_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.
It was about two o'clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr of
electric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city
street would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves but
for her thoughts of Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city to
spend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she was
staying with her friends, the Bartrams. Beth was, indeed, struck by the
change in her friend when she entered the room. She lay there so frail
and shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, though
flushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was an
indefinable gentleness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as she
stooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very considerate, and left them
alone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood
that day. Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content to
hold Beth's hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears that
gathered silently. Bright, sparkling Marie! They had not been wont to
associate tears with her in the past. It was a pleasant room she had,
suggestive of her taste--soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, a
tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen's
Park through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat by
Marie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to the
bells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted with
pleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes and
a half smile on her lips.
"Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were so
sweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hair
softly with her frail, wasted hand.
"Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breath
failed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile.
"It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I felt
somehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hard
at first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His will
be done.'"
Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.
"Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear.
You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and--and
Clarence. I was a treacherous friend to you, Beth, to ever let him speak
of love to me. I was a traitor to--"
"Oh, hush! Marie, darling, don't talk so," Beth pleaded in a sobbing
tone.
"I _must_ speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous to you. But when you know
what I suffered--" Her breath failed again for a moment. "I _loved_
him, Beth," she whispered.
"Marie!" There was silence for a moment, broken only by Marie's labored
breathing. "I loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It was only a
fancy of his. I had charmed him for the time, but I knew when I was gone
his heart would go back to you--and now, Beth, I am dying slowly, I ask
but one thing more. I have sent for Clarence. Let everything be
forgotten now; let me see you happy together just as it was before."
"Oh, hush, Marie! It cannot be. It can never be. You know I told you
last fall that I did not love him."
"Ah, but that is your pride, Beth; all your pride! Listen to me, Beth.
If I had ten years more to live, I would give them all to see you both
happy and united."
Beth covered her face with her hands, as her tears flowed silently.
"Marie, I must tell you all," she said, as she bent over her. "I love
another: I love Arthur!"
"Arthur Grafton!" Marie exclaimed, and her breath came in quick, short
gasps, and there was a pained look about her closed eyes. Beth
understood she was grieved for the disappointment of the man she loved.
"And you, Beth--are you happy? Does he--Arthur, I mean--love you?" she
asked, with a smile.
"No. He loved me once, the summer before I came to college, but he is
changed now. He was in Briarsfield this summer for a few days, but I saw
he was changed. He was not like the same Arthur--so changed and cold."
She sat with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay watching her.
"Only once I thought he loved me," she continued; "one night when he
looked at me and touched my hand. But the next day he was cold again,
and I knew then that he didn't love me any more."
Marie lay for a few moments with a very thoughtful look in her eyes, but
she made no remark, and, after a while, she slept from weakness and
exhaustion.
Beth went out for a few hours next morning, and found her very much
weaker when she returned. Mrs. Bartram said she had tired herself
writing a letter. She had a wide-awake air as if she were watching for
something, and her ear seemed to catch every step on the stair-way. It
was toward the close of day.
"Hark! who's that?" she asked, starting.
"Only Mrs. Bartram. Rest, dearest," said Beth.
But the brilliant eyes were fixed on the door, and a moment later
Clarence entered the room. Marie still held Beth's hand, but her dark
eyes were fixed on Clarence with a look never to be forgotten.
"You have come at last," she said, then fell back on her pillows
exhausted, but smiling, her eyes closed.
He stood holding the frail hand she had stretched out to him, then the
dark eyes opened slowly, and she gazed on him with a yearning look.
"Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall die happier," she said, softly.
"Oh, Clarence, I loved you! I loved you! It can do no harm to tell you
now. Kiss me just once. In a moment I shall be with my God."
Beth had glided from the room, and left her alone with the man she
loved; but in a few minutes he called her and Mrs. Bartram to the
bed-side. Marie was almost past speaking, but she stretched forth her
arms to Beth and drew her young head down upon her breast. There was
silence for a few minutes, broken only by Marie's hoarse breathing.
"Jesus, my Redeemer," her pale lips murmured faintly, then the
heart-throbs beneath Beth's ear were still; the slender hand fell
helpless on the counterpane; the brilliant eyes were closed; Marie was
gone!
When Beth came to look at her again she lay smiling in her white,
flowing garment, a single lily in her clasped hands. Poor Marie! She had
loved and suffered, and now it was ended. Aye, but she had done more
than suffer. She had refused the man she loved for his sake and for the
sake of another. Her sacrifice had been in vain, but the love that
sacrificed itself--was that vain? Ah, no! Sweet, brave Marie!
Her friends thought it a strange request of hers to be buried at
Briarsfield, but it was granted. Her vast wealth--as she had died
childless--went, by the provisions of her father's will, to a distant
cousin, but her jewels she left to Beth. The following afternoon Mr.
Perth read the funeral service, and they lowered the lovely burden in
the shadow of the pines at the corner of the Briarsfield church-yard.
There in that quiet village she had first seen him she loved. After all
her gay social life she sought its quiet at last, and the stars of that
summer night looked down on her new-made grave.
The following day Mr. Perth laid a colored envelope from a large
publishing firm in Beth's lap. They had accepted her last story for a
good round sum, accompanied by most flattering words of encouragement.
As she read the commendatory words, she smiled at the thought of having
at least one talent to use in her Master's service. Yes, Beth Woodburn
of Briarsfield would be famous after all. It was no vain dream of her
childhood.
Four weeks passed and Beth had finished her preparations for returning
to college in the fall. In a few weeks she would be leaving May and the
dear old parsonage, but she would be glad to be back at 'Varsity again.
There came a day of heavy rain, and she went out on an errand of charity
for May. When she returned, late in the afternoon, she heard Mr. Perth
talking to someone in the study, but that was nothing unusual. The rain
was just ceasing, and the sun suddenly broke through the clouds, filling
all the west with glory. Beth went down into the garden to drink in the
beauty. Rugged clouds stood out like hills of fire fringed with gold,
and the great sea of purple and crimson overhead died away in the soft
flush of the east, while the wet foliage of the trees and gardens shone
like gold beneath the clouds. It was glorious! She had never seen
anything like it before. Look! there were two clouds of flame parting
about the sunset like a gateway into the beyond, and within all looked
peaceful and golden. Somehow it made her think of Marie. Poor Marie!
Why had Clarence's love for her been unreal? Why could she not have
lived and they been happy together? Love and suffering! And what had
love brought to her? Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Perhaps he
was happiest of all. He seemed to have forgotten. But she--ah, she could
never forget! Yet, "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Thy
sight." And she pulled a bunch of fall flowers from the bush at her
side, careless of the rain-drops that shook on her bare head as she
touched the branches. She did not know that she was being observed from
the study window.
"She is going to be a missionary, isn't she?" said the stranger who was
talking to Mr. Perth.
"Yes; she hasn't decided her field yet, but she will make a grand one
wherever she goes. She's a noble girl; I honor her."
"Yes, she is very noble," said the stranger slowly, as he looked at her.
She would have recognized his voice if she had been within hearing, but
she only pulled another spray of blossoms, without heeding the sound of
the study door shutting and a step approaching her on the gravelled
walk.
"Beth."
"Arthur! Why, I--I thought you were in Montreal!"
"So, I was. I just got there a few days ago, but I turned around and
came back to-day to scold you for getting your feet wet standing there
in the wet grass. I knew you didn't know how to take care of yourself."
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Didn't I always take care
of you when you were little?"
"Yes, and a nice tyrant you were!" she said, laughing, when she had
recovered from her surprise, "always scolding and preaching at me."
He seemed inclined to talk lightly at first, and then grew suddenly
silent as they went into the drawing-room. Beth felt as though he were
regarding her with a sort of protecting air. What did it mean? What had
brought him here so suddenly? She was growing embarrassed at his
silence, when she suddenly plunged into conversation about Montreal, the
Wesleyan College, and other topics that were farthest away from her
present thought and interest.
"Beth," said Arthur suddenly, interrupting the flow of her remarks in a
gentle tone, "Beth, why did you not tell me last summer that you were
going to be a missionary?"
She seemed startled for a moment, as he looked into her flushed face.
"Oh, I don't know. I--I meant to. I meant to tell you that afternoon you
came here before you went away, but I didn't know you were going so
soon, and I didn't tell you somehow. Who told you?"
"Marie de Vere told me," he said, gently. "She wrote to me just a few
hours before she died; but I didn't get the letter till yesterday. She
left it with Clarence, and he couldn't find me at first."
They looked at each other a moment in silence, and there was a tender
smile in his eyes. Then a sudden flush crimsoned her cheek. How much did
he know? Had Marie told him that she--
"Beth, why did you not tell me before that you were free--that you were
not another's promised wife?" His voice was gentle, very gentle. Her
face drooped, and her hand trembled as it lay on her black dress. He
rose and bent over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His touch
thrilled her, soothed her, but she dare not raise her eyes.
"I--I--didn't know it mattered--that; you cared," she stammered.
"Didn't know I cared!" he exclaimed; then, in a softer tone, "Beth, did
you think I had forgotten--that I could forget? I love you, Beth. Can
you ever love me enough to be my wife?"
She could not speak, but in her upturned face he read her answer, and
his lips touched her brow reverently. Closer, closer to his breast he
drew her. Soul open to soul, heart beating against heart! The old clock
ticked in the stillness, and the crimson glow of the sunset was
reflected on the parlor wall. Oh, what joy was this suddenly breaking
through the clouds upon them! Beth was the first to break the silence.
"Oh, Arthur, I love you so! I love you so!" she said, twining her arms
passionately about his neck, as her tears fell upon his breast. It was
the long pent-up cry of her loving womanhood.
"But Arthur, why were you so cold and strange that day we parted last
summer?"
"I thought you were another's intended wife. I tried to hide my love
from you." His voice shook slightly as he answered.
One long, lingering look into each other's eyes, and, with one thought,
they knelt together beside the old couch and gave thanks to the
all-loving Father who had guided their paths together.
That night Beth lay listening as the autumn wind shook the elm-tree
over the roof and drifted the clouds in dark masses across the starry
sky. But the winds might rage without--aye, the storms might beat down,
if they would, what did it matter? Arthur was near, and the Divine
presence was bending over her with its shielding love. "Oh, God, Thou
art good!" She was happy--oh, so happy! And she fell asleep with a smile
on her face.
The autumn passed--such a gloriously happy autumn--and Christmas eve had
come. The snow lay white and cold on the fields and hills about
Briarsfield, but in the old church all was warmth and light. A group of
villagers were gathered inside, most of them from curiosity, and before
the altar Arthur and Beth were standing side by side. Beth looked very
beautiful as she stood there in her white bridal robes. The church was
still, sacredly still, but for the sound of Mr. Perth's earnest voice;
and in the rear of the crowd was one face, deadly pale, but calm. It was
Clarence. How pure she looked, he thought. Pure as the lilies hanging in
clusters above her head! Was she of the earth--clay, like these others
about her? The very tone of her voice seemed to have caught a note from
above. No, he had never been worthy of her! Weak, fickle, wave-tossed
soul that he was! A look of humiliation crossed his face, then a look of
hope. If he had never been worthy of her hand he would be worthy at
least to have loved her in vain. He would be what she would have had him
be. It was over; the last words were said; the music broke forth, and
the little gold band gleamed on Beth's fair hand as it lay on Arthur's
arm. He led her down the aisle, smiling and happy. Oh, joy! joy
everlasting! joy linking earth to heaven! They rested that night in
Beth's old room at the parsonage, and as the door closed behind them
they knelt together--man and wife. Sacred hour!
Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas eve was one who saw the
light shine from their window as he passed and blessed them. He carried
a bunch of lilies in his hand as he made his way to a long white mound
in the church-yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them in the snow,
the pure white snow--pure as the dead whose grave it covered! pure as
the vows he had heard breathed that night!
* * * * *
Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning back in a rocker by the
window, in the soft bright moonlight of Palestine. And what have the
years brought to Beth? She is famous now. Her novels are among the most
successful of the day. She has marked out a new line of work, and the
dark-eyed Jewish characters in her stories have broadened the sympathies
of her world of readers. But the years have brought her something
besides literary fame and success in the mission-field. By her side is a
little white cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleep upon the
pillow, one hand, thrown back over his dark curls--her little Arthur.
There is a step beside her, and her husband bends over her with a loving
look.
"It is seven years to-night since we were married, Beth."
There are tears in her smiling eyes as she looks up into his face.
"And you have never regretted?" he asks.
"Oh, Arthur! How could I?" and she hides her face on his breast.
"My wife! my joy!" he whispers, as he draws her closer.
"Arthur, do you remember what a silly, silly girl I used to be when I
thought you had not enough of the artist-soul to understand my nature?
And here, if I hadn't had you to criticise and encourage me, I'd never
have succeeded as well as I have."
He only kisses her for reply, and they look out over the flat-roofed
city in the moonlight. Peace! peace! sweet peace! "Not as the world
giveth, give I unto you." And the stars are shining down upon them in
their love. And so, dear Beth, farewell!
The evening shadows lengthen as I write, but there is another to whom we
must bid farewell. It is Clarence. Father and mother are both dead, and
in one of the quiet parts of Toronto he lives, unmarried, in his
comfortable rooms. The years have brought him a greater measure of
success than once he had hoped. The sorrow he has so bravely hidden has
perhaps enabled him to touch some chord in the human hearts of his
readers. At any rate, he has a good round income now. Edith's children
come often to twine their arms about his neck; but there are other
children who love him, too. Down in the dark, narrow streets of the city
there is many a bare, desolate home that he has cheered with warmth and
comfort, many a humble fireside where the little ones listen for his
step, many little hands and feet protected from the cold by his
benefactions. But no matter how lowly the house, he always leaves behind
some trace of his artistic nature--a picture or a bunch of flowers,
something suggestive of the beautiful, the ideal. Sometimes, when the
little ones playing about him lisp their childish praises, a softness
fills his eyes and he thinks of one who is far away. Blessed be her
footsteps! But he is not sad long. No, he is the genial, jolly bachelor,
whom everybody loves, so unlike the Clarence of long ago; and so
farewell, brave heart--fare thee well!