_'VARSITY._
Friday morning came, the last day of September, and the train whistled
sharply as it steamed around the curve from Briarsfield with Beth at one
of the car-windows. It had almost choked her to say good-bye to her
father at the station, and she was still straining her eyes to catch the
last glimpse of home. She could see the two poplars at the gate almost
last of all, as the train bore her out into the open country. She looked
through her tears at the fields and hills, the stretches of woodland and
the old farm-houses, with the vines clambering over their porches, and
the tomatoes ripening in the kitchen window-sills. Gradually the tears
dried, for there is pleasure always in travelling through Western
Ontario, particularly on the lake-side, between Hamilton and Toronto.
Almost the first one Beth saw, as the train entered Toronto station,
was Clarence, scanning the car-windows eagerly for her face. Her eyes
beamed as he came toward her. She felt as if at home again. Marie had
secured her room for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased air when
the cab stopped on St. Mary's street. It was a row of three-storey brick
houses, all alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with the maples in
front, and Victoria University at the end of the street. A plump, cheery
landlady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she did just what
hundreds of other girls have done in her place--sat down on that big
trunk and wept, and wondered what "dear old daddy" was doing. But she
soon controlled herself, and looked around the room. It was a very
pretty room, with rocker and table, and a book-shelf in the corner.
There was a large window, too, opening to the south, with a view of St.
Michael's College and St. Basil's Church. Beth realized that this room
was to be her home for the coming months, and, kneeling down, she asked
that the presence of Christ might hallow it.
She was not a very close follower of Christ, but the weakest child of
God never breathed a prayer unheard.
It was such a pleasant treat when Marie tapped at the door just before
tea. It would be nice to have Marie there all winter. Beth looked around
the tea-table at the new faces: Mrs. Owen, at one end of the table,
decidedly stout; Mr. Owen, at the other end, decidedly lean. There were
two sweet-faced children, a handsome, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie at
her side.
The next day, Clarence took Beth over to 'Varsity--as Toronto University
is popularly called--and she never forgot that bright autumn morning
when she passed under the arch of carved stone into the University
halls, those long halls thronged with students. Clarence left her in the
care of a gentle fourth-year girl. Beth was taken from lecturer to
lecturer until the registering was done, and then she stopped by one of
the windows in the ladies' dressing-room to gaze at the beautiful autumn
scenery around--the ravine, with its dark pines, and the Parliament
buildings beyond. Beth was beginning to love the place.
We must not pause long over that first year that Beth spent at 'Varsity.
It passed like a flash to her, the days were so constantly occupied. But
her memory was being stored with scenes she never forgot. It was so
refreshing on the brisk, autumn mornings to walk to lectures through
the crimson and yellow leaves of Queen's Park: and, later in the year,
when the snow was falling she liked to listen to the rooks cawing among
the pines behind the library. Sometimes, too, she walked home alone in
the weird, winter twilight from the Modern Language Club, or from a late
lecture, her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then there were the
social evenings in the gymnasium, with its red, blue and white
decorations, palms and promenades, and music of the orchestra, and hum
of strange voices. It was all new to Beth; she had seen so little of the
world. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A. gave to the
"freshettes"--she enjoyed that, too. What kind girls they were! Beth was
not slow to decide that the "'Varsity maid" would make a model wife, so
gentle and kindly and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still Beth
made hardly any friendships worthy of the name that first year. She was
peculiar in this respect. In a crowd of girls she was apt to like all,
but to love none truly. When she did make friends she came upon them
suddenly, by a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and became so
absorbed in them she forgot everyone else. This friendship with Marie
was another feature of her present life that pleased her. She had
dropped out of Sunday-school work. She thought city Sunday-schools
chilly, and she spent many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room. She liked
to sit there in the rocker by the grate fire, and listen to Marie talk
as she reclined in the cushions, with her dark, picturesque face. They
talked of love and life and books and music, and the world and its ways,
for Marie was clever and thoughtful. In after years Beth looked back on
those Sunday afternoons with a shadow of regret, for her feet found a
sweeter, holier path. Marie prided herself on a little tinge of
scepticism, but they rarely touched on that ground. The twilight shadows
gathered about the old piano in the corner, and the pictures grew dimmer
on the wall, and Marie would play soft love-songs on her guitar, and
sometime Beth would recite one of her poems.
"Have you finished the novel you were writing last summer, Beth?" asked
Marie, one day.
"No, there are just three more chapters, and I am going to leave them
till holidays, next summer, so I can give them my full time and
attention."
"Tell me the story."
Then Beth sat by the fire with a dreamy look on her face and told the
plot of her story. Marie leaned forward, a bright, delighted sparkle in
her dark eyes. Beth had never interested her like that before. She felt
encouraged, and Marie was in raptures when she had finished.
"It's just splendid! Oh, Beth, how clever you are; you will be famous
soon. I shall be proud of your friendship."
Beth did not enjoy as much of the company of Clarence as she had hoped
during these days, though he always brought her home from church on
Sunday evening. Marie was always with them. Beth never thought of
leaving her, and Clarence, too, seemed to enjoy her company. Beth was
pleased at this; she liked to have Clarence appreciate her friends.
Then, they three often went to the musical concerts; Beth liked those
concerts so much, and Marie's face would fairly sparkle sometimes, and
change with every wave of music.
"Just look! Isn't Marie's face grand?" said Clarence one night in a
concert.
Beth only smiled. That night she sat in the rocker opposite her mirror
and looked at her own reflection.
"What a grave, grey-eyed face it is!" she thought. She loved music and
beautiful things, and yet she wondered why her eyes never sparkled and
glowed like Marie's. She wished they had more expression. And yet Marie
was not a pretty girl: no one would have thought for a moment of
calling her pretty.
But what of Arthur? Beth was surprised that during all this time she had
seen him but once, though she lived so near to Victoria. That once was
in the University hall. She had studied late one afternoon, in the
reading-room, after the other girls were gone, and it was just where the
two corridors met that she came face to face with Arthur. He stopped,
and inquired about her studies and her health, and his eyes rested
kindly upon her for a moment; but he did not speak to her just like the
old Arthur. "Good-bye, Beth--little Beth." She recalled the words as she
passed down the long, deserted hall, with its row of lights on either
side.
There was another thing that touched Beth. It was when Marie left them
just before the examinations in the spring; she was going to visit some
friends. Sweet Marie! How she would miss her. She sat by the
drawing-room window waiting to bid her good-bye. It was a bright April
day, with soft clouds and a mild breeze playing through the budding
trees. Marie came down looking so picturesque under her broad-brimmed
hat, and lifted her veil to receive Beth's farewell kiss. Beth watched
her as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence came hurrying up to
clasp her hand at the gate. He looked paler, Beth thought; she hoped he
would come in, but he turned without looking at her window and hurried
away. Beth felt a little sad at heart; she looked at the long, empty
drawing-room, and sighed faintly, then went back upstairs to her books.
And what had that winter brought to Beth? She had grown; she felt it
within herself. Her mind had stretched out over the great wide world
with its millions, and even over the worlds of the sky at night, and at
times she had been overwhelmed at the glory of earth's Creator. Yes, she
had grown; but with her growth had come a restlessness; she felt as
though something were giving way beneath her feet like an iceberg
melting in mild waters. There was one particular night that this
restlessness had been strong. She had been to the Modern Language Club,
and listened to a lecture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needler. She had never
read any of Whitman's poetry before, she did not even like it. But there
were phrases and sentences here and there, sometimes of Whitman's,
sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that awakened a strange incoherent music in
her soul--a new chord was struck. It was almost dark when she reached
her room, at the close of a stormy winter day. She stood at her window
watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud piled upon each other in
the west. Strife and glory she seemed to read in that sky. She thought
of Whitman's rugged manliness, of the way he had mingled with all
classes of men--mingled with them to do them good. And Beth's heart
cried out within her, only to do something in this great, weary
world--something to uplift, to ennoble men, to raise the lowly, to feed
and to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, to
lift men--she knew not where. This cry in Beth's heart was often heard
after that--to be great, to do something for others. She was growing
weary of the narrow boundaries of self. She would do good, but she knew
not how. She heard a hungry world crying at her feet, but she had not
the bread they craved. Poor, blinded bird, beating against the bars of
heaven! Clarence never seemed to understand her in those moods: he had
no sympathy with them. Alas, he had never known Beth Woodburn; he had
understood her intellectual nature, but he had never sounded the depths
of her womanly soul. He did not know she had a heart large enough to
embrace the whole world, when once it was opened. Poor, weak, blinded
Clarence! She was as much stronger than he, as the star is greater than
the moth that flutters towards it.