Beth Woodburn Part 8

She was still the same emotional Beth. There were times when without any outward cause, seemingly from a mere overflow of happiness, she almost cried out, "Oh stay, happy moment, till I drink to the full my draught of joy!"

Arthur's painting hung above Beth's study table, and sometimes a shadow crossed her face as she looked at it. She missed the old friendship, and she wondered, too, that she never met him anywhere.

Beth did not go home at Thanksgiving that year, and she almost regretted it the evening before. She was a little homesick for "daddy," and to dispel her loneliness she shut up her books and went to bed early. Her head had scarcely touched the pillow when, hark! there was a sound of music in the drawing-room down-stairs. She rose in bed to listen, it was so like Arthur's music. She was not at all familiar with the piece, but it thrilled her somehow. There was a succession, of sweet, mellow notes at first; then higher, higher, higher, broader, deeper, fuller, it was bearing her very soul away! Then sweeter, softer, darker, tint of gold and touch of shadow, the tears were standing in her eyes! Clearer again, and more triumphant! Her lips parted as she listened. One sweet prolonged swell, and it died away. She listened for more, but all was silent. She looked out of the window at the stars in the clear sky, and the dark shadow of St. Michael's tower on the snow-covered college roof, then fell back among the pillows to sleep and dream.

She was walking again on the old path by the road-side at home, just as she used to go every evening for the milk. The dusk was deepening and she began to hurry, when she noticed a tall, dark figure ahead. As she drew nearer she recognized Arthur's broad shoulders and well-set head.

Then a strange, indefinable fear seized her. She did not want to overtake him, to meet him face to face. She tried to slacken her steps, but a mysterious, resistless wind seemed to bear her forward against her will. Not a leaf stirred. All was still around her, and yet that uncanny, spirit-like wind urged her on. She struggled, and although Arthur never looked back, she felt that he knew all about her struggles.

At last she made one mighty effort and tore herself free. She took the path on the other side of the road. It was all quiet there, and she walked on slowly. The darkness grew thicker, and she lost sight of Arthur. Then the country became quite new to her. There were bridges every little way--old rickety bridges, that creaked beneath her step, with holes where she caught her feet, and she could hear the great wild torrents rushing below in the darkness. She grew frightened. Oh, how she wished Arthur were there! Then suddenly it grew lighter, and she saw that her path was turning, and lo! there was Arthur! A moment more and their paths would meet. He reached the spot a few steps before her, and turning, looked at her just once, but she saw in his look that he knew all that had pa.s.sed in her heart. "Follow me," he said, with a tender look; and she followed in silence where the path led between the steep, high banks, where strange flowers were clinging in the dim light. She was quite content now, not frightened any longer. Then the bank opened by their pathway, and he led her into a strange, sandy, desert-looking place. They entered a shadowy tent, and in the dim light she could see strange faces, to whom Arthur was talking. No one noticed her, but she did not feel slighted, for though he did not look at her, she felt that he was thinking of her. Then suddenly the strange faces vanished, and she was alone with Arthur. He came toward her with such a beautiful smile, and there was something in his hand of bright gold--the brightest gold she had ever seen. It was a golden spear with a tiny ring on one end and a ma.s.s of chain hanging to it; but lo! when she looked around her she saw it had filled the place with a beautiful mystic light, a golden halo. Then he drew her nearer, nearer to his bosom, and in a moment she felt the spear point touch her heart! An instant of pain, then it pierced her with a deep, sweet thrill. She felt it even to her finger tips. She awoke with a start, but she could almost feel that thrill even after she was awake. She could not sleep again quickly, but lay watching the stars and the moonlight growing paler on her book-case.

Sleep came at length, and when she awoke again it was at the sound of Mr. Owen's jolly "Heigho! Everybody up! Everybody up!" This was a way he had of waking the children in good time for breakfast, and it had the merit of always arousing the boarders, too. Beth naturally supposed that the musician she had heard the night before had been a caller, and so made no enquiries.

The following Sunday evening Beth went to church alone. It was only three or four blocks up to the Central, and Beth was never timid. She did not look around the church much, or she would have recognized a familiar face on the east side. It was Clarence Mayfair's; he was paler than usual, and his light curly hair looked almost artificial in the gaslight. There was something sadder and more manly in his expression, and his eyes were fixed on Beth with a reverent look. How pure she was, he thought, how serene; her brow looked as though an angel-hand had smoothed it in her slumber. She seemed to breathe a benediction on everything around her; she reminded him of an image of an angel bending in prayer, that he had seen in one of the old cathedral windows across the sea. And yet, after knowing a woman like that, he had fancied he could--even fancied he did--love Marie de Vere. What folly had blinded him then, he wondered? Marie had her charms, to be sure, with those dark, bewitching eyes of hers, so kind and sympathetic, so bright and witty and entertaining. But there was something about Marie that was fleeting, something about Beth that was abiding; Marie's charms bewitched while she was present and were soon forgotten, but Beth's lingered in the memory and deepened with the years. It was well, after all, he thought, that Marie had refused his offer of marriage that morning he received Beth's note, and went to her in the heat of his pa.s.sion. He was but a boy then, and yet it was only a few months ago.

What was it that had changed him from boyhood to manhood so suddenly? He did not try to answer the question, but only felt conscious of the change within. He realized now that he had never known what it meant to love. Marie had shed her l.u.s.tre on him as she pa.s.sed; Beth he had never fully comprehended. He had a dim feeling that she was somehow too high for him. But would this reverence he felt for her ripen into love with the maturer years of his manhood? We never can tell the changes that time will weave in these hearts of ours. It is to be feared Clarence was not a very attentive listener throughout the service that night. At the close he waited for Beth in the moonlight outside, but she did not notice him till he was right beside her.

"Clarence!" she exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. "Why, I thought you were in England."

"So I was; but I am back, you see."

"I thought you were going to take a year at Cambridge."

"I did intend to, but I found it too expensive. Besides, I thought I wouldn't bother finishing my course. I am doing some work along the journalistic line at present. I just came to Toronto last night, and intend to leave Tuesday or Wednesday."

In the first moment of her surprise she had forgotten everything except that Clarence was an old friend from home; but now, as he walked beside her, it all came back like a flash--the memory of that night last summer when she had seen him last. She grew suddenly silent and embarra.s.sed.

She longed to ask him about Marie; she wondered if they were engaged, and if so where she was, but she soon controlled herself and asked him about his trip to England, about his mother, about his work, about Edith and everything else of possible or impossible interest. She was relieved, without knowing why, that it was only a few blocks to her boarding-place. He lingered a moment as he said good-night, and something in his look touched her a little. Only the stirring of old memories. She hardly knew whether she was pleased or not to meet him again; but as she entered her room in the darkness her dream seemed to flash across her memory and a tender voice said, "Follow me."

Clarence strolled a little way into the park, pondering on the past. He had never asked Beth for an explanation of her farewell note. He naturally supposed that Arthur Grafton had gone directly to her that night and caused the rupture. He wondered if Arthur were in love with her. Then he turned suddenly and walked back by St. Mary's Street to Yonge. The street was almost deserted; there was only one figure in sight, a tall man drawing nearer. There was No.----, where he had left Beth at the door. He had just pa.s.sed a few more doors when a familiar voice startled him. It was Arthur Grafton! Clarence felt ill at ease for a moment, but Arthur's tone was so kind it dispelled his embarra.s.sment.

They talked for a few moments, then parted; and Clarence, looking back a moment later, saw Arthur ring the bell at Beth's boarding-place. A peculiar look, almost a sneer, crossed his face for a moment.

"Ah, he is going in to spend the evening with his beloved," he thought.

And Clarence resolved, then and there, not to call on Beth the following day, as he had intended.

But Arthur proceeded absently to the room Marie had formerly occupied, without the slightest idea that Beth had lived in the house with him nearly two months. It was strange, but though he had seen all the other girls in the house he had never seen Beth. He had not enquired her address the year before, not wishing to know. He wished to have nothing to do with Clarence Mayfair's promised wife. She was nothing to him.

Should he encourage the love he felt for another's wife? No! He had loved with all the strength of that love that comes but once to any human heart, and he had suffered as only the strong and silent can suffer; but he had resolved to bury his pain, and it had given his face a sterner look. So he lay down to rest that night all unconscious that Beth was in the room just overhead; that he had heard her footsteps daily, even listened to her humming little airs to unrecognizable tunes; but the sight of Clarence Mayfair had aroused the past, and he did not sleep till late.

The following afternoon, as Beth sat studying in her room after lectures, she heard a faint tap at her door, a timid knock that in some way seemed to appeal strangely to her. She opened the door--and there stood Marie! In the first moment of her surprise Beth forgot everything that had separated them, and threw both arms about her in the old child-like way. She seated her in the rocker by the window and they talked of various things for a while, but Beth noticed, now and then, an uneasy look in her eyes.

"She has come to tell me she is going to marry Clarence, and she finds it difficult, poor girl," thought Beth, with a heart full of sympathy.

"Beth," said Marie at last, "I have wronged you. I have come here to ask you to forgive me."

Beth belonged to the kind of people who are always silent in emergencies, so she only looked at her with her great tender eyes, in which there was no trace of resentment.

"I came between you and Clarence Mayfair. He never loved me. It was only a fancy. I amused and interested him, I suppose. That was all. He is true to you in the depths of his heart, Beth. It was my fault--all my fault. He never loved me. It was you he loved, but I encouraged him. It was wrong, I know."

Something seemed to choke her for a moment.

"Will you forgive me, Beth? Can you ever forgive?"

She was leaning forward gracefully, her fur cape falling back from her shoulders and her dark eyes full of tears.

Beth threw both arms about her old friend tenderly, forgetting all the bitter thoughts she had once had.

"Oh, Marie, dear, I love you--I love you still. Of course I forgive you."

Then Beth told her all the story of the past, and of that night when she had learned that Clarence did not love her, of her wounded vanity, her mistaken belief in the genuineness of her own love for him, and her gradual awakening to the fact that it was not love after all.

"Then it wasn't Mr. Grafton at all who made the trouble?" interrupted Marie.

"Mr. Grafton? Why, no! What could he have to do with it?"

"Oh, nothing. We thought, at least Clarence thought, he made the trouble."

Beth looked mystified, but Marie only continued in a softened tone:

"I am afraid you don't know your own heart, dear Beth. You will come together again, and all will be forgotten."

"No, Marie, never! The past was folly. All is better as it is."

A pained look that Beth could not fathom drifted across Marie's brow.

"You think so now, but you will change," she said.

A knock at the door interrupted them just then, as Mrs. Owen announced a friend of Beth's.

Marie kissed her gently.

"Good-bye, Beth," she said in her sweet low voice, and there was a tender sadness in her dark eyes. Beth did not know its meaning at the time, but a day was coming when she would know.

Beth saw nothing more of Clarence during his few days in the city. She wondered sometimes if Marie had seen him, but though they saw each other occasionally during the rest of the winter, neither of them mentioned his name.

That week had seemed eventful in Beth's eyes, but it was more eventful even than she thought. The following Sat.u.r.day, after tea, as Beth and Mabel Clayton were going back upstairs, Beth had seated Mabel by force on the first step of the second flight to tell her some funny little story. Beth was in one of her merry moods that night. Beth was not a wit, but she had her vein of mirth, and the girls used to say she was growing livelier every day. The gas was not lighted in the hall, but Beth had left her door open and the light shone out on the head of the stairs. A moment later they started up with their arms about each other's waist.

"Oh, Beth, I left that note-book down stairs. Wait, I'll bring it up to you."

Beth waited, standing in the light as her friend scampered down again.

She heard the door of Marie's old room open, and a tall man stepped into the hall, but as it was dark below she could not see his face. She wondered, though, why he stood so still, and she had a consciousness that someone was looking at her.

Arthur Grafton--for it was he--stood for a moment as if stunned. There she was--Beth Woodburn! The woman he--hush! Clarence Mayfair's promised wife! She looked even beautiful as she stood there in the light, with a smile on her face and a pure white chrysanthemum at her throat.

"You needn't hurry so, Mabel dear. I can wait," she said as her friend approached.

It was over a year since he had heard that voice, and he had tried to believe his heart was deadened to its influence; but now to-night, at the first sound, it thrilled him again with its old-time music. A moment later she closed her door and the hall was dark, and his heart began to beat faster now that he grasped the truth. He turned again to his room, filled with the soft radiance of moonlight. He leaned back in his study chair, his eyes closed; he could hear the students of St. Michael's chanting an evening hymn, and an occasional cab rattled past in the street below. He noted it as we note all little details in our moments of high excitement. Then a smile gradually lighted up his face. Oh, sweet love! For one moment it seemed to be mastering him. She was there.

Hark! Was that her footstep overhead? Oh, to be near her--to touch her hand just once!

Then a stern, dark frown settled on his brow. He rose and paced the room with a sort of frenzied step. What is she to you--Clarence Mayfair's promised wife? Arthur Grafton, what is she to you? Oh, that love, deep and pa.s.sionate, that comes to us but once! That heart-cry of a strong soul for the one being it has enshrined! Sometimes it is gratified and bears in after years its fruits, whether sweet or bitter; or again, it is crushed--blighted in one moment, perhaps--and we go forth as usual trying to smile, and the world never knows, never dreams. A few years pa.s.s and our hearts grow numb to the pain, and we say we have forgotten--that love can grow cold. Cold? Yes; but the cold ashes will lie there in the heart--the dust of our dead ideal! Would such a fate be Arthur's? No. There was no room in that great pulsing heart of his for anything that was cold--no room for the chill of forgetfulness. Strive as he might, he knew he could never forget. What then remained? Even in that hour a holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to bear the burdens and sorrows of others, he had learned to cast all his care upon One who had never forsaken him--even his unrequited love. He laid it on the altar of his G.o.d, to bloom afresh, a beauteous flower transplanted by the River of Life, beyond the blight of envy and of care--beyond, yet near enough to earth to scatter its fragrance in blessings down upon the head of her whom he--loved! Dare he say that word? Yes, in a sweeter, holier sense than before, as one might love the beings of another world.

His face was quite calm as he turned on the light to resume his studies, but before beginning his work he looked a little sadly around the room.

Yes, he had spent pleasant hours there, but he must leave, now. It was better that the same roof should not shelter them both. He did not wish to see Beth Woodburn again; and he just remembered that a friend of his was going to vacate a room on the other side of the park. He would take it early next week.

It was a week later, one afternoon, just before tea, that Beth and Mabel Clayton were sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs. Owen.