Maud Petitt - Beth Woodburn
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Maud Petitt >> Beth Woodburn
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Dr. Woodburn continued about the same all the following day, saving that
he slept more. The next day was Sunday, and Beth slept a little in the
afternoon. When she awakened she heard Dr. Mackay going down the hall,
and May came in to take her in her arms and kiss her. She sat down on
the bed beside Beth, with tears in her beautiful eyes.
"Beth, your father has been such a good man. He has done so much! If God
should call him home to his reward, would you--would you refuse to give
him up?"
Beth laid her head on May's shoulder, sobbing.
"Oh, May--is it--death?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper.
"I fear so, dear."
Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its way for a while, then
drew her nearer to her heart.
"If Jesus comes for him, will you say 'no'?"
"His will be done," she answered, when she grew calmer.
The next day lawyer Graham came and stayed with Dr. Woodburn some time,
and Beth knew that all hope was past, but she wore a cheerful smile in
her father's presence during the few days that followed--bright winter
days, with sunshine and deep snow. The jingle of sleigh-bells and the
sound of merry voices passed in the street below as she listened to the
labored breathing at her side. It was the last day of the year that he
raised his hand and smoothed her hair in his old-time way.
"Beth, I am going home. You have been a good daughter--my one great
joy. God bless you, my child." He paused a moment. "You will have to
teach, and I think you had better go back to college soon. You'll not
miss me so much when you're working."
Beth pressed back her tears as she kissed him silently, and he soon fell
asleep. She went to the window and looked out on it all--the clear, cold
night sky with its myriads of stars, the brightly lighted windows and
the snow-covered roofs of the town on the hill-slope, and the Erie, a
frozen line of ice in the distant moonlight. The town seemed unusually
bright with lights, for it was the gay season of the year. And, oh, if
she but dared to give vent to that sob rising in her throat! She turned
to the sleeper again; a little later he opened his eyes with a bright
smile.
"In the everlasting arms," he whispered faintly, then pointed to a
picture of Arthur on the table. Beth brought it to him. He looked at it
tenderly, then gave it back to her. He tried to say something, and she
bent over him to catch the words, but all was silent there; his eyes
were closed, his lips set in a smile. Her head sank upon his breast.
"Papa!" she cried.
No answer, not even the sound of heartbeats. There was a noiseless step
at her side, and she fell back, unconscious, into May's arms. When she
came to again she was in her own room, and Mr. Perth was by her side.
Then the sense of her loss swept over her, and he let her grief have its
way for a while.
"My child," he said at last, bending over her. How those two words
soothed her! He talked to her tenderly for a little while, and she
looked much calmer when May came back.
But the strain had been too much for her, and she was quite ill all the
next day. She lay listening to the strange footsteps coming and going in
the halls, for everyone came to take a last look at one whom all loved
and honored. There was the old woman whom he had helped and encouraged,
hobbling on her cane to give him a last look and blessing; there was the
poor man whose children he had attended free of charge, the hand of
whose dying boy he had held; there was the little ragged girl, who
looked up through her tears and said, "He was good to me." Then came the
saddest moment Beth had ever known, when they led her down for the last
time to his side. She scarcely saw the crowded room, the flowers that
were strewn everywhere.
It was all over. The last words were said, and they led her out to the
carriage. The sun was low in the west that afternoon when the Perths
took her to the parsonage--"home to the parsonage," as she always said
after that. Aunt Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she went away
to live with her married son, and Beth never realized before how much
she loved the dear old creature who had watched over her from her
childhood. Just once before she returned to college she went back to
look at the old home, with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts on
its walks. She had thought her future was to be spent there, and now
where would her path be guided?
"Thou knowest, Lord," she said faintly.
CHAPTER XI.
_LOVE._
In the soft flush of the following spring Beth returned to the parsonage
at Briarsfield. It was so nice to see the open country again after the
city streets. Mr. Perth met her at the station just as the sun was
setting, and there was a curious smile on his face. He was a little
silent on the way home, as if he had something on his mind; but
evidently it was nothing unpleasant. The parsonage seemed hidden among
the apple-blossoms, and Mrs. Perth came down the walk to meet them,
looking so fair and smiling, and why--she had something white in her
arms! Beth bounded forward to meet her.
"Why, May, where did you--whose baby?" asked Beth, breathless and
smiling.
"Who does she look like?"
The likeness to May Perth on the little one-month-old face was
unmistakable.
"You naughty puss, why didn't you tell me when you wrote?"
"Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr. Perth. "Handsome baby, isn't
it? 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, but
there is many a sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade by the
rippling water, with the flowers and the birds about us.
One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by herself down toward the
lake, and past the old Mayfair home. The family were still in Europe,
and the place, she heard, was to be sold. The afternoon sunshine was
beating on the closed shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn and
terraces, and the weeds grew tall in the flower-beds. Deserted and
silent! Silent as that past she had buried in her soul. Silent as those
first 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 its
glories over the lake, a great sheet of flame, softened by a wrapping of
thin 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 am
rested."
"What is it--a love story?"
"Yes, it's natural to me to write of love; and yet--I have never been
seriously in love."
May laughed softly.
"Do you know, I am beginning to long to love truly. I want to taste the
deep of life, even if it brings me pain."
It was a momentary restlessness, and she recalled these words before
long.
Mr. Perth joined them just then. He was going away for a week's holiday
on 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 volunteer
missionary."
"Where is he going?" asked Beth.
"I don't know."
"I should like to meet him," and Beth paused before she continued, in a
quiet 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 you
going?"
"I haven't decided yet. I only just decided to go lately--one Sunday
afternoon this spring. I used to hate the idea."
Perhaps it was this little talk that made her think of Arthur again that
night. Why had he never sent her one line, one word of sympathy in her
sorrow? He was very unkind, when her father had loved him so. Was that
what love meant?
The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and Beth did not even ask his
name, as she supposed it would be unfamiliar to her. The old church
seemed so home-like that Sunday. The first sacred notes echoed softly
down the aisles; the choir took their places; then there was a moment's
solemn hush,--and Arthur! Why, that was Arthur going up into the pulpit!
She could hardly repress a cry of surprise. For the moment she forgot
all her coldness and indifference, and looked at him intently. He seemed
changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but there was a delicate
fineness about him she had never seen before, particularly in his eyes,
a mystery of pain and sweetness, blended and ripened into a more perfect
manhood. Was it because Arthur preached that sermon she thought it so
grand? No, everybody seemed touched. And this was the small boy who had
gone hazel-nutting with her, who had heard her geography, and, barefoot,
carried her through the brook. But that was long, long ago. They had
changed since then. Before she realized it, the service was over, and
the people were streaming through the door-way where Arthur stood
shaking hands with the acquaintances of his childhood. There was a
soothed, calm expression on Beth's brow, and her eyes met Arthur's as he
touched her hand. May thought she seemed a trifle subdued that day,
especially toward evening. Beth had a sort of feeling that night that
she would have been content to sit there at the church window for all
time. There was a border of white lilies about the altar, a sprinkling
of 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 poetry
in that sermon, too; little gleanings from nature here and there. Then
she remembered how she had once said Arthur had not an artist-soul. Was
she mistaken? Was he one of those men who bury their sentiments under
the 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 who
had no taste for literature and art?"
"Yes, I do. I believe in the old German proverb, 'Let like and like mate
together.'"
Was that a shadow crossed Beth's face?
"But, whatever you do, Beth, don't marry a man who is all moonshine. A
man may be literary in his tastes and yet not be devoted to a literary
life. I think the greatest genius is sometimes silent; but, even when
silent, he inspires others to climb the heights that duty forbade him to
climb himself."
"You've deep thoughts in your little head, May." And Beth bent over, in
lover-like fashion, to kiss the little white hand, but May had dropped
into one of her light-hearted, baby moods, and playfully withdrew it.
"Don't go mooning like that, kissing my dirty little hands! One would
think you had been falling in love."
Beth went for another stroll that evening. She walked past the dear old
house on the hill-top. The shutters were no longer closed; last summer's
flowers were blooming again by the pathway; strange children stopped
their play to look at her as she passed, and there were sounds of mirth
and music within. Yes, that was the old home--home no longer now! There
was her own old window, the white roses drooping about it in the early
dew.
"Oh, papa! papa! look down on your little Beth!" These words were in her
eyes 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 go
for 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 her
lashes, and the smile on her face.
"I called to see you at the parsonage, but you were just going up the
street, so I thought I might be pardoned for coming too."
They were silent for a few moments. It was so like old times to be
walking there together. The early stars shone faintly; but the clouds
were still pink in the west; not a leaf stirred, not a breath; no sound
save a night-bird calling to its mate in the pine-wood yonder, and the
bleat of lambs in the distance. Presently Arthur broke the silence with
sweet, tender words of sorrow for her loss.
"I should have written to you if I had known, but I was sick in the
hospital, and I didn't--"
"Sick in the hospital! Why, Arthur, have you been ill? What was the
matter?"
"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! Whatever
made you leave it, Arthur?"
He flushed slightly, and evaded her question.
"Do you know, it was so funny, Arthur, you roomed in the very house
where I boarded last fall, and I never knew a thing about it till
afterward? Wasn't it odd we didn't meet?"
Again he made some evasive reply, and she had an odd sensation, as of
something cold passing between them. He suddenly became formal, and they
turned back again at the bridge where they used to sit fishing, and
where Beth never caught anything (just like a girl); they always went to
Arthur's hook. The two forgot their coldness as they walked back, and
Beth was disappointed that Arthur had an engagement and could not come
in. They lingered a moment at the gate as he bade her good-night. A
delicate thrill, a something sweet and new and strange, possessed her as
he 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! A
look, a touch, and something live is throbbing within! We cannot speak
it. We dare not name it. For, oh, hush, 'tis a sacred hour in a woman's
life.
Beth went straight to her room, and sat by the open window in the
star-light. Some boys were singing an old Scotch ballad as they passed
in 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, tender
eyes, that soothed her with their silence. Soothed? Ah, yes! She felt
like a babe to-night, cradled in the arms of something, she knew not
what--something holy, eternal and calm. And _this_ was love. She had
craved it often--wondered how it would come to her--and it was just
Arthur, 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 was
gone. They were man and woman now. She had not known this Arthur as he
was now. A veil seemed to have been suddenly drawn from his face, and
she saw in him--her ideal. There were tears in her eyes as she gazed
heavenward. She had thought to journey to heathen lands alone,
single-handed to fight the battle, and now--"Arthur--Arthur!" she called
in a soft, sweet whisper as she drooped her smiling face. What mattered
all her blind shilly-shally fancies about his nature not being poetic?
There was more poetry buried in that heart of his than she had ever
dreamed. "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--so
familiar, yet so new and changed! She awoke for a moment in the grey
light just before dawn, and she could see him still; her hand yet
thrilled from his touch. She heard the hoarse whistle of a steamer on
the lake; the rooks were cawing in the elm-tree over the roof, and she
fell asleep again.
"Good-morning, Rip Van Winkle," said May, when she entered the
breakfast-room.
"Why, is that clock--just look at the time! I forgot to wind my watch
last night, and I hadn't the faintest idea what time it was when I got
up this morning!"
"Good-bye for to-night, Beth," he had said, and he was going away
to-morrow morning, so he would surely come to-day. No wonder she went
about with an absent smile on her face, and did everything in the
craziest possible way. It was so precious, this newly-found secret of
hers! She knew her own heart now. There was no possibility of her
misunderstanding herself in the future. The afternoon was wearing away,
and she sat waiting and listening. Ding! No, that was only a
beggar-woman at the door. Ding, again! Yes, that was Arthur! Then she
grew frightened. How could she look into his eyes? He would read her
secret there. He sat down before her, and a formal coldness seemed to
paralyze them both.
"I have come to bid you good-bye, Miss Woodburn!"
Miss Woodburn! He had never called her that before. How cold his voice
sounded in her ears!
"Are you going back to Victoria College?" she asked.
"No, to the Wesleyan. Are you going to spend your summer in
Briarsfield?"
"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 friends
there. She is ill and--"
"Do you still call her your friend?" he interrupted, with a sarcastic
smile.
"Why, yes!" she answered wonderingly, never dreaming that he had
witnessed that same scene in the Mayfair home.
"You are faithful, Beth," he said, looking graver. Then he talked
steadily of things in which neither of them had any interest. How cold
and unnatural it all was! Beth longed to give way to tears. In a few
minutes he rose to go. He was going! Arthur was going! She dared not
look 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 the
corner--he was gone! The clock ticked away in the long, silent parlor;
the sunshine slept on the grass outside; the butterflies were flitting
from flower to flower, and laughing voices passed in the street, but her
heart was strangely still. A numb, voiceless pain! What did it mean?
Had Arthur changed? Once he had loved her. "God have pity!" her white
lips murmured. And yet that look, that touch last night--what did it
mean? What folly after all! A touch, a smile, and she had woven her fond
hopes together. Foolish woman-heart, building her palace on the sands
for next day's tide to sweep away! Yet how happy she had been last
night! A thrill, a throb, a dream of bliss; crushed now, all but the
memory! The years might bury it all in silence, but she could never,
never forget. She had laid her plans for life, sweet, unselfish plans
for uplifting human lives. Strange lands, strange scenes, strange faces
would 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 not
sleep. Arthur was still near, the same hills surrounding them both. The
stars were shining and the hoarse whistle of the steamers rent the
night. Perhaps they would never be so near again. Would they ever meet,
she wondered. Perhaps not! Another year, and he would be gone far across
the 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. She
had 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, though
she doubled her little loving attentions. The love of woman for woman is
passing sweet.
But let us look at Beth as she sits in the shadow of the trees in the
parsonage garden. It was late in August, and Beth was waiting for May to
come out. Do you remember the first time we saw her in the shadow of the
trees on the lawn at home? It is only a little over two years ago, but
yet how much she has changed! You would hardly recognize the immature
girl in that gentle, sweet-faced lady in her dark mourning dress. The
old gloom had drifted from her brow, and in its place was sunlight, not
the 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 would
have attracted you, that would have attracted everyone, in fact, from
the black-gowned college professor to the small urchin shouting in the
street. To the rejoicing it said, "Let me laugh with you, for life is
sweet;" to the sorrowing, "I understand, I have suffered, too. I know
what you feel." Just then her sweet eyes were raised to heaven in holy
thought, "Dear heavenly Father, thou knowest everything--how I loved
him. Thy will be done. Oh, Jesus, my tender One, thou art so sweet! Thou
dost 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 man
pause just inside to watch her. It was Clarence Mayfair. There was a
touching expression on his face as he looked at her. Yes, she was
beautiful, he thought. It was not a dream, the face that he had carried
in his soul since that Sunday night last fall. Beth Woodburn was
beautiful. She was a woman now. She was only a child when they played
their 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 crossed
his face--perhaps it was too late!
"Clarence!" exclaimed Beth, as he advanced, "I'm glad to see you." And
she held out her hand with an air of graceful dignity.
"You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I suppose. I was so surprised
to see you," she continued.
"Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham's."
She noticed as he talked that he looked healthier, stronger and more
manly. 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, I
shall 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 discouraged
tone.
She understood. She had heard of his father's losses, and, what grieved
her still more, she had heard that Clarence was turning out a literary
failure. He had talent, but he had not the fresh, original genius that
this 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. Consumption
has 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 away
at the glimpse of lake between the village roofs for a moment.
"Beth, have you forgotten the past?" he asked, in a voice abrupt but
gentle.
She started. She had never seen his face look so expressive. The tears
rose 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 have
loved you since--"
"Oh, hush, Clarence! You _must_ not speak of love!" And she buried her
face in her hands and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward slightly
toward 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 a
hard 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 the
love 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 fleecy
clouds and snatches of lake between the roofs. Poor Clarence! Did love
mean to him what it meant to her? Ah, yes! she had seen the pain written
on his brow. Poor Clarence! That night she craved a blessing upon him as
she knelt beside her bed. Just then he was wandering about the
weed-grown lawns of his father's house, which looked more desolate than
ever in the light of the full moon. It was to be sold the following
spring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side. Right there
on that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but
for that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been? And
yet it was better so--better for _her_--God bless her. And the thought
of her drew him heavenward that night.
The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie. She was in a
pensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands
stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlight
shining through their boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion in a
few hours' travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by the
antics of a negro family at the other end of the car. A portly colored
woman presided over them; she had "leben chilen, four dead and gone to
glory," as she explained to everyone who questioned her.
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