Chapter 12

_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!