful? They're so poor, too. I don't believe they've a
decent bed in the house."

"Eight! There, the clock just struck. Father ought to be back. It was
only a little after six when he went out."

She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, but the sleet beating harder
and harder upon the pane was her only answer.

"There he is now!" she cried, as a step entered the hall, and she rushed
to meet him.

"Oh, daddy, dear--why, father!"

Her voice changed to wonder and fear. His overcoat was gone and he
seemed a mass of ice and snow. His beard was frozen together; his breath
came with a thick, husky, sound, and he looked so pale and exhausted.
She led him to the fire, and began removing his icy garments. She was
too frightened to be of much use, but May's thoughtful self was flitting
quietly around, preparing a hot drink and seeing that the bed was ready.
He could not speak for a few minutes, and then it was only brokenly.

"Poor creatures! She had nothing over her but a thin quilt, and the snow
blowing through the cracks; and I just took off my coat--and put it over
her. I thought I could stand it."

Beth understood it now. He had driven home, all that long way, facing
the storm, after taking off his warm fur overcoat, and he was just
recovering from a severe cough, too. She trembled for its effect upon
him. It went to her heart to hear his husky breathing as he sat there
trembling before the fire. They got him to bed soon, and Aunt Prudence
tramped through the storm for Dr. Mackay, the young doctor who had
started up on the other side of the town. He came at once, and looked
grave after he had made a careful examination. There had been some
trouble with the heart setting in, and the excitement of his adventure
in the storm had aggravated it. Beth remembered his having trouble of
that sort once before, and she thought she read danger in Dr. Mackay's
face.

That was a long, strange night to Beth as she sat there alone by her
father's bedside. He did not sleep, his breathing seemed so difficult.
She had never seen him look like that before--so weak and helpless, his
silvery hair falling back from his brow, his cheeks flushed, but not
with health. He said nothing, but he looked at her with a pitying look
sometimes. What did it all mean? Where would it end? She gave him his
medicine from hour to hour. The sleet beat on the window and the heavy
ticking of the clock in the intervals of the storm sounded like
approaching footsteps. The wind roared, and the old shutter creaked
uneasily. The husky breathing continued by her side and the hours grew
longer. Oh, for the morning! What would the morrow bring? She had
promised May to awaken her at three o'clock, but she looked so serene
sleeping with a smile on her lips, that Beth only kissed her softly and
went back to her place. Her father had fallen asleep, and it was an hour
later that she heard a gentle step beside her, and May looked at her
reproachfully. She went to her room and left May to watch. There was a
box on her table that her father had left before he went out that
evening, and then she remembered that it was Christmas morning.
Christmas morning! There was a handsome leather-bound Bible and a gold
watch with a tiny diamond set in the back. She had a choked feeling as
she lay down, but she was so exhausted she soon slept. It was late in
the morning when she awoke, and May did not tell her of her father's
fainting spell. Aunt Prudence was to sit up that night. The dear old
housekeeper! How kind she was, Beth thought. She had often been amused
at the quaint, old-fashioned creature. But she was a kind old soul, in
spite of her occasional sharp words.

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