Chapter 8

_THE HEAVENLY CANAAN._

Nearly two months later Beth returned home. Marie had broken off her visit abruptly, and Clarence had gone away. It was a rainy Saturday, and Beth sat waiting for her father to finish his rounds. Her visit had refreshed her, and she looked fairly well again. After all, she had so many bright prospects! She was young and talented. Her novel was finished. She would read it through at once, making minor corrections, and then publish it. With all youth's hopefulness, she was sure of fame and worldly success, perhaps of wealth too. She seemed to see a rich harvest-field before her as she sat listening to the rain beat on the roof that summer afternoon. But, after all, she was not happy. Somehow, life was all so hollow! So much tangle and confusion! Her young feet were weary. It was not simply that her love was unreturned. That pained her far less than she would have thought. It was that her idol was shattered. Only in the last few weeks had she begun to see Clarence Mayfair as he really was. It was a wonderfully deep insight into human nature that Beth had; but she had never applied it where Clarence was concerned before, and now that she did, what was it she saw?--a weak, wavering, fickle youth, with a good deal of fine sentiment, perhaps, but without firm, manly strength; ambitious, it was true, but never likely to fulfil his ambitions. The sight pained her. And yet this was the one she had exalted so, and had believed a soaring genius. True, his mind had fine fibre in it, but he who would soar must have strength as well as wings. Beth saw clearly just what Clarence lacked, and what can pain a woman more deeply than to know the object she has idealized is unworthy?

Beth had not told her father yet that all was at an end between her and Clarence. She dreaded telling him that, but she knew he must have learned it from the Mayfairs during her absence. She sighed as she thought of it all, and just then Dr. Woodburn came in and sat down on the couch beside her. They talked until the twilight of that rainy afternoon began to deepen. Then they were silent for a while, and Beth saw her father looking at her with a tender look in his eyes.

"Beth, my dear child, what is wrong between you and Clarence?"

She had believed she could tell him all with perfect calmness, but there was something so very gentle in his look and voice that it disarmed her, and she threw both arms about his neck, and burst into tears.

"Oh, father, dear, I could not marry him. It would not be right. He loves Marie de Vere."

Dr. Woodburn turned away his face, tenderly stroking her hair as she leaned upon his breast. He spoke no word, but she knew what he felt.

"Oh, daddy, dear, don't think anything about it," she said, giving him a warm embrace as she looked up at him, smiling through her tears. "I'm not unhappy. I have so many things to think of, and I have always you, you dear old father. I love you better than anyone else on earth. I will be your own little daughter always."

She pressed her arms about him more tightly, and there were tears in his eyes as he stooped to kiss her brow.

Beth thought of all his tenderness that night as she lay in bed, and then slept, with the rain beating on the roof overhead.

It was a bright sunshiny Sabbath morning when she awoke. She remembered with pleasure how much she had liked Mr. Perth, the new minister, that Sunday. She had heard him before she went away. He had seemed such an energetic, wide-awake, inspiring man! Beth liked that stamp of people. She meant to be a progressive girl. She meant to labor much and to have much success.

She was quite early at church that morning, and interested herself by looking at Mrs. Perth, whom she had never seen before. She was a fair, slender, girlish creature--very youthful indeed for a married woman. She had a great mass of light hair, drawn back plainly from a serenely fair forehead. The fashion became her well, for, in fact, the most striking thing about her face was its simplicity and purity. She was certainly plain-looking, but Beth fancied her face looked like the white cup of a lily. She had such beautiful blue eyes, too, and such a sweet smile.

"I think I shall love her. I believe we shall be great friends," thought Beth, after she had had an introduction to Mrs. Perth; and they did become fast friends.

Beth had seldom been at Sunday-school since she left home, but an impulse seized her to go this afternoon. She was quite early, and she sat down in a seat by herself to muse awhile. She gazed at the lilies about the altar and the stained-glass windows above the organ. How long it seemed to look back to that Sunday of two months ago! She shuddered slightly, and tried to change her thoughts, but she could not help going back to it. It seemed as though years had since passed. So it is always. We go about our daily tasks, and the time passes swiftly or slowly, according as our lives are active or monotonous. Then a crisis comes--an upheaval--a turn in the current. It lasts but a moment, perhaps, but when we look back, years seem to have intervened. Beth gave a half sigh, and concluded she was a little weary, as the people poured into the Bible-class. Mrs. Perth came and sat beside Beth. Is it not strange how, in this world of formality and convention, we meet someone now and again, and there is but a look, a word, a, smile, and we feel that we have known them so long? There is something familiar in their face, and we seem to have walked beside them all along the way. It was just so with Beth and Mrs. Perth. Sweet May Perth! She soon learned to call her that.

Beth was never to forget that Sunday afternoon. Mr. Perth taught the Bible-class. He was an enthusiastic man, reminding her somewhat of Arthur. They were studying, that day, the approach of the Israelites to Canaan, and as Mr. Perth grew more earnest, Beth's face wore a brighter look of interest. Soon he laid aside historical retrospect, and talked of the heavenly Canaan toward which Christ's people were journeying, a bright land shining in the sunlight of God's love, joy in abundance, joy overflowing! He looked so happy as he talked of that Divine love, changeless throughout all time, throughout all eternity--a love that never forsakes, that lulls the weary like a cradle-song, a love that satisfies even the secret longings! Oh, that woman heart of hers, how it yearned, yea, hungered for a love like that love, that could tread the earth in humiliation, bearing the cross of others' guilt, dying there at Calvary! She knew that old, old story well, but she drank it in like a little wondering child to-day. What were those things He promised to those who would tread the shining pathway? Life, peace, rest, hope, joy of earth, joy of heaven! Oh, how she longed to go with them! The tears were standing in her eyes, and her heart was beating faster. But this one thing she must do, or turn aside from the promised land of God's people. Down at the feet of Jesus she must lay her all. And what of that novel she had written? Could she carry that over into this heavenly Canaan? "The fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is." Hers would perish, she knew that well. Highly moral, highly refined and scholarly, but what of its doubts, its shadows, its sorrows without hope, its supernatural gloom? Beth was a master-artist in the field of gloom. She knew how to make her readers shudder, but would that story of hers bring more joy into the world? Would it sweeten life and warm human hearts? Ah, no! And yet, could she destroy it now, before its publication? Could she bear the thought of it? She loved it almost as a mother loves her child. A look of indecision crossed her face. But, just then, she seemed to hear the bells of heaven ringing forth their sweet Gospel call. The bright sunshine and the angel voices of a higher life seemed to break in on her soul. In a moment--she never knew how it was--she became willing to surrender all. It was hardly a year since she had said nay to Arthur, when he asked her to lay her life at the feet of that same Jesus of Nazareth. She refused then, and even one hour ago she would still have refused; but now she would have trudged the highways, poverty-stricken, unknown and obscure, for His dear sake. She would have gone forth, like St. Paul, to the uttermost ends of the earth, she felt she loved Him so! There were tears in her eyes, and a new joy seemed to throb in her heart. She felt so kindly to everyone about her. Was it an impulse or what? She laid her hand softly on May Perth's as she sat beside her, and May, looking into her eyes, seemed to read her heart. She held her hand with a warm, loving pressure, and they were friends from that hour.

Even the sunlight looked more golden when Beth stepped out into it that afternoon. Everything had caught a tint from the pearly gates, for that hour had been a turning-point in her life. She had found the secret of life--the secret of putting self utterly into the background and living for others' happiness; and they who find that secret have the key to their own happiness. The old tinge of gloom in her grey eyes passed away, and, instead, there came into them the warmth and light of a new life. They seemed to reach out over the whole world with tender sympathy, like a deep, placid sea, with the sunlight gilding, its depths.

"Beth, you are growing beautiful," her father said to her one day; and there were something so reverential in his look that it touched her too deeply to make her vain.

The four weeks that remained before the first of October, when she was to return to college, passed quickly. Clarence did not return, and she heard that he had gone to England, intending to take his degree at Cambridge. The Ashleys, too, had left Briarsfield, as Mr. Ashley had secured a principalship east of Toronto. Beth heard nothing more of Marie, though she would so gladly have forgiven her now!

Beth soon became quite absorbed in her new friend, May Perth. She told her one day of her fancy that her face looked like a lily-cup. Mrs. Perth only laughed and kissed her, in her sweet, unconscious way. Beth always loved to kiss May Perth's brow; it was so calm and fair, it reminded her of the white breast of a dove.

Just three or four days before Beth was to go away, Aunt Prudence came into her room at a time when she was alone.

"Did you ever see this picture that Arthur left in his room when he went away last fall?" she asked. "I don't know whether he did it himself or not."

She placed it in the light and left the room. Beth recognized it almost instantly.

"Why, it's that poem of mine that Arthur liked best of all!" she thought.

Yes, it was the very same--the grey rocks rising one above another, the broad white shore, and the lonely cottage, with the dark storm-clouds lowering above it, and the fisherman's bride at the window, pale and anxious, her sunny hair falling about her shoulders as she peered far out across the sea--the black, storm-tossed sea--and far out among the billows the tiny speck of sail that never reached the shore. Beth was no connoisseur of art, but she knew the picture before her was intensely beautiful, even sublime. There was something in it that made her _feel_. It moved her to tears even as Arthur's music had done. No need to tell her both came from the same hand. Besides, no one else had seen that poem but Arthur. And Arthur could paint like this, and yet she had said he had not an artist soul. She sighed faintly. Poor Arthur! Perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. And she laid the picture carefully away among her treasures.

Her last evening at home soon came. It was a clear, chilly night, and they had a fire in the drawing-room grate. It was so cosy to sit there with her father, resting her head on his shoulders, and watching the coals glowing in the twilight.

"Beth, my child, you look so much happier lately. Are you really so happy?" he said, after they had been talking for a while.

"Oh, I think life is so very happy!" said Beth, in a buoyant tone. "And when you love Jesus it is so much sweeter, and somehow I like everyone so much and everybody is so kind. Oh, I think life is grand!"

Dr. Woodburn was a godly man, and his daughter's words thrilled him sweetly. He brushed away a tear she did not see, and stooped to kiss the young cheek resting on his coat-sleeve. They were silent for a few moments.

"Beth, my dear," he said in a softer tone, "Do you know, I thought that trouble last summer--over Clarence--was going to hurt you more. How is it, Beth?"

She hesitated a moment.

"I don't believe I really loved him, father," she said, in a quiet tone, "I thought I did. I thought it was going to break my heart that night I found out he loved Marie. But, somehow, I don't mind. I think it is far better as it is. Oh, daddy, dear, it's so nice I can tell you things like this. I don't believe all girls can talk to their fathers this way. But I--I always wanted to be loved--and Clarence was different from other people in Briarsfield, you know, and I suppose I thought we were meant for each other."

Dr. Woodburn did not answer at once.

"I don't think you would have been happy with him, Beth," he said, after a little. "All has been for the best. I was afraid you didn't know what love meant when you became engaged to him. It was only a school-girl's fancy."

"Beth, I am going to tell you something," he said a moment later, as he stroked her hair. "People believe that I always took a special interest in Arthur Grafton because his father saved my life when we were boys, but that was not the only reason I loved him. Years ago, down along the Ottawa river, Lawrence Grafton was pastor in the town where I had my first practice. He was a grand fellow, and we were the greatest friends. I used to take him to see my patients often. He was just the one to cheer them up. Poor fellow! Let's see, it's seventeen years this fall since he died. It was the first summer I was there, and Lawrence had driven out into the country with me to see a sick patient. When we were coming back, he asked me to stop with him at a farm-house, where some members of his church lived. I remember the place as if I had seen it yesterday, an old red brick building, with honeysuckle climbing about the porch and cherry-trees on the lawn. The front door was open, and there was a flight of stairs right opposite, and while we waited for an answer to the bell a beautiful woman, tall and graceful, paused at the head of the stairs above us, and then came down. To my eyes she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, Beth. She was dressed in white, and had a basket of flowers on her arm. She smiled as she came towards us. Her hair was glossy-black, parted in the middle, and falling in waves about her smooth white forehead; but her eyes were her real beauty, I never saw anything like them, Beth. They were such great, dark, tender eyes. They seemed to have worlds in them. It was not long before I loved Florence Waldon. I loved her." His voice had a strange, deep pathos in it. "She was kind to me always, but I hardly dared to hope, and one day I saw her bidding good-bye to Lawrence. It was only a look and a hand-clasp, but it was a revelation to me. I kept silent about my love from that hour, and one evening Lawrence came to my rooms.

"'Congratulate me, Arthur!' he cried, in a tone that bubbled over with joy. I knew what was coming, but the merciful twilight concealed my face. 'Congratulate me, Arthur! I am going to marry Florence Waldon next month, and you must be best man.'

"I did congratulate him from the depth of my heart, and I was best man at the wedding; and when their little son was born they named him Arthur after me. He is the Arthur Grafton you have known. But poor Lawrence! Little Arthur was only a few months old when she took sick. They called me in, and I did all I could to save her, but one night, as Lawrence and I stood by her bedside--it was a wild March night, and the wind was moaning through the shutters while she slept--suddenly she opened her eyes with a bright look.

"'Oh, Lawrence, listen, they are singing!' she cried, 'it is so beautiful; I am going home--good-bye--take care of Arthur,' and she was gone."

Dr. Woodburn paused a moment, and his breath came faster.

"After that I came to Briarsfield and met your mother, Beth. She seemed to understand from my face that I had suffered, and after we had become friends I told her that story, that I had never told to mortal before or since till now. She was so very tender, and I saw in her face that she loved me, and by-and-by I took her to wife, and she healed over the wound with her gentle hands. She was a sweet woman, Beth. God bless her memory. But the strange part of the story is, Florence Waldon's brother, Garth, had settled on that farm over there, the other side of the pine-wood. She had two other brothers, one a talented editor in the States, the other a successful lawyer. Garth, too, was a bright, original fellow; he had a high standard of farm life, and he lived up to it. He was a good man and a truly refined one, and when poor Lawrence died he left little Arthur--he was three years old then--to him. The dear little fellow; he looked so much like his mother. He used to come and hold you in his arms when you were in long dresses, and then, do you remember a few years later, when your own sweet mother died, how he came to comfort you and filled your lap with flowers?"

Yes, Beth remembered it all, and the tears were running down her cheeks as she drooped her head in silence. The door-bell broke the stillness just then. Dr. Woodburn was wanted. Bidding Beth a hasty but tender good-bye, he hurried off at the call of duty. Beth sat gazing at the coal-fire in silence after her father left. Poor dear old father! What a touching story it was! He must have suffered so, and yet he had buried his sorrow and gone about his work with smiling face. Brave, heroic soul! Beth fell to picturing it all over again with that brilliant imagination of hers, until she seemed to see the tall woman, with her beautiful dark eyes and hair, coming down the stairs, just as he had seen her. She seemed to hear the March winds moan as he stepped out into the night and left the beautiful young wife, pale in death. Then she went to the window and looked out at the stars in the clear sky, and the meadow tinged with the first frost of autumn; and the pine-wood to the north, with the moon hanging like a crescent of silver above it. It was there, at that window, Arthur had asked her to be his wife. Poor Arthur! She was glad her father did not know. It would have pained him to think she had refused the son of the woman he had loved.

Beth lingered a little, gazing at the clear frosty scene before her, then rose with a firm look on her face and went up to her room. There was one thing more to be done before she left home to-morrow. She had resolved upon it. It was dark in her room, but she needed no light to recognize that roll of manuscript in her drawer. She hesitated a moment as she touched it tenderly. Must she do it? Yes, ah, yes! She could not publish that story now. Just then the picture of Arthur seemed to flash through her mind, reading it and tossing it down with that cold, silent look she had sometimes seen on his face. It was dark in the hall as she carried it down to the drawing-room grate. She crouched down on the hearth-rug before the coals, and a moment later the flames that played among the closely-written sheets lighted her face. Nothing but a blackened parchment now for all that proud dream of fame! The room grew dark again, and only the coals cracking and snapping, and the steady ticking of the old clock on the mantel piece above her head, broke the stillness. It was done. She went to the window and knelt down.

"Father, I have sacrificed it for Thee. Take this talent Thou hast given me and use it for Thy honor, for I would serve Thee alone, Father."

She slept that night with a smile on her lips. Yes, friend, it was a hero's deed, and He who alone witnessed it hath sealed her brow with a light such as martyrs wear in heaven. As for the world, oh, that every book filled with dark doubts and drifting fears and shuddering gloom had perished, too, in those flames!