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Page 7
"Clarence is delicate, too," said her father with a grave look.
They were both silent for a few minutes.
"But, after all, he cannot marry for three or four years to come, and
you must take your college course, Beth."
They were silent again for a moment.
"Well, God bless you, Beth, my darling child." There were tears in his
eyes, and his voice was very gentle. He kissed her and went out to his
office.
What a dear old father he was! Only Beth wished he had looked more
hopeful and enthusiastic over the change in her life. Aunt Prudence had
been told before dinner, and she had taken it in a provokingly quiet
fashion that perplexed Beth. What was the matter with them all? Did they
think Clarence the pale-faced boy that he looked? They were quite
mistaken. Clarence was a man.
So Miss Beth reasoned, and the cloud passed off her brow, for, after
all, matters were about as they were before. The morning had been rather
pleasant, too. Arthur had played some of his sweet old pieces, and then
asked as a return favor to see some of her writing. She had given him
several copies of the Briarsfield _Echo_, and he was still reading. In
spite of her thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now and again what
Arthur would think of her. Would he be proud of his old play-mate? He
came across the lawn at last and drew one of the chairs up beside the
hammock.
"I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I should be proud of you. You
are talented--indeed, you are more than talented: you are a genius, I
believe. But do you know, Beth, I do not like your writings?"
He looked at her as if it pained him to utter these words.
"They are too gloomy. There is a sentimental gloom about everything you
write. I don't know what the years since we parted have brought you,
Beth, but your writings don't seem to come from a full heart,
overflowing with happiness. It seems to me that with your command of
language and flowing style you might bring before your reader such sweet
little homes and bright faces and sunny hearts, and that is the sweetest
mission a writer has, I believe."
Beth watched him silently. She had not expected this from Arthur. She
thought he would overwhelm her with praise; and, instead, he sat there
like a judge laying all her faults before her. Stern critic! Somehow he
didn't seem just like the old Arthur.
"I don't like him any more," she thought. "He isn't like his old self."
But somehow she could not help respecting him as she looked at him
sitting there with that great wave of dark hair brushed back from his
brow, and his soulful eyes fixed on something in space. He looked a
little sad, too.
"Still, he isn't a writer like Clarence," she thought, "and he doesn't
know how to praise like Clarence does."
"But Arthur," she said, finally speaking her thoughts aloud; "you speak
as though I could change my way of writing merely by resolving to. I can
write only as nature allows."
"That's too sentimental, Beth; just like your writing. You are a little
bit visionary."
"But there are gloomy and visionary writers as well as cheerful ones.
Both have their place."
"I do not believe, Beth, that gloom has a place in this bright earth of
ours. Sadness and sorrow will come, but there is sweetness in the cup as
well. The clouds drift by with the hours, Beth, but the blue sky stands
firm throughout all time."
She caught sight of Clarence coming as he was speaking, and scarcely
heeded his last words, but nevertheless they fastened themselves in her
mind, and in after years she recalled them.
Clarence and Arthur had never met before face to face, and somehow there
was something striking about the two as they did so. Arthur was only a
few years older, but he looked so manly and mature beside Clarence. They
smiled kindly when Beth introduced them, and she felt sure that they
approved of each other. Arthur withdrew soon, and Beth wondered if he
had any suspicion of the truth.
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