CHAPTER XII.

_FAREWELL._

Beth's summer at Briarsfield parsonage pa.s.sed quietly and sweetly. She had seemed a little sad at first, and May, with her woman's instinct, read more of her story than she thought, but she said nothing, though she doubled her little loving attentions. The love of woman for woman is pa.s.sing sweet.

But let us look at Beth as she sits in the shadow of the trees in the parsonage garden. It was late in August, and Beth was waiting for May to come out. Do you remember the first time we saw her in the shadow of the trees on the lawn at home? It is only a little over two years ago, but yet how much she has changed! You would hardly recognize the immature girl in that gentle, sweet-faced lady in her dark mourning dress. The old gloom had drifted from her brow, and in its place was sunlight, not the sunlight of one who had never known suffering, but the gentler, sweeter light of one who had triumphed over it. It was a face that would have attracted you, that would have attracted everyone, in fact, from the black-gowned college professor to the small urchin shouting in the street. To the rejoicing it said, "Let me laugh with you, for life is sweet;" to the sorrowing, "I understand, I have suffered, too. I know what you feel." Just then her sweet eyes were raised to heaven in holy thought, "Dear heavenly Father, thou knowest everything--how I loved him. Thy will be done. Oh, Jesus, my tender One, thou art so sweet! Thou dost understand my woman's heart and satisfy even its sweet longings.

Resting in Thy sweet presence what matter life's sorrows!"

She did not notice the lattice gate open and a slender, fair-haired man pause just inside to watch her. It was Clarence Mayfair. There was a touching expression on his face as he looked at her. Yes, she was beautiful, he thought. It was not a dream, the face that he had carried in his soul since that Sunday night last fall. Beth Woodburn was beautiful. She was a woman now. She was only a child when they played their little drama of love there in Briarsfield. The play was past now; he loved her as a man can love but one woman. And now--a shadow crossed his face--perhaps it was too late!

"Clarence!" exclaimed Beth, as he advanced, "I'm glad to see you." And she held out her hand with an air of graceful dignity.

"You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I suppose. I was so surprised to see you," she continued.

"Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham's."

She noticed as he talked that he looked healthier, stronger and more manly. Altogether she thought him improved.

"Your father and mother are still in England, I suppose," said she.

"Yes, they intend to stay with their relatives this winter. As for me, I shall go back to 'Varsity and finish my course."

"Oh, are you going to teach?"

"Yes; there's nothing else before me," he answered, in a discouraged tone.

She understood. She had heard of his father's losses, and, what grieved her still more, she had heard that Clarence was turning out a literary failure. He had talent, but he had not the fresh, original genius that this age of compet.i.tion demands. Poor Clarence! She was sorry for him.

"You have been all summer in Briarsfield?" he asked.

"Yes, but I am going to Toronto to-morrow morning."

"Yes, I know. Miss de Vere told me she had sent for you."

"Oh, you have seen her then!"

"Yes, I saw her yesterday. Poor girl, she'll not last long. Consumption has killed all the family."

Beth wondered if he loved Marie, and she looked at him, with her gentle, sympathetic eyes. He caught her look and winced under it. She gazed away at the glimpse of lake between the village roofs for a moment.

"Beth, have you forgotten the past?" he asked, in a voice abrupt but gentle.

She started. She had never seen his face look so expressive. The tears rose to her eyes as she drooped her flushing face.

"No, I have not forgotten."

"Beth, I did not love you then; I did not know what love meant--"

"Oh, don't speak of it! It would have been a terrible mistake!"

"But, Beth, can you never forgive the past? I love you _now_--I have loved you since--"

"Oh, hush, Clarence! You _must_ not speak of love!" And she buried her face in her hands and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward slightly toward him, a tender look in her eyes.

"I love another," she said, in a low gentle voice.

He shielded his eyes for a moment with his fair delicate hand. It was a hard moment for them both.

"I am so sorry, Clarence. I know what you feel. I am sorry we ever met."

He looked at her with a smile on his saddened face.

"I feared it was so; but I had rather love you in vain than to win the love of any other woman. Good-bye, Beth."

"Good-bye."

He lingered a moment as he touched her hand in farewell.

"G.o.d bless you," she said, softly.

He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and she sat watching the fleecy clouds and s.n.a.t.c.hes of lake between the roofs. Poor Clarence! Did love mean to him what it meant to her? Ah, yes! she had seen the pain written on his brow. Poor Clarence! That night she craved a blessing upon him as she knelt beside her bed. Just then he was wandering about the weed-grown lawns of his father's house, which looked more desolate than ever in the light of the full moon. It was to be sold the following spring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side. Right there on that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but for that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been? And yet it was better so--better for _her_--G.o.d bless her. And the thought of her drew him heavenward that night.

The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie. She was in a pensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlight shining through their boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion in a few hours' travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by the antics of a negro family at the other end of the car. A portly colored woman presided over them; she had "leben chilen, four dead and gone to glory," as she explained to everyone who questioned her.

It was about two o'clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr of electric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city street would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves but for her thoughts of Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city to spend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she was staying with her friends, the Bartrams. Beth was, indeed, struck by the change in her friend when she entered the room. She lay there so frail and shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, though flushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was an indefinable gentleness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as she stooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very considerate, and left them alone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood that day. Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content to hold Beth's hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears that gathered silently. Bright, sparkling Marie! They had not been wont to a.s.sociate tears with her in the past. It was a pleasant room she had, suggestive of her taste--soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, a tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen's Park through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat by Marie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to the bells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted with pleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes and a half smile on her lips.

"Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were so sweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hair softly with her frail, wasted hand.

"Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breath failed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile.

"It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I felt somehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hard at first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His will be done.'"

Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.

"Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear.

You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and--and Clarence. I was a treacherous friend to you, Beth, to ever let him speak of love to me. I was a traitor to--"

"Oh, hush! Marie, darling, don't talk so," Beth pleaded in a sobbing tone.

"I _must_ speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous to you. But when you know what I suffered--" Her breath failed again for a moment. "I _loved_ him, Beth," she whispered.

"Marie!" There was silence for a moment, broken only by Marie's labored breathing. "I loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It was only a fancy of his. I had charmed him for the time, but I knew when I was gone his heart would go back to you--and now, Beth, I am dying slowly, I ask but one thing more. I have sent for Clarence. Let everything be forgotten now; let me see you happy together just as it was before."

"Oh, hush, Marie! It cannot be. It can never be. You know I told you last fall that I did not love him."

"Ah, but that is your pride, Beth; all your pride! Listen to me, Beth.