_"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-fashioned 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 shining 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 embarrassing 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 passing 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, "God 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 space. It was
one of those experiences that Beth had just passed 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 noble 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!