Beth Woodburn | Page 7

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.
Once alone with her, Clarence drew her to his heart in true lover-like
fashion.
"Oh, Clarence, don't! People will see you."
"Suppose they do. You are mine."
"But you mustn't tell it, Clarence. You won't, will you?"
He yielded to her in a pleasant teasing fashion.
"Have you had a talk with your father, Beth?"
"Yes," she answered seriously, "and I rather hoped he would take it
differently."
"I had hoped so, too; but, still, he doesn't oppose us, and he will
become more reconciled after a while, you know, when he sees what it
is to have a son. Of course, he thinks us very young; but still I think we
are more mature than many young people of our age."

Beth's face looked changed in the last twenty-four hours. She had a
more satisfied, womanly look. Perhaps that love-craving heart of hers
had been too empty.
"I have been looking at the upstair rooms at home," said Clarence.
"There will have to be some alterations before our marriage."
"Why, Clarence!" she exclaimed, laughing; "you talk as though we
were going off to Gretna Green to be married next week."
"Sure enough, the time is a long way off, but it's well to be looking
ahead. There are two nice sunny rooms on the south side. One of them
would be so nice for study and writing. It has a window looking south
toward the lake, and another west. You were always fond of watching
the sun set, Beth. But you must come and look at them. Let's see,
to-day's Saturday. Come early next week; I shall be away over Sunday,
you know."
"Yes, you told me so last night."
"Did I tell you of our expected guest?" he asked, after a pause. "Miss
Marie de Vere, the daughter of an old friend of my mother's. Her father
was a Frenchman, an aristocrat, quite wealthy, and Marie is the only
child, an orphan. My mother has asked her here for a few weeks."
"Isn't it a striking name?"