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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film^s en commenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — ^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc.. peuvent due filmds d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour §tre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup^rieur gauche, de gauche i droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 32X CANADA NATIONAL LIBRARY BIBLIOTH^UE NATIONALE THE BETH BOOK i THE LEADING FICTION The Christian. A story. By Hall C/iine. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 75c. " This iK^ok is, in its way, n modern " Pilffrim's Fro- f^ress," a record of the endeavor of an earnest human soul to escape from the City of Destruction to the New Jerusalem." — Mfthodist Magazine and Review. Quo Vadis. A Narrative of the I'ime of Nero. By Henryk SiENKiEWicz, author of " With Fire and Sword, " " The Deluge," etc. Translated by Jeremiah Curtin. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.50 ; paper, 75c. "One of the jfreatest hotiks of our day." — The Hookman. " Ilis understanding' of the Roman he.irt is marvellous. — Boston Transcri/it. Equality. By EtiwARO Bellamy, author of " Looking Backward." Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 75c. "The story form is preserved and the interest is never .allowed to flag'." — The Ivrsfminster. " 'Rquality' is a sequel to his former hook, and destined, if indications an- to be trusted, to an even greater popularity." - Toronto Globe. The Choir Invisible. By James Lane Allen, author of "A Kentucky Cardinal," "A Sum- mer in Arcady," etc. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 75c. "The long'est, strong'es., and most beautiful of Mr. Allen's novels." —Chicago I'ribune. " 'The Choir Invis^ihle' is .an epoch-markinp book. It is a story to set up as .a stand.ard by which other novels shall be judged; .a rock in the desert of literature." — Commercial Tribune, Cincinnati. TORONTO: GEORGE N. MORANG, Publisher. Th Beth Book By Sarah Grand V^-^-d. Author of TI,c Ilca^^Iy Twins, Etc. T,^.>Ce. Yl,7r.b/tU (0«VAi<«) \\c\^.\\ Toronto George N. Morang 63 Voiifje Street 1897 n r C n i -66 1973 I by P. Al-PLKTON ANP CoMl'ASV. 1.1 Minister of Agriculture. T lean not gather the sunbeams out of the east, or I would make them tell you what hare seen; Out read this and inter,jret this, and UtZ remember together. I can not gather the gloom out of the night-.ky or I tns, and let us feel together. And if you hare not that withm you which J can summon to my aid, if you hare not the sun in your spirit and the passion .« your heart which my words may awakm, though they be indis- tnct and sunf leare me, for I will give you no patient morkeru no labouroig ^nsults of that glorious Nature whose I am and whom iZJ^r Ruskin. " The. men who come on the stage at one period are all found to bs related /() one another. Certain ideas are, in the air. U'e are all tm- pre«.'iinnn/>le, for we are made of them ; all impressionable, but some more than others, nth on an income that would have lM»en institllcient for four. It was a reck- less thing for a delicate woman to do. but she never thought of that. She lived in th.e days when no one thought of the waste of women ii- this respect, and they liad not begun to think for them- selves. What she suffered she acce|)ted as lier "lot" or "the will of God" — the expression varied with the nature of the 1'^ TIIK UKTII HOOK. trouhlp ; oxtrcmo pnin was "th«» will of rjod," but minor discom- forlH and worries wtTc her " lot." Tluit much of tin- misrry was p<5rf»'<'tly pnncntaljlc m-vJT (M'curred to lirr, and if any our had 8U^{f«'st<'d such a tiling sho would have Ix'eii shocked. Thr pai-soii in the pulpit pn'aclu'd enduranc*' ; and sluMjndci-sUMid that any- thinjf in tho nature of resistance, any di.scussion even of H(M'ial problems, would not only have been a Myinj^ in the face of Provi- denci s but a most indec»;nt pnM'eedinjf. She knew that there was crime and disea.se in the world, but there were judjjes and juries to pursue criminals, doctors to d«'al with disea.ses, and the :r done, no wonder they welcome even the illness which enforces rest in bed — the one lioliday that is ever allow<'d them. Mra. Caldwell thought again of tlie fire and the book. She had read a good deal at one time, and had even been able to play and sing and draw anovs. and turned from the sink sullenly, wiping her haiuls on her apron as she went. Mi-s. Caldwell rolled up her sleeves and set to work, l)ut awk- wardlv. Household work conu's naturallv to many educated women; tliey like it, and they do it well. But Mrs. Caldwell was not one of this kind. She was not made for lalxmr, hut for luxury ; her liands and arms, hoth delicately 1 eautiful in form and colour, alone showed that. Iler whole air hetokened g<'ntlo hirth and ])re<>ding. She lookear another word from any of you. A man comes home to bo (piiet, and this is tlie kind of tliin;,' that awaits him : '' The children shrank to their i)laces abashed, wliile their mother escaped to the kitchen to hurry the dinner. The f(»rm — or farce — of grace was gone throug'h before the meal commenced. The children ate greedily, but were o])ediently silent. All the little confidences and remarks which it would have been so h(>althy for them to make, and so good for their mother to hear, had to be suppressed, and the silence and cj)nstraint made every one dys- peptic. The dinner consisted of only one dish, a hash, which Mr.. Caldwell had made because her husband had liked it so much the last time they had had it. lie turned it over on his plate now, however, ominously, blaming the food for his own want of ai)i)etite. Mi's. Caldwell knew the symptoms, and sighed. " I can't eat this stufT," ho said at last, pushing liis plate away from him. " There's a j)udding coming," his wife replied. " Oh, a i)uddin;4 '. " he exclaimed. " I know what our puddings are. Why aren't women taught .something sensible i What's the use of all your accomplishments if you can't cook the simjdest dish ? What a difl'erence it would have made to my life if you had ]><>en able to make i)astry even ! " Mrs. Caldwell thought of the tim<> .she had spent on lier feet in the kitchen that morning, doing her best, and she also thouglit how easy it would have been Hn- him to marry a woman who could cook, if that were all h<^ waiit(>d : but she had no faint glim- mering conce])ti<)n that it was unn'Msonable to expect a woman of her cla.ss to cook her dinner as weil as eat it. One servant is not expected to do another's work in as. y establishment ; but a mother on a small income— the most cruelly tried of women — is too often required to be eipial to anything. Mrs. Caldw<>ll said nothitig, however. She belonged to the days when a wife's meek submis- sion to anything a man chose to say made nagging a pleasant relaxation for him, and encouraged him to persevere until he 6 THE BETU IJOOK. acquired a peculiar ease in the art, and spoiled the tempers of everybody about him. The arrival of the family d(X!tor put an (^nd to the scene. Mrs. Caldwell told tin- cJnhlrcn to run away, and her husband's coun- tenance cleared. "Glad to .see you, Gottley," he said. " What will you have ?" " Oh, nothing, thank you. I can't sUiy a moment. I just looked in to .st^e how Mrs. Caldwell was jfettinf!: <>n." " Oh, she's all right," her liusband answered for her cheerfully, "How are you all, especially Miss Bessie V " Ha, ha I*' said the old gentleman, sitting- down by the Uible. "That reminds me, I'm not on good terms with Be.ssie this morn- ing. I'm generally careful, you know; but it seems I .said some- thing disrespectful about a Chri.stian brother — a Christ i(t)i brother, mind you — and I've been had up before the family tribunal for blasphemy, and condemned to everlasting punishment. Lord I — But, mark my word.s," he exclaimed em])hatically, "a time will come when every schoolgirl will see — what my life is made a burden to me for seeing now — the absurdity of the whole religious superstition.'' "O doctor!" Mrs. Caldwell cried; "surely you believe in God ? " "God has not revealed himself to me. nuidam ; I know notli- ing about him," the old gentleman answered gently. "Ah, there you know you are wrong, Gottley," Mr. Caldwell chimed in, and then he proceeded to argue the (jucstion. The old doctor, being in a hurry, said little in reply, and when he had gone Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed, with wifelv tact : "Well, I think you had the best of that ! " " Well, I think I had, poor old buH'alo I " her husband an- swered complacently, his temju'r restored. "By the way, I've brought in the last number of Dickens. Shall I read it to vou ?" Her face brightened. " Yes. do," .she rejoined. " One moment till Jane has done clearing the ta])le. Here's your chair," and she placed the only easy one in the room for him in the best light. These readings were one of the joys of her life. He read to her often, and read exceedingly well. Books were the bond of union between them, the prop and stay of their married life. Poor as they were, they always managed to find money for new ones, which they enjoyed together in this way. Intellectuality balanced the morbid irritability of the husband's temperament, THE BETH BOOK. Sirs. >uu- re? just ^lny. tiiblo. [Tiorii- soiuc- liil for ord :— u> will nade a 'ligious U've iu w iiotli- aldwoll The (»Ul he hud ,and 5in- ,ay. Ive ) ytm ? inoiuent lair;" and tlie best e read to . bond of •ried life, for new lectuality eraiuent, 4 and litorature made life tolerable to them both as nothing else could have done. As he read now his countenance cleared, and his imaf^inary cares fell from him, while his wife's very real ones were forgotten as she listened, and there was a ble.s.sed truce to trouble for a time. Unfortunately, however, as the reading pro- ceeded, he came to a rasping bit of the story, which began to grate upon his nerves. The first part had been pleasurably exciting, but when ^'^ found the sensation slipping from him he thought to stay it with a stinnilant, and went to the sideboard for the pur- pose. Mrs. Caldwell's heart sunk ; the whisky bottle was all but empty. "Oh, damn it!" he exclaimed, banging it down on the side- board. "And I suppose there is none in the house. There n<'ver is any in the house. N(i one looks after anything. My comfort is never considered. It is always those damned cliildren." "Henry!" his wife protested; but she was too ill to defend herself further. " What a life for a man !" he proceeded ; ".stuck down in this cursed hole, without a congenial soul *o speak to in or out of the house." "That is a cruel thing to say, Henry," she remonstrated with dignity. " Well, I apologize," he rejoined ungraciously. " But you must confess that I have some cause to complain." He was standing behind her as he spoke, and .she felt that he eyed her the while with disapproval of her appearance, and anger at her condition. She knew the look only too well, poor .soul, and her Jittitude was deprecating as she sat there gazing up piti- fully at the strip of level grayness above the houses opj)osite. Slie said notliing. however, only rocked herself on her chair, and looked forlornly miserable; seeing which brought his irritation to a clinujx. He flung the book across the room ; but even in the act his countenance cleared. He was standing in the window, and caught a glimpse of Bessie Gottley, who was passing at the moment on the ()pj)osite side of the road, and looked ai-rossat him, smiling and nodding invitingly. Mi-s. Caldwell saw the panto- mime, and her lieart contracted with a pang when .she saw how readily her husband responded. It was hard that the evil moods should not be conquered for her as well as for Bessie Gottley. Bridget came in just then bringing the belated whisl sky, " Oh, you did order it." he graciously ackno\N jdged. " Why didn't you say so ? " He opened the bottle, and poured some 8 THE BETH BOOK. out for himself. " Here's to tlie moon-faced Bessie I " he said jocularly. Mrs. Caldwell went on with the mending. Hor husband be- gan to walk up and down tlie room, in a good humour again. He walked peculiarly — more on his toes than his heels — with an odd little spring in eacli step, as if it were the first step of a dance. This springin(!ss gave to his gait a sort of buoyancy which might have seemed natural to him, if exaggerated, in his youth, but had the air of an alTectation in middle life, as if it were part of an assrmption of juvenility. " Won't you go on with the reading ? " his wife .said at last. His restlessness worried her. " No," he answered, " I shall go out. I want exerci.se." " When will you be back ? '' she asked wistfully. "Oil, hang it all! don't nag me. I shall come back when I like." He left the room as he spoke, slamming the door behind him. Mrs. Caldwell did not alter her attitude, but the tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her haggard cheeks unheeded. The children came in, and, finding her so. quietly left the room, all but the eldest girl, who went and leaned against her, slipping her little hand tlirough her mother's arm. The poor woman kissed the child passionately ; then, with a great effort, recovered her self-control, put her work away, gave the children their tea, read to thou for an hour, and .saw them to bed. Tlie front door was open when she came downstairs, and she went and shut it. A lady who knew her happened to be passing and stopped to shake hands. " I saw your husband just now sitting on tlie beach with Be-ssie Gottley," .she informed Mrs. Caldwell plea.santly. "They were botli laughing immoderately." "Very likely," Mrs. Caldwell responded, with a smile. "She amu.ses )ny husband immensely. But won't you come in V "No, thank you. not to-night. I am hurrying home. Glad to see you looking so well ; " witli whieli she nodded and went her way, and Mrs. Caldwell returned to tlie little dining-room, holding her head high till .she had shut the door, when she burst into a tempest of tears. She was a lymphatic woman ordinarily, but subject to sudden s(pialls of passion, when she lost all self- control. She would have sobbed aloud now, when the fit was on her, in the face of the whole community, although the constant efi'ort of her life was to keep up appearances. She had recovered herself, ( THE RKTll HOOK. said [ be- lle odd 11100. light t bad )f an , last. rben I (1 bini. led up [. Tbe om, all mi; ber 1 kissed •ei 1 ber !i, read or was it. A sbake •b witb " Tbey " Sbo Glad id went (T-rooni, "le burst linarily, lallself- |i ber, in leffort of bersclf, however, before tlie servant came in with tlie candles, and was sittinj; in tlicame acute, and therefore she welcomed it as a ple;us- ant distraction. She was obliged to think and be practical too ; there was no one in the hon.se to help her. The sleeping children were of course out of the question, and the two young .servants — maid of all work and nurse — nearly as much so. Besides, there was the ditbculty of calling them. She felt she must not disturb Jane, who was in the nursery, for fear of rousing the children ; but should she ever get to Bridget's room, which was farther off ! Step by step she climbed the stairs, clinging to tlu^ banister with one hand, holding the candle in the other. Several times she .sank down and wait<'d silently, but with contorted face, till a. jiaroxysm had passed. At last she reached the door. Bridget 10 THE BETH BOOK. Wits awiike and luid hoard lior coniinfr. " Holy mother ! " she ex- {•lainied, sUirtlcd out of her habitual sullenness by her mistress's a},''oniz('d face. " Y betrayed oth«'r traits with re<^ard to th<^ spots wiiich sla; carried throuf^h life — the trick of hein^ most positive when she was (ptite in the wrong for one, and want of faitii in other p(H)ple for another. .lane said, "Did you see the spots that time, dearie ?" " Spots just comed." lieth declared. " No, dearie ; spots always there," Jane answered. " Spots comwi," Beth maintained. " No, dearie. Spots always there, only you didn't .see them." "Spots comed ; loti'^' white road, the heat, and dust, and fatij.rne. She tore ofV the velvet bonnet and threw it away, then began another despairing " Wait for me ! " But in the midst of the cry she s;iw some little yellow flowers growing in the grass at the roadside, and plumped down then Jind there incou-scMjuent- ly to gather them. By that time Jane was out of sight, and at the moment Beth be<'anu» aware of the fact she also perci-ived an appalling expan.se of bright l)lue sky above her, and .sat, gazing upward, par.ilyzed with terror. This was her first exj)erience of loneliness, her fii-st terrified sensation of immensity. Then the snowdrops and crocu.ses wt-i-e out. and the sky grew black, and she sat on the nursery floor and looked up at it in solenni wonder. Flakes of snow began to fall, a few at first, then thicker and thicker, till the air was full of them, and Jane said, "The Scotch are picking their geese" — and innnediately Beth saw the Scotch sitting in some vague scene, picking geese in frenzied haste, and throwing great handfuls of feathers up in the air. I 14 THE RETTI BOOK. wliicli wjis probably the first iiulciK'ndfiit flipht of hor iinaf^ina* lion. It is astonishinff how littlo consciousness of time there is in tliese reminiscences. The seasons are all confounded, and it is as if tliinpps had happened not in succession hut ai)reast. There was snow on the {ground when her hnUlier .lini was with her in the wash-house, nuikiny horsehair snares to catch l)irtls. They nuide runnin<,' l jx-i'lod strength- ened the defect. It is imi)ossihle to escape; from the hani|>erinjj inlluencos of our infaJiey. Aniony IJeth's many rec»)lleetions of these days there was not one of a eare.ss given or n't'eived, or of any expression of tenih'rne.ss ; and so she never became familiar with the; ex(iuisite lan<<:uaj,n' of love, and was lon^'- in learning that it is not a thing t(» he ashamed of and concealed. Later that day, with a mighty ell'ort. she summoned up cour- age enough to go down to her father. She was determined to send tlu^ ines.sage to nuimma ; but when it came to the point she was again unabh^ to utter a word on the subject. Iter mother liad gon(; to stay with her relations in England. Beth found licr fiither in the dining-room, and several other i)eoj)Ie were i)re.s<>nt. lie was .standing by the sideboard, mixing whisky and water, so, instead of sending her love to nuimnui, Beth extdaimed. con- fidently and pleasantly, "If you drink whisky you'll be drunk again t " A snuirt slap rewarded this sally. Beth turned pale and re- coiled. It was her first ta.ste of human injustice. To drink and to be drunk was to hci' merely the natural secpjence of cause and el?eot, and she i'ould not conceive why she slioidd be slajux'd and turned out of the room so promptly for uttering such a simple truth. Beth wa.s present at many discu.ssions between her father and mother, and took nuich interest in them, all tlie more perliaps because most of what was said was a mystery to her. She won- dered why any tnention of the "moon-faced Be.ssie" disturbed lier mother's countenance. Jane Nettle, too. AVhen her mother was out her father used to come and talk to Jane, and they lauglied a good deal. He admired Jane's white teetli, and the children used to make Jane .show them her teeth after that. " Papa says Jane's got nice white teeth," Beth said to her mother one day, and slie never forgot the glance which Mrs. Caldwell tlirew at her husband. His eyes fell before it. f I TIIK HET1I HOOK. IT (» lovo •n ln'i* Mils of CSS the iipcrinf? tioiis of (1, or of faJiiiliar Icariiinj^ up cour- iiinnl to loiut she r mother (mild licr ;> j)V<'Sellt. water, so, it'd. <'on- lu; drunk 10 and re- rink and ■aiise and Hiped and a simple ather and perhaps She won- 1 disturbed (cr mother land they 1, and the jhat. lid to her Ihich Mrs. i "What! even the servants. H«'nry?" Mrs. f'aldwell ox- elainied. and then she h-ft the room. Beth learned what it all meant in after yeai-s, the eaner of on«' of her brothers furnishing the clew. Like fallifr. lilce son. It was afti'r this that .Mrs. Caldwell went to visit hei* relations in KiiylantI, aeeoiiipanied by two of the eliildren. It was in the .summer, and .lane t«M)k Heth to the Castle Hill that m(»rniiiy to see the steamer with her mother on board ^^o by. The .s«'a was iri- dfseent, like molten silver, the sky was hiyh and cloudless, and where sea and sky met and niin<,'Ied on the hori/.on it Wiis impos- silde to determine. Numbers of steamers passed far out. They looked (juite small, and Heth did not think there was room in any of them for her mother and brother and si.ster. They did not therefore interest her much, nor (Iieth, the moment when her further faculty iirst awoke. On lookiii','- back to it in after- years she fancied she fouml in it conlirmation of an ojiinion \vlii<'h she afterward formed. ( Jenius to her w;is yet only another word for soul. She could not believe tliat we all have souls or tliat they are at all ecpially developed even in those who liave ob- tained them. She was a child under six at this time, Jane Nettles >vas a woman between twenty and tliirty. and the policeman— she could not say what aj^fe he was ; but she was the only one of the m\ 18 Tin; BETH BOOK. thrf^e tliat throbbed responsive tj the beauty of the wonderful scene before them or felt her being flooded with the glory of the hour. Meanwhile what her parents would liave called her education had begun. She went with Mildred, her elder sister, to a day school. They used to run down tlie street together without a nurse, and tlie sense of freedom was delicious to Beth. They had to piiss the market where the gr.^at mealy specimen jK)tatoes were displayed and Mary Lynch's shop ; siie was the vegetable woman who used to talk to Mrs. Caldwell about the children when they went there, and one or the other always called them " poor little bodies," upon which they conanented afterward among them- selves. Mary Lynch was a large red-faced woman, and when the children wanted to describe a stout pei-son they always said, "As fat as Mary Lynch."' One house which Beth hud to pass on her way to school made a strong impression on her imagination. It w^as a gloomy abode, with a broad doorstep and deep portico, broken windows, and a mud-splashed door, from b«nieath which she always ex])ected to see a slender stream of blood slowly tric- kling, for a man called Macgregor had murdered his wife there — • beaten her brains « :it with a ])oker. Beth never heard the name Macgregor in after-life without a shiver of dislike. Much of her time at school was spent in solitary confinement for breaches of the peace. With a face as impassive as a monkey's she would do the most mischievous thing,s, and was always experimenting in naughty tricks, as on one occasitm when Miss Deeble left the schoolroom for a moment, but had to come hurrying back, re- called by wild shrieks, and found that Beth had managed in that moment to tip up a form with four children on it, throw their books out of the Avindow, and sprinkle ink all over the iloor. Miss Deeble marched her downstairs to an empty kitchen and left her sitting on a stool in the middle of it with an A B C in her hand ; but Beth t(X)k no ijiterest in the al])hal)et in those days, and hunted black beetles witi the bellows instead of learning it. The hearthstone was the place of execution. When she found a beetle she would blow liim along to it with the bellows and there de- spatch him. She had lui horror of any creature in her childhood, but as she matured her whole temperament changed in this re- spect, and when she met a beetle on the staii-s r'ie would turn and fly rather than pjiss it ; and she would feel nauseated and shiver with disgust for hours after if she thought of it. She knew the exact moment that this horror came upon her. It happened when THE BETH BOOK. erful f the ation 1 day out a y had J were ■oman I they • little theiu- icn the d, "xVs on hoi' on. It )ortico, which ^ly tric- th(>re— e name of her ches of )uld do linft the ick. re- in that |\v their lie tloor. len and in her lys. and it. The a heetle i(>re de- Idhood, this re- am and shiver lew the id when i 19 she was ten years old. Slie found a heetle one day lyinfj on its hack, and, tliinkinj,'" it was dead, she took it up and was swin<,Mn;,'- it hy its antenna; when the creature sutldenly wri;,''<4'led itself round and twined its prickly legs ahout her luiger, giviny her a start from wliich she never r she was at Miss I)eel)le's ; but if she were backward with her book, her otber faculti«;s began to be acute. It was down in that einpty kitchen that .she first felt the enchantment of music. Some one suddenly played tlie piano overhead, ami Beth listened spellbound. Again and again the i)layer played, and always the .same thing- — jrnic- tising it. B<'th knew every iu)te. Long afterward she was tr\-- ing sonu^ waltzes of Chopin's, and '-ame uj)on one with which .she was quite familiar. She knew that slie had heard it all, over aiul over again, but could not think when or where. Presently, how- ever, as she played it, she perceived a snudl of ])lack beetles, and instantly she was ha(!k in that disused kitchen of Miss Deeble's, listening to the practising overhead. All Beth's senses were acute, aiul from the first her memory helped itself by the involuntary association of incongruous idea.s. Many people's recollections are stimulated by the .sense of smell, hut it is a rarer thing for the sense of taste to be a.ssociated with the past in the same way, as it was in P>eth's ca.se. There were many circumstances which were recalled by the tiiste of tlie food she had been eating at the time they occurre(1. The children often dined in the gard(>n in those early days, and once a piece of apple dtnn})ling Beth was eating .slid ott' her ])late on to the gravelled walk. Some one ])icke(l it uj) and j)ut it on her plate again all covered witli stoiu; and grit, and the sight of hot apple dumpling nuide her think of gravel, ever afterward, and tilled her with disgust, so that she could not eat it. She had a great aversion to bread and butter too for a long time, but that she got over. It would have been too great an inconvenience to have a child dislike its staple food, and in all jirobability she was forced to conquer her aversion, and afterward she grew to like bread and butter ; but still, if by any chance the circinnstances which caused her dislike to it recurred to her when she was eating a piece, she was obliged to stop. The incident which sot u{) the association happened one evening when her father and mother were out. Beth was alone in the dining-room eating bread and butter, and Towie, the cat, came into the room with a mou.se in her mouth. The mouse was alive, and Towie let it run a little 20 THE BETH BOOK. way and then i>ounco(l down upon it, then j^avo it a i)at to make it run again. Bctli, lyin<(^ on Ik^i* stomacli on the floor watcliiiiijf tliese proceeding's, naturally also bf^caiue a oat with the mouse. At last Towie began to '^ one suspected the phenon\enal receptivity which that .stolid mask con- cealed, and, because the alphabet did not interest her, they formed a poor opinion of her intellect. The truth was that she had no use for letters or figures. The books of Nature and of life were spread out before her, and she was conning their contents to more I THE BETH BOOK. 21 to make (' luousc. its houd, iiiitiitioii, Tlie next ht of the the same the .same ■octed her otlicr told • ohserva- trust to a it the mo- le, perhaps. lielp it to time, hut Irunentins- y ; n*- one mask con- ey formed le liad no life were ts to more purpose tlian .any one else could have interjireted them to her in those days. And as to arithmetic : as soon as her father he^^-an t«) allow her a i)enny a week for ])ocket money .she ('iscovered that there were two half-pennies in it, which w;is all she reipiired to know. She also mastered the system of dehit and credit, for, when sh<» found herself in receipt of a reetles with any enthusiasm, and he^f'an to look ahout for •soniethin;.^ else to interest her. It heiny sununer, th<' window was open, hut it was rather out of her reach. She managed, howev«>r, with the help of her stool, to climh on to tla^ sill, and tlu're, in front of her, was the sea, and down hcdow was the street — a H'ood- ish drop helow if slu; had stopped to think of it; hut Heth droi)ped lir.st and thou;4-lit afterward, only reali/inj,'' tlu; hei<,^ht when slu* had come down plump, and looked up ayain to see what had hap- pened to her, surprised at the thud which had jarred her stomach and made her feet sting-. She picked her.self up at once, liowever, and limped away, not heeding" the: hurt much, .so delightful was it to he out alone without her hat. I>y the titnt^ she got to Mary Lynch's she was Jane Nettles g'oing' on an errand, an a.ssumption which enahhnl her to enter the shop at her ease. " Good-day," she hegan. "Give me a ha'porth of ])ear drops and a ha'porth of raspherry drops, Mary Lynch, ])lea.se. I'll pay you on Saturday." "What are you doin<( out alone without your hat?" Mary Lynch rejoined, heaming- upon her. " I'm afraid you're a naug-lity little body." "No, I'm not," Beth answered. "It's my own money." Marv Lvnch laug-hed, and helped her liberally, addin;!- .some cherries to th*' sweets ; and. to lieth's credit he it slated, the money was duly paid, and without reg^ret, she being her mother at the moment, looking- mu(;h relieved to be able to settle the debt, which shows that even by this time Beth had somehow become aware of money troubles, and also that she learned to read a countenance hmg- before .she learned to read a 1)ook. She strag-gled home with the sweets in her hand, but did not oat them, for iu)w she was a lady g'oing- to g-ive a party, and nnist await the arrival of her guests. She did iu>t go in by the fnmt 22 THE BETH BOOK. door for obvious reasons, but up the entry down which the open ■\vof)don gutter spout ran, at a convenient height, from the liouse into the street. The wash-house W£is covered with dehcious wliite roses, which scented tlie summer afternoon. Beth concealed lier sweets in the rose tree, and then leaned against the wall and buried her nose in one of the flowers, loving it. Tiie maids were in the wa.sh-house ; she heard them talking ; it was all about what lie said and she said. Presently a torrent of dirty water came ])ouring down the spout, niinglirig its disagreeable soapy smell with that of the flowers. Beth plucked some petals from the rose she was smelling, set them on the soapy water, and ran down the passage beside them, until they disappeared in the drain in the street. This delight over, she wandered into the garden. She was always on excellent terms with all animals, and was treated by them with singular confidence. Towie, the cat, had been miss- ing for some time, but now, to Beth's great joy, siie suddenly ap- peared from Beth could not tell where, purring loudly, and rub- bing herself against Beth's bare legs. The sun poured down upon tliem. and the sensation of the cat's waim fur abo'-e her socks was delicious. BHh tried to lift her up in her arms, but she wrig- gled herself out of them, and began to run backward and forward between her and o, gap in the hedge, until Beth understood that she wished her to follow her through it into the next garden. Beth did so, and the cat led her to a little warm nest wliere, to Beth's wild delight, she showed her a tiny black kitten. Beth picked it up and carried it, followed by the cat, into the house in a state of breathless excitement, shrieking out the news as she ran. Beth was immediately seized upon. What was she doing at home when she ought to have been at schocJ ? and without her hat tt)o ! Beth had no explanation to offer, and was hustled olF to the nursery, and there shut up for the rest of the day. .She stood in the window most of the time, a captive princess in the witch's palace, waiting for the fairy prince to release her, and catching flies. The sky became overcast, and a big gun was fired. Beth's father bad something to do with the firing of big guns, and she connected this with the gathering gloom, stories of God striking wicked people down with thunder and lightning for their sins, and her own naughtiness, and felt considerably awed. Presently a little boy was carried down the street on a bed. His 'ace looked yellow against the sheets. He was lying flat on his back, and had u little black cap on, which was right out of doors but i THE BETH BOOK. 23 . the open the liouse ous white sealed lier wall and laids were .bout what ater came »apy smell m the rose L down the •aiu in the rden. She irvas ti'eated been miss- uldenly ap- ly, and rub- down upon e her socks at she wrig- md forward prstood til at xt garden, t where, to ten. Beth le house in (>\vs as she she doing lid without was hustled e day. She icess in the ic her, and •ed. Beth"s lis, and she l^od striking their sins, Presently His 'ace in his back, If doors but wrong in bed. He smiled up at B<'th as they carri(Ml hina und»>r the whidow. and she stretclunl out lier arms to hiiu with infinite pity. She know lie was going to die. TJK'y all (li<'d, that family, or had something dreadful happen to them. Jane Nettles said there was a curse upon tiiem, and Beth never thought of them without a sluulder. That boy's sisters both died, and one had something dreadful happen to her, for they dug her up again, and when they oj)ened the colIin the corpse was all in a jelly and every colour of the rainbow, according to Jane Nettles. Beth believed she had been present upon the (x-casion, in a grass-grown gravej'ard, by the wall of an old church, beneatli which steps led down into a vault. The stones of the stei)s were mossy, and the sun was shining. There was a little group of people standing round with pale, set, solemn faces, and presently something was brought up, and they all pressed forward to look at it. Beth could not see what it was for the grown-up people, and never knew whether or not the whole picture had been conjured up by her imagination ; but as there was always a foundation of fact in the impressions of this period of her life, it is not improbable that she really was present at the exhumation with the curious and indefatigable Jane Nettles. Opposite the nursery window, on the other side of the road, was the butcher's shop, in front of which the butcher nuide his shambles. Late in the evening lie l)rouglit out a board and set it on trestles ; then he brought a sheep, lifted it up by its legs and put it on its back on the board, tied its feet, and cut its throat. Beth watched tlie operation with grave interest, but no otlier feeling. She had been accustomed to see it all her life. Presently Beth's father and mother went out togetlier, and then Beth stole downstairs and out to the wa.sh-h()use to find the sweets in the white-rose tree. Mildred and Jim were doing their lessons in the dining-room, and she burst in upon them with the sweets; but Mildred was cross, and said: " Don't make such a noise, Beth ; my liead aches." The next day was Sunday. Beth knew it by the big black bonnet which played such a large part in her childish recollec- tions. She had a kind of sen.sation of having seen herself in it, bobbing along to church, a sort of Kate Greenaway child, with a head out of all proportion to the re.st of her body, and feeling sin- gularly satisfied — a feeling, however, which was less a recollec- tion than an experience continually renewed, for a nice gown or bonnet w^as always a pleasure to her. 24 THE BETH BOOK. In cliurch slio sat in a liij^ square povv on ono sido of tlie aislft, and oil tlui otlicr side was anoth(!r jxnv exactly like it, in wliieli sat a youiii,'' lady whom IJeth believed to be Miss Au^ustii Noble in the Fairchild Family. Au tide went out, where the chil- dr(Mi used to wade knee-deep, or bathe when it was too rough for them to go into the sea; ''look, there's the pond, that bright round thing over there. And look below, near the castle— that great green mound is the giant's grave. When the giant died they buried him there, and he was so big he reached all that length when they laid him in the ground." "And when he stcnxl up, where did he reach to ?" said Beth, intei'ested in a nu^ment. " (^h, when he sat here I should think he could make a foot- stool of his own grave, and when he stood up he could look over the castle." Beth, with big dilated eyes and wet clieeks. saw him do both, ;«id was oppressed to tears no more that day by delight and won- •\'V of the beautiful ; but she was always liable to these jiarox- ys' -:, the outcome of an intensity of ])leasin"e which was positive i ain. So from the first she was keenly susceptible to outdoor in- fluences, and it was now that her memory was stored with impres- t; .'li. which were afterward of inestimable value to her, for she never lived among the same kind of scenery again. The children had the run of some gentleman's grounds which THE BKTII BOOK. 25 the aisle, ill which st;i N<>l)U^ II and i^oi X) h)()k at ce. Beth >r at all— ■ly all the there was I ^reeii of ids of daz- I heauty of exclaimed their chil- )le to 'uaii- ,ld?" Mrs. )iily sohbod ill lake left i-e the chil- ) rough for :hat bright ■astle— that giant died Ird all that said Beth, tike a foot- look over 111 do both, , and woii- lese i>arox- las positive ])utdoor in- jth impres- lor, for she Inds which they called The Walks. There were hanks of flowers, and side- walks where the I^ondon Pride grew, and water, and great trees with hollows ill them where the water lodged. Beth called these fairy wells, and put her lingers in to see how deeji they were, and there were dead leaves in them ; and there on a memorable occa- sion she found her first skeleton leaf, and told Jane Nettles she really didn't know before that there were such things. Once there was a wasp s ne.st hanging from a branch, and they met a young man coming away from it, holding a handk<>rchief to his face. He stopped to tell Jane Nettles how he had been stung, and the children wandered oil unheeded to look at th(> nest. It was all gray and gossamer, like cobwebs laid in lay<>rs. lietli was an Indian scout in.specting it from behind a neighbouring tree; and then she shelled it with sticks, but she did not wait to see it sur- render. They picked up horse-chestnuts from under the trees in the season, and hammered the green rind oil' with stoiu>s for the joy of seeing the beautiful, shining, slii)pery, dark-brown or pie- bald polished fruit with i.i; and also, when there were wet leaves on the ground, they g.aiered walnuts from out of the long, tan- gled gra.ss, and stair .>d their fingers picking otl' the covering, which was mealy gr en when it bur.st. and smelt nice; but the nut itself, when they came to it. was always surprisingly small. There were horrid mahogany-coloured i)ieces of liver put about the walks on sticks .sometimes. Jane Nettles said they were to poison the dogs because they came in and destroyed the tlowers. Beth wondered how it was p(M)ple could eat liver if it poi.soned dogs, and was careful aftei-ward not to touch it herself. Most children would have worried the reason out of th(>ir nurse, but Jane Nettles was not amiable, and lieth could never bring hers<>lf to ask a question of any one who was likely either to snub her for asking, or to jeer at her for iiot knowing. There are uu.sympa- thelic ))(>oj)le who have a way of making children feel ashamed of their ignorance, and rather than l)e l.iiigluMl at. a sace. which led to a very good understanding be- tween them. Krangle had a cancer on his lip, and Beth was for- bidden to kiss him for fear of catching it. He had a garden of his own too, and a pig, and little boiled potatoes in his cottage. The doctor's brother died of cancer, and Beth supposed he had I THE BETH BOOK. 27 iTcrcd and [in shone; preen buds )ne privet , the other fill things ises. snow- ies' lingers, Ic. InTlie lyuie of : k, the orna- inahogiiny- me mingled ) came into ^, wherefore t to banish a nit into the She put the gan to dig. to her, and lid the kitten ig its grave, she had ihi- (M'e, ye little )king at her |l, and Beth, it. The kit- i the worse, •e afterward, from one to rarious sup- iuul Krangle itanding be- ,eth was for- a garden of his cottage. >sed he had been naughty and kissed old Krangle, though she wondered lio cared to, as Krangle had a very prickly chin. The doctor often came to .see papa. He used to talk about the Hible. and Ihen the children were .sent out of the room. Once lieth hid under tiuj tabic to hear what he said. It was all about (Jod, whom it ap- peared that he did not like. He had a knob at the end of his nose, and Beth laughetl at it, in pmiishment of which, as slie u.sed to- believe, her own nose developed a little kn«»b at the end. Her mind was v<'ry much exercised about tlic; doctor ane discretion when they dropped their voices to a "whisper, as they often did; ])ut these whispered colloquies made her restless and cro.ss, and In-ought down upon her a smart order to go to sleep, to which she used to answer defi- antly : " I will if you'll ask me a riddle." One of the riddles was : "Between two sticks, between two stones, between two old men's shin bones. What's that:'" The answer had .something to do with a graveyard, but Beth could not remember what. She used to suffer a small martyrdom in her little crib on those evenings from what she called "snuti' uj) her nos<'," a hot, dry, burning sen.sation which must have been caused by a stuffy ro(mi and the feverish state she tossed herself into when she was kept awake after her regular hour for sleep. Som(>times slie sat up in bed suddenly and cried aloud. Then Jane Nettles would push her down again on her pillow roughly, and threaten to call niannna if she wasn't good directly. Occasionally mamma beard her and came up of her own accord and shook lier by the shoul- der and .scolded her. Then Beth would lie still. .sobl)ing silently and wretched, as only a lonely, uncomprehended, and uncom- plaining child can be. No om^ had tlie faintest conception of what she suffered. Her naughtinesses were remembered against 38 TflE nKTII BOOK. lior, but hor liitont tondoriioss was never suspoctod. Once tlie old doctor said: "That's a i)c<-uliarly sensitive, lii<,''li-slnin;,'', nervous child ; you must he j^n-Mth' witli lier " ; and hotl» parents had stared at him. They ummm; nuitter-of-fact creatures themselves, c()mj)ara- tively siM'aUiu^'. witli a notion that sucli nonsense as nervousness should he shaken out of a child. At dinner, one day, Beth siiw litth' creatures crawlinji: in a piece of cluiese she hail on iier plate, and uttered an exclamation of disfjust. "Those are only mites, you silly child," her father said; and then, to her horror, he took up the piece and ate it. " Do look at that child. Caroline!" h(> (>xclaimed ; "she's turned quit<> pale." Beth i)U/,zled her head for \ow^ afterward to know what it meant to turn pale. Little seeds of superstition were sown in her niiud at this time, and afterward flourished. She found a weddiny rin<,' in her tirst piece of Christnuis cake, and was told .she would he the lirstof the party to nuirry, which nuide her feel very important. Being- so sensitive herself, she was morbidly careful of tlie feelings of others, and committed sins of insincerity without com- punction in her eflPorts to spare them. She and ^lildred were wait- ing, ready dressed, one day, to go and pay a call with mamma. Beth bad lier big bonnet on and was haj)py, and Mildred also was in a high state of delight. She said Beth's l)reath smelled of straw- berries, and wanted to know what her own suudled of. "Raspberries," Beth answered instantly. It was not true, but Beth felt that sometliing of the kind was expected of her, and so resjionded sym])athetically. When they got to tlie house they were sliown into an immense room, and wandered about it. Betli upset some cushions, and had awful qualms, expecting- eveiy mo- ment to be pounced upon and shaken ; but slie forgot ber frig-ht on api)roaching lier hostess and discovering, to her great surprise, tbat she was busy doing black monkeys, on a gray ground, in wool work. She w^as astonished to find that it was i)ossible to do such wonderful work, and she wanted to be taug-ht immediately ; but her mother made her ashamed of herself for supposing that she could do it, silly little bod}' ! They .staid to dinner, and Beth cried with rage because the servant poured white sauce over her fish, and without asking her, too. The fish was an island, and Beth was the hungry sea, devoiu'ing it bit by bit. Of course, if you })ut white sauce over it you converted it into a table with a white cloth on, or something of that kind, whicli you could not eat ; so the fish THE nETIT ROOK. 29 ice the old g, lUTVOUH had stared J, conipara- ,ervousness wlinjr in a xclauiation r said ; and • Do look at aitc pale." lOW what it at this time, ; in lier lii-st le lirst of the reful of the vithout c'oni- hI were wait- |ith maninui. red also was vd of straw- • jot true, but her, and so house they •out it. Beth g every nio- )t her frirely gav«^ her confidence ; but her mother never would ])raise her. She brought all her children up on the same plan, regardless of their different dispositions. It made Mildred vain to praise her. and therefore Beth must not be praised ; and so her nu)ther checked her mental growth again and again instead of helping her to develop it. " It's no use your trying to do that, Beth, you can't," she would say, when Beth would have done it easily if only she had been assured that she could. Beth had a strange dream that night after the fire, which made a lasting impression upon her. Dorman's Isle was a green ex- pan.se, flat as a table, and covered with the shoi't grass that grows by the sea. At high tide it was surrounded by water, but when the tide was low, it rested on great, gray, rugged rocks, as the lid of a box rests upon its sides. Between the gray of the rocks and the green of the grass there was a fringe of sea pinks. That night she dreamed that she was under Dorman's Isle, and it was a great bare cave, not very high, and lighted by torches which people held in their hands. There were a Tuunber of people, and they Avere all members of her own family, ancestors in the dresses of their day, distant relations — numbers of strange people whom she 80 TIIK IlKTII HOOK. luul novor lioard of — as well as ]wv own fallnT and motlior, ])roth- rrs and sisters. She know she was under I)ornian's Jsle. but slio knew also that it was tli<' dai'k space l)eiieatli tlie sta;,''e of a tliealre. WImmi slie entered, tli(! rest of t\\v family were already assenilded ; but tliey none of tlieni spoke to each other, and the doors kept openin;,' and shutting-, and the people stuMned to melt away, until at last only thrcu! or four renuiined, and they were just ^,'■oin;,^ She saw the shine on the i)aint of tlie door posts, and the smoko of \\\v torches, as tliev let themselves out. Then thev had all froiie and left her alone in a cave full of smoke. Vainly she stru;j:j,''led to follow them; the doors were fast, the smoke was smothei-infj her, and in the a;,^)ny of a last ell'ort to escap(^ she awoke. In after-days, when Deth befi;an to think, .she used to wond(>r liow it was she knew tho.se ])eoi)le were l)er ancestors, and that tin' place was like any i)art of a theatre. She had never heard either of aniH'stors or theatres at that time. Was it recollection ? Or is thenj some more jx'rfect jjower to knowtlian the intellect — a power lyin<^ latent in the whole race, whi(di will ev(>ntually come into possession of it, but with which at ])resent only some few I'aro beinu^s are perfectly endowed :' Beth had th(^ .sensation of havinf^ been nean^r to sonM^thinj;' in h(>r infancy than she ev(>r was a' is hushed, as at night; noan^' to the " arcane "' of that evening on th<^ Castle Hill wlien slu* lirst felt her kinship with Nature, and burst into song. It may have been hereditary nuMnory, a knowledge of things transmitted to her by her ances- tors along with their features, virtues, and vices ; but at any rate she herself was sure that she possessed a })ower of some kind in her infancy which gradually la])sed as her intellectual faculties develo])ed. She wa.s conscious that the senses had <'om(! between her and some mysterious joy which was not of the .senses but of the spirit. There lingered what seemed to be the recollection of a condition anterior to this, a condition of which no tongue can tell, which is not to be ]>ut into words, or made evident to those who have no recollection, but which some will compndiend by the mere allusion to it. All her life long Beth preserved a half consciousness of this something — something which eluded her, something from which she gradually drifted farther away as she grew older, some sort of vision which opened u]) fresh tracts to her — but whether of country, f)r whether of thoiig-ht, she could not say. Only when it came to her ull was immeasurable about TIIK lU'/ni IJOOK. 31 hrr, hrnth- ilc. but sho )f a theatre. iiss('iiil>l«'(l : doors kept iiwiiy, until just. iTOUVrH- tlic sMioUo i!i(l all ^'<»no (' stru<;Kl'''l smotliering .kc. 1 to wotuler iind that the h«'ard either tiou? Oris pct— a power ly eoino into nie few raro on oi having cr was aj?aiu lat the niur- iiu't^ssantly he "arcane"' I her kinship II hereditary )y her anccs- It at any rate loine kind in ual faculties )nie hetweeu senses hut of colleetion of tongue can tlent to tlioso liprehend by Icrved a half eluded her, J away as she Icsh tracts to |it, she could irable about . f- lier, and hIio was above — above in a ^'reat calm throujfh whii h Bhe nitived without any sort of clVort that is known to us ; she just thoui^ht it and was there, while humanity dAindleil away into insi;,''iiiliean<'e hejow. One other straiitre vision she h.id uhi circumstances and surroundings — she was calm, strong, and conlideiit. She looked upon life as from a height, vi(>wing it both in detail and as a whole. Thit when she had only her intellect to rely upon, all was uncertain, and .she became weak, vacillating, and dei)endent. So that she ajipeared to be a singular mixture of weakness and strength, courage and cowardice, faith and distrust ; and just what sho would ilo depended vei-y much on what was expected of her, or what intluence .she was under, and also on .some sudden impulse which no one, herself included, could have anticipated. CHAPTP:R IV. Up to this time Beth's reminiscences jerk ah)ng from incident to incident, but now there come the order and si'(iuence (>f an eventful period, perfectly recollected. The date is iixed by a change of residence. Her father, who was a commander in the coast guard, was transferred on promotion from the north of Ire land to another appointment in the wild west, and Beth was ju.st entering upon her seventh year when they moved. Captain Cald- well went on in advance to take up his appointment, and Jim 32 THE BETH BOOK. accompanied him ; Mildred, Beth, and Bernadine, the younpfest— who liad arrived two years after Beth — hein<,' left to follow with their inother. The elder children had been sent to England to be educated. In their father's absence Mildred and Bernadine were transferred to their mother's room ; Jane Nettles and Bridget, the sulky, had disappeared, and Kitty slept in the nurs<>ry with Beth. Beth had grown too long- for her crib, but still had to sleep in it, and her legs were crainped at night and often ached because she coidd not stretch them out, and the pain kept her awake. " Mamma, my legs do ache in bed." she said one day. " Beth, you really area whiny child ; you always have a griev- ance." her mother complained. " But, mamma, they do ache." "Well, it's only growing pains," Mrs. Caldwell replied with a satisfied air, as if to name the trouble were to ease it. And so Beth's legs ached on unrelieved, and, when they kept her awake, Kitty became the object of her contemi)lation. The sides of the crib were like the seat of a cane-bottomed chair, and Beth had en- larged one of the holes by fidgeting at it with her fingers. This was her look-out station. A night light had been conceded to her nervousness at the instance of Dr. Gottley, when it became a regular thing fo^ her to wake in the dark out of one of her vivid dreams, and shriek because she could not see where she was. The usual beating and shaking had been tried to cure her of her non- sense, but this sensible treatment only seemed to make her worse, she was such a tiresome child, till at last, when Dr. Gottley threat- ened serious consequences, the light was allowed, a dim little float that burnt on an inch of oil in a glass of water and made Kitty look so funny when she came up to bed. Kitty began to undress, and at the same time to mutter her prayers, as soon as she got into the room ; and sometimes she would go down on her knees and beat her breast, and sigh and groan to the Blessed Vir- gin, beseeching her to help her. Beth thought at first she was in great distress and pitied her ; but after a time she believed that Kitty was enjoying herself, perhaps because she also had begun to enjoy these exercises. Beth had been taught to say her Protes- tant })ray(^rs, but not made to feel that she was addressing them to any particular personality that appealed to her imagination, as Kitty's Blessed Lady did. " Kitty, Kitty ! " she cried one night, sitting up in her crib wHh a great dry sob. " Tell me how to do it. I want to speak to her, too." I THE BETH BOOK. 33 fest — with to be ; were ?t, the Beth. ) in it, se she griev- with a And so awake, of the had fil- ls. u I to her came a -*■ vivid The ler non- woi'se, threat- little made ofan to soon as on her ed Vir- was in h1 that begun iProtes- them Ition, as [ib wHh to her, Kitty, who was on lier knees on the floor, with her n»sary clasped in lier hands, lier arms and slioulders bare, and her dark liair lumping down lier l)a('k. looked iij), considerably stiirtlcd, " Holy Mother ! how you frightened me ! " she exclaim<'d. " Go to sleep."' " But I H'CDif to speak to her," Beth persisted. " Arrah, be good now, Miss Beth," Kitty coaxed, still on her knees. "I'll be good if you'll tell me what to say," Beth bargained. Kitty rose from her knees, went to the side of the crib, and looked down at the child. " What do ye want to say to her at all ? " she asked. " I don't know," Beth answered. " I just want to speak to her. I just want to say ' Holy Mother, come close, I love you. Stay by me all night long, and when the daylight comes don't forget me.' How would you say tiiat, Kitty i " '* Bless your purty eyes, darlint 1 " said Kitt}', " just say it that way every time. It couldn't be better said, not by tlie praste him- self. An' if the Blessed Mother ever hears anvthing from this world,'' she added in an undertone, "she'll hear that. But turn over now an' go to sleep, honey. See I I'll stand here till ye do, and sing to vou." Beth turned over on her left .side, with her face to tlie wall, and settled herself to sleep contentedly, while Kitty stood beside her, patting her shoulder gently, and crooning in a low, sweet voice : " Look down, O Motlicr ^fury ! From thy brij,'lit throne aV)Ove ; Send down upon tliy cliildreu (.)ne lioly j^hint'e of love ! And if a heart so tender With pity flows imt n'cr, Tlien turn, O .Mother .Mary ! And smile on me no more.'' As Beth listened her little heart expanded, and presently the Blessed Virgin stood ])eside her bed, a heavenly vision, like Kitty, with dark hair growing low on lu'r forehead and liany-ing down her back, blue eyes, and an earnest, guileless face. Beth's little mouth, drooping with dissatisfaction ordinarily, curled uj) at the corners, and so, thoroughly tranquillized, she fell happily asleep with a .smile on her lips. Kitty bent low to look at her, and shook her head several times. " Coaxin's better nor bating you, anyway," she muttered. 34 THE BETH HOOK. " But what are they poing to do \vi' ye at all ? " Slie stood up and raised her clasped liauds. "Holy Motlier, it 'ud be well luuybo if ye'd take her to yourself, just now — God forgive me for say- inj; it." N<'xt uu)rninfj Mrs. Caldwell was sitting at breakfast with Beth and Mildred. Every moment she glanced at the window, and at hist th(^ postnum j)assed. She listened, but there was no knock, and her heart sank. "Beth, will you stop drunnning with your spoon ?" she ex- claimed irritably. As she spoke, however, Kitty came in with the expected letter in her hand, and Mrs. Caldwell's countenance cleared. " I thought the postman had pa.ssed," she exclaimed. " No, m'em," Kitty rejoined. " I was standin' at the door, an' lie gave me the letter." Mrs. Caldwell had opened it by this time, but it was very short. " How often am I to tell you not to stand at the door let- ting in the cold air, Kitty ? " she snapped. "And how'd I sweep the steps, m'eni, if ye plase, when I'm not to stand at the door ? '' But Mrs. Caldwell was reading the letter, and again her coun- tenance cleared. " Papa wants us to go to him as soon as ever we can get ready I" was her joyful exclamation. " And, oh, they've had such snow 1 See, Mildred, here's a sketch of the chapel nearly buried." " Oh, let me see. too," Beth cried, running round the table to look over Mildred's slK)ulder. " Did papa draw that 'I How n-ouderfiil ! " " Beth, don't lean on me so," Mildred said crossly, shaking lier off. The sketch, which was done in ink on half a .sheet of paper, showed a little chapel with great billows of snow rolling along the sides and up to the roof. After breakfast Mildred sat down ami began to copy it in pencil, to Beth's intense sui'pri.se. The possil)ility of copying it herself would never have occurred to her, but when she saw Mildred doing it of course .she must try too. She could make nothing of it, however, till Mildred showed her how to place each stroke, aiul then she was very soon weary of the effort, and gave it up, yawning. Drawing was not to bo one of lier accomplislnnents. Kitty was to accom])any Ihem to the west. When the day of departure arrived, a great coacli and pair came to the door, and the luggage was piled up on it. Betli, with i i ( THE BETH BOOK. O"' kI up ami ^11 may 1)0 c for say- witli Beth 3\v. and at no knock, f " sho ox- o. in with untonanco aimed. door, an' was very e door let- when I'm 1 lier conn- as ever we oh, they've apel nearly he table to y. shaking" t of paper, ling- alonj? sat down hrise. The ■curred to must try [cd showed )on weary not to bo and pair Jeth, with f her mouth set and her eyes twice their normal size from excitement, was everywhere, \vatchinr evening she had sut there at work wliile her husband read to hei". It was early spring, and the snowdrops and crocuses were out. She gathered a little bunch of them. When she had made the tour of the garden slie returned to the house and went into every room, Beth following her faithfully at a safe distance. In the nursery she stood some little time looking round at the bare walls, and seeming to listen expectantly. No doubt she lieard ghostly echoes of tlie patter of children's feet, tlui ring of children's v()i(;es. As she turned to go she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. In her own room sho lingered still longer, going from one piece of fur- niture to another, and laving her hand on each. It was hand- some furniture, such as a lady should h,av(^ about her, and every piece represented a longer or shorter period of self-denial, both on her own part and on Iht husband's, and a proportionate!}' keen joy in the acquisition of it. She remembered so well when the wardrobe came home, aiid the dressing table too, and the iTiahog- any drawers. The furniture Wiis to follow to tlie new home, and each piece would still have its own history, but, once it was moved from its accustomed place, new associations would have to be formed, and that was what she dreaded. She could picture the old lumie deserted, and herself yearning for it and for the old days; but she could iu)t imagine a new home or a new cha])ter of life with any great interest or pleasure in it — anything, in fact, but anxiety. 36 THE BETH BOOK. Wlion at last she left the house, she was quite overcome to find that a little crowd of friends of every degree had collected to wish her good speed. She went from one to the other, shaking hands and answering their words in kindly wise. Mary Lynch gave Beth a currant cake and lifted her into the coach, though she could quite well have got in by herself. Then they were off, and Mrs. Caldwell stood at the door wiping her eyes and gazing at tlie little house till they turned the corner of the street and lost siglit of it forevei'. The tide was out, Dornian's green isle rested on its gray rocks, the pond shone like a mirror on the shore, and the young grass was springing on the giant's grave ; but the branches were still bare and brown on the Castle Hill, and the old gray castle stood out whitened by contrast with a background of dark and lower- ing sky. Beth's highly strung nerves, already overstrained by ex- citement, broke down completely under the oppression of those heavy clouds, and she became convulsed with sobs. Kitty took lier on her knee, but tried in vain to soothe iier before the currant cak<> and the motion of the coach had made her deadly sick, after which she dozed off from sheer exhaustion. The rest of the journey was a nightmare of nausea to her. She was constantly being lifted out of the carriage and made to lie on a sofa somewhere while the horses were being changed, or put to bed for the night and dragged up again unrefreshed in the early morning, and consigned once more to misery. Sometimes great dark mountains towered above her, filling her wuth di'ead ; and sometimes a long, hmely level of bare brown bogs was all about her, overwhelming her little poul with such a terrible sense of desolation that she cowered dowit beside Kitty and clung to her shivering. Once her mother shook her for something, and Beth turned faint. " What's the matter wMth her, Kitty ? " Mrs. Caldwell ex- claimed, alarmed by her white face. " You've jest shook the life out of her, m'em. I think," Kitty answered her tranquilly. " An' ye'll not rare her that way, I'm thinking." Mrs. Caldwell began to dislike Kitty. On the tliird day they drove down a delightful road, with hedges on either hand, footpaths, and trees, among which big countrj' homes nestled. The mountains were still in the neigh- bourhood, but not near enough to be awesome. On one side of i 4 THE BETH BOOK. 37 )me to cted to hakinf? Lynch though ,'crc off, gazing and lost ly rocks, tig grass ^ere still tie stood id lower- ed by ex- of those :itty took le currant sick, after ,ca to her. i made to hanged, or ;hed in the Sometimes ith dread; jTs was all 'rihle sense d clung to leth turned adwell ex- ink," Kitty it way, Tu^ road, w^ith which big the neigh- one side of 4 the road was a broad, shallow stream, so clear you could see the brown stones at the bottom — a salmon stream with weirs and waterfalls. They were Hearing a town, and Kitty began to put the things together. Beth became interested. Mamma looked out of the window every instant, and at la.st she exclaimed in a tone of relief, which somehow b<>lied the words, "Here's papal I loierr he would come ! " And there was a horse at the window, and papa was on it, looking in at them. Mamma's face became quite rosy, and she lauglied a good deal and showed her teeth. Beth had not noticed them before. "What are you staring at, Beth ? " Mildred whi.spered. "Mamma's all pink," Beth .said. " That's blushing," said Mildred. "What's blushing ?" said Beth. "Getting pink." " What does slie do it for ? " "She can't lielp it." Beth continued to stare, and at last Mrs. Caldwell noticed it, and asked her what she was looking at. "You've got nice white teeth," said Beth. Mrs. Caldwell smiled. " Have you only just discovered that ? " papa asked tlirough tbe window. " You never told me," Beth ])rotested, thinking lierself re- proached. " You said Jane Nettles had." Tlie smile froze on mamma's li})s, and papa's hor.se became umnanagea!)le. Beth .saw there was something wnmg, and stopped, looking from one to the other intently. Mrs. Caldwell recovered herself. "What a stolid face she has!" she remarked presently by way of breaking an awkward ])ause. Beth wondered wliat "stolid" meant, and who "she" was. " Sh(^ doesn't look well," papa observed. "She's jest had the life shook out of her. sir," Kitt\- put in. " Kitty, how dare you ! " Mrs. Caldwell l)egan. "It's to the journey I'm alludin" to now. m'em," Kitty ex- plained with dignity. " The child can't bear the travellin'." "Well, it won't last much longer now." said i)apa. and then made some remark to mamma in Italian which brought back her good humour. They always spoke Italian to each other because papa did not know French so well as mammu did. Beth sup- 38 THE BETH BOOK. posed at tliat time tliat all grown-up pooplo spoke French or Italian to eacli other, and she used to wonder which she would speak when she wjis {^rown up. They stopped at an inn for an hour or two, for there was still another stajj^e of this interminable journey. ^lildred had a bag' with a big doll in it, and some alnu^ul sweets. She left it on a wiiulow seat when they went to have something to eat, and when she thou^fht of i^ ag;un it was nowhere to be found. " Thev ' (/u J .teal the teeth out of your head in this God-for- saken country,' Captain Caldwell exclaimed in a tone of exas- peration. An awful vision of igneous rocks with misshapen creatures prowling about amoMg them instantly appeared to Beth in illus- tration of a G . •' ! r. country, but slie tried vainly to imagine how stealing- teeth '^ '" voar head was to be managed. When they S't. otf .'g lii and had left the gray town with its green trc « and clear riva'- ";' fiind, tlu; road lay through a wild and d(^solat'> regie. .. Threat ;nountains rolled away in every direction, and were piicd up ciIaj '. : 'm travellers to the very sky, Tlie scone was mo.st melancnoly ni its grandeur, and Betli, gazing at it fasciiuited, with big eyes dilated to their full extent, became exceedingly depressed. At one turn of the way they saw a gen- tleman carrying a gun and attended by a party of armed police- men in a Held below. "That's Mr. Burke going over his property," Cajjtain Cald- well observed to his wife. '* He's un])()i)ular just now, and daren't move without an escort. His life's not worth a moment's pur- chase a hundred yards from his own gate, and I expect he'll be shot like a dog some day, with all his ])recautions." "Oh, why does he stay ?" Mrs. Caldw
fore her eyes, and a strange excitement gradually grew uiH)u her. Slie seemed to be seeing and hearing and feeling without eyes or ears or a body. The carriage rocked like a ship at sea, and once or twice it seemed to be going right over. THE BETH ROOK. 39 ronch or he would } was still liul aba;,' 'ft it on a and when 3 God-for- e of exa.s- creatures th in illus- to imagine :n with its igh a wild ly in every e very sky. eth, gazing !nt, became ■^aw a gen- ned police- |)tain Cald- ind daren't [iient's pur- ct he 11 be likes it. It '11 remon- [•ly (quailed In him and gradually |ind feeling )r twice it "What a dreadfully bad road I" Mrs. C'aldwell exclaimed. " Yes,"" her husband rejoined. " The roads about here are the very devil. This is one of the best. Do you see that one over there?" pointing with his whip to a white line that zigzagged across a neighbouring mountain, " It's disused now. That's Gal- lows Hill, where a man was hanged." Beth gazed at the sjjot with horror. " I see him ! " she cried. " See whom ? " said her mother. " I see the man hanging." " Oh, nonsense ! " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed. "Why, the man was hanged ages ago. He isn't there now." " You uuist speak the truth, young lady," papa said severely. Beth, put to shame by the reproof, shrank into herself. She was keenly .sensitive to blame. But all the same her great gray eyes were riveted on the top of the hill, for there, against the sky, she did distinctly see the man dangling from the gibbet. "Kilty," she whispered, "don't you see him ?" "Whisht, darlint," Kitty said, covering Beth's eyes with her hand. "I don't see him. But I'll not be after calling ye a liar because ye do, for I guess ye see more nor most, Holy Mother purtect us I But whisht now ! Ye mustn't look at him any more." The carriage came to the brow of the mo\nitain, and down below was their destination, Castletowm-ock, a mere village, con- sisting ))rincipally of one long, steep street. Some distance below the village again, the great green waves of a tempestuous sea broke on a dangerous coast. "The two races don't fuse." papa n-as saying to mamma, "in this part of the country at all events. There's an Irish and an English side to the street. The English side has a flagged foot- path, and the houses are neat and clean, and well-to-do ; on the Irish side all is ])over.tv and dirt and confusion." Just outside the village a little group of people waited to wel- come them : ]\Ir. ^lacbean the rector. Captain Keone, the three Misses Keene, and Jim. The carriage was stop])cd. and they all got out and walked the rest of the distance to the inn, where they were to stay till the furniture arrived. On the way down the street they saw their new home. It made no iinj)ressioTi on Beth. But she recognised the Roman Catholic cha])el on the other side of the road from papa's drawing, only it looked did'erent because there was no snow. 40 THE BETH BOOK. The "pfentleman and lady" who kept the inn, Mr. and Mrs. Mayne, with their two daugliters, met tlieni at the door, and shook hands with niainma and kissed the cliildren. Then they went into the inn paHour, and there was wine and plum eake, and Dr. and Mrs. Macdouf^all came with their little girl Lucy, who was eleven years old — Mildred's age. Mr. Machean, the n^ctor, who was tall and thin, and had a brown beard that waggled when he talked, drew Beth to his side, and began to ask her questions— just when she wanted so much to lu^ar what everybody else was saying, too. "Well, and what have you been taught ?" he began. Beth gazed at him blankly. " Do you love God ? '' he i)roceeded, putting his liand on her head. Beth looked around the room, perplexed, then fixed her eyes on his beard, and watched it waggle with interest. "Ask her if she knows anything about the otlier gentleman," Captain Keene put in jocosely. — "Here's to his health I " and he emptied his glass. Beth's great eyes settled upon him with sudden fixity. " I suppose you never heard of tlie devil ?"' he proceeded. " Oh, yes, I have," was Beth's instant and unexpected rejoinder. '" Tlie devil is a bad road." There was an explosion of laugliter at this. " But you said so, papa," Beth remonstrated indignantly, "My dear child, I said just the reverse." " What's the reverse ? " said Beth, picturing another per- sonality. " There, now, that will do," Mrs. Caldwell interposed. " Little bodies must be seen and not heard." Mr. Macbean stroked Beth's head. "There is something in here, I expect,'" he observed. "Not much, Fm afraid," Mrs. Caldwell answered. "We've liardly been able to teach her anything." " Ah ! " Mr. Macbean ejaculated, reflecting on the specimen he had heard of the method pursued. " You must let me see what I can do." ( i THE BETH IJUOK. 41 ,nd Mrs. ul shook vine and eir little. d had a 1 his side, » much to d on her her eyes ntleman," : " and he :ded. rejoinder. itly. other per- '' Little ^ethinf? in ' We've lecimen he see what I CHAPTER V. In a few days all the bustle of j^ettinpf into the now house be«run. The furniture arrived in irrej^'ular batches. Souk; of it came, and some of it did not come. When a box was oix'iied there was nothinj^ that was wanted in it- only thin^''s that did not go together, and mamma was worried and papa was cross. The work people \ver<' wild and ignorant, and only trustworthy as long as they were watched. They were unaccustomed to the most ordinary comforts of civilized life, particularly in the way of furniture. When the family arrived at the house one morn- ing, tlu'y found Mrs. Caldwell's wardrobe, mahogany drawers, and other articles of bedroom furniture, set up in conspicuous positions in the sitting-rt)om, and the carpenter was much rulUed when he was ordered to take them upstairs. "Shure its nuid they are," he remonstrated to one of the servants, "to have sieh foine things put in a bedroom where nobody '11 see 'em." The men came up from the eoa.st-guard station to sci-ape the walls, and Ellis, the petty ollicer, used the bread knif<\ and broke it, and i)apa bawled at him. Beth was very sorry for Ellis. The house was built of stone, and very damp. There was a great deal of space in it, but very little accommodation. On the ground lloor were a huge hall, kitchen, pantry, and sitting-room, all llagged. The sitting-room was the only one in the house, and had to be used as dining-room and drawing-room, but it was large enough for that ami to spare. There was a big yard and a ])ig garden, too, and Riiey was in the stable, and Biddy and Anne in the kitchen, and Kitty in the nursery. This increase of estab- lishment, which meant so much to the parents, was accepted as a matter of course by the children. Kitty told Riley and Biddy and Anne about what Beth had seen on Gallows Hill, and tliey often asked P>eth what she saw when she used to sit looking at nothing. Then Beth would think things and describe them, because it seemed to please the servants. They used to be very serious and shake their heads and cross them- selves, with muttered ejaculations, but all the time they liked it. This quite encouraged Beth, and she used to think and think of things to tell them. Beth was exceedingly busy in her own way at this time. Iler I i 42 THE HKTII BOOK. luiiul was bcinpf rapidly storod with iinj)n'ssions, and nothing t'scapcd her. The four children and Kitty wero j)ut all t();,''ethor in one groat nursery, an arraiif^^eniont of wliich Kitty, with the fastidious deli- cacy of a strict C*atholic, did not at all aj)provo. "Inde(;d, nreni," slu; said, " I'm thinkin' Master Jim's too sharp to b<^ in the mu'sery wid his sisters now." "Nonsense, Kitty!" Mrs. C^ilduell exclaimed. "How can you be so evil-minded ? Master Jim's only a child — a baby of ten ! " "Och, thin, m'em, it's an oul(l-fa.shioned baby lie is," said Kitty ; " and I'm thinkin' it's a bit of a screen or a curtain I'd like for dressin' behind if he's to be wid us." " I have nothing' of the kind to give you," Mrs. Caldwell re- joined. And afterward she made merry with papa about Kitty's prudishness. But Kitty was rir purse she bought some print, and fixed u}) a curtain for his sisters to dress behind, and all el.se that she had to do for the children was done decently and in order. She had almost entire charge of them, their mother being engrossed with her husband, whose healLli and .spirits had already begun to suil'er from overwork and exposure to the climate. Kitty was teaching her charges dainty ways, mentally as well as physically. When she had washed them at night she made them purge their little souls of all the sins of the day in prayer, and in the morning she taught them how to fortify themselves with good resolutions. Beth took immensely to the Catholic training, I THE BETH HOOK. 48 nothing no groat JUS (loli- 00 sharp [ow can baby of is," said :i I'd like dwell rc- it Kitty's eft pretty lone with oory was L>r you let 1 tell, sir. -a theory le suspen- ns took a Jim was ver. She associate She had x'fore she lO nursery ijrht some hind, and [ decently lem, their >aUh and exposure as well as liado them ler, and in lives with L training, and solemnly dedicated herself to the Blessed Virpin ; Mildred conformed. !)ut without enthusiasm ; the four-year-old baby Ber- nadine lisped littli^ Arcs; but Jim, in the words of Captain Keene — "the old buM'alo," as their father called him — sneered at that sort of thing "as only lit for women." "Men drink whisky," said .lim, jjuflinfj out his chest. "True for ye," said Kitty. "But I've been told that them as drinks whisky here goes dry in the ne.\t world." "Well, I shall drink whisky and kiss the girls all the same," said Jim. "And I wouldn't be a Catholic now, not to save me sowl. 1 owe the Catholics a grudge. They insu!*.ed me." "How so ?" asked Kitty. "At the midnight mass last Christmas. Father John got up and ordered all heretics out of the sacred house of God, and Pat Fagan ses to me, ' Are ye a heretic 'i ' and I ses, ' I am, Pat Fagan.' 'Tiiin out ye go,' ses he, and but for that Fd 'a' been a Catholic; so see what you lose by insulting a gentleman." "What's insulting?" Beth asked. Jim slapped her face. "That's insulting," he explained. Beth struck him back promptly, and a scufHe ensued. "Oh, but its little divils yez are, the lot o' ye!" cried Kitty as she separated them. During iits of niM'vous irritability Captain Caldwell had a habit of pacing about the house for hours at a time. One evening ho happ(Mied to be walking up and down on the landing outside the niu'sery door, which was a little way open, and his attention was attracted bv Beth's voice. She was reciting a Catholic hvmn softly, but with great feeling, as if every word of it were a pleas- uri! to her. " What's the meaning of this ? " he demanded, Inraking in on lu>r devotions. " What papistical abominations have you been teaching the child, Kitty ?" "Shure, sorr, it's jest a bit of a hymn," said Kitty bravely ; but her heart sank, and the colour left her ]ii)s. Captain Caldwell was furiou.s. " C^■u•oline," he called peremp- torily, going to the head of the stairs, "Caroline, come up directly ! " Mrs. Caldwell fussed up in hot haste. "Do you know," Captain Caldwell demanded, "that this woman is making idolaters of your children ? I heard this child just now praying to the Virgin Mary ? Do you hear ?" Mrs. Caldwell's pale face llu.shed with anger. 8"- -''■'■I ill li i I u THE BETH BOOK. "How dare you do such a thinp, you wickod woman I" she exchiiint'd. " I shall T)ot kocp you anoth«'r day in tlic house. Pack up your thiiij^s at once and {^o tlie fh'st thing in tiio morn- ing." "O rnanima." Hctli cried, "you're not going to send Kitty away ? Kitty. Kitty, you won't go and h-avu nie ?" "There, you see!" Captain CaUlwell exchiinu'd. "You s(M' tlie infhienco slio's got over the child already. That's the Jesuit all ov(^r ! " "An ignorant woman like you. who can hardly read and write, setting up to teach /»// children ! Indeed, how dare you T' Mrs. Caldwell stormed. " Well, m'em, I am an ignorant woman that can hardly read and write," Kitty answered with dignity; " hut I could tell you some tilings ye'll not find out in all yer books, and may be they'd surprise ye." " Kitty, youll not go and leave me?" Beth repeated passion- ately. " Troth, an' I'd stay for your sake if I could," said Kitty, " fur it's a bad tinu» I'm afraid ye'll be bavin' (mce I'm gone." "Do you hear that?" Captain Caldwell exclaimed. "Now you see what comes of getting people of this kind into the house. She's going to make out that the child is ill treated." "One of ?/«?/ children ill treated I" Mrs. Cakl well cried .scorn- fully. "Who would believe her ?" Then, turning to Beth, " If I ever hear you repeat a word that wicked woman has taught you I'll beat you as long as I can stand over you." Kitty looked straight into Mrs. Caldwell's face and smiled sar- casticall}' but uttered not a word. "How dare you stand there, grinning at me in that imperti- nent way, you low woman ! " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed with great exasperation. " I believe you are a Jesuit sent here to corrupt my children ; but go you shall to-morrow morning." " Oh, I'll go, m'em," Kitty answered quietly. She knew the case was hopeless "There, now," said Mrs. Caldwell, turning to her husband. " Do you see ? That shows you. She doesn't care a bit." Beth was clinging to Kitty, but her mother seized her by the arm and Hung her half across the room and was about to follow her, but Captain Caldwell interfered. "That will do," he said significantly. " It's no iise venting your rage on the child. In future choose your nui'ses better." I THE IIKTII BOOK. 45 I ! " she h<)ust\ [> niovn- ;l Kitty V'OU SCO i> .It'suit \id and 3 you i " (Uy n'iul tell you JO they'd pussiou- tly, " fur ,. " Now lie house. ■d scoru- Both, '• If ijrht you liled sar- iniperti- [ith great coiTupt mew the iiiusbaud, Ir by the |o foHow he said laid. In 1 "Then in future pive mo better advi<'e when I consult you about theiM," Mrs. Culdwell retorted, followinj,' him out of tlio room. Hetli clunjjf to Kitty th(^ who!*' nij^'ht loiiy and had to be torn from lier in tlu; nu)rMiii;,', .screaming and ivicking. Slio stood iu front of her inotlier, her eyes and cheeks ablaze. •'I siiall pray to the lile.s.s('d Virgin — I shall jn'ay to tlie Bles.sed Virgin — every hour of my life," she gasped, "and you can't prevent uia^. livid me as h)ng as you can stand over me if you like, but I'll only pray the harder." "For God's .sake, m'em," Kitty cried, clasping her hand.s, "let that child alone. Shure she's a sweet lamb if you'd give her a chance. But ye put tlie divil into lier wid yer shakin' an' yor hatin', and mischief '11 come of it sooner or later, mark my words." Wiien Kitty had gone, Mrs. Caldwell shut Beth up in the nur- sery with Baby Bernadino. Beth threw iiers(>lf on tin floor and sol)bed until she had exhausted lier tears; then she gathered her- self together and sat on the lloor with her hands clasjM'd I'ound lier h'gs, her chin on her knees, looking up d/'camily at tlu^ sky iirough the nursery window. Iler pathetic little face was all di-awn and haggard and hopeless ; but prese* tly she began to sing : "AVE M.\RIA! " Mother of tlu' ilfMtlatc ! Guiili- ot'tlic imt'ortutiute! Ili'iir I'roin tliy tene was outside. When she saw him she recollected ,;omething she had heard about his religious opinions, and began to question him eagerly. His answers were ai)parently <'!xciting, for presently she flung the door wide open to let him in, then i*an to the foot of the stairs and shouted at the top of her voice : " Papa, papa, come down ! come directly ! Here's old Keene, tlie old butValo, and he says there is no tiod 1 " Captiiiu Caldwell descended the stairs hurriedly, but on catch- ing a glimp.se of his countenance Beth did not wait to re- ceive him. She had to pass through the kitchen to get into the yard. It was the busy time of the day, and l^iddy and Anne and Riley, all without shoes or stockings, were playing football with a bladder. Biddy tried to detain Beth. "Arrah, bad luck to ye, Biddy,'' Beth cried, imitating the brogue. " Lc^t me go, d'ye hear '( " " Tloly Mother, preserve us I '' Biddy (>xclaime(l. crossing her- self. "Don't ye ever be afther wishin' oiiybody l)ad luck, Mi.ss Beth ; shure ye'll bring it if ye do." "Thin don't ye ever be afther stoppin' me when I want to be going. Biddy," Beth rejoined, stamping h(>i foot, "or 111 blast ye," she added as she passed out into the sunlight. Fowls and ducks and Jim's pet pigeons were the only creature moving in the yard. Beth stood among them, watching them for a little, then went to the corn bin in the stable, and got some oats. There was a shallow tub of wat«'r for the birds to drink ; l^eth l.unkered djwn beside it, and held out her hand, full of corn. The pigeons were very tame, and presently a beautiful blue rock came up conlidently and began to eat. His eyes were a deep rich orange colour. Beth caught him aiul strok(Hl his glossy i)lum- age, delighting in the exquisit«^ nuMallic sheen on his neck aiul breast. The colom* gave her an almost i)ainful sensation of jjleas- ure, which changed on a sudden into a fit of blind exasjjeration. Her grief for the loss of Kitty had gripped her again with a horrid twinge. She clenched her teeth in her pain, lier lingers closed 4 THE RETU HOOK. 47 [jot be- opened :, thou, escape. •. Beth ;he saw >rs were open to L the top . Keeue, lU eatoh- it to re- gard. It id lliley, . with a itinek and of i)h»as- |])eration. a horrid i-s closed I ^ I convulsively roinid the pigeon's throat, and she held him out at arm's leiintli and sliook him viciously till the nictitating,' mem- brane dropped over his eyes, his head sank back, his bill opened, and he hun;^'' fi-om her hand, an inert heap of rutlled feathers. Then the tension of her nerves relaxed ; it was a relief to have crushed the life out of something-. She let the bird drop, and stood look in jx at him, as an animal mi;;ht hav(» look(>d. with an imjjassive face wiiich betrays no sliad«^ of emotion. As she did so, liowever, the bird showed signs of life; and suddenly (piick(>n- ing into interest, she stooped down, turned him over, and exam- ined him; then sprinkled him with water and made him drijik. He rapidly revived, and when he was able to stand she let him go; and he was soon feeding among his companions as if noth- ing had happened. Beth watched them for a little with the same animal-like ex- pressionless gravity of countenance, then moved oil" unconct>rn- edly. She never mentioned the incident to anyone, and never forgot it; but her only feeling about it was that the pigeon had had a narrow escape. CHAPTER VI. Beth was a fine instrument, sensitive to a touch, and, consid- ering the way she was handled, it would have be(Mi a wonder if discordant ell'ects had not been constantly j)roduced upon her. H(M's was a nature with a wide range. It is probable that every conc(Mvable impulse was latent in her, every possibility of good or evil. Exactly which would predominate depended U])()n the inlluences of these early years ; and almost all the ijifluences sho came under were haphazard. Th(>re was no intelligent dire<'tion of h(>r thoughts, no systematic training to form good habits. Her brotliers were sent to school as soon as they w(>re old enough, and so had the advantage of regular routine and strict discipline from the llrst; but a couple of hours a day for lessons was consider«»d enough for the little girls, and. foi- the rest of the time, so long as they were on tlie premi-ses and not naughty — that is to say, gave no trcubh- — it was taken for granted that they were safe, morally and physically. Neither of their parents seemed to have susi)ected their extreme precocity ; and then^ is no doubt that Beth sulVered seriously in after-life froui the mistakes of those in authority over 1 : 1 48 THE BETH BOOK. lior at tills period. Pr'oplo admired lier brij^lit eyes witlioiit realiz- ing^ tliat she could see with them, and not only that she could see, but tiiat she could not hel}) seeinjj. But even if they had realized it, they would merely have scolded her for learninj^ anything in that way which they preferred that she should !iot know. They were not suHiciently intellijrent themselves to perceive that it is not what we know of things, but what we think of them which makes for good or evil. B(.'th was accordingly allowed to run wild and expected to see nothing; but all the time her mind was being involuntarily stored with observations from which, in time to come, for want of instruction, she would be forced to draw her own — often erroneous — conclusions. Kitty's departure was Beth's first great grief, and she sulFered terribly. The prop and stay of her little life had gone, the com- fort and kindness, the order and discipline, which were essential to her natui'e. Mrs. Caldwell was a good woman, who would cer- tainly do what she thought best for her children ; but she was ex- hausted by the unconscionable production of a too numerous family — a family which she had neitlier the means nor the strength to bring up properly. Iler husband's health, too, grew ever more precarious, and she found herself obliged to do all in her power to help him with his duties, which were arduous. There was a good deal that she could do in the way of writing olTicial letters and managing money matters, tasks for which she was nuich better fitted than for the management of children ; but the children, meanwhile, had to be left to the care of others — not that that would have been a bad thing for them had their mother liad suflicient discrimination to enable her to choose the proper kind of people to be with them. Unfortunately for everybody, however, Mrs. t^ildwell had been brought upon the old-fashioned principle that absolute ignorance of hujnan nature is the best qualification for a wife and mother, and she was consequently quite unprepared for any ])ossibility which had not formed ])art of her own simple and limited pc^'sonal ex])erience. She never sus- pected, for on(» thing, that a servant's conversation could be unde- siralile if her appearance and her character from her last mistress were satisfactory; and therefore when Kitty had gone she put Anne in her place without misgiving, Anne's principal recom- mendation l)eing that she was a nice-looking girl and had pretty deferential manners. Anne came from one <»f the cabins on the Irish side of the road, where people, pigs, poultry, with an occasional cow, goat, or Hr ,1 THE BETH BOOK. 40 t realiz- »ul(l see, realized tiling in . They .liat it is ti which to run ind was in time iraw her suil'ered the coin- L^ssential iuld cer- ' was ex- unierous nor the oo, grew do all in arduous, writing hich she •en ; but lers — not mother [^ pi'oper rybody, shioned he best quently ])art of ver sus- le unde- ni stress |she put recom- [l pretty of the donkey, herded together indiscriminately. The windows were about a foot square, and were not made to open. Sometimes they liad ghi.ss in them, but were oftener stopped up with rags. Befon- the doors were heaps of manure and pools of stagnant water. There was no regular footway, but a mere beaten track in front of the cabins, and this on wet days was ankle deep in mud. The women hung about the dooi's all day long, knitting the men's blue stockings, and did little else apparently. Both men and women were usually in a torpid sUite, the result doubtless of breathing a poi.soned atmosphere and of insuflicient food. It took strong stimulants to rouse them— love, hate, jealousy, whis- ky, bullets, murder, and sudden death. Their conversation was gross, and they were very immoral ; but it is hardly necessary to say so, for with men, women, children, and nnimals all crowded together in such surroundings, and the morbid craving for excite- ment to which people who have no comfort or wholesome inter- est in life fall a prey, immorality is inevitable. It was the boast of the place that there were no illegitimate children; it would have been a better sign if there had been. Mrs. Caldwell, true to her training, lived opi)osite to all this vice and squalor, serenely indifferent to it. Anne, tiierefore, who knew nothing about the management of children, and was not in any respect a proper person to have the charge of them, had it all her own w\ay in tlie nunsery. and her way was to do nothing that .she could help. She used to call the children in the morning, and then leave them to their own devices. The moment they were awake, which was pretty soon, for they were full of life, they began to batter each other with pillows, dance about the room in their nightdresses, ])itch tents with the bedclothes on the floor, and make noise enough to brintr their mother down upon them. Then Amie would be sunnnoiuHl. ajid come hurrying up and help them to Inuldle on their clothes .somehow. She lu'ver w;ished them, but encouraged them to perform their own ablu- tions, which the}' did with th(> end of a towel (lipp<'d in a jug. The consequence was, they w(>re generally in a very dirty state. They took their meals with their ])ar('iits. and })iipa would notice the dirt eventually, and storm at mamma in Italian, when words would ensue in a tone which made the cliildi-en (piake. Then mamma wouhl storm at Anne, for whom the ciiildr-en felt sorry. !ind the result would be a bath, which they bore with fortitude, for fear of getting Ainie into further trouble. Tliey even made good resolutions about washing themselves, which they kept for 50 THE BETH BOOK. a few clays ; then, however, tliey began to shirk again, and had again to be scrubbed. Tlie resolutions of a cliild must be sliorod up by kindly supervision, otherwise it is liardly likely that tiiey will cement into good habits. Beth suffered from a continual sense of discomfoit in tho.se days for want of proper attention. All her clothing fitted l)adly, and were fastened on with anything that came to hand in tlie way of tape and buttons; her hair was ill brushed; and she was so continually found fault with that her .sense of self-resjject was checked in its development, and she lo.st all faith in her own power to do anything right or well. The ccmsequence was the most profound disheartenment, endured in silence, witli the ex- quisite uncomplaining fortitude of a little child. It made its mark on her countenance, however, in a settled expression of dis- content, which, being mistaken for a bad disposition, repelled people, and made her many enemies. People generally said that Mildred was a dear, but Beth did not look pleasant, and for many a long day to come very few troubled themselves to try and make her look so. It can not be said that Beth's parents neglected their children. On the contrary, her father thought much of their education and of their future; it was the all-importance of the present that did not strike him ; and so with the niother. Neither parcMit was careless, but their care stopped sliort too soon, and it is astonish- ing the amount of liberty the children had. They were sent out of doors as soon as they were dressed in the morning, because sun- shine and air are so essential to children. If they went for a walk Anne accompanied them, but very often Anne was wanted, and then the children were left to loiter about the garden or stable yard, where, doubtless with the lielp of reasoning ])owers nmch in advance of her age, Beth had soon heard and seen enough to make her feel a certain contempt for her father's ve- racity when he told her that she had originally been brought to the house in the doctor's black ])ag. After Kitty's departure Beth had many a lonely hour, and the time hung heavy on her hands. Mildred, her senior by f(Mir years, was of a simpler disposition, and always able to amuse her- self playing with the Baby Bernadine or witli toys, which were no distraction to Beth. ^lildred, besides, was fond of reading ; but books to be deciphered remained a wonder and a mystery to Beth. Jim went to the national school, the only one in the place, with all the other little boys. The master was a young curate, 4 w, TnE BETH BOOK. 51 n, and had it be shored y that they >\'i in those itted l)adly, and in the md she was re.s})ect was u lier own Lce was the 'ith the ex- [t made its jsion of dis- )n. repelled ly said tiiat id for many y and make ir children. ucation and Mit that did ])ar(Mit was is astonisli- >re sent out ecause sini- went for a as wanted, garden or no- powers and seen father's ve- brought to ir. and the )r by four amuse her- vhich were ading; but ry to Beth, tlie place, ling curate, who gave Mildred and Beth their lessons also when school liours were over. Beth used to yearn for lesson time, ju.st for the sake of being obliged to do something ; but lessons were disappointing, for the curate devoted himself to Mildred, who was docile and studious, and took no special pains to interest Beth, and conse- quently she soon wearied of the dull restraint and became tr()ul)le- some. Sometimes she was boisterous, and then the tutor had to speiul half his time in chasing her to rescue his hat, a book, an ink bottle, or .some other article which she threatened to destroy ; and s(jnuHimes she was so depres.sed that he had to giv(^ up tiyiug U) teach her, and just do his best to distract her. In her eighth year she was able to follow the Church service in the prayer book and make out the hymns, but that was all. Sunday school was held in the church, and was attended by all the unmarried parishioners. ^lildred taught some of the tiny mites, and Beth was i)ut into her class at first; but Beth had no respect foi* Mildred, and had con.se(juently to be removed. She was expected to learn the collect for the day and the verse of a hymn every Sunday, but never by any chance knew either. No one ever thought of reading tlie thing over to her and fixing her attention on it by some little explanation ; and learning by heart from a book did not come naturally to her. Slie learned by ear easily enough, but not by sight. The hymns and prayers which Kitty had re{)eated to her she very soon picked up, but Kitty had true sympathetic insight to inform her of Avhat the child required, and all her little lessons were proper to some occasion, and had comfort in them. What Beth leanunl now, on the contrary, often filled her with gloom. Some of the hymns, such as When ^'atlu'riiii,' clouds around I view. And days are dark and IVicnds arc few, made her especially miserable. It was always dark day to her when she repeated it. with heavy clouds collecting overhead, and herself, a solitary little speck on the mountainside, wandering alone. CHAPTER VII. It is significant to note that church figures largely in Beth's recollection of this time, but religion not at all. There was in fact no connection between the two in her mind. iti \ ! I '^ 52 THE BETH BOOK. BoUi Captain and Mrs. Caldwell protested strongly against what they called cant, and they seemed to have called everything cant excej)! an occasional cold reading aloud of the Bible on Sundays and the bald oljservance of the Church service. The Bible they read aloud to the children without expounding it, and the .services they attended without comment. Displays of religious emotion in everyday life they regarded as symptoms of insanity, and if they heard peojjle discuss religion with enthusiasm and profess to lovt; the Lord they were genuinely shocked. All that kind of thing they thought "such cant, and so like those horrid dis.senters,"' which made them extra careful that the children should hear nothing of the sort. This, from their point of view, was I'ight and wise ; in Beth's case especially, for her un.satisfied soul was of the quality which soon yearns for the fine fulness of faith ; her little heart would have filled to bursting with her first glad conception of the love divine, and her whole being would liave stirred to speak her emotion, even th(nigh speech meant martyrdom. Thanks to the precautions of her ])arents, however, she heard nothing to stimulate her natural Iciidcncv to religious fervour after Kitty's departure, and gradually the image of our Blessed Lady faded from lier mind, and was succeeded by that of the God of her parents, a death-dealing deity, delighting in blood, whom she was warned to fear, and from whom she did accordingly shrink with such holy horror that when she went to church she tried to think of anything but him. This was how it happened that church, instead of being the threshold of the next world to her mind, became the centre of this, where she nuide many inter- esting observations of men and manners ; for, in spite of her back- wardness in the schoolroom, Beth's intellect advanced with a bound at this ])eriod. She had left her native place an infant, on whose mind some chance im])ressions had been made and lingered ; she arrived at Castletown rock with the power to observe for her- self, and even to reflect upon what she saw — of cour.se to a certain extent only, but still the power had come, and was far in advance of her years. So far it was circumstances that had impressed her; she knew one person from another, but that was all. Now, how- ever, she began to be interested in people for tliem.selves apart from any incident in which they figured, and most of her time was spent in a curiously close but quite involuntary study of those about her, and of their relations to each other. Church was often a sore penance to the children, it was so long, and cold, and dull ; but they set off on Sunday happy in the ■'^ THE BETH BOOK. r)3 igly against 1 everything he Bible on iervice. The iding it, and s of religious I of insanity, husiasni and cd. All that those horrid the children oint of view, er unsatisfied ine fulness of with her first being would ;peech meant nts, however, y to religious image of our led by that of |ting in blood, :1 accordingly church she it ha])i)ened ext world to many inter- of her back- iced with a n infant, on lid lingered ; ;erve for her- to a certain ir in advance pressed her ; Now, how- nselves apart of her time iry study of jn, it was so happy in the consciousness of their best hats and jackets, nevertheless, and the lirst part of the time was not so bad, for then the}' had Sunday school, and the three; Misses Ke(Mie (Mary, Sophia, and Lenore), and the two Misses Mayne (Honor and Kathleen), and Mr. and Mrs. Small, the vicar and his wife, and the curate, were all there talking and teaching. Beth remembered nothing about the teaching except that on one occasion Mr. Macbean, the i-ector, tried to explain the meaning of the trefoil on the ends of the pews to Mildnnl and her.self. and she could think of nothing but the way his beard wagged as he spoke, and was disconcerted when he questioned her. He had pi'omised to be a friend to Beth, but he was a delicate man and not able to live much at C'astletownrock, where the climate was rigorous so that she seldom saw him. When Sunday school was jver the children went up to the gallery. Their pew and the Keenes's, roomy boxes, took uj) the whole front of it. Mr.s. Caldwell always sat up in the gallery with the children, but C/aptain Caldwell often .sat downstairs in the rectory pew. to be near tlie fire. When he sat in the gallery he wore a little black cap to keep off the draught. He and Mr. O'Halloran, the squire, and Chaplain Keene stood and talked in the aisle .sometimes before the service commenced. One Sunday they kept looking up at the children in the gallery. "I'll bet Mildred will be the handsomest woman," Mr. O'Hal- loran was .saving. "I'll back Beth," Captain Keene observed. " If all the men in the place are not after her .soon Fm no judge of h(>r sex— eh ?" "Oh, don't look at me." said Captain Caldwell comjjlacently. " I can't pretend to say. -But let's hope that they'll go off' well, at all events. They'll have every chance I can give them of making good matches." Beth heard hvv father repeat this conversation to her mother afterward, but was too busy wondering what a handsome woman was to understand that it was her own charms which had been appraised ; but Mildred understood, and was elated. Mr. O'Halloran, the .squire, had a red beard, which was an offence to Beth. His wife wore bonnets about which everybody used to make remarks to Mrs. Caldwell. Beth understood tlmt Mrs. O'Halloran was young and pretty, and had three charming children, but was not happy because of Sophia Keene. "Just fancy," .she heard Mrs. Small, the vicar's wife, say to her mother once ; "just fancy, he was in a carriage with them at the races, and staid with Sophia the whole time, and poor Mrs. • I, 54 THE BliTII BOOK. ■it .-■in O'Halloran left at home alone ! I call it soaiulalous I But you kiunv what Sophia is !" Mrs. Small conclutk'd.si«,^ni(icaiitly. Mrs. Caldwell drew herself up and looked at Mrs. Small, but said nothin<^ ; yet somehow Beth knew that she too was unhappy because of Sophia Keene. Beth was not on familiar terms with her mother, and would not have dared to embrace her spontane- ously or make any other demonstration of affection ; but sIk^ was loyally devoted to her all the same, and would ffladly have stabbed Sophia Keene and have done battle with the whole of the rest of the family on her mother's behalf should occttsion ofTer. She was curled up amonf^ the fuchsias on the window .seat of the sitting-room one day, unobserved by her ])arents, wlio entered the room together after she had settled herself there, and began to discuss the Keenes. " You did not tell me, Henry, you spent all your time with them before we came," Mrs. Caldwell .said reproachfully. " Why should 1 i " he answered, with a jaunty aifectiition of ease. "It is not why you should," his wife said with studi(>d gentle- ness, " but why you should not. It seems so strange, making a mystery of it.'' "I described old Keene to you — the old buffalo I" he replied; "and I'll describe the girls now, if you like. Marj' is a gawk, So- phia is as yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is half-witted." The Keenes were ignorant, idle, good-tempered young women, and kind to the children, whom they often took to bathe with them. They were seldom able to go into the sea itself, for it was a wild, tempestuous coast ; but there were lovel5' clear jjools on tlie rocky shore, natural stone baths left full of water when the tide went out, sheltered from the wind by tall, dark, precipitous cliffs, and warmed by the sun ; and there they used to dabble by the hour together. Anne went with them, and it was a pretty sight : the four young women in white chemises that clung to them when wet, and the three lovely children — little white nudities with bright brown hair — scami)ering over the rocks, splashing each other in the ])ools, or lying about on warm sunny slabs, resting and chattering. One day Beth found some queer things in a pool, and Sophia told lier they were barnacles. "They stick to the bottom of a .ship," she .said, "and grow heavier and heavier till at la.st the ship can make no more way, and comes to a standstill in a shining sea, where the water is as smooth as a mirror ; you would thiiik it was a mirror, in fact, if THE BETH liOOK. 55 i\ But yon cantly. s. Smiill, but vas unhappy r terms with ler spontano- on ; but sb<> frladly bavo whole of the isioii offer, ndow seat of , who entered [•e, and began iir time with 'ully. i aifectiition of tudi(Hl gentle- i ship and look over, and there they see a flock of beautiful big white geese com- ing up out of the water; and sometimes they shoot the gee.se. but if they do a great storm comes on and engulfs th<' shij), and they are all drowned. But sometimts they stand stock still, amazed, and then the birds rise up out of the air on their great white wings, up, up, drifting along together till they look like the clouds over there. Then a gentle breeze sjjrings up, and the ship sjiils away .safely into port." "And where do the geese go ? '' Beth denumded, with breath- less interest. " They make for the shore, too, and in the dead of winter, on .stormy nights, they lly over the land, uttering strajige cries, and if you wake and hear them it means somelxxly is going to die." Beth's eyes were staring far out beyond the great green At- lantic rollers that came bursting in round the sheltei-ing head- land, white-c rested with foam, and Hew up the beaih with a crash, scattering showers of spray that sparkled in the sunshine. She could see the ships and the barnacles and the silent sea, heaving great sighs and flushing with fine colour in the act ; and the geese, and the sailors peering over the side and shooting at them and sinking immediatelv in a storm, but also .sailing into a .safe haven triumphantly, where the sun shone on white houses, although, at the same time, it was dark night, and overhead there were .strange cries that made her cower. "Beth," cried Sophia, "what's the matter with you. child ? " Beth returned with a start and stared at her. "I know who it'll be." she said. " Who whafll be. Miss Beth ? " Anne asked in awe. "Who'll die." said Beth. " You mustn't say, Beth ; you'll bring bad luck if you do," Miss Keene interposed hastily. "I'm not going to say,'' Beth answered dreamily; "but I know." "You shouldn't have told the child that story, mis.s," Anne said. "Shure ye know what she is — she sees." Anne nodded her head several times significantly. " I forgot," .said Sophia, 5G Tin: BETH BOOK. " Slic'll forf^'ct, too," said Mary i)liilos()i)liically. " I say, "Rptli." she went on, raisiij<^ liersi'lf on licr elbow — she Avas lyin<^ prone on u shib of rock in tlio sun — "\vliat does your mother think of us ? " Bc^th roused herself. "I don't know," slie answered earnestly; "she never says, lint I know wliat papa thinks of you. Jlv. says Mary's a H'awk, So])liia is as yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is only half-witted." The effect of this announoenu'nt astonished Beth. The Misses Keone, instead of beinj^ interested, all looked at her as if they did not like her, and Anne hurst out lau'^^hin;^''. When they pot in, Anne told Mrs. (/aldwell, who flushed sudd<>nly and cover I r, Both." n'onc oil of us ? " irncslly ; 1 Ic says ^(Miorc is ic Misses tlioy did y ff<»t ill, vred her e. ''Botli ed." • — " what irritably. jll said at cm shoiiUl oats a pri- vhich she was try- mother's at among ; oppt)site sky ; but bpprossed open. A llent atti- in in low tiled coat lie stroll- I, " you're butter- "■Woll, let's hope it'll bo a boy," ho rejoined, Tho woman looked up and down the streiit eomplaoontlj'. I'resently Beth saw Honor and Kathleen Mayne come out <')f the inn. The Mayiu's u.sed to pet tlu^ eliiidren and play the i)iano to them when they were at the inn, and bad been very j^ood to Jim also when he was there alone with his father before tli(» family arrived. Their manners wore j;^entle and carossinj^:, and tliey did their best to win their way into Mrs. (^ildwell's <^(nn\ graces; but at lirst she coldly repulsed them, which hurt Beth veiy much. Tlu^ ^^aynes, however, did not at all umlerstaiid that they were being' repulsed. A kindly feeling (>.\ist(>d among all cla.ssos in those remote; Irish villages. The; scpiire's family, tlie dcM'tor's, clergyman's, draper's, and innke(^per's visited each other and shook hands when they met. There was no feeling of conde- scension on the one hand or of ])retension on the other; but Mrs, Caldwell had the strong class jn'cjudice which makes such .stupid snobs of tho PJnglish. It was not irJtat people were, but icJio they ■were that wa.s all-important to her, and she would have bowed down cheerfully, as whole neighbotu'hoods do, and felt exhila rated by tho notice of some stupid county magnate who had not lieart enough to bo loved, head enough to distinguish him.self, or soul enough to get him into heaven. She was a lady and Mayne was an innkeeper. His daughters might amuse th<^ children, but as to associating with !Mrs. Caldwell, that was absurd I The girls were not to bo rebuU'ed. however. They jH'i-severed in their kindly attentions, making excuses to each other fen* Mrs. Caldwell's manner ; explaining her coldness by tho fact that sho was English, and ilattering her until iinally they won their way into her good graces, and so otrectually, too, that when they brought a young magpie in a basket for Beth one day her mother graciou.sly allowed her to accept it. Beth liked the Maynos ; but now, as they came up the road, sho slid from the window .seat. She knew they would stop and talk if she waited, and sho did not want to talk. She was think- ing about something, and it irritated her to ])e interrupted. So she tore across the hall and through the kitch<>n, t)ut into the yard, impelled by an imi)erative desire to be alone. The magpie was tho first pot of her own sho had over had, and she loved it. At night it was chained to a perch stuck in the wall of tho stable yard. On the other side of that wall was the yard of JIurphy, the farrier. Tho magpie soon became tamo enough to l)e let loose by day, and Beth always went to release it the first thing (I III 68 THE BRTn BOOK. ill tho morniiifj iind ^nve it its breakfast. It carno li()j)i)lii<,^ to iiioet lier now, and followed her into tin; j^Mrdeii. The {harden was cntcrod by an urdiway under tho outbuildinj,'s which divided it from th<( stjible yard. It was very loii},', but narrow for its length. On tlic riylit was a lii<,di wall, but on the left was a low one — at lejist ()nen sent to fetch her. m drawing-room at the vicarage there was a big bay win- V Wi.ich looked out across a desolate stretch of bog to u wild Headland against wliich the wave? beat tempestuously in almost all weatliers. The lieadland itself was high, but the giant breakers often da.shed up f. ;d)()ve it and fell in showers of spray on the grass at the top. There was a telescope in the window at the vicarage, and y ■ used to come to see the sight, and went into raptures over it. '♦>th. standing out of the way, unnoticed, woukl gaze too, fascinai ^ ; but it was the attraction of repulsion. The M I! ) I: '?',' 60 THE BETn BOOK. cruel force of the px^at waves a;?itatod her, and at the same time made lier unutterably sad. Her lieart beat painfully when she watclied them, lier breath became laboured, and it was only witli an effort that she could keep back her sobs. It was not fear that oppressed her, but a horrible sort of excitement, which so gained upon her on that afternoon in particular that she felt she must sliriek aloud or make her escape. If she showed any emotion she would be laughed at, if she made her escape she would probably bo whipp(!d ; she jn-eferred to be whipi)ed ; so, watching her oppor- tunity, she quietly slipi)ed away. At home the window of the sitting-room was still wide open, and as she ran down the street she noticed some country peoi)le peeping in curiously, and apparently astonished by the luxury they beheld. Beth, who was picking up Irish rai)idly, understood some exclamations she overheard as she approached, and felt flattered for the furniture. She ran up the steps and opened the front door. " Good-day to ye all," she said sociably. "Will ye not come in, and have a look round ? Now do ! " She led the way as she spoke, and the country people followed her, all agape. In the hall they paused to wonder at the cocoa- nut matting ; but when they stood on the soft i)ile carpet, so grateful to their bare feet, in the sitting-room, and looked round, they lowered their voices respectfully, and this gave Beth a sud- den sensation of superiority. She began to show them the things : the pictures on the walls, the subjects of which she explained to them ; the egg-shell china, which she held up to the light that they might see how thin it was ; and some Eastern and Western curios her ''ather had brought home from various voyages. She told them of tropical heat and Canadian cold, and began to be elated herself when she found all that she had ever heard on the subject flowing fluently from her lips. The front door had been left open, and the passers-by looked in to see what was going on, and then entered uninvited. Neigh- bours, too, came over from the Irish side of the road, so that the room gradually filled, and Beth grew excited as her audience increased, and talked away eloquently. "Lord," one nuin exclaimed with a sigh, on looking round the room, " it's aisy to see why the likes of these looks down on the likes of us ! " " Eh. dear, yes," a woman with a petticoat over her head solemnly responded. — Wf^ THE BETH BOOK, 61 on ead " The durrty heretics I " a slouching follow with a Hat, white face muttered under liis breath. " But if thev benefit here, thevll burn hereafter, holy Jesus be praised ! " " Will they ? " said Beth, turning- on him. " Will they burn hereafter, bap-faced Flanagan ? No, they won't ! They'll hunt ye out of heaven as they hunted ye out o' Maclone. " Oil, the Orange militia walked into Maclone, And hunted tiie ("atholii's out of the town. Hi' tureii nunii nuren nuddio, Right tur nuren nee.'' She sang it out at the top of her shrill little voice, executing a war dance of defiance to the tune, and concluding with an elab- orate courtesy. As she recovered herself .she became aware of her father stand- ing in the doorway. His lips were white, and there was a queer look in his face. " Oh : So this is your party, is it. Miss Beth ? " he said. " You a.sk your friends in, and then you insult tliem, I see." Beth was still elfervescing. She put her hands behind her back and an- swered boldly : " 'Deed, thin, he insulted me, papa. It was bap-faced Flanagan. He said we were durrty heretics, and — and — I'll not stand that 1 It's a free country ! " Captain Caldwell looked roinid, and the people melted from the room under his eye. Then Anne ajjpeared from somewhere. "Anne, do you teach the children party songs?" he de- manded. " Shure, they don't need t'aching, yer honour," said Anne, dis- concerted. "Miss Beth knows 'em all. and she .shouts 'em at the top of her voice down the street +ill the men shake their fists at her." " Why do you do that, Beth ? " her father demanded. "I like to feel," Beth began, ga.sping out each word with a mighty effort to express herself — " I like to feel — that I can make them shake their fists." Her father looked at her again very queerly. "Will I take her to the nursery, sir ? " Anne asked. Beth turned on her impatiently, and said something in Irish which made Anne grin. Beth did not understand her father in this mood, and she wanted to see more of him. "What's that she's sajnng to you, Anne ? " he asked. " Oh — shure, she's just blessiu' me, your honour," Anno an- swered, unabashed. If? ■', I '* t C2 THE BETH BOOK. " I believe you ! " Captain Caldwell said dryly as he stretched himself on the sofa. " Go and fetch a hairbrush." While Anne was out of tlie room he turned to B(4h. " I'll give you a penny,'' he said, "if you'll tell me what you said to Anne." " I'll tell you for nothing," Beth answered. " I said, ' Yer sold to the devil for an interfering hussy I ' '' Captain Caldwell burst out laughing, and lauglied till Anno returned witli tlie brush. " Now, brush my hair," he said to Beth, and Beth went and stood beside the sofa, and brushed, and brushed, now with one hand and now with the other, till she ached all over with tlie effort. Her father sulfered from atrocious head- aches, and this was the one thing that relieved him. " There, that's punishment enough for to-day," he said at last. Beth retii'ed to the foot of tlie couch, and leaned there, looking at him solemnly, witli tlie hairbrush still in her hand. " That's no punishment," slie observed. " What do you mean ? " he asked. *'I mean I like it," she said. "I'd brush till I dropped, if it did you any good." Captain Caldwell looked up at her, and it was as if he had seen the child for the lirst time. " Beth," he said, after a while, " would you like to come out with me on the car to-morrow? " "'Deed, then, I would, papa," Beth answered eagerly. Then there was a pause, during wliicli Beth rubbed hor back against the end of tlie couch tlioughtfully, and looked at the wall opposite as if she could see through it. Her father watched her for a little time, with a frown upon his forehead from the pain in his head. " What are you thinking of, Beth ? " he said at last. "I've got to be wliipped to-night." she answered drearily, "and I wish I hadn't. I do get so tired of being whipjied and shaken." Her little face looked pinched and pathetic as she s])oke, and for the first time her father had a sus])icion of wlmt punishment was to this child — a thing as inevital)le as disease, a continually recurring torture, but quite without effect upon her conduct— and his heart contracted with a qualm of pity. " What are you going to be whipi)ed for now? " he asked. "We went to tea at the vicarage, and I ran away home." "Why?" " Because of the great green waves. They rusli up the rocks — wish-st-st ! " she took a step forward, and threw up her little arms Eaaasa. THE BETH BOOK. 03 all in ill id Ml." and cs — rms in illustration, "then fall and roll back, and gather, and come rushing on again ; and I feel evt-ry time — every time — that they are coming right at me " — she clutched her throat as if she were suffocating — "and if I had staid I should have shrieked, and then I should have been \vhij)ped. So I came away." "But you expect to be whipped for coming away? " ^ " Yes. But vou see I don't have the waves as well, and mamma won't say I was afraiil." "Were you afraid, Beth ?" her father a.sked. "No !'" Beth retorted, stamping her foot indignantly. "If the waves did come at me I could stiind it. It's the coming — coming — coining — I can't bear. It mak<'s me ache here" — she clutched at her throat and chest again. Captain Caldwell closed his eyes. He felt that he was begin- ning to make this child's acquaintance, and wished he had tried to cultivate it sooner. '" You shall not be whipped to-night, Beth," he said presently, looking at her with a kindly smile. In.stantly an answering smile gleamed on the child's face, transfiguring her; and by the light of it I.er father realized how seldom he had seen her smile. Unfortunately for Beth, however, while her countenance w;us still irradiated, her mother swoojied down upon her. ^Irs. Cald- well had come hurrying home in a rage, in search of Beth ; and now, mistaking that smile for a sign of defiance, slu; seized upon her, and had beaten her severely before it was possible to inter- fere. Beth, dazed by this sudden onslaught, stagg(M'ed when .she let her go, and stretched out her little hands as if groping for some support. " It wasn't your fault — it wasn't your fault," she gasped, her first instinct being to exonerate her fatli(>r. Captain Caldwell had started up and caught his wife l)y the arm. " That's enough," he said harshly. " You are going alto- getlier the wrong way to work with the child. I^et this be the last tiiiK^ — do you understand ? Beth, go to tlie nursery and ask Anne to get you some tea." A sharp ])ain shot through his head. He had jumped up too quickly, and now fell back on the sofa with a groan. "Oh, let me brush it again," Beth cried, in an agony of sym- pathy. Her father opened his haggard eyes and smiled. "Go to the nursery, like a good child," h<> said, "and got some tea." Beth went without another word. But all that evening her mind was mimmmm 64 THE BETH BOOK. with her parents in the sittinjj-room, wondering, wondering^ what they were siiyin{f to each otlier. CHAPTER VIII. Next morning Beth jumped out of bed early and washed her- self all over, in an excess of grateful zeal, because she was to be taken out in the car. As soon as she had her breakfast she ran into the yard to feed her magpie. Its perch was in a comfortable corner, sheltered by the great turf stack which had been built up against the wall that divided the CaldwellV: yard from that of Pat Murphy, the farrier. Beth, in wild spirits, ran round the stack, calling " Mag ! Mag ! " as she went. But Mag, alas ! wius never more to respond to her call. He was hanging by the leg from his percli, head downward, wings outstretched, and glossy feathers rullled ; and below him on the ground some stones were scattered which told the tale of cruelty and petty spite. Beth stood for a moment transfixed, but in that moment the whole thing became clear to her — the way in which the deed was done, the man that did it, and his motive. She glanced up to the top of the high wall, and then, breathing thick through her clenched teeth in her rage, she climbed up the turf stack with the agility of a cat, and looked over into the farriers yard. "Come out of that, Pat Murphy, ye black-hearted, murthering' villain," she shrieked. " I see ye skulking there behind the stable door. Come out, I tell ye, and bad luck to you for killing my bird : " " Is it me, miss ? " Pat ^lurphy exclaimed, appearing with an injured and innocent look on his face. "Me kill your burrd ! Shure, thin, ye never thought sich a thing uv me ! "' "Didn't f, thin 1 and I think it still," Beth cried. "Say, 'May I never see heaven if I kilt it,' or I'll curse ye." "Ah, thin, it isn't such bad language y< <' hev me be using, and you a yoimg lady. Miss Beth,'' said Pat in a wheedling tone. " 'Deed, thin, it is, Pat Muri)hy ; but T know ye daresn't saj' it," said Beth. "Oh, bad luck to ye! bad luck to ye every day ye see a wooden milestone, and twice every day ye don't. And if ye killed my bird, may the devil attend ye to rob ye of what ye like best wherever ye are ! " She slid down the stack when she had spoken, and found her Lay le. lit," yo ye like her THE BETH BOOK. 05 father standing at the bottom looking at the dead l)ird with a heavy frown on liis dark face. He must liave heard Beth's aher- cation with Murphy, but he made no remark until Mrs. t'aldw<>Il came out, when he .said sometlnng in Italian, to which she re- sponded, "The cowardly brute ! '' Beth took her bird and buried it deep in her little garden, by which time the car was ready. She had not .shed a tear, nor did she ever mention the incident afterward ; which was character- istic, for she was always shy of showing any feeling but anger. Captain Caldwell had a wild horse, called Artless, which few men would have cared to ride, and fewer still have driven. People wondered that he took his children out on the car behind such an animal, and perhaps he would not have done so if he had had his own way, but Mrs. Caldwell insisted on it. " They've no base blood in them," she said, "and Til not have them allowed to acquire any affectation of timidit}-." Artless was particularly fresh that morning. He was a red chestnut, with a white star in his forehead and one white .stock- ing. When Beth returned to the stable yard she found him fidget- ing between the shafts, witli his ears laid back and the whites of his wicked eyes showing, and Riley battling with his head in a hard endeavour to keep him quiet enough for the family to mount the car. Captain and Mi's. Caldwell and Mildred were already in their seats, and Beth scrambled up to hers uncon- cernedly, although Artless \.'as springing about in a lively man- ner at the moment. Beth sat next her father, who drove from the side of the car ; and then they were ready to be oli' as soon as Artless would go, but Artless objected to leave the yard, and Riley had to lead him round and round, running at his head and coaxing him, while Captain Caldwell gathered up tiie reins and held the whip in su.spense, watching his opportunity each time they passed the gate to give Artless a start that would make him bound through it. Round and round they went, however, several times, with Artless rearing, backing, and plungiiig; but at last the whip came down at the right momf'ut, just tlie slightest Hick, Riley let go his head, and out he dashed in his indignation, the battle ending in a wild gallop up the street with the car swinging behind him and the whole of the Irish side of the road out cheer- ing and encouraging, to the children's great delight. But their ebullition of glee was a little too nnich for their father's nerves. " These children of yours are perfect little devils, Caroline ! " I ' «:\v 66 THE BETH BOOK. he exclaimed irritably. Mrs. Caldwell smiled as nt a compliment. She had been brought up on horseback liersclf, and insisted on teaching tlie children to regard danger as a diversion — not tliat that was diflicult, for tliey were naturally daring. Slie would have punished them promptly on the slightest suspicion of timid- ity. "Only base-born people were cowardly," slie scornfully maintained. " No lady ever shows a sign of fear." Once when they were crossing Achen Bands, a wide wa.ste in- nocent of any obstacle, Artless came down without warning, and Mildred uttered an exclamation. "Who was it made that ridiculous noise?" Mrs. Caldwell asked, looking hard at Beth. Beth could not clear herself without accusing her sister, so she said nothing, but sat consumed with fiery indignation ; and for long afterward would wake up at night and clench her little fists and burn again, remembering how her mother had sup^xxsed she was afraid. Artless went at breakneck speed that day, shied at the most unexpected moments, bolted right round, and stopped short occ.'i- sionully, but Beth sat tight mechanically, following her own fancies. Captain Caldwell was going to inspect one of the out- lying coast-guard stations, and they went by the Glen road, memora])le to Beth because it was there she first felt the charm of running water, and found her first wild violets and tuft of primroses. The pale purple of the violets and the scent of prim- roses, warm with the sun, were among the happy associations of that time. But her delight was in the mountain streams, with their mimic waterfalls and fairy wells. She loved to loiter by them, to watch them bubbling and sparkling over the rocks, to dabble her hands and feet in them, or to lie her length upon the turf beside them in keen consciousness of the incessant, delicate, delicious murmur of the water, a sound which convej-ed to her much more than can be expressed in articulate speech. At times, too, when she was tired of loitering, she would look up and see the mountain top just above her, and begin to climb ; but always, when she came to the spot, there was the mountain top just as far above her as before : so she used to think that the mountain really reached the sky. When they returned late that afternoon Riley met them with a very serious face, and told Captain Caldwell mysteriously that Pat Murphy's horse was ill. "What a d d unfortunate coincidence!" Captain Caldwell the ite, lier Ifar jny ith hat ell THE BETU BOOK. 67 muttered to his wife ; and Beth noticed that her motlier's face, which liad looked fresli and bright from the drive, settled sud- denly into it»s habitual anxious, careworn expression. Beth loitered about the yard till her parents had gone in ; then she climbed the turf stjick and l(K)ked over. The sick hor.se was tied to the stable door, and stood hangi ng his head with a very woe- begone expression and groaning monoUjnously. Murphy was try- ing to persuade him to take something hot out of a bucket, while bap-faced Flanagan and another man known as Tony-kill-the- Cow looked on and gave good advice. Beth's fury revived when she saw Murphy, and she laughed aloud derisively. All three men started and looked up, then crossed themselves. " Didn't I tell ye, Pat ! " Beth exclaimed. " Ye may save yourself the trouble of doctoring him. He's as dead as my magpie."' Murphy looked much depressed. "Shure, Miss Beth, the poor baste done ye no harm,'' he pleaded. " No," said Beth, "nor my bird hadn't done you any harm, nor the cow Tony cut the tail off hadn't dt)ne hin; any harm." " I didn't kill yer burrd," Murphy asserted doggedly. " We'll see," said Beth. " When the horse dies we'll know who killed the bird. Then one of you skunks can try and kill me. But I'd advise you to use a silver bullet, and if you miss you'll be damned. — Blast ye, Riley, will ye let me alone ! " Riley, h<^ai'ing what was going on, and having called to her vainly to hold her tongue, had climbed the stack him.self, and now laid hold of her. Beth struck him in the face i)i'omptly, whereupon he shook her, and, loosening her hold of the wall, began to carry her down — a perilous proceeding, for the stack was steep, and Beth, enraged at the indignity, doubled herself up and scratched and bit and kicked the whole way to the ground. " Ye little devil," said Riley, setting her on her feet, "ye'll get us all into trouble »vid that blasted tongue o' yours." "Who's afraid?" said Beth, shaking her tousled head and standing up to Riley with her little fists clenched. " If the divil didn't put ye out when he gave up housekeeping. I dunno where you come from," Riley muttered, as he turned away and stumped off stolidly. During the night the horse died, and Beth found, when she went out the next day, that the carcass had been dragged down r! U 111 68 THE BETH BOOK. Murpliy's garden and put in the lane outside. She climbed the wall, and discovered the farrier skinuiny tlie horse, and was niucli disgusted to seci liiiu using his hands witliout gloves on in such an operation. Her anger of the day before was all over now, and she was ready to be on the usual terms of scornful inti- macy with Murphy. " Ye'll never be able to touch anything to eat again with those hands," she said. " Won't I, thin ? '' he answered sulkily and without looking up. He was as inconsequent as a cliild that resents an injury, but can be diverted from the recollection of it by anything interesting, only to return to its grievance, however, the moment the interest fails. " Won't I, thin ? Just you try me wid a bit o' bread an' butter this instant, an' see what I'll do wid it ! " Beth, always anxious to experiment, tore indoors to get some bread and buttcsr, and never did she foi-get the horror with which she watched tlie dirty man eat it with unwashed hands, sitting on the horse's carcass. That carcass Wiis a source of interest to her for many a long day to come. She used to climb on the wall to see how it was getting on till the crows had picked the bones clean and the weather had bleached tliem white, and she would wonder how a creature, once so full of life, could becoine a silent, senseless thing, not feeling, not caring, not knowing, no more to itself than a stone — strange mystery — and s(jme day slie would be like that — just white bones ! She held her breath and suspended all sensaticm and thought, time after time, to see what it felt like; but always there was a great rushing sound in her ears, as of a terrific storm, and that, she concluded, was Death coming. When he arrived then all would be blotted out. The country was in a very disturbed state, and it was impos- sible to keep all hints of danger from the children's sharp ears. Betli knew a great deal of what w^as going on and what might be expected ; but then a few chance phrases were already enougli for her to construct a wliole story upon, and with wonderful accuracy generally. Her fine faculty of observation developed apace at this time, and nothing she noticed now was ever forgotten. She would curl up in the window seat among the fuchsias and watch the people in the street by the hour together, especially on Sun- days and market days, when a great many came in from the mountains — women in close white caps with golTered frills, short THE BETn BOOK. CD lort petticoats, and long* blue cloaks, aiul iiirn in tailcoats and knoo breeclu's with sliillalalis luulcr their arms, whicli tlioy used very dexterously. Tliey talked Irish at tlie top of their voices, and gesticulated a great deal, and were childishly quarrelsome. One market day when Beth was looking out of the sitting-room win- dow her Tnother came and looked out too, and they saw half a dozen countrymen set upon a yr. What's your favouriti; Ilowcr, papa ?" Sho liad stopped wtMnlinrr for the nioment. hut still sat on tho mat looking up at him. Captain Caldwell olippi'd a littU- more, then stopjx'd, too, and looked down at her. "I don't got a soparat«! pleasure from any |)artieular tlower, Beth ; they all delight nie,'' he answennl. Beth ponderen she asked: "Do you know whieh I likc^ he.st i Hot prinn'o.s«>.s." Captain Cald- well raised his ey<>hrows interroj^atively. "When you piik them in tlie sun and put them against your cheek they're all warm, you know," Beth explained; "and then they arc good! And fuchsias are good, too, hut it isn't th(> sanu* good. You know that one in tlie sitting-room window, white outside and salmon- coloured inside, and such a nice shaj)e — the llowers -and the way they liang down. You have to lift th(Mn to look into them. When I look at them long they nuike me feel — oh — fool, yon know — feel that I could take a whole plant in my arms and hug it; hut fuchsias don't scent like hot primroses.'' "And ther.fore they are not so good ?" her father suggested, greatly interested in the child's attempt to express herself. " They say that the scent is the soul of the tlower." " The scent i.s the soul of the flower," Beth rei)eated several timas, then heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. "I want to sing it," .she said. " I always want t - sing things like that." "What other 'things like that' do you know, Beth ?" " Tlie song of the hcu in tin- slu'll, The swish of the grn.ss in tho breeze, The sound of a fur-iiwny bell, Tiie wiiisperin^' leuve.s on the trees," Beth burst out instantly. " Who taught you tliat. Beth ?" her father asked. "Oh, no one tfuiglit me, papa," she answered. " It just came to me — like this, you know. I used to listen to the sea in tliat, shell in the sitting-room, and I tried and tried to find a name, for the sound and all at once soncj came into my head — the tiontj of the sea in the shell. Then I was lying out hero on tho gras; iVi 74 THE BETH BOOK. when it was lon;^, before you cut it to make liay, and y. i came out and said ' Tliore's a stiff breeze blowing'.' And it blew hard and then stopped, and ilien it came again ; and every time it came the grass went swish-h-h ! — the sirish of the gr ss in the breeze. Then you know that bell tiiat rings a long \va\-oif, you can only just hear it out lieni — the sound of a far-away bell. Then the leaves — it icus a long time before anything came that I could sing about them. I used to try and think it, but you can't sing a thing you think. It's when a thing comes, you can sing it. I was always listening to tlie leaves, and I always felt they were doing something ; then all at once it came on(^ day. Of course th.^y were whispering — the n'ltisjieruig leaves o/i the trees. That was how they came, papa. At lirst I used to sing them by themselves, but now I sing them all together. You can sing thc^n three different ways. The way I did first, you know, then you can put breeze first : " Tlio s\> '-li. of the frrass in tlie breeze, Tlie wliispering leaves on tlic trees, The song of the sea in tlie shell, The sound of a far-away bell. Or you can sing : " The sound of a far-away bell. The wiii.spurini,' leaves on the trees. The Bwish of the grass in the breeze, The song of the sea in the shell. Which way do you think the nicest ?" She had rattled all this off as fast as she could speak, looking and pointi'ig toward the various things she mentioned as she proceeded — the sea, the grass, the trees, the distance; now she looked up to her father for an answer. lie was looking at her so qucerly she was filled with alarm. "Am I naughty, papa ? " she exclaimed. "Oh, no," he .said with a smile that reassured her. "I was just thinking. I like to hear how 'things come' to you. You must ;dways tell me when new things come. By the way, who told you that fuchsia was sahnon coloured ?" "I saw it WM.s," she said, surprised that he need(>d to ask such a question. " I ^aw it one day when we had boiled salmon for dinner. Isn't it nice when you see that one thing's like another ? I have a pebble, and it's just the shape of a pear; now you know what shape it is, don't you ? " He nodded. " But if I .said it's thick at one end and tliin at another, you wouldn't know what shape it is a bit, would you ? " ^.ian hH j> rtg y*- THE BETH BOOK. 75 s e >) 1 1 t " No, I sliould not," he answered, bejijinning' to prune again, thouglitfully. "Betli," he said, presently, "I should like to see you grow up." "Sha'n't I grow up ?" said B<'th in dismay. "Oh, yes ; at least I should liope so. But — it's not likely that / shall be— looking on. But, Beth, I want you to renieiiiber this. When you grow up, I think you will want to do sonjething that only a few other people can do well — paint a picture, write a book, act in a theatre, make music — it doesnt matter what; if it comes to ytju, if you feel you can do it, just do it. You'll not do it well all at once; but try and try until you can do it well. And don't ask anybody if they think you can do it ; they'll be sure to say no ; and then you'll be disheartened. What's disheartened ? It's the miserable feeling you would get if I said you would never be able to learn to play the piano. You'd try to do it all the .same, perhaps, but you'd do it doubtfully instead of with coniidence.'' "What's confidence ?" said Both. " You are J ;tening to me now with confidence. It is as if you said 'I believe you.' " "But I can't say 'I believe you' to arithmetic if I want to do it." "No, but you can say 'I believe I can do it — I believe in myself.' " "Is that confidence in myself ?" Beth a.sked, light breaking i, upon her. " That's it. You're getting quite a vocabulary, Beth. A vo- cabulary is all tlie words you know," he added hastily, anticipat- ing the i:ievitable question. Beth went on with her weeding for a little. "And there is anotlier thing. Beth. T want to tell you," her father reconunenced. " Never do anytliing unless you are quite sure it is the right thing to do. It doesn't matter how much vou may want to do it, you mustn't, if you are not quite, quite sure it is right." "Not even if I am just half sure ?" "No. certainly not. You must be quite, quite sure." Beth picked some more weeds. th as ^hkI as your friends think you and better if you can. Tell the truth, live o])enly, and stick to your friends. That's the whole of the best code of morality in the world. Now we must go in." As they walked down the garden together Beth slipped her dirty little hand into his and looked up at him. "Papa," she said solemnly, " when you want to be with somebody always, more than with anybody else, and want to look at him, and want to talk to him, and you find you can tell him lots of things you couldn't tell anybody- else if you tried, you know, what does it mean ? " " It means vou love hini very much." "Then I love you. i)a})a, very nnich," she said, nestling lier head against his arm. "And it does make me feel so nice in.side. But it makes me miserable, too," she added, sighing. " How so ? " " When you have a headache, you know. I used only to be afraid you'd be angry if I made a noise. But now I'm always thinking how nnich it hurts you. I wake up often and often at night, and you are in my mind, and I try and see you say ' It's better,' or ' It's quite well.' " " And what then, Beth ?" her father asked in a queer voice. "TIkmi I don't cry any more, you know." She l(»oked uj) at her father as she spoke, and saw that his eyes were full of tears. I THE BETH BOOK. 77 I CHAPTER X. That was almost the last of those happy autumn days. Win- ter fell upon the couiitiy suddenly with nij)piiif,^ cold. The mountains, always sondjre, lowered in ^reat tumbled ma.s.ses from under the heavy clouds that seldom ro.se from their sunnnits. Terrible gales kept the sea in toi-ment, and tlie voice of it,s rage and pain filled Castletownrock without ceasing. Torrents of rain tore up the roads and rendered them almost impassable. There were stolid endurance and suU'ering written on every face out of doors, while within the people cowered over their peat (ires, a prey to hunger, cold, and depression. Draughts made merry through the large rooms and passages in Captain Caldwell's house; the wind howled in the chimneys, ratth'd at the windows, and whistled at the keyholes, especially at night, when Beth would hide her head under the bedclothes to keep out the racket, or, i!^ "'er mood, lie and listen to it, and imagine herself out in tl t -• ; . till her nerves were .strung to a state of ecstatic ten- sion, auu i.er mind fairly revelled in the sense of danger. When her father was at home in the evening she would sit still beside the fire in the sitting-room, listening in breatliless awe and excite- ment wholly pleasurable to the gale raging without ; but if Cap- tain Caldwell had not returned, as frequently hai)pened now that the days were short and the roads so bad, well knowing the risks he ran, she would .see the car upset a hundred times and ln-ar the rattle of musketry in every blast that shook the house, and so share silently, but to the full, the terrible anxiety which kei)t lier mother pacing up and down, up and down, unable to settle to any- thing until he entered and sank into a .seat, often so exhausted that it was hard to rouse him to change his dripping clothes. His duties, always honourably jjcrformed whatever the risk to himself, were far too severe for him, and he wt-- raj)idly becoming a wreck — nerv- ous, liverisn, a martyr to headache, and a slave to stinudants, al- though not a drunkard — he only took enough to whip him uj) to his wt)rk. His digestion, too, had become .seriously impaired, und he had no natural a))petite for anything. He was fond of ins cliil- dren, and proud of them, V)ut had hitherto been to(j irritable to con- tribute anything to their happiness; on the contrary, his name was a terroi- to them, and "Hush. j>apa has come in I" was enough at any time to damp their wildest s])irits. Now, however, he suflered more from depression than from irritability, and would cower 78 THE BETH BOOK. over the fire on stormy days in a state of despondency, wliich was reflected in every face, takinff no notices of any of them. Tlie cliildren would watch him furtively in cl<)S(! silent sympathy, sit- ting still and whis])ering for fear of disturbing' him ; and if i)er- chance they saw him smile and a look of relief came into their mother's anxious face their own spirits went up on the instant. But everything was against him. Tlie damp came up from the Hags in the sitting-room through the cocoanut matting and tlie thick carpet that covered it, Avhich it defaced in great patches. The wires of the piano rusted close to the lire, and had to be rubbed and rubbed every day, t)r half the notes went dumb. The paper, a rare luxury in those parts, began to drop from the walls. Great turf fires were constantly ke])t up, liut the damp stole a march on them when they smouldered in the night and made mildew marks upon everything. Good food and cooking would have helped Captain Caldwell, but the food was indifferent, and there were no cooks to be had in the country. Biddy liad never seen such a thing as a kitchen range before she took the situation, and when she first had to use the oven she put the turf on the bottom shelf in order to heat the top one. Mrs. Caldwell made what were superhuman efforts to a woman of her training and constitution to keep the servants up to the mark, and grew gray in the endeavour ; but Mrs. Caldwell in the kitchen was like a racehorse at the plougli ; and even if she had been a born housewife she could have done little with servant;^ who would do nothing themselves except under her eyes and stole everything they could lay their hands on, including the salt out of the salt cellars between meals, if it were not locked up. Toward the end of January Captain Caldwell was ill in bed; he had A\(t cloths on his head and seemed as if he could hardly speak. Betiv hung about his door all day, watching for oppor- tunities to steal in. Mamma always sent lierawayif she could, but if papa heard her, he would wliisper, "Let the child come in," and then mamma would let her in, but would still look cross. And Beth sat at o.ie side of the bed and mamma sat on the other, and no one spoke except papa sometimes, only you could .seldom understand what he said. Aiid mamma cried, but Beth did not. She ached too much inside for that. You can't cry when you ache so much. Beth day after day sat with her hands foldeat her now, however; she generally ignored her; so Beth came and went as she chose. She would climb up on to the bed when there was nobody in the room, and kiss the ciu'ls of papa's thick glossy black hair .so .softly that he never knew — ex- cept once, when he caught her, and smiled. Ilis dark face grew gray in bed, and his blue eyes sunken and haggard ; but he battled it out that time, and slowly began to recover. Beth was sitting in her usual ])lace beside her father's bed one day when the doctor came and discovered her. lie was standing on the other side of the bed. and i-xclaimed. "Why, it's all eyes !" "Yes, it's a queer pixie,'' her father said. " But it's going to do something some day, or I'm much mistaken.'' " It's going to make a nuisance of itsf^lf if you put sucli non- ocnse into its head, or I'm nmch mistaken," Mrs. Caldwell ob- served. '' I shall 7i(>t make a nuisance of myself," Beth indignantly protested. '"I shall never ])e able to make you understand, Caroline," Captain Caldwell exclaimed. " Little i)itchers are generally bad enough, but when there is large intelligence added to the long ears they're the devil." Before the doctor loft he said to ^Irs. Caldwell, "We must keep our patient amused, you know.'' " Oh, doctor ! " Beth exclaimed, clasping her hands in her earnestness, "do you tliink if Sophie Keene canu; ^" The doctoi burst into a shout of laughter, in which Captain Caldwell also joined. "Just stay here youi-self, Beth," l;e said when he had recovered himself. " For amusement, neither So- phie Keene nor any one else I ever knew could hold a ''andle to you." "What's 'hold a candle to you' ?" Beth instantly demanded. And then there was more laughter, in which won Mrs. Cald- well joined, and afterward, when the doctor had gone, siie actu- ally patted Beth on the back and stroked her hair, which was the first cMirss Betli ever remembered to have received from h«r mother. " Now, mamma," .she exclaimed with great feeling in the fui ness of her surprise and delight — "now I shall forget that you ever beat me.'' lit! V 80 THE BETH BOOK. Her mother coloured painfully. Her father muttered something about a noble nature. "And that was the cliild you never wanted at all!" slipped, with a ring of triumph, from Mrs. Caldwell unawares— an inter- esting example of the complexity of human feelings. Captain Caldwell soon went back to his duty— all too soon for liis .strength. The dreadful weather continued. Day after day he returned, soaking, from some distant stiition to the damp and discomfort of the house and the ill-cooked, unappetizing food, which he could hardly swallow. And to all this was added great anxiety about the future of his family. His boys were doing well at school by this time; but he was not satisfied with the way in which the little girls were being brought up. There was no order in their lives, no special tim(> for anything, and he knew the importance of early discipline. He tried to dis- cuss the subject with his wife, but she met his suggestions irri- tably. " There's time enough for that," she said. " / had no regular lessons till I wiis in my teens." " But what answered with you may be disastrous to these chil- dren," he ventured. " They are all unlike you in disposition, more especially Beth." "You spoil that child," Mrs. Caldwell protested. "And at any rate I can do no more. I am run otf my feet." This was true, and Captain Caldwell let the subject drop. His patience was exemplary in those days. He suffered severely both mentally and physically, but never complained. The shadow was upon him, aiul he knt w '' but he met his fate with fortitude. Whatever his faults, they were expiated in the estimation of all who saw him sutfer now. Mrs. Caldwell never realized liow ill he was. but still she was uneasy, and it was with intense relief that she welcomed a case of soups and other nourishing delicacies calculated to tempt the appetite, which arrived for him one day from one of his sisters in Enghind. "This is just what you want, Henry," she said, with a br>>itep look in her face than he had seen there for months. " I shall soon have you yourself again now." Captain CaldwelFs spirits also went up. In the evening thej' w(M'e all together in the sitting-room, Mrs. Caldwell was playing little sony as usual, was hanging about lier fatlior. He had shaken ofT his tlesiH)iideiicy, and was (luite lively for tlio moment, walking up and down the room, and makiiif,'- merry remarks to his wife in Italian, at whicii slio laiig'hed a j^ood deal. " (Jonie, Jjctli, f(5teli hujoldshy. Wc shall just come to my favourite, and Ihiish the book before you go to bed," he said. Beth brought the book, and then climbed up on his knee and settled there happily, with her head on his .shoulder. "As I layc ft-tliyukyiige, the )j;olilen sun wiw siiikinj,', O lucrriu siinir tluit hinl us it i,'litturM "ii her breiiat, Willi u thousiiiid gorireoiis dyes, While .soaring to tho skies, Mill the stars she seeiiiM to rise, As to her nest ; Aa I layo a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprcst : — ' Follow, follow me away, It boots not to delay ' — 'Twa.s so she seemed to saye, ' IIeUK is ItKST I' " After he had read those last lines there was a moment's silence, and tlien Beth burst into a tempest of tears. "Oh, papa, papal No, no, no!" she sobbed. "I couldn't bear it.'' "What is tlie matter Avith the child?" Mrs. Caldwell ex- claimed, starting up. "The vision and the fiiculty divine, I think," her father an- swered. ''Leave her to me." Beth was awake when Anne entered the nursery next morning to call the children. " Get up, and be good," Anne said. " Your pa's ill." Mrs. Caldwell came into the nursery immediately afterward, very much agitated. She kissed Beth, and from that moment the child was cahn ; but there settled upon her pathetic little face a terrible look of age and anxiety. When she was dres.sed she ran right into her father's room before any one could stop her. He was moaning : " Oh, my liead, my head I Oh, my heuil, my h(>ad ' " over and over again. "You mustn't stay here, little wonian— not today," the doctor said. " Tt will make your father worse if you do." Beth stole from tbe room and returned to the nurser^v. There, however, she cotild still hear her father moaning, and she could not bear it, so she took her prayer book, by way of life-saving apparatus, and went down to the kitchen to " see " what the serv- '(! 82 THE BETH BOOK. ants woro tliinkinpf — lior own significant oxprossion. They woro all slranj^n'ly sulxlucd. " Sit down, :Mi.s.s Beth," Biddy said kindly. "Sit down in the window there wid yer book if you want company. Its a sore heart you'll be liaving- or I'm much mistaken.'" Beth set in the window the whole mornin*,'', reading prayers to herself while she watched and waited. The doctor sent Kiley down from the sick-room .several times to fetcli things, and eacli time Beth consulted his countenance anxiously for news, but asked no questions. Biddy tried to jjcrsuade her to eat, but the child could not touch anything. Late in the aft(!rnoon Riley came down in a hurry. " Is th(> master better, Pat ? " Biddy demanded. " 'Deed, thin, he isn't." Kiley replied ; " and the doctor's sending me off on the liorse as liard as I can go for Dr. Jamieson." "Och, thin, if the doctor's sending you for Dr. Jamieson it's all up. He's niver sent for till the last. The Lord himself won't save him now." Beth shufHed over the leaves of her prayer book hurriedly. She had been crying i)iteously to Cod in her heart for hours to sav^c her father, and he had not heard ; now she remembered that the servants said if you read the Lord's I'rayer backward it would raise the d(!vil. Beth tried, but the invocation was unavailing. Before Riley could saddle the horse a message was sent down to sto]) him ; and then Anne came for Beth and took her up to her father's room. The dreadful sounds had ceased at last, and there was a strange silence in the house. Mrs. Caldwell was sitting beside her husband's bed, rocking herself a little as if in pain, but shedding no tears. Mildred was standing vrith her arm round her mother's neck, crying bitterly, while Baby Bcrnadine gazed at her father wonderingly. He was lying on his side with his arms folded. His eyes were shut, and there was a lovely look of relief upon his face. "I .sent for you. children," their mother said, "to see your father just as he died. You must never forget him." Ellis and Rickards, two of papa's men, were in the room, and Mrs. Ellis too, and the doctor and Riley and Biddy and Anne ; and there was a footbath with steaming hot water in it on the floor, some mustard on the table, and the fire biu*ned brightly. These detjiils impressed them.selves on Beth's mind involuntarily, as indeed everything else connected with that time. It seemed to her afterward as if she had seen everything and felt nothing for THE BET 1 1 IK)OK. 83 tlio moiijoiit — notluiifr but breathless excitement and interest. Her grief was entirely suspended. Mrs. Ellis and the doctor led nuunnia down to the sittinp- room ; they didn't seetn to think that she could walk. And then Mrs. Ellis made her .some tea, and stood there, and coj'.xed lier to drink it, just as if mamma liad been a ciiild. Mrs. Caldwell sat on the big couch with her back to the window, and Mildred sat beside her, with her arm round her, crying all the time. Jierna- dine ci-ied, too, but it was because she was hungry, and no one tliought of giving her anything to eat. Beth fetched her some bread and butter, and then she was good. Peoj)le Ix'gan to ari-ive — ^Ir. Macbean, Captain and Mrs. Keene, the Smalls, the curate- Father Madden even. He had h< ird the news out in the country and came hurrying back to i)a> bis respects and ollVr his con- dolences to Mrs. C'aldwcll, and .see if th(>r(^ was anything he could do. He hoj)ed it was not taking a liberty to come; but in(l(>ed he came in the fulness of his heart and becaus(^ he couldn't help it, for he had known him well, and a better man and truer gt>ntle- man never breathed. The widow held out her hand to the priest, and looked up at him gratefully. Beth opened the door for Mrs. Small, who exclaimed at once: "Oh, my dear child, how is your \nnn' mother ? Does she cry at all i I do hope she has l)een crying.'' " No," Beth answered; " nobodv cries but ^Mildnnl." When Mrs. Small went in ]\lrs. Caldwell spoke to her quite collectedh'. " He was taken ill at eight o'clock this morning with a dreadful pain in his head," she told her. " He had sutl'en'd f(>ar- fully from liis head of late. I sent for the doctor at once. But nothing relieved him. From ten o'clock he got wors(i and worse, and at four he was gone. He always wished to die suddenly, and be spared a lingering illness. Pie lias been depressed of late, but this morning early he woke up quite brightly, and last night lie was wonderfully better. After the cliildren had gone to bed he read aloud to me as he used to do in the old days ; and he looked so much more like his old self again that I thought a happier time was coming. And so it was. But not for me." " Poor lady 1 " ]\Irs. Small whispered. " It lias been a fearful shock." Mrs. Caldwell showed strength of character in the midst of the overwhelming calamity which had fallen upon her with such awful suddennes.s. She had a nice sense of honour, and her love was great ; and by the help of these she was enabled to carry out 84 THE BKTII BOOK. evory wislj of lior (load Inisbiiiul with rf« stroked his dark hair, and as she did so her hand showed white against it. The childr(!n kissed hiin, and then Mi's. Ellis persuaded nianuna to come and help her t<^ jiut them to bed, and maiinna taught th(Mn to say : " Yea, thomjli 1 icaUc tliroiojli the valley of the nhadoiv of death, I will fear no eril,for TJioii art irith me; Thy rod and Thy staff they eomfort me:' She told them to remember they had learned it on the day their father died, and asked them to .say it always in memory of him. Beth believed for a long time that it was he who would walk with her through the valley of the shadow, and in after-years she felt sure that her mother had thought so too. Mrs. Ellis stayed all night and slept with the cliildren. WhcJi their mother left them Beth could not sleep. She had noticed how cold her father was when she kissed him, and was distres.sed to think he had only a sheet to cover him. The longer she thought of it the more wretched she became, especially when she contrasted the warmth and softness of her own little bed with the hardness and coldness of the one they had made up for him, and at last .she could bear it no longer. She sat up in bed and listened. She could hear by their breathing that the other chil- dren were asleep, but she Avas not sure about Mrs. Ellis. Very stealtliily, therefore, she sli])ped out of bed and pulled off the clothes. She could only just clasp them in both arms, but the nursery door was ajar, and she managed to open it with her foot. It creaked noisily, and Beth waited, listening in sus])ense, but nobody moved, so she slipped out into the passage. It was quite dark there, and the floor felt very cold to her bare feet. She stumbled down the passage, tripping over the bedclothes as she THE BETH HOOK. s:> n h 11- to iB wont, and droadinpf to he caiij^lit iind stopjx'd, l)ut not afraid of anythinj,' olsc. Tlic door was ojh'm when slic i-caclu'd it, and tlirni was a dim liy-lit in tlio room. This was nncxpccttMl, and slic paused to peep in before she ont(!red. Two candles were burninjf on a tal>l«; at the foot of tlie bed. Tlieir llames llicUered in a drauj^ht, and cast sliadows on her fatlier's face, so that it seemed as if he moved and breathed ajrain. Her mother was kneelinji;' besi(h> tlie bed with lier face; liidden on her Imsband's !)i'easf. her left arm I'ound him, whih3 witli the fin/^^ers of lier I'iyht hand she incessantly toyed witli his bail-. "Only last nij^lit," slie was say- inthinse month.s. and I never suspected: I did not know; dying; killed by expo- sure and anxiety and bad food. You came home hungry and you could not eat what I had to give you. Cold, and I could not warm you ; oh, the cruel, bitter cold ! " Beth slip])ed up to her noiselessly. " Mamma I " Mrs. Caldwell started. Beth held out the blankets—" To cover him." Her mother caught her in her arms. "Oh, my poor little IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V // .< w^. 1.0 I.I 1.25 »r ilM - 6' IlM M 2.0 mm 1-4 III 1.6 11111== <%, o <^ W ^. ^ o 7W /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14S80 (716) 872-4503 ^ ks i ^' .6> ?^ 86 THE UETH BOOK. cliild 1 My poor little child ! " she cried, and then at last she burst into tears. During the days that preceded her father'., funeral Beth did not miss him. It was as if lie were somewhere else, that was all ; away in the mountains, and was himself thinking, ;us Beth did continually, about tlie still, cold, smiling figure that reiKjsed, serenely indifferent to them all, in his room upstairs. One day what he had said about being laid out by old women came into her head, and she wondered what he would have looked like when they laid him out that he should have objected so strongly to tlieir seeing him. She w;is near the death chamber at the moment, and went in. No one was there, and she stood a long time looking at the figure on the bed. It was entirely cov- ered, but she had only to lift the .sheet and learn the secret. She turned it back from tlie placid face, then stopp(Hl, and wiiispered half in awe, half in interrogation, "Papa!" As she pronounced the word, tlie inhuman impulse jias-sed and was forgotten. Houn: later Mrs. Ellis found her sittJMg beside him, as she had so often done during his illness, on that siime chair which was t(X> high for her, her feet dangling, and her little hands folded in her lap. gazing at him with a face as placidly set, save for the eyes, as his own. The next day they had all to '■)id him the long fai*ewell. Mrs. Caldwell stood looking down upon him. not wiping the great tears tiiat welled up painfully into her eyes, lest in the act .she sliould blot out the dear image, and so lose sight of it for one last precious moment. She was an undemonstrative woman, but the lingering way in which she touched him. his hair, his face, his wa.xen hands, was all the more impressive for that in its restrained tenderness. Suddenly she uncovered his feet. They were white as marble and beautifully formed. "Ah, I f«>ared so!" she ex<'laimed. "They jiut them into hot water that day. I knew it was too hot, and I .said so. lie .seern(>d insensible, but I felt liim wince — and seel" Tlie scar of a scald ])rove(l that she had been right. This last act, due to the fe;ir that h<> had been made to suffer an unne- cessary pang, struck Beth in after-y«'ars .as singularly pathetic. It was not until after the funeral that Beth herelf realized that she had lost her father. When they returned, the house had been set in order and made to look as ustwil. yet something was miss- ing. The blinds were up, the sun was streaming in, the Ingoldsby THE BETH BOOK. 87 Legench lay on the sofa in the sitting-room. When Beth saw the book her eyes dilated with a pang. It lay there, just as he had left it, but he was in the ground. He would never come back again. Suddenly the child threw herself on the fhwr in an agony of grief, sobbing, moaning, writhing, tearing her hair, and calling aloud, " Papa ! Papa ! Come back ! Come btwk ! Come back ! " Mi*s. Caldwell in her fright would have tried her old remedy of shaking and beating; but Mrs. Ellis snatched the child up and carried her otf to the nursery, where she kept her for the i*est of that terrible day, rocking her on her knee most of the time, and talking to her about her father in heaven, living the life eternal, yet watching over her still, and waiting for her, until she fired Beth's imagination, and the terrible grave was forgotten. That night, however, and for many nights to come, the child started up out of her sleep, and wept, and wailed, and tore her hair, and had again to be nursed and comforted. ) i le 1. it, lis m CHA1*TER XI. Just like the mounUiins, all jumbled up together when you view them from a disUiuce, had Beth's impulses and emotions al- ready begun to be in their extraordinary complexity at this p«>ri()d, and even more like the mounttiins wlien you ar<' close to them, for then, losing sight of the whole, you become aware of the details, and are surprised at their wonderful diversity — at the lieights and h()]lows, the barren wastes, fertile^ vallej's. gentle slopes, and giddy precipices— heights and hollows of hope and despair, barnMi wastes of misspcMtt time, f»M'tile valleys of intellec- tual accomplishment, gentle slopes of aspiration undefined, and giddy precipices of passionate imjiulse and desperate revolt. Genius is sympathetic insight made perfect ; and it nni.st have this divei*sity if it is ever to b<' eti'ecfual — must touch on every human expfM'ience, must suffer, and must alsfx'njoy. C»reat. there- fore, are its com])ensations. It feels the .sorrows of all mankind, and is elevated by them ; but the pain of an individual l)ereave- ment is rather acute than prolonged. Genius is sj)ared the con- tinuous gnawing ache of the grief which stultifies. Instead of an evor-present wea^'ing sense of loss that would hav(> dinuned its power, it retains only those hallowed memories, those vivid recol- iJI ii 88 THE BKTn BOOK. lections, which foster tlie joy of a preat yearning tenderness, and all its pains are transmuted into something subtle, mysterious, in- visibl(^ neither to be named nor ignored ; a fertilizing essence which is the source of its own heaven and may also contain the salvation of earth. So genivis has no lasting griefs. Beth utterly rejected all thought of her father in his gi'ave, and even of \u^r father in heaven. When her first wild grief sub- sided he returned to luT to be with lier, as those we h)ve are with us always in their absence, enshrined in our happy consciousness. She niiver mentioned iiim in these days, but liis presence, warm in her heart, kept her little being in a glow, and it wtus only when people spoke to her and distracted her attention from the thought of him that slu; felt disconsolate. While she could walk with him in dreams she cared for no other companionship. It was a dreadful position for poor Mrs. Caldwell, left a widow — not without friends, certainly, for the people were kind, but with none of her own kith and kin — in that wild district, embar- rjissed for want of money, and broken in health. But, as is usual in times of great calamity, many things happened, showing both the best and the worst side of human nature. After C'aptain Caldwell's death, old CapUiin Keene, who had once held the appointment liimself, and was indebted to Captain Caldwell for much kindly hospitality, went about tlie country- side telling people that Captain Caldwell liad died of drink. Some ollicious person immediately brought the story to Mrs. Caldwell. Mrs. Caldwell had the house on her hands, but the oflicer who was sent to succeed CapUiin Caldwell would be obliged to Uike it, as there was no other. He arrived one day with a very fastidious wife, who did not like the house at all. There was no accommo- dation in it, no china cupboard— nothing fit for a lady. She must have it all altennl. From the way she spoke, it .seemed to Beth that she blamed her mother for everything that was wrong. Mrs. Caldwell said very little. She was sulFering from a great swelling at the back of her neck— an anthrax, the doctor called it, —and was not tit to be about at all, but her indomiUible fortitude kept her up. Mrs. Ellis had sUiid to nurse her and help with the childi-en. She and Mrs. Caldwell looked at each other and smiled when the new otiicer's wife had gone. "She's a very fine lady indeed, Mrs. Ellis," Mrs. Caldwell said, sighing wearily. THE BRTn BOOK. 89 i'ho it, ed /as lout it, ide ith liid " Yos. ma'am," Mrs. Kills aiiswcri'il. "But pooplo wlio liavo been used to tliiiif^ all their lives think less about them." Mrs. VAVis was very kind to the ehildren, and when wet days kept Beth indoors, she wouUl stay with her and study her with interest. She was thin, preei.se, low-voieed, quiet in her move- ments, passionless, loyal ; and every time she took a mouthful at tid)l(; she wiped her mouth. The doctor eanie ( very day to dress the abscess on Mrs. Cald- well's neck, and every day he said that if it had not burst of itself Ik; should have been obli^^ed to make a deep incision in it in the form of a cross. Mildred and Beth were always present on these occiusions, fi^'^htiu}? to be allowed to hold the basin. Mi-s. Elli.s wanted to turn them out, but Mrs. ('aldwell said: "Let them stay, poor little bodies; they like to be with me." The poor lady, ill as slie was, had neither peace nov quiet. The yard was full of j^reat stones now, and stone masons ham- mered at them from early morninj.^ till late at ni^dit, cliippinjf tiK'm into shape for the alterations and additions to be mach' to the house; the loft was full of carpenters preparing boarils for floorinj^; the yard yatcs wi're always open, and people came and went as tliey liked, so that there was no more pi'ivacy for the family. Mildred staid indoors with her mother a }^ood deal, but Beth, followed by Bcrnadinc, who had become her shadow, was c(nitinual]y in the yard amon<^ the men, listt'uinj;;, qucstion- inj»', and observing. To Bctli at this tijiic the rstitiously, and made much of her. The workmen, with the iiulolent. inconsequent Irish temjH'rament wliich makes it irksome to follow >ip a tjisk continuously, and easier to do any- tlun*^ than the work in liaiul, would break off to amuse her at any time. One ycncil and do designs for lu^r on tlie new white hoards. Wiien he was within earshot the people in the yard were i)articular ahout what they said befor(^ the children ; if they forgot them.sclves hecalh d them to order and silenced them instjintly, which surprised Beth, be- cause lie was the suudlest man there. There was on»! man, liow- ever, whom tlie old cari)enter coukl never suppress. Beth did not know how tins man got his living. He came from the village to gcxssip, wore a tweed suit, not like a worknuui's, nor was it the national Irish dress. He had a red no.se iiiul a wooden leg, und, after she knew him, for a long time, she always exi)ected a man with a wooden leg to liave a red nose; l)ut .somehow she never expected a man with a red nose to have a wooden leg. Tliis nuin was always cheery and very voluble. He used the worst lan- guage possible in the i)leasantest way, and his impervious good humour was proof against all remonstrance. What he said was either blasphemou.. or obscene as a rule, but in etfect it was not at all like the same thing from the other nuMi, Ijecause with tluMu such language was the expression of anger and evil mootls, while with him it was the vehicle of thought from a mind habitually .serene. Mrs. Caldwell was ])eing hurried out of the house with inde- cent haste, considering the state of her health and all the arrange- ments she had to make, but she bore up brav<'ly. She was touched one day by an olFer of help from Beth, and begged her to take charge of Bernadine and be a little mother to her. Bi'th promi.sed to do her best. Accordingly, when Beriuidine was naughty, Beth beat her in dutiful imitation. Bernadine. however, invariably struck back. When other interests palled, Beth would encourage Bernadine to risk her neck by persuading her io jump down after her from high places. She was nearly as good a jum|)er as Beth, the great diiVerence being that Beth always lit on her feet, wlule Bernadine wjis apt to conu> down on her head; but it was this peculiarity that made her attempts so interesting. THE BETH BOOK. 91 ce pd h Tlie yard vory soon Ijocame a sociable eontre for the whole idle place. Any one who oliose came into it in a friendly way and lounged about, gossiping and inspecting the works in progress. Women brought their babies and sat about on the stones nursing them and talking to the men — a proceeding which filled lieth with disgust, she thought it so peculiarly indelicate. Beth stood with her mother at the sitting-room window one day to see the last of pcjor Artless, who was led away on a halter by a .strange man, his glos.sy chestnut coat showing dappled in the sunshine, but his wild spirits much subdued for want of corn. The first time they had seen him was on the day of their arrival, when CapUiin Caldwell had ridden out on him to meet them. Mrs. Caldwell bui-st into tears at the ri^col lection. " He was the first evidence of pi'omotion and prosperity," she said. "But the promotion luvs biien to a higlu'r sphere, and I much fear that tiie prosperity, like Artless himself, has departed forever I " Mi's. Caldwell had decided to return to her own people in Eng- land, and a few days laier they started. She took the children to see their father's grave the la.st thing before they left Castletown- r(x:k, and stood beside it for a long time in silence, her gloveless liand resting caressingly on the cold tombstone, her eyes full of teal's, and a pained exi)ression in hor face. It wa« the real mo- ment of sej)aration for her. She had to t<^ar herself away from her beloved dead, to leave him lonely and to go t)ut alone herself, unprotected, unloved, uncomfortar»'iit than at this moment of farewell. The other children cried, but Beth remained an un- moved spectator of her mother's emotion. She hated the delay t II 93 TIIK BETri BOOK. in that painful place, and what was the uso of it whrn licr fathor wouhl b<; with th«'M> just th<' saiiu" vvlirn thry jrot into the yellow coucli which was waitinjj; at the gate to take them away. Betli's beloved wjis a spirit, near at hand always ; her mother's was a corpse in a colli n, hurif'd in the grouiuL A iitth^ way out of C'astletownrock the coach was stopped and Honor and Kathleen Mayne, from the inn, came up to the window. "We walk(Hl out to by passed through, tl..? wretclied liovels, the half-clad people, the lean cattle, and all the evidences of abject poverty, amid dreadful bogs under a gloomy sky. got hold of her and weighed upon her spirits until at last she shrunk into her corner, pale and still, and .sat with her eyes closed and great tears running slowly down her cheeks. These vven> her last impiV's- sions of Ireland, and they afterward coloured all her recollections of the country and the people. But the travellei's came to a railway station at last, and left the coach. There was a long crowded train just about to start, ami Mrs. Caldwell, dragging Beth after her by the hand because she knew slie would .stand still and stare about her the moment she let her go, hurried from carriage to carriage trying to find seats. "I .saw .some," Beth cried. "You've passed them." Mrs. Caldwell turned, and some di.st^mce back fouml a car- riage with only two ])eople in it — a gentleman whom Beth did not notice particularly', and a lady, doubtless a bride, dressed in light garments and a white bonnet very high in front, the space be- TIIK lU'lTM HOOK. 93 twoon tlio forohoiiil aiul the top Ix'iiip^ filled with rosos. She sat iipri<^'ht in tlic middle of the coMipartniriit, and Iook(>d supcrt-il- iously at tin; weary, worried widow and lier helpless children in their shahhy hlack when they st<)pp<'d at the carria^'e d(M)r. It wsLS her cold inditl'erence that inipresst'd lieth. Slie could not luuh'rsUind why. seein;jf how worn they all were and tli" fix they wei-c in, she did not jump ui) instantly and open the dooi, over- joyed to ho able to help them. Thert^ were ju.st four .seats in the carriajje, but she never moved. Beth halv, and on the instant she determined to have one. Tliey wen; liigli out of her reach ; but that was nothing if only .she could g<'t a table and cliair under tliem. and the cojist clear. Forlun*' favoured her during tlie ev took it out of her jxK'ket wlien- ever she liad a diance next day and gazed at it enraptured. On their way to the boat Mildred caught her looking at it, and aiikcd her where .slie got it. Beth exi)lained <>xactly. "But it's stealing I "" Mildred exj)lained. "Is it ?" said Beth in a ])lea.sed surprise. She had never .stolen anything before, and it was a new sensation. " But don't you know .stealing is very wicked ?" Mildred asked impressively. Beth looked disconcerted. " I never thought of that I'll put it back." "How can you? You'll never be there again.'' Mildred re- joined. " You've done it now. You've committed a sin." Beth sli])])ed the bright thing into her pocket. "I'll re|KMit," she .said, and .seemed satisfied. It wjvs a lovely day, and the passage from Kingstown to Holy- head was so smooth that everybody lounged about the deck and r 94 Tin-: RKTII BOOK. no ono was ill. Roth was very iiiucli intorostod, first in tlio ro- codin^ shore, then in tlio people about her. There was one j^roiip in particular, evidently of atliuent peojjle, dre.ssed in a way that made her fk out of a basket and bejran to divide. Beth had TU'ver seen grap(s l)efore except in pi(^tuivs, and thou{j;ht they looked lovely. Tlie old ffentleman ^^avc^ the j^rapcs to his family, but in handinjf them, oiK^ little bunch fell on the deck. lie picked it up. looked at it, blew some dust otF it, then decided that it was not ^nxid enough for his own childrou, und handed it to Bernadine. who was gazin<^ jtrreedily. Beth dashed forward, snatched it out of her hand, and threw it into the .sea. " We are not bej^gars," she cried. "Well dime, little one," a gentleman who was sitting near ex- claimed. "Won't i)ick up the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table, eh ? That's a very proper spirit. And who may you be?" " My father was a gentleman," Beth answered hotly. CHAPTER XII. Uncle James Patten sent a landau to meet his sister and her family at the station on their arrival from Ireland. Mildred was the first to jump in. She took the best seat, and sat up still" and straight. " I do love carriages and horses, mamma ! " she said as they drove through Rainharbour, the little north-country seaside place which was henceforth to be their home. " I wonder which is to be our house. There are several empty. Do you think it is that one ? " She had singled out one of the largest in the place. "No," said Mrs. Caldwell, rather bitterly, "more likely this,'' and she indicated a tiny two-storied tenement, wedged in between tall houses, and looking as if it had either got itself there by mis- take or had been put in in a hurry just to fill up. " That is the one," Beth .said. " How do you know ? " Mildred snapped. Tllli BKTU bOOK. 1)5 d |y h it le " Bocauso wc'ro Roinff to live in Orclinrd Street opposite the orcluird; and this is Onihard Stroi't, and there's the oivlianl, and that's the only lionse empty." •' I'm afraid the eliiUl is rijjht," Mi's. CaUlwell said with a sijrh. "However," she added, pulling' iierself up, "it is exeeedinjrly kind of UneUi James to i^'ivv. us a liouse at all." "He mi^'ht havei^iven us something nieer," Mildrtul renuirkcd disdainfully. " Oh," Betli e.xelaimed, " he's given us the hest ho has, I ex- pect. And it's a dear little place, with a little how window on either side of a little front door— just like the one where Snow- drop found the empty heds when the I)eai-s wert^ out." "Don't talk nonsens(;. Beth," Mildred t-ried cro.ssly. But Beth hardly heard. She was husy peojiling the quaint little town with the friends of her fancy, and sat, sniilnig serene- ly, as she l(M)ked ahout her. They had to drive right through Kjiinliarbour, and ahout a mile out into the country on the other side, to arrive at Fairholm, Undo James Patten's place. The sun had .set, and the quaintly irregu- lar red brick hou.ses, mellowed by age, shone warm in tint against the gathering gray of the sky, which lay like a level r(H)f above them. At one part of the road the .sea came in siglit. Great dark, mountainous masses of cloud, with flame-coloured fringes, hung suspended over its sliining surface, in which they wcr|) Hi^'h of sjitisfaotioii. Th(! hall (l(M>r str you, only I (h)n't h<'ar very well, you know. Y«>u remember me, Mildn'd ? This is Beth, 1 suppose, and this is Hernadine. You don't know who I am ? I am your Aunt (Jrace Mary. James b<'gs you to excuse liim for a little, Caroline. It is his half hour for exercises. So unfortujiate ! If you had only come a little later I But, however, th«i sooner the better for me. C'ome int<» the dinin<,''-room and see Ainit Victoria. We must .stay there until I'ncle James luis lin- i.slied pi-ac^tisin^ his exercises in the drawinjj: room." Great Aunt Victoria Bench was sitting bolt upri<,''ht on a hi<,'']i cliair in the dininff-room, tatting. Family ])<)rtraits. hunj,' far too hij^h all round thc^ n)om, se«'med to have been watchinfj: her com- pla<'ently until the travelh-rs entered, wIkmi they all turned in- st4inlly and looked hard at Betli. Aunt Victoria was a tall, thin old lady, witli a beautiful deli- cate complexion, an auburn front and white cap. and a .severely simple black dres.s. She rose stiflly to receive Mrs. Caldwell, and kissed her on both che<>ks with restrained emotion. Then she sh(H>k hands with each of tlie children. " I hope you luid a pleasant journey," slie wixs bej^finninp for- mally, wlien Mrs. Caldwell suddenly Ijui'st into tears. " Wliat is the matter, Caroline ?" Aunt Victoria a.sked. ''Oh, nothing," tlie poor lady answered in a broken voice. " Only it does seem a sad home-returning — alone — without him, you know." Aunt Grace Mary furtively patted Mrs. Caldwell on the l)ack, kee])in{? an eye on Aunt Victoria the while, however, as if she were afraid of being caught. All this time the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of HaniiIton\H Ejcerciftes for Beginners on the piano had been going on ; now it stopped. TIIK liKTII UonK. 97 Aunt rtrnop Mary slipped into 11 chair, and sat.a sniiloon horfa<'<», Aunt Vit'toriu hrcaiMc a trillc nion* rij^'id over licr tatting''; and Mrs. Culdwoll liurrKMlly wiped her eyes. Tlu-n the tUtur oprin'd drlihcrately. and tlicro rntrn'd a yreat st(»ut man. with red hair Bprinkh'd with jfray, hir{,'«\ prominent. Ii;;ht-e<)h»ured eye.s, a non- descript nose, a wide, sliapeh-ss t^ash of a moutii, and a n-d inus- tjichi* with strait,'lit hristly haii*s, dependent, like the hristles of a broom. " How do you do, Caroline ? " he suid, lioldin^' (»ut his hi^, fat, white hand and kissinj,'' her <'oldly on the fori'head. \lv drawled his words out with a decided lisp and in a very soft voice, which contrasted oddly witli liis huffe hulk. Having' f,''re) led his sist<'r, lie turned and looked at the children. Mildred went uj) and sh(M)k hands with him. " Y(»ur si.sters, I perceive, liave no manners," he ohserved. Beth had heen heamin^' round blandly on the ^'roup, but ui)on that last remark of Unch? .James's the plea.sed smile faded from her face and she coloured painfully and offered him a small re- luct;int hand. "You are Elizabeth, I suppose," ho said. "I am Beth." she answered emphatically. She ami Uncle .lames looked into each other's eyes for an instant, and in that instant she made a n>ost disaji^reeable impres- sion of f(>arles.';ness on the bijj^ man's brain. "I hope, Caroline." he said i)recisely, "that you will not contimie ti» call your daupfldcr by such an ab.surd abbreviation. That sort of thinj? was all very well in the wilds of Ireland; but here we must liave something rational, ladylike, and recog- nised." Mrs. Caldwell looked distres.sed. " It would be so dillicult to call her Elizabeth," she pleaded. "She is not at all— Eliza- beth." "You may call me what you like, mamma," Brlh put in with decision, "but I shall only Jinswer to Beth, lli-it was the name my father prave me, and T shall stick to "t." I'^ncle .Tames stared at her in am.'izc nicnt, but Beth, uiiaba.shed, stared back obstinately ; and so they continaed starinf? until Aunt Grace Mary made a divei-sion. " .Tames," she hurriedly interposed, " wouldn't they like some refroslnnent ?" Uncle .Tames pulled the bell rope. " Bring wine and cake," lie lisped, when the servant answered. 98 THE BETH BOOK. Tlion lie returned to liis seat, crossed one great lepf over tlie other, folded his fiit hands on his knee, and inspected his sister. " Yon certainly do not grow younger, C\aroline," he observed. Mrs. Caldwell did not look cheered hy the remark, and there was a painful pause, broken, happily, by the arrival of the cake and wine. "You will not tiiko more than half a glass, I suppose, Caro- liii(\ at this time of the day," Uncle .lames said playfully, as he took up the decanter; "and marsala, )iot p(>rt. I know what ladies are." Poor Mrs. Caldwell was exhausted, and would have been the better for a good gla.ss of port ; but she meekly held her peace. Then Uncle James cut the cake and gave ^ach of the children a very small slice. Beth held hers suspended halfway to her mouth, find gazed at her inicle. " What is that child stiiring at ? " he a.sked her mother at last. " I think she is admiring you," was Mrs. Caldwell's happy rejoinder. " No, mamma, I am not," Beth contradicted. " I wa.s just thinking I had never seen anything so big in my life." " Anything ! " Uncle James protested. " What does she mean, Caroline ?" " I don't mean this slice of cake," Beth chuckled. " Come, dear, come, dear," Aunt Grace Mary hurriedly inter- posed. " Come upstairs and see — and see — the pretty room you're to have. Come and take your things oflp like a good child." Beth rose obediently, but before she followed her aunt out of the room she said : " Here, Bernadine, you'd better have my slice. You'll howl if you don't get enough. Cakes are scarce and dear here, I suppose." Aunt Victoria had tatted diligently during this little scene. Now she looked up over her spectacles and inspected Uncle James. "I like that child," she said, decidedly. "In which respect I should think you would probably find yourself in a very small minority," Uncle James lisped, spreading bis mouth into what would have been a smile in any other coun- tenance, but was merely an elongation of the lips in his. Mrs. Caldwell rocked herself forlornly. Mildred nestled close to her mother, while Baby Bernadine, with a slice of cake in each THE BETH BOOK. 99 id u- hand, took a mouthful fii*st from the rijfht and then from the loft impiirtially. Uncle James pazod at her. "I suppose that is an Irish cus- tom," he said at leiififtli. " Bernadine, wliat are you doinfj ? " Mrs. Caldwell snapp<'d, and Bernadine, sUirtled, let both slices fall on the floor and set up a howl with her mouth full. "Ah!" Uncle James murmured tenderly. "Little children are such darlin}^ thinj^sl They make the sense of their presence felt the moment they enter a house. It hccomes visible also in the crumbs on the floor. There is evidently nothing the matter with her lunys. But I should have thought it would be danger- ous to practise her voice like that witli the mouth full. Perhaps sfie would be more at her ease upstairs." Mrs. Caldwell took the Innt. When she had gone, Uncle James rang for a servant to sweep up the cake and crumbs, and carefully stood over her, superin- tending. "That will do," he said at length, "so far as the cake and crumbs are concerned, but I beg you to observe that you have brushed the pile of the carpet the wrong way." Meanwhile Aunt Grace Mary had taken Beth up a polished staircase, through a softly carpeted, airy corridor, at the end of which was a large room with two great nuihogany four-post beds, hung with brown damask, the rest of the heavy old-fashioned furniture being to match. All over the house tliere was a de- licious odour of fresh air and lavender, everything shone re- splendent, and all was orderly to the point of stiffness ; nothing looked as if it had ever been used. "This was your mamma's room when she was a girl," Aunt Grace Mary confided to Beth. "She used to fill the house with her girl friends, aiul that was why she luid such big beds. She used to be a very high-spirited girl, your dear mamma was. You are all to .sleep here." " How good it smells I " said Beth. "Ah, that's the lavender. I often burn lavender. Would you like to see me burn some lavender ? Come to my room, tlien, and I'll show you. But take your things off first." Beth dragged oft' her hat and jacket, and threw them aside. They hap])ened to fall on the floor. " My dear child," Aunt Grace Mary exclaimed, " look at your things I " 100 THE BETH BOOK. Beth looked at them, but notliiiig or speak." Beth, deeply interested, watched Ium' aunt, who beg-an by lock- ing the door. Then she slip])ed a ])air of s])ect<'\cles out of her pocket and put them on, after glancing round apprehensively as if she were going to do something v\rong. Then she sat down at a small bureau, unlocked a drawer i\i)\ took out a little dictionary, unlocked another drawer and took out a sheet of note papcT, in which she inserted a page of black lines. Then slie proceeded to write a letter in lead pencil, .stopi)ing often to con.sult the diction- ary. When she had done slie took out another sheet of a better quality, put the lines in it, and proceeded to copy the letter in i:ik. Hi 102 THE BETH BOOK. She blotted tlie first attempt, but tlio next slie finished. Slie de- stroyed several env<>lopes also before she wsis satisfied. But at last the letter was folded and sealed, and then she carefully burned every scrap of paper she had spoiled. " I wius educated in a convent in France," she said to Beth. "If you were older you would k»iow that by my handwriting. It is called an Italian hand, but I learned it in France. I was there five years." " What else did you learn ? " said Beth. " (J.i, rc^ading. No, I could read before I went ; but music, you know, and French." " Say some French," said Beth. "Oh, I can't," Aunt Grace Mary answered. "But I can read it a little, you know." "I should like to hear you play," said Beth. " But I don t play," Aunt Grace Mary rejoined. " I thought you said you learned nmsic." " Oh, yes ; I had to learn umsic, and 1 practised for liours every day, but I never played." Aunt Grace Mary smiled complacently as she s])oke. took off her spectacles, and locked up her writing materials, Beth the while th.oughtfully observing her. Aunt Grace Mary's hair was a wonderful colour — neither red, yellow, brown, nor white, but a mixture of all four. It was parted straight in tlie middle, where it was thin, and brought down in two large rolls over her ears. She wore a black velvet band across her head like a coronet, which ended in a large black velvet bow at the back. Long heavy gold earrings pulled down the lobes of her ears. All her dresses were of rustling silk, and she had a variety of deep lace collars, each one of which .she fastened with a different brooch at the throat. She also wore a heavy gold watch chain round her neck, the watch being concealed in her bosom, and jet bracelets by day but gold ones in the evening. Beth was deeply interested in her own family history, and in- telligently ])ieced together such fragments of it as she could col- lect from the ccmversations of people about her. She was sitting in one of the deej) window seats in the drawing-room looking out one day, concealed by a curtain, when her motlier and Great- Aunt Victoria Bench came into the room and settled themselves to chat and sew without observing her. "Where is Grace Mary ? " Aunt Victoria asked. THE BETH BOOK. 10?. c off ! the was ut a liere ars. net, ong her lace h at her lets in- col- Iting out reat- llves " Locked tip in lier own rtwm writing a letter, I l)elieve," Mrs. Caldwell replied, "a long and mysterious proceeding. We sliall not see her again this morning, I suppose." "Ah, well," said Aunt Victoria, considerately, "she writes a very beautiful liand." "James tliought he was doing .so well for himself, too ! " Mi's. Caldwell interjected. " He'd better have married the mother." " There was the making of a fine woman in Grace Mary if she had had a chance," Aunt Victoria answered, jjui-sing up her mouth judicially. " It was tiie mother made the match. When lie came across tliem in Switzerland, Lady Benyoii got hold of him and fhitteivd him, made: him helieve Grace Mary was only thirty-eight, not too old for a son and lieir, but much too old for a large family. She was really about fifty, but he never thought of looking up her age until after they were married. However, James got one thing he likes and more than he deserved, for Grace Mary is amial>Ie if .she's ignorant, and I should say had tact, though some ])eople might call it cunning. But, at any rate, she's the daughter of one baronet and the sister of an- other." " What's a baronet ? " Beth demanded, tumbling off the win- dow seat on to the floor with a crash as she spoke, having lost her balance in peering round the curtain. Both ladies jumped, quite contrary to their princii)les. " You naughty child, how dare you ?" Mi's. Caldwell began. Beth ])i('k('d herself up. " I want to know," she interrupted. " You've been listening " " No, I've not. I was here first, and you came and talked ; but that doesn't matter. I sha'n't tell. What's a baronet ? " Aunt Victoria explained and then turned her out of the room. Uncle James was crossing the hall at the moment ; he had a large bunch of keys in his hand, and went through the double doors which led to the kitchen and oftices. Beth followed him into the kitchen. The cook, an old .servant, came forward courtesy ng. The remains of yesterday's dinner— cold roast beef, tongue, chicken, and plum pudding — were .spread out on the table. Uncle James insjiected everything. " For luncheon," he said, " the beef can remain cold on the sideboard, also the tongue. The chicken you will grill for one hot dish, and do not forget to garnish with rolls of bacon. The pudding you can cut into slices, fry, and sprinkle with a little sifted sugar. Mind, I say, a little, for as the pudding is sweet ! 104 THE BETH HOOK. en()uj,''h already, tlie sugiir is iinToly uii oniiiiiient to mako ita^-ee- ablc to the eye. For tl»e rest, as usual." " Yes, si;'. And dinner, sir ( "' "Here ^s the menu.''' lie handed her a i)aper. "I will give you out what is Jiece.ssary." He led the way down a stone pa-ssage to the storeroom door, whieh he unlocked. " I am out of sifted su<,'ar, sir," the cook said nervously. "What, aj?ain r' Uneh^ Janu's sternly demanded. "This is only ThuiNdiiy, and 1 g^ave you .some out on Saturday." " Yes, sir, but only a ry book which lay on a shelf in the window. "We shall require another cake for tea," he said, and then proceeded to read the recipe aloud, keeping an observant eye upon the cook as she weighed out the various ingredients. "And the kitchen meals, sir ?" she lusked, as he locked up the storeroom. " Make what you have do." he said ; " make what you have do." "But there is hardly meat enough to go round once, sir." " You nujst make it do. People are nuich liealthier and hap- pier when they do not eat .so much." This ceremony over, he went to the poultry yard, followed by Beth (who carefully kept in the background), the yard boy, and the poultry maid, who carried sonu» corn in a sieve, which .she handed to her master when he stopped. Uncle James scattered a little corn on the ground, calling " Chuck ! chuck I chuck ! " at the .Siime time in a dignified manner. Chickens, ducks, turkeys, and guinea-fowl collected about him, and he stood gjizing at them with large, light, prominent eyes blandly, as if lie loved them — as in- deed he did, when they appeared like ladies at table, dre.ssed to perfection. "That guinea-fowl," he decided, after due consideration. THE RETII ROOK. 105 ky Ind Lhe ila [ho Ind ith |in- to Tlic yard boy cjiuglit it and jjavr it to tin* poultry maid, who hekl it whik' Uiu'k' Janit's carefully frit its hrca-st. " That will do,' lie said. " C^uitc a hfauty." The yard boy took it from the poultry maid, tiod its \vgs to- gctlu'r, cut its throat, and huiij^ it on a nail. "That drake,"" I'nch^ .lanu's jjroccedcd. The same c(M'<*mony followed, Uncle .lames bearing his part in it without any rela.xa- lion of his ^rand numner. Wlicn a turkey poult had also been executed lie recpiested the yard boy to fetch him his {^un froui tlie harness-room. "We nuist have a pi}.jeon pi<',"" he observ«'d as he took it. Beth, in j^reat excitement, stalked him to the orchard, where there was a bi^*" pij^eon house covered with ivy. In front of it the pigeons had a good run, inclosed with wire netting wlien tliey were slmt in ; but they were often let out to feed in the lields. The yard boy now reached up and opejied a litth' door in the side of the house. As he did so he glanced at Uncle .James somewhat apprehensivelj'. Uncle .hime.s, with a benign couutenance, sud- denly lifted his gun and fired. The yard boy dropped. "Wiiat is the matter :'" said Unck^ James. The yard boy gathered him.self up with a very red face. " I thought you meant to shoot me, sir." Uncle .Tanu's smiled gently. " May I ask when it became cus- tomary for gentlemen to shoot yard boys V he said. " Beg pardon, sir," the boy rejoined sheei)ishly. " There's acci- dents sometimes." The pigeons were wary after the shot, and woukl not come out, so the yard boy had to go into the house and drive them. There was a slielf in front of the littki door on which they generally rested a nu)ment, bewildered, before they flew. Uncle .lantes knew them all by sight, and let several go as being too old for his purpose. Then, standing pretty close, he shot two, one after the other, as they stood hesitating to take Might. While loading again he discovered Beth, but as he liked an audience when he \sas per- forming an exjiloit. he was quite gracious. "Nothing di.stinguishes a gentleman more certainly than a love of sport," he observed, as he shot another pigeon sitting on the shelf. This entertainment over, he looked at liis watch. lie had the whole day divided into hours and half hours, each with its sepa- rate occupation or recreation; and nothing .short of a visit from some personage of importance was ever allowed to interrupt him 8 y. I 106 THE iji<:tii hook. p in any of his jMn^suits. For recreation lie sometimes did a littlo knitting- or a pieci^ of Berlin-wool work, because he said a gentle- man should learn to do everything' so as not to be at a loss if ho were ever wnrked oii a d«'sert island. For tiie same reason, he had also traim-d hims<'lf to sleep at odd times, and in all soi-ts of odd phices, choosing- by preference some corner where Aunt (trace Mary and the maids would least expect to lind him, the ((tnse- quence bein<^ wild shrieks and shocks to their nerves, such as — to use his own bland explanation — might be exjM'cted from undis- ciplined females. Beth found him one day sjiread out on a large oak chest in the main corridor up.staii-s, with two great china vases, one at his head and one at his feet, filled with reeds and bulrushes, which appeared to be waving over him, and looking in his sleep, with his cadaverous countenance, like a belf satisfied corp.se. She had been on her way downstairs to dispo.se of tlie core of an apple she had oaten, but, as Uncle James's mouth was ojien, she left it there. Uncle James was wont to deliver little lectures to the children for the improvement of their minds during luncheon, which was their dinner hour. " With regularity and practice you may accompli-sh great things," he said on one occasicm ; " I my.self always practise Ham- ilton's Exercises on the jiianoforte for one hour every day. fi-oin half pa.st ten till eleven, and from half past three till four. I have done so now for many years." Beth sat with her spoon suspended halfway up to her mouth, drinking in these words of wisdom. "And when will you be able to play ? " she asked. Uncle James fixed his large, light, ineffectual eyes upon her; but, at; usual, this gaze direct only excited Beth's interest, and .she returned it unabashed, in simple expectation of what was to fol- low. So Uncle James gave in, and to cover his retreat he said : "Culture. Cultivate the mind. There is nothing tliat elevates the mind like general cultivation. It is cultivation that makes us great, good, and generous." " Then, I suppose, when your mind is cultivated. Uncle James, you will give mamma more money," Beth burst out hopefully. Uncle James blinked his eyes .several times running rapidly, as if something had gone wrong with them. "Beth, you are talking too much. Go to your room at once, and stay there for a punishment ! " her mother exclaimed nerv- ously. I t i I t i. Si I THE BETH BOOK. 107 Beth, innocent of any intent to oHVud, looked surprised, put down her spoon delilterately, y'ot olV her chair, took up licr plate of pu(Ulin^'. and was uiakiiij; oil" with it. As slie was passing Uneh^ James, however, he stretched out liis big liand suddenly, and snatclied tiie plate from her; hut licth in an instant doul)le(l her little list and struck the plate from underiu'ath, the con<'ussion scattering tlie pudding all over the fi'ont of Uncle James. In the confusion which followed. Px-th made her escape to tlie kitchen, where she was already popular. "I say, cook," slie coaxed, "give me sometliing good to eat. My pudding's got upset all over Uncle .lames." The cook .sat down suddenly and twinkled a glance of intelli- gence at Horner, tlie old coachman, who happ«'ned to he in the kitchen. "Give me a cheesecake and 1 won't tell," lielh pleaded. "Thafs doubtful, I should think," Horner said aside to the cook. " Oh, bless you. she never do, not she," cook answered, and ihvn she fetched Betli a big clieesecake from a .secret store. Beth took it smiling, and retired to the brown bedroom, where she was left in solitary conlinement until Uncle .fanu's drove out with manwna in Aunt Grace Mary's pony carriage to pay a call in the afternoon. When they had gone, Aunt Grace Mary peeped in at Beth and said, with an unconvincing atfectation of anger: " Betli, you're a naughty little girl, and deserve to be punished. Say you're sorry. Then you shall come to my room and see me write a letter." "All right," Beth answered, and Aunt Grace Mary took her off without more ado. It was a great encouragement to Betli to find tliat Aunt Grace Mary was obliged to take pains with her writing. All the other grown-up people Beth knew seemed to do everything with such ease, it was quite disheartening. Beth was allowed a pencil, a sheet of paper, and some lines herself now, and Aunt Grace Mary was taking great pains to teach lier to write an Itjilian liand. Beth was also trying to learn. "Because tliere are such lots of things I want to write down," she explained ; "and I want to do it small like you, because it won't take .so much paper, you know. " "What kind of things do you want to write down, Beth?" Aunt Grace Mary asked. Beth treat(>d her quite as an equal, so they chatted the whole time they were together unconstrainedly. " Oh, you know — things like — Well, the day we came here there were great gray clouds with crimson caps hanging over the sea, and you could see them in the water " T 'I 108 TIIK HKTH liUOK. "Soe tlicir rofloction, you riu'un, I suppose." Brtli lookod puzzled. '* When you think of things, isn't tliat reflection ? " she asked. " Yes, and when you see yourself in tlie looking-glass, that's your relleeti<»n, too," Aunt (J race Mary answered. "Oh, then I sui)j>ose it was the sea's thought of the sky 1 saw in tin' water- that inak(>s it nicer than I had it hofor^^" Jieth .said, trying 1(j turn tlie phnise as a young hird practises to round ils notes in tin* spring. "The .sea shows its thouglits th<> tliouglit (»f the sea is tlie sky - no, that isn't right. It never does conu' right all at once, you know. But that's the kind of thing." "What kind of thing ?" Aunt (irace Mary asked, bewilden-d. "The kind of thing 1 am always wanting to writ*' down. You generally forget what we're talking ahout, don't you :' I .say, don't you want to drive your t)wn ponies yourself .sonietinies T' " No, not when your dear uncle wants them." "Dear uncle wants them almost alway.s, doesn't ho ? Horner ses as 'ow " " Beth, don't speak like that :" "That's Tlonu^r, not me," lioth snapped, impatient of the inter- ruption. ITow am I to tell you what he said if 1 don't say what he said ? Horner ses as 'ow when Lady Benyon gev them there white ptmies to 'er darter fur 'er own use. squire 'e sells two on 'is 'orses, an' 'as used th(>m jMmies ever since. Sipiire's a near un, my word I " Beth percrval the scenes whidi had oi)pressed her — the desolation, the .sombre col- ours of the great melancholy mountains, the incessant sound of the turbulent sea, the shock and roar of angry })reakers warring with the rocks, which had ke])t her little being all athrob, braced to the expectation of calamity — lapsed iu)w into the background of her recollection, and under the benign influence of these love- lier surroundings her mind began to expand in the most ex- traordinary way, while her further faculty awoke and gave her glimpses of more delights than mortal man could have shown her. "Such nice thing.s," as she ex])re.ssed it, " keej) coming into my head, and I want to write them down." Books she flung away impatiently ; but the woods and streams and the wild flow- ers; the rooks returning to roost in the trees at sunset; the horses playing in the paddocks ; the cows dawdling back from their pastures; all sweet country scents and cheerful country sounds she became alive to and began to love. There would be trouble enough in Beth herself at times wherever she was ; it was hard that she could not have been kept in some such para- dise always, to ease the burden of her being. TIIK llKrii iluoK. Ill One 'iiiorniiijjf lior nioiln'r told hn* tliiit Undr .Tiitnos wjts <>x- tromt'ly (lispN'UM'd witli Ikt ln'i-uusr lu- had .s«'«'u Iwr jM'ltiii^' tlio bWilllS. "He didn't set; im* pclliii;; tlic swans," Hrtli assrvcratrd. "I wuM fcrdin),^ tlicin with crusts. And how did hv set; in« any- way^ He wasn't thrre." "He Hot'S ovf'iythin^ that's jjfoin;,' on," Mi*s. Cahlwt'll jissurod her. " He's only pn-tcndinp," iicth ar;,'m'd, "orclsf he must he (lod.'' But slic kept hrr eyes ahout her tlic next tinu* she was in tho grounds, and at hist she discovered hint, sittin;; in the littlo •win(h}w of |jis dressin^f -room with a hook hefoi-e him, and coni- ph'tely l)h»ckin;,'- the aperture. Sh<' had never noticed him then^ bi'fore, l)ecause tiie |)anes wore Miiall and hi'i^jht, and tlie shini' ou them maih> it (Uthi uit to see throu^li them fi-om heh»w. After this discovery shu always fidt thai his eyes wei'e upon her w! er- ever siie went within range of that window — not that that would have detei-red her had she wanted to do anythin;,'' piU-ticulai'ly ; but even a child ^-els it intolei-ahle to he sjued upon, and as for a spy — Beth scorned the civature. That day at luncheon Unch; .Tamos made an announceuK-nt. "Lady Benyon is tjoiny to honotn* us with a visit," he l)eth exclaimed. " Tho ritos of hospitality must ho observed," he condescended to inform her. "Tjady Bonyon is my mother, Beth." Aunt Orace Mary put in irrelevantly. "I know." Beth answered. "Your papa was a baronet. T'nde James loves baronets; that was why he nuirriod you." Flavinq^ thus di.sj)osed of Aunt Grace Mary. Beth turned to the other end of tho table, and resumed : "But you went on practisinj^ when we arrived, Uncle .lames." Uncle Janu's {ifazed at her blandly, then looked at his sister witli an afrroeable smile. "Lady Beny(m will probably like to see tho children. You do not dress them in the latest fashion, I observe." "They are shabby," Mrs. Caldwell acknowledged with a sigh, apologetically. 112 THE UETII BOOK. Both shovelled some spoonfuls of pudding into her mouth very quickly. " That's the money bother a^ain," she said, and then she sang out at the top of her voice : " IJryan O'Lyiin luul no breeclios to wenr, lie bought ii slH'('j)skiii for to make liiiii a pair, With the tikiniiy side out and the woolly side in, ' They're warm in tho winter,' said Bryan O'Lynn." "I suppose it would be (juite impossible to suppress this child ?" Uncle James lisped with deceptive mildness. " I observe that she joins in the conversation always, with irv-Mxi intellio'ence, and her mouth full. It might be better, perhaps, if shy emptied her mouth. However, I suppose it would be impossible to teach her." " Not at all,'' Beth answered for herself, cheerfully. " I'm not too stupid to empty my mouth. Only just you tell me what it is you want. Don't bottle things up. I expect I've been speaking with my moutb full ever since I came, and you've been hating me for it ; but you never told me." " May I ask,'' said Uncle James j)oIitely, " by whom you were informed tliat I had ' bottled things up' ?" "Ah, that would be telling," said Beth, and recommenced gob- bling her pudding, to the intense relief of some of the party. Great-Aunt Victoria Bench, sitting upright opposite, looked across the table at the child, and a faint smile flickered over her wrinkled rose-leaf cheek. Beth fini.shed her pudding, dropped her spoon on her plate with a clatter, leaned back in her chair, and sighed with satisfac- tion. She possessed a horrid fascination for Uncle James. Almost everything she did was an oflPence to him, yet he could not keep his eyes otf her or let her alone. " Pudding seems to be a weakness of hers," he now observed. "I hope her voracity is satisfiod. I should say that it resembles the voracity of the caterpillar." " What's voracity. Aunt Yivtoria ? " Beth asked. " Greediness," Aunt Victoria rejoined sententiously. "He means I'm greedy for pudding. I just ar/i. I'd like to b(^ a caterpillar for pudding. Caterpillars eat all day. But then God's good to them. He i)uts them on a tree with lois of leaves. I wish he'd put me in a pantry with lots of puddings. My vorass — vor — what is it ? Any way, it's satisfied now, Uncle James, and if you'll let -ne go, I'll wash myself, and get ready for Lady Benyon." Rather than let her go when she wanted to, however. Uncle ? THE BETH BOOK. 113 James sat some time lonjifer at table than lie had intended. It was he who always gave tlie signal to rise ; before he did so on this occjusion he formally request(>d his sister to request Beth to be silent during Lady Benyon's visit. Lady Benyon was a slnvwd, active little old woman, with four dark curls laid horizontally on either side of her forcluNid. She had bright, black sparkling eyes, that glanced about (juickly and seemed to see everytliing. Before she arrived Uncle James assembled his family in the drawing-room, and set the scene, as it were, for her reception. "Sit here, facing the window, Caroline," he said. " It will in- terest Lady Benyon to see how you have aged. And, Aunt Vic- toria, this Chii)i)(>ndale chair, so stiff and straight, is just like you, I think, so oblige me by sitting on it. Grace Mary, take this easy lounge ; it suits your yielding nature. Elizabeth " Beth, who was perched on tiie piano stool, looked up calmly at the clouds through the window opposite. " Elizabeth," he repeated sharply. Beth nuide no sign. " Beth, answer your uncle directly," Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed. " He has not yet addressed me," Beth rejoined, in the manner of Uncle James. "Don't call your uncle 'he,' you naughty girl. You know your name is Elizabeth." " Yes, and I know I said I wouldn't answer to it, and I'm not going to break me oath." " Me oath ! " Uncle James ejaculated. Beth looked disconcerted. It irked her horribly to be jeered at for making a mistake in speaking, and L^ncle James, seeing she was hurt, rested satisfied for the moment, and arranged Mildred and Bernadine together in a group, leaving Beth huddled up on the piano stool frowning. When Lady Benyon's carriage stopped at the door Uncle James stood bareheaded on the ste])s, ready to receive her. " So glad to see you, nuimma," he lisped as he handed her out. " Do take my arm." But the little old lady waved him aside unceremoniously and hobbled in with the brisk stitrness of age. " Gracious ! " she exclaimed when she saw the i)arty arranged in the drawing-room. " You all look as if you were having your likeness taken — all exce])t Puck there, on the ])iano stool." When Uncle James had manceuvred Lady Benyon into the seat of liouour he intended her to take in order to comi)lete the . Ilfcl 1 114 THE BETH BOOK. picture, slie frankly inspected eacli member of the group, ending with JMh. " And wlio may you be ? " she asked. Betli smiled and slirug^ed her slioulders. " Why don't you speak ?" Beth made another gesture. " Goodness ! " Lady Benyon cried ; " is the child an idiot ? " " Beth, answer Lady Benyon directly," Mrs. Caldwell angrily commanded. " UiK'le James requested mamma to request me not to speak when you were present," Beth explained suavely. The old lady burst out laughing. "Well, that's droll," she said. " ' Requested mamma to request me ' — why, it's James Pat- ten all over. And who may yon be, you monkey ? " " I am Elizabeth Caldwell, but I only answer to Beth. Papa called me Beth." " Good ! " said the little old lady. " And what's Ireland like? " " Great dark mountains," Beth rattled off, with big eyes dilated and fixed on space as if she saw what slie described ; " long, long, long black bogs ; all the poor peo])le starving ; and the sea rough — just like hell, you know, but without the fire." " Oh, now, this is delightful!" the old ladv cluickled. "I'm to enjoy mj'solf to-day, it seems. You didn't prepare me for this treat, James Patten ! " Uncle James sim])ered, as though taking to himself the credit of the whole entertaiinnent. " So you hate Ireland ? " said Lady Benyon. " No, I love it," said Beth. " It's me native country, and they don't give you little bits of cake there the size of sixpence. What they have you're welcome to. Long live Ireland !" " Good I " Lady Benyon ejaculated, then turned to Mildred. "And are you another naughty little patriot V she asked. " No, I'm not naughty," Mildred answered piously. " Beth's naughty," said Bernadine. " I'm sure I don't know wJiat Beth is," the old lady declared, turning to Beth again. " Riley said I was one of the little girls the devil put out when he gave up housekeeping," Beth remarked casually. " Beth ! " Mrs. Caldwell remonstrated. " He did, mamma. He said it the day that perjured villain Pat Murphy killed my magpie. And Riley's a good man. You said so yourself." mam THE BETH BOOK. 115 II "You can hear that the young lady has been in Ireland, I suppose, niannna," Uncle James observed. " I hear she can iniitiite tlie Irish, ' Lady Bei yon rejoined bluntly ; " and not the Irish only," she added with a cliuckle. Beth was still sitting on the music stool opposite the window, and presently she saw some one cross the lawn. " Oli. do look at the lovely lady ! " she cried enthusiastically. " She's just like the Princess Blue-eyes-and-golden-hair." Lady Benyini glanced over her shoulder. "Wlij-, it's my maid," she said. Betli's countenance dropped, then cleared again. Even a maid might be a princess in disguise. Lady Benyon was going to stay all night, and at her special request Mildred and Beth were allowed to sit up to late dinner and prayers. She expected Beth to anuise her, but Beth was busy the whole time weaving a romance about the lovely lady's maid, and scarcely spoke a word. When the servants came in to pray- ers she sat and gazed at her heroine, and forgot to .stand or kneel. She noticed, however, that Uncle James read the evening prayers with peculiar fervour. When Beth went to bed she found B(T;iadin(\ who slept with her, fast asleep. Beth was not at all sleei)y. Her intellect had been on the alert all ('.ay, and would not let her r''st now ; she must do sometliing to kee}) up the excitement. Slie i)ulled the blind aside, and, looking out of the window, discovered an en- chanted land, all soft shadow and silver sheen, and above it an exquisite moon in an empty sky lloated .seren(>ly. "(Jli. to be out in the moonlight!" slie sighed to herself. " Tlie fair} folk— tlie fairy folk " For a littl<» her mind was a blank as she gazed ; then words came tripping a nu>asure : " Tlie fairy folk are calliiif^ me. Are calling' iiic, arc caUiiijr me; They come across the stf)rmy sea To play with me, to {)lay with me." Beth's vague longing crisjied itself into a resolution. She looked at rhe big four-post bed. Tlie cui-tains were drawn on one side of it. Should she draw them on the other, on the chance of her mother not looking in ? No, she nmst wait because of Mil- dred. Mildred was undressing, and would say her prayers |)res- ently. Beth waited until she knelt down, then slip))ed her night- dress on over her clothes, and got into bed without distur])ing Bernadine. Now she must wait for her mother ; but Mrs. Cald- 110 THE BETH BOOK. well came up very soon, Uncle James having hurried every one oiY to bed unusually early that evening'. Mrs. Caldwell was a long time undressing, as it seemed to Beth ; but in the nu'antime Mildred had fallen asleep, and very soon after her motlier got into bed she too began to breathe with reassuring regularity. Then Beth got up, opened the door very gently, and slipped out into the dark pas.sage. " The fairy folk are ciillinfi me, Are culling me, are ciilliii;;,' iiic; Tliey come across tiie stormy sea To play with nie, to play with me." The words set themselves to a merry tune, and carried Beth on with them. All was dark in the hall. The front door was locked and bolted, and the shutters were up in all the rooms ; how was she to get out ? She felt for the green-baize double door which fhut olF the kitchens from the other part of the house, opened it, and groped her way down the passage. As she did so she saw a faint glimmer of light at the far end — not candlelight, moonlight — and at the same monumt she became aware of some one else moving. At the end of the passage slie was in there was a little door lead- ing out into a garden. If that were oi)en all would be easy. She liad stopped to listen. Certainly some one else was moving quite close to her. Whal was she near ? Oh, the storeroom. Some- thing grated like a key in a lock ; a door was opened, a match struck, a candle liglited, and there was Mrs. Cook in the store- room itself, hurriedly filling paper bags with tea. sugar, raisins, currants, and other groceries from Uncle James's carefully guarded treasure and packing them into a snuill hamper with a lid. When the hamper was full she blew out the candle, came out of the storero(un. locked the door after her, and went into the kitchen without discovering Beth. She left the kitchen door open ; the blind was up. and Beth could see a man, whom she recognised as the cook's son, standing in the moonlight. " Is there much this time, mother ? " he asked. "A goodish hi'," cook replied, handing him the hamper. " 'E 'asu't ad 'is eyes about 'im nnich o' late, then ?" " Oh, 'e alius 'as 'is eyes about 'im, but 'e doan't see much. You'll get me what ye can ? " " I will so," her son replied and kissed cook as she let liim out of the back door, which she fastened after him. Then she went off herself up the back stairs to bed. THE BETH BOOK. in lo 4 Wlipn all was quiet ag'ain, Botli th()u<,''li( of the pardon d and seek with the fairy folk for a little. Very cautiously slu' would steal round in the black shadows, stalking her imaginary play- fellows, and then would go ilying out into the moonlight, imrsued by them in turn, and h)oking herself, with her white nightdress over her clothes and her tousled hair, the weirdest little ellin figure in the Avorld. Finally, to escape capture, sho ran up a ladder that had been left against a haystack. Blocks of hay had boon cut out, leaving a square shelf halfway down tho stack, on to which Beth scrambled from the ladder. There was room enough for her to lie at her ease up there and recover her breath. Tho hay and the night air smollcd doliciouslv sweet. The stack sho was on was one of tho outtn' row. Beneath was tho road along which tho waggons brought their loads in harvest time, and this was flanked by a low wall, on the other side of which was a meadow, bordered with elms. Both jmllod up the hay alxmt her, covered herself with it, and nestled among it luxuriou.sly. The moon shone full upon her, but sho had (piite concealed horsolf, and would j)rob- abl}' hav(; fallen asleep after her exertions had it not lioon that just when drowsiness was coming upon her she was startled by the sound of a hurried footstep, and a girl in a light dress, with a shawl about her shoulders, came round the stack and stood still, looking about her as if sho ex])octed some one. Beth nn'ognisod her as Harriet Elvidgo, the kitchen maid, and jiresontly Kussoll, one of the grooms, came hurrying to meet her from the other direction. They rushed into each other's arms. " Thou'st laiite," the girl grumbled. "Ah bin waatin' ower yon'er this good bit," he answered, jiut- ting his arm round her and drawing her to the wall, on which they sat, leaning against each other and whispering happily. The 118 THE BETH BOOK. moon was low, and hor {^rcat j^olden disk formed a bripfht back- ground aga'iist which the two dark figures stood out, silhouetted distinctly. The eflect gave I^eth a sensntion of pleasure, and she racked h(>r brains for words in which to express it. Presently the lovers rose and strolled away togetlier. Then for a little it was lonely, and Beth thought of getting down, but before she had made up her mind two other pi'ople ai)peared, strolling in th(^ moonlight, whom Beth instantly recognised as Uncle James and the beautiful Princess Blue-eyes-aud-golden-hair. The princess had botli her hands clasped round Uncle Jame.s's arm, and every now and then she nestled her face against his shoulder lovingly. "What will Jimmie-wimmie give his Jenny-penny V she was saying as they approaclu'd. "First, what will Jenny-penny give her Jinnnie-wimmie ? "' Uncle Jaines cooed. " First, a nice — sweet — ki.ss ! " " Ducky dearie I " Jimmie-wimmie gurgled ecstatically, taking the kiss with the playful grace of an ele})hant gambolling. Beth on the haystack writhed with suppressed mei'riment until her sides ached. But Jinnnie-wimmie and Jenny-penny pa.ssed out of sight like Harriet and Russell before them. The moon was sinking rapidly. A sudden gust of air blew chill upon Beth. She was extremely sensitive to .sudden changes of temperatm-e, aiul as the night grew dull and heavy, so did her nu)od, and she began to be as anxious to be iiuloors again as she had been to come out. The fairy folk had all vanished now, and gho.sts and goblins w(mld come in their stead and pounce upon her as she passed if she were not quick. Beth scrambled down from the haystack and made for the side door in hot haste, and was halfway upstairs when it suddenly occurred to her that if she locked the door Jinnnie- winnnie and Jenny-penny would not be able to get in. So she retraced her steps. accomi)lished her })urpose, slijiped back to bed, and slept until she was roused in the morning by a shrill cry fi'om Bernadin(^ : " See. muinmy ! see, nnnnmy I lazy Beth is in bed with all iier clothes on I "' Bet^, s;,t up and slapped Bernadine promptly ; whereui)on Mrs. C.'IV. ' >lappedBeth. " 'M' 11 Is .ife," said Beth, in imitation of Aunt Grace Mary, ' d '.T-'H. ; aldwell smiled in spite of herself. T at' I' ;,: '■}•:• day Beth complained to Mildred of a bad cold in liCi hoau. THE BETH BOOK. Irs. in " Oh, dear ! " Mildred excliiimed. " I expect Uncle James will talk at that colil as long as it lasts." "I know," Beth said. " '(Jracc Mary, dear, or Aunt Victoria, have you observed that children always have colds and never have pocket handker'-hiefs :■ ' " Uncle James, however, had a bad cold himself ^hat morning, and described him.self as very much indisposinl. "I went out of doors last night before retiring," he exjjlained at luncheon, "tem])ted by the glorious moonlight and the balmy air; but before I returned the night bad changed and become chilly, and unfortunately the side door had sbut itself, ami every one was in bed, so I could not get in. I threw pebbles up at Grace Mary's window, but failed to rouse her, she being some- what deaf. I also knocked and rang, but no one answered, so I was obliged to shelter in the barn. Harriet, however, appeared finally. She — er — gets the men's breakfasts, and — er — the kitchen window " But here Uncle James was seized with a sudden fit of sneezing, and the connection between the men's breakfasts and the kitchen window was never explained. "She is an ex- tremely good girl, is Harriet," he proceeded, as soon as he could speak ; " up at four o'clock every morning." "I wish to goodne.ss my trollop wa.s," .said Lady Benyon. " She gets later every day. Where did you go last night ? " " Oh, I had been loitering among the tombs, .so to speak," he answered largely. Beth was eating cold beef stolidly, but without much appetite because of her cold, and also because there was hot chicken, and Uncle James had not given her her choice. Uncle James kept looking at her. He found it hard to let her alone, but she gave him no cause of offence for sonu^ time. Her little nose was troublesome, however, and at last .she sniti'ed. Uncle James looked at Lady Benyon. " Have you ob.served," he said, " that when a child has a cold she never has a pocket handkerchief ? " Beth produced a clean one with a llourish, and bunst out laughing. "What's the matter, Puck?" Lady Benyon asked, beaming already in anticipation. "Oh, nothing. Only T said Uncle James would say that if I sniffed, didn't I, Mildred ? " But Fldred. too wary to support her, looked down demurely. " Puck," said Lady Benyou, " you're a character." Hi ri 120 THE BETH BOOK. "Tliere arc {?ood cliaractcrs and tlicre are bad cliaractors," Undo James moral izod. "Arruh, thin, it isn't a bad charartcr you'd b<> afthor jjivin' your own ncice," Belli blarneyed; and then she turned up her nau;,^hty eyes to the ceilin'^ and chanted softly: '"What will Jimmie-winimie give his duckie dearie to be good? A nice — sweet — kiss ! '' Uncle James's big white face became suddenly empurpled. "(Iracious, lu^'s swallowed wrong I " l^ady Benyon exclaimed in alarm. " Drink sonuithing. You really should be careful, a great fat man like you.'' Uncle James coughed hard behind liis handkerchief, then be- gan to recover himself. Beth's eyes were fixed on his face. Her chaunt had l)(>en a sudden inspiration, and its eil'ect u2)on the Imge man had somewhat startled her ; but clearly Uncle James was afraid she was going to tell. " How funny ! " she ejaculated. Uncle James gasped again. " What is the mattei", Puck ? " Lady Benyon asked. " Oh — I was just thinking— thinking I would ask Uncle James to give Mildred some chicken." " Why, of coui'se, my dear child,'' Uncle James exclaimed, to everybody's astonishment. " And have some yourself, Beth ? " "No, thank you," Beth answered; "I'm full." " Beth I " her mother was beginning, when she perceived that Uncle James was laughing. "Now, that child is really amusing," he said — "really amusmg. No one else thought this last enormity a happy specimen of her wit, and they looked at Uncle James, who continued to laugh, in amazement. " Beth,'' he said, " when luncheon is over I shall give you a picture book." Beth accordingly had to stay behind with him after the others had left the dining-room. " Beth," lui began in a terrible voice as soon as they were ah)ne together, trying to frighten her; "Beth what were you doing last night ? " " I was meditating among the tombs," she answered glibly ; " but I never heard them called by that name before." " You bad child ! I shall tell your mamma." TIIH BKTIl MOOK. 121 "Oh, for shamo!" said IMli. "IVllUile! And if you tell I shall. I saw you kissiiij,' Jciiny-iMMniy." Uncle JaiiK's collapsed. He had been prepared to explain to Beth that he had met tlu; poor ^'irl with some rustic lover and was lecturiiific her kindly fo^ her pfood and niakinj^ her po in, which would have made a plausible story had it not l)een for that accur.s(!d kissin}^. Of course he could insi!^t that Belli was lyin^. The child was known to Ije imajjinative, but then against that wa,s the emotion he had shown. Lady Benyon had no very hiph opinion of him he kncnv, and once slie obtained a clew she would soon unravel the truth. No, the only thinjL? was to silence Beth. " Beth," he said, " I quite ugvvc with you, my dear child. I was only .jokinfr when I said I would tell your nuunma. Nothing would induce me to tell tales out of .scluxd." Beth smiled up at him frankly. " Nor me neither. I don't be- lieve you're such a bad old boy after all." Uncle James winced. How he would have liked to throttle her! He controlled himself, however, and even managed to make a smile as he got up to leave the room. " I say, though," Beth exclaimed, seeing him about to depart, " where's that picture book ? " "Oh!" he ejaculated. "I had forgotten. But no, Beth, it would never do. If I give it to you now it would look like a bribe ; and I'm sure you would never accept a bribe." " I should think not," said Beth. And it was long years before she understood the mean adroit- ness of this last evasion. ■of a 16 5t CHAPTER XIV. There are those who maintain that a man can do everything better than a woman can do it. 'illl.^ is certainly true of nagging. When a man nags he shows his thoroughness, his continuity, and that love of sport which is the special pride and attribute of his sex. When a man nags he puts his whole heart into the effort ; a woman only nagn. •>« a rule, becau.se the heart has been taken out of her. The nagging woman is an overtasked creature with jarred nerves, whose plaint is an expression of pain, a cry for help. In any interval of ease which lasts long enough to relax the tension she feels remorse and becomes amiably anxious 9 Mi I 122 TIIK BETH HOOK. to atone. With tho uv.ih' na^' it is diircnMit. TTo i.s usually sleek ami siiiiliujj;', a joyous creature, foiul (jf j^ood iivinj,'-, whose .self- .satisfaetion huhbles over iu artistic atteuipts to make everybody else uu comfortable. Tiiis was the kind of cn^ature Uucle .lauies Patten was. He loved to shock and jar and startle i)eoj)le, espe- cially if tlu^y were powerless to retaliatti. Oi two ways of sayiii3 u 11 10 it "Al.'is, poor liuiiij'.n Uiiturol" Ui»cl«« Jiiines pliilosophizoil, shaking his liciul. " You iii'vcr know ; you never know." Aunt Victoria looked liim strjii;,Mit in tlie eyes, hut niiule no further sliow of emotion, except that slie sat more !'i<,''i(lly Mpri;,''lit than usual, perliaps, and tiie rose tint faded from her delicate face, leavinjj^ it waxen white heneath her aul)urn front. Uncle James eat an e^j;';,' with a pious air of thankfulness for the mercies vouch.safed him. "And wiiere will you live now. Aunt Victoria ?" lie asked at la.st, with an all'ectation of as much concern as lie could ji'et into his fat voice. For many years he had insisted that Fairhohn was the proper place for his mother's sister, hut then slu^ had had money to leave. " Do not desert us altojjfether," he pursued ; " you mu.st come and see us as often as your altered circumstjtnces will admit." Great-Aunt Victoria Bench howed exjiressively. Aunt (J race Mary {^rew very red in the face. Mrs. Caldwell seemed to he con- trolling herself with diiliculty. " There will he a spare room in my cottage. Aunt Victoria," she said. " I hope you will consider it your own, and make your home with me." " Thank you kindly, Caroline," the old lady answered, "but I must consider." "It would be a most proper arrangement." Uncle James geni- ally decided ; "and you would have our dear little Beth, of whom you ajiprovc, you know, for an interest in life." Beth left her seat im])ulsively. and. goijig round to the old lady, nestled up to her, slip])e(l her little hand through her arm, and glared at Unch^ James defiantly. The old lady's face quivered for a moment, and she patted the child's hand. But no more was said on the suhj(>ct in Beth's hearing; only later she found that Aunt Victoria was going to live with them. Uncle James had suddenly become quite anxious that ^Trs. Caldwell should be settled in her own little house. He said it would be so nmch more comfortable for her. The little house was Aunt Grace Marj-'s projierty, by the way, rent ten jiounds a year, but as it had not been let for a long time, and it did hou.ses no good to stand empty, Uncle Jiunes had graciously lent it to his sister. When she w^as so settled in it that it would be a great in- convenience to move he asked for the rent. During the next week he drove every day to the station in 124 THK HKTFI HOOK. Aunt Gruco Mary's pony curria},'!', t«) sro if Mrs. CaldwoU's furni- ture had arrived frotii Ireland, and wlu'n at hi-st it came he sent every available servant he had to set the liouse in order, so tliat it nii^ht he ready for immediate occupation. He also ix'rsuaded Harriet Kivid^^fe, his invaluahle kitchen maid, to (uiter Mi-s. Cald- well's service us maid of all work. There is rea.son to believe that tliis arraii<,''ement was i\w outcome of Uncle .lames's peculiar .sense of Innnour; but Mrs. C*aldw(dl never sus])ected it. " It will Ixi nice for you to have some «»ne 1 know all about," Uiu'h^ James insi.sted, "and witii a knowled|r(. of cookin;^ besides. And how {.jlad you will be to sleej> under your own roof to-ni/.jht I " he added in a tone of kindly conj^ratulation. " And how glad you will be to get rid of us I " .said Relh, thus early giving voice to wiiat other peojjle were only daring to tliink. As .soon as they were .settled in the little bow-windowed house it became obvious that there would be d'HenMices of opinion be- tween mamma and Great-Aunt Victoria Bench. They ditFered about the cooking, about relig'on, and about the education of children. Aunt Victoria thought that if you cooked meat a sec- ond time it took all tlu" goodness out of it; Mi's. Caldwell liked stews, and she said if the joints were underdone at first, as they should be, rccooking did not take the goodness f)ut of the meats. But Aunt Victoria abominated underdone joints more than any- thing. The education of the children was a more serious matter, how- ever — a matter of j)rinciple, in fact, as opposed to a matter of taste. Mrs. Caldwell had determined to give her boys a good start in life. In order to do this on her very limited income she was obliged to exercise the utmo.st .self-denial, and even with that there would bo little or nothing left to .spend on the girls. This, how- ever, did not .seem to Mrs. Caldwell to be a matter of much im- portance. It is customary to sacrifice the girls of a family to the boys, to give them no educational advantages, and then to jeer at them for their ignorance and silliness. Mrs. Caldwell's own edu- cation had been of the most desultory character, but such as it was, she was content with it. " The method has answered in my Ciise," she complacently maintained, without the .slightest suspi- cion that the assertion ])roved nothing but extreme self-satisfac- tion. Accordingly, as she could not atFord to send her daughters to school as well as the boys, she decided to educate them herself. Everybody who could read, write, and cipher was supposed to be THK BKTH HOOK. 125 rs If. able to teach in those days, uiul Mrs. CuUhvcll luidiTtook tlio tusk without a doubt of lier own oupiicity. liut Aunt Victoria was not so .san^Mine. "I hope rcli^fious instruction will be a part of their cdMcatiou," she said when tin' subject Wius Hrst discussed. "Thciy shall read tin; Bible from beginning; to end," Mrs. Cald- well answered shortly. "That I should think would be luirdly d«'sirable," Aunt Vic- toria deprecated {gently. "And 1 shall leacli tlieni their catechism and Uike them to church," Mrs. Caldwell proceeded. " That is the way in which / was taujrht." " We were instructed in doctrine, and tau;jht to order oin* con- duct on certain tixed principles, which were explained to us," Aunt \'ictoria ventured. " Indeed, yes, I dan^ say," Mrs. Caldwell observed politely ; so there the subject had to drop. But Aunt Victoria WJis far from satisfied. She shook her head sadly over her niece's spiritual state, and determined to save the souls of her great nieces by inslructin<^ them lu>rself as tK-casion should otFer. " What is education, mamma ? " Beth asked. "Why, learnint? things, of cour.se," Mr.s. Caldwell replied, with a smile at the child's simplicity. " 1 know tluit," Beth snapped, irritated by lier mother's manner. " Then why did you ask ? " Mrs. Caldwell wished to know. "The child has probably heard that that is not all,'' said Aunt Victoria. "'Learning things' is but one item of education, if you mean by that the mere acquisition of knowledge. A well- ordered day, for instance, is an es.s(mtial part of education. Edu- cation is a question of discipline, of regular hours for everything, from the getting up in the morning to the going to bed at night, No mind can be properly developed without routine. Teach a child how to order its time, and its talents will do the rest." " Get out your books, children," said Mrs. Caldwell, and Aunt Victoria hurriedly withdrew. Beth put a large Bible, Colenso's aritlimetic, a French gram- mar, and Pinnock, an old-fashioned compilation of questions and answers, on the table, and looked at them desjjondently. Then she took a slate, set lierself the easiest addition sum she could find in Colenso, and did it wrong. Her mother told her to correct it. ■ t i 126 THE BETH BOOK. "I wish yoii would sliow me how, niiimma," Beth pleaded. "You must find out for yourself," her mother answered. This was her favourite formula. She had no idea of niakinj]f the lessons either easy or interesting to the children. T(;aching was a duty she detested, a time of trial both to herself and to her pupils, to he got over sis soon as posKible. The whole proceeding only occupied two or three dreadful hours of the morning, and then the children were free for the rest of the day, and so was she. AiU'v lessons they all went out together to the north cliffs, where Aunt Victoria and Mrs. Caldwell walked to and fro on a sheltered terrace, while the children played on the sands below. It was a still day when Beth first saw the sands, and the lonely level ami the trancpiil sea delighted her On her left, white cliffs curved round the bay like an arm ; on her right was the gray and solid old stone pile; and behind her the mellow red-brick houses of the little town scrambled up an incline fnmi the shore irregu- larly. Silver sparkles brightened the hard, smooth surface of the sand in the sunshine. The tide was coming in, and tiny waves advanced in irregular curves and broke with a merry murmur. Joy got hold of Beth as she gazed about her, feeling the beauty of the scene. With the infinite charity of (ihildhood, she forgave her mother her trespasses against her for that day, and her little soul was filled with the peace of the newly .shriven. She flour- isluid u little wooden spade that Aunt Victoria had given lier, but d'.l not dig. The surface of the sand was all unbroken; no dis- figuring foot of man had trodden the long expanse, and Beth hesitat(Ml to l)e the first to spoil its exquisite serenity. Her heart expanded, however, and she .shouted aloud in a great uncontrol- laohi burst of exultation. A man with a brown beard and mustache, short, crisp, curly hair, and deep-set, glittering dark-gray eyes came up to her from behind. He wore a blue ))ilot coat, blue trousei's, and a peaked cap, the dress of a merc^hant ski))per. " Don't desecrate this heavenly solitude with discordant cries." he exclaimed. Beth had not lieard him approach, and she turned round, startled, when he spoke. " I thought I was singing," she rejoined. "Don't dig and disfigure the beautiful bare brown bosom of the shore," he pursued. " I did not mean to dig," Beth said, looking up in his face, and then looking round about her in perfect comprehension of his THE BETn ROOK. 127 mood. "'The beautiful bare brown bosom of the short "" she slowly repeated, delij,^htiug in tlie phrase. '* It's the kind of {hin cruel necessity of a hard and strange apprenticeship. From tho time of their arrival in Rainharbour she lived three lives a day : the life of lessons and coercion which was forced upon her, an altogether artificial and unsatisfactory life ; the life she took up the moment she was free to act for herself; and a life of endless dreams which mingled with the other two unwholesomely. For the rich soil of her mind, left uncultivated, was bound to bring forth something, and because there was so little seed sown in it, the crop was mostly weeds. When we review the march of events whicli come crowding into a life, seeing how few it is possible to describe, no one can wonder that there is talk of the difliculty of selection. Who, for instance, could have supposed that a good striped jacket Jim had I THE BETH BOOK. 131 outgrown and Mrs. Caldwell's love of {?ray would liavo had much off t'ct upon Beth's career; and yet these trilles were epoch-mak- ing. Mrs. Caldwell thought gray a ladylike colour, and there- fore hought Beth a Carmelite dress of a delicate shade for tlie summer. For the first few weeks the dress was a joy to Beth, but after that it began to be stained by one thing and another, and every spot upon it was a source of misery, not only b<'cause she was puni.shed for messing the dre.ss, but also because she had messed it, for she was beginning to be fastidious about her clothes ; and every time .she went out she was conscious of tlio.se unsiglitly stains, and fancied everybody was looking at them. She had to w(>ar the frock, however, for want of another, and in the autumn, when the days began to be chilly, a cast-off jacket of Jim's was added to the attiiction. Mrs. Caldwell caught her try- ing it on one daj', and after shaking her for doing .so, she noticed that the jacket fitted her, and the bright idea of making Beth wear it out so that it might not bo wasted occurred to her. To do her justice, Mrs. Caldwell had no idea of the torture she was in- flicting upon Beth by forcing her to appear in her .soiled frock and a boy's jacket. The poor lad}' was in great straits at the time, and had nothing to spend on her daughters because her sons were growing up and beginning to clamour for pocket money. Their mother considered it right that they should have it, too; and so the tender, delicate, sensitive little girl had to go dirty and asli.^med in order that her brothei's might have wherewitlial to swing a cane, smoke, drink beer, play billiards, and do all else that makes boys men in their own estimatiair, eggs were almost given away, and the manners of the })eople were in keeping with the low i)rices. The natives had no idea of con- cealing their feelings, and were in the habit of exj)ressing their opinions of each other and things in general at the top of their voices in the open street. They were as conservative as the Chi- nese, too, and thought anything new and strange ridiculous. Consequently, when a little girl appeared among them in a boy's jacket they let her know that they resented the innovation. "She's getten a lad's jacket on ! Oh, oh ! she's gotten a lad's jacket on ! " the children called aloud after her in the street, while their mothers came to the cottage doors, wiping soapsuds from 132 THE BETH BOOK. their arms, and stood staring as at a show ; and even the big bhmd sailoi*s knmging on tlie quay expanded into broad grins or soU'innly winked at one another, Beth fluslied with shame, but Iier courageous little heart wtis instantly full of fight. " What ignorant people these are I " she exclaimed haughtily, turning to Beriiadine, who had dropped behind out of the obloquy. "What ignorant people these are I They kn(nv nothing of the fashions." The insinuation stung her persecutors, but that only made them the more offensive •• r wherever she went she was jeered at — openly if there were i o grown-up person with her, covertly if there were; but always so that sh^"" understood. After that first explosion she used to march along with an air of calm inditfer- ence, as if she heard nothing, but slie had to put great constraint upon herself in ordi r ♦ • se/>tu superior while feeling deeply humiliated ; and all the timo she suffered so acutely that at last she could hardlv be ind:i' ei \> .o out at all. Mrs. Caldwell, who never »>o;'c(j'l the "conmion people" enough to be aware of 'lioic critir "ould not listen to any- thing Beth had to say on tu ^llMI^. -u? considered that her objection to go out in the jacket v as niereiy another instance of her tiresome obstinacv. Punishment ensued, and Beth had the daily choice whether she should be scolded and beaten for refus- ing to go out or be publicly jeered at for wearing a " lad's jacket." Sometimes she preferred the chance of public derision to the certainty of private chastisement, but oftener she took the chas- tisement. This state of things could not last much longer, how- ever. Hitherto her mother had ruled her by physical force, but now their wills were coming into collision, and it was inevitable that the more determined should carry her point. " Go and piit your things on directly, you naughty, obstinate child I " her mother screamed at her one day. Beth did not move. "Do you hear me ? " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed. Beth made no sign. And suddenly Mrs. Caldwell realized that if Beth would not go out she could not make her. She never thought of trying to persuade her. All that occurred to her was that Beth was too big to be carried or pulled or pushed ; that she might be hurt, but could not be frightened ; and that there was nothing for iK therefore, but to let her have her own way, "Very well, then," said Mrs. Caldwell, "I shall go without you. But you'll be punished for your wickedness some day, you'll see ; and then you'll be sorry," Ir u THE BETH BOOK. 133 Mildrod liad gone to be educated by u rioli sister of her fathers by this time; Aunt Victoria and Bernadine usually went out with Mrs. Caldwell ; so it came to pass that Beth berjan to be left pretty much to her own resources, of which Harriet Elvidge, in the kitchen, wjus one, and a considerable one. Harriet wjis a woman of well-mark(Hl individuality and bril- liant imagination, She could never sei)arate fact from fiction in any form of narrative, and narrative was her speciality. She was always recounting something. Beth u.sed to follow her from room to room, as slie went about her work, listening with absolute faith and the deepest interest to the stream of narrative which flowed on without interruption, no matter what Harriet was doing. Some- times when she was dusting the drawing-room mantelpiece she would pause with a china cup in one hand and her duster in the other to empha.size a thrilling incident or make a speech impres- sive with suitable gesticulation ; and sometimes she would stop with her hand on the yellowstone with whicli she was rubbing the kitchen hearth, and her head in the grate almo.st, for the same purpose. Often, too, Beth in her eager .sympathy would say, " Let me do that I "' and Harriet would sit in an armchair if they were in the drawing-room and resign the duster, or the dishcloth if they were in the kitchen, and continue the recital, while Beth showed her appreciation and encouraged her to proceed by doing the greater part of her work for her. Mrs. Caldwell never could make out why Beth's hands were in .such a state — " They are all cracked and begrimed," she would exclaim, ''as if the child had to do dirty work, like a .servant." And it was a good thing for Beth that she did it, for otherwise she would have had no physical training at all, and would have sufferv^d, as her sister Mildi-ed did, for want of it. Mildred, unlike Beth, held her head high and never forgot that she was a young lady by right of descent, witli an hereditary aptitude for keeping her inferiors in their proper place. She cmly went into the kitchen of necessit}', and would never have dreamed of dusting, sweeping, bedmaking. or laying the table to help the servant, however nnicli she might have been overtasked. Harriet would not have dared to approach her witli the familiar pleading either, " I say. miss, 'elp uz — I'm that done," to which Beth so readily responded. Mildred was studious; she had profited by the good teaching she had had while lier father was alive, and was able to "make things out" for herself; but she cultivated her mind at the expense of her body. She was one of those delicate, nervous, sensitive girls whose busy brains re- ! 1 ■ 13^ TIII<] BETH BOOK. quire the rest of regular luiiuual exercise, and for want of it she lived upon books, and very literally died of them eventually. She was naturally, so to speak, an artitieial product of conventional ideas; Beth, on the contrary, was altogether a little human being, butonc! of thos(> who answered to expectation with fatal versatil- ity. She liked blacking grates, and did them well, because Harriet tohl her she could ; slie hated writing cojjies, and did them dis- gracefully, because her mother beat her for a blot and said she would never im])rove. For the same rea.son, long before she could read aloud to her motlujr intelligibly, she had learned all that Harriet c(juld teach her, not only of the housework but of the cooking, from cleaning a fish and ti'ussing a fowl to making barley broth and pulf pastr}-. Harriet was a good cook if she had the things, as she said herself, having picked up a great deal when she was kitchen maid in Uncle James's household. Harriet was the daughter of a labourer. Her people lived at a village s(mie miles away, and every Saturday morning a carrier with a covered cart brought her a letter from home and a little parcel containing a cheesecake or some other dainty. Beth took a lively interest both in tlie cheesecake and the letter. What's the news fi'om home to-day ? '' she would ask. " How's Annie, and what has mother sent ? " Whereupon Harriet would share the cheesecake with her and read the letter aloud, work being suspended as long as possible for the ])urpose. Harriet was about twenty-five at this time. She had very black silky hair, straight and heavy, parted in the middle, drawn down over lier eai*s. and gathered up in a knot behind. Her face was oval, forehead high, eyebrows arched and delicate, nose straight, and .she had large, expressive dark-gray eyes, rather deeply set, with long black lashes, and a mouth that would have been handsome of the sensual full-lipped kind had it not been distorted by a burn, which had disfigured hor throat and chin as well. She hiul set her pinafore on fire when she was a child, and it had blazed up under her chin, causing irreparable injury before the flames could be extinguished. But for that accident .she would have been a singularly good-looking woman of a type which was conunon in books of beauty at the beginning of this reign. She could read and write after a fashion, and was intelligent, but ignorant, deceitful, sni)erstitious, and hysterical. Mrs. Cald- well continually lectured Beth about going into the kitchen so much, but she only lectured on principle really. Young ladies could not be allowed to associate with servants as a rule, but an THE BETH BOOK. ir) exception mi;T;lit bo uiade in tlie case of a g'ood, steady, sober sort of jMTsoii, sucb as Mrs. Caldwell believed Harriet to be, who could keep the troublesome child out of niisehief and do her no liarni. Harriet, as it happen«'d, dcliy^hted in niiseliicf, and was often the instigator, but Mi's. Caldwell nii<,fht be excused for not suspecting this, as she only saw her on her best behaviour. WIkmi the chil- dren were safe in bed and Mi.ss Victoria Bench, who was an early person, had also retired, Harriet would put on a clean apron and appear before Mrs. Caldwell in the character of a resp('ctai)le, vigi- lant domestic, more anxious about her mistr<'ss"s inten'sts than her own ; and she would then make a report in wliich Beth ligured as a iiend of a child who could not be trusted alone for a moment, and Harriet herself as a ccmscientious custodian, but for whom ii()body knows what might have happened. When Hai'riet had no particular incident to report at these secret conferencess he would tell Mrs. Caldwell her dreams, and describe signs and portents of coining events which she had ob- served during the day ; and Mrs. Caldwell would listen with interest. Superstition is a subject on which the most class-proud will consult with the lowest and the wickedest ; it is a mighty leveller downward. But tlu^ poor lady had a lonely life. It was not Mrs. Caldwell's fault, but the fault of her day that she was not a noble woman. She belonged to early Victorian times, when every effort was made to mould the characters of women, as the homes of the period were built, on lines of ghastly uniformity. The education of a girl in those days was eminently calculated to cloud her intelligence and strengtlien every failing developed in her sex by ages of suppression. Mrs. Caldw(>ll was a ])lastic person, and her mind had been successfully compressed into the accustomed groove until her husband came and ]iel])ed it to es- cape a little in one or two directions, with th(> elTect, however, of spoiling its conventional .symmetry witliout restoring its natural beauty. If the mind be tiglit-laced long enough, it is ruined as a model, just as the body is; and throwing off the stays which re- strained it merely exposes its deformities without remedying them ; so that there is nothing for the old generation but to re- main in stays. Mrs. Caldwell, with ali her deformities, was just as heroic as she knew how to be. She liv<'d for her children to the extent of denying herself the bare necessities of life for them ; and bore poverty and obscurity of a galling kind without a mur- mur. She scarcely ever saw a soul to speak to. Uncle James Patten and the Benyon family did not associate much with the 136 tup: betii book. townspeople, and wore not popular in the country ; so that Mrs, CaldwoU had very f(!\v visitors. Of (.'ourse it was an advantafrc to bo known as a n'latioii of the gwat jx'ople of tlie place, althouj^h th<^ jfnuit people had a bad name; but then she was evidently a poor rehitioJi, which inad(; it almost a virtue to nej^lect her in a conmiiuiity of Christians wlio only profess(al to love the Lord himself for wliat they could get. "You must worship God be- cause he can give you everything." was what they tjiught their children. Even the vicar of the parish would not call on any- body with less than five hundred a year. He kept a school for boys which i)aid him more than cent i)er cent, but did nothing for his parishioners except preach sermons an hour long on Sundays, Self-denial and morality were his favoui-itc subjects. He had had three wives him.self, and was getting through a fourth as fast as one baby a year would do it. Mrs. Caldwell, left to herself, found her evetiings especially long and dreary. It was her habit to write her letters then, and read, particularly in French and Italian, which she had some vague notion helped to iniprove her mind. But .she often wearied for a word, and began to hear voices herself in the howling winter winds, and to brood upon the possible meaning of her own dreams, and to wonder why a solitary rook Hew over her house in particu- lar and cawed twice as it passed. Little things naturally become of great importance in such a life, and Harriet kept up the supply, she being the connecting link between Mrs. Caldwell and the outer world. She knew all that was happening in the place, and she claimed to know all that was going to happen ; and by degrees the mistress as well as the maid fell int(^ the way of comparing events with the forebodings which had ])receded them, and often established a satisfactory connection between the two. Mi's. Caldwell always made coffee in the kitchen for breakfast in the morning, and while she w^as so engaged Harriet, busy mak- ing toast, would begin : " Did you 'ear a noise last night, m'eni ? " " No, Harriet-— at least — was it about ten o'clock ? " " Yes, m'em, just about — a sort of scraping, rattling noise, like a lot of people walking over gravel." " I did hear something of the kind. I wonder what it was," Mrs. Caldwell would rejoin. " Well, ni'em, I think it means there are people coming to the 'ouse, for I remember it 'appened the night before your brother come, m'em, unexpected, and the lawyer." If nobody came during the day, the token would be supposed THE BETH BOOK. 1^7 to rofor to some futuro porioil, and so by degrees signs and ixtrtonts took the place of more snhstuntial interests in Mi*s. Caldweirs dreary life. Such things were in the air, /or the littl<> seaside place was quite out of tlie world at the time, and tlie people still had more faith in an incantation than a doctor's dose. If an acci- dent happened or a storm decimated the fishing fleet, signs iniui- merable wore always remembered which had preceded the event If you asked why nobody had profited by the warning, jjcople would shake their heads and tell you it was to be; and if you asked what was the use of the warning then, they would say to break the blow ; in which idea there seemed to be some sense. " When they told Tom's wife 'e was drownded she'd 'a' dropped down dead "erself and left the children, if .she 'adn't 'a' knowed it all along," Harriet explained to Beth. "Eh, lass, you mark my words, warnin's comes for one thing, and warnin's comes for another, but they always comes for good, an' you're forced to take notice an' act on 'em or you're forced to leave 'em alone, just as is right, an' ye can't 'elp it yerself, choo.se 'ow. There's Mr.s. Pettin- ger, she dreamed one night 'er 'u.sband's boat was lost, an' next niornin' 'e was to go out fishing, but she wouldn't let 'im. ' No, 'Enery Jolin,' .she ses, 'you'll not go, not if ah 'as to 'old you,' .ses she, an' 'e was that mad 'e struck er an' knocked 'er down an' broke 'er arm, an' then, needs must, 'e 'ad to fetch the doctor to set it, an' by the time that was done the boat "ad gone wi'out 'im. The other men thought 'e was drunk— 'e often was— an' tliey wouldn't wait. Well, that boat never came back." " And did lie beat his wife again ? " Beth asked. " Oh, as to that, 'ow could it make any difference ? " Harriet answered. Beth was fascinated by the folklore of the ]ilace, and soon surpius-sed Harriet herself in the int(>rpretation of dreams and tlu; reading of signs and tokens. She began to invent methods of divination for herself, too, such as " If the boards don't creak when I walk across the room I shall get through my lessons without trouble this morning"— a trick which soon became a conhrmed habit, into which she was apt to lapse at any time; and so per- sistent are tliese early impressions that, to the end of her days, slie would always ratlier have seen two rooks together than one alone, rooks being the birds of omen in a land where magpies were scarce. Mrs. Caldwell knew nothing of Beth's proficiency in the black arts. She would never have discussed such a subject before the children, and took it for granted that Harriet was equally dis- 10 138 THE IJETir HOOK. crcot ; wliil(? Botli, on licr pjirt, willi licr ciiriona quirk so!is«^ of wliiit was ri^^-lit aiul proper, bclicvi'd licr iitotlicr to be above such tbiiigs. Harriet was a person of varied interests, all of wliicii she dis- cuHsiid with lietli impartially. Sh(^ had many lovers, according to her own account, and was stern and unyieldin;^ with them all, and so i>arti(.'ulur she would dismiss them at any moment for nothing almost. If she went out at ni<,''ht slie had always much to tell the ne.xt morninji^, iind ]3eth would hurry over her lessons, watch her mother out of the way, and slip into the kitchen or up- stairs after Harriet, and (piestion her about what she had .said, and he hud said, aiul if slu^ had let him kiss her even once. "Well, last ni^ii'ht,'' Harriet .said on one occasion, in a tone of apolojfy for her own weakness and ^'•ood nature. '* Last nij,^^ I couldn't 'elp it. 'E just put 'is arm round me, and — well — there I I was .sorry for 'im I " " Why don't you say hv and //im and //is, Harriet ?" " I do." " No, you don't. You say 'e and 'ini and 'is." " Well, that's what you .say." Beth shouted the aspirates at her for answer, but in vain ; with all the will in the world to " talk line," as she called it, Harriet could never acquire the art for want of an ear to hear. She could not perceive the slightest dilFereuce between hiui and 'im. Even at this age Beth liad her own point of view in social matters, and frequently disconcerted Harriet by a word or look or inflection of the voice which expressed disapproval of her conduct. Harriet had been at home on one occasion for a week's holiday, a charwoman having done her work in her absence, and on her return she luid much to relate of Charles Russell, the gi'oom at Fairholm, who continued to be an ardent admirer of hers, but not an honourable one, because he did not realize what a very superior person Harriet was. He thought she was no better than other girls, and when they were sitting up one night together in her mother's cottage, tlie rest of the family having gone to bed, he made hor a proposal wliich Harriet indignantly rejected. "And ah ses to 'im, Charles Russell, ah ses to 'im, 'Not was it ever so,' ah ses to 'im " she was proceeding emphatically when Beth interrupted her. " Did you say you sat up with him alone all night ? " she asked. THE HETH BOOK. lyj "Yos; thoro's no 'iinii, you know," Harriet answered, on the defensive without precisely knowing,'' why. "Well, wliat (lid he say ?" lieth rejoined, without conunc'tit. Ihit Harriet, put out of countenaru-e. omitted the drtails, and brou;,dit th(> story to an abrupt conelusion. Another of Harriet's interests in life was the Family Herald, wliieh she took n-irularly, and as ret,'ularly read aloud to J5eth to the best of her ability — from the verses to Violet or My own Love, on the llrst p:i;r<\ to tlu^ Random Keadin^^'s on the last. They lau^Mied at the jokes, tried to <,nu'ss the riddles, were ini- jjressed with th<^ historieal anecdotes and words of wi.sdom, and became so hun;,'ry over the recipes for jrood dishes that they fre- quently fried e;4'«,'s and potatix's or a slice stoh-n from the joint roasting' at the lire and feasted surreptitiously. Ueth tried in after-yeai-s to remember what the stories in the Family J fc raid had been about, but all she could recall was a vajj^ue incident of a fallin<>: .scafl'old, of a lieroine called Marfjfaret takiuf,' refuf^e in the dark behiiul a hoardin<:f, and of a fa.scina- tin^' hero whom Harriet called Ujr Miller. Lon- afterward it dawned upon Beth that his name was Huj^^h. When Mildred went to her au".t, Beth and Bernadine became Oi necessity constant companions, and it was a curious kind of companionship, for their natures were antji --onistic. Like rival chieftains whose territories adjoin, they professed no love for each other, and were often at war, but wer(^ intimate neverthe- less, and would have niis.sed each other, because there was no one else with wh(»m they could .so conveniently quarrel. Harriet took the liveliest interest in their squabbles, and. under her a])le direc- tion, they rapidly developed from the usual little girls' scrimma{,'es into regular stand-up fights. One day Beth i)ulled Bernadin(>'s liair pa.ssionately, and Ber- nadine retidiated by clawing Bt'tlTs face, and then howled as a further relief to her feelings. Mrs. Caldwell rushed to see wliat accident had hajjpened to the dear child, and Harriet came to see the sport. "Mannna, Beth pulled my hair," Bernadine whined. Mrs. Caldwell immediately thumped Beth, who seldom said a word in her own defence. Harriet was neutral till her mistress luid disa})peared, and then she supjjorted Beth. "Just you wait till after dinner," she said. "Come into the kitchen when your ma's asleep and fight it out. Don't you be put upon by tell-pie-tits." 140 THE BETH BOOK. "What's the use of my going into the kitchen?" Beth re- joined. " Bernadine doesn't light fair. She's a horrid low little coward." "Ami?'' Bernadine howled. "Just you wait till after din- ner ! I'm as hrave as you are, and as strong, though you ai'e tlie biggest." Which was true. Bernadine was sallow, thin, wiry, and muscular ; Beth was soft and round and white. She had height, age, and weight on her side ; Bernadine had strength, agility, and cunning. " Phew — w — w ! " Beth jeered, mimic'cing her whine. " You'd 'tell mamma' if you got a scratch." " I won't. Both, if you'll fight," Bernadine protested. "We'll see after dinner,'' Harriet put in significantly, and then returned to her work. After the four o'clock dinner, during the dark winter months, Mrs. Caldwell dozed for half an hour in her chair by the fire. This was the children's opportunity. They were supposed to sit still and amuse themselves quietly while their mother slept; and until she slept they would sit motionless, watchi'.ig her, the greater their anxiety to get away, the more absolute their silence. Mrs. Caldwell looked as if she were being mesmerized to sleep by the two pairs of bright eyes so resolutely and patiently fixed upon her. The moment her breathing showed she was sound asleep the children stole to the kitchen, shutting the doors after them softly, and instantly set to work. It was a gruesome sight, those two children with teeth set and clenched fists, battering each other in deadly earnest, l)ut with no noise save the fizzle of feet on the brick floor, an occasional thump up against a piece of furniture, or the thud when they fell. They were afraid to utter a sound, le.st Aunt Victoria, up in her room, should hear them and come down interfering ; or their mother should wake and come out and catch them. They bruised and blackened and .scratched each other, and were seldom without what they considered the honourable scars of these battles. Some- times, when Bernadine was badly mauled, .she lost her temper and threatened to tell manuna; but Beth could always punish her, and did so, by refusing to fight next time, although witlioiit that recreation life were a blank. Harriet always cleared away obstacles to give them room, and then sat down to oat her dinner and watch the fight. She had the tastes— and some of tlie habits— of a Roman empress, and en- couraged them with the keenest interest for a long time, but when THE BETH BOOK. Ul she had finished iier dinner slie usually wearied of the entertain- ment, and would tlieii stop it. "I say, yer ma's coniin' ; I can 'car 'er," she would exclainu "'Elp us to Wiish up or I sha'n't he done for the reading." Wlicn Harriet wanted help Bernadine usually slipped away, lielping anybody not being much in her line ; but Beth set to work with a will. Beth, always sociable, had persuaded lier mother to let Harriet come to the reading, and Harriet accordingly, in a clean cap and apron, with a piece of sewing, was added to the party. So long as she sat on a high cliair at a respectful distance and remembered that she was a servant her being there rather grati- fied Mi's. Caldwell than otherwise, once she had yielded to Beth's persuasion and saw the practical working of the experiment ; it made her feel as if she were doing something to improve the lower claases. It was a pity she did not try to improve Beth and Bernadine by finding some sewing for their idle hands to do. During the reading dear little Bernadine, "so good and alFection- ate always," would sit on the floor beside her mother, whose pocket she often picked of a penny or sixpence to vary the mo- notony when she did not understand the book. Beth also sat idle, listening intently, and watching her sister. If the reading had heen harrowing or exciting, she would fight Brvnadine for the sixpence when they went to hed. There were lively scenes during the readings. They all wept at the pathetic parts, laughed loudly when amused, and disputed about passages and incidents at the top of their voices. Mrs. Caldwell forgot that Harriet was a servant, Harriet forgot herself, and the children, unaccustomed to wordy warfare, forgot their fear of their mother, and flew at each other's throats. When the story was very interesting. Mrs. Caldwell read until she was hoar-se, and then went on to herself — "di))ping," the cliil- dren called it. It was a point of honour with them not to dip. and they would remonstrate with their mother loudly when tlu^y caught her at it. Their feeling on the subject was so strong that she wtis ashamed to be seen dipi)ing at last. She used to put tlie hook away until they were safe in bed, and then gratify lier curi- osity ; hut they suspected her, because once or twice they noticed that she was unaffected by an exciting part; so one night they came down in their nightdresses and caught her, and after that the poor lady had to be ciireful. She might thump the children 142 THE BETH BOOK. for coming downstairs, but she could not alter the low opinion they had of a person who " dipped." CHAPTER XVI. Beth's brain began to be extraordinarilj' busy. She recorded nothing, but her daily doings were so many works of her imagina- tion. She was generally somebody else in these days, seldom herself; and people who did not understand this might have supposed that slie was an exceedingly mendacious little girl, when she was merely speaking consistently in tlie character which she happened to be impersonating*. She would spend hours of the afternoon alone in the drawing-room, standing in the window looking out while she wove her fancies ; and she soon began to go out also by the back door when tlie mood was upon her with- out asking anybody's leave. She had wandered oil' in this way on one occasion to the south side, whither her ])eople rarely went. At the top of the cliff, where the winding road began which led down to the harbour, a paralyzed sailor was sitting in a wicker- work wheeled chair, looking over the sea. Betli knew the man by sight. He had been a yachtsman in the service of one of her uncles, and she had heard hints of extraordinary adventures they had had together. It (illed her with compassion to see him sitting there so lonely and helpless, and as she ap])roached she resolved herself into a beneficent being, able and willing to help. She had a book under her arm, a costly volume which Mrs. Caldwell had borrowed to read to the children. Both had been looking at the pictures when the desire to go out suddenly seized upon her, and had carried the book off inadvertently. " How are you to day, Jim ? " she said, going up to the invalid confidently. " I'm glad to see you out. We shall soon have you about again as well as ever. I knew a rrian in Ireland much worse than you are. He couldn't move his hands and arms. Legs are bad enough, but when it's hands aiid arms as well, you know, it's worse. Well, now you couldn't tell there'd ever been any- thing the matter with him." " And what cured 'im ? " Jim asked with interest. " Oh, he just thought he'd get well, you know. You've got to set yourself that way, don't you see ? If mountains can be moved by faith, you can surely move your own legs ! " THE BETH BOOK. 143 " That sounds reasonable anyway," Jim ejaculated. '• Do you like reading ? " said Beth. " Yes, I read a bit at times." " Well, I've brougfht you a book," Beth proceeded, handing him the borrowed volume. " You'll find it interesting, I'm sure. It's a great favourite of mine." "You're mighty good," the sailor said. " Oh, not at all," Beth answered largely. Then she wished him good-bye. But she often visited him again in the same char- acter, and the stories she told that unhappy invalid for his com- fort and encouragement were amazing. When tlie book was missed, and her mother bothered about it, she listened serenely, and even helped to look for it. Beth strolled homeward when she left her protege, and on the way she became Noma of the Fitful Head. She tried Minna and Brenda first, but these characters were too insipid for her taste. Noma was different. Slie did tilings, you know, and made charms, and talked poetry, and people were afraid of her. Beth believed in her thoroughly. She'd be Noma and make charms. But she had no lead. Noma looked about her. She knew by magic that Cleveland was coming to consult her, and she had no lead. There was a border of lead, however, over the attic window outside. All she had to do was to steal upstaii'S, climb out of the window on to the roof, and cut a piece of the lead off. It was now the mystic moment to obtain lead, but she must be wary. She strolled through the kitchen in a casual way. Harriet was busy about the grate, and paid no attention to her ; so she secured the carving knife without difficulty, went up to the attic, and opened the window. She was now on the dangerous i)innac]e of a temple, risking her life in order to obtain the materials for a charm which would give her priceless power. On the other side of the street there lived in the Orchard House another w^idow woman with three daughters. She let lodgings, and was bringing up her children to honest industry in that state of life. She and Mrs. Caldwell took a kindly interest in each other's affairs. Mrs. Davy happened to be changing the curtains in front that afternoon when Beth crept out of the attic window on to the roof, and she was paralyzed with horror for a moment, expecting to see the child roll off into the street. She was a sensible woman, however, and, quickly recovering herself, she ran across the road, with her spectacles on, and rapped at Mrs. Caldwell's door. Beth, hacking away at the lead with the carv- 144 THE BETH BOOK. 1 ing knife, did not heed the rap. Presently, however, she heard huiried footsteps on the stairs, find climbed back into the attic in- continently, putting" her spoils in her pocket. When Mrs. Davy, her mother, and Harriet, all agitated, burst open the door, she wa.s standing at the window looking out tranquilly. " What were you doing on the roof, Beth ? " her mother de- manded. '* Nothing," Beth answered. " Mrs. Davy .says she saw you get out of the window." Beth was silent. " You're a bad girl, giving your mother so much trouble," Mrs. Davy exclaimed, looking at her under her spectacles sternly ; " if you was my child I'd whack you, I would." Beth was instantly a lady sneering at this common woman who was taking a liberty which she knew her mother would resent as much as she did. "And what were you doing with the carving knife. Miss Beth ? " cried Harriot, spying it on the floor and picking it up. Criminals are only clever up to a certain point. Beth had forgot- ten to conceal the carving knife. " Oh, dear ! oh, dear I If you 'aven't 'acked it all the way along ! " " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " Mrs. Caldwell echoed. It was her best carving knife, and Beth would certainly have been beaten if Mrs. Davy had not suggested it. As it was, however, Mrs. Caldwell controlled her temper and merely ordered her to go downstairs immediately. In the management of her children she would not be dictated to by anybody. This was Beth's fuvst public a])pearance as a disturber of the peace, and the beginning of the bad name she earned for herself in certain circles eventually. But she was let off lightly for it. Mrs. Caldwell's punishments were never retrospective. She was thunder and lightning in her wrath ; a flash and then a bang, and it was all over. If she missed the first movement the culprit escaped. She could no more have punished one of her children in cold blood than she could have cut its throat. Beth ran down to the acting room, so called because the boys had brought home the idea of acting in the holidays, and they had got up charades there on a stage made of boxes, with an old counterpane for a curtain, and farthing candles for footlights. It was a long, narrow room over the kitchen, with a sloping roof. Three steps led down into it. There was a window at one end, a small lattice with an iron bar nailed to the outside vertically. 1 THE BETH BOOK. 14 Beth swunp: herself out round the bar, dropped on to the back- kitclien roof, crept across the tiles to the chimney at the far cor- ner, stepped thence on to the top of the old wooden pump, and from the top to the spout, from the spout to the stone trough, and so into the garden. Then she ran round to the kitchen and got a candle, a canister, and some water in a pail, all of which she took up to the acting room by way of the back-kitchen roof. The can- ister happened to contain alspice, but this was not to be considered when she wanted the canister ; so she emptied it from the roof on to Harriet's head as she happened to be piissing, and so got .some good out of it, for Harriet displayed strong feeling on the subject both at the moment and afterward, when .she was trying to gt>t the stult" out of her bail", which interested Beth, who, in some such way, often surprised people into the natural expression of emotions which she might never otlierwise have discovered. Bernadine had been playing alone peaceably in the garden, but Beth persuaded her to come upstairs. She found Beth robed in the old counterpane, with her hair dishevelled and the room dark- ened. Beth was Noma now in her cell on the Fitful Head, and Bernadine was the shrinking but resolute Minna come to consult her. Beth made her sit down, drew a magic circle round her with a piece of chalk, and in a deep, tragic voice warned her not to move if she valued her life, for there were evil spirits in the room. The i)ail stood on a box draped with an old black shawl, and round this she also drew a circle. Then she put some lead in the cani.ster, melted it over the candle, dropped it into the water, and muttered : " Like snakes tho molten metal liisses, Curses come instead of kis.sca." She plunged her hand into the water-— " I search a harp for harmony, I?nt (latTfjrers only do I see; I search a heart for love and hope, But find a phastly hangman's rope. Woe I woe ! " Three times round the pail she went, moaning, groaning, writh- ing her body, and wringing her hands — " Woe ! woe ! Thy courage will be sorely tried, Thou shalt not be the pirate's bride." At this Bernadine, whose nerves were completely shaken, set up such a howl that Harriet came running to see what was tho J 146 TnE BETH BOOK. matter, Slie soon let lij^ht into the acting room. Mrs. Caldwell and Annt Victoria had gone to see Aunt Grace Jiary, so Harriet was in charge of the children, and to save herself further trouble she took them up to a black hole there was without a window at the top of the house and locked them in. The place was quite empty, so that they could do no harm, and they did not seem to mind being locked up. Harriet intended to give them a little fright and then let them out; but, being busy, she forgot them, and when at last she remembered, it was so dark she had to take a candle, and great was her horror on opening the door to see botli children stretched out on the bare boards, side by side, ap- parently quite dead. One glance at their ghastly faces was enough for Harriet. She just looked, and then fled shrieking, with the candle alight in her hand, right out into the .street. Several people who happened to be passing at the time stopped to see what was the matter. Harriet's talent for fiction furnished her with a self- saving story on the instant. She said the children had shut them- selves up and got smothered. " We'd better go and see if there's nothing can be done," a re- spectable workmaix suggested. Harriet led the way, about a dozen people following, all awe- stricken and silent. When they came to the door they peeped in over each other's shoulders at the two poor cliildrcn, stretched out stiff and stark, the colour of death, their jaws dropped, their glazed eyes shining between the half-closed lids, a piteous spectacle. " Just let's .see the candle a moment,'' the workman .said. He took it from Harriet and entered, stooping; the place was a mere closet, just under the roof, and he could not stand upright in it. He peered into the children's faces, then knelt down beside them and felt their arms and chests. Suddenly he burst out laughing, " You little devils," he said, " what V ye done this for ? " Beth .sat up. " Harriet locked us in to give us a fright, so we thought we'd fi'ighten Harriet," she said. The walls were whitewashed, and the children had made them- selves ghastly by rubbing their faces all over with the whitening, "You've getten yer 'ands full wi' them two. I'm thinking, missis," the workman remarked to Harriet as he went off chuck- ling. " Did you hear, Beth ? " Bernadine complained. " He called us little devils." "All right," Beth answered casually. But Bernadine was dis- gusted. She was one of those pious children who like to stand J THE BETH BOOK. U7 1 liigli in the estimation of tlie grown-up people, and slie disap- proved of Beth's conduct wlien it got licr into trouble. Rlie was like the kind of man who enjoys being vicious so long as he is not found out by any one who will think the less of him for it; when he is found out he excuses himself and blames his associ- ates. Bernadine never resisted Beth's eh)quent j)ersuasions nor the luring fascination of her scliemes ; but when she h'.d had her full share of the pleasures of naughtiness and was tir(>d and cross her conscience smote her, and then she told mamma. This did her good and got Beth punished, which nuide Bernadine feel tluit she had expiated her own naughtiness and been forgiven, and also made her feel sorry for Beth— a nice, kind feeling which she al- ways enjoyed. Beth despised her for her conscientious treachery, and retiili- ated by tempting her afresh. One day she lured her out on to the tiles through an attic window in the roof at the back of the house. It would be such fun to sit astride on the roof ridge and look right down into the street, she said, and across Mrs. Davy's orchard to the fields on that side, and out to sea on the other. " And things will come into our minds up there — sucli lovely things," she proceeded, beguiling Bernadine to distract her atten- tion as .she helped her up. When they were securely seated Ber- nadine began to grumble. " Things don't come into my mind," she whined. " Don't they? Why. I was just thinking if we were to fall we should certainlv be killed," Beth an.swered cheerfullv. "W(i should come down thump, and that would crack om" .skulls, and our brains would roll out on the pavement. Ough I wouldn't they look nasty, just like a sheep's ! And manmia and Aunt Victoria would rush out, and Harriet and Mrs. Davy, and they'd have to hold mannna up by the arms. Then tliey'd ))ick us up, and carry us in, and lay us out on a bed, and say they were beautiful in their lives, and in death they were not divided; and when they shut the house up at night and it was all still, manmia would cry. She'd be always crying, especially for you, Bernadine, because you're not sudi a ti'ouble as I am. And when you were buried, and the worms were eating you, she would give all the world to have you here again." This sad prospect was too much for the sensitive Bernadine. "Don't, Beth," she whimpered. " You frighten me." " Oh, you mustn't be frightened,'' said Beth encouragingly. " When people up on a height like this get frightened they always U8 THE BETH BOOK. roll off. Do you feel as if the roof were moving ? " she exclaimed, suddenly clutching hold. Bernudine fell down flat on her face with a di.smal howl. "Let'.sbe cats now," said Beth. "I'll say ' Miew-ow-ow,' and you ' Oo-oo-owl-hiss-ss-ss,' " " Don't, Beth. I want to go back." " Come along, then," said Beth. "I can't. I daren't move." " Oh, nonsense ! " .said Beth ; " just follow me. I shall go and leave you if you don't. You shouldn't have come up if you were afraid." " You made me," Bernadine whimpered with her eyes shut. " Of course it was me ! " said Beth, on her way back to ihe sky- light. " You haven't a will of your own, I suppose ! " " You aren't leaving me, Beth I " Bernadine cried in an agony. "Don't go! I'm frightened! Help me down! I'll tell mam- ma ; " " Then there you'll sit, tell-pie-tit," Beth chanted, as she let herself down through the skylight. Presently she appeared on the other side of the street, and per- formed a war dance of delight as she looked up at her sister, prone upon the roof ridge. " You do look so funny, Bernadine ! " she cried. " Your petti- coats are nohow, and you seem to have only one leg, and it is so long and thin ! " Bernadine howled aloud. Mrs. Caldwell was not at home, but the cry 1)rought Mrs. Davy out in her spectacles. When she saw the child's dangerous predicament she seized Beth and shook her emphatically. " Oh, thank you," said Beth. "What 'a' you bin doin' now, you bad girl ?" said Mrs. Davy. "Hold on, missy," she called up to Bernadine. "We'll soon 'ave ye down. You're all right ! You'll not take no 'arm." Harriet now came running out, wringing her hands and utter- ing hystei'ical exclamations. " Shut up, you fool ! " said Mrs. Davy. Doors opened all the way down the street and a considerable crowd had soon collected. Beth, quite detached from herself, leaned against the orchard wall and watched the people with interest. How to get the child down was the difficulty, as there was no ladder at hand long enough to reach up to the roof. " I'll go and fetch her down if you like," said Beth. THE BETH BOOK. 149 "I should tliink so ! and tlu'u tliere'd be two of you," said Mrs. Davy. "I don't see how you'll manage it, then," said Betli. "Tliere isn't foothold for a man to get out of the attic window." Having spoken, she strolled oil" with an air of indilferenee, and disap- peared. She was a heroine of romance now, going to do a great deed ; and before .she was missed tlie horrified spectators .saw her climbing out of the front attic window, smiling serenely. Tlio people held their breath as they watched her go up the roof on tho slippery tiles at a reckless rate to her sister. " Come along, Bernadine," she whispered. " Such fun ! There's a whole crowd down there watching us. Just let them see you're not afraid." Bernadine peeped. It was gratifying to be an object of such interest. "Come along ; don't be an idiot," said Beth. "Just follow mo and don't look at anything but the tiles. That's the way / learned to do it." Bernadine's courage revived. Slowly she slid from the roof ridge, Beth helping her carefully. It looked fearfully dangerous, and the people below dared not utter a sound. When they got to the attic window, Beth, herself on the edge of the roof, guided her si.ster, passed her, and helped her in. Slie was following her- self when some tiles gave way beneath her and fell with a crash into the street. Fortunately she had hold of the .sill, but for a moment her legs hung over ; then she pulled herself through, and, falling head first on to the floor, disappeared from sight. The people below relieved their feelings with a faint cheer. " Eh, but she's a bad un ! " said Mrs. Davy, who was trembling all over. "Well, she's a rare plucky un, at any rate,"' said a man in the crowd, admiringly. Crowds constantly collected at tlie little house in Orchard Street in those days. When Mrs. Caldwell had to go out alone she was always anxious, not knowing what might be happening in her absence. Coming home from Lady Benyon's one summer evening she found the whole street l)locked with people, and the roadway in front of her own house packed so tight she could not get past. Beth had dressed herself u]) in a mask and a Russian sheep- skin cloak which had belonged to her father, and sat motionless in the drawing-room window on a throne made of an armchair set on a box, while Bernadine played Scotch airs on the piano. A 150 THE BETH BOOK. rouplc of children passiiif^ had stopped to see what on eartli tho tliinj^ was ; th(Ui a man and woman had come ah»n<^ and stopped too ; then several {4'irls, some sailors, the hiillmaii, and many more nntil the street was full. Harriet was eujoyinjLj the commotion in the baekj^round, hut wlieii Mrs. Caldwell appeared she gava the si<,''nal, the piano stoi)ped, and the strange beast roared h)udly and lied. But Beth had her human moments. They g-enerally came on in wet weather, which depressed her. She would then stand in the dra\vin<^-room window by tho hour tof^ether, looking out at the miserable street, thinking of the jwor i)eople, all cold and wet and hungry. She longed t(j do .sometliing for them, and one day slie stoppn, so they had to retire to the acting room. This was Beth's lii'st attempt to apply such knouled<,^e as she possessed, ami in her anxiety to improve the child of the peoj)lo she improved herself in several respects. She hejrim to read hetter, hecamo less afraid of writing and sp(>llinjr, mastered the multiplication tahle, and found she could " make out " how to do easy sums from the hook. This gave her the first real interest she had ever liad in school work, and inspired her with some slight confidence in herself. She ftdt the dignity of the jjosition of teacher too, and the resj)onsi])ilit3'. She never betrayed her own ignorance nor did anything to shake Emily's touching he- lief in her superiority, and .she never shook Emily. She knew she could have done better herself if there had been less tlunnp- ing and shaking, and she had the wisdom to profit by her mother's errors of judgment already — not that Emily ever provoked her. The child was apt and docile, and the lessons were a sort of im- proving game. How to impart religious instruction was the thing that troubled Beth most ; she used to lie awake at night thinking out the prob- lem. She found that Emily had learned many texts and hymns in the Sunday school, to which she went regularly, and Beth made her repeat them, and soon knew them all by lieart herself, but she did not think that she taught Emily enough. One day in church, however, .she thought of a way to extend her teaching. Bernadine had joined her class for fun. and was playing at learn- ing too ; and now Beth proposed that they should fit up a chapel in the acting room and resolve themselves occasionallv into a clergyman and congregation. A chair with the bottom knocked out was the pulpit, and a long narrow box .stood on end was the reading de.sk. Beth was the parson, of course, in a white sheet filched from the soiled-clothes bag, and changed for a black shawl for the sermon. She read ])ortions of Scripture standing, she read prayers on her knees, she led a hymn, and then she got into the black shawl and preached. What these discourses were about she could not remember in after-years, but they must have been fascinating, for the congregation listened unwearied so long as 152 THE BETH noOK. bIu! cliosc! to go on. Emily was ji disappointment in ono wny — sli(' had no imagination. Beth pretended to take her j)li<)lo- grapli one day ufttu' the manner of tlie photographers on tlio Njind.s. *' Now, tliis is the picture," she said, showing her a pieee of gliuss. " But tliere isn't no picture on it," said Emily, staring hard at the gla.ss. " How stupid you are ! " .said Beth, disgust«>d. "Look again." "There isn't," En\ily protested. "Just you sliow it to lier- nadine." " You should .say Miss Bernadine," that young lady admon- ished her. A few miimtes aftrna(lin('. Hor n»othi>r and Aunt \'ictoriii woro walkinj; up and down, not I)ayiny^ much attention to the cliihhM-n. And lirst they swun^' on a chain lliat was sti'ctchrd from i)ost to post (h»wn the middle of the pier to keep peoph' from l)ein^'' washed oil" in stormy weatlier; but 15ernadine tunibh'd over backward and hurt her head, and was jeered at besides by some rude litlU; .street ehihlren, who couhl not understand wliy tlie little C'aldwell.s, who were as sliabby as tliemselves, should look down on th«Mn and refuse to as.soeiate with them. It was not lielli's nature to be exclusive. She had no notion of diU'eicnees of de;,free. Any pleasant person was lier e([ual. Slie was as much j^'^ratilied by friendly iiotic*"! from the milkman, the llshwoman, and the sweej) as from Jiaily Benyon or Count Bartahlinsky himself, and very early thoufjfhi it coutemptil)le to jeer at people for want of means and defects of education. She never talked of the " comnu)n people "' after she found that Harriet was hurt by the phra.se, and she would luive been on re was a howl of derision. "Oh, my I ain't slu^ ijfetten thin lef^s I " "Ah, say, Julie, did you see that bij,'' 'ole i' 'er stockin' ?" " Naw, but ah seed the patch on 'er ])etticoat I " " P^h — an' she's on'y getten one on, an' it isn't flannel." " An' them's ladies 1" Bc'-'iadine's pride canu> to her rescue on these occasions. At >\' she howled when she was hurt; but now she afTected to and both sisters strolled (>i\ with their little heads up aiul an sperating air of inditrerence to th<' enemy. The tide was out, and they went down into the harbour and found a large oyster among the piles of the wooden jetty. When they got home the difficulty was how to open it ; but they managed to make it open elf by holding it over the kitchen fire on the shovel. Whe ■ began to lift its lid Beth sent Bernadine for a fork, and wl slie was getting it Beth ate the oyster. But Ber- nadine coulu t see the joke, and her rage was not to be ap- 11 154 TnE BETH BOOK. peased even by the oyster shell, which Beth said she might liave the whole of. The battle oanie olf after dinner that evening ; but it was a day of disaster. Harriet was out of temper, and Mr.s. Caldwell appeared mysteriously just as Beth knocked Bernadine down and sat on her stomach. I They were reading a story of Frencli life at that time, and something came into it about snail broth as a cure for consump- tion and snail oil as a remedy for rheumatism. The next day there was a most extraordinary smell all over the house. Mrs. Caldwell, Aunt Victoria, Harriet, and Bernadine went sniffing about, but could find nothing to account for it. Beth sat at the dining-table with a book before, her taking no notice. At last Harriet had occasion to o})en the oven door, and just as she did so there was a loud explosion and the kitchen wall o})posite was bespattered with boiling animal matter. Beth had got up early and collected snails enough in the garden to fill a blacking bottle, corked them up tight, and put them into the darkest corner of the oven, her idea being to render them into oil as Harriet ren- dered suet into fat, and go and rub rheumatic people with it. As usual, however, her motive was ignored, while a great deal was made of the mess on the kitchen wall, which disheartened her, especially as several other philanthropic enterprises happened to fail al)out the same time. Emily appeared with a bad toothache one day, and finding a remedy for it gave Beth a momentar3' interest in life. She told Emily she had a cure for toothache, and Emily, never doubting, let her put some soft substance into the tooth with the end of a match. " It won't taste very nice," said Beth ; " ))ut you mustn't mind that. You just go home and you'll find it won't ache any more." When Emily returm>d next day she gratefully proclaimed herself cured, and her mother wanted to know "Whatever the stuff was." " Soap," said Beth. " Oh. you mucky thiJig ! " Emily exclaimed. She resented the application of such a substance to the inside of her ])erson. Her plebeian mind was too narrow to conceive a second legitimate use for soap, and from that day Beth's infhuMice declined. Emily's attendance became irregular, then gradually ceased altogether, THE BETE BOOK. ir^ )0 not, however, before Beth's own interest in the lessons was over and her mind much occupied witli other things. I CHAPTER XVII. The dower house of the Benyon family stood in a street which was merely an extension of Orchard Sti'eet, and could be seen from Mrs. CaldweH's windows. Lady Benyon, havinj^ produced a huge family and buried her husband, had done her day"s work in the world, as it were, and now had full leisure to live as she liked. So she "lived well," and in the intervals of living, other- wise eating, she sat in the big bow window of her sitting-room, digesting and watching her neighbours. From her large, old- fashioned house slie comniMuded a fine view down the wide ir- regular Front Street to the .sea, with a diagonal glimpse down two other streets which ran i)aral lei with the Front Street ; while on the left she could see up Orchard Street as far as the church, so that everyboily came under her observation .sooner or later, and to Beth it always seemed that .she dominated the whole place. Most of the day her nead could be seen above the wire blind, but, as she .seldom went out, the four dark sausage-shaped curls, laid horizontally on either side of her acute old face, were almost all of her that was known to the inhabitants. Mrs. Caldwell went regularly to see Lady Benyon. and some- times took the children with her. On one occasion when she had d(jne so Lady Benyon made her take a seat in the window where she was sitting herself b ^ that they could both look out. Beth and Bernadine .stood in the background with a picture book in which they seemed so absorbed that the conversation llowed on before them with very little constraint. BetlTs ears were open, however, as usual. "After twenty-two children," Lady Benyon remarked, "one can not expect to be as active as one was." "No, indeed," Mrs. Caldwell answered cheerfully, "/have only had as good as fourteen, and Fm quite a wreck. I don't know what it is lo pa.ss a day free fi-om i)ain ; but. however, it is so ordered and I don't complain. If only they turn out well when they do come, that's everything." " Ah, you're right there," Lady Benyon answered. " You know my trial," Mrs. Caldwell pursued. Beth's face in- 156 THE BETH BOOK. stantly became a blank. " I am afraid ahe cares for no one but herself. It shows what spoiling a child does. Her father could never make enoug^h of her," "Well, I suppose she's naughty," Lady Benyoii rejoined with a laugh ; " but she's promising, all the same — and not only in ap- pearance. The things she says, you know ! " " Oh, well, yes," Mrs. Caldwell allowed. " She certainly says things sometimes ; but that's not much comfort when you never know what she'll be doing. Now Mildred has never given me a moment's anxiety in her life except on account of her delicate health, poor little body ! and Bernadine is a dear, sweet little thing. She is the only one who is thoroughly unruly and selfish." Beth's blood boiled at the accusation. " How does the old aunt get on ? " Lady Benyon asked pres- ently. " Oh, she seems to be very well.'' " Don't you find it rather a trial to have her about always ? " Mrs. Caldwell shrugged her shoulders with an air of resigna- tion. "Oh, you know, she means well," she replied ; "and there really was nothing else for it. But I must say I have no jiatience with cant." Beth, in opposition, still smarting from her mother's accusa- tion of s<>lfishiiess, determined at once to inquire into Aunt Vic- toria's n^ligious tenets with a view^ to approving of them. "Well, James Patten played a mean part in that business," Lady Benyon observed. "But I always say, beware of a man who does his own h()usekee])ing. When the}' keep the money in their own hands and pay the bills themselves don't trust them. That sort of man is a cur at heart, you may be sure ; and as for a man who takes ])ossession of his wife's money and doles it out to her a little at a time ! I know one such — without a penny of his own, mind you I He gives his wife a cheque for five pounds a month, tlie vont goes on other women^and she never suspects it I He's one of those plausible gentlemen who's always looking for a jwst that will pay him, and never gets it — you know the kind of thing " Here the old lady cauglit Beth's eye, "You take my advice," .she said. "Don't ever marrv a man who does his own housekee})ing. He's a crowing hen. that sort of man, you may be sure. I warn you against the man who does a woman's work." " And if a woman does a man's work ? " said the intelligent Beth. \ % /! THE BETH BOOK. 157 "It is often a very great lielp," Mrs. Caldwell put in, with a quick menttil survey of the reams of oflicial letters she had writ- ten for her husband. Lady Benyon pursed up her mouth. f Aunt Victoria was one of those forlorn old ladies who have nobody actually their own to care for them, altiiougli they may liave numbers of relations, and acquire odd habits from living much alone. She was a great source of interest to Beth, who would sit silejitl}' wntcliing her by the hour together, her briglit eyes steady and her countenance a blank. The intentness of her gaze fidgeted the old lady, wlio would look up suddenly every now and then and ask her what she was staring at. " Noth- ing, Aunt Victoria, I was only thinking," Beth always answered; and then she atl'ected to occupy herself until the old lady re- turned to her work or her book, when Beth would resume her interrupted study. But she liked Aunt Victoria. The old lady was sharp with her sometimes, bu^ she meant to be kind, and was always just, and Beth respected her. She had more faith in her, too, than she had in her mother, and secretly became her parti- san on all occasions. She had instantly detected the tone of de- traction in the allusions Lady Benyon and her mother had made to Aunt Victoria that afternoon, and stolidly resented it. When they went home she ran upstairs and knocked at Aunt Victoria's door. It was innnediately opened, and Beth, seeing what she took for an old gentl(Mnan in a short black ju'tticoat and loose red jacket, with short, thick, stubbly white hair standing up all over his head, started back. But it was only Aunt Victoria without her cap and front. "When she saw Beth's consternation the old lady put her hand up to her head. "I bad forgotten," she muttered; then she added severely: ''})ut you should never show surpx'ise, Beth, at anything in anybt)dy's appearance. It is very ill bred." "I don't think I shall ever be surprised ;igain." Beth answered quaintly. " But I want you to tell me, Aunt Victoria, what do you believe in ? "' "What do you mean, child ? '" " Oh, you know ; about God, and the Bible, and cant, and that sort of thing," Beth answered evenly. " Come in and sit down." said Aunt Victoria. Beth sat on a classical piece of furniture that stood in the win- dow, a sort of stool or throne, with ends like a sofa and no back. i 158 THE BETH BOOK. It had belonged to Aunt Victoria's father, and slie valued it very much. Beth's feet as she sat on* it did not toucli the ground. Aunt Victoria stood for a moment in the middle of the room re- flecting, and as slie did so sIk; lo(jked, with lier sliort, thick, stub- bly white hair, more like a thin old gentleman in a black petti- coat and loose red jacket than ever. "I believe, Beth," she said solennily, "I believe in God the Father Almighty. I believe that if we do his holy will here on earth we shall, when w(! die, be received by him into bliss ever- lasting; but if we do not do his holy will, then he will condemn us to the bad place, where we sliall burn forever." " But what ifi His holy will i " Beth asked. " It is His holy will that we should do right, and that we should not do wrong. But this is a big subject, Beth, and I can only unfold it to you bit by bit." " But will you unfold it ? " " I will, as best I can, if you will listen earnestly." " I am always in earnest," Beth answered sincerely. " No one can teach you God," Aunt Victoria pursued. "He must come to you. ' Light is soirn for the rigJitrous, and glad- ness for the uprigld of heart. The Jieavens declare the glory of God, and the firmame)it shewetJt liis handiwork. Day unto day nttcreth speech, and night unto niglit sheweth knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Lift up your Jieads. O ye gates; and he ye lifted up, ye everlast- ing doors; and the King of glory sliall come in. Who is the King of glory ? The Lord, strong and mighty.' " Beth in a burst of enthusiasm jumped down from her perch, clasp(Hl her hands to her chest, and cried: "O Aunt Victoria! that is— tliat is " she tore at her hair ; " I want a word— I want a word I " " Is it grand. Beth ? " " Grand ! grand I " Beth shouted. " Yes, it is grand ! " " Beth," said Aunt Victoria emphatically, -'remember that you are a Cluistian chihl, and not a dancing der- h. If you do not instantly cahn yourself I shall shake you. And if I ever see you give way to such wild excitement again I shall shake you, for your own good. Calm is one of the first attributes of a' gentle- woman." Teachers of religion do not always practise what they preach. Up to this moment, although Beth had done her best to teach Emily, she had had no idea of being religious herself. But now ) i THE BETH BOOK. 159 on a sudden tliore came upon lier tluit great yearning tenderness toward God and desii'e for goodness which some sects call conver- sion, and hold to be the essential beginning of a religious life. This was the opportunity Aunt Victoria had pi-ayed for, and from that time forward she b(>gan to instruct J^eth systematically in religious matters. The subject fascinated Beth, and she would make opportunities to be alone witli her aunt, and go to lier room willingly whenever she asked her, for the pleasure of hearing her. xVunt Victoria ()ft(!n moved about the room and dressed as she talked, and Beth, while listening, did not fail to observe the dilliculty of keeping stockings up on skinny legs when you wore woollen garters below the knee ; and also that it looked funny to have to tuck uj) your dress to get your purse out of a pocket in your i)etticoat at the back. But when Aunt Victoria .sat down and I'ead tlie Bible aloud, Beth became absorbed, and wciuld even read whole chapters again to herself in order t(j remember and bo able to declaim the niova poetical passages as Aunt Victoria did, all of which she relished with the keenest enthusiasm. Unfortu- nately for Beth, however, Aunt Victoria was strongly Calvinistic, and dwelt too much on death and the judgnient for her mental health. The old lady, deeply as she sympathized with Beth and loved her, did not realize how morbidly sensitive she was, and ac- cordingly worked on her feelings until the fear of God got hold of her. Just at this time, too, ]\Irs. Cahlwell chose TJic Pih/riin'fi Pnxji'p.ss for a "Sunday book," and read it aloud to the children ; and this, together with Aunt Victoria's views, operated only too actively on the chihrs vivid imagination. A great dread .s(Mzed upon her — not on her own account, strange to say : she never thought of herself, but of hei- fi-ieiuls, and of {]\o world at large. She was in nu)rtal dread lest they should be called to judgment and consigned to th(» flaTues. While the sun was out such thoughts did not troubhHier; but as the day declined, and twi- light sond)rely succeed(>d the sunset, her heart sank, and her little being was racked with one great ])etition, otl'ered up to the Lord in anguish, that he would span^ them all. The season was beginning, the little place was already full of visitors, aiul Beth us(m1 to stand at the dining-room window while Mrs. Caldwell was i-eading aloud on Sunday evenings, and watch the congregation stream out of the church at the end of the road, and suiter agonies becau.se of the torments that aw 'ited them all, including her mother, brothers, and si.sters. Harriet in the kitcdien, and Mrs. Davy at Orchard House opposite — everybody, indeed, 160 THE 13ETII ROOK. except Aunt Victoria — in a future state. Out on tlie cliffs in the suninier evening's, when great dark masses of cloud tinged with crimson were piled to tlie zenith at sundown and coldly rellected in the dark waters of the bay, she saw the destination of the world ; she heard cries of torment, too, in tlie plash of breaking- waves and the unceasing roar of the sea ; and as she watched the visitors, lounging about in bright dresses, laughing and talking, careless of their doom, she could hardly restrain her tears. Night after night when she went to bed she put her head under the clothes that Bernadine might not hear, and her chest was torn with sobs until she fell asleep. At that time she devised no more tricks, she took no interest in games, and would not fight even. Bernadine did not know what to make of lier. All day she was recovering from the lassitude caused by the mental anguish of the previous evening, but regu- larly at sunset it began agjiin ; and the more she suffered the less able was she to speak on the subject. At first she had tried to dis- cuss eternal punishment with Harriet, Bernadine, and Aunt Vic- toria, and each had r(^sponded characteristically. Harriet's imagination dwelt on the particular torments reserved for certain people she knew, which she described graphically. Bermuline listened to Beth's remarks with interest, then accused Beth of try- ing to frighten her, and said she would tell mamma. Aunt Vic- toria discoursed earnestly on the wages of sin, the sufferings of sinners, the glories of salvation, the peace on earth from knowing you are saved, and the j)leasures of the world to come ; but the more Beth heard of the joys of heaven, the more she dreaded the liorrors of hell. Still, however, she was too shy to say anything about her own acute mental misery, and no one suspected that anything was wrong, until one day something dejected in the child's attitude happened to catch Aunt Victoria's attention. Beth was sitting on an African stool, her elbow on her knee, her chin resting on her little hand, her gray eyes looking up through the window at the smnmer sky. What could the child be thinking of. Aunt Victoria wondered, and surely she was look- ing thin and jiale— quite haggard. "Why don't you get something to do. Beth?" the old lady asked. " It's bad for little girls to idle about all day." •'I wish I had something to do," Beth answered. "I'm so tired." " Does your liead ache, child ? " Aunt Victoria asked, speaking sharply because her mind was disturbed. I THE BETH BOOK. 101 "You should answer politely, and say ' No, thank you.' " "No, thank you, xVunt Victoria," was the docile rejoinder. Aunt Victoria resolved to speak to Mrs. Caldwell, and resumed her knittinj^. She was one of those peoph^ wlio can keep what they liave to say till h suitable occasion offers. Her mind was never so full of any one subject as to overtlow and make a mess of it. She would wait a week watcliiny her opportunity if neces- sary ; and slie did not, tlierefore, although she saw Mrs. Caldwell frequently during tlie day, speak to her about Beth until the chil- dren liad gone to bed in the evening, when she was sure of her effect. Then she began abruptly. '• Caroline, that child Beth is ill." Mrs. Caldwell was startled. It was very inconsiderate of Aunt Victoria. She knew she was nervous about her children; how could she be so unfeeling ? What nuule her think Beth ill i " Look at her !" said Aunt Victoria. ''She eats notliing. She has wasted to a skeleton, she has no blood in her face at all, and her eyes look as if she never slept." "I am sure she sleeps well enough," Mrs. Caldwell answered, inclined to bridle. "I feel quite sure, Caroline," Aunt Victoria said solemnly, "that if you take a candle and go upstairs this minute you will find that chikl wide awake." Mrs. Caldwell felt that she was being found fault with, and was indignant. She went upstairs at once, witli lier head held high, expecting to find Beth in a healthy slee]). The relief, liow- ever, of finding that tlie child w.is woll would not have b(>en so great at the moment as the .satisfaction of proving Aunt Victoria in the wrong. But Beth was wide awake, petitioning God in an agony to spare her friends. When Mrs. Caldwell entered, she .started up. "O mannna," she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you've cornel I've been so frightened about you." "What is tlie matter witli you. Beth?" Mrs. Caldwell asked not over gently. " Wliat are you frightened about ? " "Nothing," Beth faltered, shrinking back into herself. "Oh, that's nonsense," her mother answ<>red. "It's sillv to be frightened at nothing, and cowardly to be frightened at all. Lie down and go to sh'ep like a good child. Come, turn your face to the wall, and I'll tuck you in." i 'in 1G2 THE BETH BOOK. Beth oboycd, and Ijer niotlior loft lier to her foars and roturnod to Aunt Victoria in tlie drawiiiff-rooni. "Wok. "Look here, young woman," he said, "what do you mean by tumbling about like this ? I shall have the trouble of turning back and putting you on shore." " No, don't ; no, don't," Beth pleaded. " Take me along with you." He looked at her an instant, considering, then went to the side of the yacht and called up to her frantic mother : "She's all right. I'll have lier dried, and bring her back this afternoon" — with which assurance Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to content herself, for the yacht sailed ou — not that she would have objected. Beth and THE BETH JJOOK. ion i Count Gustav wore sworn allies by this tinio, and Mrs. Cukhvell knew that Beth could not be in better hands. Beth had seen Count Gustav j)a.ssin;,'' th back and talk to you.'' Betli promjjtly oljeyed. She was an ill-used lieroine now, in the hands of her knightly deliverer, and thor- oughly happy. When Count Gustav returned he was followed by Gard, a tall, dark, haiul.somc sailor, a desceiulant of black Dane settlers on the coast, and for that reason commonly called l^lack Gard. He brought sandwiches, cakes, and hot tea on a tray for Beth. She liad propped herself up with })illows in the berth, and was look- ing out of an oi)(Mi jjorthole ()i)posite, listening enraptured to the strains of the band, which, mellowed by distance, lloated out over the wat(M'. " What a radiant little face I " the count thought as he handed her the tea and .sandwiches. Beth took them voraciously. " Did you have any bi-eakfast ?" the count asked, smiling. " Yes," Beth answered. "What did you have?" " Milk and hot water and dry toast. I made Iho toast my- self." " No butter ? " " No. The bxitter's running .short, so I wouldn't take any." '' When do you lunch ? " " Oh, we don't lunch. Can't afl'ord it, you know. The boys have got to be educated, and Uncle James Patten won't help, though Jim's his heir." Count Gustav looked at )ier little delicate hand lying on the coverlet, and then at the worn little face. "You've been crying,"' he said. i 104 TIIK IJETII BOOK. " Ah, that Wius only last iiiglit after I went to bctl," Bctli an- sworod. " It makes you cry wlieu peoijlc aren't saved, doesn't it { Are you saved ? If you're not it will be awful for nie." " Why ? " " Cos it would lun't so hero to think of you burning- in hell." Beth (vlasped her chest. " It always l)(><,''ins to ache lien* — in the eveninj^ — for the people who aren't saved, and wlu'ii I go to bed it makes me cry." " Who told you about being saved, and that ? " " Aunt Victoria. She lives witli us, you know. She's going away now to pay a visit, because the boys are coming home, and Mildred, for the holidays, and there wouldn't be room for her. I'm dreadfully sorry ; but I shall go to church and read the Bible just the same when .she's away." Count Gustav sat down on the end of the saloon table and re- flected a little; then he said: "I wouldn't read anything if I were you while Aunt Victoria's away. Just play about with Mil- dred and the boys and come out fishing with me somi^times. God doesn't want you to save people. He does that himself. I ex- pect he's very angry because you cry at night. lie thinks you don't trust him. All he wants you to do is to love him and trust him and be happy. That's the creed ft)r a little girl," "Do y(ni tliink so ?" Both gasped. Then .she began to reflect, and her big gray eyes slowly dilated, while at the same time a look of intense relief relaxed the nniscles of her pinched little face. "Do you think so?" .she repeated. Then suddenly she burst into tears. Count Gustav, somewhat disconcerted, hurriedly handed her a handkerchief. Another gentleman came into the saloon at the moment and raised inquiring eyebrows. " Only a little martyr, momentarily released from suffering, enjoying the reacticm," Count Gustav observed. " Come on deck, and let her sleep. — Do you hear, little lady, go to sleep." Beth, docile to a fault when gently handled, nestled doAvn among the blankets, shut Ikm' eyes, and prepared to obey. The sound of the water rippling off the sides of tlie yacht as she glided on smoothly over the summer sea both soothed and clieered her. Heavenly thoughts came crowding into her mind ; then sleep surprised her, with the tears she had been shedding for the sufferings of others still wet upon her cheek. When she awoke her clothes were beside her, ready to put on. She jumped up THE IlKTII BOOK. u;:> lier a and Ideck, Llown The tlided her. [sleep the Iwoke 3d up instantly, dressed, and wont on deck. Tlic yacht was almost sta- tionary, and tlui two {^cntUMncn, attended In' the l)la('k l)an«% Gard, were lisliing. Away to starboard the land lay liko a silver mist in the heat of the afternoon. Beth turned her sorrowful little face toward it. ''Are you honiesiek, Beth ?" Count Gustav asked. " No, siok of home," lieth answered; "but 1 suppose T sball have to j^o back." " And what then ? " "Mamma will punish me for jumping" into the harbour, I expect." " Jinnpinr/ in I " he ejaculated, and then a {^reat g-ravity settled upon him and lie coyitaUul for .some time. " Wliy did you jump in ?" he said at last. " Because inanuna— because mamma " Her chest heaved. She was ashamed to say. Count Gustav exchanged glances with the otluM* genthMiiau and said no mon\ But he took her home himself in the evening', and had a long' talk with mamma and Aunt Victoria, and after he had g'one they were both particularly nice to Beth, but very .solemn. That night, too. Aunt Victoria did not mention death and the judg'nient, but talked of heaven and the mercy of God until Beth's brow ch^ared, and .she was filled with ho[)e. It was the next day that Aunt Victoria left them to make room for Mildred and the boys. Beth went with her mother to see the old lady off at the station. On account of their connec- tions the little party attractinl attention, and Mi's. Caldwell, feel- ing her importance, expected the officials to be obsequious, which they were, and in return .she also expected Aunt Victoria to make proper acknowledgment of their attentions. She considered that sixpence at least was necessary to uphold the dignity of the fam- ily on such occasions, but, to her horror, when the moment came Aunt Victoria, after an exciting fumbl(\ drew from her reticule a tract entitled The Man on, the Slant, and, in the face of every- body, handed it to the expectant porter. Mrs. Caldwell assured Lady Benyon afterward that she should never forget that moment. Beth used to wonder why. IGG TIIK WKTU HOOK. CHAPTER XVIII. The ond of tlio holidays found Hctli in fi vory dilToront mood. Jim liJid coiin! witli tin' ideas of his adolcscciicc, and Mildn-d had brou^'ht new music, and th('S(» toj,^otli('r had helped to take hei' completely out of herself. The rest from les.sons, too, from lier rnoth(T\s method of makiri','' educalion a uuirtyrdom, and many more houi's of each day than usual spent in the opcii air, had also helped ^^reatly to eas(^ her mind and stren^ithen her body, so that <'ven in the time, whitdi was only a few W(>cks, .sho liud recovered her colour, shot up, and expanded. Most of the time .she had spent with Jim, whom .sh(» had studied ■with absorbing interest, his jjoint of vi«'W wa.s so wholly unex- pected. And even in the.s<; (>ai'ly days she sliowed a trait of char- acter for which she afterward became remarkable — that is to say, she learned the whole of th(^ facts of a case before she f( answer would be in any single example from a ligure or two, but had to take them all down in order to work tlu^ sum. And her object was alway.s not to prove herself right in any guess sh(> might have made, but to arrive at the truth. Rhe was eleven years old at this time, but looked fourteen. It was when she went out shooting with Jim that they used to liave their most interesting di.scussions. dim used to take her to carry things, but never otl'ered her a sliot. because she was a girl. She did not care about that, however, because she had made up lier mind to take the gun when he was gone and go out shooting on her own account; and she abstracted a certain atnount of powder and shot froju his ilasks each day to pay herself for her present trouble and also to be ready for the future. Uncle James had given Jim leave to shoot provided he sent the game he killed to Fairholm ; and sometimes they sp* tit the day wandering through the woods after birds, and sometimes they sat on the i'lills which skirted the ])roperty, {)otting rabbits. Jim expected Beth to act, as usual, as a kee])er for him, and also to retrieve like a well-trained dog, and when on one occasion she disap- ])()inted him he had a good deal to say about the uselessnes.s of sisters, and the inferiority of the sex generally. Women, he 1 K(l to icr to 10 up )tinj? lit of ir her lines tilled MMllJ? 11 the ^cted Irieve isap- ■;ness 111, he TIIK IlKTII BOOK. in u always nmintaiiu'd, were only lit to sew on huttons and mend Koeks. " But is it contemptible to sew on huttons and mend socks T' Beth asked one day when they were siltinj,'' in a sandy hollow waiting; for rahhits. " It's not a man's work," said .Hm, a trille disconcerted. Beth looked about her. The j,'reat sea, the vast tract of sand, and the l)lue sky so hi^^'h above them made hersulVer for her own iiisif^nilicance, and feel for the moment that n(»thiii^ was worth while; but in th«' hollow wliei'i' they sat it was cosy and the j;ra.vs was jrreeii. Miniatun^ dill's overhunj,'' the rabbit holes, and the dry soil was silvered by sun and wind and rain. There was a .still" brec/c blowinj,''. but it did not touch them in their sheltered nook. They could hear it makiii','' its moan, however, as if it were vainly tryinj^ to j^et at them ; and there also ascemh'd from below the ceaseless .sound of tlu^ sea. Beth turned her back on the wild prospect and watched the rabbit holes. "There's one on the rijj^ht," she .said at last, softly. Jim raised his {run, aimed, and fired. The I'abbit rolled over on its back, and lietli rose in a leisuvelv wav, fetclu'd it, carrvinj; it by its les's, and threw it down on the ba;,^ "And when all the buttons are sewed on and all the socks mended, what is a girl to do with her time ?" she asked dispas- sionately, when .she had reseated herself. "The thinfrs only come home from the wash once a week, vou see." "Oh, there's lots to be done," Jim answered vaf^niely. "There's the cooking'. A man's life isn't worth having if the cookinm nicely in their absence, and even boasted about their accomplishinenls. " Your brother Jim says yo\i can act anything," Charlotte Hardy, the doctor's daughter, told Beth. "And you recite won- derfully, although youVe never heard anyone recite; and you tiilk like a grown-up person.'' Beth flu-'-^lied with .surprise and pleasure at this ; but her heart had hardly time to exi)and before she observed the puzzling discrepancy Ijetween what Jim said to her and what he had been saying to other people, and found it impo.ssil)le to reconcile the two so as to have any confidence iu Jim's sincerity. Before tlie end of the holidays she liad learned to enjoy Jim's compaiiionshi)), but .she had no respect for his opinions at all. He had taught lier a good deal, howev(^r. He had taught her, for one thing, the futility of discussion with peo])le of his capacity. The small intellect should be treated like the small child — with the tenderest consideration. It must not hear too nuich of anything at a time, and there are certain things that it Tnu.st never be told at all. Simple familiar facts with obvious little morals are the right food for it ; and constant re]ietition of what it knows is safe ; but such lieavy things as theories, opinions, and arguments must IBM— t— W TIIF. HETIl BOOK. IGD before laid to uiul it lu-e iu .Tini's ll. He |)r one The |th the rthinff !<> told ^'0 the safe; must \ be kept carefully concealed from it, for fear of causing' cong'estion or paralysis, or, worse still, that parlous condition which betrays itself in distressing symptoms sncli as one sees daily in society, or sits and shudders at in one's own friejids, when tlie victim, swellinjj: with importance, makes contich'iit misstatements, draws erroneous conclusions, sums up and gives advice so fatuous that yon ]>lush to be a biped of the same species. There was a hotel in Kainharbour called the United King- dom, wdiere Jim spent much of his tinu' i)laying billiards, drink- ing beer, and smoking- pipes. He had to coax moiu'y out of his mother continually for tliese pursuits. "It's the kind of thing a fellow mu.st do, you know, majnma." he said. " You can't expect him to stick at home like a girl. He must see life or he'll be a mutl' instead of a man of the worhl. How shall I get on at Fairholm when I come in for the property if I'm not up to things !■ " This was said at breakfast one morning-, and ]\rrs. Caldwell, sitting opposite the window, raised her worn face and look(>d up at the ky, consid(Ting what else there was that she could do without. "Do you learn how to manage estates at the United King- dom ?" Beth put in ijinocently. "Now look here, Ik'th, just you shut uj)," said Jim. "You're always putting youi- oar in. and it's deuced impei-tinent of a child like you when I'm talking to my mother. Slw knows ■ hat I'm talking about, and you don't; but you'll be teachin." said Mrs. C^aldwell : "and you shall have nothing but bread and water for the rest of the day." " It will be a dinner of herbs with contentment, then, if I have it alone." .said Beth, for which impertiuence she was condemned to be present at every meal. 12 lYo THE BETH BOOK. Having extracted the money from his mother, Jim went off to the United Kingdom, and came back in tlie afternoon somewhat th(; worse for beer ; but Mrs. Caldwell did not perceive it. He complained of the poor dinner, the cooking, and Beth's shabby appearance. "How <;an you go out with me like that ? " httled in her house, to beg for the hojiour of being allowed to educate her three little girls, and Betii had a.ssisted at the intei'view with serious attention. It would have been the best thing in the world for her had she been allowed to romp and learn with that careless, hapi)y, healtby- minded crew of resj)ectable little i)lebeians ; but Mrs. Caldwell would never have dreamed of sending any of her own superior brood to associate with such people, even if she could have afforded it. She politely explained t(» Miss Granger that slie was educating her cliildren herself for tlie present ; and it was then, with a sickening sense of disai)pointment, that Beth re.j<'eted lier mother's social standard, with its " vulgar exclusivene.s.s,'' once for all. She hung out of the window now, heedless of Harriet's ap- peals to be " 'elped wi' the beds," and watched the games going on in the next garden with pathetic gravity. Tiie girls were playing rounders among the old fruii trees on the grass plot, with a Joud accompaniment of shrieks and shouts of laughter. They tumbled up against the trees continually, and shook showers of autumn leaves down upon themselves; aTid then, tiring . Jie game, tliey began to jxdt each other with the leaves, and laughed and shrieked still louder. Some of th(^m looked up and made faces at Beth, but s!ie did not acknowledge tlu discourtesy. She kfi<\v that they were not ladies, but did not feel, as her mother did, that this was a fault for wliich they should be punished, but a misfortune, rather, for which slie pitifnl them, and she would iiave liked to lu-ive made it uj) to tiiem l)y knowing them. Sud- denly she remem})er( tl that Auni Victoria was comiiig back that day, whicii was sometbing to look forward to. She took llar-iets duster, and w<'nt to see if the old lady's room were all in order for her and arrangj^d as she liked it. Then she returned to the drawing-room and sat down on tlie piano stool, and rage and re- 1 176 THE BETH BOOK. bellion uprose in her luiurt. The ])i('('e of music still lay on the floor, and slie stanipod her foot on it. As she did so, her mother cum(^ into the room. "Do you know your lesson ?'' she demanded. "No, I do not," said Beth, and then .slie doubled her fi.st and brou},^ht it down banj^ on the keyboard. "IIow dare you I " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed, startled by the vehemence of the blow and jarred by the discordant cry of the poor piano. "I felt I must — I felt I mu.st make somethiii^^ suifer," said Betl>, in a deep cbest voice and with knitted brow.s, twistiiif? her lin^'-ers, and rising- to face her mother as she spoke ; "and if I had not struck the piano I should have struck yoit." Mrs. Caldwell could not hav(^ be(>n more taken aback if Beth had struck her. The colour left her face, a chill succcmhUhI the heat of temper, and h(>r rir liand. "What li.ivo you tlicrc, I'uck y '' said Lady licnyon, catching'' sight of some liicroj^'lypli drawn on tlu' paper. licth gave it to lier, and she turned it this way and tliat, but could make noth- ing of it. "Mananawill tell us what it is,'" said B(>th, taking it to Iut mother. Mrs. Caldwell, all snnl(>s, looked at tlH> di'awing. "It's an astronomical sign, sui'cly," she ventured. " No, it is not," Beth said. "Then I don't know what it is," her motlier rejoined. " Oh, hut you must know, mamma," .said Beth. " Look again.'' "But I don't know, Beth," Mrs. Caldwell insi.sted. "Couldn't you make t out if Aunt Victoria beat you ?" Beth suggested. Mrs. Caldwell changed countenance. "That is what you expect me to do, at all events," Beth pur- sued. "Now, you see, you can't do it yourself; and 1 ask you was it fair to expect mo to make out a sti'ange sign by staring at it ? " She set her mouth hard when sIk; had spoken, and looked lier niother straight in the face. Mrs. Caldwell winced. " What's the difficulty. Puck ? " Lady Bonyon asked. "The difTiculty is between mo and mamma,'' Beth answered with dignity, and then she left the room, .sauntering out as she had come in, with an utterly disi)irited air. The next morning .she went to ])ractise as usual, but Mrs. Cald- well did not come to give her her music lesson. Both thought she had forgotten it, and wont to remind her. "No, Beth, I have not forgotten." said Mrs. Caldwell; "but after your conduct yesterday T do not know how you can expect me to give you another music lesson." " Are you not going to give me any more ? " Beth exclaimed. "No, certainly not," her mother answered. Beth's heart sank. She sto(Ml for some little time in the d(K)r- way looking at her mother, who sat beside the tal)l(^ sewing, and pointedly ignored her ; then Beth turned and wont back to the drawing-room slowly and carefully practised the iisual time, with great tears trickling down her cheeks. It did not seem to make much difference what happened, whether she was on her best be- liaviour or her worst, the tears were bound to come. But Beth had a will of her own, and she determined to learn music She I 178 TIIH BKTll HOOK. said no more on the subject to her mother, however, hut from thiit (liiy forw.'ird slie ])riU'tis(>(l rcyulurly ami hard and studied licr instruction books, and listened to otbcr peoph; j)layinff wlien she liad a elianee, and asked to have i)assages exi)hiined to licr, until at last she knew more than her mother could have tau^^ht her. I CHAPTER XIX. But well-sprinfjs, mortal and immortal, were beginning to bubble up briglitly in IJeth desi)it<' tlie hard conditions of her life. She sh.irpciK'd lier wits involuntarily on th(: people about her, she fjfathered knowledge where she listed, her furtlier faculty Hashed forth fine rays at unexj)ected intervals to cheer her ; and lier hungry luvirt also began to seek satisfaction. For Beth \v;is by nature well-balanced ; there was to be no atrophy of one side of her being in order that tlu; other might be abiu)rmally devel- oped. Her "best was not to be llattened because her skull bulged with the big brain beneath. Rather the contraiy. For miiul aiul body acted and reacttnl on each other favourably in .so far as the conditions of her life were favourable. Such congcuiial intellec- tual pursuits as she was able to follow by tranized them siiiiuItaJM'oiisly, and they turned their faces to each otiier and smiled a;j:ain the moment their eyes met. All thi'ou^di the .service thoy kept looking at each other and looking' away a<,Min, and H«'th felt a strange j^kid glow begin in her chest and spread griulually all over her. It continued with her the whole day ; she was con- scious of it throughout the night, and directly she awok(> next morning, there it was again ; and she could think of nothing l)ut the ai)ple-cheeked hoy with bright blue eyes and curly fair hair; and as she dw(dt upon his image she smiled to liers(df, and kept on smiling. Then^ came upon her also a great desin^ to ])lease, with sudden energy which made all ell'ort easy to her, so tlint in- stead of being tiit'some at her lessons, she did them in a way that astonished her mother — such a wonderful inccMttivo is a littlo joy in life. She would not go out when lessons were over, how(>ver, but stood in the drawing-room window watching the j)(>ople pa.s,s. Harriot came and worried her to help with the dusting. "Go away, you chattering idiot," said Deth. She had found Harriet out in many nieannes,s(>s by this time, and had lost all re- spect for her. " Don't you see I'm thinking ? If you don't bother me now I'll help you byci-and-bye, perhaps.'' Oii the other sid«^ of the road, in the same row as the Benyon dower house, but well within si<^'-ht of Keth's window, was the Mansion House Collegiate Day and Boarding Stdiool foi* the Soils of Gentlemen. Beth kept looking in that direction, and presently the boys came pouring out in their mortar boards, and among them she soon discovered the one sh(5 was thinking of. She dis- covered him less by sight than by a strange .sensation in herself— a pleasure which shot through her from top to toe. For no reason she stepped back from the window and looked in the opposite direction toward the church ; but she could see him when he came bounding past with his .satchel of books under his arm, and she also knew that he .saw her. He ran on, however, and goiny' I'ound the corjier, where Orchard Row turned otF at an angle out of Orchard Street, was out of sight in a moment. But Beth was satisfied. Indeed, she was more than satisfied. She ran into the kitchen and astonished Harriet by a burst of liilarious spirits and a wild demand for food, for a duster, for a scrubbing brush. She wanted to do a lot, and she was hungry, " You're fond, ah think," said Harriet dryly. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 • iiii 1.4 IM IM M 1.6 V} VI ^1 ^/. op. /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14580 (716) 873-4503 4 f??/ 180 THE BETH BOOK. " You're fond, too," Beth said. " We're all fond ! The fond- er the better ! And I must have something to eat." " Well, there's notliing for you but bread." " I must have meat," cried Beth. " Rob the joint, and I'll not take any at dinner." " Ah'd tak' it w'eniver ah could get it, if ah was you," Harriet advised. " If you was or were me you'd do as I do," said Beth, " and / won't cheat. If I say I won't take it I won't. I'm entitled to meat once a day, and I'll take my share now, please ; but I won't take more than my share." " You'll be hungry again by dinner time." " I know," said Beth. " But that won't make any difference." She got out the sirloin of beef which was to be roasted for dinner, deftly cut some slices off it, fried them with some cold potatoes, and ate them ravenously, helped by Harriet. When dinner time came Beth wa.s ravenous again, but she w"s faithful to her vow and ate no meat. Harriet scoffed at her for her scrupulousness. The next day at the .same time Beth w^as again in the window, waiting for her boy to come out of the Mansion House School. When he appeared, tlie most delightful thrill shot through her. Her first impulse was to lly, but she conquered that and waited, watching iiim. He made straight for the window and stopped in a businesslike way, and then they lav.glied and looked into each otlier's faces. " What are you doing there ? " he asked, as if he were accus- tomed to see her somewhere else. " I live here," she said. "I live in Orchard Row, la.st house," he rejoined. •' Old Lee's ? " Beth inquired. " Yes, he's my grandfatlier. I'm Sammy Lee." " He's a Licensed Victualler Retired," Beth repeated, drawing upon her excellent verbal memory. " Yes," said Sannny. " What's yours i " " I haven't one." " What's your father ? " " He's dead too." " What was he ? " •' He was a gentleman." " A retired gentleman ? " " No," said Beth, " an otiicer and a gentleman." TiiR bi«:tii book. 181 " Oh." said Sammy. " My father's dead too. He was a re- tiivd pentleinaii." " What's a retir^-d j^entleman ? " " Don't you know ? " Sammy exclaimed. " I thouplit every- bwly knew that ! Wlien you make a f»)rtune you retire from business. Tlien you're a retired ^enthnnan." " But g-enth'men don't go into business," Beth objected. " What do they do then ? " Sanmiy retorted. " They have professions — or property." " It's all the same." said Sammy. " It isn't," Beth contradicted. "Yah : yoH dont know," said Sammy, lauffhing- ; and then he ran on, being late for his dinner. The discussion had been carried on with broad smiles, and when he left her Beth hugged herself and glowed again, and was glad in the thought of him. But it was not his convei'sation so much as his appearance that she dwelt up(m — his round blue eyes, his bright, fair curly hair, his rosy cheeks. "He is beauti- ful I he is beautiful I " she exclaimed ; then added, upon rellec- tion : "' A)i(l I never thought a hoy hedutiful before^ The next day .she was making rhymes about him in the acting room and forgot the time, .so that she mis.sed him in the morning, but when he left school in the afternoon she was at the window, and she saw him trotting up the street as hard as his little legs could carry him. " Where were you at dinner time ? " he said. " How funny I " she exclaimed in surpri.se and delight. " What's funny ? " lie demanded, looking about him vaguely. "You were wanting to see me." "Who told you so ? " Sammy asked suspiciously. "You did youi'self ju.st now," Beth answered, her eyes dancing. "I didn't."^ " You king out. " If I'm not mistaken," said Lady Benyon suddenly, " there is a crowd collecting at your house." " Wliat, again ?" Mrs. Caldwell groaned, jumping up. " If I'm not mistaken," Lady Benyon repeated. Mrs. Caldwell hurried oil' without even waiting to shake handa On getting into the street, however, she was relieved to find that Lady Benyt)n liad been mistaken. There was no crowd collect- ing in Orchard Street, but as she appn>ached her own house she became aware of a small boy at the drawing-room window talk- ing to some one within, whom she presently discovered to be Beth. " What are you doing there, Beth ? " she demanded, severely. •' Who is this boy ? " " Sannny Lee, " Beth gasped, being startled — " Mr. Lee's grand- son at the end of Orcliard Row," " Why are you tiilking to him ? " her mother asked harshly. "I won't have you talking to him. Who will you scrape ac- quaintance with next ? '' Then she turned to Sammy, who stood shaking in his shoes, with all the rosy colour faded from his fair, fat cheeks, too frightened to stir. " Go away," .said Mrs. Cald- wx>ll. " You've no business here, talking to my daughter, and I won't allow it." Sammy sidled off, not daring to turn his back full till he was at a safe distance, lest he .should be seized from behind and shaken. He was not an heroic figure in retreat, but Beth, in her indigna- tion, noted nothing but the insult that had been offered to him. For several days, when her motli(>r was out, she watched and waited for him, anxious to atone ; but Sammy kept to the otlier side of the road, and r written vol- untjtrily, and she shut hei'self up in the acting room to compose it, in imitation of Aunt Orace Mary, wliose benutiful delicate handwriting she always did her best to copy, with very indiffer- 184 THE BETH BOOK. ! ent success, however, for tlie couiiootion b<»tvveon her liand and her head wjis imperfect. She couhl coiujKtse vei-ses and phrasers long before slie coukl commit th«'ni to paper intellif^ibly ; and it was not the conij)osition of her note to Sammy tliat troubled her, but her bad writing. Sbe made a religious ceremony of the effort, praying fervently, "Lord, let me write it well 1" Every day she pr of a half slicct of paper, wliich was tlicn folded so that she could write the address on the other side, hecause she had no envelope, then she wondered how she should pet it deliv<'red. There was a coolness hetween her aiul Harriet. Beth resented the coarse insinuation ahout having a sweetheart, and shrank froTU hearing any more remarks of a like natur«! on the suhject. And she couldn't send the letter hy post hecause slie luid no stamp. Should she lay it on his dooi'st«'p ? No; somelxKly else might get it. IIow then i She was .standing on her own door- step with the letter in her pcn-ket when she jisked hei-self the question, and just at the moment Sammy himself appean'd. com- ing l)ack from school, (^uick as thought Beth ran across the road, whipped out the letter, and gave it to him. Sammy st(M)d still in {ustonishment, with his nu)uth open, gazing at it when he found it in his hand, as if lie could not imagine how it got there. As soon as it was dark Beth stationed herself at the hack gate, which looked out into Orchard Stn-et, and waited and waited ; but Sammy did not come. lie ha Sammy's head. " O Sammy, why didn't you come ? " she cried. "I didn't like." said Sammy. " I've been waiting for hours," Beth expostulated with gentle reproach. " So have I, and it's cold," said Sammy disconsolately. 186 THE BETH BOOK. "Come now. She's out," Beth coaxed. *' So she WJLS the other day," Saininy reiiiinded lier. " But we'll go into the garden. She can't catch us tliere. It's too dark." Sammy, lialf persuaded, ventured out from the gateway, then hesitated. " But is it rery dark ? " lie said. "Not so very, when you're u.sed to it," Beth answered. "But it's nice when it's dark. You can fancy you see things. Come, run ! " She seizcnl his hand us she spoke, and set oU' ; and Sammy, overborne by the stronger will, kept pace with her. " But I don't want to .see things," he i)rotested, trying to hold back when they came to the dark pas.sage which led into the garden. " Don't be a fool, Sannny I " said Beth, dragging him on. " I believe you're a girl ! " " I'm not," .said Sammy indignantly. " Then come and sit in the seesaw." " Oh, have you a seesaw '{ " he jtsked, innnediately diverted. " Yes, this way, under the pear tree. It's a swing, you know, tied to the branch ; and I put this board across it. I pulled the board up out of the floor of the woodhouse. Do you like see- sawing?" " Yes," said Sammy with animation. " Catch liold, then," said Beth, tipi)ing up the board at her end. " Wliat are you doing, butter fingers ? " .she cried, as Sainmy failed to catch hold. I'm sorry I said you were a girl — you're much too clumsy." She held the board until Sanmiy got astride of it at one end, then she bestrode it herself at the other, and .started it with a vigorous kick on the ground. Vp and down they went, shaking showers of l(»aves from the old tree and an (X'cjusional winter pear, which fell with a thud, being hard and h(»avy. "Golly, this is fine ! " Sammy burst out. " I say, Beth, what a jolly sort of a girl you are ! " " Do you think so ? " said Beth, amply rewarded for all her troubl(>. "Yes. And you can write a letter! My. what a time it mu.st 'a' took you ! But, I say. it's all rot about sto])s, you know. Stops is things in books. You\l never learn stops." " How do you know ? " Beth demanded, bridling. "Men write books." said Sammy, proud of his sex, "not women — let alone gels ! " THE BETU BOOK. 187 "That's all you know about it, then!" criod Beth, better in- fornu'd. " Worucu do write hooks, and K'irls too. Jane Austen wrote hooks, and Maria Kdj^eworth wrote liooks, and Fanny Hur- ney wrote a hook when she was only seventeen, called Krvlina, and all the j,'-reat men read it." "Oh," said Santiny, jeering, "so you're as clever as they are, I suppose! " Sammy was up in the air as he spoke; the next moment he came down bump on the ground. "There," .said Beth, "that'll teach you I You be rude again if you dare 1 " " ril not come near you again, spit-cat ! " cried Sammy, pick- ing himself up. " I know you won't," Beth rejoined. " You daren't. You're afraid." " Who's afraid ? " said Sammy, blustering. "Sanuny Lee," said Beth. "Oh, Sammy Lee's afraid of me, riding the .seesaw under the tree." " I .say, Beth," said Saumiy, nmch impressed, " did j'ou make that yourself ( " "Make what mvself? Make you afraid ? Yes. I did." " No, you didn't," said Sammy, plucking up spirit ; " I'm not afraid." "Then don't he a fool," .said Beth. " P\)()l youiNelf," Sammy muttered, but not very valiantly. The church clock struck nine. They were standing about, Beth not knowing what to do next, and Sammy wait'ng for her to suggest something; and in the meantime the night became colder, and the darkness more intense. " I think I'd h(>tter take you home." Beth said at last. " Here, give me your hand." She dragged him out of the garden in her im])etuous way, and they scamju'red otF together to Orchard How, and when they reached the Lees' house they were so warmed and cheered by the exercise that they parted from each other in high good humour. " ril come again," said Sammy. "Do!" said Beth, giving him a gre.'it jjush that sent him sprawling uj) the |)a.ssage. Tliis was the kind of attention he un- derstood, so he went to bed satisfied. There was only one great interest in life for the people at Rainharbour. Their religion gave them but cold comfort, their labour was arduous and paid them poorly, they had no books, no ISS riiy, UKTII BOOK. intelloctuul pursuits, no puinos t<> tiiko tliom out of thomsolvos, iiotliiiij^ to oxpJiiHi lln'ir linirts as u coiunmnity. Tlicro wore the races, the fair, and tin- liiriii^^s for «'xt'it<'nu'iit, hut of plrasurr such as satisfies hecMuse it is soul sustjiiiiin;^. and continuous enough to he part t)f their lives, they knew nothing. The ujiper classes were idle, self-satislied, sellish, and sensual ; tlu^ lower wen^ industrious enouffh, hut i^^norant, supeixtitious, and depres.sed. The j^entry ^avo themselves airs of superiority, really as if their charact<'rs were as j^ood as their numnei-s; hut they did not impose upon the people, who despised them for their veneer. Each class displayed its contempt for the other openly when it could safely do so, hut W!is reatly to crinj^e wlu-n it suited its own convenience — the workers for employment and the; gentry for political pui'poses. But hunum hei FIJI'S are too dependent on each other for such dif- ferences to exist without ct of sweethearts, the boys and girls never could uiidei*stund why. Their own inclination was to go about together openly in the most public places, that wjus how they undei-stood sweet hearting ; part of the pleasure of it consisted in other iKH)ple seeing theiu and knowing- that they were sweethearts, and smiling upon them spnimthetically. This, however, the grown-up people never did ; TIIK HKTH BOOK. ISO on the contrary, thoy fn)\vn«'d iiiul jrrrt'd ; and so tlio boys luul l^irls k«'|)t out of tlii'ir way, and souj,'lit WiTft sympathy from t-arh otluT, Anv Httlo hov at th<> Mansion House Sch witli lieth phiced liim in quite an envial)h) position. He th«'n'fi)re very sne if Sammy were at school, heeause then there was no one to interrupt her thoujrlits. When tlie hmh-r was empty 8h<' heeam«' I^oyal Heart or the Trupper, and wonhl waiuh-r otf to Fairhoim to set snares or knock down anything,' she couUl yet near. Tiie <,nni she had f«»und impracticable, Ix'cause she was cer- tain to have hei'n s<'en out with it. Her snares if they wer<' found wcially when Beth did the cooking. In fact, had it not been for Loyal H«'art the family would have pretty nearly starved that winter because of .Tim, who had con- tracted debts like a man, which his mother had to pa}'. With n'gard to Beth's c(M)king, it is remarkable that, although Mi*s. Caldwell iH'i-self had sutl'en'd all through lier married life for want of jmiper training in liousehold mattei*s, she never at- temi)ted to have her own daughtei's better taught. On tlic^ con- trary, she had forbidden Beth to do .servant's work, and objected most strongly to lier cooking until .she found how gocnl it was, and oven then she thought it duo to her position only to counte- nance it under protest. The extraordinary inelliciency of the good-old-fashioned-womanly woman as a wife on a small income, tlH> silly pretences which showed her want of prcjjer self-respect, and the ill-adjusted balance of her und<'veloped mind, which be- trayed itself in ])etty incon.sistencies, (ill us with pity and surprise us, yet encourage us, too, by proving how right and wi.se we were to try our own experiments. If we had listened to advice and done as we were told, the womjin's-sphen?-is-honie would have been as ugly and comfortless a place for iis to-day as it u.sed to be when Beth was forced by the needs of her nature to poach for I TIIK UKTII BOOK. IIM Mifrh life iit- oil- tod WilS, iito- tho )ine, M'C't, be- )ri.se vcre and uive ) be for divrrsion, cook for kitidiu'ss. ntul clnin. nnd fit,'l»t, mul pniy. and lif, and Iov«', in brr bravr stru;r^,'ir ay-ainst lh«' hard and stupid con«litions of her lif«' conditions which \v«'r«' not <»nly rrtanhnj; the ih'V« lopnirnt. l)ut tlm-atcninj; utt«'rly to distort, if nut actually to dcstroj- all that was best, most beautiful, and most wonderful in her eharact«'r. B<'th rather expected to {jet into difliculties eventually about the trail U'. but she calculated that sin* would hav«' a cei'tain time to run h«'f(>re her head was snapped olf, and durin;,' that time ln'r njother would <'njoy lu'r jfood dinners and be the better for tliem, and she herself would I'lijoy tin; sport, facts which no amount of anpcr afterward could alter. Since Min. Caldwell had washed lier liands of lieth they were bctrinnin;; t'> •»' unite ^Tood friends. Sometimes her mother talked to her just as she would to anybody else— that is to say, with civility. She wouhl say, "And what uni you poinff to do to-day, Heth i " (juite pleasantly, as thouj,Mi speak- ind advice, while t)thers stood behind looking on and listening. And as of old in Ireland she had fascinated the folk, .so here again these great simple bearded men listened witli wondering interest to her tiilk and never answered at all jus if they were speaking to a child. Beth heard some qu«H^r things, sitting down there by the old wooden jetty, fishing for anything she could catch, and she said some queer things, too, when the mood was upon her. Sometimes, when she wanted to be alone and think, she would go off to the rocks that appeared at low water down behind the soutli pier, and fish there. She loved this spot ; it was near to Nature, yet not remote from the haunts of men. She sat there one afternoon, holding her line, and dreamily watching tlie iishing boats .streaming acro.ss the bay, with their brown sails set to catch the fitful breeze which she ct)uld see making cafs-])aws on the water far out, but could not feel, being sheltered from it by the old stone pier. The sea wtis glassy smooth, and lapped up the rocks, heaving regularly like the breast of a tranquil sleep(>r. Beth gazed at it until .she was seized with a great yearning to lie back on its shining surface and be gently borne away to some bright eternity, where Sammy would be and all her other friends. The longing became imperative. She ro.se from the rock she was sitting on, she raised her arms, her eyes were fixed. Then it was as if she had suddenly awakened. The impulse had passed, but .she was all shaken by it, and shivered as if she were cold. Fortunately the fish were biting well that day. She caught two big dabs, four whiting, a small plaice, and a fine fat .sole. The sole was a prize, indeed, and mamma and Aunt Victoria should have it for dinner. As she walked home, carrying the fish on a string, slie met Sammy. "Where did you get those ^sli ?" lie asked. " Caught them," she answered laconically. " Wliat ! all by yourself ? No ! I don't believe it ! " "I did, all the same," she answered; "and now I'm going to cook tliem — some of them, at least." "Yourself ? Cook them yourself ? No!" he cried in admira- tion. Cooking was an accomplishment he lionoured. " If you'll come out after your tea, I'll leave the back gate ajar, and you can slip into the woodhouse, and I'll bring you a whiting on toast, all hot and brown." ■s i THE BETH HOOK. 193 : to ate a "With such an inducomeiit Sammy w.'us in gcKxl time. Beth found liim sitting- contentedly on a heap of sticks, waitinj^ for the feast. She had brc)U]L?lit the whitin;.,' out with a cover over it, liot and hrown, a.s she had promised, and Sammy's moutli watered when he saw it. " What a jolly {^irl you arc, Beth I'' he exclaimed. But Beth was not so nmcli gratiticd by the j)rai.se as she mi<^ht have been. The vision and the dream were upon her that even- ing, her nerves were overwrought, and she was yearning for an outlet for ideas that oppressed her. She stood leaning against the door post, biting a twig ; restless, dissatislied, but not knowing what she wanted. When Sammy had finished the whiting, he remembered Beth, and asked what she was thinking about. "I'm not thinking exactly." she answered, frowning intently in the etfort to find expression for what she had in her conscious- ness. " Things come into my mind, but I don't think them, and I can't say them. They don't come in words. It's more like seeing them, you know, only you don't see them with your eyes, but with .something inside yourself. Do you know wliat it is when you are fishing off the rocks and there is no breaking of waves, only a rising and falling of tlie water, and it comes swelling up about you with a .sort of sob that brings with it a whifl" of fresh air every time and makes you take in your breath with a .sort of sob too, every time, and at last you seem to be the sea. or the sea seems to be you— it's all one ; but you don't think it " Sammy looked at her in a blank, bewildered way. " I like it best when you tell .stories, Beth," he said, under the impression that all this incomprehensible stuff was merely a display for his entertainment. " Come and sit down beside luv. and tell stories." "Stories don't come to me to-night," said Beth, with a tragic face. " Do you remember the last time we were on the sands — oh, I keej) feeling — it was all so — ])('(icef((l—-{]iiit was it. I've been wondering ever since what it wa.s, and that was it— peaceful ; " The ([iiiL't jx'njik'. Tile oKl I'lmn'li sti'f|iK'; Tile Piiiuly reuchcs Of wroek-strcun l)('ache.>i." "Who made that up ?" .said Sammy susj)iciously. "I did," Beth answered offhand. "At least I didn't make it up. it just came to me. When I make it up it'll mosi likely be quite different. It's like the stutl" for a dress, you kncnv, when 194 THE BETU BOOK. you buy it. You get it made up, and it's tlie same stuff, and it's quite different, too, in a way. You've got it put into sliape, and it's good for .something." "I don't believe you made it up,", said Sammy doggedly. "You're stulling me, Beth. You're always trying to stuff me." Beth, still leaning again.st the door post, clasped her hands be- liind her head and looked up at the sky. " Things keep coming to me faster than I can say them to-night," she proceeded, paying no heed to his remark ; " not things about you, though, because nothing goes with Sammy but jammy, clammy, mammy, and those aren't nice. I want things to come about you, but they won't. I tried last night in bed, and what do you think came again and again ? " Yes, yes, tliat wm* liis cry Wliile the {rreat clouds went siulinp by, Flashes of eriiiison on colder sky. Like tlie thoughts of a summer's day, Coloured hy love in u life wliieh else were gray. '' But that isn't you, you know, Sammy. Then when T stopped trying for something about you, there came such a singing I What was it ? It seems to have gone — ai:d yet it's here, you know — it's all liere," she insisted, with one hand on the top of her head and the other on her chest, and her eyes straining. " And yet I can't get it." "Beth, don't get on like that," Sammy remonstrated. " You make me feel all horrid." " Make you feel ! " Beth cried in a deep voice, clenching her fists and shaking them at him, exasperated because the verses con- tinued to elude her. "Don't you know what I'm here for ? I'm here to make you feel. If you don't feel what / feel, then you shall feel horrid, if I have to kill you.'' " Shut up," said Sammy, beginning to be frightened. " I shall go away if you don't." "Go away, then," said Beth. "You're just an idiot boy, and I'm tired of you." Sanmiy's blue eyes filled with tears. He got down from the heap of sticks, intent (m making his escape ; but Beth changed her mind when she felt her audience melting away. " Where are you going ? " she demanded. "I'm going home," he said deprecatingly. "I can't stay if you go on in that fool fashion." THE BETfl BOOK. 195 lior con- you " It isn't a fool fashion," Both rejoined veliemently. " It's you that's !i fool ! I told you so before." "If you wasn't a girl I'd punch your 'ead," said Sammy, half afraid. " I believe you," Beth jeered. " But you're not a pirl, any wa}'." She Hew at him as she spoke, eauj^ht liim by the collar, kicked his shins, slapped his face, and drubbed him on the back. Sammy, overwlielmed by the sudden onslau{,''bt. made noetVort to defend bimself, Ijut just wriggled out of her grasp, and i-an home witb great teai*s .streaming down his round, red clieek.s, ami sobs convulsing him. Bftli's exiusperation subsided the moment she was left alone in the wtKxlhouse. She .sat down on the sticks and looked straiglit before her, tilled with renioi-se. '• What shall 1 do i What shall 1 do 'i " she ke])t saying to her- fielf. "Oh, dear I Oh, dear I Sammy I Sannny 1 He's gone. I've lost him. This is the most dreadful (jrief I hare ecer had in in II life." The moment she had articulated this full-l>lown phra.s<» she became aware of its importance. She reja'aled it to hei-self, re- flected upon it, and was so impressed by it that she got up and went indoors to write it down. By the time she had found p<'ncil and paper she was the sad central figure of a great ntmance. full of the most melancholy incidents, in which troubled atniosphen^ she sat and suffered for the rest of the evening : but she did not think of Sammy again till she went to l)(>d. Then, however, she Avas seized anew with the dread of losing him forever, and cried heli)lessly until she fell asleep. For days she mourned for him without daring to go to the window lest she should see him pass by on the other side of the road with scorn and conteni])t fla.shing forth from his innm-ent bhu' eyes. In the evening, however, she opened the back gate as usual, and waited in the woodhouse, but he never came. And at first .she was in des[)air. Th^n she became defiant — she didn't care, not she! Then she grew determined. He'd have to come back if she chose, she'd make him ! But how ? Oh, she knew ! She'd just sit still till .something came. She was sitting on a heaj) of ])eech brandies opposite the door- way, picking off the bronze buds and biting them. The blanched skeleton of Sammy's whiting, sad relic of happier moments, grinned up at her from the earthen floor. Outside, the old pear tree on the left, leafless now and motionless, showed distinctly in 196 THE BETH BOOK. silhouette against the nij^'ht sky. Its bare branches made black bars on tlie face of the bri},'ht white moon which was rising be- hind it. What a strange thing time is 1 Day and night, day and night, week and month, spring, summer, autumn, winter, always coming and going again, while we only come once, go, and re turn no more. It was getting on for Christmas now. Another year had nearly gone. The yeai-s slip away steadily— day by day —winter, spring. Winter so cold and wet ! March, all clouds and dust, comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb, then April is bright. The year slips away steadily— slips round tlie steady year, days come and go— no, no! Days dawn and disap])ear, winters and springs— springs, rings, sings ? No, leave that. Winter with cold and rain— pain ? March storms and clouds and pain, till April once again light with it brings. Beth jumped down from the beecli bougljs, ran round to the old wooden pump, clambered up by it on to the back-kitchen roof, and made for the acting-room window. It was open, and she screwed herself in round the bar and fastened the door. It was quite dark under the sloping roof, but she found the end of a tallow candle, smuggled up there for the i)urpose, lighted it, and stuck it on to the top of the rough deal box which formed her writing table. She had a pencil, sundry old envelopes carefully cut ()])en so as to .save as nmch of the clean space inside as pos- sible, margins of newspapers, precious but rare half sheets, and any other scrap of paper on which she could write, all carefully concealed in a hole in the roof, from which she tore the whole treasure now in her ha.ste. " Winter, summer, Sammy," she kept saying to herself. " Au- tumn, autumn-tinted woods — my king — Ministering Children — ministering — king. Moon, noon. Story, glory. Ever, never, en- deavour — Oh, I can do it ! I can ! I can ! Slips round the steady jH'ar " It took her some days to do it to her satisfaction, but tliey were days of delight, for the whole time she felt exactly as she had done when first she found Sammy. She liad the same warm glow in l»er cliest, the same sort of yearning, half anxious, half pleas- ant, wholly desirable. It was late in the evening when she finished, and she had to put her work away in a liurry, because her mother sent Harriet to tell her she nmst go to bed : but all night long she lay only half asleep, and all the time conscious of joy to come in the morning. i ..^ — . .Ji* THE BETH BOOK. 107 She was up car]y, but Imd too uiucli self-mstraint to ^.o to the ncung roojn t, I les.sons were over. She was afraid of beino- dis- turbed and so Imying her pleasure spoiled. As soon as she eould safely lock herself up. however, she took her lre,.sure out It w.s cr/diiL'euy r" '^^' -^'^^^ '' ^"^- ^^"^^ -^^^^^ ^^— SIip.s round tlic Ktcad y year, DayH dawn and disappear, Wiiitorn and Kprings. March .storms and .-louds and rain, Till April onpo aj,'ain MjU'lit with it bring.<(. Then come.s the huninur hong, Uirda in the wood.s jirojong I>ay into night. Hot after tepid gliowers Beats down this sun of ours, L'pward tlie radiant llowcrs Look their delight. O summer .scents at noon ! O summer nights and nioon! Sea.son of story. Labour and love forever Strengthen each hard endeavour, Now climb we up or never, L'pward to glory ! Winter and summer past. Autumn has come at last, Hope in its keeping. Beauty of tinted wood, Beauty of tranquil mood. Harvest of earned good liil>o for the reaping. Thu.s on a torrid day Slipped my fond thoughts away, Book, from thy jiages. Sea.sons of whicJi I "sing,' Are they not like my king, Thine own life's minist "ring In all its stages ? First in the spring, I ween, Were all thy {.,.wers foreseen— Storms sowed renown. Then came thy summer climb, Then came thy golden prime, ' Then came tliy harvest time, Bringing thy crown. 198 THE BETH BOOK. When Betli had road tlicse linos slu; doiiblod tho lialf shoots on which they won^ written and put tlieni in her jXK^ket (lelil>er- ately. She was sitting on the acting-nxun lloor at the moment, near tlio window. "Now !"' she exchiimod, foldin;^ lior delicate nervous hands on her lap and looking up at the strip of sky above her, " now I shall be forgiven !" It WJis dark at this time when the boys left school in tlie even- ing, and Beth stood at the back gate waiting to waylay Sammy. lie came trotting along by himself, and saw her as he approached, but did not attempt to escape. On the contrary, he stopped, but he had notliing to say ; the relief of finding her friendly again was too great for word.s. Had she looked out she mighi have seen him any day since the event, bright-eyed and rosy -cheeked as usual, prowling about, anxious to obtiiin a reassuring smile from lier on his way to and from school. It was not likely that he would lose the credit of being Beth C^aldwell's sweetheart, it he could help it. just because she beat him. Already he had sulVered somewhat in prestige, because lie had not been seen with her so often lately ; and he had been quite as miserable in his own way, under the impression that she meant to cast him off, as she had in hers. "Come in. Samniy," she cried, catching hold of his hand. "Come in. I've something to show you, but it's too cold lo sit in the woodhouse, and we can't have a light there either. Come up by the j)ump to the acting room. I've fastened the door inside, and nobody can get in. Come ! I'll show you the way." Sammy followed her obediently and in silence, although some- what suspiciously, as us\ial ; but she piloted him safely, and, tuice in the acting room with the candle lighted, he owned that it was jolly. "Sammy, I /m re been sorry," Beth began. "I've been quite miserable about — you know wliat. It was horrid of me." "I told vtni scratch-cats were horrid." said Sammv soleninlv. "But I've done sontething to atone," Beth proceeded. "Some- thing came to me all about you. You shall have it, Sammy, to keep. Just listen, and I'll read it." Sammy listened with his mouth and eyes open, but when she had done he shook his head. " You didn't make that up your- self," he said decidedly. " O Sammy, yes, I did I " Beth protested, taken aback and much pained. « < TIIP] HETU HOOK. 109 quite " No, I don't l)olieve you," said Saminy. " You got it out of u book. You'i-e always tryiiiy to stuff nic up." "I'm not stulling y«)U, Sainuiy," said liotli, suddenly ilainin>;. "I made it myself, «'v<'iy word of it. I toll you it cunio to nu'. It's my own. You've (jot io hclicrc if."' Sammy looked about him. Tlu're was no escape by the door, })ecause that led into the liouse ; and Beth was between him and the window, with her brown liair dishevelled and her big eyes burning. " Well I" he said, a politic desire to conciliate struggling with an impei'ative objection to be stull'ed. "Of course you nuide it yourself if you .say so. But it's all rot juiyway.'' The words slipped out unawares, and the moment he uttered them he ducked liis head, but nothing happened. Then he looked up at Beth, and found her gazing hard at him : and as she did so the colour gradu- ally left her du'eks and Ihe light went out of her ey<'s. Slowly she gathered up her papers and put them into the hole in the roof. Then she sat on one of the steps which led down into tlie room, but she said nothing. Sammy sat still in a tremor until tlie silence became too o])pressive to be borne; tlien he fidgeted; then he got up and looked longingly toward the window. " I shall be late," he ventured. Beth made no sign. "When shall I see you again ?" he recommenced dcprecat- ingly. " Will you be at the ba<'k gate to-morrow ? '' " No," she said shortlv. " It's t(«) cold to wait for vou." " Then how shall I .see you ? " he asked with a blank expres- sion. Beth reflected. "Oh. just whistle as you ])a.s.s." s]»e said at last, in an ofl'hand way, "and I'll come out if I feel inclined." The next evening Mrs. Caldwell was taking lier accustomed nap after dinner in her armchair by the lire in the dining-room, and Beth was sitting at the table dreaming, when slu> was sud- denly startled by a long, loiul, shrill whistle. Another and an- other of the most piercing quality followed in quick succession. Swiftly but cautiously she jumped up and slipped into the draw- ing-room, which was all in darkness. There were outside shutters to the lower windows, but the drawing-room ones were not closed ; so she looked out, and there was Sammv standing with his inno- cent fat face as close to the dining-room shutters as he could hold it, with his fingers in his mouth, uttering shrill whistles loud and 200 THE HETII BOOK. long, and liard and fast onouj^h to rouse the whole neif^hhonr- liuod. Beth, impatient of sucli stupidity, returned to tlie dinin{f- rooni and sat down aj^ain, leavinj,' Sammy to his fate. Presently Mrs. Caldwell started wide awake. '• What iff that noise, li(!th i " " It seems to he somehody whistling outside," Beth answered, in deep disgust. Then her exasperation got the hetter of her self- control, and she jumped up and ran out to the kitehen. " Harriet," she said hetween her clenched teeth, "go out and send that silly fool away." Harriet ha.stened to obey, but at the opening of the front door Sammy bolted. The next evening he began again, however, as emphatically an before ; but Beth couhl not .stand such imhecility a second time, so she ran out of the back gate and .seized Sammy. " What are you doing there i " she cried, shaking him. " Why, you told me to whistle," Sannny remonstrated, much aggrieved. " Did I tell you to whistle like a railway engine ?" Beth de- manded scornfully. "You've no sen.se at all, Sammy, Go away ! " " Oh, do let's come in, Beth," Sammy pleaded. " I've some- thing to tell you." " What is it ? " said Beth ungraciously. " I'll tell you if you'll let me come in," " Well, come, then," Beth answered impatientlj', and led the way up over the roof to the acting room. "What is it ? " she again demanded when she had lighted a scrap of candle and seated her.self on the steps. " I don't believe it's anything ! " "Yes it is, so there!" .said Sanuny triumphantly. "But I'll lay you won't guess what it is. Mrs. Barnes has got a haby ! " Mrs. Barnes was the wife of the head master of the Mansion House school, and all the little boys, feeling that there was more in the event than had been explained to them, were vaguely dis- gusted. "I don't call that anything," Beth answered contemptuously. " Lots of people have babies." " Well," said Sammy, " I wouldn't have thought it of him." " Thought what of whom ? " Beth snapped in a tone which silenced Sammy. He ventured to laugh, however. " Don't laugh in that gigantic way, Sammy,'' .she exclaimed, still more irritated. "When you throw back your hea'I and THE BKTII BOOK. 201 open your mouth so wide I can see you Imvo no wisdom teetli." "You're always musty now, Beth," Sammy complained. Whieli was ti'ue. Lov** waninj^ becomes critical Heth's own feelinj; for Sammy had been a strong mental stimulant at lii-st, and in her enjoyment (»f it she had overlooked all his shoi'tcom- ings. There was nothinfr in him, however, to keep that feclineople with certain line (iiialities of their own, Aunt Victoria knew that there was wii-kedness in the outside world, but never suspected that her own immediate circle— the nice people with whom she talked i)leasanlly every day— could be tainted, and the awakening,'' to iind that her friends cared less disinterestedly for her than she did for tbeni was a cruel disillusion. Her lir.st inclination was to lly far from them all and spend the rest of her days among- strang-ers, who could not disap- point her, because she would have nothing to expect of them, and who might perhaps conu^ to care for her really. Long- hours she sat and suffered, shut up in her room, considering the matter, yearninjf to go but restrained by the fear that, as an old woman, she would be unwelcome everywhere. In Aunt Victoria's day old people were only too apt to be selfish, tyrannical, narrow, and ignorant, a terror to their friends; and they were nearly always ill, the old nnm from lives of self-indulgence and the old women from unwholesome restraint of every kind. Now we are begin- ning to ask what becomes of the decrei)it old women, there are so few to be seen. This is the age of youthful grandmothers, capable of enjoying- a week of their lives more than their own grand- mothers were able to enjoy tlie whole of their declining yeai*s ; their vitality is so much greater, their appearance so much better preserved, their knowledge so much more extensive, their inter- ests so nmch more varied, and their hearts so much larger. Aunt Victoria nowadays would have .struck out for lierself in a new direction. She would have gone to London, joined a progressive woman's club, made acquaintance with work of some kind or an- other, and never know a dull moment ; for she would have been a capable woman had any one of her faculties been cultivated to some useful purpose, but, as it was, she liad nothing to fall back upon. She was just like a domestic animal — like a dog- that has become a member of the family, and is tolerated from habit even after it grows old and because remarks would be made if it were TRK MKTII BOOK. 203 I put out of the way bof<)r«» its tiiuc -jind she had boon content with the position so lonjf as much was nuule of her. Now, however, all t(M^ lat<', a f^reat yearning liad seized upon her for an ohjeet in life, for some pui*suit, some; interest that would remain to jier wIh'Ii cveryfhin','' else was lost, ami she j»ray«'(l to (tod earnestly that he would show her whrre to ^'•(i aiul what to do, or f,'ivr her somethinjf— something which at last resolved itself into something to live for. Then one day tlu^re came a litth; resolute tap at the door, aiul Rcfh walked in without waitinj,' to he asked, and .seeing' in a mo- ment, with that further faculty of hers, into the old lady's heart that it was sad, she went to her im])ulsivcly and laid her un- kempt brown head a<.fainst her arm in an awkward care.s.s, which touched tlie old lady to tears. lieth was lonely, too, thought Aunt Victoria — a strauf^e, lonely little being-, n<'fjclected, ill u.sed, and misunderstood, and the (piestion Hashed throu{,^li the old lady's mind, if she h'ft th(> child what would beconu^ of her :' The tan- gled brown head, warm af^ainst her arm, nestled nearer, and Aunt Victoria patted it protectin^'^ly. '* Do you want anythinj^, Beth ? " she a.sked. "No, Aunt Victoria. I iust want(>(l to see you. T was Ivinjr on the seesaw board, looking,' up throu^^h the leaves, and I sud- denly <,'ot a fancy that you wen; here all by yourself, and that you didn't like beinf,'' all by yourself. / feel like that sometimes. So I came to see you.'' "Thank you, Beth," said Aunt Victoria, with her hand still on Betli's head, as if she w<'re blessinj,' her; and when she had spok<'n she looked up throuK-h the window and silently thanked the Lord. This was the sign ; he had committed Beth to her care and alFec- tion, and she was not to tliink of herself but of the child, whose need was certainly the greater of the two. " Have you nothing to do, Beth ? " slie said after a pause. "No, Aunt Victoria," Beth answered drearily— "at least there are plenty of things I could do, but everything"! think of makes me shudder. I feel so sometimes. Do you ? Ther(> isn't a single thing I want to do to-day. I've tried one thing after the other, but I can't think about what I'm doing. Sometimes I like to sit still and do nothing, but to-day I don't even like that. I think I should like to be asked to do .something. If I could do .something for you now— something to help you " " Well, you can, Beth," Aunt Victoria answered, after sitting rigidly upright for a moment, blinking rapidly. " Help me to ( 204 TIIK liKTH HOOK. uiipic^k an old pown. I arii ntnufr to inake another like it, and want it luipicktsd for a i»att<'rti." "Can you make a j^own < " licth asked in surprise. Aunt Victoria smiled. Then slie to<)k down an old black j,'own that was han^inp Ueliind the dour and handed it to Beth with u pair of sharp scissors. "Til undo llie Ixuly part," Beth .said, " aiul that will .save your eyes. 1 don't think this pown owes you much." " I do not understand that expression, Beth," said Aunt Vic- toria. "Don't you?" said Beth, working away with the .scissors checirfully. "Harriet always says that when she's fjfot all the jifood there is to be got out of anything — the dusteiM, you know, or the dishclotli. I once did a i)iece of unpicking like this for mamma, and she didn't explain properly, or something — at all events, I took out a great deal too much, so .she " " Don't call your nuumna ' she.' ' She ' is a cat."' " Mamnui, tlifu. Mamnui beat me " " Don't .say slu; beat you." " I .said manuna." " Well, don't talk about your manuna beating you. That is not a nice thing to talk about." " It's not a nice thing to do either," said Beth judicially. " Ami I never used to talk about it — didn't like to, vou know. But now she — nuinuua-— doesn't beat me any more — at least, only sometimes when .she foigets." " Ah, then you have been a better girl." " No, not better ; bigger. You see if I struck her back again she wouldn't like it." " Beth I Beth I strike your mother ! " "That was the danger," said Beth, in her slow, distinct, imper- turbable way. "On 3 day slie made me so angiy I very nearly struck her, and I told her .so. That made her look queer, I can tell you ! And she's never struck me since, except in a lialf- hearted sort of way or when she forgot, and that didn't count, of course. But T think I know how it was she used to beat me. I did just the same thing myself one day. I beat Sanmiy " ""Who is Sammy?" said Aunt Victoria, looking over her spectacles. " Sammy Lee, you know." Aunt Victoria recollected, and felt she sliould improve the oc- casion, but was at a loss for a moment what to say. She was THE BETH IJOOK. 205 anxious nbovo ovorythinjf tliat Roth sliouhl talk to Ikt freely, fop )io\v ((MiUi she lu'lp tin- «'liil(l if she did not know all slir had iti luT mind ? It is upon tln' thinj,'.s thry uro never ullowed to men- tion that children hrood unwholesomely. "I thou;{ it that you wen; not allowed to know Sammy Le«»,'' she linallv «»hservcd. V " No more I was," Hetli answered casually. " Vet you knew Idm ull the same ? " Aunt Victoria ventured reproachfully. "Aunt Victoria." said Beth, " did the Lord die for Sammy ?" "Ve— ye.s," said Aunt Victoria, lu'sitatint,'. iiot Ix'causp she doui)tcd the fact, i>ut hecuuse she did not know what use lieth would nuike of it. "Then why can't /know liim ?" Beth asked. "Oh, he— because Sammy does not liv«> as if he were grateful to tlie Lord." " If he did would he bo a gentleman ? " Bt>th asked. " Yes," Aunt \'ict()ria answered d«'cidedly. Beth stopped .snipping and looked at lier as if she were looking right through her and out into the world beyond, ll.en she pursed up her mouth and shook her h<>ad. " That won't hold water," she said. " I*' a man must live like tlie Lord to be a gentlenum, what is l'n"l" lames i Auvl if living like the Lord makes a man a gentleman, why don't we call on old Job Fi.sher ? " Aunt Victoria began to fear that the ta.sk slie liad uadertakeii would i>rove t(;o nuich for her. "It is hard, very hard," .she muttered. "Well, never mind," said Betli, resuming her work. "When I grow up I mean to write about things like that. But what wt>re we talking about ? Oh. l)eating Sammy. I did feel bad after I beat liim, and I vowed I'd never do it again, however tiresome he was. and I never did. It malces it easier if you vow. It's just as if your liands were tied then. I'd like to tell mamma to try it, only slie'd be sure to get waxy. You tell her. Aunt Victoria." Aunt Victoria mode some reply which was lost in the noise of vehicles passing in tli'.' .street, folhnved by the tramj) of many feet and a great chatterin/* Aii excursion train had just arrived, and the people were pouriL^: nto the place. Beth ran to the window and watched them. " More confounded trippers," she ejaculated. " They spoil the summer, swarming everywhere." 206 THE BETH BOOK. " Bctli, I wish, to please me, you would make another vow. Don't siiy ' confounded tri])pors.' " "All rififht. Aunt Victoria. Jim says it. But I know all the bad word.s in the lan^uas'e were made for the men. I suppose because they have all the had tlioughts and do all the had thing-s, I shall say ' ohjectionahle excursionists ' in future," She went to the door. " I'm just going to get something," she said. " You won't go away, will you ? I shall be a minute or two, hut I want you to be here when I come back. I shall be wild if you're not." She banged the door after her and ran downstairs. Aunt Victoria looked round the room ; it no longer seemed the same place to her. Beth's cheerful chatter had already driven away the evil spirit of dejection, and taken the old lady out of herself. Untidv child ! Slie had left her work on the iloor, her scissors m the bed, disarranged the window curtain, and upset a chair, li slie would not do any more unpicking when she re- turned she must be made to put things straight. There was one little easy-chair in the room. Aunt Victoria sat down in it, a great piece of self-inchilgence for her at that time of day, folded her hands, and closed her weary old eyes just to give them a rest, while a nice little look of content came into her face, which it was good to see there. When she opened her eyes again Beth was setting a tray on a tiny table beside her. " I think you've !)een having a na]), Miss Great-Aunt Victoria Bench,'' she said. "Now have some tea and buttered toast ! " "0 Beth!" cried the old lady, beaming. " How could you— at this time of day? Well, to please you. It is quite delicious. So refreshing ; What, another piece of toast ? Must I take an- other ? " "You must take it all," said Beth. "I made it for you. I do like doing things for you. Aunt Victoria. It makes me feel nice all over. I'll just unpick a little more, then I'll tidy up." " You're a good child to think of that," said Aunt Victoria. " I did not think you would." "Didn't you ?" said Beth. "How funny! But I like things tidy. I often tidy up," "I— I suppose Harriet says tidy up," the old lady observed gently, not liking to be censorious at this happy moment of relaxa- tion, but still anxious to do her duty. Beth undei-stood her per- fectly, and smiled. 1 I I f i ,1 THE BETn BOOK. 2o7 "I like yoii to tell me wlien I say things wrong," she said ; "anil I like to know how Harriet talks too. You can't write if you don't know how every one talks." '* What are you going to write ? " Aunt Victoria tuiked, taking up another i)iece of buttered toast. "Oh, books," Beth answered casually. "Write something soul-sustaining, then, Beth," said Aunt Vic- toria. "Try to make all you say soul-sustjiining. And never u.se a word you would be ashamed to hear read aloud." "You mean like tho.sc things they read in church ?" .said Beth. "I don't think I ever could use such woi'ds. When Mr. Richard- son conies close to them I get lu)t all over and hate him. But I promi.se you, Aunt Victoria, I will never write anything worse than there is in the Bible. There's a man called Ruskin who writes very well, they say, and he learned how to do it from reading the Bible. Ilis mother tiiught him when he was a little boy, just as you taught me. I always read the Bible — search the Scriptures — every day. You say it's a sacred book, don't you, Aunt Victoria ? Harriet says it's smutty." "Says«7m^?" Aunt Victoria exclaimed, sitting bolt ujjright in her horror. " What does she mean by such an (\\pression ? " ■' Oh, she just means stories like Joseph and Potiphar's wife, David and Bathsheba, Susanna and the Elder.s " " My — dear — child ! " A ,nt Victoria gasped. " Well, Aunt Victoria, they're all in the Bible— at least Su- sanna and the Elders isn't. That's in the Apocrypha." Aunt Victoria sat silent a considerable time. At last she said solemnly : " Beth, I want you to promise mc one thing solemnly, and that is that all your life long, whatever may be before you, whatever it may be your lot to learn, you will pray to God to pre- serve your purity." " What is purity ? " said Beth. Aunt Victoria hesitated. " R's a condition of th<' mind which keeps lis from ever doing or saying anything we should be ashamed of," she finally decided. " But what kind of thing ? " Beth a.sked. Unfortunately Aunt Victoria was not equal to the occasion. She blinked her eyes very hard, sip])ed .some tea, and left Beth to find out ft)r herself, according to custom. "We must only talk about nice things," she said. " Well, I shouldn't care to talk nastily about people as Lady Benyon does sometimes," Beth rejoined. 208 THE BETH BOOK. " But, my dear child, that is not a nice thing to say about Lady Benyon." " Isn't it ? " said Betli. then added : " Oh, dear, liow funny things are I " meaning how complicated. " Where did you get this tea, Beth ? " said Aunt Victoria. " It is very good, and I feel so nmch tlie better for it." " I thought you wanted something," said Beth. " Your face went all queer. That means people want sometliing. I got tlie tea out of the store cupboard. It has a rotten lock. If you shake it. it comes open." " But what does your mamma say ? " "Oh, she never notices. Or if she does she thinks she left it open herself. Harriet has a little sometimes. She takes it because she says mamma should allow her a quarter of a pound of dry tea a week, so it isn't stealing. And I took it for you because you pay to live here, so you're entitled to the tea. I don't take it for myself, of course. But I'm afraid I oughtn't to have told you about Harriet. I'm so sorry. It slipped out. It wasn't sneaking. But I trust to your honour. Aunt Victoria. If you sneaked on Harriet I should never trust you again, nt)w could I ? " She got up as she spoke, folded her work, picked uj) the chair, arranged the window curtain, moved the tray, and put the table back in its place, at the same time remarking: " I shall take these things downstairs now, and go for a run." She left Aunt Victoria with much to reflect upon. The glimpse she had accidentally given the old lady of Harriet's turpitude had startled her considerably. Mrs. Caldwell had always con- gratulated herself on having such a quiet, respectable jjerson in the house as Harriet to look after Beth, and now it appeared that the woman was disreputable both in her habits and her conversation, the very last person whom a girl, even of such strongly marked individuality as Beth, should have been allowed to associate with intimately. But what ought Miss Victoria to do ? If siie spoke to Mrs. Caldwell, Beth would never forgive her, and the important thing was not to lose Beth's confidence ; but if she did not speak to Mrs. Caldwell, would she be doing right ? Of course if Mrs. Caldwell had been a different sort of person, her duty would havp been clear and easy ; but as it was — Aunt Victoria decided to wait. The next day Beth returned of her own accord to finish the un- })icking. She wanted to know what "soul-sustaining" meant- and in ten mi.iutes she had cross-questioned Aunt Victoria into such a state of confusion that the old lady could only sit silently THE BETU BOOK. 209 praying to Heaven for guidance. At last slie got up and took a little packet out of one of her trunks. She had to live in her boxes because there was no closet or ward 'obe or chest of drawei-s in the room. "See, Beth," she said, "here is some tea and sugar. I don't think it nice of you to go to your mother's cupboard without her leave. That's ratlier a .servant's trick, you know, and not honest, so give it uj), like a dear cliild, and let us have tea togetlier, you and I, up here, when we want it. I very much enjoy a good cup of tea, it is so refreshing, and you make it beautiuilly." Beth changed colour and countenance while Aunt Victoria was speaking, and she sat for some time afterward looking tixedly at the empty grate; then she said : "You always tell me things nicely, Aunt Victoria ; that's what I like about you. I'll not touch tlie cupboard again, I vow ; and if you catch me at any other ' serv- ant's tricks ' just you let me know." The old lady's heart glowed. The Lord was showing her how to help the child. But the holidays were coming on ; she would have to go away to make rcjom ft)r the boys, and she dreaded to leave Beth at this critical time, lest she .should relapse jast as she was beginning to form nice feminine habits. For Beth had taken kindly to the sewing and tea drinking and long quiet chats; it was a delight to her to have some one to wait on, and help, and talk to. " I'm so fond of you, Aunt Victoria," she said one day; "I even like you to snap at me; and if we lived quite alone together, you and I, I should do everything for you." " Would you like to come away with me these holidays ? " said Aunt Victoria, seized suddenly with a bright idea. " Oh, wouldn't I ! " said Beth. " But then the expense." "I think I can manage it, if your nuimma has no objection," said Aunt Victoria, nodding and blinking, and nodding again, as slie calculated. " I should think mamma would be only too glad to get rid of me," said Beth hopefully. And she was not mistaken. 210 THE BETU BOOK. CHAPTER XXI. The next few weeks in their effect upon Beth's cJiaracter were among the most important of her life. She did not know until the day hefore where she was to go with Aunt Victoria. It was the hal)it of tlie family to conceal all such arrangements from the children, and indeed from each other, as much as possible. Aunt Victoria observed that Caroline was singularly reticent, and Mrs. Caldwell complained that Aunt Victoria made a mystery of every- thing. It was a hard habit which robbed Beth of wliat would have been so umch to her — something to look forward to. Since she knew that she was to go somewhere, however, she had lived upon the idea; her imagination had been busy trying to picture the unknown place, and her mind full of plans for the comfort of Aunt Victoria. It was after breakfast one day, while her mother and Aunt Victoria were still at table, that the announcement was made. "You need not do any lessons this morning, chih'ren," Mrs. Caldwell said. " Beth is going to Harrogate with Aunt Victo- ria to-morrow, and I must see to her things and get them packed." Aunt Victoria looked round at Betii witli a carefully restrained smile, expecting some demonstration of joy. Betli was standing in the window, looking out, and turned with a frown of intent- ness on her face when her mother mentio,ned Harrogate, as if she were trying to recall something. " Harrogate," she said slowly. ''Harrogate.'''' " Beth, do not frown .so I " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed irritably. "You'll be all wrinkled before vou're twenty." Betli gazed at her solemnh' without seeing her, then fixed her eyes upon the ground as if she were perusing it. and began to walk slowly up and down with her head bent, her hands clasped beliind her, her curly brown hair falling forward over her cheeks, and her lips moving. " What is it youVe muttering, child ?" Aunt Victoria asked. "I'm trj'ing to think," Beth rejoined. " 'Twns in the prime of Buinmer time, An evening calm and cool. . . . •* Two sudden blows with a rapped ntick, And one with a heavy Btonc. . . . TIU: BETU BOOK. 211 " And yet I feared liiiii all the more For lying there so Htill. . . . " 1 took the dreary body up. . . . " Ah, I know— I have it ! " slie exchiinied joyfully, and with a look of relief. " Harrogate — Knuresboro" — the cave there " Two .■iteru-faced men set out from Lynn, Tlirough the cold and heavy mist; And Kuirene Aram wallied between, With gyves upon his wri.st." "My dear child," said Aunt Victoria sternly, "what is it you are trying to say, and how often are you to be told ncH to work yourself up into sucli a state of excitement about nothing ?" " Don't you know about Eugene Aram, Aunt Victoria ? " Beth rejoined with concern, tis if not to know about Eugene Aram were indeed to have missed one of the great interests of life. Then she sat down at the table with her elbows resting on it, and her deli- cate oval face framed in her slender hands, and gave Aunt Vic- toria a graphic sketch of the story from Bulwer Lytton. " Dear me, Caroline,'' said Aunt Victoria, greatly horrified, " is it possible that you allow your children to read such books ?" "I read such books to my children myself when I see fit," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. "I may be allowed to judge what is good for them, I suppose ? " " Good for them I " Aunt Victoria ejaculated. " Accounts of murder, theft, and executions I "' •'But why not, Aunt Victoria?" Beth put in, "why not read about Eugene Aram as well as about Barabbas ?" Aunt Victoria looked .so shocked, however, at the mention of Barabbas in this connection that Beth broke otf and hastened to add, for the relief of the old lady's feelings, "Only, of course, Barabbas was a sacred sort of thief, and that is dilTer<>nt.'' On the journey next day a casual renuirk let fall by a stranger made a curious impression upon Beth. They were travelling sec- ond class, and Aunt Victoria, talking to another ladv in the car- riage, happened to mention that Bi-th was twelve years old. A gentleman, the only other pa.s.senger, who was sitting opposite to Beth, looked up at her over his newspaper when her age was mentioned and remarked : " Are you only twelve ? I should have thought you were older. Rather nice-looking, too, only freckled." Beth felt her face flush hotly, and then she laughed. " Nice- 212 tup: BETH BOOK. looking! Nice-looking!" She repeated tlie words to herself again and again, and <>very time they recurred to lier she lost countenance in spite of herself, and laughed and lluslied, k-ing strangely surprised and pleased. It was that remark that lirst brought homo to Beth the fact that she had a personal appearance at all. Hitherto slie had thought very little of herself. The world without had been and always would be much more to her than the world within. She was not to be one of those narrow, self-centred, morbid beings whose days are spent in introspection, and whose powers are wasted in futile etforts to set their own little peculiarities forth in such a -vay as to make them seem of consequence. She never at any time studied her own nature, except as a part of human nature and in the hope of linding in herself some clew which would help her to a sympathetic und(-'rstanding of other people. Great- Aunt Victoria Bench in these days of her pov. ny lodged with an old servant of the family, who gave her for ten shillings a week a bedroom at the top of the hou.se and a little sunny sitting-room on the ground floor at the back, looking out into an old-fasliioned garden full of flowers, such as knights in olden times culled for their ladies. The little sitting-room was furnished with Chippendale chairs, and a little Chippendale side- board with drawers, and a bookcase with glass doors above, and a cupboard behnv in which Aunt Victoria used to keep ]\vr stores of tea, cofl'ee, sugar, and currants in mustard tins. Beth heard with surprise that the hearthrug was one which Ainit Victoria had worked herself as a present for Prentice when she married. Pren- tice was now Mrs. Pearce, but Aunt Victoria always called her Prentice. The hearthrug was like a Turkey carpet, only .softer, deeper, and richer. Aunt Victoria had sat on Chippendale chairs in her youth, and she was happy among them. When she sat down on one she drew her.self u]), disdaining the still' back, and smiled and felt young again, while her memory slipped away to pleasant days gone by ; and Mi'S. Pearce would come and talk to bo", standing respectfully, and reminding her of little things "/. j>;': 'vunt Victoria had forgotten, or alluding with mysterious i.-nds and shakings of the head to other things which Betli was not to heor about. When this happened Beth always withdrew. >"b • !s becoming shy of intruding now, and delicate about over- hearing anything that was not intended for her ; and when she liad gone on these occasions, the two old ladies would nod and THE BETH BOOK. 213 i fact * liad I and She I smile to each othor, Prentice in respectful approval, and Aunt Victoria in kindly acknowled^jfinent. Prentice wore a cap and front like Aunt Victoria, but of a subdued brown colour, as be- came lier humble station. Beth took charj^e of the liousekeepinji^ as soon as they arrived, made tea, arranj^ed the {^^roceries in the cupboard, and put the key in her pocket; and Aunt Victoria, who was sittinj^- ui)ri'i;-ht on a high L'hippenchtie chair, kniltin*,'-, and enjoyin;,'' the di^-nity of the oUl attitude after lier journey, looked on over her spectacles in pleased approval. Before they went to bed they read the even- ing psalms and lessons together in the sitting-room, and Aunt Victoria read i)rayers. When they went U})stairs they said their private j)rayers, kneeling beside the IkhI, iind Aunt Victoi-ia made Beth wash herself in hot water and brush her hair for half an hour. Aunt Victoria attributed her own slender youthful iigure and the delicate texture of her skin to this discipline. She said she had preserved her Iigure by never relaxing into languid atti- tudes, and her ccniplexion by washing her face in hot water with line white soap every night, and in cold water without .soaj) every morning. She did not take her fastidious appetite into considera- tion, nor her sim})le regular life, nor the fact that she never touched alcohol in any shape or form, nor wore a tight or heavy garment, nor lost her .self-control for more than a moment, what- ever happened ; ])ut Beth di.scovored for herself as she grew older that these and that elevated attitude of mind which is ndigion, whatever the form i)referred to express it. are essential parts of the discipline necessary for the preservation of bea.uty. In the morning B(^th made breakfast, and when it was over, if crusts had accmnulated in the cupboard, she steei)ed them in hot milk in a pie dish, beat them up with an ojxfi;, a little butter, sugar, currants and candied jM'el, and .sonu' mitmeg grated, for a bread pudding, which Prentice took out to bake for dinner, remarking regularly that little miss promised to be helpful, to which Aunt Victoria as regularly responded. Yes, she hoped Miss l^eth would become a capable woman .some day. Aftt-r bi'eakfast they read th(^ i)salnis and lessons together, verse by verse, and had some '" good talk." as Beth called it. Then Aunt Victoria got out an old P"'rencli grannnar and phra.se book, a copy of Telemaque. aiul a ])ocket dictionary, treasured ])osses- sions which she always carried about with her and had a kind of pride in. French had been her speciality, btit these were the only French books she had, and she certainly never spoke the language. 214 THE BETH BOOK. She would have shrunk modestly from any attempt to do so, thinkinff such a display almost as objectionable as singiny in a. loud ])rofessional way instead of (juietly like a well-bred amateu", and sliowinj^ a lack of that dif^nified reserve and {;^eneral self, elFacement which she considered essential in a f^entlewoman. But she was anxious that Beth should be educated, and there- fore the b(u)ks were produced every morning. Mrs. Caldwell had tried in vain to teach Beth anything by rule, such as grammar. Birth's memory was always tricky. Anything she cared about she recollected accurately, but grammar, which had been presented to her not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself, failed to interest her, and if she remembered a rule she forgot to apply it, until Aunt Victoria set her down to the old French books, when, simply because the old lady looked pleased if she knew her le.sson- and disturbed if .she did not, she began at the beginning, of her own a<;cord, and worked with a will — toilsonu'ly at lirst, but by degrees with pleasure as she jiroceeded, and felt for the first time the joy of mastering a strange tongue. " You learned out of this book when you were a little girl. Aunt Victoria, didn't you ? " she said, looking up on the day of the fir.st lesson. She was sitting on a high-backed chair at one end of the table trying to hold herself as upright as Aunt Victoria, who .sat at the other and opposite end to her, pondering over her knitting. " I suppose you hated it." " No, I did not, Betli," Aunt Victoria answered severely. " I esteemed it a privilege to be well educated. Our mother could not afford to have us all instructed in the same accomplishments, and so she allowed us to choose French, or nmsic, or drawing and painting, /chose French." "Then how was it grandmamma learned drawing and paint- ing, and playing, and everything ? " Beth asked. " Mamma knows tunes she composed." "Your dear grandmamma was an exceedingly clever girl," Amit Victoria answered stiffly, as if Beth had taken a liberty w-hen she asked the question ; " and she was the youngest, and desired to learn all we knew, so we each did our be.st to impart our special knowledge to her. / taught her French." " How strange ! " said Beth. " And out of this very book ? And she is dead. And now you are teaching me.'' The feeling in the child's voice and the humble emphasis on the pronoun me touched the old lady ; something familiar, too, in the tone caused her to look up quickly and kindly over her spec- TUE BETH BOOK. 215 rl," In-ty lour )k? on in lec- tacles, and it seeniod to hor for u inoiiicnt its if tho littlo lon<,''-l<>st sister sat opposite to her— },'roat j,'ray eyes, delicate skin, \mghi brown liair, expression of vivid interest, and all. " Strano'e I stranf^e 1 " she muttered to herself several times. '• I am suppo.sed to he like grandmamma, am I not i " said Beth, as if she read her thuuyhLs. " You arc like hor," Aunt Victoria rejoined. "But you can he a plain likeness of a good-looking person, I suppose," Beth said tentatively. "Certainly you can," Miss Victoria answered witli dt'cision, and the spark of pleasure in her own peiMonal appearance which had recently been kindled in Beth instantly llickered and went out. Their little sitting-room had a bow window down to the ground, the front part of which was two doors with gla.ss in tho upper part and wood below, leading out into the garden. On line days they always stood wide oi)en, and the warm summer air scented with roses streamed in. Both Beth and Aunt Victoria loved to look out into the garden. From where Beth sat to do her French at the end of the table she could see tlie S(»ft green turf, a bright flower border with an old brick wall m(>llowed in tone by age behind it, and a little to the left a high thick screen of tall shrubs of many varieties, set so close that all the ditl'erent shades of green melted into each other. The irregular roof of a large house, standing on lower ground than the garden, with quaint gables and old chimneys, rose above the belt of shrubs ; the tiles on it lay in layers that made Beth think of a wasp's nest, only that they were dark red instead of gray ; but she hived tho colour as it appeared all among the green trees and up against tho blue sky. She often wondered what was going on under that roof, and used to invent stories about it. She did not write any- thing in these days, however, ])ut stored up inijn'essions which were afterward of inestimable value to her. The snuxttli gray boles of the beeches, the green down on the larches, the dark l)lue- green crown which the Scotch fir held up, as if to accentuate the light blue of the sky, and the wonderful ruddy-gold tones that shone on its trunk as the day declined— the.se things she felt and absorbed rather than saw and noted, but because she felt them they fired her soul and resolved themselves into verse eventually. They dined early, and on the hot afternoons they sat and worked together after dinner, Beth sewing and Aunt Victoria 21G THE nETII IU)OK. knitting", until it was cool onoujifh to go out. Aunt Victoria was t('iicliin now und(a*clotliin<^ for herself, to lietli's great delight. All of her old things that were not rags wore i)at<'h(!.s, and the slianio of having them so was a continual source of discomfort to her; hut Aunt Victoria, when she discov- ered the state of Both's wardroho, hought .some calico out of her own scanty means and s<'t her to work. During these long after- noons they had many a conversation tliat lieth recolh'cted with pleasure; and profit. She often anni.sed and interested the old lady ; and sometimes she drew from her a serious reprimand or a. solemn lecture, for both of wliich she was much the hetter. Aunt Vic- toria was .sevc^re, hut she was symj)atlietic, and she was just ; she seldom praised, but she showed tliat slie was .satisfied, and that was enougli for Beth ; and siie never scolded or ])unished, only sjjoke seriously when she was displeased, and then Betli was over- whelmed. One very hot day when they were working together. Aunt Victoria sitting on a high-backed chair, with her back to the open doors because the light was too umch for her eyes, and Beth sit- ting beside her on a lower seat, but so that she could look up at her and also out into the garden, it occurred to her that once on a time, long ago. Aunt Victoria must have been young, and slio tried artfully to find out, first, if Aunt Victoria remembered the fact, and secondly, what little girls were like at that remote period. " Was your mamma like mine, Aunt Victoria ?" she asked. Aunt Victoria had just made a mistake in her knitting, and answered shortly, " No, child.'" " When you were all children,"' Beth pursued, " did you play together ? '' " Not much," Aunt Victoria answered grimly. " Did you quarrel ? " " My dear child ! What could put such a notion into your head ? " "What did you do, then ?" said Beth. "You couldn't have been all the time learning to sit upright on a high-backed chair; and I am trying so hard to think what your home was like. I wish you would tell me." " It was not at all like yours," Aunt Victoria replied with emphasis. " We were most carefully brought up children. Our mother was an admirable ])erson. She lived by rule. If one of her children was born at night, it was kept in the house until the I ,» THE BETH BOOK. 2: ith ■Our of the morning, and thon sent out to mirs(j until it was two years old. If it was l)orn by day, it was scut away at on<'('." "And didn't <,T<'at-j,Tandnianjiiui uvor go to sec it !'" " Yes. of course ; twice a year." "I think," said l>eth. relh•ctin;,^ "1 should like to keep niy babies at honuv I shctuld want to put tlieir little soft faces against mine, and kiss them, \'ou know." " Your great-grandmamma did her duty," said Aunt Victoria with grim approval. "She nevei" let any of us loll as you are doing now, ik'th. She made us all sit up as 1 always do, and as I am always telling you to do, and the con-secpience was our back.s grew strong and never ached." "And were you happy T' Beth .said solemnly. Aunt Victoria gazed at her vaguely. She liad never asked herself the (juestion. Then Betli sat with her work on her lap for a little, looking up at th(^ summer sky. It was an (>.\(piisit<' deep blue just then, with filmy white clouds drawn uj) over it like gauze to veil its brightness. The i-ed roofs and gables and cliim- neys of the old liouse below, the shrub.s, the dark Scotch tir, the copper beech, tlie limes, and tlie chestnut stood out clearly sil- houetted against it; and Beth felt the forms and tints and tones of tliem all, although she was thinking of something else. " Mamma's back is always aching," she observed at last, return- ing to her work. "Yes, that is because she was not so well brought up as we were," Aunt Victoria rejoined. " She says it is because she had such a lot of children," said Beth. " Did you ever have any children. Aunt Victoria ?" Miss Victoria Bench let her knitting fall on her lap. " My — dear— cliild !" she ga.sped, holding up both her hands in horror. " Oh, I forgot," said Beth. " Only niarried ladies have cliil- dren. Servants have them, though, .sometimes before they are married, Harriet .says, and then they call them bad girls, (irand- nianmia wasn't as wise as great-grandmamm;i. I suppose, but per- liaps great-grandmamma had a good husband. Grandpapa was an awful old rip, you know." Aunt Victoria stared at her aghast. " He used to drink," Beth proceeded, lowering lier voice and glancing roinid mysteriou.sly, as the old servants at P"'airholm did when they discussed these things; "and grandmamma couldn't bear liis ways or his language, and used to shut herself up in her own room more and more, and they never agreed, and at last she 15 218 THE BETIT BOOK. \v(!nt([uit(' iiiiul, s(i tho saying caiur triu;.— Did you never hear the sayinj^ i Why, you know her fatlier's crest was a raven, and grandpapa's crest waa u bee, and for generations the families had lived near eacii othrr and never been friends, and it was said, 'If the hhxxl of tiie bees and tlie ravens were ever put in the same bowl it wouUln't iningk*.' Do you say ' if it were,' or 'if it was,' Aunt Victoria ? Mamma says ' if it were.' " *'W(' W(!re taught to say ' if it was,' " Aunt Victoria answered stillly, " but your manuna may know better." lietli thou^rht about this for a minute, then set it aside for fur- ther iiupiiry, and dispiissionately resumed: "That was a mean trick of Uncl(! James's, but it was rather ch'ver too; I sliould never have tliought of it. I mean with the lly, you know. Wii«'n grandpapa died Uncle Janies altered his will, .so that mannna mightn't have any money ; and he put a fly in grandpapa's mouth and swore that tlie will was altered while then; was life in him." "My dear child." said Aunt Victoria sharply, "who told you such a preposterous story ? " "Oh, I heard it al)out the place," Beth answered casually; " everybody knows it." She took another needleful of thread and sowed on st(>adily for a little, and Aunt Victoria kept glancing at her m(\inwhile with a very puzzled expression. " liut wluit I want to know is U'Jiy did grandmamma stay with grandpapa if he were — or was — such a very bad man ?" Beth said suddenly. " Because it was her duty," said Aunt Victoria. "And what was his duty ?" " I think, Beth," .said the old lady, " you have done sewing enough for this afternoon. Run out into the garden." Beth knew tliat this was only an excuse not to answer her, but she folded her work up obediently, observing as she did so, how- ever, with decision : " If / ever have a bad husband I shall not stay with him, for I can't see what good comes of it." " Your grandmamma had her children to think of," said Aunt Victori:-. " BuL what good did she do them ? " Beth wanted to know. "She devoted herself to Uncle Jame.s, but she didn't make much of a man of him! And she had no influence whatever with mamnui. Mamma was her father's favourite, and he taught her to despise grandmamma because she couldn't hunt and shrieked if she saw things killed. I think that's silly myself, but it's better than being hard. Of course mamma is worth a dozen of Uncle TiiK ur/ni nooK. 219 James, but " Beth .slirii;,';.'-<'(l her sliouldcrs, then uddod temper- ttlely : " You know inutuniii lias licr faults, Aunt N'icloria, it's no uso denying it. So what ;^o()d did grandrnaumia do hy slay in;,' ? She just went mad and died! If she'll gone away and lived as you do. she might have heen 'iliv and well now." "Ah, my dear child," said the t)ld lady .sorrowfully, "that never eould have heen, for I hiive ohscrved that no woman who marries and becomes a mother can ever iigain live happily like a single woman. She luis entered upon a dill'erent pha.se of heing, unci there is no return for her. There is a weight of meaning in that expression, 'the ties of home.' It is the 'ties of home' that restrain a loving woman, however nmeh she sull'ers ; there are the little daily duties that no one hut herself can see to ; and there is always some one w.io would he worse oil' if she went. There is habit, too, and then? are tho.se small i)o.ssessions, each one with an a.s.sociation of its own, perhaps, that makes it almost a sacred thing; but above all there is hope — tlu; hope that matters may mend; and fear — the fear that once she de.sei'ts her post things will go from bad to worse, and she be to blame. In yt)ur grand- mamma's day such a thing would never have been thought of by a good woman; and even now, v.'heii tlier(> are women who actu- ally go away and work for themselves if their homes ai-e un- happy " Aunt Victoria jjursed up her \\])s and shook her head. "It nuiy b(> respectal)le. of course." she concluded mag- nanimously, " but I can not believe it is either right or wise ; and certainly it is not loyal.'' "Loyal!" Beth echoed; " that was my fatlier's word to me, 'Be loyal.' We've got to be loyal to others; but he also said that we mu.st be loyal to ounselves." Aunt Victoria had folded up her knitting, and now rose stifTly and went out into the garden with an old i)arasol, and sat medi- tating in the sun on the trunk of a tree that had been out down. She often .sat so under her parasol, and Beth used to watch her and wonder what it felt like to be able to look such a long, long way back, and have so many things to remember. 220 TUE BETH BOOK. CHAPTER XXII. Aunt Victoria was surprised herself to find how kindly Beth took to a regular life, how exact she was in the performance of her little housekeeping duties, and how punctual in everything-. She had never suspet'i,ed that Beth's whole leaning was toward law and order, nor obs'Tved that even in her most lawless ways there was a certain system — that she fished, and poached, and prowled, fought Beruadine, and helped Harriet, as regularly as she dined and went U- hsnl. Hahits, goou or had, may he foru'd in an incredibly short anie if they are congenial ; the saints by nature will pray, and the sinners sin, as soon as the exani])le is set them ; and Beth, accordingly, fell into Aunt Victoria's dainty, fas- tidious ways, which were the ways of a gentlewoman, at once and without effort; and ever afterward was only hajjpy in her domestic life when she could live by the same rule in an atmos- phere of e(iual refinement — an honest atmosphere where every- thing was done thoroughlj' and every word spoken was j)erfectly sincere. Of course she relapsed many times. It \»as her nature to experiment, to wander before she settled, to see for herself ; but it was by intimacy with lower natures that she learned fully to appreciate the higher; by the eff'ect of bad books upon her that she learned the value of good ones; by the lowering of her whole tone which came of countenancing laxity in others ; and by the discomfort and degradation which follow (m disorder that she was eventually confirmed in her principles. The taste for the higher life once implanted is not to be eradicated, and those who have l)een ui)lifted by the glory of it will strive to attain to it again inevitably. It was through the infiuence of this time that the most charm- ing traits in Beth's character were finally developed— traits which, but for the tender discipline of the dear old aunt, might have re- mained latent forever. It w(Mild be nusleading, however, to let it be supposed that Beth's conduct was altogether .satisfactory during this visit. On the contrary, she gave Miss Victoria many an anxious monuMit, for although slie did all that the old lady required of her, she did many other things besides — things required of her by her own temperament only. She had to climb the great tree at the end of the lawn, for instance, in order to peep into the nest near the top. and also to see into the demesne beyond the belt of shrubs where i THE BETH BOOK. 221 i the red-roofed house stood, peopled now by friends of lier fiiiicy. This would not have been so bad if she had eonif^ down safely ; but a branch broke, and she fell and hurt herself, v/hieh alanned Miss Victoria very much. Then Miss Victoria used to send her on errands to develop her intellig'ence ; but Beth invariably lost herself at first; if she only liad to turn the corner she couUl not find her way back. Aunt Victoria tried to teach her to note little landnuirks in her own mind as she went along, such as the red pillar box at the corner of the street where she was to turn, and the green shutters on the house where she was to cross ; and Beth noticed these and maiiy more things carefully as she went, and could describe their position accurately afterward ; but by the time she turned, tlie vision and the dream would be upon her as a rule, and she would walk in a world of fancy, utterly oblivious of red pillar boxes, green shutters, or anything else in this, until she was brought up wondering by a lamp-post, tree, t)rsome unoU'end- ing per.son with whom she had ct)llided in lu'r abstraction. Then she would have to ask her way, but she was slow to tind it by di- rection ; and all the time she was wandering about Aunt Victoria would be worrying herself with fears for her safety until slie was quite upset. Beth was rebellious, too, about some things. There was a gro- cery shop at oiu; end of the street kept by a res])ectable woman ; but Beth refused to go to it because the respectable woman had a fussy little Pomeranian dog, and allowed it to lick her hands and face all over, which so disgusted Beth that slu^ could not eat any- thing the woman touched. It was in this shoj) that Beth picked up the moribund black beetle that kicked out suddenly and .set up the horror of crawling things from which she <>ver afterward sutl'ered. This was another reason for iu>t going back to the shop, but Aunt Victoria could not miderstand it. and insisted on send- ing her. Beth was firmly naughty in the matter, however, and would not go, greatly to the old lady's discomjiosure. One nu\ins of toi'ture unconsciously devised by Aunt Victoria tried Beth extremely. Aunt Vict(^ria used to send her to church alone on Sunday ;ifternoon;- to liear a certr.in eloquent preacher, and required her to repeat tlie t(\\t aiul tell hvv what the whole sermon was about on her return. B(>th did her best, but if she managed to remember the text by repeating it all the time she could not atteiul to the sermon, and if she att(^nded to the sermon she invariably forgot the text. It was another instance of the trickishness of her memory. She could have remembered 222 THE BETH BOOK. 4 botli the text and sermon without an effort liad she not been afraid of forji^etting tliein. But the thing tliat gave her aunt most trouble of mind was BetlTs l)abit of making acquaintance with all kinds of people. It was vain to warn her, and worse tlian vain, for the reasons Aunt Victoria gave her for not knowing people only excited her interest in them, and she would wait about, watching, to see for hers(!lf, studying their habits with the patient pertinacity of a natunilist. The drawing-room floor wa« let to a lady whose hus- band was at sea, a Mrs. Crome. She was very intimate with a gentleman who also lodged in the house, a friend of her hus- band's, she said, who had promised to look after her during his absence. Their bedrooms adjoined, and Beth vised to see their boots outside their doors every morning when she went down to breakfast and wonder why they got up so late. " Out again together nearly all last night," Prentice remarked to Aunt Victoria one morning ; and then they shook their heads, but agreed that there was nothing to bo done. From this and otlier remarks, however, Beth gathered that Mrs. Crome was going to perdition, and from that time she had a horrid fascina- tion for Beth, who would gaze at her whenever she had an oppor- tunity, with great solemn ej^es dilated, as if she were learning lier by heart — as indeed she was involuntarily for future refei-ence, for Mrs. Crome was one of a pronounced type, as Beth learned eventually, when she knew the world better, an example which helped her to recognise other specimens of the kind whenever she met them. She scraped acquaintance with Mrs. Crome on the stairs at last, and was .siu'prised to find her as kind as could be and was in- clined to argue from this that Prentice and Aunt Victoria must be mistaken about her ; but one evening ^trs. Crome tein])ted her into the drawing-room. The gentlenuin was there, smoking a cigar and drinking whisky and water; and there was sometliing in the whole aspect and atmosphere of the room that made Beth feel exceedingly uncomfortable and wish she was out of it im- mediately, " Aren't you very dull with that old lady ? " said Mrs. Crome. "I suppose she never takes you to the theatre or anything." " No," said Beth ; " she does not approve of theatres." " Then I suppose she doesn't approve of me ? " Mrs. Crome ob- served, good-naturedly. "No," said Beth solemnly ; " she does not." THE BETH BOOK. 223 1 Mrs. Crome burst out laughing', and so did tlio rs. She snitFed the land breeze and found it sweet but insipid in her nos- trils after the tonic freshness of the sea air. She heard the voice of her beloved in the .sough of the wind among the trees, and it made her inexpressibly melancholy. Her energy began to ebb. She did not care to move about much, but would sit silently sew- I 224 THE BETH BOOK. iuff by the hour together, outwardly calm, inwardly all an ache to ffo back to tlio sea. She used to wonder whether the tide was coming' in or goin<^ out ; wonder if the lish were bitiug, how the sands looked, and who was on the ])ier. She devoured every scrap of news that came from home in the hope of finding some- thing to satisfy her longing. Bernadine wrote her an elaborate letter in large hand, which Beth thought very wond(>rful ; Har- riet sent her a letter also, chiefly composed of moral sentiments copied from the Family Herald, with a view to producing a favourable impression on Miss Victoria ; and Mrs. Caldwell wrote regularly once a week a formal duty letter, but a joy to Beth, to whom letters of any kind were a new and surprising experience. She had never expected that any one would write to h(>r, and in the first flush of her gratitude she responded with enthusiasm, sending her mother in particular long descriptions of her life and surroundings, which Mrs. Caldwell thought so good she showed them to everybody. In replying to Beth, however, she expres.sed no approval or pleasure. On the contrary, she i)ut Beth to sliame by the way she dwelt on her mistakes in spelling, which effectu- ally checked the outpourings and shut Beth up in herself again, so that she mourned the more. During the day she kept up pretty well, but toward twilight, always her time of trial, the yearning for home, for mamnui, for Harriet, for Bernadine. began again. The most gloomy fears of what might be happening to them in her absence possessed her, and she had great dilTiculty in keeping back her tears. Aunt Victoria noticed her depression, but mistook it for fatigue and sent her to bed early, which Beth was glad of, because she wanted to be alone and cry. But one evening, when she was looking pai'ticularly sad, li.(^ old lady asked if she did not feel well. " Yes, I feel quite well, thank you. Aunt Victoria,'' Beth an- swered with a great sigh ; " l)ut I know now what you meant about home ties. They do pull strong." " Ah ! " said Aunt Victoria, enlightened. '' You are homesick, are you ? '' And from that day forward, when she saw Beth moping, she took her out of herself by naking her discuss the subject, and so relieved her ; but Beth continued to suffer, although less acutely, until her return. I t TKE BETH BOOK. 225 sick, CHAPTER XXIII. Rainharbour was not yet deserted by summer visitors, al- thoug-li it was late in the autumn when Beth and Aunt Victoria returned. It had been such a lovely season that the holiday peo- ple lingered, loath to leave tlie freslmess of the .sea and the free- dom of the shore for tlie stutl'y indoor duties and the conventional restrictions of tlieir town lives. On the day of tlieir arrival Beth looked about lier in amaze. She had experienced such a world of change in herself since she went awa}' that she was .surprised to iind the streets unalt«'red ; and yet, although they Avere unaltered, they did not look the same. It was as if the focus of her eyes had been readjusted so as to make familiar objects seem strange and change the j)erspec- tive of everything, which gave the place a different air, a look of having been swept and garnished and set in order like a toy town. But the people they passed were altogether unchanged, and this seemed stranger still to Beth. Tliere they had been all the time, walking about as usual, wearing the same clothes, think- ing the same thoughts ; they had had no new experiences, and, what was worse, they were not only unconscious of any that she might have had. but were profoiuull}' indifferent ; and to Beth, on the threshold of life, all eager interest in everything, caring greatly to know and ready to sympathize, this vision of the self- centred with shrivelled hearts was terrible — it gave her the sen- .sation of being the one living thing that could feel in a world of automata moved by machinery. Bernadine and lier mother had met them at the station, but Beth was so busy looking about her, collecting impressions, she had hardlv a word to sav to either of th(>m. Mrs. Caldwell set this down as another sign of want of proper affection ; but Aunt Victoria grumped that it was nothing but natural excitement. The first thing Beth did after greeting Harriet, who stood smil- ing at the door, was to run ujistairs to her mother's Ix'droom to settle the question of how much of the garden was visil)lt' from the window, and ilwn she rushed on up to the attic, dragged a big box under the skylight in hot haste, and climbed up on it to look at the sea. It was the one glimpse of it to be had from the house, just a corner, where the water washed up against the white cliffs that curved round an angle of the bav. Beth fluii'.r the skv- light open and gazed, then drew in her breath with a great sigh 226 THE BETH BOOK. 4 of satisfaction. The sea ! The sea ! Even that glimpse of it was refreshing as a long cool drink to one exhausted by heat and cruelly athirst. Wliile she was away Beth ha'^ made many good resolutions about behaving herself on her return. Aunt Victoria had talked to her .seriously on the subject. Beth could be good enough when she liked. She did all that her aunt expected of her ; why could she not do all that her mother expected ? Beth promised she would, uii as beginning already to keep lier promise faithfully by benig as troublesome as possible, which was all that her mother ever expected of her. Whether or not thoughts are things which have power to produce ell'ects, there are certainly people who an- swer to expectali'Mi with fatal facility, and Beth was one of them. Eventual' -i' "■ .sisted with all her own individuality, but at this time sue .:. fr;' ''1 e an instrument played upon by other peo- ple's minds. Jhis pe<'ul ar sensitiveness she turned to account in after-''f'\ usin<^ i*^ as a ■: ,o ciiai-acter ; slu; had mcrelj' to make herself va?sivL, wh >n sh. . nl herself rellecting the people with whom she converseil iiiv-iu .;il;>.and not as they appeared on the surface, but as they actually were in their inmost selves. In her childhood she unconsciously illustrated the thoughts people had in their minds about her. Aunt Victoria b(>lieved in hor and trusted her, and when they were alone together Beth res})()nded to her good opinion ; Mrs. Caldwell expected her to bo nothing but a worry, and was not disai)])ointed. When Beth was in the same house with both aunt and n\(ither she varied, answering to the expectation that hai)pened to be strongest at the moment. That afternoon Aunt Victoria was tired after her journey, and did not think of Beth at all ; but Mrs. Caldwell was busy in her own mind anticipating all the trouble she would have now Beth was back ; and Beth, standing on the box under the attic sky- light with her head out. straining her eyes to seaward, was seized with a sudden imj)ulse which answered to her mother's expectation. That first day she ought to have staid in, unpacked her box, exhibited lier beautiful needlework, got ready for dinner in good time, and proved her affection for her mother and sister by making herself agreeable to them : but instead of that she stole downstairs, slipped out by the back gate, and did not return unti] long after dinner was over. She did not enjoy the scamper, however. Her homesickness was gone, but her depression returned nevertheless, as the day declined, only in another form. She had still that curious sensa- THE BETH BOOK. 227 lung I the S to nient, and her Both sky- was ler's eked liner ;ister she turn ness day nsa- tion of being the only living tiling in a world of figures moved . ^ by mechanism. She stood at the top of the steps which led down ■ on to the pier, whore the sailors loitered at idle times, and was greeted by those she knew with slow smiles of recognition ; but she had nothing to say to any of them. The tide was going out, and had loft some of the ships in the harbour all canted to one side ; cobles and pleasure l)oats rested in the mud ; a cockle gatherer was wading about in it with his trousers turned up over his knees, and his bare legs so thickly coated it looked as if he had black leggings on. Beth wont to the edge of the jiier and stood for a few minutes looking down at him. She was facing west, but the sun was already too low to hurt her eyes. On her right the red-roofed houses crowded down to the quay irregularly. Fi.shing nets hung out of some of the windows, and here and there, down in the harbour, the rich brown sails had been hoisted on some of the cobles to dry. There were some yachts at anchor, and Beth looked at them eagerly, hoping to find Count Bartahlinsky's Sea Gull among them. It was not there ; but presently she became conscious of some one standing beside her, and, on looking up, she recognised Black Gard, the count's coniidontial man. lie was dressed like the fishermen, in drab trousers and a dark-blue jersey, but wore a blue cloth cap instead of a sou'wester, with the name of the yacht on it. " Has your master returned ? '' she said. " No, miss," he answered. " He's still abroad. He'll be back for the hunting, though." "I doubt it," said Beth, resentful of that vague "abroad" which absorbed him into itself the greater part of the year. When she had spoken she turned her back on Gard and the sunset, and wandered off up the clitrs. She had noticed a sickly smell com- ing up from the mud in the harbour, and wanted to escape from it, but somehow it seemed to accompany her. It reminded her of something— no, that was not it. What she was searching a])out in her mind for was some way, not to name it, but to express it. She felt there was a formula for it within reach, but for some time she could not recover it. Then she gave up the attempt, and immediately afterward she suddenly said to herself : "... The smell of death Camo rcckinfT from tliose s{)ioy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man. Mingled his taint witli every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers." if 228 THE BETH BOOK. She did not search for any occult meaning: in tlie lines, nor did thoy convey anj'tliinf,'' special to her ; but they remained with her for the rest of tlie day, haunting her in amonj;: her other thoughts, and forcing themselves upon her attention with the irritating persistency of a catchy tune. On the cliffs she i)aused to look about her. It was a desolate scene. The tide was so far out by this time it looked as if there were more sand than sea in the bay. Tlie water was the cloudy gray colour of flint, with white rims where the waves broke on the shore. The sky was low, level, and dark ; where it met the water there was a heavy bank of cloud, from which an occasional flash of summer lightning, dinnned by daylight, shot along the horizon. The air was peculiarly clear, so that distant objects seemed nearer than was natural. The sheltering headland on the left, which formed the bay, stood out bright white with a crown of vivid green against the sombre sea and sky, while on the right the old gray pier, which shut in the view in that direc- tion, and the red-roofed houses of the town crowding down to it, showed details of design and masonry not generally visible to the naked eye from where Beth stood. There were neither ships nor boats in the bay ; but a few cobles, with their red-brown sails flapping limp against their masts, rocked lazily at the harbour mouth waiting for the tide to rise and float them in. Beth heard the men on them shouting an occasional remark to each other, and now and then one of them would sing an uncouth snatch of song, but the effort was spiritless and did not last. Leaving the harbour behind, Beth walked on toward the head- land. Presently she noticed in front of her the dignified and pathetic figure of an old man, a Roman Catholic priest. Canon Hunter, who, sacrificing all worldly ease or chance of advance- ment, had come to minister to the neglected fisherfolk on the coast, most of whom were Roman Catholics. He led the life of a saint among them, living in dirt poverty, his congregation being all of the poorest, with the exception of one lady in the neigh- bourhood, married to a man whose vices were too expensive to leave him much to spare for his wife's charities. She managed, however, to raise enough money for the rent of the top room in the public hall which they used as a chapel, and so kept the flick- ering flame of the old religion alight in the place ; but it was a severe struggle. It was whispered, indeed, that more of the gen- try in the neighbourhood sympathized with the Catholics than was supposed, and would have helped them but for the discredit ¥ THE BETH BOOK. 229 — did help tlicni, in fact, wlicii they dared. But no one outside the communion knew how true this report mijjht be, and the fislier folk loyally held their jx'ace. It was natural that Beth as she ^ew up should be attracted by the mystery that surrounded the Ronum Catholics, and anxious to compreliend the horror that Protestants had of them. She knew more of them herself than any of the people whom she heard pass uncharitable strictures upon them, and knew nothings for which they could justly be blamed. For the old priest himself she had a <^reat reverence. She had never spoken to him, but had always felt strouf^ly drawn toward him, and now, when she overtook him, her impulse was to slip her hand in his, less on her own account, however, than to show sym- pathy with him, he seemed so solitary and so suffering-, with his slow step and bent back, and so good, with his beautiful calm face. As .she approached, lost in her own thoughts, she gazed up at him intently. " What is it, my child ? '" he asked, with a kindly smile, " Can I do anything for you ? " " I was thinking of the beauty of holiness," Beth answered, and passed on. The old man looked after her, too surprised for the moment to speak, and by the tiine he had recovered himself she had turned a corner and was out of sight. After Beth went home that evening, and had been duly reproached by her mother for lier .selfish conduct, she stole upstairs to Aunt Victoria's room, and found the old lady sit- ting with her big Bible on her knee, looking very sad and serious. " Beth," she said .severely, " have you had any food ? It is long past your dinner time, and it does not do for young girls to fast too long." "I'll go and get something t<» eat. Aunt Victoria," Beth an- swered meekly, overcome by her kindness. " I forgot." She went down to the pantry and found some cold pie which she took into the kitchen and eat without appetite. The heat was oppressive. All the doors and windows stood wide open, but there was no air, and wherever Beth went she was haunted by the sickly .smell which she had first perceived coming up from the mud in the harbour, and by the lines, which seemed somehow to account for it : ill 230 THE BETU BOOK. . . . Thi) HHicll of death Came reekinju; 1'roin tluwe njiicy howera, And inuii, the Hueriiiee of iiiun, Mii)),'led his tuiiit with every l)reuth Upwufted from tlie innoe'eiit llowurs. When she had eaten all she could she went back to Aunt Victoria. " Shall wo read the psahns ? " she said. *' Yes, dear," the old lady answered. " I have been waiting for you a lonj!^ time, Betli." " Aunt Victoria, I am very sorry," Beth protested. " I didn't think." "Ah, Beth," the old lady said sorrowfully, " how often is that to be your excuse ? You are always thinking, but it is only your own wihl fancies that occupy you. When will you learn to think of others ? " " I try always," Beth answered sincerely ; " but what am I to do when ' wild fancies ' come crowding in spite of me, and all I ought to remember slips away ? " " Pray," Aunt Victoria answered austerely. " Prayer shapes a life, and those lives are the nuxst beautiful which have been shaped by prayer. Prayer is creative ; it transposes intention into action and makes it inevitable for us to be and to do more than would be possible by any other means." There was a short silence, and then Miss Victoria began the psalm. It was a joy to Beth to hear her read, she read so beauti- fully ; and it was from her that Beth herself acquired the accom- plishment for whicli she was afterward noted. Ver.se by verse they read the psalms together as a rule, and Beth was usually attentive; but that evening, before the end, her attention became distracted by a loud ticking, and the last word was scarcely pro- nounced before she exclaimed, looking about her : " Aunt Vic- toria, what is that ticking ? I see no clock." The old lady looked up calmly, but she was very pale. "You do hear it, then ? " she replied. " It has been going on all day." Beth's heart stood still an instant, and in spite of the heat her skin crisped as if the surface of her body had been suddenly sprayed with cold water. " The death watch ! " she ejaculated. The ticking stopped a moment, as if in answer to the words, and then began again. A horrible foreboding seized upon Beth. " Oh, no, no, not that ! " she exclaimed, shuddering ; and then, all at once, she threw herself upon her knees beside Aunt Vic- THE BKTIl BOOK. 2;u :an the Ibeauti- Lccom- verse isually »ecame fy pro- it Vic- You lay." her lenly id. |v'ords, Jeth. I then, Vic- toria, clasped her arms round her, and burst into a tempest of teal's and s()l)s. "Betli, Beth, my dear cliiUl!"the oUl lady cried in dismay, "control yourself. It is only a little insect in tlie wood. It njay mean nothin<^ " " It does mean something," Beth interru])ted vehemently. " I know — I always know. The sniell of deatli lias been about tne all the afternoon, but I did not understand, although the words were in my mouth. When thinj^s mean nothing' they don't make you feel queer — they don't impress you. Nine times run- nin I I sometimes feel as if I were listening, but not with my ears, ard waiting for things to happen that I know about, but not with my head; and I try always to understand when I lind myself listen- ing, but not with my ears, and something surely conies ; and so also when I am waiting for things to happen that I know about, but not with my head ; they do happen. Only most of the tinu; I know that something is coming, but I can not tell what it is. In order to be able to tell exactly, I liavo to hold myself in a certain attitude — not my body, you know, 7»7/.sc//"— hold myself in sus- pense, as it were, or suspend something in myself, stop something, push something aside. I can't get it into words, I can't always do it : but when I can. then I know," " Who taught you — this ? " Aunt Victoria asked, as if she were startled. " Oh, no one taught me," Beth answered. " I just found my- self doing it. Then I tried to notice how it was done. I wanted to be able to do it myself when I liked. And it was just as if there were two doors, and one had to be shut before I could look out of the other— the one that is my nose and ej'es and ears ; when that is shut, then I know I look out of the other. Do things come to you so, Aunt Victoria ? " The old lady had taken Beth's hand, and was stroking it and looking at her very seriously. " No," she said, shaking her head : "no, things do not come to me like that. But. although I have only one set of faculties myself, my outlook is not so linn'ted by them that I can not comprehend the possibility of something be- yond. There are written records of people in olden times who must have possessed some such power — some further faculty such it 232 TUK BKTII BOOK. as you describo. It may be tlmt it lies latt'iit in tlic wbolo race, awaiting'' favourable conditions to dt^vi-lop itself, and some few rare being's buv<; conu^ info possession of it already. We are com- plex creatures— body, soul, and spirit, says tlie saint ; aiul tbere is spiritual i)<)\ver. lietli, lay bold of tbat wbieb you perceive in yourself, cberisb it, culiivate it, live tbe life necessary to develof it ; for be sure it is a gn-at f^ift ; it may be a divine one." Wben tlie old lady stopped, Betb raised lier bead and looked about ber, as if sbe bad just awakened from sleep. " W bat were we talkiii}; about before tb.it if " sbe said. " Ob, I kiunv— tbe death watcb. It bas stopped." Tbre were in. waiting, niaking" i(>re was ■eiit peo- this. and hroken A'liicli it lite as if doomed L> on tlie :• hreath — down )nce or en sud- )es and y were )urafj-e- g"— tlie ement, iv com- plete and five poor wretches rescued— only five out of (ifteen, l)ut still "Blessed be God," said the old priest, " for those whom he has received into k'^'T ' '^'''l blessed be his holy name for those whoni he doiffus to let live ! " Beth, staiidinj,' beside him. heard the W(»r(ls, and woiulerinyly contrasted him with Parson Itieliardson, who remained shut up with his fourth wife in his fat living, making cent per cent out of his school, and heedless of the parish, while one so old and feeble as Canon Hunter stood by his people at all times, careless of himself, enduring- hardship, braviii;,' danger, a man amoiif? men in spile of age and weakness, by reason of gn-at love. The pinch of poverty was severely felt again that winter in the Caldwell household. Beth, who was jrrowingr rapidly, became torpid from excessive self-denial ; sin? tried to do without enough to make it as if there were one mouth less to feed, and the privation told upon her ; her energy flagged ; when sli went out siie found it dillicult to drag- herself home, and the exuberant spirit of dar- ing which found expression in naughty euteri)ri.ses suddenly subsided. She poached on princijile still for the benefit of the family, but the cool confidence born o*" a sort of inward certainty, which is a premonition of success if ii is not the ])ower that com- pels it, was wantinn Aunt Victoria liad taken the little slie could, aiul sat on the side of the bed, holding the old lady's hand and gazing at her intently ; and as she watched she saw a strange change come over her. The darkness was fading from tlie sky, and the light from Aunt Victoria's face. Beth had seen nothing like this before, and yet she had no doubt of what was coming. She had known it for days and days ; she seemed to liave known it always. " Shall I go for manjma ? " she asked at last. The old lady shook her head. Beth felt strangely benumbed. She thought of rousing Har- riet to fetch the doctor, but she could not move. All feeling was suspended, except the sensation of waiting. This lasted a while, I THE BETH BOOK. 237 )ckino-. It >uriiiii^ oil yiio Was n slie saw e she was ovd until t ye, c(nu- ly iookod -T. Beth ; "and I ' mind if get tJie e dream yes and ^d cAti-a ip niore ion ]iad ictoi'ia perfect g it to lero in d^ing- '.lien e side ntlr ; * lier. Aunt fl yet t for ^ar- was lile, then a lump began to mount in her throat, and she liad to gulj) it down several times. " Poor little girl ! '" Aunt Victoria muttered, looking- at her in her kindly way. Beth melted. "Oh, what sliall I do ?" she whimpered, "you have been so very good to me. You've taught me all tlie good I know, and I have done nothing for you — nothing' but l)()tlier you. ]5ut I love you, Aunt Victoria ; stay, do stay I I want to do everything' you would like "' Tlie old lady faintly pressed her hand, then made a last great elFort to speak. " Bless you, Beth, my dear child ! " she managed to say with great dilliculty. " Be comforted, you have helped me — more than you know. In my sore need I was not left comfort- less. Neither will you be. May the Lord bless you, and keep you — always ! Amen." Her head sank upon her breast. She seemed to settle down in the bed as if her weight had suddenly grown greater. The sombre dawn had broken by this time, and by its light Beth saw the shadow of death come creeping over the delicate patient face. " Aunt Victoria," slie gasped breathlessly, like one in haste to deliver a message before it is too late, " shall I say Lift np your Jieads, O ye gates ! That was the fii-st thing you taught nie." The t)ld lady spoke no more, but Beth saw that she understood. The faint flicker of a smile — a pleased expression — came into her face aud settled there. Beth, feeling the full solemnity of the moment, got down from the b(»d and stood beside it. holding fast still to the kind old hand that would never more caress or help her, as if she could keep the dear one near her by clinging to her. ''Who .'■iJialJ ascend info the hill of the Lord ? or, irho sJiall stand i)i Jiis holy place f " she began, with a strange vibration in her voice. "//« fJiat hath clean Jiands and a pnre lieavt ; icJio hath not lifted iij) liis soul to canity; nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receire the blessing from the Lord riffhfeonsness from the God of Jiis salration. Lift np your heads. O ye gates ; and he ye lifted up, ye ererlasting doors, and the Ki)tg of glory shall come n<." Beth's voice broke her(\ but witli a great effort she began again fervently: "Lift up your heads, O ye gates: even lift them up, ye ererlasting doors." There she stopped, however, for at thn, and yellow go on Yet I "She miss fated. have irver ;lflsh u and thought of nothing but my own interests. If she liad to find fault with me she did it so that she made me want to be better. She was never unkind, slie was never unjust, and now I've lost her, I have no one." "It is your own fault, tlien," .said Mrs. Caldwell, apt as usual to say the kind of thing with which fatuous parents torment the genius child. " You are so determined not to be like other people that nobody can stand you." '• I am not determined to be unlike other peojjle," Beth ex- claimed, turning crimson with rage and shame. " I want to be like everybody else, and I avi like everybody else. And I nm always ready to care for people, too, if they will let me. It isn't my fault if they don't like me." " It is your fault," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. " You have an un- happy knack of separating yourself from every one. Look at your Uncle James. He can hardly tolerate you." " He's a fool, so that doesn't matter," said Beth, who always dealt summarily witli Uncle James. '"I can't tolerate him. But you can't say I .separate myself from Aunt Grace Mary. She likes me and she's kind ; but she's silly, and when I'm with her any time it makes me yawn. Is fJutt my fault ? And did I sepa- rate my.self from Kitty ? Did I separate myself from ])apa ? Do I separate myself from Count Bartalilinsky ? Have I .separated myself from Aunt Victoria ? — and who else is there ?'' " You gave Aunt Victoria plenty of trouble while she was here," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined dryly. " Well, that is true, at all events," Beth answered in a broken voice ; and then she bowed her head on the old Fn.'nch granunar, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Mrs. Caldwell looked up from her work at her from time to time, frowning, but she was too nnich rullled by .some of Beth's remarks to say anything consoling ; and Beth, absorbed in her grief, lost all consciousness of everything outside herself. At last, however, a kindly hand was laid on her head, and some one stroked her hair. '' That is the way she goes on, and I don't know what to do with her," Mrs. Caldwell was saying. " Come, Beth, rouse your- self," she added sharply. Beth looked up, and found that it was her Aunt Grace Mary who was stroking her hair. "Poor little body!" said Aunt Grace Mary as if she were speaking to an infant, then added in a sprightly tone : " Come, 240 THE BiJTn BOOK. dear ! Come, dear ! Wipe your eyes. Mamma will be here di- rectly — my mamma — and Uncle James, and Mr. Watson." " What are they coming for ? " said Beth. "Oh, your mamma know.s," Aunt Grace Mary answered archly. " Mr. Watson was poor dear Aunt Victoria's lawyer, and he has brought her will, and is going to read it to us." " Am I to be sent out of the room ? " Beth asked. " Of course," said Mrs. Caldwell. "It isn't a matter for you at all." " Everything is a matter for mo that concerned Aunt Victoria," Beth rejoined. " And if Lady Bonyon is to be here, / shall stay." Before Mrs. Caldwell could reply Lady Benyon herself was ushered into the little room with great deference by Uncle James. They were followed by a little old gentleman dressed in black, with spectacles and a pair of badly fitting black kid gloves. He shook hands with Mrs. Caldwell and then with Beth, whom he looked at over his spectacles shrewdly. Uncle James also shook hands, and kissed his sister. " This is a solemn occasion," he said, with emotion in his voice. Then he looked at Beth, and added, " Had she not better go ? " Beth sat down beside Aunt Grace Mary with her mouth obsti- nately set, and Mrs. Caldwell, afraid of a scene, merely shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Meanwhile the lawyer was blowing his nose, wiping his spectacles, taking papers out of a pocket at the back of his frock coat, and settling himself at the table. " You would like this young lady to retire, I suppose," said Uncle James blandly. " By no means," the little old gentleman answered, looking up at him over his spectacles, and then at Beth. " By no means ; let the young lady remain." Aunt Grace Mary put her arm round Beth. The lawyer broke the seal, unfolded the will, and remarked by way of preface : " The document is in the handwriting of the deceased. Ahem !" Instantly into every face there came the expressioji that people wear in churcli. Mr. Watson proceeded to read, but in a dry, distinct, matter-of-fact tone, devoid of all emotion. A lawyer reading a will aloud is sure of the interest of his audience, and on this occasion it was evident that each member of the little group listened with strained attention, but with very different feelings. What they gathered was that Miss Victoria Bench, spinster, being of sound mind, did will and bequeath everything of which she might die posseased to her beloved great-uiece, Miss THE BETH BOOK. 241 '^ ^>f^ here di- 'T answered lawyer, and tter for you 't Victoria," shaJI stay." lorsejf was icJe James, "i bJack, oves. He ^v'Jioiri he ^«o siiook ."ho said, id added, 'til obsti- briio-ged blowing- >f;ket at 0. "." said '"ng- up »s ; let awyer eface .- lem ! " )eopIe wyer and little Tent nch, lino- (liss Elizabotli Caldwell, commonly called Beth. Should Beth marrj , the money was to he settled upon her for her exclusive use. The present mcome from the property, about fifty pounds a year, was to be devoted to tlie education of tliesaid Miss Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth. Uncle James's jaw dropped during- the reading-. "But," he stammered when it was over, "if the investments recover ?" "Then Miss Elizabeth Caldwell, commonly called Beth, will have an income of b(>tween six and seven Imndred a year, at least,'' said the lawyer, smiling. Aunt Grace Mary clasped Beth close in a spasm of cong-ratula- tion. Mrs. Caldwell burst into tears. Beth luM-sclf, with an un- moved countenance, perceived the disgust of Uncle James, her mother's emotion, and something- like anmsement in Lady Benyon's face, and she also perceived, but at a g-reat distance, as it were, that there was a dim prospect of some chang-e for the better iu her life. " Poor little body ! " said Aunt Grace Mary, caressing- her. "Rich little body !" said Lady Benyon. "Come and kiss me. Puck, and let me congratulate vou." CD ^ "It is very nice for you, Beth, I am sure," said Mrs. Caldwell plaintively, holding- out her hand to Beth as she i)assed. Beth accepted this also as a conc^ratulation, and st()oi)ed and kissed her mother. Then the lawyer got up and shook hands with her, and thereupon L^ncle .Tames, feeling- forced for decency's sake to do something, obsei'ved ])ointedly, "I su])pose ]\Iiss Mctoria Bench was quite sane when she made this bequest ? '' " I should say that your supi)osition was correct," said the lawyer. " Miss Victoria Bench always seemed to me to bean eminently sane person." There was no allusion whatever to Uncle .Tames in Aunt Vic- toria's will. She thanked her nicM-e, Mrs. Caroline Caldwell, kindly for the shelter she hiid given her in her misfortuiu', and hoped that by providing for Beth slu' would relieve her motlier's mind of all anxiety jibout the child, to "whom she proceeded to state, she left all slie bad in jiroof of the tender allVction she felt for tlie child, and in return for the disintcM'ested love and duty she had received from Beth. Aunt N'ictoria wished B(;th to have her room when she was gone, in order that Beth might, as she grew up, have ]n'0])er privacy in her life, with undisturbed leisure for study, rellection, and prayer. Slie added that she considered Beth a child of exceptional temperament, that peculiar care and kind- 242 THE BETH BOOK. !l ness would be necessary to develo}) lior cliaractor ; hut Miss Vic- toria lioped, prayed, and believed that, vvitli tlu^ b(dp of the excel- lent abilities with which she had been endowed, Beth would not only work out her own salvation eventually, but do something notable to the jL,''lory of God and for tlie <,''()od of mankind. BetlTs heart glowed when she heard this ])assage, and ever afterward, when she recalled it, she felt strangely stimulated. After the last solemn words of the will had been read, and the little scene of congratulation had beiMi enacted, there was a pause in the proceedings ; then Uncle James remaikedin his hajjpiest maimer : "The importance which old ladies attach to their little bequests is only to be equalled by the strength of their sentiments and the grandeur of the language in which they are expressed. One would think a principality was being beciueathed to a prin- cess, instead of a few pounds to an obscure little girl, to judge by the tone of the whole document. Well I Well ! '' Beth looked at him, then drew down the corners of her mouth impertinently. "There is one thing I can console you with, Uncle James," she said. " You may be quite sure that when I do come into my kingdom I shall carefully conceal the fact that I am any relation of j'ours." Later in the day Beth found her mother sitting in her accus- tomed place by the dining table, rocking herself sideways over her work, and with a worried expression of countenance, as if she were uneasy in her mind. " Aren't you pleased, manmia," said Beth, " that I should be left the money ? " " Why, yes, of course, my dear child;' Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. Her tone to Beth had altered very much since the morning. Even in a few short hours Beth had been made to feel that mere money was making her a person of more importance than she liad ever been considered before. Her mother had stopped short, but Beth waited, and Mrs. Caldwell recommenced : " I am delighted on your account. Only, I was just thinking. The money is of no use to you just now, and it would have made all the difference to Jim. He ought to be making friends now who will last him his life, and help him on in his career ; but he can do nothing Avithout an allowance, and I can not nuike him one. There is no hurry for your educa- tion. In fact, I think it would be better for your health if you were not taught too much at present. But you shall have your aunt's room, Beth, to study in, if you like. You may even sleep ' '^"t .Afiss Vic |P of tin. ,,^.,,.,. 7> «oinothimr ;'«■*'. iuul ever ""jJuted. '•^'ul, and tlio ^^'-'s a ])au.se o tJioir Jittio * wiitinionfs " J'Kl^'-e by 'it^r niouth >'ou WitJj, ^'^'en I do '^<-'t that I ^'^ «iccus- Jys over '«, as if ^ bo left joined. )rjii„n.. mere »i she now, it to him nee, Jca- rou 3ur Jep THE BETH BOOK. 243 there, althoupli I shall feel it wlien you leave mine. It will bo breaking up the family. Tbat renuirk in the will ubout proper privacy seems to me great nonsense, and you know I am not legally bound to give you a room to yourself. However, it was the dear old lady's last request to me, and that makes it sacred, so it shall be carried out to the letter. The room is yours, and I hope you will enjoy yoiu* privacy." "Oh, I sltdllf Beth exclaimed, with uncomplimentary fer- vour. Mrs. Caldwcill sighed, and sewed on in silence for a little. " The dear old lady left you the money because she believed you would do some good with it," she resumed. "'For the good of mankind.' Those are her own words. And I do think that is rather your line Beth ; and what greater good can you do to be- gin with than help your brother on in the world { To speiul the money on him instead of on yourself would really be a line, un- selilsh thing to do." Beths great gray eyes dilated ; the prospect was alluring. " I suppose there would not be enough for both of us ? " she ventured tentatively ; " enough for me to be taught some few things prop- erly, you know. English, music, French " " On fifty iiounds a year, my dear child I " her mother ex- claimed sorrowfully. " Fifty pounds goes no way at all." Beth sighed. "Besides," !Mrs. Caldwell pursued, "/can teach you all tho.se things. You've got beyond your childish tiresomeness now. and have only to ask, and then I will tell you all you don't know. It would be a ])leasure and an occupation for me. aiul in- deed, Beth, I have very little pleasure in life. The days are long and lonely." Beth looked up with sudden sj-mpathy. "But if you will let me give you the lessons and earn the money. I could send it to Jim, and that would comfort me greatly, and add also to your liappiness, I should think." It was not in Beth to resi.st such an appeal. She always for- got herself at the first symptom of sorrow or suffering in another, and never considered her own interests if she could help some- body else by sacrificing them. "It iconld add to my happiness," she answered brightly ; "and if you will just explain to me, mamma, when I don't understand things, I shall remember all right, and not be a bother to you. Will you be kind to me, and not scold me and jeer at me, and make my life a burden to me ? When you do that I hate you." Mrs. Caldwell stopped short with her needle up in the air in 244 THE BRTIl BOOK. II I tlio act of drawing tlio thread throuyli her work. She was inex- pressibly shocked. " Hate your mother, Beth ! *' she g.'isped. " I know it's abomiiiabh^" said Beth, filled w^ith comi)unction, *' but I can't liclp it. It's tlie devil, I suppose. He gats hold of us botii, and makes you torment me, and makes me not like you for it." Mrs. Caldwell quietly resumed her sewing. She was too much startled by this glimjjse of lierself from Beth's point of view to say another word on the subject, and a long silence ensued, dur- ing wliich slie .saw herself jis a sadly misunderstood mother. She determiiK^d, however, to try and manage Beth on a new i)rinciple. " I should like to help you to make the best of yourself, Beth," she burst out again abruptly ; " and I think I can. You are a tall girl for your age, and are beginning to hold yourself well already. Your poor dear aunt was very particular to teach you that. And you have the comph^xion of the Bench family if you will take care of it. You should wash your face in buttermilk at night after being out in the sun. I'll get you some, and I'll get you a parasol for the summer. Your hands are not nearly so coarse as they used to be, and they would really be quite nice if you at- tended to tliem ])roperly. All your father's people had good hands and feet. I must see to your gloves and boots. I don't know what your waist is going to be, but j'ou shall liave some good stays. A fine shape goes a long way. With your pi-ospects you really ought to make a good match, so do not slouch about any more as if you had no self-respect at all. You can really do a great deal to make yourself attractive in appearance. Your Uncle William Caldwell liad a very ugly nose, but he pinched it and pinched it every day to get it into shape until at last he made it quite a good one." Bernadine came into the room in time to hear this story, and was so impressed by it that she tried the same experiment on her own nose withoiit asking if it were ugly or not, and pinched it and rubbed it so diligently that by the time it was formed she had thickened it, and changed it from a good ordinary nose into some- thing quite original. This was the kind of thing that happened to ladies in the days when true womanliness consisted in knowing nothing accurately and always taking advice. Efforts to improve themselves in some such way were common enough among marriageable maidens, and their mothers helped them to the best of their ability with THE BETH BOOK. 245 equally happy hints. Because snmll feet were a beauty, therefore feet alnnidy in perfect projjorlion must be squeezed to reduce their size till they were all d(>fonucd ; and because slenderness was con- sidered elefifant, therefore jiaturally vvcll-fornicd women must compress their bodies till they looked like cylinders or hour- fjlasses, and lace till their noses swelled and theii* hair fell out. Never having heard of proportion, all their ambition was to re- duce themselves to soinothing less than they were designed to be. Those were the days when women had "no nons(>nse about them, sir, I tell you," none of those new-fangled ideas about education and that ! It was a new notion to Beth that slie could do anything to make herself attractive, and she took a solemn intei'<'st in it. She listened with absolute faith to all that her mother said on the sub- ject, and determined to be high-princii)led aiid make the most of herself. Wlieti her mother talked to her in this genial friendly way instead of carping at her or ignoring her, Beth's heart ex- panded, and she was ready to do anything to plea.se her. Lessons on the new method went on without friction. Beth never sus- pected that her mother was unequal to the task of educating lier in any true .sense of the word ; her mother never suspected it. neither did anybody' else ; and Beth had it all her own way. If she were idle her mother excused her ; if she brought a le.sson only half learned, her mother prompted her all through; if she; asked questions, her mother answered them plea.santly ; so that tlun' got on very well together, and everybody was satisfied, especially J ins, who was benefiting by Aunt Victoria's bequest to the exfent of being able to keep up with the best of his bar-loafing acquaint- ances. m CHAPTER XXV. When she did what Aunt Victoria apjjroved, Beth felt that she was making Aunt Victoria hapi)y. Her dead were never far from her, never beyond recall. She conqu(>red her ])rid(^ for Aunt Vic- toria's sake, and began to go out again with Ikt mother for the morning walk that winter unasked; but Mrs. Caldwell. seemed indif- ferent to the attention. She let Beth walk beside her day after day, but remained absorbed in lier own reflections, and made no effort to talk to Beth and take her out of herself ; so that Beth very soon found the duty intolerably irksome. It irritated her, too, when 1 1 M 246 THE BETH BOOK. slu) cauglit lior inotlior siniliniL,' to licrscif and asked wlwit was aiimsin;^ lier, and Mrs. C'aldwell rcpliod, still siiiiliiij;: "Never you mind." With Hetli's t<^n»i)<>rani('nt it was not possible that the sense of duty would lon^' survivM^ such snubs. Gradually she bej,Mn to wander oil" by herself again, leaving her mother pacing up and down the particular sheltered terrace overlooking the sea on which she always walked at that liour, and Bernadine play- ing about the clitFs on the de.solat<' shore. Th(i whole places was desolate and melancholy at that time of the year. The wind-swept streets were generally deserted, and the few people who vinitured out looked cold and miserable in thei*^ winter wraps. When a gleam of sunshine enliveiunl the sky the sailors w« (/HI 1 her nuld thy race on the 3 winter jked up le back orchard I ■I opposite, the apph» trees bhished with a tinpfo of pink. P.cth, secin;; tliem one moriiin;,' very <'arly from h<'r bed in Aunt Victoria's room, arose at once, rejoicinj;. and threw the window wide open. Beth mi;,'ht have used the sanu; word to e.\pr(>ss the good and tlie beautiful, us tiie Greeks did, so inseparably were tlie two associated in lier mind. At this stage of her develoiJinent slie f(>lt very literally — Tlio lu'iivi'iiH arc tclliii;; the t,'l(iry of CJoil, Tlic woiulcr of his work.s (Ji>i.luy.s tlic iiriiuuiiL'nt. "O Lord, how wondrous are thy works ! " she chanted to liersclf softly as she gazed, awe-stricken, at the loveliness of the rose- tinged foam on the fruit tre<'s; and her whole being was thrilled with gratitude for the beauty of earth. She took deep draughts of the sweet morning air, and. like tlui Indian devotee, she breathed a sacred word with every breath. But ])assive ecstasy was not enough for Beth. U(>r line f(>elings strove for expression always in some line act; and as she stood at the window she made good resolutions. Her life should be ordered to worthy purposes from morning till night. She would in future begin the day by getting up to greet the dawn in an ecstasy of devotion. Not a niinut(5 later than daybreak would do for her. All Beth's etl'orts aimed at an extreme. She idled most of that day away in contemplation of lier proj- ect, and she was as dilatory and troublesome as she could be, doing nothing sh(> ought to have done, because her mind was so full of all the things she was going to do. What she feared was that she would never he able to wake herself in time, and she went to bed at a preposterously early hour, and sat long in her nightdress, thinking how to manage it. At last it occurred to her that if she tied her great toe to the bedjjost with a jiiece of string it would give her a jerk when she moved, and so awake her. The contrivance answered only too well. Sh(^ could not sleej) for a long time, and Avhen at last, she dropjMHl of!" she was almost ininiediately awakened by a i)itiless jerk from the string. She had unt Victoria's old watch under her ])illow. and lighted a mat to see the time. It was only twelve. WIkmi would the leak ? She turned and tossed and fidgeted. The string on v> was very uncomfortable, but nothing would have induced • be so weak as to take it otT. One, two, three, she heard the di lie I hei th, " I've no need to get the ])reakfast." "Well, it niakes it all the wor.se," he rejoined ; " fiu- if ye'ro by way o' bein' a lady, it not on'y means that y<^'re out wi' no one to tak' care of ye, but that ye've niver been taught to lak' care o' yerself. Lady !" he ejaculated. " Pride and patches ! Tak' my advice, lady, go back to yer bed, get yer meed o' sleep, wak' up re-freshed, and set to work." He spat out on the grass in a self-satisfied way when he had 17 '! 250 THE BETU BOOK. spf)kcn, and contemplated the sunrise like a man who has done his duty and earned the rif^ht to re})(>se. B(»tli got up and walked home despondently. She climhed in at tlie acting'-room window and went to her own room. The sun was shining on the apple blossoms in the orchard opposite, and she looked for the charm of yesterday, but finding only the garish com- monplace of fruit trees in flower with the sun on them, she drew down the blind. Then she took off her hat and jacket, threw herself on her bed, and fell into a heavy sleep, with her brow puckercid and the corners of her mouth drooping discontentedly. The next night she determined to take her meed of sleep and did not tie the string to her toe. It had been a long, lonely day, filled with vague yearnings for companionship and great dissatis- faction ; but when she fell asleep she liad a hai)i)y dream, so vivid that it seemed more real than anything she had .seen in her morn- ing ramble. It was eight o'clock in the evening, she dreamed, and there was some one waiting for her under the pear tree in the garden. The night air was fresh and fragnmt. The moonlight shone on the white blossoms overhead which clustered so close that no ray penetrated to the ground beneath, so tliat tliere all was shadowy, but still she could see that there was some one standing in the shade, and she knew that he was waiting for her. She had never seen him before, yet she knew him well, and hur- ried to meet him ; and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and his kisses thrilled her with a thrill that remained with her for many a day. She got up the moment she awoke, and looked about her in a kind of amaze, for everything she saw was transfigured. It was in herself, however, that the light burned which made the world so radiant. As the old apple trees, warmed by the sun. suddenly blossomed into bridal beauty in the spring, so in the silent night, between sundown and day dawn, while she slept, yet another petal of her own manifold nature had unfolded, and in the glow of its loveliness there was nothing of commonplace aspect, for a new joy in life was hers, which helped her to discover in all things a bitherto unsuspected charm. Beth's little life had been full of childish irregularities, the little duties being continually slurred and neglected that the little pleasures might be indulged in sooner. She was apt to regard bathing, hair brushing, dressing, and lessons as mere hindrances to some of the particular great businesses of life which specially occupied her— verse-making, for instance, piano playing, poach- , tacw"' THE BETH BOOK. 251 ing", or praying, whichever happened to he the predominant in- terest of tlie moment. But now, on a sudden, the care of her per- son became of extraordinary importance. All the hints, j^-ood and bad, slie had had on the subject recurred to her, and she bejifan to put them into practice systematically. She threw the clothes back from her bed to air it the moment she got up, that it niiglit bo fresh and sweet to sleej) in. Her little bath had hitherto been used somewhat irregularly, but now she fetched hot and cold water for herself and bathed every day. She brushed her hair glossy and tightened her stays to make her waist small, and she was sorely dissatisfied because her boots did not pinch her feet She began to take great care of her hands, too, and would do no dust- ing without gloves on, or dirty work of any kind that was calcu- lated to injure them. She used a parasol when she could, and if she got sunburned bathing or boating she washed her face in but- termilk at night, fetched from Fairholm regularly for the pur- pose. The minds and habits of the young are apt to form them- selves in this way out of suggestions let fall by all kinds of people, the worst and most foolish as well as the wisest and best. Beth longed that morning for something n«'\\ and .sniart to wear. Her old black things looked so rusty in the si)ring sun- shine she could not satisfv hei'self with anvthinjj!' she had. All Aunt Victoria's possessions were hers, and she examined her boxes, looking for something to enliven her own sombre dress, and found some lace, which she turned into a collar and cutTs and sewed on. When she saw herself in the glass with this be- coming addition to her dress, her face brightened at the effect. She knew that Aunt Victoria would have been ])leased to see her look like that. She was always pleased when Beth looked well, and now, when Beth recollected her sympathy, all the great fountain of love in her brimmed over and streamed away in happy little waves to break about the dear old aunt somewhere on the foreshore of eternity, and t(i add, perhaps, who knows how or what to her blis.s. When Beth went down to breakfast she was very hungry, but there was only one little bloat(>r, which nnist l)e l<>ft for mamma to divide with Bernadine. There was not nnich butter either, so Beth took her toast nearly dry and her thin cotFee with very little milk and no sugar in it also for economical reasons ; but the cotVee was hot and she was hai)i)y. Her happiness l)uljbled up in bright little renuirks, which brightened her mother, too, "Mamma," said Beth, taking advantage of her mood, "it's a ^■1 252 THE BETH BOOK. poor heart that never rejoices. Let's have a holiday, you and I, to celebrate the summer." " But the summer hasn't come," Mrs. Caldwell objected, smiling. " But summer is coming, is coming," Beth chanted ; " and I want to make a song about it." '* You make a song ! " Bernadine exclaimed. " Why, you can't spell summer." Beth made a face at her. "I know you want a holiday, mammu," she resumed. " Come, confess ! I work you to death ; and there's churcli to-day at eleven and I want to go." "Well, if you want to go to church," said Mrs. Caldwell, re- lieved. Beth did not wait to hear the end of the sentence. She went to the drawing-room first and sat down at tlie little rosewood piano with a volume of Moore's Lalla Rookh open before her. " From the luouutain's wurbling fount I come," she chanted, with her eyes fixed on the words ; but she played as if she were reading notes. She wove all the poems she loved to music in this way, and played and sang them softly to herself by the hour togetlier. The Lenten service in the church at the end of the road was but poorly attended. There were not more than a dozen people present ; but Beth, seated beside the door, enjoyed it. She was all fervour now, and every emotional exercise was a pleasure. After the service she strolled down the quaintly irregular Front Street, which was all red brick houses with small window panes, three to the width of the window, except where an asi)iring tradesman had introduced plate glass and a vulgar disguise of stucco, which converted the warm-toned bricks into commonplace colourless grayness. It was on one side of this street that the principal shops were, and Beth stood for some time gazing at a print in a stationer's windo ■ —a lovely little composition of waves la])ping in gently towai-d a sheltered nook on a sandy beach. Beth, Avafted t'lore in.stantly, heard the dreamy murmur and felt the delicious freshness of the sea ; yet the picture did not satisfy her. " I should want somebody," she broke out in herself. " I should want somebody ! Somebody to lay my head against. Ah, dear Lord, how I hate to be alone ! " Old Lady Benyon, at her post of observation in the big bow THE BETH BOOK. 253 5;'ou and I, I objected, d ; " and I 7, you can't a lioliday, I to death ; ildwell, re- She went > rosewood ore her. ! played as le loved to herself by e road was )zen people She was all lire. y irregular all window an aspiring disguise of Timonplnce et that the gazing at a position of •n a sandy ly murmur ure did not lerself. " I ainst. Ah, le big bow I 1 window at the top of the street, saw Beth standing there and speculated. " Gracious, how that child grows ! " she exclaimed. " She'll be a woman directly." As Beth went on down the street she began to suffer from that dull, irresolute feeling which comes of a want of purpose. She wanted a companion, and she wanted an object. Presently she met a young man who looked at her intently as they api)roached each other, and as he looked his face brightened. Beth's pulse quickened pleasurably, and her colour rose. Her steps became buoyant. She held up her head and glowed with animation, but was unaware of the source of this sudden happy stimulant, nor did slie try to discover it. She was living her experiences then ; by and by she would reflect upon them ; then inevitably she would reproduce them ; and all without intention. As the sun rises, as the birds build, so would she work when the right time came. Talent may manufacture to order, but works of genius are the outcome of an irresistible impulse, a craving to express some- thing for its own sake and the pleasure of expressing it, with no thought of anything beyond. It is talent that thinks first of all of applause and profits, and only works to secure them ; works for the result, for the end in view ; never for love of the work, Beth's heart had no satisfaction at home ; she had no friend of her own sex to fill it, as most girls have ; and a nature like hers, rich in every healthy possibility, was bound to crave for love early. It was all very well for her mother and society as it is constituted to ignore the needs of Nature ; by Both herself they would not be ignored. In most people, whether the senses or the intellect will have the upper hand is very much a matter of early training. Because she was a girl, Beth's intellect had been left to stag- nate for want of proper occupation, or to run riot in any vain pursuit she might happen upon by accident, while her senses were allowed to have their way, unrestrained by any but the vaguest principles. Thanks to her free roving outdoor habits, her life was healtliy if it was not happy, and she promised to mature early. Youth and sex already began to hang out their signals — clear skin, slim figure, light step, white teeth, thick hair, bright eyes. She was approaching her blossoming time, the end of her wintry childhood, the beginning of a promising spring. It was natural and right that her pulses should quicken and her spirits ri.se when a young man met her with a friendly glance. Her whole being was suffused with the glory of love, and her mind held the vision ; (I 254 THE BETH BOOK. but it was of an abstract kind as yet— not inspired l)y man. It ■was in liersclf that the emotion arose, in happy exu})orance, and bubbled over, expending itself in various forms of energy until it should find one object to concentrate itself upon. There comes a time to all healthy young people when Nature says, " Mate, my children, and be happy." If the impulse comes prematurely, it is not the young people but the old ones who are to blame ; they should have seen to it that the intellect, which acts as a curb on the senses when properly trained and occupied, developed first. Beth was just at the age when the half-educated girl has nothing to distract her but her own emotions. Her religit)n and the young men who are beginning to make eyes at her interest her then about equally, and in much the same way — she owes to each a pleasurable sensation. If she can combine the two under one roof, as in church, they suffice, and her happiness is complete. It can not be said, however, that the senses awoke before the intel- lect in Beth ; but because of the irregularities of her training, the want of discipline and order, they took possession of her first. Passing a shop window, Beth caught a reflection of herself in the polished pane, and saw that her skirt hung badly — it dipped too much behind. She stopped to gauge the length, that she might alter it when she went in, and then she noticed the pretty light summer things displayed in the window, and ached to jjossess some. She was miserably conscious of her old ill-cut skirt, moi'e especially of the invisible dirt on it, and she did so yearn for something new and sweet and clean. Her mother had a bill at that shop — sl'ould she — should she just go in and ask about prices ? No, she could not in that horrid old frock ; the shopman would not respect her. She had intended to go down to the sands and sit by the sea and wait for things to come to her, by which she meant ideas ; but the discomfort of mind set up by that glimpse of her uncouth clothes, and the horrible sense of their want of freshness, gained upon her and drove her in hurriedly. Beth would have expressed the dainty refinement of her mind in her dress had she had the means ; but it is diflicult to be dainty on nothing a year. The rest of the day she spent in her room sewing. She foimd that one of Aunt Victoria's sunnner silks would fit her with very little alteration, and set to work to make a Sundav frock of it. As she worked she thoixght of the dear old lady and of the hours they had sat there together sewing, and of their teas and talks. She would not have knoAvn how to alter that dress but for Aunt Vic- TEE BETH BOOK. l)y man. It borance, and lorjry until it here comes a ;, " Mate, my laturely, it is blame ; they as a curb on '^eloped first. lias nothing d the young 3st her then cs to each a ) under one oinplete. It re the intel- ^raining, the ler first. tf herself in y — it dipped at she might pretty liglit 1 to possess skirt, more yearn for d a bill at :)out prices ? man would sands and which she lat glimpse 3ir want of dly. Beth ind in her dainty on She found with very <. of it. As hours thoy alks. She Aunt Vic- I toria ; it made her both sad and glad to remember how much sho owed her. Later in the day, after dinnei*, wlien the sun had set and tlie darkness was bcgiiiniiig to gather, Beth became aware of a curi- ous sensation. It was as if she were expecting something deliglit- ful to happen, and yet at the same time was all acliing with anx- iety. Tiien suddenly she remembered her dream. The old pear tree was a pyramid of l)lossom. Sliould she go and .see the wliite foam flowcu's by moonlight ? The moon had ri.sen. She stole out into the garden, anxious above everything to go alone. Her heart throbbed curiously ; what did she expect ? The young moon hung in an indigo sky, and there were some white stars. The air was fresh and fragrant, as it had been in lu>r dream, but tliere was less liglit. She had to peer into tlu> shad(^ beneath the pear tree to see — to see what ? If there were any one tliere ? Of course there was no one there — how could there be ? She did not trust herself closer until she was quite sure that there was nothing to encounter but the trunk of the tree. Then she went bravely and reclined on the seesaw board, looking up through the black branches to the clustei'ing l)lossQms that shone so white on the topmost twigs in the moonlight ; and presiu ami disdain you sat to tlio tcr yoiu' social licrsclf with a ) tlio vicar had lit rows. His •isli could gazo lis pupils used received coin- ed and stopped only to be al- ined to make w in the chan- at the far end at first; now, who he was; tontly. Then iiulled a glow ■eath catches. )n the subject o her — a won- inion congre- could hardly he lied. Her Hod solitude iipanion.ship. that she was iient and de- lul. She did nd when she e was a nook jlifF side, not wn to it, and cltered from ed with the kvas lying" in the shadow of the cliff; but beyond the sun sliono, the water sparkled, the sonorous sea voice sounded from afar, vvliile little laugliing waves broke out into mcM-ry nuisic all along the shon;. Beth, lying on her face with her arms fohhul in front of lier and her cheek resting on them, looked out, lithe, young, .strong, burst- in"- with exultation, but motionless as a manifestation of inaninuite nature. That was a beautiful pau.se in her troublous day. Never mind if it only endured for an hour, there was certainty in it, a happy certainty. From the moment their eyes had met she was sure. She knew he would come. The little waves rang out their laughing carillons, light grace notes to the deep solemn melody of earth and air and sea; and Beth, watching with dilated pupils and set countenance, listened also intently. And presently, below, on her left, round the head- land, some one came .striding. Beth's bright eyes Hashed with a vivid interest; but she shrank back, llattening herself down on the rank gra.ss, as though thereby she made herself the more invisible. The young man stopped, took off his hat and wiped his fore- head, glanced this way and tliat, round the cove and out to sea, like one bewildered, who has expected to find something which is not there, and begins to look for it in the most unlikely i)laces. Hesitating, disappointed, uncertain, he moved a little on in one direction, a little back in the other, then, drawn by a sudden im- pulse, that mo.st familiar manifestation of the ruling force which disposes of us all we know not how, he walked up the cove with swift, strong, buoyant .steps, as if with a purpose, swinging his hat in his hand as became; and threw himself full length on the smooth, hard, shining sand, and sighed a deep sigh of .satisfaction as though he knew himself within reach of what he sought. But in certain states of ecstatic feeling a faculty is relea.sed which takes cognizance of things beyond the ken of our beclouded intellects, and, although in the language of mind he did not know, it may be that from the region of pure spirit there had come to liiiu a subtle perception, not to be defined, which made it more desirable to be there on that spot alone than anywhere else in the world with no matter whom. He was a young man of seventeen or eighteen, slenderly built, with well-shaped feet and long, delicate, nervous hands. His face was shaved clean of the down of his adolescence, so that his some- what shallow complexion looked .smooth to effeminacy. His features were regular and refmed, and his fine brown curl^' hair was a shade lighter in colour than his skin, which produced a if 258 THE BETH BOOK. noticoablo effect. His pale ('liina-l)liio eyes, too, showed the same peculiarity, which Beth, h)()k-iiin suddenly j^ot on his knees ami ]i(>aped up a mound of sand, which, havin*,'- patted it and pressed it down as hard as it would set, ho bef^an to mo(l(d. Betli held her breath and bi^came riyid with in- terest as she saw tlu; shapeless mass gradually transformed into some send)lance of a human figure, conventional as an Egyptian statue. When the young man had iinished, he sat beside tho figure for some time, looking lixedly out to sea. Then he tui'ued to his work once more, and, after survej'ing it critically, he began to make alterations, trying to improve upon what he had done; but the result did not please him, and in a lit of exasperation ho fell upon the figure and demolished it. This seemed such a wanton outrage to Beth that she uttered a low cry of remonstranco involuntarily ; but the exclamation mingled with the murnnir of wind and wave and was lost in it. The young man looked dis- concerted himself, and ashamed, too, as a child does when it has broken something in a rage and repents; and presently he began to heap the mound once more. When it was done he stretched himself on the sand and sluxt his eyes, and for a long time Beth lay still, looking down upon him. All at once, however, the noise of the water became importu- nate. She had not been aware of it at all since the young man ap- peared ; but now it came into her consciousness with the distinct- ness of a sudden and unexpected sound, and she looked in that direction. The last time she had noticed the tide it was far out; but now, where all had been sand beyond the sheltered cove all was water. The silver line stretched from headland to headland, and was still advancing. Already there was no way to escape hy the sands, and the cove itself would be a bay in a little while— a bay without a boat ! If he did }iot wake and bestir himself the callous waves would come and cover him. Should she call ? She was shy of taking the initiative even to save his life, and hesitated a moment, and in tliat moment there came a crash. The treacher- ous clay cliff crumbled, and the great mass of it on which she was lying slid down bodily on to the shining sand. The young man started up, roused by the rumbling. Had he been a few feet neai'er to the clitf he must have been buried alive. He and Beth i THE nETII BOOK. 2.')9 , showed the sarno lirou^^h tho friji^ro t uncritically ; for 11 frvow rostlcss on (l()/(Mi times, tluMi lid of sand, wliich, IS it \V(»uld s(>t, ho .mo rinid uifh in- transformed into il as an Enyptjjin le sat beside tlio Then lie turned itically, ho be;^''an Kit he had done; f exasperation ho ! seemed such a r of remonstrance :h the murmur of man looked dis- does wiicn it has sently he beyau one ho stretched long time Both )ecamo importu- young man ap- ith the distinct- looked in that it was far out ; loitered cove all nd to headland, ay to escape by 1 little while — a stir himself the she call ? Siie 'e, and hesitated The treacher- i which she was ?he young- man een a few feet He and Beth stared at each other stuj)idly, neither realizing what had happened f«»r tiie first few minutes. He was the fh-st to recover liimself. "Are you hurt? "he nsked, with concern, going forward to lielp her. •• 1 don't know," she answered, staggering to her feet. " No, T tliiuk not," slie added. " I'm a little shaken. I'll sit down." Tiie sitting would iiave been a tunilde had lie not caught her ill his arms and held her up. Beth felt deadly sick for an instant, then she found iierself reclining on the sand, with the young man Ix'udiiig over her, looking anxiously into her face. " You'rt! faint," lu; said. " Is that faint ?" she answered. "What a glu'.stly sensation ! But there is something I want to remember.'' Slie shut her (yes, then opened them, and looked up at him with a puz/led expres- sion. "It's very (xld, I can't renuMuber," she complained. The young man could not heli)her. He looked up at the clitF. " What were ycju doing up there { '' he asked. " What were you doing down there ? " .she rejoined. '' I followed you," he answered simply. " I saw you come this way, then I lost sight of you ; but I thouglit you would be .some- where on the sands, because the dill's are })rivate property." " The owner is an uncle of mine," said Beth. " I come when I like." Then they looked into each other's faces shyly, and locjked away again, smiling but confu.sed. "Why did you follow me ? " said Beth. "You did not know nie." "Xo, but I wanted to," he an.swered readily. "Vv'herewero vou r" " Lying on a shelf where that .scar is now, looking down on you." " Then you saw me model that figure ? " " And the clilf fell," Beth put in irrelevantly to cover a blush. "It often falls. W^e're always having landslips here. And I think we'd better move away from it now," she added, rising, " People are killed sometimes." " But, tell me," he said, detaining her. *' Didn't you know I was following you ?" Beth became embarrassed. " You did," he persisted ; " and you ran away. Why did you run away ? " " I couldn't help it," Beth confessed ; then she uttered an fi i', 200 THE BETH BOOK. exclanmtion. " Look ! Look ! The tide ! What shall wo do?" IIo turned, and saw tlieir danjjer for the first time. "Our only way of escape is by tlie cHlVs/' lieth said, "unless a boat comes by." " And the clill's are perpendicular just here," he rejoined, after carefully surveying them. They looked into each other's faces blankly. " I can't swim. Can you i " he asked. Beth shook her hvml, " What is to be done ? " he exclaimed. "There is nothinrate funk." "I don't believ(; we're goin;^: to be drowned, and I always know what's coming-,"' she answered. Then after a little she asked him his name. "Alfred," he answered. " And yours ?" " Beth— Beth Caldwell. A Ifred— I like Alfred." " I like Beth. It's queer, but I like it all the better for that It's like you." " Do you think me queer ? " Beth asked, prepared to resent the imputation. " I think you uncommon," he replied. Beth rellected for a little. "What is your full name?" she asked linally. " Alfred Cayley Pounce," he replied. " My father gave me the name of Alfred that I might always remember I was A Cay- ley Pounce. But my aml)ition is to be The Cayley Pounce," he added with a nervous little laugh. Beth compressed her lips and looked at the rising tide. The next wave broke at their feet, and both involuntarily stepped back. Behind them was the mass of earth that had fallen from the cliff. It had descended in a solid wedge without scattering. Alfred climbed on to it, and helped Beth up. "We shall be a little higher here, at all events," he said. Beth looked along the cliff ; the high-water mark was still THE BETU BOOK. 201 What shall wo i time. Both said, " unless he rejoined, after mswered, quietly, comes along tlio there was no re- fund. eve you're a bit 1, and I always ter a little she better for that pared to resent 11 name?" she ither orave me I was A Cay- y Pounce," he "ff tide. The tar 11 y stepped id fallen from ait scattering-. ^e shall be a ark was still I 1 above tlioir lieads. " It's getting oxcitiii;,'. isn't it ?" she observed. 'Hut I don't feel nasty. Ilavin;^ you here makes— nuiiies a dif- ference, you know." " If you \\nv('. to die witli un\ bow sluill you feel ?" be asked. " I sii.ill feel till my last ^--asp that I would nmcii rather have lived with you," she answered empiiatically. A wavelet splaslied uj) a^^ainst the clay on which they were standing;. 1I(^ turned to th(^ clill' and tore at it in a sort of e.x.'us- peration, tryin, and she shrank back. Alfred put his arm arouiul her protectingly. "Do you still believe we shall not be drowned ? " he said. "Yes," she answered. " But, even if we were, it wouldn't be the end of us. We have been here in this world before, you and I, and we shall come again." " What makes you think such queer things ? " he asked. " I don't think them," she answered. " I know them. The things I think are generally all wrong; but the things I know about — that coTue to me like tbi.s — are right. Only T can't c roke out again. " I'm glad it's a still day for one thing, and not freezing cold. The cold would have numbed us, and we should have been swept off our feet if there had been any waves. I wan* to ask you so many things. Why did you make that figure ou the sand s' " "I want to be a sculptor," he said, "but my people object, and they won't let me have the proper materials to model in, so I model in anything." The water was almost up to Beth's waist. She had to turn and cling to him to ke<;p her footing. She hid her face on his shoulder, and they stood so some time. The water rose above her waist. Alfred was head and slK)ulders taller than she was. He realized that she \vOuld be covered first. "I must hold her up somehow," he muttered. Beth raised her head. " Alfred," she began, ' we're neither of us cowards, are we ? You are hating to die, I can see, but you're not going to make an exhibition of yourself to the elements ; and I'm hating ,t. too — I'm horribly anxious — and the cold makes me sob in my breath as the water comes up. It is like dying by inches from the feet up ; but ^^•hile my head is alive I defy death to make me whimper." " Do you despair, then ? " he exclaimed, as if there had been some safeguard in her certainty. " I have no knowledge at this moment," she answered. " I am in suspense. But that is nothing. The things that have come to me like that on a sudden, positively have always been true, how- ever mucli I might doubt and question beforehand. I did know at that moment that we should not be drowned, but I don't know it now. My spirit can't grasp the idea, though, of being here in this comfortable body talking to you one moment, and the next being turned out of liouse and home into eternity alone " " Not alone," he interrupted, clasping her closer. " I'll hold you tight through all eternity." Beth looked up at him, and then thej' kissed each other frank- ly, and forgot their danger for a blissful interval. They were keeping their foothold with difficulty now. The last heave of the tide came up to Beth's shoulder and took her breath away. Had it not been for the support of the cliff behind them they could not have kept their position many minutes. But the clilf itself was a danger, for the sea was eating into it, and might bring down another mass of it at any moment. The agony of death, the last struggle with the water, had begun. THE BETH BOOK. 203 n. " I'm Tlie cold t off our so many gect, and ill, so I to turn e on liis ie above she was. either of it you're its ; and lakes me yi>>;? by fy death ad been " I am Icome to e, liow- I know t know liere in le next II hold 1 f rank- The i)k her ^)ehilld But |t. and igoiiy "I hate it," Beth gasped, "but I'm not afraid." The steady gentle heave of the sea was like the breathing of a placid sleeper. It rose round them onee more, u}), up, over Bi^h's head. They clung closer to each other and to the cl ill', stagger- in"- and fighting for their foothold. Then it sank back from tliem, then slowly came again, rising in an irregular wavy line all along t'.ie face of the cliffs with a sobbing sound, as if in its great heart it shrank from the cruel deed it was doing— rose and fell, rose and fell again. Alfred's face was gray and distorted. He groaned aloud. "Are you sulFering ?" Beth exclaimed. "Oh, I wish it was I " over : She had really the more to suffer of the two, for every wave covered her ; but her nerve and physiipie were better than his, and her will was of iron. The only thing that disturbed her for- titude were the signs of distress from him. Gently, gently the water came creeping up and up again. It had swelled so liigh the last time that B<4h was all but gone; and nov she held her breath, expecting for certain to be over- whelmed. But after a pause it wuiit down once more ; then rose again, and again subsided. Alfred stood with shut eyes and clenclied teeth, blindly resist- ing. Beth kept her wits about her. " Alfred ! '' she cried on a sudden. " I was right ! I was not deceived ! Stand fast ! The tide is on the turn.'' He opened his eyes and stared about him in a bewildered way. His face was haggard and drawn from the strain, his strength all but exhausted ; he did not seem to understand. "Hold on ! " Beth cried again. "You'll be a l)ig sculptor yet. The tide has turned. It's going out, Alfred, it's going out. It washed an inch lower last time. Keep up I keep up ! Lord, help me to hold him ! help mc to hold him ! It's funny," she went on, changing with one of her sudden strange transitions, from the part of actor to that of spectator, as it were. " its funny we neither of us prayed. People in danger do as a rule, they say in the books ; but I never even thou-ht of it." The tide had come in like a race horse, but now it seemed to crawl out like a snail; and they were both so utterly worn that when at la.st the water was shallow enough they just sank down and sat in it, leaning against each other, and yearning for what seemed to them the most desirable thing on earth at that moment — a dry spot on which to stretch themselves out and go to sleep. 264 THE BETH BOOK. " I know now what exhaustion is," said Both, with her head on Alfred's shouklor. " Do you know, Beth," lie rejoined, with a wan smile. "You've been picking- up information ever since you fell acquainted with me here. I can coinit a dozcni new experiences you've men- tioned already. If you go on like this always you'll know every- thing in time." '"I hope so!" Beth muttered. "'Fell acquainted with you' isn't bad ; but I wonder if tuvibled wouldn't have been better " She dozed off uncomfortably b-^fore she could finish the sen- tence. He had settled himself with his head against the uncer- tain cliff which beetled above them ominously ; but they were both beyond thinking or caring- about it. Vaguely conscious of each other and of the sea voice that gradually grew distant and more distant as the water went out beyond the headland, leaving them high and dry in the empty cove, they rested and slept un- easily, yet heavily enough to know little of the weary while they had to wait before they could make their escape ; for it was not until the sun had set and the moon hung high above the sea in a sombre sky that at last they were able to go. CHAPTER XXVII. It was dark night when Beth got back to the little house in Orchard Street. She had hoped to slip in unobserved, but her mother was looking out for her. "Where have you been ?" she demanded angrily. Beth had come in prepared to tell the whole exciting story, but this reception in-itated her, and she answered her mother in exactly the same tone. " I've been at Fairholm." "What have you been doing there ?" Mrs. Caldwell snapped. "Getting myself into a mess, as any one might see who looked at me," Beth rejoined. " I must go and change." " You can go to bed," said her mother. "Thank you," said Beth, and went off straight away. Mrs. Caldwell would have liked to liave followed her and given her a good beating, as in the old days, had she dared. Her harshness, however, had nuu'h the same efi'oct upon Beth that a beating used to have; it shut her up in herself, and deprived her of the power to take her mother into her confidence. I I THE BETH BOOK. 205 story, tUier in ipped. I looked >r and Her I that a 3d her I I Harriot followed her to lior room. " Whativer 'avc you been doinfj: ? " she exclaiiued. " You're draf,'ffled froui top to toe, and your Sunday dress, too 1 " "I got caught by tlie tide,'" said Beth, "and I'm done." "Just you get into bed, then," said Harriet, ''and I'll fetch you up some tea when she goes out. She's oti' in a moment to Lady Benyon'.s." " Bless you, Harriet ! " Beth exclaimed. " I read iji a book once that there is no crime but has some time been a virtue ; and I'm sure it will be a virtue to steal me some tea on this occ-asion, if it ever is." "Oh, all's fair in love and Avar," Harriet answered cheerfully, as she helped Beth off with her boots; "and you and yer nui's at war again, I guess." "Seems like it," Beth sighed. "But stay, though. No, you mustn't steal the tea. I promised Aunt Victoria. And that re- ri'nds me. There's some still left in her little canister. Here, ;.;ls it and make it, and have some yourself as a reward for the £.';), J '>le. Hot tea and toast, and you love me, Harriet, and to save ray life. I've had nothing but salt water since breakfast." When Beth went downstaii'S next morning her mother scowled at her. " What did you mean by telling me you had been at Fair- holm yesterdaj' ? " she asked. " I meant to tell you where I had been," Beth answered im- pertinently. " I saw your Aunt Grace Mary last night, and she told me she had not seen you." "Well, Aunt Grace Mary is a good size." Beth rejoined, "but she doesn't cover the whole estate." Mrs. Caldwell flushed angrilj'. " You're an ill-conditioned girl, and will come to a bad end, or I'm much mistaken," she exclaimed. "With the help of my relations, it's likely." Beth retorted. Her mother said no more until breakfast was over, and then she ordered her peremptorily to get oui ]ier lessons. " Oh. lessons ! " Beth grumbled. " What's th(^ use of the kind of lessons /do? I'm none the better for knowing that Henry YIII had six wives, nor the ha}.M)ier, nor the richer; and my wit and wisdom certainly don't increase, nor my numuers imi)rove, if you si)eak the truth." Mrs. Caldwell changed countenance. If Beth rebelled again.st the home teaching, whr^ would happen about the money that Jim 18 ■:l 266 THE BETH BOOK. was enjoying ? Upon reflection, lier mother saw she was making a mistake. " I think," slie began in a conciliatory tone, " you are right, perhaps. You had better not do any lessons this morning, for I am sure you can not be well, Beth, or you would never speak to your mother in such a way.'* "Well, I'm sorry, mamma," Beth rejoined in a mollified tone. " But you know I can not stand those everlasting naggings and scoldings. They make me horrid. I'm pugnacious when I'm rubbed the wrong way ; I can't help it." "There, there, then! that will do," Mrs. Caldwell replied. "Run out and annise yourself, or have a rest. You take too much exercise and tire yourself to death, and then you are so cross there is no speaking to you. Go away, like a good child, and amuse yourself until you feel better." Beth went back to her own room at once, only too glad to escape, and be alone. She was not well. Every bone in her body ached, and her head was thumping so she had to lie down on her bed at last and keep still for the rest of the day. But her mind was active the whole time, and it was a happy day. She expected nothing, yet she was pleasurably satisfied, perfectly content. The next morning at eleven there was service in the church at the end of the road. Beth and her mother had been haviii;^ the usual morning misery at lessons, and both were exhausted when the bell began to ring. Beth's countenance was set sullen, and Mrs. Caldwell's showed suppressed irritation. The bell was a re- lief to them, " Can I go to church ? " Beth asked. Her mother's first impulse was to say no, out of pure contrari- ness, but the chance of getting rid of Beth on any honourable pre- text was too much of a temptation even for her to withstand. " Yes, if you like," she answered ungraciously, after a moment's hesitation ; " and get some good out of it if you can," she added sarcastically. Beth went wivh honest intention. There was a glow in her chest which added fervency to her devotions, and when xVlfred entered from the vestry and took his seat in the chancel pew, hap- piness tingling in every nerve suffused her. His first glance was for her, and Beth knew it, but bent lier bead. Her soul did mag nify the Lord, however, and her spirit did rejoice in God lier Saviour with unlimited love and trust. He had saved them. THE BETH BOOK. 20.7 making .re right, ng, for I speak to iod tone, ngs and hen I'm replied. 00 much OSS tlieve d amuse 1 glad to her body- down on But her iiy. She perfectly lurch at niig the >d when en, and ,'as a re- ontrari- ible pre- ,h stand. omtMit's e added in lier xVlfred w, hap- lee was Id mag |<»d her them. I I He would hear them, he would help tliein, he would make tlunn both, both good and — great (great after a pause, as being, perhaps, not a worthy asi)iration). She did not look at Alfred a second time, but she sat, and stood, and knelt, all conscious of him, and it seemed as if the serv- ice lasted but a moment. Directly it was over she fled, taking the narrow path by the side of the church to the lields, but before she was halfway across the first field she heard a quick step following her. Beth felt she nmst stop short or run; she began to run. " Beth, Beth, wait for me ! " he called. Beth stopped short, then turned to greet him shyly, but when he came clo.se and put his arm round her she looked up, smil- ing. They gazed into each other's eyes a moment and then kissed awkwardly, like children. " Were you any the worse for oiu' adventure ? " he askcnl. "I've been longing to knov/.'' " I had a headache yesterday," said Beth. " IIow were you ? "' " x\ll stilf and aching," he replied, " or I .should have been to ask after you." "I'm glad you didn't come," Beth ejaculated. " Why ? I ought to know your people, you know. Wliy don't the Richardsojis know them ? " '' Because we're poor," Beth answered bluntly, "and Mr. Hich- ai'd.'^on neglects his poor parishioners." " All tliCmore reaM.n that I should call," Alfred Cayley Pounce persisted. " You are people of good family, like ourselves, and old Picli is a nobody." " Yes," said Beth, " but my mother would not let me know you. She aiid I are always— always We never agree, you know. I don't think we can help it; wo < ertainly don't do it on purpose — at least /don't ; but tliere's s>.imething in us that makes us jar about everything. I wa.-i goiiig to t(^ll her all about you o]: Sun- day night, but when I got in I couldn't. Slie began by Invng angry because I "was late, without waiting to know if I were to blame, and that — that shut me up, and I never told her, and now T iK.n't think I could." " But what objection can she have to me ? " he asked loftily. "1 really nmst make her acquaintance." ' Mot throuifh me, then," said Beth. "Do vou know tlie Ben- Pi yous ? ' No, I don't know anybody in the neighbourhood as yet. T'm 208 THE BETn BOOK. here with old Rich to be craniniod. My pooplo are trying to force me into tlie bar or the Church or something, because I want to be a sculptor." "Don't bo forced.'" said Beth with spirit. " Follow your own bent. I mean to follow mine." "I didn't know girls had any bent," he answered dubiously. There was a recoil in Beth. " How is it people never expect a girl to do anything ?" she exclaimed, firing up. "I don't see what a girl can do,'' he rejoined, "except marry and look after her husband and children.'' " That's all right at the proper time," Beth .said. " But mean- while, and if .she doesn't marry, is she to do nothing ? " " Oh, there are always lots of little things a woman can do," lie answered airily. " But supposing little things don't satisfy her, and she has power to follow some big i)ursuit ?" " Oh, well, in that case " he began, somewhat superciliously. " But it's too rare to be taken into account — ^talent in women." "How do you know?" Beth said. "Robbing women of the means to develop tlieir talents doesn't prove they haven't any. The be.st hor.seman in the world could never have ridden if he hadn't had a horse. I certainly think a woman should see to the ordering of her household ; but if slie has it in her to do more why shouldn't she ? / shall want to do more, I know. I shall want to be sonu'thing; and I shall never believe that I can not be that something ii itil I have tried the experiment. If you have it in you to be a sculptor, be a sculptor, /certainly should, girl and all as I am. I conhhi't help it." "You're very valiant," he said dryly; "but you don't know what it is to have your whole family against you." "Don't I?" .said Beth, laugliing. "I've known that all my life; but I've known something b<>sides. I've known what it is to be myself. If you know yourself, and yourself is a sculptor, you're bound to be a sculptor in spite of your family.'' He looked at her admiringly. "When you talk like that, I feel I could be anything or (1<> anything that you lilce, I love you so," he ventured, flipping the grass with his .stick to cover his boy- ish embarrassment. "1 am thinking of you always, all day long." "Isn't it strange?" Beth answered .softly. "And only tw(» days ago we had never met I '' " But now we shall never part," he said. " Only I don't want I *^ THE BETH BOOK. 269 ig to force want to bo your own biously. 5r expect a ept niiirry But uiean- in can do," id slie lias Rrciliously. omen." nen of the iven't any. Iden if he see to the do more I shall can not be )U have it , girl and nit know at all my what it is sculptor, ko. that, I love you r his boy. (ill day /ily t\v(» l)u"t want I you to be anything, or to care to be anything-, but just my wife." The word wife came upon Beth with the shock of a sweet sur- pi-ise. She had not realized that she would ever be asked to be any one's wife ; that seemed something reserved for the honour of beings above her, beautiful beings in books ; and th(^ hot Hush of joy that sulfused her at the word rendered her oblivious to the condition attached. She looked up in the young num's face with eyes full of love and gratitude, her transparent skin bright with a delicate blush, and her lips just parted in a smile. '•You are sweet, Beth!" he exclaimed. "How sweet you are ! " For the next few weeks they saw each other every day if it were only for a few minutes ; but even when they contrived to spend long hours together it was not enough. Beth scarcely ate or slept at that time ; the glow and spring and Hood of feeling that coursed through her whole being sustained her. " When we are married we shall always be together," Alfred would whisper when they had to separate ; and then their eyes ^vould dilate with joy at the heavenly prospect, each being cov- ered the while with smiles and confusion, neither of which they could control. They made each other no formal vows. It was all taken for granted between them. Now they were engaged ; but when they were old enough and had an income they were to be married. Alfred had given up the idea of making Mrs. Caldwell's ac- quaintance before it was absolutely necessary. For the present it delighted them to think that their secret was all their own and no one suspcH'ted it, except Dicksie, the vicar's hunchback son. whom Alfred had taken into his confidence. Dicksie was as old as Al- fred, but his deformity had stunted his growth, and the young lovers, looking down into his pathetic face, were filled with com- passion, and eagerly anxious to make atonenuiit to him for his misfortune by sharing as much of their ]iai)piness with him as might be. They encouraged him to accompany them in their walks when he could, which was a iov to liiju. for he was content to live upon the fringe of their romance unseHishly. When they separated, Bctii and Alfr-cd kissed each other fraidvly, and then Beth would stoop and kiss Dicksie also, in pure all^'ection. Neither of the three troubled themselves about otluu' people in those days, and they never suspected that their own doings could be of consequence to anybody. They therefore remained serenely 270 THE RETII BOOK. uiiiiwaro of tlio fact that the wliolo place was talkinpf about tliom. tlieir own relations bciiijLf the only people who did not know of the intimacy ; and, worse still, everybody objected to it. All the forces of Nature combined, and the vast schenie of the universe itself had been ordered so jis to unite those; two youn;^ things; but, on the otluM* hand, the whole machinery of civilization was set in readiness to keep them apart. And the lirst intimation they had of this fact took them by surprise. The whole happy summer had passed, and autumn was with them — mellow, warm, and still. The days were shorter then, ;ind the younf? people delighted to slip out at dusk and wander about tlie iields — all three together. A gate opened from the vicarage grounds into the held path beside the church, and there Alfred and Dicksie waited till Beth appeared, and often waited in vain, for Beth could not always get out. Her mother told Lady Ben- yon that Beth was tiresome rather than naughty in tlio.se days. She seemed to have no idea of time. She would stay out so late that her mother became quite fidgety about her, not knowing what had became of her ; and when Beth came in at last in a casual Avay, beaming blandly at every one, it was certainly pro- voking. Beth thought her mother unreasonable to object to her late rambles. She was not giving her any trouble, and she could not understand why her mother was not content to let her bo happy in her own w\ay. Beth's lessons became more perfunctory than ever that sum- mer. Mrs. Caldwell salved her own conscience on the subject by arguing that it is not wise to teach a girl too much when she is growing so fast, and Lady Benyon agreed. Lady Benyon had no patience with people who overeducate girls ; with boys it was different ; but let a girl grow up strong and healthy, and get her married as soon as possible, was what she advised. Had any one asked what was to become of a girl brought up for that purpose solely, if no one were found to marry her. Lady Benyon would have disposed of the question with a shrug of the shoulders. She laid down the principle, and if it did not act, somebody must be to blame. The principle itself was good, she was sure of that. So Beth was kept without intellectual discipline to curb her senses at this critical period, atul tin consequence was, her energy took the form of sensuous rather than intellectual pursuits. Her time was devoted not to practising, but to playing, to poetry, and to dreamy musings. She wove words to music at the piano by the hour to- gether, lolled about in languorous attitudes, w^as more painfully I •*1 THE BETH BOOK. 271 lonf, thorn. t know of :. All the universe g things; cation was Lition they was with then, ;m(l ider ahout .' vicarag-o n'o Alfred (1 in vain, jady Ben- lose days. Lit so late knowing; last in a linly pro- tict to her ■ilie could it lier be lat snm- libjeet by In she is 1 liad no it was get lier lany one ]ptir])ose li would ■s. She aust be liat. So iises at lok the ne was reamy ur to- lufully concerned tlian over about h(>r personal adornment, deliel- ingfi to such excess that if her moral nature were not actually weakened it was certjiinly endan<,''ere(i. P\)rtunate]y she had an admirable c()mj)anion in Alfred. The boy is not naturally like a beast, unable to restrain his passions, a bit more than the girl. To men, as to women, the i)ower to con- trol tliemselves comes of the determination. There are cases of natural depravity, of course, but they are not peculiar to either sex ; and as the girl may inherit the father's vices, so may the boy have his mother to thank for his virtues. Depravity is oftener acciuired than inherited. As a rule, the girl's surroundings safe- guard her from the acrpr ition ; but when they do not she be- comes as bad as the boy. I'lu' boy, on the contrary, esjx'cially if he is sent to a public school, is systematically trained to l)e vicious. He learns the Latin grammar from his masters, and from tlie habitual conversation of the other boys, the books secretly circu- lated by them, and their traditional code of vice, he becomes familiarized Avith the most hoggish habits. He maj' esca])e the practical initiation by a miracle at the time; but it is from the mind familiar with ideas of vice that the vicious impulse eventu- ally springs, and the seed of corrui)tion, once sown in it, bears fruit almost inevitably. Alfred had escaped this contamination by l)eing kept at home at a day .school, and when Beth knew him he was as reCuied and high-minded as he was virile for his age ; and as self- restrained as she was impetuous. She wanted to hurry on and shape their lives ; but he was content to let things come about. She lived in the future, he in the present, and he was teaching her to do the Same, which was an excellent thing for her. Often, when she was making plans, he would check her by saying: "Aren't you satisfied ? I can't imagine myself happier than I am at this moment." One thing neither of them ever anticipated, and that was inter- ference. They expected those hai)])y days to last without inter- ruption until the happier ones came when they should be inde- pendent and could do as they liked. " When I am king, diddle, diddle, you shall be queen," Alfred used to sing to Beth, "and Dicksie shall be prime minister." One night they were out in the fields together. Beth was >id. s migfhty ' Well, •d. The yon dog"- 's pistols ise you. me pass. )a come Iked on y to let |own to Gard [peared. )t to be }ess of dofer(>neo ; "and it's as mueli as my billet is worth to po near Jiim ; lu^'s veiy much occupied this morninj;." " HoiTt tell lies," said lieth. " I'm ^i'oin^' to see him." She went forward to th(> skyli<,fht as she spoki; and called down : " Below tiiere, CV)Uiit Gustav 1" "Hollo!" u voice rei)lied. "Is that you, Beth? You know you're too bi','- to b(^ on tiie yacht now without a chaperon." "Hot!" said Beth. "Don't be coarse, Beth," Count Gustnv remonstrat<'d from be- low, in rather a precious tone. " You know how 1 dislike hoyden En^-lish." "Well, then, iionnoifie! if that's any better." I'eth rejoined. "You've got to .see me — this once, at all evtuits, or there'll be a tragedy." "Oh, in that case,'' was the resigned reply, "I'll come on deck." Beth walked fift and waited for him, enthroned on the bul- wark, with a coil of rope for her footstool. When Count (lustav app(>ai'ed he looked at her (pji;:/ically. "What is the nuxttor, Beth i" he asked. " What are you boiling with indignation about now ?" "About that man Gard," Beth replied. "What do you think lie was doing last night i and not for the first time, by his own account — spying ! " " Spying : " said Bartahlinsky. " Gard, come here." Gard, who had been anxiously watching them from amid- ships, ai)proached. " Now, Beth, what do you mean ? " said the count. "I mean that I was out sitting on a rail in the church fields last night with Alfred Cayley Pounce and Dicksie Richardson, talking, and this man came and listened ; and then when I left them, he met me on the ])ath beside the church and spoke impu- dently to me, and would not let me pass. I know what you thought," she broke out, turning u})on Gard : "you thought I was doing something that I was ashamed of, and you'd tind it out and have me in your power. But I'll have you know that I do noth- ing I'm a.sliamed of — nothing I should \w a.shamed to tell your master about — so you may .save yourself the trouble of spying upon me. Black Gard — as they well call you." Gard was about to say something, but Count Gustav stopped him peremptorily. " You can go," he said. " I'll hear what you have to say later." IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I ''^ m 122 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ■^ 6" — ► V] <^^' ^a c*. . ^ 5'> iV BB 274 THE BETH BOOK. Thou ho sat down boside Beth, and tilkod to hor long and oar- nostly. Ho advisod lior to give up licr rambles with Alfred and Dicksie, but she assured him that that was impossible. " Who else have I ? " she asked pathetically. " And what am I to do with my days if they never come into them again ? " " You ought to have been sent to school, Beth, long ago, and I told your mother .so," CWnt Gustav answered, frowning. "And, by Jove, I'll toll her again," he thought, " before it's too late." The encounter with Gard added excitement to the charm of Both s next meeting with the boys. It nimle them all feel ratlior important. They discussed it incessantly, speculating as to what the man's object could have been. Alfred .said vulgar curiosity, but Both suspected that there was more than that in the manoMi- vro, and when Dicksie suggested acutely that Gard had intended to blackmail them, she and Alfred both exclaimed that that was it ! They had gone about together all this time in the most open way ; now they began to talk about caution and concealment, like the jwrsecuted lovei"S of old romance, who had powerful enemies, and were obliged to manage their meetings so that they shoidd not be suspected. They decided not to speak to each other in pub- lic, and consoijuontly when they met in the street they pass(>d with such an "laborate parade of ignoring each other, and yot with such evident enjoyiaent of the position, that people b(>gan to wonder what on earth they were up to. Disguises would have delighted them ; but the fashions of the day did not lend them- selves nnich to disguise, unfortunately. There were no masks, no sond)roros. no cloaks ; and all they could think of was fals(» whis- koi-s for Alfred; but 'wheu he tried them, they alt«'i'o(l him so effoctually that Dicksie said he could not bear him and Belli would not kiss him. One evening after dinner, when Mi-s. Caldwell was reading al«»ud to Both and Bornadine, there came a thundering knock at the front door, which startled them all. The weatlior had boon bad all dav, and now the shutters were closed; the rain Ix^at against them with a chilly, depressing efVect, inoxpressil)ly dreary. Instead of attending to the reading, Beth had been listen- ing to the f(M)tsteps of peo])le passing in the street, in the forlorn hope that among them .she might distinguish Alfred's. When the knock came they thought it was a runaway, but Harriot opened the door all the same, and presently returned, smiling archly, and holding aloft a beautiful bouquet. TOE BETH BOOK. 275 " Wha "s that ? " said Mrs. Caldwell, " Give it to me ! " Beth'.i lieart stood still. There wsis a card attached to the flowers, and Mrs. Caldwell read aloud: "'3//«.s CnUlweU, with rcKpecifnl compUmcnts' Who hrought this, Harriot ? " she jusked. " No one, niaaiu," Harriet replied ; " it was 'itched on till the knocker." " Very strange," Mi's. Caldwell niuttere»l .suspiciously. " Beth, do you know anythiiig- ahout it ? " " Is there no name on the card ? " Beth asked diplomatically ; and Mrs. Caldwell looked at the card instead of into Beth's face, and discovered nothing^. Riiindrops sparkled on the flowers, their fragrance filled the room, and their coloui-s and foruis and freshness were a joy to behold. " How beautiful th(»y are ! " Mi*s. Caldwell exclaimed. " May I have them, mamma ? " Beth put in quickly. " Well, yes, I suppose you may," Mi*s. Caldwell decided ; " al- though I must say I do not understand their being left in this way at all. Who could liave sent you flowers ? " "There's the gardener at Fairholm," Beth ventured to suggest. "Oh, ah, yes," said Mrs. Caldwell, handing the flowers to Beth without furtlicr demur. The gift appeared less lovely, somehow, when slie l)egan to a.s.s(X?iate it with the gardener's res|HK'tful compliments. Beth took the flowers and hid lier burning face with them. This was her first boucpiet, the most excpiisite thing that had ever happened to her. She carried it oIF to her room and put it in water, and when she went to bed she kej)t the candle Iturning that she miglit lie and U)ok at it. The following week a menagerie came to the place. Alfred and Dicksie went to it, and their description filled Beth with a wild desire to see the creatures, especially the chim])anzee. The boys were quite ready to take her, but how was it to be managed ? The menagerie was only to l)e there that one night more, but it would be oj)en late, and tliey would be allowed to go because ani- mals are improving. Could she get out, too ? Beth considered intently. " I can go to bed early," she said at last, " and get out by the acting-room window.'' " But suppose you are missed ? " Alfred deprecated. " Then I should be found out," said Beth ; " but you would not." II n 276 THE DETII BOOK. " How about being" rooog-nised in the menagerie, tliough ? " said Dicksie. "You see there'll b<> lots of people, and it's all liglited up." "I can disguise myself to look like an old woman," Beth re- joined, thinking of Aunt Victoria's auburn front and some of her old things. "Oh, no, Beth!" Alfred protested. "That would be worse than the whiskers." " Can't you come as a boy ? " said Dicksie. "I believe I can," Belli <'xclaimed. "There's an old suit of Jim's somewhere that would be tiie vei-y thing — one lie grew out of. I believe it's about my size, and I think I know where it in. What a .splendid ideji, Dicksie ! I can cut my hair olF," " Oh, no I Your pretty hair ! " Alfred exclaimed. "Is it pr<'tty V said Beth, surprised and pleased. " /.s it pretty 1 " he ejaculat<'d. lifting it with both hands and bathing his face in it; "the brightest, brownest, curliest, softest, sweetest hair on earth I Turn it up under your cap. These little curls on your neck will look like short hair.'' They were all so delighted with this romantic plan that they danced about and hug^ged each other promiscuously. But this last piece of cleverness was their undoing, for Beth wtus ])ronq)tly recognised at the menag'erie by sojne one with a sense of humour, who told Lady Benyon. who told Mrs. Caldwell. Mrs. Caldwell came hurrving home from Ladv Benvon's a few nights later with the (jueerest expression of countenance Beth had ever seen ; it was sometliing between laughing and crying. " Beth," she began in an agit^ited maniu'r. " I am told that you went with two of Mr. Richardson's sons to the menagerie on Tuesday night, dres.sed as a boy." ''One of his sons," said Beth, correcting her; "the other boy was his pupil " "And you were walking about looking at the animals in that public jdace with your arm rountl the girl from the shoe shop '' Beth burst out laughing. " All the boys had their arms round girls," she ex])lained. " I couldn't be singular." Mi's. Caldwell dropped into a chair and .sat {gazing at Beth as if she had never seen anything like her before, as indeed .she never had. "Who is this pupil of Mr. Richard-son's?" she asked at last, and how did you make his acquaintance ?" " His name is Alfred Cayley Pounce," Beth answered. "We TTTE BETH BOOK. 277 ■wore caiiffht by tlio tido and noarly drownod together on tlio sands, and I've known liini ever since." "And do you mean to say that you have been meeting tliis 3'oung man in a clandestine manner— that you hadn't the proper ])ride to refuse to asstK'iate with him unless he were know n to vour familv and vou could meet him as an equal ? " "He did wish to nuike your ac([uaintance, but I wouldn't let him,'' Betli said. " Why^' Mrs. Caldwell asked in amazement. "Oh — because I was afraid you would be horrid to him,'' Beth answered. Mi's. Caldwell was thunderstruck. The whole affair had over- wlielmed her iis a calamity which could not be met by any ordi- nary means. Scolding was out of thecpu'stion. for she was not able to utter another word, l)ut just sat ther(> with such a miserabh' face she might have been the culprit herself, especially a.s .slio ended l)y bursting into teal's. Beth's heart smote her. and she watched her mother for some time, yearning to .say something to comfort her. "I don't think you need be so distre.ssed. mamma," she ven- tured at last. " What have I done, after all ? I've committed no crime." " You've done just about as bad a thing as you could do,'' Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. "You've made tlie whole \)\nc>} talk about you. You must have known you were doing wrong. But I think you can have no conscience at all." "I think I have a conscience, only it doesn't always act," Beth answered disconsolatelv. " Verv often when I am doing a wrong thing it doesn't accu.se me; when it doe.s, I stop and re- pent." She was sitting beside the dining table, balancing a i)encil on her linger as she spoke. "Look at you now, Beth," her mother ejaculated, "utterly callous I " Beth sighed and put the pencil down. She desj)aired of ever making her mother unclei'st^uid anything, and deh'rmined not to trv again. " Beth. T don't know what to do witli you." Mrs. Caldwell re- commenced after a long silence. "I've been warned again and again that I should have trouble with you, and Heaven knows I have. You've done a monstrous thing, and instead of being ter- rified when you're found out. you sit there coolly discussing it, as 27S THE BETH BOOK. if you were a j?rown-up person. And tlu'u you're so queer. You ow^hi to hi) a child, but you're not. Lady li<'nyf)n likes you, but even slu^ says you're not a child, and n»^ver were. You siiy things no .sane child would ever think of, and very few grown-up people. You are not like other people, then's no denying it." Beth's eyes filled with ti'ars. To be thought unlike other peoph' was the one thing tliat made her quail. "Well, niainnia, what am I to do i" she said. " I hate to vex you, goodness knows, but I must be doing sometliing. The days are long and dreary." She wiped her eye.s. "When i)eople warned you that you would have trouble with me they always said unle.ss you sent me to .schl." Mi's. Caldwell rocked herself on her chair forlornly. "Sch(M)l would do you no good," she declared at la.st. " No, Beth, you are my cro.ss, and I nmst bear you. If I forgive you again this time, will you be a better girl in future ?" " i don't believe it's my fault that I ever annov you," Beth answered dryly. " Whose fault is it, then ? " her mother demanded. Beth shrugged her shoulders, and began to balance the ])encil on her fingers once more. Mrs. Caldwell got uj) and .stood looking at her for a little, with a gathering expre.s.sion of dislike on her face which it was not gcK)d to see ; then she went toward the d(M>r. " You are incorrigible," she ejaculated as she opened it, mak- ing the ren irk to cover her retreat. Beth sighed heavily, then resolved herself into a Christian martyr cruelly uiisjudged ; an idea which she pui*sued with much satisfaction to herself for the rest of the day. In consequence of that conversation with her mother, when the evening came her conscience accused her, and she made no attempt to go out. She was to meet Alfred and Dicksie on Satxir- day, their next half holiday, and she would wait till then. That was Wednesday. During the interval, however, a strange chill came over her feelings. The thought of Alfred was .'is incessant as ever, but it came without the glow of delight ; something was wrong. They were to meet on the rocks behind the far pier at low water on Saturday. Few jK'ople came to the far pier, and when the}' did, it was seldom that they looked over, and they could not have seen much if they had. for the nx'ks were brown with sea- weed, and dark figures wandering about ou them became iudis- tup: uktii book. 270 4 tinguisluiblo. Both went lonj; Ix'forc tlu' tiiiio. Tt was a brauli fill still gray day, such lus she lovt-d; and siic l(>ii<4-fd to he aluiu» with the sea. Tht' tide was ijfoin^- out, aiiid she had a fancy for followiiiff it from rock to rock as it went. Some of the bi^'j^tT rocks were Hat-topped islands, separated from the last hailing place of tlie tide by narrow straits, across which she spranj,',- and on these she would lie her len;,'th. peering" d<)wn into the ch-ar depths on the farther side, where the iiealthy, happy sea creatuivs disported themselves, and seaweeds of wondrous colours waved in fantastic forms. The water lapped up, and up, and up the nn-k, rising with a .sobl)ing sound, and bringing fresh aii-s with it that fanned her face and caused her to draw in her breath involunta- rily and inhale long, deep draughts with deliglit. As the water went out, ])right runnels were left where rivei-s had ]>een, and juiniatuit^ bays became sheltered coves, paved with polished peb- blt es or i)urphi mussels, and every litth e sandy space was ri bbed with .solid waves where the busy l<>bworins sooii Ix'gan to send up tiieir r()j)y castings. Beyond the break of tlie water the silver seu sloped up to the horizon, and on it, rocking gently, far out, a, few cobles were scattered, with rich red sails all set ready, wait- ing for a breeze. It was an exquisite scene, remote from all wail of human feeling, and strangely traniiuillizing. Gradually it gained upon Beth. Her bosom heaved with the heaving watei* rhythmically, and she lost herself in contemjdation of sea and sky .scape. Befoit» she had been manj* minutes prone upon the farthest rock, the vision and the dream were upon her. That other self of liei^s unfurled its wings and she tloated off, revelling in an ecstasy of gentle motion. Beyond the sea line were palaces with terraced gardens, white ])alaces against which grass and trees showed glossy green ; and there she wandered among the flowers and waited. She was waiting for soniething tliat did not happen, for some one who did not come. Suddenly she sat up on her nx'k. The sun was sinking behind her, the silv«'r sea shle the idea of superabundant health, to others it su^''{;ested a j)hthisi<'al tendency. Beth lo«)ked at him as he ajjproached. iis she looked at everybody and everythinj;, with interest; nothing- escaped her; but he made nt) great impi'ession up<»n her. She thought of him principally us a man with a watch ; and when ho Wits near cn«>ugh she asked him what time it was. II(^ told her, looking hard at her, and smiling pleasantly as he returned his watch to his pocket. She noticed that his teeth were good, but too far ai)art. a defe<'t which struck her as unplea.sant. "Why, it is (juite late!" she exclaimed, forgetting to thank him in her surpi'i.se. "Are you all alono here ?" he a.sked. "I was waiting for some friend.s," she answered, " but they have not come. They must have been detained."' She began to walk back as she spoke, and the gentleman turned, too, jxM'force, f(»r the tide was close upon them. "Let me help you." he said. h(»;Jing oi:t his hand, which was noticeably white and well-shaped ; " the rocks are rough and Slippery." " I can manage, tliank you," Beth answered. " I am accus- tomed to them." B<'th involuntarily resolved hei'self into a young lady the mo- ment she addressed this man, and spoke now with the self-posses- sion of one accustomed to courtesies. Even at that age her soft cultivated voice and easy assurance of manner, and. above all, her laugh, wliicli was not the silvery laugli of liction, but the sound- less laugh of good society, marked the class to which .she belonged ; and. as he stumbled along beside her, her new acquaintance won- dered how it happened that she was at once so well-bred and so shabbily dressed. He began to question her guardedly. "Do you know Rainharbour well ?" he asked. " I live here." Beth answered. "Then I suppose you know every one in the place," he pur- sued. " Oh, no." she rejoined. " I know very few people, except my own, of course." THE BETH BOOK. 2Sl " Wliich is considon'd tlio principal fiiiiiily Ihtp ?" li(> askcil. "The Bonyt)!! family is tlH> biyj^cst and tho wickodcvst, 1 sliuuld think," slio answered oasnally. "But I meant the most impi)rtant," h<' exjilaineil, sinilinj,'. " I don't know," she said. " Uncle .Tames I'atten (liiiiks that next to himself the Benyons are. lie married one of them. lie's an awful snoh."' "And what is his position ?" "I don't know; he's a landowner. That's his estate over theiv," and she nodded toward Fairholm. " Indeed I ITow far does it extend '{ " "Fr(»m the .sea right up to the hills there and a little way heyond." They had l(>ft the rocks hy this time and were toilin;; up the steep road into the town. When they reached the top lieth ex- claimed abruptly, " I am late; I must fly," and, leavin*,' her com- panion witliout further ceremony, turned down a side street and ran home. "When she got in she wondered what had becoine of Alfred and Dicksie, and she was conscious of a cm-ious sort of suspense, which did not amount to anxiety, however. It was as if she were waiting and listening for something she expected to hear which would explain in words what she held ah-eady, inarticulate, in some secret recess of her being, held in suspense and felt, but had not yet apprehended in the region of thought. There are jteophi who collect and hold in themselves some knowledge of contem- ])orary events as the air collects and holds moisture. It may bo that we all do, but only one here and there becomes aware of the fact. As the impalpable moisture in the air changes into palpable rain imder certain atmospheric conditions, so does this vague cognizance become a c()mi)rehensible revelation by being resolved into a shower of words on occasion by sonic pro- cess psychically analogous to tlic condensation of moistun* in the air. It is a natural jdienomenon known to babes like Beth, but ill observed and not at all explained because man has gone such a little way beyh, and caujflit lici* broatli apaiii im if the c<»ol watrr \v«'n! slill wasliiii;,' up.aiid up, and up toward licr. .She saw llui silver surface, too, stretcliiii;^ on to those shinin;^'' palare neither of them at the evening service. Beth could not understand it, but slio was more j)uzzled than jjcrturhed. She Wius reading French to her mother next morning hy way of a lesson when they both happeiH'd to look up and se«^ Mi-s. Kitihardson, the vicars worn-out wife, passing the window. Tho next moment there was a knock at the door. " Can she be coming here ?" Mi's. Caldwell exclaimed. " What should she come here for?" Beth rejoined, her heart palpitating. " Oh. dear, oh. dear, this is just what I exiMiotetl ! " Mrs. Caldwell declared; "and if only she had come last week I should have known nothing about it." "You don't know much a.s it is," Beth observed, without, how- ever, seeing why that should make any difference. The next moment the vicar's wife was ushered in with a wink by Harriet. ^Mrs. Caldwell and Beth botli rose to receive her hau'ditilv. She had entered with assurance, but that left her the moment she faced them, and she became exceedingly nervous. She wius surjn'ised at the ease and grace of these shabbily dressed ladies and the refnuMnent of their surroundings— the design of the furniture, the colour of curtains and carpet, the china, the THE IlKTH HOOK. 2«3 ]>(M»!c.s, tin' pictuH'S — nil of which hcspoko Utstos and hahitii not cutiiinon in the parish. " I must aj)(>l(>},''i/(> for this intrusion," she hoyan norvousl}-. "I have a most uiiplcjisant Uisk t<» iM'rform. My Imsltaml rv- qnvsU'd uw to come." " Why didn't he comr himself ? " licth a-skcd hlandly. " Why ds ho make you do tlm disagreeable part of his duti«'s ?" The vicar's wife raised her nn-ek eyes and pazed at Heth. Sho had not anticipated this sort of reception from jioor parishioners, and was comi)letely nonplussed. She; was startled, too, l>y l^'th's last (juestion, for she helun^'i'ed to the days of brav<> unhonoured <'iiduranco, when women, meekly allowinj^ thems<'lves to bo <'las.se(l with children and idiots, exacted no resjx'ct and received none, no woman, decent or otherwise, beinjJT safe from insult in the public streets; when they were expected to do dilliciilt and dirty work for their husbands, such as canvassin;^ at elections, without acknowled;r)nent, their wit and capacity beiny traded upon without scruple to obt;:in fi-om men the votes which they were not deemed wise and worthy enouyh to have themscdves; the davs when thev yave all and receiv<'(l nothing in return, save dides «)f bread and contempt, varied by such caresses as a j^ood dog gets when his master is in the mood. That was the day be- fore woman began to question the wisdom and goodness of man, liis justice and generosity, his right to make a virtue of wallow- ing when he chose to wallow, and his disinterestedness and dis- cretion when lie also arrogated to himself the jjower to order all things. Mrs. Richardson had no more thought of cpu'stioning the beauty of her husband's decision than .she had thought of question- ing the logic and mercy of her God. and this first flash of the new spirit of incpiiry from Beth's bright wit came upctiPher with a shock at first — oneoftho.se shocks to the mind which is as the strength of wine to the exhausted body, that checks the breath a moment, then rouses and stinnilates. "May I sit down?" she gasped, then dropped into a chair, "lie might have come himself, to be sure," she mutter<*d. ''I have m«>re than enough to do that is disagreeable in my own womanly .sphere without being required to meddle in pari.sh mattei-s." Yet when her husband had said to her, " It is a very disagreeable business, indeed this ; I think I'll get you to go ; you'll manage it with so nnich more tact than a man," the poor lady, unaccus- tomed to compliments, was gratified. Now, however, thanks to 284 THE IJKTII HOOK. Betlj, shn hud iK'on nciirrr to inakiii;^ an acuto observation tlian nhv had ever hcon in her life hrfore; she all but iwrccivcd that tho woman s sphoro is nevi-r homo (>xclusiv«>ly when man can make use of her for his own purposes elsewhere. The sphere is the stable ln^ ties her up in wh(>n lie d(M'S not want her, and Uikes lier froui a^ain to drag him along' out of adilliculty or up tu some distinction, just as it suits himself. Mrs. Caldwell and lieth waited for Mrs. Richardson to commit liei-self. but gave her no further help. " The truth is," she recommenced desi)eratel y, " we luive lost an oxci'lleut pupil. His peoph* have been informed that he was car- rying on an intrigue with a girl in this place, and have taken hiiu away at a moment's notice." "And what has that to do with us?" Mrs. Caldwell asked politely. "The girl is said to be your daughter." "This is my ekU'st daughter at home," Mrs. Caldwell answered. "She is not yet fourU'en." " liut she's a very big girl," Mrs. Tlichardson faltered. "Who is this pei-son, this pupil, you allude to T' Mrs. Caldwell asked superciliously. " He is the .son of wealthy Nottingham j)e()ple." " Ah I Lace manufacturer.s, I supi)ose," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined, "Yes," Mrs. Richardson acknowledged with reluctance. She a.ss()ciated, as she was expected to do, with gentlemen who de- bauch(Ml thems pursued, hau^^htily, " why y<»u should have come to sprrad this scandal ln'rt> in my house' " Uh," the litthj wonuin faltcn-d, " I was to ask if tiicrc ha^s\K "Let nui show y(tu out," .said Ueth, and tluMliscomfited lady found herself ushereil into the street without further eerenumy. When IJeth returned she found her mother smilin;,' hiandly at the result of her diplomacy. It was prohahly the llrst ell'ort of the kind the i)oor lady had (>ver made, and she was so elated by her succ<'ss that she took lieth into her conlidence and forg'avo her outri<,''ht in order to hobnob with her on the subject. "I think I fenced with her pretty veil, she said several times. "A woman of her class, a country attorney \s daughter or some- thing of that kind, is no match for a woman of min<\ I hope, Beth, this will be a lesson to you, and will teach you to ai)preciate the superior tact and discretion of the ui)per classes." Beth could not lind it in her lu'art to say a word to check lier motlier's jubilation ; besides, .slie liad play<'d uj) to lier, answer- ing to expectiition, as she was a])t to do, with fat^il versatility. But she did not feel tliat they bad come out of tln' business well. It was as if their honesty had been bedraggled somehow, and she could not respect her mother for her triumph ; on tlie contrary, she pitied lier. That kind of diplomacy or tact, the means l)y which ])eo])le who liave had every advantage impo.sc upon those who have had no advantages to speak of, did not ajjpeal to Beth as plea.sant, even at fourteen. Mrs. Caldwell put her work away at once, and hurried otF to descril)e the cTicounter to Lady Benyon. "They had not lieard of the menagerie alTair, T suppose," tlie old lady observed, twinkling. "Thanks to yourself. I think you may consider Miss Beth is well out of that scrap*', liut take my advice. Get that girl married tlie tii*st chan^v you have. / know girls, and she's one of the marrying I.ind. Once she's married, let lier mutiny, or do anything she likes. YuuH b? bh';t of the responsibility." ill 286 THE BETH BOOK. CHAPTER XXVIII. From that time forward it was as if Alfred had vanished into space. Whether he ever attempted to comnninieate witli lier, Betli eoukl not tell : but she received no letter or message. She expected to hear from him throuj^h Dicksie, but it soon becamo apparent tliat Dicksie had deserted her. lie came to none of their old haunts, and never looked her way in church or in the street when th'^y met. She was ashamed to believe it of him at first, lest some defect in her own nature should havs' given rise to the horrid suspicion ; but when she could no lon;,nr doubt it she slnniyj^ed her shoulders as at somethin