by Maud Petitt
CHAPTER VI.
_'VARSITY._
Friday morning came, the last day of September, and the train whistledsharply as it steamed around the curve from Briarsfield with Beth at oneof the car-windows. It had almost choked her to say good-bye to herfather at the station, and she was still straining her eyes to catch thelast glimpse of home. She could see the two poplars at the gate almostlast of all, as the train bore her out into the open country. She lookedthrough her tears at the fields and hills, the stretches of woodland andthe old farm-houses, with the vines clambering over their porches, andthe tomatoes ripening in the kitchen window-sills. Gradually the tearsdried, for there is pleasure always in travelling through WesternOntario, 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 eyesbeamed as he came toward her. She felt as if at home again. Marie hadsecured her room for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased air whenthe cab stopped on St. Mary's street. It was a row of three-storey brickhouses, all alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with the maples infront, and Victoria University at the end of the street. A plump, cheerylandlady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she did just whathundreds of other girls have done in her place--sat down on that bigtrunk and wept, and wondered what "dear old daddy" was doing. But shesoon controlled herself, and looked around the room. It was a verypretty 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 roomwas to be her home for the coming months, and, kneeling down, she askedthat the presence of Christ might hallow it.
She was not a very close follower of Christ, but the weakest child ofGod never breathed a prayer unheard.
It was such a pleasant treat when Marie tapped at the door just beforetea. It would be nice to have Marie there all winter. Beth looked aroundthe 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 weretwo sweet-faced children, a handsome, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie ather side.
The next day, Clarence took Beth over to 'Varsity--as Toronto Universityis popularly called--and she never forgot that bright autumn morningwhen she passed under the arch of carved stone into the Universityhalls, those long halls thronged with students. Clarence left her in thecare of a gentle fourth-year girl. Beth was taken from lecturer tolecturer until the registering was done, and then she stopped by one ofthe windows in the ladies' dressing-room to gaze at the beautiful autumnscenery around--the ravine, with its dark pines, and the Parliamentbuildings 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. Buther memory was being stored with scenes she never forgot. It was sorefreshing on the brisk, autumn mornings to walk to lectures throughthe 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 amongthe pines behind the library. Sometimes, too, she walked home alone inthe weird, winter twilight from the Modern Language Club, or from a latelecture, her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then there were thesocial evenings in the gymnasium, with its red, blue and whitedecorations, palms and promenades, and music of the orchestra, and humof strange voices. It was all new to Beth; she had seen so little of theworld. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A. gave to the"freshettes"--she enjoyed that, too. What kind girls they were! Beth wasnot slow to decide that the "'Varsity maid" would make a model wife, sogentle and kindly and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still Bethmade hardly any friendships worthy of the name that first year. She waspeculiar 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 themsuddenly, by a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and became soabsorbed in them she forgot everyone else. This friendship with Mariewas another feature of her present life that pleased her. She haddropped out of Sunday-school work. She thought city Sunday-schoolschilly, and she spent many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room. She likedto sit there in the rocker by the grate fire, and listen to Marie talkas she reclined in the cushions, with her dark, picturesque face. Theytalked 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 onthose Sunday afternoons with a shadow of regret, for her feet found asweeter, holier path. Marie prided herself on a little tinge ofscepticism, but they rarely touched on that ground. The twilight shadowsgathered about the old piano in the corner, and the pictures grew dimmeron the wall, and Marie would play soft love-songs on her guitar, andsometime Beth would recite one of her poems.
"Have you finished the novel you were writing last summer, Beth?" askedMarie, one day.
"No, there are just three more chapters, and I am going to leave themtill holidays, next summer, so I can give them my full time andattention."
"Tell me the story."
Then Beth sat by the fire with a dreamy look on her face and told theplot of her story. Marie leaned forward, a bright, delighted sparkle inher dark eyes. Beth had never interested her like that before. She feltencouraged, and Marie was in raptures when she had finished.
"It's just splendid! Oh, Beth, how clever you are; you will be famoussoon. I shall be proud of your friendship."
Beth did not enjoy as much of the company of Clarence as she had hopedduring these days, though he always brought her home from church onSunday evening. Marie was always with them. Beth never thought ofleaving her, and Clarence, too, seemed to enjoy her company. Beth waspleased at this; she liked to have Clarence appreciate her friends.Then, they three often went to the musical concerts; Beth liked thoseconcerts so much, and Marie's face would fairly sparkle sometimes, andchange with every wave of music.
"Just look! Isn't Marie's face grand?" said Clarence one night in aconcert.
Beth only smiled. That night she sat in the rocker opposite her mirrorand looked at her own reflection.
"What a grave, grey-eyed face it is!" she thought. She loved music andbeautiful things, and yet she wondered why her eyes never sparkled andglowed like Marie's. She wished they had more expression. And yet Mariewas not a pretty girl: no one would have thought for a moment ofcalling her pretty.
But what of Arthur? Beth was surprised that during all this time she hadseen him but once, though she lived so near to Victoria. That once wasin the University hall. She had studied late one afternoon, in thereading-room, after the other girls were gone, and it was just where thetwo corridors met that she came face to face with Arthur. He stopped,and inquired about her studies and her health, and his eyes restedkindly upon her for a moment; but he did not speak to her just like theold Arthur. "Good-bye, Beth--little Beth." She recalled the words as shepassed down the long, deserted hall, with its row of lights on eitherside.
There was another thing that touched Beth. It was when Marie left themjust before the examinations in the spring; she was going to visit somefriends. Sweet Marie! How she would miss her. She sat by thedrawing-room window waiting to bid her good-bye. It was a bright Aprilday, with soft clouds and a mild breeze playing through the buddingtrees. Marie came down looking so picturesque under her broad-brimmedhat, and lifted her veil to receive Beth's farewell kiss. Beth watchedher as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence came hurrying up toclasp her hand at the gate. He looked paler, Beth thought; she hoped hewould come in, but he turned without looking at her window and hurriedaway. Beth felt a little sad at heart; she looked at the long, emptydrawing-room, and sighed faintly, then went back upstairs to her books.
And what had that winter brought to Beth? She had grown; she felt itwithin herself. Her mind had stretched out over the great wide worldwith its millions, and even over the worlds of the sky at night, and attimes she had been overwhelmed at the glory of ear
th's Creator. Yes, shehad grown; but with her growth had come a restlessness; she felt asthough something were giving way beneath her feet like an icebergmelting in mild waters. There was one particular night that thisrestlessness had been strong. She had been to the Modern Language Club,and listened to a lecture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needler. She had neverread any of Whitman's poetry before, she did not even like it. But therewere phrases and sentences here and there, sometimes of Whitman's,sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that awakened a strange incoherent music inher soul--a new chord was struck. It was almost dark when she reachedher room, at the close of a stormy winter day. She stood at her windowwatching the crimson and black drifts of cloud piled upon each other inthe west. Strife and glory she seemed to read in that sky. She thoughtof Whitman's rugged manliness, of the way he had mingled with allclasses of men--mingled with them to do them good. And Beth's heartcried out within her, only to do something in this great, wearyworld--something to uplift, to ennoble men, to raise the lowly, to feedand to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, tolift men--she knew not where. This cry in Beth's heart was often heardafter that--to be great, to do something for others. She was growingweary of the narrow boundaries of self. She would do good, but she knewnot how. She heard a hungry world crying at her feet, but she had notthe bread they craved. Poor, blinded bird, beating against the bars ofheaven! Clarence never seemed to understand her in those moods: he hadno sympathy with them. Alas, he had never known Beth Woodburn; he hadunderstood her intellectual nature, but he had never sounded the depthsof her womanly soul. He did not know she had a heart large enough toembrace the whole world, when once it was opened. Poor, weak, blindedClarence! She was as much stronger than he, as the star is greater thanthe moth that flutters towards it.