Part 4 (1/2)
”Perhaps fate may see fit to link them together,” he said.
”Oh, no, I don't think so! I can't imagine it.”
”Grafton's a fine fellow, isn't he?”
”I'm glad you like him so well, Clarence. He's just like my brother, you know. We had such an earnest talk Sunday night. He made me feel, oh, I don't know how. But do you know, my life isn't consecrated to G.o.d, Clarence; is yours?”
They were walking under the stars of the open night, and Clarence looked thoughtful for a moment, then answered unhesitatingly:
”No, Beth. I settled that long ago. I don't think we need to be consecrated. So long as we are Christians and live fairly consistent lives, I think that suffices. Of course, with people like Arthur Grafton it is different. But as for us we are consecrated to art, you know, in the shape of writing. Let us make the utmost of our talents.”
”Yes, we are consecrated to art,” said Beth with a sigh of relief, and began talking of Marie.
Since Beth was to leave home in the fall, she did not go away during the summer, and consequently saw much of Marie during the few weeks she stayed at Briarsfield. It is strange how every life we come in contact with leaves its impress upon ourselves! It was certainly so with Marie and Beth. Marie had seen so much of the world and of human life, and Beth had always lived so quietly there in her own village, that now a restlessness took possession of her to get away far beyond the horizon of Briarsfield.
The days pa.s.sed on as days will pa.s.s. Clarence was home most of the time, and he and Beth had many walks together in the twilight, and sometimes in the morning. What delightful walks they were in the cool of the early summer morning! There was one especially pretty spot where they used to rest along the country road-side. It was a little hill-top, with the ground sloping down on either side, then rising again in great forest-crowned hills. Two oak trees, side by side, shaded them as they watched the little clouds sailing over the harvest fields.
Arthur was with them a great deal of the summer, and Beth was occupied with preparations for leaving home. She used to talk to Arthur about Marie sometimes, but he disappointed her by his coldness. She fancied that he did not altogether approve of Marie.
CHAPTER V.
_”FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH.”_
It came soon, her last Sabbath at home, and the sun was sinking in the west. Beth sat by her favorite window in the parlor. Do you remember that last Sabbath before you left home? Everything, the hills outside, the pictures on the walls, even the very furniture, looked at you in mute farewell. Beth leaned back in her rocker and looked through the open door into the kitchen with its maple floor, and the flames leaping up in the old cook-stove where the fire had been made for tea. She had always liked that stove with its cheery fire. Then she turned her eyes to the window and noted that the early September frost had browned her favorite meadow where the clover bloomed last June, and that the maples along the road where she went for the milk every evening, were now all decked in crimson and yellow.
Her father was sitting at the table reading, but when she looked around she saw his eyes were fixed upon her with a tender look. Poor father! He would miss her, she knew, though he tried not to let her see how much.
Aunt Prudence, too, dear old soul, seemed sorry to have her go, but she had her own peculiar way of expressing it, namely, by getting crosser every day. She did not approve of so much ”larnin'” for girls, especially when Beth was ”goin' to be married to that puny Mayfair.”
Aunt Prudence always said her ”say,” as she expressed it, but she meant well and Beth understood.
Beth was not to go until Friday, and Clarence was to meet her at the station. He had been called away to the city with his father on business more than a week before. Arthur was with them to-day, but he was to leave on the early morning train to join a college mate. He was to be at Victoria University that winter and Beth expected to see him often.
They had an early supper, and the September sunset streamed through the open window on the old-fas.h.i.+oned china tea-set. Beth was disappointed after tea when her father's services were required immediately by a patient several miles away. Arthur and she sat down by that same old parlor window in the hush of the coming night; a few white clouds were spread like angel wings above and the early stars were s.h.i.+ning in the west. They were silent for a while. Arthur and Beth were often silent when together, but the silence was a pleasing, not an embarra.s.sing one.
”Are you sorry to leave home, Beth?” asked Arthur.
”Yes, I am; and would you believe it, I thought I'd be so glad to have a change, and yet it makes me sad now the time is drawing near.”
They were silent again for a while.
”Arthur, do you know, I think it seems so hard for you to go away so far and be a missionary when you are so fond of home and home life.”
He smiled tenderly upon her, but she did not know the meaning of that smile then as she knew a little later.
”It is my Father's will,” he said with a sweeter, graver smile.
”Beth, do you not see how your talent could be used in the mission field?”