Beth Woodburn

by Maud Petitt

  Produced by Early Canadiana Online, Robert Cicconetti,Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat https://www.pgdp.net

  BETH WOODBURN.

  BY

  MAUD PETITT.

  TORONTO:WILLIAM BRIGGS,29-33 RICHMOND STREET WEST.MONTREAL: C.W. COATES. HALIFAX: S.F. HUESTIS.1897.

  ENTERED according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year onethousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by WILLIAM BRIGGS, at theDepartment of Agriculture.

  To my mother

  THIS MY FIRST BOOK

  IS LOVINGLY

  DEDICATED.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER I. PAGE Beth at Eighteen 9

  CHAPTER II. A Dream of Life 21

  CHAPTER III. Whither, Beth? 30

  CHAPTER IV. Marie 42

  CHAPTER V. "For I Love You, Beth" 47

  CHAPTER VI. 'Varsity 55

  CHAPTER VII. Ended 64

  CHAPTER VIII. The Heavenly Canaan 78

  CHAPTER IX. 'Varsity Again 95

  CHAPTER X. Death 113

  CHAPTER XI. Love 124

  CHAPTER XII. Farewell 137

  BETH WOODBURN.

  CHAPTER I.

  _BETH AT EIGHTEEN._

  In the good old county of Norfolk, close to the shore of Lake Erie, liesthe pretty village of Briarsfield. A village I call it, though in truthit has now advanced almost to the size and dignity of a town. Here, onthe brow of the hill to the north of the village (rather a retired spot,one would say, for so busy a man), at the time of which my story treats,stood the residence of Dr. Woodburn.

  It was a long, old-fashioned rough-cast house facing the east, withgreat wide windows on each side of the door and a veranda all the wayacross the front. The big lawn was quite uneven, and broken here andthere by birch trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes, all inbloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-like old place. The view to thesouth showed, over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue of LakeErie outlined against the sky, while to the north stretched the open,undulating country, so often seen in Western Ontario.

  One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's only daughter, was loungingin an attitude more careless than graceful under a birch tree. She, herfather and Mrs. Margin, the housekeeper--familiarly known as AuntPrudence--formed the whole household. Beth was a little above theaverage height, a girlish figure, with a trifle of that awkwardness onesometimes meets in an immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what mostpeople would call pretty, but still having a fair share of beauty. Herfeatures were, perhaps, a little too strongly outlined, but the brow wasfair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark hair was drawn backin a pleasing way. But her eyes--those earnest, grey eyes--were the mostimpressive of all in her unusually impressive face. They were suchsearching eyes, as though she had stood on the brink scanning the veryInfinite, and yet with a certain baffled look in them as of one who hadgazed far out, but failed to pierce the gloom--a beaten, longing look.But a careless observer might have dwelt longer on the affectionateexpression about her lips--a half-childish, half-womanly tenderness.

  Beth was in one of her dreamy moods that afternoon. She was gazing awaytowards the north, her favorite view. She sometimes said it was prettierthan the lake view. The hill on which their house stood sloped abruptlydown, and a meadow, pink with clover, stretched far away to rise againin a smaller hill skirted with a bluish line of pines. There was asingle cottage on the opposite side of the meadow, with white blinds anda row of sun-flowers along the wall; but Beth was not absorbed in theview, and gave no heed to the book beside her. She was dreaming. She hadjust been reading the life of George Eliot, her favorite author, and thebook lay open at her picture. She had begun to love George Eliot like apersonal friend; she was her ideal, her model, for Beth had some reputeas a literary character in Briarsfield. Not a teacher in the villageschool but had marked her strong literary powers, and she was not at allslow to believe all the hopeful compliments paid her. From a child herstories had filled columns in the Briarsfield _Echo_, and now she waseighteen she told herself she was ready to reach out into the greatliterary world--a nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would befamous--Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfield. She was sure of it. She wouldwrite novels; oh, such grand novels! She would drink from the verydepths of nature and human life. The stars, the daisies, sunsets,rippling waters, love and sorrow, and all the infinite chords thatvibrate in the human soul--she would weave them all with warp of gold.Oh, the world would see what was in her soul! She would be the brightparticular star of Canadian literature; and then wealth would flow in,too, and she would fix up the old home. Dear old "daddy" should retireand have everything he wanted: and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days,wouldn't mind moving "the trash," as she called her manuscripts. Daddywouldn't make her go to bed at ten o'clock then; she would write allnight if she choose; she would have a little room on purpose, andvisitors at Briarsfield would pass by the old rough-cast house and pointit out as Beth Woodburn's home, and--well, this is enough for a sampleof Beth's daydreams. They were very exaggerated, perhaps, and a littleselfish, too; but she was not a fully-developed woman yet, and the yearswere to bring sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of genius,but genius takes years to unfold itself.

  Then a soft expression crossed the face of the dreamer. She leanedback, her eyes closed and a light smile played about her lips. She wasthinking of one who had encouraged her so earnestly--a tall, slenderyouth, with light curly hair, blue eyes and a fair, almost girlish,face--too fair and delicate for the ideal of most girls: but Bethadmired its paleness and delicate features, and Clarence Mayfair hadcome to be often in her thoughts. She remembered quite well when theMayfairs had moved into the neighborhood and taken possession of thefine old manor beside the lake, and she had become friends with the onlydaughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clarence. Clarence wrote suchpretty little poems, too. This had been the foundation of theirfriendship, and, since their tastes and ambitions were so much alike,what if--

  Her eyes grew brighter, and she almost fancied he was looking down intoher face. Oh, those eyes--hush, maiden heart, be still. She smiled atthe white cloud drifting westward--a little boat-shaped cloud, with twowhite figures in it, sailing in the summer blue. The breeze ruffled herdark hair. There fell a long shadow on the grass beside her.

  "Clarence--Mr. Mayfair! I didn't see you coming. When did you get home?"

  "Last night. I stayed in Toronto till the report of our 'exams' cameout."

  "I see you have been successful," she replied. "Allow me to congratulateyou."

  "Thank you. I hear you are coming to 'Varsity this fall, Miss Woodburn.Don't you think it quite an undertaking? I'm sure I wish you joy of thehard work."

  "Why, I hope you are not wearying of your course in the middle of it,Mr. Mayfair. It is only two years till you will have your B.A."

  "Two years' hard work, though; and, to tell the truth, a B.A. has lostits charms for me. I long to devote my life more fully to literature.That is my first ambition, you know, and I seem to be wasting so muchtime."

  "You can hardly call time spent that way wasted," she answered. "Youwill write all the better for it by and by."

  Then they plunged into one of their old-time literary
talks of authorsand books and ambitions. Beth loved these talks. There was no one elsein Briarsfield she could discuss these matters with like Clarence. Shewas noticing meanwhile how much paler he looked than when she saw himlast, but she admired him all the more. There are some women who love aman all the more for being delicate. It gives them better opportunitiesto display their womanly tenderness. Beth was one of these.

  "By the way, I mustn't forget my errand," Clarence exclaimed after along chat.

  He handed her a dainty little note, an invitation to tea from his sisterEdith. Beth accepted with pleasure. She blushed as he pressed her handin farewell, and their eyes met. That look and touch of his went verydeep--deeper than they should have gone, perhaps; but the years willtell their tale. She watched him going down the hill-side in theafternoon sunshine, then fell to dreaming again. What if, after all, sheshould not always stay alone with daddy? If someone else shouldcome--And she began to picture another study where she should not haveto write alone, but there should be two desks by the broad windowslooking out on the lake, and somebody should--

  "Beth! Beth! come and set the tea-table. My hands is full with themcherries."

  Beth's dream was a little rudely broken by Mrs. Martin's voice, but shecomplacently rose and went into the house.

  Mrs. Martin was a small grey-haired woman, very old-fashioned; a prim,good old soul, a little sharp-tongued, a relic of bygone days ofCanadian life. She had been Dr. Woodburn's housekeeper ever since Bethcould remember, and they had always called her "Aunt Prudence."

  "What did that gander-shanks of a Mayfair want?" asked the old lady witha funny smile, as Beth was bustling about.

  "Oh, just come to bring an invitation to tea from Edith."

  Dr. Woodburn entered as soon as tea was ready. He was the ideal fatherone meets in books, and if there was one thing on earth Beth was proudof it was "dear daddy." He was a fine, broad-browed man, strikingly likeBeth, but with hair silvery long before its time. His eyes were likehers, too, though Beth's face had a little shadow of gloom that did notbelong to the doctor's genial countenance.

  It was a pleasant little tea-table to which they sat down. Mrs Martinalways took tea with them, and as she talked over Briarsfield gossip tothe doctor, Beth, as was her custom, looked silently out of the windowupon the green sloping lawn.

  "Well, Beth, dear," said Dr. Woodburn, "has Mrs. Martin told you thatyoung Arthur Grafton is coming to spend his holidays with us?"

  "Arthur Grafton! Why, no!" said Beth with pleased surprise.

  "He is coming. He may drop in any day. He graduated this spring, youknow. He's a fine young man, I'm told."

  "Oh! Beth ain't got time to think about anything but that slim youngMayfair, now-a-days," put in Mrs. Martin. "He's been out there with hermost of the afternoon, and me with all them cherries to tend to."

  Beth saw a faint shadow cross her father's face, but put it aside asfancy only and began to think of Arthur. He was an old play-fellow ofhers. An orphan at an early age, he had spent his childhood on hisuncle's farm, just beyond the pine wood to the north of her home. Herfather had always taken a deep interest in him, and when the death ofhis uncle and aunt left him alone in the world, Dr. Woodburn had takenhim into his home for a couple of years until he had gone away toschool. Arthur had written once or twice, but Beth was staying with herAunt Margaret, near Welland, that summer, and she had seen fit, forunexplained reasons, to stop the correspondence: so the friendship hadended there. It was five years now since she had seen her oldplay-fellow, and she found herself wondering if he would be greatlychanged.

  After tea Beth took out her books, as usual, for an hour or two; then,about eight o'clock, with her tin-pail on her arm, started up the roadfor the milk. This was one of her childhood's tasks that she still tookpleasure in performing. She sauntered along in the sweet June twilightpast the fragrant clover meadow and through the pine wood, with thefire-flies darting beneath the boughs. Some girls would have beenfrightened, but Beth was not timid. She loved the still sweet solitudeof her evening walk. The old picket gate clicked behind her at the BirchFarm, and she went up the path with its borders of four-o'clocks. It wasArthur's old home, where he had passed his childhood at his uncle's--agreat cheery old farm-house, with morning-glory vines clinging to thewindows, and sun-flowers thrusting their great yellow faces over thekitchen wall.

  The door was open, but the kitchen empty, and she surmised that Mrs.Birch had not finished milking; so Beth sat down on the rough benchbeneath the crab-apple tree and began to dream of the olden days. Therewas the old chain swing where Arthur used to swing her, and thecherry-trees where he filled her apron. She was seven and he wasten--but such a man in her eyes, that sun-browned, dark-eyed boy. Andwhat a hero he was to her when she fell over the bridge, and he rescuedher! He used to get angry though sometimes. Dear, how he thrashedSammie Jones for calling her a "little snip." Arthur was good, though,very good. He used to sit in that very bench where she was sitting, andexplain the Sunday-school lesson to her, and say such good things. Herfather had told her two or three years ago of Arthur's decision to be amissionary. He was going away off to Palestine. "I wonder how he can doit," she thought. "He has his B.A. now, too, and he was always soclever. He must be a hero. I'm not good like that; I--I don't think Iwant to be so good. Clarence isn't as good as that. But Clarence must begood. His poetry shows it. I wonder if Arthur will like Clarence?"

  Mrs. Birch, with a pail of fresh milk on each arm, interrupted herreverie.

  Beth enjoyed her walk home that night. The moon had just risen, and thepale stars peeped through the patches of white cloud that to her fancylooked like the foot-prints of angels here and there on the path of theinfinite. As she neared home a sound of music thrilled her. It was onlyan old familiar tune, but she stopped as if in a trance. The touchseemed to fill her very soul. It was so brave and yet so tender. Themusic ceased; some sheep were bleating in the distance, the stars weregrowing brighter, and she went on toward home.

  She was surprised as she crossed the yard to see a tall dark-hairedstranger talking to her father in the parlor. She was just passing theparlor door when he came toward her.

  "Well, Beth, my old play-mate!"

  "Arthur!"

  They would have made a subject for an artist as they stood with claspedhands, the handsome dark-eyed man, the girl, in her white dress, hermilk-pail on her arm, and her wondering grey eyes upturned to his.

  "Why, Beth, you look at me as if I were a spectre."

  "But, Arthur, you're so changed! Why, you're a man, now!" at which helaughed a merry laugh that echoed clear to the kitchen.

  Beth joined her father and Arthur in the parlor, and they talked the olddays over again before they retired to rest. Beth took out her pale bluedress again before she went to sleep. Yes, she would wear that to theMayfair's next day, and there were white moss roses at the dining-roomwindow that would just match. So thinking she laid it carefully away andslept her girl's sleep that night.