Beth Woodburn

by Maud Petitt

  CHAPTER VII.

  _ENDED._

  June was almost over, and Beth had been home a full month on that longfour months' vacation that university students are privileged to enjoy.She was very ambitious when she came home that first vacation. She hadconceived a fresh ideal of womanhood, a woman not only brilliantlyeducated and accomplished, but also a gentle queen of the home, one whothoroughly understood the work of her home. Clarence was quite pleasedwhen she began to extol cooking as an art, and Dr. Woodburn lookedthrough the open kitchen-door with a smile at his daughter hidden behinda clean white apron and absorbed in the mysteries of the pastry board.Aunt Prudence was a little astonished, but she never would approve ofBeth's way of doing things--"didn't see the sense of a note-book andlead-pencil." But Beth knew what she was doing in that respect.

  Then there were so many books that Beth intended to read in thatvacation! Marie had come to the Mayfair's, too, and helped her to passsome pleasant hours. But there was something else that was holdingBeth's attention. It was Saturday evening, and that story was almostfinished, that story on which she had built so many hopes. She sat inher room with the great pile of written sheets before her, almostfinished; but her head was weary, and she did not feel equal to writingthe closing scene that night. She wanted it to be the most touchingscene of all, and so it had to be rolled up for another week. Just thenthe door-bell rang and Mrs. Ashley was announced, our old friend EdithMayfair, the same sweet, fair girl under another name.

  They sat down by the window and had a long chat.

  "Have you seen the new minister and his wife yet?" asked Edith.

  "No; I heard he was going to preach to-morrow."

  The Rev. Mr. Perth, as the new Methodist minister, was just nowoccupying the attention of Briarsfield.

  "It's interesting to have new people come to town. I wonder if theywill be very nice. Are they young?" asked Beth.

  "Yes. They haven't been married so very long."

  "Edith"--Beth hesitated before she finished the quietly eagerenquiry--"do you still think marriage the best thing in the world?"

  Edith gave her friend a warm embrace in reply. "Yes, Beth, I think itthe very best thing, if God dwell in your home."

  "That sounds like Arthur," said Beth.

  "Do you ever hear of him. Where is he?"

  "I don't know where he is," said Beth, with a half sigh.

  Clarence walked home with Beth to dinner, after church, the nextmorning.

  "How do you like the new minister?" Beth asked.

  "Oh, I think he's a clever little fellow."

  "So do I," said Beth. "He seems to be a man of progressive ideas. Ithink we shall have bright, interesting sermons."

  Marie was slightly ill that Sunday, and did not come out. Clarence andBeth took a stroll in the moonlight. The world looked bright andbeautiful beneath the stars, but Clarence was quieter even than usual,and Beth sighed faintly. Clarence was growing strangely quiet andunconfidential. He was certainly not a demonstrative lover. Perhaps,after all, love was not all she had dreamed. She had painted herdreamland too bright. She did not acknowledge this thought, even to herown soul; but her heart was a little hungry that summer night. PoorBeth! Before another Sabbath she was to know a greater pain than mereweariness. The flames were being kindled that were to scorch that poorheart of hers.

  It was about ten o'clock the next night when she finished her novel.Somehow it gave her a grave feeling. Aunt Prudence was in bed, and Dr.Woodburn had gone out into the country to a patient, and would notreturn till midnight. The house was so still, and the sky and the starsso beautiful; the curtains of her open window just moved in the nightair! It was all ended now--that dreamland which she had lived and lovedand gave expression to on those sheets of paper. Ended! And she wassitting there with her pen in her hand, her work finished, bending overit as a mother does over her child. She almost dreaded to resign it to apublisher, to cast it upon the world. And yet it would return to her,bringing her fame! She was sure of that. The last scene alone would makeher famous. She could almost see the sweet earnest-eyed woman in herwhite robes at the altar; she could hear the sound of voices and thetread of feet; she was even conscious of the fragrance of the flowers.It was all so vivid to her!

  Then a sudden impulse seized her. She would like so much to show it toClarence, to talk to him, and feel his sympathy. He never retired muchbefore midnight, and it was scarcely ten minutes' walk. She would getback before her father returned, and no one would know. Seizing her hat,she went quietly out. It was a freak, but then Beth had freaks now andthen. A great black cloud drifted over the moon, and made everythingquite dark. A timid girl would have been frightened, but Beth was nottimid.

  She knew Clarence was likely to be in the library, and so went around tothe south side. The library window was quite close to the door of theside hall, and as Beth came up the terrace, through the open window apicture met her eyes that held her spell-bound.

  Clarence and Marie were sitting side by side on the sofa, a few feetfrom the window. Marie's dark face was drooping slightly, her cheeksflushed, and her lips just parted in a smile. There was a picture of theCrucifixion on the wall above them, and rich violet curtains hanging toone side. One of Marie's slender olive hands rested on the crimsoncushions at her side, the other Clarence was stroking with a tendertouch. Both were silent for a moment. Then Clarence spoke in a soft, lowtone:

  "Marie, I want to tell you something."

  "Do you? Then tell me."

  "I don't like to say it," he answered.

  "Yes, do. Tell me."

  "If I were not an engaged man,"--his voice seemed to tremble faintly,and his face grew paler--"I should try and win you for my wife."

  Beth drew back a step, her young cheek colorless as death. No cryescaped her white lips, but her heart almost ceased its beating. It wasonly a moment she stood there, but it seemed like years. The dark,blushing girl, the weak, fair-haired youth in whom she had placed hertrust, the pictures, the cushions, the curtains, every detail of thescene, seemed printed with fire upon her soul. She was stung. She hadput her lips to the cup of bitterness, and her face looked wild andhaggard as she turned away.

  Only the stars above and the night wind sighing in the leaves, and aheart benumbed with pain! A tall man passed her in the shadow of thetrees as she was crossing the lawn, but she paid no heed. The lights inthe village homes were going out one by one as she returned up the dark,deserted street. The moon emerged from the clouds, and filled her roomwith a flood of unnatural light just as she entered. She threw herselfupon her pillow, and a cry of pain went up from her wounded heart. Shestarted the next instant in fear lest some one had heard. But no, therewas no one near here, save that loving One who hears every moan; andBeth had not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer to rest in Hisbosom. The house was perfectly still, and she lay there in the darknessand silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of her face. She heardher father's step pass by in the hall; then the old clock struck out themidnight hour, and still she lay in that stupor with drops of coldperspiration on her brow.

  Suddenly a change came over her. Her cheeks grew paler still, but hereyes burned. She rose and paced the room, with quick, agitated steps.

  "Traitress! Traitress!" she almost hissed through her white lips. "It is_her_ fault. It is _her_ fault. And I called her _friend_. Friend!Treachery!"

  Then she sank upon her bed, exhausted by the outburst of passion, for ittook but little of this to exhaust Beth. She was not a passionate girl.Perhaps, never in her life before had she passed through anything likepassion, and she lay there now still and white, her hands folded as indeath.

  In the meantime something else had happened at the Mayfair dwelling. Shehad not noticed the tall man that passed her as she crossed the lawn inthe darkness, but a moment later a dark figure paused on the terrace inthe same spot where she had stood, and his attention was arrested by thesame scene in the library. He paused but a moment before entering, buteven his firm tread was
unheard on the soft carpet, as he strode up thehall to the half-open curtains of the library. Marie's face was stilldrooping, but the next instant the curtains were thrown back violently,and they both paled at the sight of the stern, dark face in thedoor-way.

  "Clarence Mayfair!" he cried in a voice of stern indignation. "ClarenceMayfair, you dare to speak words of love to that woman at your side?You! Beth Woodburn's promised husband?"

  "Arthur Grafton!" exclaimed Clarence, and Marie drew back through theviolet curtains.

  A firm hand grasped Clarence by the shoulder, and, white with fear, hestood trembling before his accuser.

  "Wretch! unworthy wretch! And you claim _her_ hand! Do you know herworth?"

  "In the name of heaven, Grafton, don't alarm the house!" said Clarence,in a terrified whisper. His lip trembled with emotion, and Arthur's darkeyes flashed with fire. There was a shade of pitiful scorn in them, too.After all, what a mere boy this delicate youth looked, he thought.Perhaps he was too harsh. He had only heard a sentence or two outsidethe window, and he might have judged too harshly.

  "I know it, I know I have wronged her," said Clarence, in a chokedvoice; "but don't betray me!"

  There was a ring of true penitence and sorrow in the voice that touchedArthur, and as he raised his face to that picture of the Crucifixion onthe wall, it softened gradually.

  "Well, perhaps I am severe. May God forgive you, Clarence. But it ishard for a man to see another treat the woman he--well, there, I'll sayno more. Only promise me you will be true to her--more worthy of her."

  "I will try, Arthur. Heaven knows I have always meant to be honorable."

  "Then, good-bye, Clarence. Only you need not tell Beth you have seen meto-night," said Arthur, as he turned to leave; "I shall be out ofBriarsfield before morning."

  Poor Arthur! Time had not yet healed his wound, but he was one of thosebrave souls who can "suffer and be still." That night, as he was passingthrough Briarsfield on the late train, a desire had seized him to goback to the old place just once more, to walk up and down for a littlewhile before the home of the woman he loved. He did not care to speak toher or to meet her face to face. She was another's promised wife. Onlyto be near her home--to breathe one deep blessing upon her, and then toleave before break of day, and she would never know he had been near. Hehad come under cover of the darkness, and had seen her descending thegreat wide stairway in her white muslin dress, and going down the darkstreet toward the Mayfairs'. After a little while he had followed, evenapproached the windows of Clarence Mayfair's home, hoping for one lastlook. But he had passed her in the shadow of the trees, and had onlyseen what filled his heart with sorrow. A meaner man would have takenadvantage of the sight, and exposed his rival. But Arthur had anythingbut a mean soul. He believed Beth loved Clarence, as he thought a womanshould love the man to whom she gives her life. He believed that God wascalling him to the mission-field alone. He had only caught a few wordsthat Clarence had said to Marie, and he fancied it may, after all, havebeen mere nonsense. Surely he could not have ceased to love Beth! Surelyhe could not be blind to her merits! Arthur saw only too truly how weak,emotional and changeable Clarence was, but it was not his place tointerfere with those whom God had joined. So he argued to himself.

  But the night was passing, and Beth still lay there, no tear on her coldwhite cheeks. The clock struck one, a knell-like sound in the night!Beth lay there, her hands folded on her breast, the prayer unuttered byher still lips--one for death. The rest were sleeping quietly in theirbeds. They knew nothing of her suffering. They would never know. Oh, ifthat silent messenger would but come now, and still her weary heart!They would come in the morning to look at her. Yes; Clarence would come,too. Perhaps he would love her just a little then. Perhaps he wouldthink of her tenderly when he saw her with the white roses in her hands.Oh, was there a God in heaven who could look down on her sorrowto-night, and not in pity call her home? She listened for the call thatwould bear her far beyond this earthly strife, where all was such tangleand confusion. She listened, but she heard it not, and the darknessdeepened, the moon grew pale and the stars faded away. The house was sostill! The whistle of a steam-engine broke the silence, and she saw thered light as the train swept around the curve. It was bearing Arthuraway, and she did not know that one who loved her had been so near! Thenshe saw a grey gleam in the east. Ah, no! she could not die. The day wascoming again, and she would have to face them all. She would sit in thesame place at the breakfast table. She would meet Clarence again, andMarie--oh--oh, she could not bear the thought of it! She sat up on herbedside with such a weary, anguished look in her eyes! Then she went tokneel at the open window, where her mother had taught her to kneel longyears ago. Her sweet-faced, long-dead mother! When she raised her eyesagain the east was all aglow with the pink and purple dawn, and therooks were cawing in the pines across the meadow. She paced the floorfor a moment or two.

  "Yes, it must be done. I will do it," she thought. "He loves her. I willnot stand in the way of his happiness. No; I had rather die."

  And she took a sheet of note-paper, and wrote these simple words:

  "DEAR CLARENCE,--I do not believe you love me any more. I can never be your wife. I know your secret. I know you love Marie. I have seen it often in your eyes. Be happy with her, and forget me. May you be very happy, always. Good-bye. BETH."

  She took it herself to the Mayfair home, knowing that her father wouldonly think she had gone out for a morning walk. The smoke-wreaths werecurling upward from the kitchen chimneys as she passed down the street,and Squire Mayfair looked a little surprised when she handed him hernote for Clarence, and turned to walk away.

  That sleepless, tearless night had told upon her, and she was not ableto come down to breakfast. Her father came in, and looked at her with aprofessional air.

  "Just what I told you, Beth. You've worked too hard. You need rest.That's just what's the matter," he said, in a brusque voice, as he putsome medicine on the table and left the room.

  Rest! Yes, she could rest now. Her work was done. She looked at thesheet of manuscript that she had taken last night to show Clarence. Yes,the work was done. She had reached the end of her story--the end of herprospect of marriage. Ended her labor--ended her life-dream!

  As for Clarence, he read her note without any emotion.

  "Humph! I didn't think Grafton was the fellow to make mischief soquickly. A tale-bearer! Well, it's all for the best. I made a mistake. Ido not love Beth Woodburn. I cannot understand her."

  Beth slept, and seemed much better in the afternoon, but she was stillquite pale when she went into her father's room after tea.

  "Dear old daddy," she said, putting her arms about his neck, "you werealways so kind. You never refuse me anything if you can help it. I wishyou would let me go away."

  "Why, certainly, Beth, dear!" he said briskly. "Isn't that just whatI've been telling you? Stop writing all day in that hot room up-stairs.Go off and have a frolic. Go and see your Aunt Margaret."

  And so it was settled that if Beth were well enough she should start forWelland next afternoon. She did not see Clarence during the nextmorning. It surprised her that he sought no explanation, and beforethree o'clock Briarsfield was a mere speck in the distance.