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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, <tnd these first express tliem. This explains the curious tern'
poraneousness of inventions and discoveries. The truth is in the air, and
the most impressionable brain mil announce it first, hut all will annou7ic6
it a few minutes later. «S'o women, as most susceptible, are the best index
of the coming hour." Emerson.
THE BETH BOOK.
CHAPTER I.
The (lay precedinf? Beth's birth was a pray day, a soroiio pray
day, awesome witli a cerUiiii solemnity, and singularly significant
to those who seek a sipii. There is a quiet moo<l, an inner calm,
to which a pray day adds peculiar solaci'. It is like the relief
which follows after tears, wlien hope begins to revive and the
wartn blood throbs rebel lionsly to be free of the sluickles of prief ;
a certain lieaviness still Iinpei*s, but only as a luxurious lanpuor
which is a pleasure in itself. In other moods, however — in pain,
in doubt, in suspense — tlie pray day deej)ens the depression of the
spirits, and also adds to the sense of physical discomfort. Mrs,
Caldwell, lookinp up at noon from thest(H'kinp she was niendinp,
and seeinp only a slender strij) of level ploom jilxjv^e the houses
opposite, suddenly experienced a minpled feelinpof chilliness and
dread, arul lonped for a fire, although the month was ,Iun<'. She
could not atTord fires at that time of year, yet she thought how
nice it would be to have one, and the more she thoupht of it the
more chilly she felt. A little comfort of the kind would hijve
meant so much to her that morning. She would like to h.'jve felt
it right to put away the mending, sit by a good Ida/.e with a l)ook,
and absorb herself in somebody else's thoughts, for her own were
far from cheerful. She was weak, and ill, and anxious, the mother
of six children already, aiul about to produce a .sev(>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 <!lerpy
tospeaka word in season to all, fvtnu the murderer on tlie .scallold
to the maid who had mi.sconducted herself. There was nothing
eccentric about Mrs. Caldwell ; she accepttul the world just as sho
found it, and was satisfied to know that efl'ects were beiuf; dealt
^^'lih. Causes sho never considered, because she knew nothing
about them.
liut she was ill at ea.se that morninjf, and did think it rather
hard that she should not have had time to recover from her last
illness. Slu^ acknowledj^ed to hei-scdf that she was very weak,
tliat it was hard to drag the darning lu'cdle through that worn
stocking, and, oh, dear I the holes were so many and .so big that
week, and tliere were such (piantities of other things to be done —
clothes mended and madi^ for the chihh'on, besides liousehold mat-
ters to be seen to generally. Why wasn't she strong ? That wjia
the only thing sIk^ repined about, poor wonuin ! lier want of phys-
ical strength. She would work until she dropped, liowever, and
mortal man could e.xpect no more of her, she assured herself with
u sigli of satisfaction, in anticipation of the inevit^ible event which
would lay her by and so release her from all immediate responsi-
bility. Worn and weary working mothei*s, often uncomplaining
victims of the crudest exactions, toilers wliose day's work is nev(>: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 an<l paint with a dainty touch ; but since her mrirriage
the many children, the small means, and tlie failing strength had
made all such pursuits an impo.ssible luxury. The lire and the
book — wlio knows wliut they might not liave meant ! what a
benign ditrerence the sniall relaxation allowed to the mother at
this critical time might not have made in the temperament of the
child ! Perhaps if we could read the events even of that one day
TIIK nilTII HOOK.
8
hist
oak,
voru
thiit
me—
nitit-
wius
)hys-
antl
with
hich
l)»)nsi-
lining
>ov<r
oires
Mrs.
I'ud a
\ sing
•riago
h had
a the
hat a
her at
of the
le day
aright wo should Hnd in them the clew to all that wan inexpli-
cahle in her suhse(juent careir.
In deciding that she could not afford a fire for liorself. Mrs.
Caldwell had glanced round the room, and n<»ticed that the
whisky hottle on th(^ sidehoard was all hut empty. She got up
haiitily, and went into the kit<'hen.
"I had quite forgotten the whisky," she SJiid to the nuiid-of-
all-work, who was scraping potat<M's at the sink. "Your nuislor
will he so put out if thei-e isn't (Miough I You must go at once
and get some — six hottles. Bring one with you, and let them
send the rest."
The girl turned upon her with a scowl, "And who's to do my
dinner ? " she denumded.
*' I'll do what I can," Mi*s. Caldwell answered. The servant
threw the knife down on the potat»M>s. 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 looke<l out of place in the kitchen, and
it wjus evident that she could only accjuit herself well among the
n^finemeiits of life. She set to work with a will, however, for she
had the pluck an<l patience of ten men. She peeled vejjetahles,
chopped meat, fetched water, carried coals to mend the lir<\ did
all that had to he done to the hest of her ahility. although she
had to cling many times to tahle. or chair, or (lre.s.ser. to recover
fi'om the exertion, and hrace herself for a fresh attempt. When
she had done in the kitchen she went to the dining-room and
laid the cloth. The sulky servant did not hurry ))ack. She had
a trick of lingering long on errands, and when at last she did ap-
pear she hrought no whisky.
" The3''re going to send it," she explained. " They promised
to send it at once."
" But I told you to hring a hottle." Mrs. Caidw- 1! xclaimed,
stiimping her foot imperiously.
The girl walked otF to the kitchen, ami slammed the door.
Mrs. Caldwell's forehead was puckered with a frown, hut she
got out the mending again and sat down to it in the dining-room
with dogged determination.
THE BETH BOOK.
Presently there was a step outside. Slie looked up and lis-
tened. The front door opened. Tlie worn face brightened ;
backache and weariness were forgotten : lier Imsband had come
home, and it was as if the clouds had parted and the sun shone
forth.
She looked up brightly to greet him. " You've got your work
over early to-day," she said.
" I have," he answered dryly, without looking at her.
The smile froze on her lips. He had come back in an irritable
mood. He went to the sideboard when he had spoken, and
poured himself out a stiif glass of whisky and water, which he
carried to the window, where he stood with his back to his wife,
looking out. He was a short man who made an instant impres-
sion of light eyes in a dark face. You would have looked at him
a second time in the street and thought of him after he had i)assed,
so striking was the peculiar contrast. His features were Euro-
pean, but his complexion and his soft glossy black hair, cm-ling
close and crisj) to the head, betrayed a dark drop in him, probably
African. In the West Indies he would certainly have been set
down as a (iiiadroon. There was no record of negro blood in the
family, however, no trace of any ancestor wht) had lived abroad ;
and tlie three Mooi*s' heads with ivory rings through their noses
which api)eared in one quarter of the scutcheon were always un-
derstood by later generations to have been a distinction conferred
for some special butchery business among the Saracens.
Mrs. Caldwell glanced at bee husband Jis he stood with his
back to her in the window, and then went on with the mending,
patiently waiting till the mood should have pjissed otf or she
should have thought of something with which to beguile him.
When he had finished the whisky and water, he turned and
looked at her with critical disapprobation.
" I wonder why it is when a woman marries she takes no more
pains with hei-self," he ejaculated. " When I married you. you
were one of the smartest girls I ever saw."
" It would be difficult to be smart just now." she answered.
He nuule a gesture of ini]/atience. " But why should a woman
give up everything when she marries ? You had more accom-
plishments than most of them, and now all you do, it seems to
me, is the mending."
" Tlie mending must be done," she answered deprecatingly,
" and I'm not very strong. I'm not able to do everything. I
would if I could."
y
I
4
THE BETH BOOK.
10
[le
rk
lin.
unci
I more
L vou
r *'
id.
Ionian
?com-
bis to
|ngly,
There was a wild staiupede at tliis moment. The four ehk^r
chiklreii had returned from scliool. and the two younpfer ones
from a walk with their nurse, and now hui-st into the room, in
wild spirits, demanding' dinner. It was the first bright moment
of the morning for their mother, hut her husband promptly spoiled
her pleasure.
" Sit down at tahle," he roared, " and don't Irt me h<>ar 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 tli<! window lookiii}^ out anxiously. The {^rayness of
the loii<; June day was darkening; down to ni<;bt now, but tb<M-e
was no cliaii^j^e in the sultry .stiUness of tlie air. Summer li<jlit-
niii;,'' played about in tlu' sli-ip of sky above tbe hous<\s opposite.
One of tbe houses was a butcher's shoj), and while Mrs. Calilwell
sat there the buteluT brouj^ht out a lamb and killed it. Mi*s.
Caldwell watehcd the operation with interest. They did strange
things in those days in that little Irish seajjort. and. being an
Englishwoman, she looked on like a civilized traveller intelli-
gently studying tlu^ customs of a .savage peo])le.
But as the darkness gathered, the trouble of her mind increa.sed.
Iler husband did not return, and a sickening sen.salion of dread
took possession of her. Where had he gone ? What was he do-
ing ? Doubtless enjoying himself — what bittei-ness there was in
the thought! She did not grudge; him any pleasure, but it was
hard that he should lind so little in her company. Why was
there no di.straction for her ? The torment of her mind was
awful. Should she try his remedy ? She went to the sideboard
and poured hers<df out some whisky, but even as s]\v rais<'d it to
her lips she felt it umvortby to have recoui-se to it, and put the
glass down untouched.
After that she went and leaned against Uio window frame. It
was about midnight, and very few j)eople passed. Wbeiu'ver a
man app<'ared in tbe distance she had a moment of hope, but
only to be followed by tbe sickening sen.sation of another disap-
pointment. The mental anguish was .so great that for some time
she paid no attention to physical syni])toms which had now be-
gun. By degrees, however, these became importunate, and, oh,
the relief of it I The troubb^ of her mind ceased when tbe phys-
ical ])ain b(>came 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<t ill, ma am ! Let me help you to yer bed."
" Fetch the doctor and the nurse, Bridget," Mi*s. Caldwell was
just able to gasp.
In the urgency and excitement of the moment there was a
truce to hostilities. Bridget jumped up, in nightdress and bare
feet, and supported her mistress to her room. There she was
obliged to leave her alone; and so it happened that, just as the
gray dawn trembled with the Urst flush of a new and brighter
day, the child arrived, unassisted and without welcome, and .sent
up a wail of protest. When the doctor came at last, and had time
to attend to her, he pronounced her to be a fine child, and declared
that slie had made a good beginning, and would do well for her-
self ; which words the nur.se declared to be of happy omen. Her
father was not fit to appear until late in the day. He came in
humbly, filled with remorse for that misspent night, and was re-
ceived with the feeble flicker of a smile, which so touched and
softened him that he made more of the new child, and took a
greater interest in her than he had done in any of the others at
the time of their birth. There was some diHiculty about a name
for her. Her father proposed to call her Elizabeth — after his
sister, he said — but Mrs. Caldwell objected. Elizabeth was Miss
Gottley's name also, a fact which she recollected, but <lid not
mention. That she did not like the name seemed rea.son enough
for not choosing it ; but her husband persisted, and then there
was a hot disi)ute on the subject above the baby's cradle. The
dispute ended in a compromi.se. the mother agreeing to have the
child christened Elizabeth if she were not called .so; and she would
not have her called Eliza, Elsie, Elspeth, Bessie, Betsy, or Bess
either. This left nothing for it but to call her Beth ; and upon
consideration both parents liked the diminutive ; her father be-
cause it was unaccustomed, and her mother because it had no
association of any kind attached to it.
For the first three months of her life Beth cried incessantly as
if bewailing her advent. Then, one day, she opened her eyes
wide, and looked out into the world with interest.
ex-
was
,as a
bare
was
IS the
<rUter
ll S(Mlt
1 time
dared
)r lier-
Her
iiine in
A-as rc-
led and
took a
thers at
a name
Ifter his
a.s Miss
lid not
enough
^u tiiore
\c. The
lave the
le woiild
or Bess
tud upon
atiier be-
had no
santly as
her eyes
i
i
THE BETH BOOK.
CHAPTER II.
11
It was the sunshine really that first called her into conscious
existence, the blessed heat ami li<,'ht; up to the moment that slio
recof^nised tliese with a certain acknowledgement of them, and
consequently of thinj^s in general outside herself, she had been
as unconscious as a white g'rub without letrs. But that moment
roused lier, callinj? forth from her senses their lirst ivsponse in
the thrill of warmth and well-bein«j: to which she awoke, and
quickeninj,' her intellect at the same time with the stimulating
elfort to discover from whence her comfort came. She could
remember no circumstances in connection with this earli(\st awak-
ening. All she knew of it was the feeling of warmth and bright-
ness, which she .said recurred to her at odd times ever afterward,
and could be recalled at will.
Some may see in this lii-st awakening a foreshadowing of the
fact that she was born to be a child of light, and to live in it ; and
certiiinly it was always light for whicli she craved— the tictual
light of day, however ; but nothing she yearned for ever came to
her in the form she thought of, and thus when she asked ft)r sun-
shine it was grudgingly given, fate often forcing her into dark
dwellings; but all the time that light which illumines the .spirit
was being bestowed upon her in limitless measm'e.
The next step in her awakening was to a kind of self-conscious-
ness. She was lying on her nur.se's laj) out of doors, looking up
at the sky, and some one was saying, "Oli, you pretty thing!"
But it was long years before she connected the ])hra,se with herself,
although .she smiled in respon.se to the voice that uttered it. Then
she found herself on her feet in a garden, moving very carefully
for fear of falling, and everything about her was giga«itic, from
Jane Nettles, the nurse, at who.se skirt she tugged when she
wanted to attract attention, to the brown wallllower and the pur-
ple larkspur which she could nt)t reach to pull. There was a thin
liedge at the end of the garden tlirougli which she looked out on
a path across a field, and a thick hedge on her left, in which a
thrush had built a nest at an immen.se height above her head.
Jane lifted her up to look into the nest, and there was nothing in
it; then Jane lifted her up again, and. oh. there was a blue egg
there ! and Jane lifted her up a third time, and the egg had brown
spots on it. The mystery of tlui etrg awed her. She did not ask
herself how it came to be thei-e, but she felt a solenni wonder in
12
THE FiKTII HOOK.
the fact, and the colour caused a sensation of i)loasure, a positive
thrill, to run throu;,''h lier. This was her lii'st recof^^nition of
beauty, and it was to the heauty of coh)ur, not of f«»rui, that Iht
senses awok«'. Tlirouji'h life she had a keen joy and nice dis-
crimination in coloui's, and seemed to herself to have always
known their names.
Hut those spots on tho v<i;ii:s\ she wius positive that they had
come hetween iier Hrst and second peep, which shows how tlefect-
iv(^ her faculty of ol)servation. which Ix'came so exact under culti-
vation, was to he^''in with. Hetii als(> 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 ;<o?r," Beth stam})ed, and then, because Jane
shook her head, si"' sat down suddenly on the <j;"ravel and .sent up
a howl which brou<,^ht her father out. He chucked Jane under
the chin. Jane g'ig'<;led, then niad<^ a sign ; and there was Mrs,
Caldwell looking from one to tlie other.
To Beth's recollection it seemed as if .she had rapidly acquired
the experiences of this first jjcriod. Each incident that she re-
niemliered is apparently tritling in itself, but who can say of what
significance as an indication i In the.se first few years, had there
been any tliere with intelligence to interpret, they jjrobably would
have found foreshadow! ngs of all .she might be and do and suf-
fer, and that would have been the time to teach her. To me,
therefor<\ these earliest im])ressions are more interesting than
much that occurred to her in after-life, and I have carefully col-
lected them in the ho])e of finding some clew in tliem to what
followed. In several instances it .seems to me tliat the impression
left by some chance observation or incident on her baby mind
made it possil)le for her to do numy things in after-life which she
certainly never would have done but for those early intluences.
It would be affectation, then^fore, to apologize for such detail.
Nothing can be trivial or insignificant that tends to throw light
on the mysterious growth of our moral and intellectual being.
Many a cramped soul that strugghis on in after years, vainly en-
deavouring to rise on a broken wing, might, had the importance
f
I
I
TIIK UKTII BOOK.
18
live
i» of
her
(lis-
ways
' liJid
i.ffct-
f villi -
^ with
ifk <»f
ic, and
liem;
se Jiiue
scut up
le uiuler
lu-iixiir^'d
it slie ro-
of what
vm\ there
,\y w«)ui^l
"and suf-
To int',
ins than
.fully 01)1-
a to Nvhat
linvrossion
lahy mind
kvhioh s^ie
lintUuMU'os.
u'h thtail.
IhroNV ligl»t
-ual hein^'.
vainly en-
limyortauce
of sucli soominp trifles in its devtilopincnt been roooffnisod, Iiavo
won iUs way upwaril from the fii'st, untraninu'lled and uninjured.
It WJis Ji .Jesuit, was it not, who said, "(live lue the cliihl until it
is six yeai*s old ; after tiiat you can do as you like with it." That
is the lime to nuike an indelihh' impression of prineiples upon the
mind. in the first period of life character i.s a hlo.s,som that
should he carefully touched ; in the second the jx'tiils fall and the
fruit sets; it is hard and acrid then until the third period, when,
if thin^r^ jjo well, it will ripen on the hou^^h and he sweet and
wholesome; if ill, it will drop oil" immediately and rot upon the
{ground.
Beth wjus a combative child, always at war with Jane. There
Wius a j?reat battle fouf^ht about a bij^ black-velvet bonnet that
Beth want<'d to wear one day. Beth screamed and ki<-ked and
scratched and bit, and linally went out in the bonnet trimni)hant-
ly, and found herself standinj.,' alone on the ed^^'c of a ^^^reat },M'ei'ii
world, dotted with yellow gorse. A hot, wide du.sty road stretched
miles away in front of her; and at an infinite distance overhead
Wius the blue sky flecked with clouds so white and dazzling that
her eyes ached when she looked at them. She had stopped a mo-
ment to cry, " Wait for me I" .lane walked on, lunvcvei-. taking
no notice, and Beth struf^'-^^led after her, whimperinj,''. out o{
breath, chokiul with dust, scorched with heat, parched with thirst,
tired to death — how she sutlVred I A heartless lark .sany over-
head, rejrardless of her miserv. and slu^ never afterward heard a
lark without recallin<r tlM> 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<M)ps of the liors<'hair, and tied them on to sticks, tlien
went out, and stuck them in the {ground in the j^'arden outside the
wash-hous<! window, sprinkled crumbs of bread, and crept care-
fully back to watch. First came a robin with noiseh'ss lliyht, and
lit on the },'round with its head on one side ; but the ciiildren w«to
too ea^er, and in their excitement they made a noise, and the
rol)in Hew away. Next vnmv a sj)arrow, sjiw the children, saw the
crumbs, and with the habitual self-possession of his race, stretched
in his liead between the sticks, picked out the larj^e.st j)iece of
bread, and carried it off in triumph. Inunediately afterward a
blackbird lUnv down, and hopped in among- the snares uncon-
sciously. In a moment he was caught, and, with a wild shout of
joy, the children rushed out to secure their prize ; but when they
reached the spot the blackbird had burst his Ixmds and escaped.
Then Beth threw a log of wood at lier brother, and cut his head open.
His cries brought out the household, and Beth was well shaken —
(she was always being shaken at this time) — and marched olf
promptly tt) papa's dressing-room, and made to sit on a little chair
in the middle of the floor, where she amused herself by singing at
the top of her voice :
" All around Sebastopol,
All around the ocean.
Every time a gun goes off
Down falls a Russian."
She wondered why her father and mother were laughing when
they came to rehvise her. Before they ai)peared, however, brother
Jim, her victim, had come to the door with his head tied up, and
peeped in ; and she knew that they were friends again, because he
shot ripe gooseberries at her across the floor as if they had been
marbles. There is a discrepancy here, seeing that snow^ and ripe
gooseberries are not in season at the same time. It is likely, how-
ever, that she broke her brother's head more than once, and the
occasions became confounded in her recollection.
When the children went to bathe off the beach, Beth would
not let Jane dip her if kicking, scratching, and screaming could
I
TOK BETH BOOK.
15
pina-
I is in
L is as
(' was
n the
made
, tlien
ilo the
, care-
it, and
II \V«TO
lul tlie
a\v the
"etched
iecc of
^vurd a
uncon-
hout of
on thoy
sscaped.
d open,
akcii —
led otf
e cluiir
igiug at
g when
jrother
up, and
;ause he
ad been
and ripe
y, how-
and the
h would
ig could
4
1
prevent it. There used to he terrible scenes between thetn until
at last one day somebody else's old Scotch nui*se interfei-ed, and
|M'i*sua(led H«'th to go into the water with her and consent to he
dipjH'd three tiiries. lieth went like a lamb — instead of having to
be dragged in and pushed under, given no time to recover her
breath between each dip. half choked with sand and salt water,
and tinally dragged out, exhausted by the struggle, and certainly
Butl'ering more than slie had benelited by the inunei-sion. The
cold water came up about her and took her breath away as the
old Scotch nin-se led her in, and llt-th clung to her hand and
panted " Wait I " as she nerv«tl lierself for the dijt. Nurse had
promised to wait until Beth was ready, and it was Ik'th's faith in
her promise that gave her courage to go bravely through the
ordeal. The old Scotcli nurse n<'ver deceived lier as .lane had
done, and .so Beth learned that there are people in the world you
can dej)end on.
Tliei'c was one painful circumstiince in connection witli those
battles on the beach. B<'th was sucli a liny girl they did n(»t
think it neces.sary to give lier a bathing dres.s, and <'onse(iu<'ntly
she was marched into the water with nothing on, and the agony
of sliame she suirered is indescribable. But the worst of it Was,
the shame wore oil". Jin; tea.sed her about it and called her "a
little girl," a dreadful term of reproach in those days, when the
boys were taught to consider Ihem.selves superior beings. J?eth
flew at him, and fouglit him for it, but was beaten ; ami then she
took olf her tilings in the nur.sery, and .scam])ere(l up and down
before them all with nothing on, just to show liow little she
cared.
It is a.stonishing how small a part Beth's family play in these
childisli recollections. Iler father took very little notice of the
children. He was out of healtli and irritable, and only tried to
save himself annoyance ; not to disturl) him was the object of
everybody's life. Probably he only ai)i)eared on the scene when
Beth was naughty, and the recollection, being painful, wsus (juickly
banished. She remembered him coming down.stairs when she
was stiuiding in the hall one day when her mother was away
from home. He had a letter in his hand, and asked her if she
would send her love to mannna. Her heart bounded ; it .seemed
to her such a tremendous thing to be asked ; and she was dying to
send her love, but such an agony of shyness came upon her, she
could not utter a word. She had a little hymn book in her hand,
however, which she held out to her father. No, that would not
16
TIIK HKTIl BOOK.
do. IIo roiihl not soiid tlio l)(M)k, only lior love. l)i(lii't sho lovo
nuuniiiii y hidti't six- { Hut not a word would coiiu'.
All tlirotij^li lifcslio was afllictcd with that inaMlity to speak
at ci'itical times. I)uiid) always was she apt to he when Iht
aU'eetions were eoiiceriiecl, cxcrpt (K-casioiially, in inonients of
stronjf excitement and in anj^er, when she was driven to hay.
The intensity of her feelin^rs would prohahly h.-ive made her
dund) in any cu.s(; in inoments of emotion ; hut douhtless the
hardness of those ahout her at this impre.ssionahh> 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 (Ii<l the policeman who came and
talked to .lane. Hut the Castle Hill and the little winding' jiatli
up which she had come, the j^-'n^en of the jrca.ss, the brambles, tin?
fern.s, the ruined ma.sonry a<i"ainst which she lean«'d. the union of
sea ami sky and shore, the li;;ht, the colour, absorbed her and drew
her out of liers«'If. Her soul expiinded ; it spread its winys. it
stretched out spiritual arms to meet and clasp the btdoved Nature
i)f which it f«'lt it.self to be a part. It was the earliest reco<;nition
of their kinsbip, a <rliui|)S(^ of greatness, a moment of <'<'stii.sy
never to be forjrottcn, the first stirrinj; in hei*self <»f the creative
faculty, for in her joy she burst out into a little .song —
" Fur nil the 'innlcrs of thf .VrcatK "
It was as if the pleasure played upon her, usinfj;" Iht as a passive
instrument by which it attained to audible ('xjiression. For how
should a child know a woi-d like Arcane V It came to her as
thin;,''s (bt which we have known and f<tr<,'-olten- the whole son<^
did, in f.act ; but she held it as a pos,session .sacred to herself, and
never recorded it or told more than that one lisie, alfboujrb it
staid with her, linf,''ered on her lips and in her lieart for tiie rest
of lier life. It was a jjreat moment for l>eth, 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
lin<? in
(>ft 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<H'overed.
Betli ])rol)ably got as far as A ]?, ah. whil(> 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 <uit her mouse, beginning with its head,
which it crushed. Beth, eating her bread and butter in imitation,
saw the white brain but felt no disgust at the moment. The next
time she had bread and butter, however, she thought of the
mouse's brains and felt sick ; and always afterward the same
association of ideas was liable to recur to her with the same
result.
But even the description of anything horrifying alFectcd lier
in this way. One day when she was growing up her mother told
her at dinner that she had been on the pier that moi-ning and liad
seen the body of a num, all discoloured and swollen from being
in the water a long time, towed into the harbour by a fishing
boat, Beth listened and ask<'d questions, as she always did on
these occasions, with the deepest interest. She was taking soup
strongly flavoured with catsup at the moment, and the story in no
way interfered with her a])petite ; but the next time she tried
catsup, and ever afterward, she perceived that swollen, di.scnl-
oured corpse, and immediately felt nauseated. It is cui-ious that
all these associations of ideas are disagreeable. She had not a
single pleasant cue in connection with food.
chaptp:r III.
All of Beth that was not eyes at this time was ears, and her
brain was as busy as a squirrel in the autumn, storing ob.serva-
tions and registering impressions. It does not do to trust to a
child's not understanding. It may not understaiul at the mo-
ment, but it will remember all the same — all the more, i)erhaps,
because it does not understiind ; and its curiosity will help it to
solve the i)roblem. Beth did Immorous things at tliis time, but
.she had no sense of hunumr; she was merely experimenting.
Her big eyes looked out of an impassive face soh'ninly ; i>'^ 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
<r and liad
•om heinj,'
ji lisliing
ys did on
k'lui^ soup
itory in no
slie tried
rn, dise«)l-
u'ious tliat
had not a
rs, and her
(>• 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 re<i;ular income, and had
conipiered the first awe of enterinfif a shop and askiii<,r for thiiif^s,
sh(! ran into del)t. She received the ])enny on Saturday, and
promptly spent it in sweets, hut hy Monday she wanted more, and
tlu^ cravin<^ was so imperative that when Miss Deehle s 'iit her
down to the empty kitchen in the afternoon she could not hlow
hlack h(>etles 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<?usta Noble was very vain and jjfot
burned to death for standing on tip-toe b«^f<jre the fire to look at
herself in a ncnv frock in the mirror on the mantelpiece. Beth
thou<,''ht it a suitabh^ end for her, and did not ])ity her at all — •
perhaps because she went on comin^j to clmrch regularly all the
same.
• After tlu? service they climbed the Ctusth; Hill, and there was
gray of the stone work af^ainst a brijjht blue sky, aud green of
grass and trees against the gray, ami mounlaiuous clouds of daz-
zling white hung over a molten .sea, and becau.se of the beauty of
it all Beth burst into a passion of tears.
"What is the matter with that child f" her father exclaimed
impatiently. " It's very odd other people can bring up their cliil-
dren i)roi)erly, Caroline ; but you never seem to be able to man-
age yours."
" What's the matter with you, yea tiresome child ? " Mi's.
Caldwell exclaimed, shaking Beth by tlie arm. Beth only .sobbed
the more. "Look," said her mother. j)()inting to a small lake left
by the sea on the shore when th(> 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 s<Misitive child
will jn-etend to know. Beth was extraordinarily .sensitive in this
respect, and .so it liap])(Mied that, in later life, she sometimes found
lienself in ignorance of things which less remarkable people had
learned in their infancy for the asking.
These were certainly days of delight to Beth, but the charm of
them was due less to ])eoj)le than to things— to some sight or scent
of Nature — the smell of new-mown liav from a wagon thev liad
stood aside to let pass in a narrow laiie, a glimpse of a high bank
26
THE BETH BOOK.
oil tile other side of the rojul, ii hi;,''h j^^rassy bank, covered and
crowned with trees, diielly chestnuts, on wliicii tlie sun shone;
hawthorn hedjjj'erows from whicli they used to pick the {Ji'reen buds
cliildren call bread-an(l-butt<M\ and eat tluMii ; and one privet
hedj^e in their own garden, an inipeiu'traljh! liedge, on the other
side of which, as Beth inia<^iiu'd, all kinds of wonderful tilings
took ])lace. The flowers (jf those early days were crocuses, snow-
drops, white roses, a little yellow flower they caHed ladies' linj:^ers,
sea pinks, and London pride — j)arti('ularly London j)ride. In The
Walks, Jane Nettles used to teach her the wonderful rhyme of :
London Bridge is broken down,
Grand, Huid the little Dee.
London Hridi^o is broken down,
Fair Lade -ee.
And so the rhyme, London Pride ainon<^ the rockwork, the orna-
mental water, a rustic brido^e, shiniii','' laurel leaves. nialio<^any-
coloured liver, warmth, light, and sw^eet airs, all became mingled
ill one gracious memory.
People, however, as has been already shown, also came into
her consciousness, but with less certainty of pleasing, wherefore
she remembered them less, for it was always her habit to banish a
disagreeable thought if she could. One day she went into the
garden with her spade and an old tin biscuit box. She put the
box on the ground beside her, with the lid off, and began to dig.
By and by the kitten came crooning and sidling up to her, and
hojjped into the box. Beth instantly put on tlie lid, and the kitten
was a corpse which must be buried. She hurriedly dug its grave,
put in the box, and covered it up with earth. Just as she had fin-
ished a gruff voice exclaimed : " What are ye doing there, ye little
divil ? " and there was old Krangle, the gardener, lot)king at her
over the hedge. "Dig it up again directly," he said, and Beth,
much startled, dug it up quicker than she had buried it. The kit-
ten had been but loosely covered, and was not much the worse,
but had got some earth in its eye, which was very sore afterward.
People wondered what had hurt it, and Beth looked from one to
the other and listened with grave attention to their various sup-
positions on the subject. She said nothing, however, and Krangle
also held his p(>ace. 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 an<l his house-
liold. He and his brother and sister used to liv(^ together, but
now he liveil alone, and on a bt 1 in one of the rooms, according
to Jane Nettles, there were furs, and lovely silks, satin.s, and
laces, all being eaten by moths and destroyed because there was
no one to look after them. It seemed such a pity, but who.se were
they ? Where was the lady i
Bridget used to come up to the mirsery when the children were
in bed to talk to Jane Nettles and look out of the window. Those
gossips in the nur.sery were a great source of disturbance to Beth
when she ought to have been composing herself to sleep. She
recollected nothing of the conversations more corrui)ting than
that ghastly account of how the girl was exhumed, so it is likely
that the servants exercised son>e 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 fri<!:ht
■eat surprise,
V frround, in
)()ssible to do
inmediately ;
pposing that
er, and Beth
uoe over her
ud, and Beth
le. if you put
white cloth
it ; so the fish
■was spoiled. Slie got into a ditliculty, too. about Miss Deelde's
drawing-room, wliicli was u|)stairs overlooking the hay, and you
could only see the water from the window, so there were water
colours on the wall. II<'r mother smilingly tried to explain, hut
Bi'tli stamped and stuck to her point— the water ac<'ounted for the
water colours.
On the way home Beth found a new interest in life. The mill
had heen burned down, and tliey went to see the smouldering
embers, and Beth smelled lire for the fii-st time. The miller's
family had been l)urned out and were sheltering in a shed. One
little boy had his lingers all crumph'd up from th<' lire. Beth's
benevolence awoke. Sh(^ was all .sympathetic excit«Miient, and
wanted to do something for somebody. The miller's wife was
lying on a mattress on the lloor. She had a little baby— a new
one— a pudgy, red-looking thing. Mr.s. Caldwell fed the other
children with bread and milk, and B(;th oiFeri'd to teach them
their letters.
Mrs. Caldwell laughed at her. " You teach tliem their letters ! "
she exclaimed. " You had better learn your own i)roj)erly." And
Mildred also jeered. Beth subsided, crim.son with .shame at Ix^ng
thus lowered in everybody's (^stinuition. She was deficient in self-
este<'m, and recpiired to be encouraged. Prais(^ m<>rely 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<i^aiu
— nearer to knowing' what it is the ti'ees whisper, what the nuir-
nuir means, the all -pervading- murmur which sounds incessantly
when ev(M'ythinj>' 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<h she never fnr;,''ot.
With her intellect sla^ believed it to have been a dream, but her
further fai'ulty always insisted that it w.as a rec()llection. Sho
was with a large oofnpaiiy in an indeseril)able hollow space, han^
of all furnisliinents because none were retpiii'ed, and into this
space their came a great commotion, bright light and smoke,
•without heat, or.sen.se of sutVocation. Then she was alone, mak-
ing for an aperhire, struggling and striving with pain of spirit to
gain it ; and when slie had found it she shot through and awoko
in the world. SIk^ awokt^ with a terrible .sens«i of desolation upon
her, and with the consciousmss of having li-avei'sed inllnite space;
at inllnite speed in an interval of lime which her nuM'tal mind
could not measui'e.
All through life, wluMi she was in possession of her further
lacultv, and i)erceived bv that means — which was onlv at lilful
intervals, doubtless because of unfavourabl(> 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, \vatchin<f everybody, afraid to miss anythinj:!^ that
liappened. Iler mother's movements were a source of six^cial in-
terest to lier. At the last moment Mrs. Caldwell slipped away
alone to take leave of the place whicli had been tlu^ lii-st home of
her married life. She was a youn<^ ^nrl wlien she came to it, the
dauj,^hter of a country gentleman, accustomed to luxury, but rijjht
ready to enjoy poverty with the man of her heart; and poverty
enough she had had to endure, and sickness and sorrow too —
troubles inevitable — besides some of those other troubles which are
the harder to bear because they are not inevitable. But still she
had had her compensations, and it was of these she thought as she
took lier last leave of tlie little ])]ace. She went to the end of the
garden llrst, closely followed by Beth, and looked through the
thin liedge out across the field. She seemed to be seeing things
which were farther away than Beth's eye could reacli. Then
she went to an old garden seat, touched it tendei'ly, and stood
looking down at it for some seconds. ^lany a, summ(>r 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<dl exclaimed.
"Just pluck," her husband answered. "And he likes it. It
certainly does add to the interest of life."
"G Henry, don't Ki)eak like that!" Mrs. Caldwell remon-
strati'd. "They can't owe you any grudge."
Captain Caldwell Hipped a fly from his hor.se's ear.
Beth gazed down at the doomed gentlenum, and fairly quailed
for him. She half expected to see the policemen turn on him and
shoot him b(>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 ri<j:ht, as it happened. Jim had been left pretty
much to his own devices during the time he had been alone with
his father at Castletownrock. Captain Caldwell's theory was
that boys would look after themselves, "and the sooner you let
'em the sooner you'd make men of 'cm. Blood will tell, sir.
Your gentleman's son is a match for any ragamufTin "—a theory
wliich Jim justified in many a free fight ; but during the suspen-
sion of hostilities they hobnobbed and the ragamuilins took a
terrible revenge, for by the time Mrs. Caldwell arrived Jim was
thoroughly corrupted. Kitty took precautions, however. She
arrang(Hl the nur.sery life so that Master Jim did not associate
with his sisters more than was absolutely necessary. She had
him u|) in the morning, bathed, and sent otV to school before she
disturbed the little girls, and at night she never left the nursery
until he was asleep. Out of her sleiid(>r 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 t<turry home our prayer;
If sorrow will await us.
Tyrants vex uii«l liuti' us,
Teacli u.s thine own most patient part to bear!
Sanrta Maria !
When we are si^'liiiifx.
When we are dyiiiir.
Give to us thine aiil of prayer!"
As she sang comfort came to her, and the little voice swelled
in volume.
Baby Bernadine also sat on the floor ojiposite to Beth and
gazed at her, nmch impressed. When she had iinished singing
Beth became aware of her sister's reverent attention and put out
her bmgue at her. Bernadine laughed. Then Beth crisped up
her hands till they looked like claws, and began to make a variety
of hideous faces. Bernadine thought it was a game and smiled at
first, but finally she ceased to recognise her sister and shrieked
tl
HI
Hi
46
THE BETH BOOK.
aloud in terror. I^otli lioard licr niotluM- hurrying- up, and got be-
hind tlie door so that lier niotlier couhl not see Iwr us she opened
it. Mrs. Caldwell hurried up to the baby — ^'* The darlin<r, then,
what have they been doing to you T' — and Beth made her escape.
As she crossed the hall some one knocked at the fi-ont duor. Beth
ojjened it a crack. Captain K(>ene 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
itin<j: the
Isuij? her-
u'k, Miss
lilt to be
I'll blast
loreature
them for
l)ine oats.
II K-. Beth
of corn.
I)hie roek
[leep rieh
^y pUnn-
H(>ek 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<re, making a
! '" he replied;
is a gawk, So-
f-witted;"
oung women,
Ithe with them,
it was a wild,
|s on the rocky
the tide went
ous cliifs. and
by the hour
tty sight : the
Ito them when
niidities with
iplashing each
slabs, resting
r things in a
Id. "and grow
no more way,
Ihe water is as
rror, in fact, if
it did not heave gently up and down like your breast when you
breathe ; and evej-y time it heaves it fhisbes some colour— blue, or
gn'en, or pink, or purple. And tlu; barnacles swell and swell at
the bottom of the ship till at last they burst in two with a loud
report; and then the .sailors rush to the side of th(> 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<Ml her
mouth with her handkerchief.
"Yes, niainnia," Mildred exclainu'd with importance. "Beth
did say so. And Mary tossed her head and Sophia sneered."
"What is sneered?" Beth demanded importuiuitely — "what
is sneen'd ? "
"Oh, Beth, don't bother so!" Mildred exclaimed irritably.
"It's when you curl up your li])."
" Beth, how could you be so nauf^hty ? " Mrs. Cakh\ jjl said at
last from behind her handkerchief. " Don't 3'ou know you should
never rejjcat thin^jfs you hear said ? A lady tu!ver repeats a pri-
vate <'onversation."
" What's a private conversation ? " said Betli.
Mrs. Caldwell pive her a broad definition, during which she
lowered her handkerchief, and Beth discovered that she was try-
ing not to smile.
This was Beth's first lesson in honour, which was her mother's
god, and she felt the influence of it all her life.
Later in the day Beth was curled up on the window seat among
the cushions, looking out. Behind the thatched cabins opposite
the sond)re mountains rolled up, dark and distinct, to the sky ; but
Beth would not look at them if she could help it; they oppressed
her. It was a close afternoon, and the window was wide open. A
bare-legged wonum in a short petticoat stood in an indolent atti-
tude leaning against a doorpost opposite. A young num in low
shoes, light-blue stockings, butt' knee breeches, a blue tailed coat
with brass buttons, and a soft, high-crowned felt hat came stroll-
ing up the street with his hands in his pockets.
"Hallo, Biddy," he remarked as he passed the woman, "you're
all swelled,"
"Yes," she answered tranquilly, "I've beeu driukiug butter-
milk."
!
THE BETH BOOK.
• > 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 ()n<! half of it was low— and Beth could look over it into the
farrier's j,nirden next dcx^r. The other half had been raised by
Captain Caldwell, on tlie undei-standinf,'- that if he raised one lialf
the farrier would raise tlio other ; but the farrier had jjroved per-
fidious. The wall was built without mortar, of roujch. inicut
stones. Captain Caldwell had his half neatly finished ot!' at the
top with sods, but Murphy's ])iecc was still all broken down. Tho
children used to climb up by it on to the raised half, and dance
there at tho risk of life and limb, and jeer at Murphy as he dug
liis potatoes, callin^^ his attention to the difference between the
Irish and Eng'lish half of the wall, till he lost his tem])er and
ixdted tlumi. This was the sij^nal for a battle. The children re-
turned his potatoes with stones, l)y way of interest, and hit him as
often as he hit them. (Needless to say their parents were not in
the garden at the time.) They had a great contempt for the far-
rier because lie fought them, and he used to go about the village
complaining of them and their " tratement " of him, "the little
divils, spoilin' the pace of the whole neigldjourhood."
There was a high wall at tlie end of the garden, and Beth liked
to sit on the top of it. She went there now, picked up her magi)ie,
and climbed \ip with difliculty by way of Pat Murphy's broken
bit. Immediately below her was a muddy lane, beyond which tho
land sloped down to the sea, and as she sat there the sound of the
waves, that dreamy soft murmur for which we have no word,
filled the interstices of her consciousness with something that
satisfied.
She was not left long in peace to enjoy it that afternoon, liow-
ever, for the farrier was at work in his garden below, and pres-
ently he looked up aiul saw the nuigi)ie.
"There ye are ag'in. Miss Betii, vvi' yer baste uf a burrd, bad
luck to it ! " he exclaimed, crossing himself. " Shure, don't I tell
ye ivery day uf your life it's wan fur sorrow ?"
"Bad luck to yerself, Pat Murphy!'' Beth rejoined promptly.
" It's a foine cheek ye have to be spakin' to a gentleman's daugh-
ter, an' you not a man o' yer wurrd "
" Not a man o' me wurrd — what d'ye mane ? " said Murphy,
firing.
i
THE BETTI nooK.
no
iow-
hres-
Ibad
tell
^V,
" Look ut tlmt wall," Both answered; "didn't yo promise yo"d
build it?"
"An' so I will when yor father jfives me the stones he prom-
ised me," Murphy replied. "It's a moi},'lity fuin nion o' his
wurrd lie is."
" Is it njy father yer manin^', Pat Murphy ?" Beth asked.
" It is," Uo said, stickinj,'' his spade in the ;;i'ound emphatically.
"Ye know yer lyinf,^" said Beth. " My father promised you
no stones. He's not a fool."
" I niver met a. knave that wa".," Pat ol)serv<'d, tin'nin<^ over a
huq-c spadeful of earth, and then straij^htening' himself to look up
at her.
Beth's instinct was always to fij^ht when she was in a rajre;
words break no bones, and she preferred tt) break bones at such
times. It was .some seconds Ix'fore sla^ saw the full force of Pats
taunt, but the moment she did slie .seized the larjjft^st loose stono
witliin reach on the top of the wall and shied it at him. It struck
him full in the face, and cut his clieek open.
" That'll teach yer," said Beth, blazinof.
The man turned on lier with a very iij^ly look.
" Put yer spado down," she said. " I'm not afraid of you."
" Miss Beth ! Miss Beth ! " some one called from the end of the
garden.
Murphy stuck his spade in the ground and wiped his jaw.
" Ye'll pay for this, ye divil's limb," lie muttered, " yew an'
yours."
"Miss Beth! Mi.ss Beth!"
" I'm coming ! " Beth rejoined irritably, and slid from the wall
to the ground, regardless of the rough loose stones she scattered
in her descent. "Ye'll foind me ready to pay when ye .send in
yer bill, Pat," slie called out as she ran down the garden.
ildren were to have tea at the vicarage that day, and
bt>en 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 y<jinig Castletownrock man. In a
moment their shillalahs were whirling al)out his head, and Ik^
wfis driven round the corner of the house. Presently he came
sniggering biick across the road, blubbering like a child, with his
head broken, and the blood streaming down over his face, which
was white and distorted with pain. They had knocked him down
and kicked him when he was on the ground.
" Oh, the cowards I the cowards!" Mi-s. Caldwell exclaimed.
Beth felt sick ; but it was not so much what she saw as what slu^
heard that affected her — the man's crying and the graphic d(^-
scription of the nature and depth of the wound which another
man who had been present while the doctor dressed it kindly
stopped at the window and insisted on giving them, Mrs. Cald-
well being obliged to listen courteously for fear of making her-
self unpopular. The man's manner impressed Beth. There was
such a solemn joy in it, as of one who had just witnes.sed some-
thing refreshing.
There were two priests in the place. Father Madden and Father
John. Captain Caldwell said Father Madden was a gentleman.
He shook hands with everybody, even with the curate and Mr.
Macbean ; but Father John would not speak to a Protestant, and
used to scowl at the children when he met them, and then Mil-
dred would seize Bernadine's hand and drag her past him (luickly
because she hated to be scowled at ; but Beth always stopped and
made a face at him. He used to carry a long whij). and crack it
at the people, and on Sunday mornings if they did not go to
mass he would patrol the streets in a fury, rating the idlers at the
top of his voice and driving them on ])ef()re him. Beth used to
glance stealthily at the chapel as she went to church ; it had the
attraction of forbidden fruit to her, and of Father John's exciting
antics — nothing ever happened in church. Chapcd she associat<'d
with the papists, and not at all with Kitty, whose tender teaching
occupied a separate compartment of her consciousness altogetiier.
There she kept the " Blessed Mother "and the "dear Lord "for
her comfort, although she seldom visited them now. Terms of
endearment meant a great deal to Beth, because no one used them
i H
70
THE BETH BOOK.
liubitually in lior family; in fact, slio could not romombor ever
bein^' called dear in licr life by either fatiier or mother.
Since the day when she had run away from the great {,''reen
waves, however, her father had taken an interest in her. lie ofUm
asked her to brush his hair, ajul laughed very much sometimes at
things she said, lie used to lie on the couch reading to himself
while she brushed.
"Read some to me, papa," she said one day. He smiled and
read a little, not in the least expecting her to undei-stand it, but
she soon showed him that she did, and entreated liim to go on ; so
lie gradually fell into the habit of reading aloud to her, particu-
larly the hujoUhhji Legouh. She liked to hear them again and
again, and would clamoiu' for her favourites. On one occasion
when he had stopped, and she had been sitting some time at the
foot of the couch, with the brush in her hand, she suddenly burst
out with a long passage from The Execution — the passage that
begins
God I 'tis a fcarsoiiu^ tliiiii^ to seo
Thut pule wan man's mute agouy.
Captain Caldwell raised his eyebrows as she proceeded, and
looked at his wife.
" I thought a friend of ours was considered stupid," he said.
"People can do very well when they like," Mrs. Caldwell an-
swered tartly ; " but they're too lazy to try. When did you learn
that, Beth '. "
" I didn't learn it," Beth answered.
" Then how do you know it ? "
"It just came to me," Beth said.
" Then I wish your lessons would just come to you."
" I wish they would," said Beth sincerely.
Mi*s. Caldwell snapped out something about idleness and ob-
stinacy, and left the room. The day was darkening down, and
presently Captain Caldwell got up. lit a lamp at the sideboard,
and set it on the dining-table. When he had done so, he took
Beth and set her on the table too. Beth stood up on it, laughing,
and put her arm round his neck.
" Look at us, papa I " she exclaimed, pointing at the window
opposite. The blinds were up, and it was dark enough outside for
them to see themselves reflected in the glass.
"I think we make a pretty picture, Beth," her father said, put-
ting his arm round her.
He had scarcely spoken, when there came a terrific report and
it
THE BETn BOOK.
71
ow
for
•ut-
ind
a crasli ; somethinj? whizzed closo to lioth's hoad and a sliowor
of glass fell on the floor. In a moment lieth had \vri<,'';,'led out of
lier father's arm, slid from the tal)le, and scramf)le(l vip on to tho
window seat, soatterin;^ the flower pots and slai)pin;4' at her
father's hand in her excitement when he tried to stoj) her.
"It's bap-faced Flanagan — or Tony-kill-the-Cow," she cried.
"I can see — O papa ! why did you pull me back? Now I shall
never know ! "
The servants had rushed in from the kitchen, and Mrs. Cald-
well came Hying downstairs.
'•What is it. Henry ?" she cried.
" The d d scoundrels shot at me with the child in my arms,"
lie answered, looking in his indignation singularly like Beth her-
self in a stormy mood. As he spoke, he turned to the hall door,
and walked out into tlie street bartdieaded.
'* For the love of the Lord, sir I " Riley remonstrated, keeping
well out of the way himself.
But Captain Caldwell walked off down the middle of the road
alone, deliberately, to the police station, his wife standing mean-
while on the doorstep with the light behind her, coolly awaiting
his return.
"Pull down the blind in the sitting-room, Riley, and keep
Miss Beth there," was all she said.
Presently Captain Caldwell returned with a police officer and
two men. They immediately began to search the room. The
glass of a picture had been shattered at the far end. Riley pulled
the picture to one side and discovered something embedded in tho
wall behind, which he picked out with his pocketknife and
brought to the light. It looked like a disk all bent out of shape.
He turned it every way, examining it, then tried it witli his teetli.
"I thought so," he .said significantly. "It wouldn't b(^ yer
honour they'd be afther wid a silver bullet. I heard her tell 'em
herself to try one."
"And I said if they missed they'd be damned," Beth exclaimed
triumphantly.
"Beth," cried her mother, .seizing lier by the arm to shako
her, " how dare you use such a word ? "
" I heard it in cliurcli," said Beth in an injured tone.
"Look here, Beth," .said her father, rescuing her from her
mother's clutches and setting her on the table— he had been Ui]k-
ing aside with the police otlicer— " I want you to i)romise some-
thing on your word of honour as a lady, just to please me."
I!
72
THE BETH nOOIC.
Botli's countoimncf <li(»pj)c(l. "() papal" slic oxrlaimod, " ifs
Bonu^tliiiif^ I (luii't want to pi'oniiso."
" Well, iH'Vcr mind that, Belli, " lie answorcd. "Just proiuis*';
this one tliin<^ to i)k'a.s«i nic. If you don't tho people will try and
kill you."
*■ I don't mind that,'' said Hetli.
" JJut 1 do — and your mother does."
li(!tli {^avo lier mother a look of sueli iittor a,stonisliment that
the poor lady turned crim.son.
"And i)erhaj)s they'll kill me, too," Captain Caldwell resumed,
"You see they n<'arly did to-ni^iht."
This wa,s a veritable iii.spiration. Beth turned pale and gasped,
" 1 promi.se."
" Not so fa.st," her father said, "Never promise anything? till
you liear what it i.s. But now, promise you won't say ' Bad luck '
to any of the people a^'^ain."
"1 promise," Beth rej)eated, "but" — slie slid from the table and
nodded emphatically — " but when 1 shake my list and stamp my
foot at them it'll mean the same thiny.''
It was found next morning that bap-faced Flanagan and
T(my-kill-tlie-Cow had disappeared from the township ; but
Mm'j)hy remained, and Beth was not allowed to go out alone
again for a long time, not even into the garden. All she knew
about it herself, however, was that slie had always eitlier a police-
man or a coast guard's man to talk to, which added very much to
her pleasure in life, and also to Anne's,
CHAPTP^R IX.
One of the interests of Captain Caldwell's life was his garden.
He spent long hom's in cultivating it, and that summer his vege-
tjibles, fruits, a,nd llowcn's had been the wonder of the neighbour-
liood. But now autumn had come, vegetables were dug, fruits
gathered, llowers bedraggled, and there was little to be done but
clear the beds, plant them with bulbs, and prepare them for the
spring.
Now that Captain Caldwell had made Beth's acquaintance, he
liked to have her with him to help him when he was at work in
the garden, and there was nothing that she loved so much.
One day they were at work together ou a large flower bed.
THK RKTII IU)()K.
73
he
in
ed.
Her father was triinmiiifr somo rosohiislu-s and Kho was kn<Milinp
bosiih' liim on a liltU^ mat. wccdiii},'.
"I'm ;fhid I'm not a ilowcr," she suddonly oxchiimod after a
long sih'n('«\
"Why, Both, flowors are vrry hrautiful."
" Yos, hut they hist so short a time. I'd ratlior bo h\ss heanti-
ful and livo h)ngi>r. 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 pondere<l upon this for a littl(», th(>n 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<Mi looked up at him again.
"But. papa. I shall never want to do anything I don't think right
when I'm grown up, shall I ?"
"I'm afraid you will. Everybody does."
"Did yon want to. papa ?" Beth asked in amazement.
" Yes," he answered.
76
THE BETH BOOK.
" And did you do it ? "
"Yes," \w repeated.
"And what liappened C "
" Much misery."
" Were you miserable ?"
"Yes, very. But that wasn't the worst of it."
" Wliat was the worst of it ? "
" The worst of it was that I made other people miserable."
"Ah, that's bad," said Beth, witli perfect comprehension.
"That makes you feel so horrid inside your.sclf."
"Well, Beth, just you remember that. You can't do wrong
without makinfif somebody else miserable. Be loyal, be loyal to
yourself, loyal to the best that is in you; that means, b(> 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 folde<l on her lap and
her feet dangling from a chair that was mucli too high for her,
watcliing her father with an intensity of silent anxiety that was
THE BKTTI BOOK.
70
|)U
lit
las
terrible to witnoss in so youny a cliild. Ilcr n)f)tli(»r mi<,'ht have
beaten her to d<'alli, but she eould never liave dislodj^ed her from
the room once slie had her father's k-ave to stay there. Mrs. Cald-
well rarely b(>at 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 son<rs for Mildred to sing, liaby
Bernadine was playing with her bricks upon the floor, and lieth,
THE BETH BOOK.
81
>y
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«<jur(l to liimsolf. IIo had
a fastidious horror of bcinj^' hMndlcd iiftcr death hy tiio kind of old
woiiic'ii wiio arc a(M'ustoiii<'d to hiy out bodies, ami thonjforo Mrs.
Culdwell be^ixcd Ellis and Kickards to ix-rforni that last duty for
hini thoMisolvos.
When the (diildren w<Mit to bed sh<' took them to kiss their
father, The stillness of the chamber struck a chill throu^'h Ueth,
but she thoii<,''ht it beautiful. The men had di-aped it in wliite,
and decorated it with ever^i^rccns, tliere bein^'- no flowers in seasoiu
Papa was smilinjjf and looked seren(dy hai)[)y.
"Years ago he was like that," m;imiiiu said softly, as if slio
were sjx'akin;,' to herself ; "but latterly there has been a look of
pain. 1 am <^\ui\ to .see him so once moi-e. You are at peace now,
tlearest." k-ih(> 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-
in<f, "only last ni^'lit. (Jli, 1 (^an not belicv(Mt I Perhaj)s T ou<,Mit
to l)e jf'iad ; then? will be no more i)ain for you. Oh. my darlin<,^
I would have <,'iven my life to save you a monu'iit's pain — and I
could do so little — so little ! Oh, if only you could come back to
tell me that your life had ever Immmi tlu^ better for me, that I had
not spoiled it utterly, that I l)r()u^''ht you some hapi)iness!" She
rais(Hl her head and looked into the tran(|uil face. The flickerinjif
shadows flitted across it, but did not deceive her. She must ache
on always for an answer now — always, forevei-. With a convul-
sive sob she crawled up clo.ser on her kiu'cs and laid her cheek
beside his, but no tears came. She had not we|;t at all that day.
Beth stood for a lonj^ time in the doorway, listeninj^ to her
mother's rambling' talk and watchinjr her white linj,'-ers strayinj,'
through her father's hair. She hu<^<,'-ed the bedclotlu's close, but
she had forj^otton why she came. She felt no cold, she held no
thoug-ht, her whole being was absorbed in the scene before her.
Presently, however, som<>thin<j;- that her mother said aroused
her. "Cold," she was murnnn-ing. ".so cold I How you dreaded
it, too ! You were always delicate ami suffering, yet you did more
than the strongest men. for our sakes. You never spared your-
self. What you undertook to do you did. like an bonoiu'able
gentleman, neglecting nothing. You have died doing your duty,
as you wished to die. You liave been dying all tli<>se 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
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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 <rrown-up ])e(»j)h' of
her race were creatm-es with a natural history other than her
own, whicli she studied with {.rreat intellig-ence and interest, and
sometimes also with disj^ust ; for, althoufrh she wtis .so much more
with the conunon people, as sh<; had l)een tauj^nit to call them,
than with her own class, she did not ad<rj)t their standards, and
shrank always with innate reliiuMnciit from everythinj^ p-o.ss.
No one thou<rht of sluxttinj,' her now. She had !iot only lived
down her unpopularity, but, by dint of her natui'al fear]essnes.s,
her cheerful audacity of speech, and qui<'k compi'ehension, had
won back the tickle hearts of the people, who weij^hcd her words
aj^ain supt>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 y<mnof carpenter, lean, .salhnv. and sulky, who wa.s
working for her mother, interested her yreatly. lie was making
packing cases, and tlie first one was all wrong, and had to be
7
III
90
TnE BETH BOOK.
])ulle(l to piecos ; and the way lio swore as lie tlomolislicd it, rip-
pi iij,'^ out oatlis jis lie ripped up the hoards, impressed Betli as siii-
gulurly silly.
Th(!n' was another earpenter at work in the loft, a little wizened
old man. He always hrouj^ht a peculiar kind of yellow hread
and sIuummI it with the children, who loved it and took as much as
tlu^y wanted without .scruple, so that the poor old man mu.st have
had short commons hiujself sometimes. He could draw all kinds
of thing's — fish with scales, .ships in full sail, hoi-ses. coaches, peo-
ple ; and Beth often made him jj^etout his hi;.'- Ijroad i>cncil 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, uncomfort<Ml, into the cold world, with her
helpless children. Poverty was in stori^ for her, that she knew;
and doubtless she foresaw many another trouble, and, could she
lurve chosen, would gladly have t;iken her plac<' there beside the
one who, with all his faults, had been her best friend on earth.
Iler cold, formal religion was no comfort to her in moments
like these. She was a pagan at heart, and where she ha<l laid her
dead, there to her mind he would rest forever, far from her. The
lonely grave on the wild west coast was tlu^ shrine toward which
her poor heart would yearn then^afttr at all times, always. She
had erected a handsome tombstone on the hallowed spot, and was
going away in her .shabby clothes, the more at ease for the self-
denial she had had to exercise in order to Ix'autify it. The radical
difference between herself and Beth, which was to keep them
apart forever, was never more ai)i>ar»'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 b<! the last to say g'cKMl-bye to you, Mrs.
Caldwell, and to wish you {rootl look," Kathleen said. 'We were
amoufx the first to welcome you when you came. And wc^'ve
brou<,''lit a piece of music for Miss Mildred, if she will accept it,
for a keepsjike." Mi"s. Caldwell sh(M)k hands with them, but she
could n«»t speak, and the coach drov*^ (»n. The days when she iiad
thought tlu! two Miss Maynes presumptuous for young women in
their position seemed a long way off to her as she sat tliere .sob-
bing, but grateful for this la.st act of kindly feeling.
Beth had been eager to be off in the yellow coach, but they had
not long started before she began to sutler. The moving pano-
rama of desolate landscape, rocky coast, rough sea, moor and
mountain, with the motion of the coach and the smell of stale
tobacco and beer in inn parlours, where they waited to change
horses, nauseated her to faintnes.s. Her sensitive nervous svstem
received t(K) many vivid impressions at once ; the intense nielan-
choly of the .scenes thv>y 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 ha<l looked up confidently
into her face, expectinj^ .sympathy and help, hut was repelled by
a disdainful glance. It wjus Heth's first experience of the wealthy
world that does not care, and she never forij^ot it.
" That carriatfe is enj^ayed," her mother exclaimed, and draf^fj^od
her impatiently away.
In tlie liotel in Dublin, wlu're thej' .slept a ni}?ht, they oc<*u-
pied a lonjf, narrow sittin<,''-nM)m, with one large window at the
end hung with handsome heavy, dark green curtains, quite new.
The valance at the top ended in a d«'ep fringe of thick cords, and
at the end of each cord there Wiis a bright ornamental thing made
of W(M)d covered with silks of various colours. Beth had never
seen anvthing .so lov«>lv, 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<Miing and slie man-
aged to secure one. and carried it off in lriujn|)h ; and so great
wjis her joy in the colour tiiat slu> 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 f<!el ashamed of her own clothes for tlu; first time in her
life. But what particularly attracted her attention were some
btmches of gr<'en and purples prapes which tht^ jjapa of the party
t<M>k 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<i r<^-
flected with wliat was to Beth terrible effect. She sat and shiv-
ered with awe so long as the lurid scene was in sight, and wa.s
greatly relieved when the carriage turned into a country lane,
and sea and sombre sky were blotted out.
It was early spring. Buds were })ursting in tlie hedgerows,
birds were building, songstei's sang among the ])ranclies, and the
air was sweet and mild. Faii'holm lay all atnong fertile fields,
well wooded and watered. It was a ty])ical P^nglish home, with
surroundings as unlike the great ])an\ bald mountjiins and wild
Atlantic seas Beth had hitherto shuddered among as peace is
unlike war. Certain natures are stimulated In* the grandeur of
such scenes, but Beth was too delicate an instrument to be played
upon so roughly. Storms within reflected the storms without
only too readily. She was tempest-tossed by temperament, and
in nature all her ^'earning was for repose ; .so that now, as they
drove up the well-ordered avenue to the hou.se, the tender tone of
colour, green against quiet gray, and the easj' air of aflluence, so
soothing after the sorrowful signs of a hard struggle for life by
\n
dC
TlIK IJKTII JJUUK.
which hor foolinpfs luul hithi-rto bocu liarrowcd, drow from hor a
diH>|) Hi^'h of sjitisfaotioii.
Th(! hall (l(M>r st<MMl o|m'h, hut noouo was l<M)kinff out for thorn.
Thoy could hear the tiiikh^ of a piano in tlx; distance. Then u
servant apiM-ared, followed by a stout lady, who cunie forward to
gn'i'i them in a hurried, nervous way.
"I'm fflad to see you," slie said, ki.ssing Mrs. Caldwell. Slie
sjMjkt! in a breathless un<lertone, as if slu^ were sayinj^ something
wronj; and was afraid of hein^ cau;,'lit and sUtpped before she
liad finished the sentence. " 1 should lik»' to have <,'()ne to meet
you, but James said tiiere were too many for the carriage lus it
wjw. Ho says more than two in the carria;.fe makes it look like
an excursion party. Hut I was listenin;^ ft>r 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 <x;curred to her ; so she
looked at her aunt in<iuiriiijifly.
"I always put mine away— at least I should, you know, if I
hadn't a maid," said Aunt Grace Mary.
" Oh, let your maid put mine away too," Beth answered
casually.
" But, my dear child, you must learn," Aunt Grace Mary in-
sisted, picking up Beth's things and putting them in a drawer as
she si)()ke. " Who puts your things away at home ? "
" Mamma," Beth answered laconically. " She says it's less
trouble to do things herself."
" Oh, but you must save your mother the trouble, dear." said
Aunt Grace Mary in a shocked tone.
"Well, I will next time— if I remember," Beth rejoined.
" Come and burn lavender."
For the next few days, which happened to be very fine, Beth
revelled out of doors. Everything was a wonder and a joy to her
in this fertile land, the trees especially after the bleak wild wastes
to which she had been accustomed in the one stormy corner of
Ireland she knew. Leaves and blossoms were just bursting out,
and one day, wandering alone in the grounds, she liapi)ened un-
awares upon an orchard in full bloom, and fairly gasped, utterly
overcome by tlie first shock of its beauty. For a while slie stood
and gazed in silent awe at the white frotli of flowers on the pear
trees, the tinted almond blossom, and the })ink-tipped apple. She
had never dreamed of such heavenly loveliness. But enthusiasm
succeeded to awe at last, and, in a wild burst of delight, she sud-
denly threw her arms around a gnarled tree trunk and clasped it
close.
There was a large piece of artificial water in the grounds in
which were three green islands covered with trees and shrubs.
Beth was standing on the bank one morning in a contemplative
mood, admiring the water, and yearning for a boat to get to the
islands, when, round one of them, unexpectedly, a white wonder
of a swan came gliding toward her in the sunshine.
" Oh ! oh ! Mildred ! Mildred ! Oh, the beautiful, beautiful
thing ! " she cried. Mildred came running up.
" Why, Beth, you idiot," she exclaimed in derision, " it's only
a swan ! I really thought it was something i "
*' Is that a swan ? " Beth said slowly ; then, after a moment, she
added in sorrowful reproach : " O Mildred, you had seen it and
you never told me 1 "
THE BETH BOOK.
101
ar
fiin
it
in
he
ler
lul
lie
Alas, poor Mildred ! she had not seen it, and never would see
it, in Beths sense of the word.
On wet days, when they had to be indooi*s, Aunt CJrace Mary
waylaid Beth continually and trotted lu-r otV somewhere out of
Uncle James's way. She would take her to lier <jwn room .souie-
time.s, a larj^e. bright apartment, spick and span like the rest of the
house; and .show her the pictures— pastels and water coloui-s
chiefly — with wliich it was stitHy decorated.
" That was your uncle when he was a little boy," she .said,
pointini^ to a pretty pastel.
" Why, he was quite a nice little boy," Beth exclaimed.
" Yes, nice and i)hnnp," Aunt Grace Mary rattled olT breathless-
ly. "And your grandmamma did those water colours, and those
screens. That lovely printin<r. too ; can yt)U {,'-uess how she did it ?
With a camers-hair brush ? She did indeed. And she used to
conii)o.se music. She was a very clever woman. You are very
like her."
" But I am not very clever," said Beth.
"No, dear, no, dear," Aunt Grace Mary rejoined, pulling- her-
self up hurriedly from this indiscretion. " But in the face. You
are very like her in a])pearance. And you must try. You must
try to improve yourself. Your uncle is always trying- to improve
himself. He r'imh Docf or Synfn.v aloud to us. In the evening
it is our custom to read aloud and converse."
An occasional phrase of Uncle James's would flow from Aunt
Grace Mary in this way, with incong-ruous effect.
"Do you try to improve yourself ?" Beth asked.
" Yes, dear."
" How ? "
" Oh, well — that reminds me. I must write a letter. You
shall stay and see me if you like; but you musln't ni()V(> 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 <iuarter of a pound, sir, and I had to u.so
it for the top of the rice puddinJ,^ and the pancakes, and the char-
lotte rus.se, ;»nd the plum pudding "
"How ? " said Uncle James— "the jjlum pudding, wiiich is not
yet fried ? "
"Beg pardon, sir; I'm all confu.sed. But, however," she
added desperately, "the sugar is done."
"Well, I "suppose I nmst give you .some more this time; but
do not let it occur again. You nuiy weigh out a quarter of a
pound."
When that was done. Uncle James consulted a huge cook(>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 perc<Mved that Aunt Grace Mary looked very
funny in the face. "You're frightened to death of Uncle James,
aren't you ?" she asked, after sucking her pencil meditatively for a
little. *
" No, dear, of com-se not. T an\ not afraid of any one but the
dear Tjord."
" But Uncle James is the lord."
" Nonsense, child."
"Mildred .says so. Lord of the manor, you know^ Mildred
says it's fine to he lord of the manor. But it doesn't make me
care a button about Uncle James."
" Don't speak like that, Beth. It's disrespectful. It was the
Lord in heaven I alluded to," said Aunt Grace Mary in her breath-
less way.
" Ah, that is different," Beth allowed. " But I'm not afraid of
him, either. I don't think I'm afraid of any one really, not even
of mamma, though she does beat me. I'd rather she didn't, you
know. But one gets used to it. The worst of it is," Beth added.
TIIK HKTII BOOK.
109
(I
le
[e
|i-
If
n
aftor sucking tlio point of licr pencil u little, " the worst of it is you
never know what will make her waxy. To-day, at luncheon, you
know, now what did I say i" "
"Oh," said Aunt (irace Mary vaguely, "you oughtn't to have
said it, you know."
" Now, that's just like nianinia I She says * Don't I ' and 'How
fiji^e you ! ' and 'Naughty girl !' at the top of her voice, and half
tlie tinu' I don't know what she's talking ahout. When I grow
up I shall explain to childri-n. l)oy()u know, sonu'tinu-s I (piite
want to he gooil " —this with a sigh — " hut when I'm had without
having a notion what I've done, why it's diflicult. Aunt (Jraco
Mary, do you know what Neptune would say if the sea dried up?"
Aunt Grace Mary smiled and shook her head. "I haven't aii
ocean," Heth proceeded. "You don't see Hi Well, I didn't at
first. Y()U .see an ocean and a notion sound the .same if you say
tlieni sharj). Now, do you see ? They call that a pun."
"Wlio told you that?"
" A gentleman in the train."
Beth put her pencil in her mouth and gazed up at the sky. " I
don't sui)po.se he'd be such a black-hearted villain as to break his
word," she said at la.st.
" Who?" Aunt Grace Mary asked, in a startled tone.
" Uncle James — about leaving Jim the place, you know. Why,
don't you know? Mannna is the eldest, and ouglit to have had
Fairholm, but she was away in Ireland, busy having me, when
grandpapa died, and couldn't come, so Uncle .lames frightened
the old man into leaving the place to him, and mammu only got
fifty pounds a year, which wasn't fair."
"Who told you tliis, Beth ?"
" Mildred. Mamma told her. And Horner said the other day
to cook — ni have to say it the way Horner says it. If I said it
my way, you know, then it wouldn't he Horner. Horner .said to
cook as 'ow Captain Caldwell 'ud 'a' gone to law ahout it. but
squire 'e swore if 'e'd let the nuitter drop 'ed make 'is nevee, as is
al.so 'is godson, Master Jim, 'is heir, an' so .square it ; an' Captain
Caldwell, as wjis a real gen'Imon. an' fond of the ladies, tuk 'im
at 'is word, an' furgiv 'im. But. lardie, don't us know the worth
o' Mr. James Patten's word I "
Aunt Grace Mary had turned very pale.
" Beth," she gasped, " promise me you will never, never, never
say a word about this to your uncle."
" Not likely," said Beth.
110
TIIM MKTII MooK.
"IIow do you ronu'tnlxT tln'sr thiiijfs you hoar?"
"Oh, I just think th<'iM over atfuin wht-n 1 y'o to hod, and fhon
thoy stay," Hrth answrn-il. " I wouhln't trll you half 1 liear,
tliou^h only things rv«'i'yl)»»dy knows. If you tell srcn'ts. you
know, you're a tcll-pic. And I'm not a U'll-pio. Now. iJcrnadino
is. Slnr'.s a n'<,''ular t«'ll-j)i»'-tit. It sccin.sas if .sh<! t-ouhln't lu'lj) it;
but thon slio's youn;,'," Beth added tolerantly.
"Were you over young, I wonder r' Aunt Grace Mary mut-
tered to herself.
CIIArTEH XIII.
Meanwhile the En^'lish sprin;,'- advanced in the beautiful
gardens of Fairholni, and was a joy to Heth. Blossoms show-
ered from the fruit trees, ;,n'een leaves unfurled, the birds were
in full song, and the swans eui'ved their long necks in the sun-
shine and breasted the waters of the lake as if tiieir own grace
were a pleasiu'e to them. Beth was enchanted. Every day she
discovered some new wonder— nests in the hedgerows, lambs in
the tields, a foal and its mother in the padiUx-k, a calf in the
byre— more living interests in one week than she had dreamed
of in the whole of her little life. For a happy int<>rval 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)e<ran
in his most impressive manner. There is no snoh so iiivet<'rato
as your snoh of j^'ood hirth ; and Uncle James said 'li*idy"asif
it were a ijrivih'ffe just to j)ronouiice the word. 'Sh" will arrive
this afternoon at a quarter to fom'."
"But you will ho priictisinjjf I " Bt>th 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<M)r at
tho 011(1 of the pa.ssa<^o. To lior roliof sho found it ajar; the jj^loaMi
of liplit sho had soon in that diroction was tho nioonlifxht stroani-
inj,' through tho crovioe. Sho slippod out cautiously, l)Ut tlio iiio-
niont sho found horsolf in tho {pardon she became a wild creature,
rovolling' in her froodoin. She ran, jumped, wav<'d her arms
about, throw horsolf down on tho },''round and rolled over and
over for yards, walked on all fours, turned head over heels,
embrac(Hl tho trunks of trees, and hailed thoiin with the Eastern
invocation : '' Oh, tree, give nie of thy strength I "
For a good hour she rioted about the place in this way, work-
ing ort' her suporlluous energy. By that time she had come to the
stiickyard. Tlioro, among tho groat stacks, sho phij'od hid(> 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 sayiii<j
a thin^' lu? invariably chose tlie more disafrreeable ; and when he
had bad ninvs to break it added to his interest in it if tlu; victim
felt it deeply and showed si^ns of sutl'erin^^^
One moi'nin<^ at breakfast it mij^ht have been sus])ected that
th(?re was somethiuf^ unpleasant toward, Uncle James had read
prayers with such happy unction and showed such pleased impor-
tance as he took his seat.
"Aunt Victoria," he lisped, "I have just observed in yester-
day's paper tluit money nuitters are in a bad way. There has
be«Mi a crisis in the city, and your investments have sunk so low
that your inconu; will be ])ractically nil."
" What," .said Aunt Victoria incredulously, " the shares you
advised me to buy i "
" Those are the ones ; ye.s," he answered.
"But, thcxi — I fear you have lost money, too," she exclaimed.
" Oh, no, thank you," he assured her, in a tone which implied
reproach. " / never speculate."
"James Patten," said Aunt Victoria quietly, "am I to uiuler-
staiul that you advised me to buy stock in which you yourself did
not venture to speculates ? "
" Well — er — you see," he answered with comjxisure, '' as specu-
lation was a^Minst my principles, I could not take advantaj^e of
the opportunity myself, but that seemed to me no reason why 3'ou
should not try to dou])le yom* income. It may have been an
error of judjj^ment on my part. I am far from infallible, far from
infallible ; but I think I may claim to be disinterested. I did not
hope to benefit myself "
" During- my lifetime," Aunt Victoria sug-g-ested in the same
tone of quiet .self-restraint; "I see. My modest fortune would
not have been much in itself to a man of your means, but it
would have been a considerable sum if doubled."
" Yes, doubles or quits, doubles or quits," said Uncle James,
beaming on Aunt Victoria as if he were saying something' reas-
suring. " Alas, the family failing 1 "
" It is a new departure, however, for the family to gamble at
other people's expense," said Aunt Victoria.
THE HKTII HOOK.
lt>3
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<r
you can sinj^, you know."
"Yes,'' said the man, suddenly smiling; "it is pure poetry,
and I make you a present of the eopyrig'ht."
" But." Beth objected, " the shore is not brown. "I've been
thinkinj": and thinking what to tall it. It's the colour— the col
our of— the colour of tarnished silver," she burst out at htst,
triumphantly.
" Well ob.served," he said.
" Then I make you a present of the copyright," Beth answered
readily.
" Thank you," he said ; " but it will not .scan."
" What is scan ? "
" It won't fit into the verse, you know."
"The beautiful bare colour-of-tarnished-sih^er bosom of the
shore," she sang out glibly ; then agreed, with a wise shake of
her head, that the phrase was impossible, and recurred to another
point of interest, as was her wont. " What is copyright ?"
Beft)re he coultl answer, however, Mrs. Caldwell had swooped
down upon thein. She had seen him fron. the clitf talking to
Beth, and ha.stened down the steps in her hot-teuipered way, de-
termined to rebuke the man for his familiarity, and heedless of
Aunt Victoria, who had made an effort to stop her.
"May I ask you wiiy you are interfering with my child, sir ?"
she demanded.
The man in the sailor suit raised his hat and bowed low.
" Excuse me, madam," he said. " I coultl not possibly have
supposed that she was your child.''
Mi's. Caldwell coloured angrily, as at an insult, although the
words seemetl inntx'ent enough. When he had spoken, he turned
to Beth, with his hat still in his hand, and added: "Good-bye,
little lady. We must meet again, you and I — on the ' beautiful
bare brown bosom of the shore.' "
Beth's sympathy shone out in a smile, and she waved her hand
confidingly to him jis he tiu'ned away. Mrs. Caldwell seized her
arm. aiul hurried her up the steps to where Aunt Victoria stootl
on the etlge of the clitf, blinking calmly.
"Imagine Beth scraping acquaintance with such a common-
looking per.son," Mrs. Caldwell cried. "You must never speak to
him or look at him again, do you hear ? I wonder what taste you
will develop next ! "
128
THE BETH BOOK.
" It is a pity that you are so impetuous, Caroline," Aunt Vic-
toria observed quietly. " That gentleman is the Count Gustav
Bartahlinsky, who may perhaps be considered eccentric here,
where nobleman of great attainments and wealth are certainly
not numerous, but is hardly to be called common-looking."
Beth saw her mother's countenance drop.
" Then I may speak to him," she decided for herself. " What's
a copyright, mamma ? "
" Oh, don't bother, Beth ! " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed irritably.
When they went home Bernadine clamoured for food, and her
mother gave her a piece of bread. They were to have dinner at
four o'clock, but no luncheon, for economy's sake. Beth was
hungry too, but she would not confess it. What she had heard
of their poverty had made a deep impression on her, and she was
determined to eat as little as possible. Aunt Victoria glanced at
Bernadine and the bread as she went up to her room, and Beth
fajicied she heard her sigh. Was the old lady hungry, too, she
wondered, and her little heart sank.
This was Beth's first exercise in self-denial, but she had plenty
of practice, for the scene was repeated day after day.
The children, being free, had to anmse themselves as best they
could, and went out to i)lay in the little garden at the back of the
house. Mrs. Caldwell's own freedom was merely freedom for
thought. Most of the day she spent beside the dining-room table,
making and mending, her only distraction being an occasional
glance through the window at the boughs of the apple trees which
show(Hl above tlie wall opposite or at the people passing. Even
when teaching tlie children she made, mended, and pursued her
own thoughts, mapping out careers for her boys, making bril-
liant matclies for Mildred and Bernadine, and even building a
castle for Beth now and then. She made and mended as badly as
might be expected for a woman whose proud boast it was that
when she was married she could not hem a pocket handkerchief,
and she did it all herself. She had no notion of utilizing the mo-
tive power at hand in the children. As her own energy had been
wasted in her childliood, so she wasted theirs, letting it expend
itself to no purpose, instead of teaching them to apply it. She
was essentially a creature of habit All that she had been
taught in her youth she taught them ; but any accomplishment
slie had acquired in later life she seemed to think that they also
should wait to acquire. She had always dressed for dinner, so
now, at half past three every day, she put away her work, went
THE BETH BOOK.
129
into the kitchen for some hot water, which she carried upstairs
herself, called the children, and proceeded to brush her own hair
carefully and change her dress. She expected the children to fol-
low her example, but did not pay much attention to their pro-
ceedings, and they, childlike, constantly and consistently shirked
as much of the ceremony as ])ossible. If their mother caught
them with unwashed hands and half-brushed liair, she thumped
them on the back and made them wash and brush ; but she was
generally thinking about something else, and did not catch them.
The rite, however, being regularly although imperfectly per-
formed, resulted in a good habit.
There was another thing, too, for which Betli had good reason
to be grateful to her mother. During winter, when the days were
short, or when bad weather made it impossible to go out on sum-
mer evenings, Mrs. Caldwell always read aloud to the children
after tea till bedtime. Most mothei-s would have made the chil-
dren read ; but there was a gi'eat deal of laxity mixed with Mrs.
Caldwell's harshness. She found it easier to do things hereelf
than to make the children do them for her. They objected to
read, and liked to be read to, so she read to them ; and as, fortu-
nately, she had no money to buy children's books, she read what
there were in the house. Beth's ear was still quicker than her
eye, and she would not read to herself if she could help it ; but
before she was fourteen, thanks to her mother, she knew niiich of
Scott, Jane Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, and even
some of Shakespeare, well ; besides such books as The Wommi in
White, The Dead Secret, Loyal Heart or the Trappers, The
Scalp Huntern, and many more, all of which helped greatly to
develop her intelligence.
Id
le
|o
CHAPTER XV.
During the next two years Beth contiinied to look on at life,
with eyes wide open, deeply interested. Her mind at his time
acting without conscious effort, was a mere photographic a])j)a-
ratus for the registration of impressions on the brain. Every in-
cident stored and docketed itself somewhere in lier consciousness
for future use, and it was upon this hoard that she drew even-
tually with such astonishing effect.
Rousseau in Emile chose a common capacity to educate, be-
cause, he said, genius will educate itself ; but even genius would
130
THE BETH BOOK.
find its labours lif^htened by having been taught the use of some
few tools, such as are supi)lied by tlie rudiments of a conventional
education. Beth Wfts never taught anything thoroughly ; very
few girls were in her day. A woman was expected at that time
to earn her livelihood by marrying a man and bringing up a
family ; and so long as her face was attractive, the fact that she
was ignorant, foolish, and trivial did not, in the estimation of the
average man, at all di-squalify her for the task. Beth's education at
this most impressionable period of her life consisted in the acquisi-
tion of a few facts which were not made to interest her, and neither
influenced her conduct nor helped to form her character. She
might learn in the morning, for instance, that William the Con-
queror arrived loot), biit the information did not prevent her being
as luiughty as possible in the afternoon. One can Tiot help sjjccu-
lating on how much she lost or gained by the haphazard of her
early training; but one thing is certain : had the development of
her genius depended upon a careful acquisition of such knowl-
edge as is to be had at school, it must have remained latent for-
ever.
As it was, however, being forced oat into the life school of the
world, she there matriculated on her own account, and so perhaps
saved her further faculty from destruction. For theoretical
knowledge would have dulled the keenness of her insight prob-
ably, confused her point of view, aiul brought in accepted com-
monplaces to spoil the originality of her conclusions. It was
from practical experience of life rather than from books that she
learned her work ; she saw for herself before she came under the
influence of other people's observations, and this was doubtless
the secret of her success ; but it involved tii> 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 estimati<m at that age.
Rainliarbour was little more than a fishing village in those
days, though it became a fashionable watering place in a very
few years. When Mrs. Caldwell first settled there a wlujle cod-
fish was sold for sixpence, fowls were one and ninepence a i>air,
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 stopp<!d a little girl who was going with a jug for .some beer
to the Shining Star, a quiet little public house on the same side of
the street.
" I suppose you are a very ignorant little girl," said Beth
severely.
" Aw ? "
" What's yoxn* name ? "
"Emily Bean."
"Do you like lessons ?"
" Naw ! "
" Dear me, how dreadful I " said Beth. " You ought to be taught,
you know. Would you like t<^ be taught ? "
"Ah should."
" Well, you come here every afternoon at two o'clock, and I'll
teach you."
" Ah raon just ass mother fii*st," said Emily.
" Yes, I'd forgotten that," Beth rejoined. " Well, you come
if she lets you."
Emily nodded and was going on her errand, but stopped.
" Did you ass yer own mother if you might ? " she wanted to
know.
" No, I didn't think of that either," Beth rejoined. " But I
will."
" W^ill she let you ? "
" I don't know," rather doubtfully.
" I expect she will if you wait till she's in a good humour,"
the child of the people sagely suggested.
" All right. You come, at any rate," Beth answered boldly.
Mrs. Caldwell consented. She came of a long line of lady
patrones.ses, aiid thought it natural and becoming that her child
should wish to improve the "common people." Punctually to
TlIK BETH BOOK.
151
the moment Emily arrived next (l;iy, and Beth sat di)\vn with her
in tlie kitchen and tauj^fht her a, h, ah, and h, a, d, had. Then slio
repeated a piece of poetry to her and read lier a litth; story.
Harriet was husy in the l)ack kitchen and Berna(hne was out
with her niotlier and Aunt Victoria, s») Beth and lier pupil had
the kitchen to themselves. The next day, liowever, Harriet
wanted to clean the kitch(>n, 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 aft<!rvvard Emily corrected Bernadine for not
saying mi.ss to Beth and herself. Beth tried to explain, but Emily
could not .see why she should say mi.ss to them if they did not
bay mi.ss to her and to <*a('h other.
Poor Mrs. Caldwell was in great straits for want of money at
this time. She had .scarcely enough to pay for their meagre fare,
and her own clothes and the children's were almost beyond patch-
ing and darning. Beth surprised her several times sitting beside
the dining-table with the everlasting mending on her lap, fret-
ting silently, and the child's heart was wrung. There was some
legal dilliculty, and letters which added to lier mother's trouble
came to the house continually.
The same faculty made Beth either the naughtiest or the best
of children. The difference depended on her heart ; if that were
touched she was all synipathy, but if no appeal were nuule to her
feelings lier daily doings wen; the outcome of so many erratic
imjjulses acted on without consideration merely to vary the disas-
trous monotony of those long idle afternoons.
The day after she had surprisiMl her mother fretting over her
letters another packet arrived. B(^th happened to be early up that
morning, aiul opened the door to the postnian. She would like to
have given tlie packet back to him, but, that being impossible, she
carried it up to the acting room and hid it in the roof. When
her mother came down, however, .she found to her consternation
that the fact of there being no letter at all that morning was a
greater trouble, if anything, than the arrival of the one the day
before ; so she boldly brought it down and delivered it, quite ex-
pecting to be whipped. But for once Mrs. Caldwell asked for an
explanation, and the child's motive was so evident that even her
TiiK mvYii nooK.
153
inothor wns moro nffcctcd l)y her syniimtliy than onnip'd hy 1Im»
iiicoiivt'iiiriit cxpn'ssit)!! of it.
Tlie lu'xt (liiy she wns phiyiiig on the ])icr with 15<>rna(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 <ifood terms witli all the .street cliildren had it not been
for what ^Irs. Caldwell called " Bernadine's sui)erior self-respect."
Bernadine told if Beth spoke to one of them, and as Beth had no
friends among them as yet, she did not feel that their accpiaint-
ance was worth liyhtinj,'' for. But the street cliildren resented
the attitude of the two shab])y little ladies, and were always
watchiuff for opportunities to annoy them. Accordin<,''ly, when
Bernadine tumbled off the chain head over heels backward th<>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.
"W<ill ?" Aunt Victoria asked anxiously.
"Slie was a\vak(\" Mrs, Caldwell acknowledj^-cd. "She said
she was fri<fhtened, but didn't know what of. I expect she'd been
dreaming. And I'm sure there is nothing the matter with her.
She's been subject to queer fits of alarm at night ever since she
was a baby. It's the dark, I think. It makes her nervous. At
one time the doctor niadi; us have a night light for her, which wa.s
great nonsense, / always said ; but her father insisted. When it
suits her to play in the dark she's never afraid."
It was at this time that Rainharbour set up a band of its own.
Beth was always peculiarly susc<'ptible to music. Her ear was
defective ; she rarely knew if any one sang ilat ; but the poorest
instrument would lay hold of her, and .set high cords of emotion
vibrating beyond the reach of words. The lirst time she heard
the band she was completely carried away. It was on the pier,
and she happened to be close beside it when it began to play, and
stood still in a.stonishment at the crash of the o])ening bans. Her
mother, after vainly calling to her to come on, snatched impa-
tiently at her arm to drag her away ; and Beth, in her excitement,
set her teeth and slapped at her mother's hand — or rather at what
seemed to her the importunate thing that was trying to end her
ecstasy.
Of course Mrs. Caldwell would not stand that, so Beth, victim
of brute force, was hustled off to the end of the pier, and then
slapped, shaken, and reviled for the enormity of her offence,
until, in an acxite nervous crisis, she wrenched herself out of her
mothei''s clutches and sj)rang over into the harbour. It Avas high
water, happily, and Count Gustav Bartahlinsky, who was just
going out in his yacht, saw her droj). and fished her out with a
boat h(>ok.
"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<Mr window a few days after their first
meeting, and liad coinpleteil her coiuiuest of him l)y tearinj.,'- out
and running down Orchard Street after liim with nothintr on her
head to ask what copyright was ; and since then they had often
met, and .sometimes spent delightful hours together, sitting on the
cliil's or strolling ah)ng by tlie sea. He had discovered her talent
for verse making and given her a book on the subject full of ex-
amples, which was a gn.'at joy to her. When the yacht was clear
of the harbour he took her down to the saloon and got out a silk
shirt. " I'm going to leave you," he .said, "and when Fm gone
you must take off all your things and put this shirt on. Then
tumble into that berth between the blankets, and I'll com(> 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(<rm<'d an
opinion (»n its merits, listened and observed uncritically, without
])r(\judice and without ])ersonal feeliii','', until slie was fully in-
formed. Life unfolded itself to her like the rules of arithmetic.
She could not conjecture what tii(> 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 cookin<r's
bad."
" But a gentleman keeps a cook,'' Beth ob.served.
"Oh, yes, of course," Jim answered irrita])ly. "You would
see what I mean if you weren't a girl. Girls have no brains.
They .scream at a niou.se."
" We never scream at mice," Beth protested in surpri.se.
"Bernadine catches them in her hands."
"Ah, but then j-ou've had brothers, you see." said Jim. "It
makes all the difference if you're taught not to be silly."
"Then why aren't all girls taught, and why aren't we taught
more thing's ? "
" Because you've got no brain.s, I tell you."
" But if we can be taught one thing, why can't we be taught
another ? How can you tell we've no brains if you never try to
teach us ? "
I
1G8
THE BETH BOOK.
" Now, look hore, Miss Beth,"' said brotlier Jim in a tone of
oxasperulion, "I know what you'll be wlicn you j^row up if you
don't mind. Y-: a'U bo just the sort of long-tongued shrew, always
ar<,''uin<^, that men liate,"
"Do you say 'that men hate,' or ' whom men hate?'" Beth
inteiTupted.
" There you are ! " said Jim — " devilisli sliarp at a nag-. Tliat's
just what I'm telling- you. Now, you take my advice and hold
your tongue. Then perliaps you'll get a husband ; and if you do,
make tilings eomfortaltlf for him. .Alen can't abide women who
don't make things comfortable."
" Well," said Beth temperately, "I don't think I could 'abide'
a man who didn't make things comfortable."
Jim grunted as though that point of view were a diil'ereut
thing altogether.
By degrees Beth discovered that sisters did not hold at all
the same sor^ of place in Ji!u's estimation as 'the girls.' The
girls were other people's sisters t(j whom Jim was polite and
whom he even fawned on and llattered while they were present,
but made mo.st disparaging remarks about and ridiculed behind
their backs ; to his own sisters, on the contrary, he was habitually
rude, but he always spoke t)f th(>m 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<f her next, I
expect. You're far too cheeky."
" I only wanted to know," Beth protested.
"That will do," said Mrs. Caldwell impatiently. She was put
out by Jim's demand for money which she had not got to spare,
and found it a relief to expend some of her irritation on Beth.
",Tim is quite right, and I won't have you hanging about always,
listening to things you don't und(M'stand and rudely inter-
rupting."
"I thought we were at breakfast." Beili exclaimed, furious at
being unjustly accused of hanging about.
"Be good enough to leave the tabl(>." 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 ? " h<! said. '"Why
can't you dress properly ? Look at my things ! I'm decent."
"So should I be," said Beth without malice, her eyes shining
with mortification. " So should I be if anybody bought me de-
cent clothes."
She did not think it unfair, however, that she should go shabby
so that Jim might be well dressed. Nor did she feel it wrong —
when the holidays were over and the boys had gone — that she
should be left, idly drumming on the window pane; that they
should have every advantage while she had none, and no prospect
but the uncertain chance of securing a husband if she held herself
well and did as she was told— a husband whom she would be ex-
pected to obey, whatever he might lack in the way of capacity to
order. It is suffering which makers tiiese things plain to a gener-
ous woman ; but usually by the time she has suffered enough
to be able to blame those whom it has been her habit to love
and respect, and to judge of the wrong they have done her,
it is too late to remedy it. Even if her faculties have not
atroi)hied for want of use, all that should have been cultivated
lies latent in her; she has nothing to fall back upon; and her
life is spoilt.
She stood idly drunmiing on the window pane for long hours
after the boys had gone. Then she got her battered old hat,
walked out to Fairholm, and wandered over the ground where
she had been wont to retrieve for Jim. When she came to the
warren the rabbits were out feeding, and she anmsed herself by
throwing stones at them with her left hand. She had the use of
both hands, and would not have noticed if her knife had been put
where her fork should have been at table; but she threw stones,
bowled, batted, played croquet, and also tennis in after-years, with
her left hand by preference, and she always held out her left hand
to be handed from a carriage.
She succeeded in killing a rabbit with b. stone, to her own sur-
prise and delight, and carried it off home, where it formed a wel-
come addition to the meagi-e fare. She skinned and cleaned it
herself, boiled it, carved it carefully, so that it might not look like
a cat on the dish, covered it with good oniou sauce, and garnished
4
THE BETH BOOK.
171
lith
ind
pr-
lel-
it
Ike
led
i
it with little rolls of fried bacon, and sent it to table, where the
only other dish was cold beef bones with very little meat on
them.
" Where did it come from ? " Mrs. Caldwell asked, looking
pleased.
" From Fairholm," Beth answered.
" I must thank your uncle," said Mrs. Caldwell.
" It was not my uncle," Beth answered, laughing- ; " and you're
not to send any thanks."
" Oh, very well," said Mrs. Caldwell, still more plea.sed, for she
supposed it was a surreptitious kindness of Aunt Grace Mary's.
She ate the ral)bit with appetite, and Beth, as she watched her,
determined to go hunting again and see what sh(^ could get for
her. Beth would not have touched a penny of Uncle James \s,
but from that time forward she did not scruple to poach on his
estate and bring home anything she could catcli. She had oft«;n
prayed to the Lord to s1k)W her how to do something to help her
•.lother in her dire poverty, and when this idea occurred to her
si'i- accepted it as a direct answer to her prayer.
!Vlrs. Caldwell and the three girls slept in the largest bedroom
in the house. It was at the back, looking into the little garden,
and out to the east. The early morning sun, making black bars
of the window frame on the white ])lind. often awok<' Beth, and
she would lie and count the white spaces between the bars, where
the window panes were — thre(\ six, nine, twelve; or two, four, six,
eight, ten, twelve. One morning after Jitn left she was lying
awake counting the window panes when Harriet knocked at the
door with the hot water. ^Mildred had not yet gone back to her
aunt, and was sleeping with Beth, Bernadine being with her
mother.
" Come, get up, children," said ^Irs. Caldwell, as .she got out of
bed herself.
" Mamma, mayn't I have break.^ast in bed," said Bernadine in
a whecHJling tone.
"No, no, my little body." ^Irs. Caldwell answered.
" But, mjimmn," whined the little bodv, " I've got sucli a lu'ad-
She very often had when she ought to have been get-
ache ! "
ting u]).
" Cry. baby, cry," sang oui Betli. " Mamma, give me n)y
stockings."
Mrs. Caldwell pickk-d them up off the floor and gave them to
her. Beth began to put them on in bed, and diverted herself as
172
THE BETH BOOK.
she did so by making diuboliciil grimaces at the malingering imp
opposite.
" Mamma,'' Bornadine whined again, " Betli's teasing me.'"
" Beth, liovv often am I to tell you tliat I will not allow you to
tease the child ? " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed.
Beth solemnly gailered her stocking.';. Then she gave Mildred
a dig in the ril)s with her heel, and growled, " Get up ! "
" Mamma, Beth is teasing me now," said Mildred promptly.
" Well, I don't see why I should be obliged to do all the getting
up for the family," said Beth.
Her mother turned from the looking-glass with lier hairbrush
in her hand, and gazed at her sternly. Betli hummed a tune, but
ke])t at a safe distaiu^e until she was dressed, then made her escape,
going straight to the kitchen, where Hornet was cutting bread to
toast. " Tliat's all the bread there is," she said, "' and it won't be
enougli for breakfast if you eat any."
"All right, tlien, I haven't any a})petite," Beth answered casu-
ally. " What did you dream last niglit ? "
" I dreamed about crocodiles," Harriet averred.
"A crocodile's a reptile," said Beth, "and a reptile is trouble
and an enemy. You always dream nasty things; I expect it's
your inside."
" What's that to do wi' it ? " said Harriet.
"Everything," said Beth. "Don't you know the stuff that
dreams are made of ? Pickles, pork, and plum cake."
" Dreams are sent for our guidance," Harriet answered por-
tentously, shakiiio; her head at Beth's flippancy.
" Well, I'm glad of it," said Beth, " for I dreamed T was catching
Uncle James's trout in a most unsportsnumlike way, and I gue.ss
the dream was sent to show me liow to do it. When I have that
kind of dream, I notice it n'^arly always comes true. But where's
the Dream Book ? "
" 'Ook it," said Harriet, " 'ere's your ma."
As the other little bodies had their breakfasts in bed, Beth had
to face her lessons alone tluit morning, and Mrs. Caldwell was not
in an amiable mood : but she was absent as well as irritable, so
Beth did some old work over again, and as she knew it thoroughly
she got on well until the nnisic began.
Beth liad a great talent as well as a great love for nmsic,
Whei; they were at Fairholm. Aunt Grace Mary gave her Uncle
James's InsfrHcfion Boole for Betjinnprti one wet day to keep her
quiet, and she learned her notes in the afternoon, and began at once
?
THE BETH BOOK.
173
)()r-
11 ad
iiot
so
Illy
tic.
•le
■0
!
to apply them practically on the piano. She soon know all the
early exercises and little tunes, and was only too eager to do inon- ;
but her mother hated the music lesson more than any of the
others, and was so harsh that Beth became nervous aiul only ven-
tured on the simplest thinj^^s for fear of the consequem-es. When
her mother went out, however, she tried what she liked, and, if
she had heard the piece before, she could generally nuike some-
thing satisfactory to herself out of it. One day Aunt Victoria
found her sitting on the music stool, solemnly pulling at her lin-
gers, one after the other, as though to stretch them.
" What are you doing, child ? "' she said.
" Aunt Victoria," Beth answered in a despairing way, " here's
such a lovt'Jy thing, and my head will play it, only my lingers are
not long enough !''
Mildred had brought a quantity of new music home with her
these holidays. She promised to play well also, and hei* aunt was
having her properly taught. Beth listened to her enraptured
when she first arrived, and then, to Mildred's surprise and admira-
tion, tried the pieces herself, and in a few weeks knew all that it
had taken Mildred six montlis to learn.
That morning, as ill luck would have it, when she was waiting
at the piano for lu^r mother to come and give her her lesson, she
began to try a piece with a passage in it that she could not
play.
" Do show me how to do this," she said, when Mrs. Caldwell
came.
" Oh, you can't do that ! " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed. " It is far
too dihlcult for you."
" But I do so want to learn it," E„th ventured.
" Oh, vei'y well,'' her mother answered. " But I warn you !"
Beth began, and got on pretty well till she came to the pa.st^age
she did not understand, and tlure she stumbled.
" What are you doing ? '' Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed.
Beth tried again nervously.
"That's not right," her mother cried. "What does that sign
mean ? Now, what is it ? Just think !"
Beth, with a Hushed face, was thinking hard, but nothing
came of it.
"W^ill you speak ?" her mother said angrily. "You are the
most obstinate child that ever lived. Now, say something,"
"It's not a shake," Beth ventured.
"A shake ! " her mother exclaimed, giving her a hard thump
ill
4
174
THE BETH BOOK.
oil tlio back with hor clenclied list. "Now, no more obstinary.
Tell 1110 wliat it is at once."
"I don't know that si},ni," Beth faltered in desperation.
"Oh, you don't know it I '' her mother said, now fairly fuming-,
and accDinpanying every word by a hard thump of her clenched
fist. " Then I'll teach you. I've a gvont mind to beat you as long
as I can stand over you."
Beth was a piteous little figure, crouclu'd on the piano stool,
her back bent beneath her mother's blows, and every fibre of her
sensitive frame shrinking from her violence; but she made no
resistance, and ^Irs. Caldwell carried out her threat. When slie
could beat Beth no longer, she told her to sit thereuntil she knew
that sign, and then she left her. B(^th clenched lier teeth, and an
ugly look came into her face. There had been dignity in her en-
durance, the dignity of self-control ; for there was the force in
lier to resist had she thought it right to resist. What she was
thinking while her mother beat her was, "I hope I shall not
strike you back."
Harriet had heard the scolding, and when Mrs. Caldwell had
gone she came and peeped in at the door.
"She's bin thumpin' you again, 'as she ?" she said with a grin.
" Wot 'a' ye bin doin' now ? ''
"What ])usiness is that of yours?" said Beth defiantly'. It
was bad enough to be beat(ui, but it was much worse to have
Harricit peeping in to gloat over her humiliation. Harriet was not
to be snubbed, however. She went up to the piano and looked at
the music.
"It's precious hard T sliould think," she remarked.
"It's )iot bard," Belli answered ])osilively, " if anybody tells
you what you don't kn')wand can't make out for yourself. I
always remember when I'm told or shown how to do it; but
what's the use of staring at a sign you've never seen before ?
Just you look at that! Can you make anything out of it?"
Harriet approached, and, after staring at the sign curiously for
some time, shook her head. "Of course not," said Beth, snatch-
ing up her music and throwing it on the floor, "and neither can
anybody else. It isn't fair."
Bernadine had begvm her lessons by this time in tbe next
room, and Mrs. Caldwell sudd<'nly began to scold again, "Oh,
that awful voice I " Beth groaned aloud, her racked nerves be-
traying her.
"She's catchin' it now I" said Harriet, after listening with in-
i
i
THE BETH BOOK.
<o
terest. She seemed to derive some sort of {^^ratification from tlie
children's troubles. "But don't you bother any more, Miss Belli.
Your nui'll 'ave forgotU^n all about it by goin'-out time, or she'll
pertend she "as to save 'erself trouble. Come and 'elp us \vi'
the beds."
B«'th rose slowly from the piano stool and followed Harriet
upstairs to the bedroom at the back of the house. She was at
once attracted to the open window by an uproar of voices, "the
voices of children in happy play." There was a yirls' day scliool
next door kept by the Mi.s.ses Grang-er. Miss Granger had called
on Mrs. Caldwell as soon as she was s(>ttled 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 ri<?ht mind returned as to a drunken man
suddenly sobered. She noticed that Beth's eyes were almost on a
level with her own, and once again she realized that if Beth chose
to rebel she would be powerless to control her. For some seconds
they looked at each other without a word. Then Beth stooped,
picked up the piece of music, smoothed it out, aud i)ut it on the
stand ; and then she shut up the piano deliberately, but remained
standing in front of it with her back to her mother. Mrs. Cald-
well watched her for a little in silence.
"It's your own fault, Beth," she said at last. "You are so
conceited, you try to play things that are too diflicult for you,
and then you get into trouble. It is no pleasure to me to
punish you.''
Beth remained with her back turned, immovable, and lier
mother looked at her helplessly a little longer, and then left the
room. When she liad gone Beth sat down on the ])iano stool.
Her shabby shoes had lioles in them, her dress was worn thread-
bare, and her sleeves were too short for her. She had no collars
or cuffs, and her thin hands and long wrists looked hideous to her
as they lay in her lap. Great tears gathered in her eyes. So con-
ceited indeed ! What had she to be conceited about ? Every one
despi.sed her, and she despised herself. Here the tears overllowed,
and Beth b(»gan to cry at last, and cried and cried for a long time,
very bitterly.
That afternoon, after Aunt Victoria had arrived, Lady Benyon
and Aunt Grace Mary called. Mrs. Caldwell had recovered her
good humour by that time, and was all smiles for everybody, in-
4
4
THE BETH BOOK.
IT
4
cludinfT Both, wlien she came siiuntcriTi;:^ in, hiiif^uid and lioavy-
eyed, witli half a fdieot of note ])a|)('r in li<>r 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 tran<iuillizing her,
helped the developnuMit of her physique, while the healtliy con-
dition of her body stimulated her to renewed intellectual ell'ort —
and it was all a pleasure to her.
At this time she had anew experience — an experience for which
she was totally unpi'ei)ared, but one which helped her a great deal,
and delighted as much as it surprised her.
There were high oak jtews in the little church at the eiul of the
road which the Caldwells attended on Sunday ; in the rows on
either side of tlie nuiin aisle the pews came together in twos, so
that when Beth sat at the eiul of theirs, as she always did, the
person in the next i)ew sat beside her with onl}' the wooden ])ar-
tition between. One Sunday when she was on her knees, drowsing
through the Litany with her cheek on her prayei" book, she be-
came aware of a boy in the next pew with his face turned to lier
in exactly the same attitude. He had bright fair hair, curling
crisply, a ruddy, fair, fat face, and rouiul blue eyes, clear as glass
marbles. Beth was pleased with him, and smiled involuntarily.
He instantly responded to the smile, and then they both got very
red ; and, in their delicious shyness, they turned their heads on
I
•I
THE BETH BOOK.
170
tlM'ir prayor bor)k.s nnd looked in (ii)i)osito dirortions. Tliis did
not last lon;,^ however. The desire for iiiiother look s(>ized 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.
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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 <//(/. Sammy."
" You're a liar I " .said Sanmiy.
"Sammy, that's rude," she exclaime<l. " And it's not the way
to speak to a young lady, and I won't have it."
" Well, but I did /JoMell vou I wanted to sec vou at dinner
time," Sammy retorted j)ositively.
" Yes, you did, stupid," said Beth. " You a.sked where I was
at dinner time, and then I knew you liad missed me ; and you
wouldn't have mi.s.sed me if you hadn't wanted to see me."
" But," Sammy repeated with sulky oUstinacy, unable to com-
I
182
THE BETH BOOK.
pn'hfiid tlie delicate subtilty of Beth's pci-ception — " But I did not
U'll you."
• Didn't you want to see nie, tlien?" Beth said coaxin^'ly,
waiviujtf the other \ntint with tact.
But Sannny, feelinj? sliy at the question, and vaj^uely grieved,
looked up and down tlie street and kicked the pavement witli liis
heels, insU'ad of answering.
" I sliall go then," said Beth, after waiting for a little.
" No, don't," he exclaimed, his countenance clearing. " I want
to a.sk you -only you put it out of my head— gels do Uilk so."
" Gels 1 " Beth exclaimed derisively. " I happen to be a girl."
Sammy looked at her with a puz/led expression, and forgot
what he was going to say. She diverted his attention, however,
by asking him how old he was.
" P^Ieven," Sammy answered promptly.
" So am I. When were you eleven ? "
" The twentieth of February."
"Oh, tiien you're older than me — March, April, May, June —
four montljs. My birtlulay's in June. What do you do at school ?
Let's see your books. I wish I went to school I ''
"Shu!"siiid Sammy. "What's the use of sending a gel to
school ? Gels can't learn."
" So Jim says,'' Beth rejoined with an absence of conviction
that roused Sammy.
" All l)«)ys say so," he declared.
"All boys are silly," siiid Beth. "What's the use of saying
things ? That doesn't make them true. You're as bad as
Jim "
" Who's Jim ?" Sammj' interrupted jealously.
"Jim's mv brotlier."
Sammy, relieve<l. kicked his heels on the pavement.
" Which is tallest :' " he asked presently, " you or me ? "
"I'm tallest, I think," Beth answered; "but never mind.
You're tlie fattest. I've grown long, and you've grown broad."
" You're mighty sharp," said Sammy.
"You're mighty blunt," said Beth. "And you'll be mighty
late for tea too. Look at the church clock ! "
Sammy glanced up, then fled precipitately ; and Beth, turn-
ing to leave the window, discovered Harriet standing in the back-
ground, grinning.
"So you've getten a sweetheart!" she exclaimed. "There's
nothing like beginning early."
THE BETH BOOK.
183
mind.
turn-
baok-
" So you've been listening again," Beth answered hotly. '* Bud
luck to you ! "
A few days later Mrs, Caldwell was sitting with Lady Benyon,
who was in tlie bow window, as usual, l(M>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 <mly cast furtive snules at her as he ran by.
It never occurred to Beth that he was less valiant than she was,
or less willing to brave danger for her sake than she was for his.
She thought he was keeping away for fear of getting lier into
trouble; and she beckoned to him ag.'iin and again in order to
explain that she did not care; but he only fled the faster. Then
Beth wrote him a note. It was the first she had ev(>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<!S(Mited a miscellaneous collection of petitions to the Lord, < ffer-
ing them up as the necessity arose, being in constant comnuuiica-
tion with him. When she wanted to go out she asked for fine
weather; when she did not want to go out she prayed that it
niigiit rain. She b<?gged that she might not be found out when sho
went poaching on Uncle .James's lii'lds. that siic might be allowed
to catch something ; that new clothes might le sent her from some-
where, she felt so a.shamed in her dirty old shabby ones. Sho
asked for boots and .shoes and gloves, and for helj) with her les-
sons ; and, when she had no special petition to olfer, she would
ejaculate at intervals, "Lord, s<'nd me good luck!" But, how-
ever great the variety of her daily want.s, on* prayer went up
with the others always, "Lord, let me write well I" meaning let
me write a good hand ; yet her writing did not improve, and sho
was much disheartcMied about it. She took the Lord into her con-
fidence on the subject very frankly. Wlien she had been naughty
and was not found out and puni.shed she thanked him for his
goodness; but why would he not let her write well i She asked
him the question again and again, lifting her gray eyes to the
gray sky pathetically ; and all the time, though .she never sus-
pected it, .slie was learning to write more than well, but in a very
different sense of the word.
Her note to Sammy was as follows:
"Dear Sammy : Come and talk to me. Do not be afrade. I
do not mind rows, being always in them. And she can't d») any-
thing to you. I niiss you. I want to tell you things. Such nice
things keej) coming to me. They make nn' feel all comf«)rtablo
inside. I looked out of the window in the dark last night. There
was a frost. The sky wiis dark dark blue like sailor's suits only
bright ajid the stai*s hn^ked like holes bored in the il(M)r of heaven
to let the light through. It was so white and bright it must have
been the light of heaven, I never .saw such a light on earth.
Sunshine is more buffy. Do come Sannny I want you so Beth.
P. S. 1 can't stop right yet; but I'm trying. It seems rather
difficult to stop; but nobody can right without stop.s. I always
THE BETH BOOK.
185
look at stops in hooks when I rcjid hut soniotinips you put a
coma and sonu'tiiui's a srinicollon. I oxpcct you know hut I
don't so you must t<'a('h nn\ Its so nice writinjj thin<,^s down.
Conu' to the hack gait tonifrht."
When the h'ttcr was writt«'n in qu('«'r crahhod characters on
one si(h> 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<l not been able to get r)ut. that
was it; she was sure of it ; yet still .she waited, although the even-
ing was very cold. Iler mother and Aunt Victoria had gone to
dine with Lady Benyon. She did not know what Harriet was
doing; but .she had di.spo.sed of Bernadine for some time to come
by leiuling her her best picture book to daub with paint ; so it
was pretty safe to wait; and at first the hope of se<'ing Sammy
come running round the corner was pleasure enough. As the
time went on, however, .she l)ecame impatient, and at last .she
ventured a little way up the street, then a little farther; and then
she ran on boldly into Orchard Row. As she approached the
Lee.s' back gate she became aware of a round thing that looked
like a cannon ball glued to the top, and her fonti heart swelled,
for she knew it must lx> 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 <letriinent to tin; whole community. So-
ciety must coiuM'e if it is to prosijcr ; individuals help tlH'mselve.s
most in the lon;^ run when tliey consider each other's int«'rest.s.
At Rainharhour nothin«j wius done to promote ^t'ueral ^'ood-f(d-
lowsliip; tlie kind of Christianity that was preached there niado
no mention of the matter, and .s<H'iety was disin teg-rated and
would have gone to pieces altogetluM' hut for the oiu' g-reat inter-
est in life -the great primitive interest which consists in the at-
traction of .sex to s<'x. The suhject of sweethearts was always in
the air. The minds of l)oys and girls, youths and maidens, men
and wonuMi, were all full of it : but it was not often openly dis-
cus.sed as a plea.sant topic— in fact, not much nientioiu'd at all
except for fault-linding purposes, for it was the custom to he cen-
sorious on the suhject, and naturally those w«'re most so who
knew nu)st about it, like the vicar, who had marrit'd four tinu'.s.
He was so rabid that he almost went the length of denouncing
men and maidens l)y name from the pulpit if he cauj^ht them
strolling about together in pairs. Tlis mind was so constituted
that he could not believe their dalliance to be innocent, and yet
he did not try to introduce any other interest or pleasure into
their lives to divert them from the inces.sant ])ursuit of each other.
It was the grown-up people who were so nasty on the subj(>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<M)l \vlu» srcurrd a
sweet lieart «'njoy«'<l a proud distinction, aiul Sammy s<Mtii found
that his m'4uainUino(> witli lieth phiced liim in quite an envial)h)
position. He th«'n'fi)re very s<M)n forj^ot his fear (»f Mrs. C'aldwell
anil did his best to he .seen with Heth a.s mucli a.s possil)h' ; and to
Iter it was a surprise as well as a joy to tinil him han^'-in^'' alxnit
wailinj; Ut have a word with iier. Her mother's treatment of her
had so danui^'ed lier self-resp»'ct that she had never exp<'e(ed any-
body to eare for her particularly, and Sammy's attentions there-
fore were peculiarly sweet. She did not consider the position at
all, h«»wever. There are subjects about which we think and sub-
je<'ts upon which we feel, and the two are quite distinct and dif-
ferent. Heth felt on tiie subject of Sammy. The fact of his hav-
ing' a cherubic face made bet feel nici- inside her chest — set up a
glow there which warmed antl brij^htened her whole existence —
a iflow wiiich n«'ver llickered day or u'u^hl except in Sammy's
I)n'.sence, when it went out alto^M-tlier more often than not, only
to revive, liowever, when the real Sammy had j,''one and the ideal
Sammy returned to his place in her bosom ; for Sammy adored at
a distance and Sannny within ranye of criticism were two very
dill'erent people. Sammy adored at a ilistance was all ready re-
sponse to Beth's line flifjhts of ima<,''ination. but Sammy on the
spot wa.s dull. He was seldom on the spot, however, so that lietli
liad ample leisure to live on her love undisturbed, and her mind
b<K'ame extraordinarily active. Verse came to her like a recollec-
tion. On lialf liolidays tliey sotnetimes went for a walk tojr<'ther
t)ver the wild wide wjuste of satui wlien the tide was ()Ut, and she
•would rhyme to herself the wliole time ; but she seldom said any-
thin<r to Sammy. So lonjr as lie was silent he was a source of in-
spiration — that is to say, her feelinjr for him was ins|)irintr- but
when she tried to ^et anything' out of liim they jrenerally .scpiabbled.
Beth lived her own life at this time almost entirely. Since
that stiirtl in jj threat of rebellion her mother had been afraid to
b«'at lier lest she should strike back. Scoldin<r only made her
voluble, and Mrs. Caldwell never thou<rht of tryiny to inanafje
lier in the only way j)ossible, by rea.soniny with her and appealinj?
to her better nature. There wsis therefore but one tiling for her
mother to do in order to preserve her own dij^nity. and that was
to ignore Beth. Accordingly, when the perfunctory lessons were
190
TIIK HKTII HOOK.
ovor i» tho morn in ET Roth Imd licr day to licrsclf. Slio hoj^aii it
gcrnTally l»y pnictisin;,' for at i«'ji.st an hour by th«» clmrch cliMk,
und after that sh<^ had a variety of jjursuits, wliich she preferred
to follow ah>ne 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
w<!re supposed to havti h<'en set l)y jwiacliers. She herself wa.s
known to every one on the esUite, and wjts therefore sure (.f re-
spect no nuitter who saw lier; even Uncle James him.self would
liave let her alone had they met, as lie was of her mother's opinion
that it was safer to ijifnore her than to attempt to control Iht.
The .snares, although of tlio nio.st primitive kind, answered the
l)urpose. The ^-reat difliculty was how to get the frauw homo;
hut that she also managed successfully, generally by returning
after darlc. Her mother, concluding that she ow<'d whatever
came to .\unt (}rac(^ Mary's surreptitious kindness, .said nothing
on the subject except to Beth, whom she supposed to be; Aunt
Grace Mary's ag«'nt ; but sho very nnicli enjoyed every addition
to her monotonous diet, esp<>cially 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-
in<r to another jjrown-up person ; and JJ«'th would answer politely
and tell the truth, if possible, instead (»f makin;,' some sulky eva-
sion, as she had beyun to <lo when there was no other way of
keepin«r the |)eace. She was fearlessly honest by nature, but as
she api)roached maturity slie lost her nerve for a time, and during
that time she lied (tn occasion to escape a hai'rowinjf scone. She
always despised herself for it, however, and therefore as she jjrew
stronger she became her natui'al strai<,'htforwai"d .self ay;iin, only,
if anythin<?, all the more .scrupulously accurate for the dej^rading
experience, for she soon perc«uv<*d that there is nothing that dam-
ages the character like the habit of untrutli. and the man or
woman wlio nuikes a fal.se excuse lias alreadv beirun to deteri-
orate. If a census could be taken to establish the grounds ujurn
which people are considered small or great, we should find that it
was in exact proportion to the amount of conddence that <'an bo
placed first of all in their sincerity, and then in their accuracy.
Sincerity claims respect for character, accuracy esti'uation for
ability. No high-minded pei'son was ever insincere, and no fool
was ever accurate.
When the ch :se season began Beth left tlie jdantations and
took to lishing in the si u. She would sit at the end of the pier in
fine weather, baiting her hooks with great fat lobwoi-ms she had
dug up out of the sands at low tide, and watching her lines, all by
herself; or, if it were rough, sin; would fish in the harbour from
the steps up again.st the wooden .jetty, where the .sailors hung
about all day long, with their bauds iu their pockets, when the
192
THE BETH BOOK.
boats were in. Some of thcTii would sit witli her, all in a row,
fishing too, and they wt)uld exchange bait with her and give her
g(M>d 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 feclin<f
alive, and it liad i,'ra(lually died of inanition. His slowness and
want of ima;jination first pu/./led and then provoked her, and,
little-bo3"-like, he had not even been able to respond to sucli ten-
derness as she showed him — not that she had «'ver showed him
naich tc'uderness. for they were just like boys tojfether. She had
kissed him, however, (Mice t)r twice after a (juarrel to make it up.
But she did not like kissinj,' him ; little boys are rank. His ])retty
colourinjf was all that he had had to attract her. and that, alas !
had lost its charm by this tinu'. For a little lonj^-er she looked
out for him and troubled about him. then let him ^--o {^'radually —
so ^'radually that she never knew when exactly he lapsed from
her life altogether.
1
CHAPTER XX.
For two years after Beth was outlawed by her motlier frreat-
Aunt Victoria Bench was her one link with tlie civilized world.
The intimacy had lajjsed a little while Sammy was the prevailing
human interest in Beth's life, but gradually, as he ceased to be
satisfactory, slu^ returned to the old lady and hovered about her,
seeking the sustenance for whicli her j)oor little heart ached on
always, and for want of which lier busy brain ran riot; and the
old lady, who had not complained of Beth's desertion, wtslcomed
her back in a way which showed that she had felt it.
For Great-Aunt Victoria B<'nch was lonely in the days of her
poverty and obscurity. Since the loss of her money there had
been a great change in the attitude of most of her friends toward
her, and such attentions as she received were of a verj' ditrerent
kind from those to Avhich she liad been accustomed. Mrs. Cald-
well had been the most generous to her, for at the time that she
had offered Aunt Victoria a hoine in her house she had not known
that the old lady would be al)le to pay her way at all. Fortunately
Aunt Victoria had enough left for that, but still her position in
14
202
TOE BETH BOOK.
Mrs. Caldwoll's house was not wliat it would havo boon liad she
not h)st most of lior iiicaiis. Mrs. C'ahlwcU was not awart^ of tlio
fact, but lior manner bad insensibly adjusted itself to Aunt Victo-
ria's alt«!r(!d t'ii'cumstanees, her care and consideration for her
bein{^ as much reduced in amount as her income; and Aunt Vic-
toria felt tb(! difVenuico, but said nothinj^. Slowly and painfully
she learned to rt^alize that it was for what she bail bad to bi'stow,
and not for what she was, that people used to care ; they bad
served her as they served their (iod— in the hope of reapin;^ a
rich reward. Like numy other i>eople 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<f B(!tli how to niaio* soin<> 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 <i:ontloman.
" Tliis is rich, really," he said. '* What a quaint little person ! "
" Oh, but she's sweet ! " said Mrs. Crome ; and then she kissed
Beth, and Betli noticed that she had been eatinj';' onions, and for
long afterward she associated tlie smell with theatres, frivolous
talk, and a fair-haired woman smiling fatuously on the brink of
perdition.
Aunt Victoria retired early to perform her evening ablutions,
and on this occasion she had gone uj) just as usual with a little
bell, which she rang when slie was ready for Beth to come. In
the midst of the talk and laughter in the drawing-room the little
bell suddenly sounded emphatically and Beth lied. She found
Aunt Victoria out on the landing in her petticoat and dressing
jacket and without her auburn front, a sign of great perturbation.
She had heai'd Beth's voice in the drawing-room, and proceeded
to admonish her severely ; but Beth heard not a word, for the
sight of the old lady's stubbly white hair had jjlungcnl her into a
reverie, and already no Indian devotee absorbed in contemjjlation
could be less sensitive to outward impressions than Beth was
when the vision and the dream were upon her. Aunt Victoria
had to .shake her to rouse her.
" What are you thinking of, child ? " she demanded.
"Riding to the rescue,'' Betli answered dreamily.
" Don't talk nonsense," said Aunt Victoria.
Beth gazed at her with a blank look. She was saving souls
just tiien and could attend to nothing else.
Beth's terror of the judgment never returned ; but after she
had been away from home a few weeks shc^ began to have another
serious trouble which disturbed her toward evening in the same
way. The first symptom was a curious lapse of memory which
worried her a good deal. She could not remember how much of
the garden was to be seen from her mother's bedroom window at
home, and she longed to fly back and settle the question. Then
she became conscious of being suri-ounded by the country on
every side, and it oppressed her to think of it. Slie was a sea
child, living inland for tlie first time, and there came upon her a
great yearning for the sight and sound of moving wat(>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<j you may see a solitary crow, or spill the salt, or sit down
thirteen to table, and lauf^li at all superstitious nonsense, then the
sign was not for you ; but the tenth time something will come
over you, and you won't laugh ; then be warned and bewar(> 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."
Tb<! (Mpjinoctial j,''ales set in early tbat year and severely. Great
seas wasbed away tbe silver sands wbicb bad been tbe (leli<,'-bt of
tbe sununer visitors, leavinj,' miles <jf clay exposed at low water to
add to tbe desolation of tbe scene. Tbe bay was full of storm-
stayed ves.sels, all beaded to tbe wind, close re<'fed, and straininjDT
at tbeir ancbors. Tbere were days wben tbe steamers bad to
.steam full speed ahead in order to keep at their berths; and then
the bi<^ .sailing ships would draj? their ancbors and come di'ifting',
drifting- helplessly toward the shore, and have to ily before the pale
if they could, or take their chance of stramling if the water were
low, or being- battered to bits against the clifl's if tbe tide were in.
Many a time Beth stood among the lishennen, watching, waiting,
praying, her whole being centred in some hapless crew making
for the harbour, but ahnost certain to ])e carried past. There was
a chain down the middle of the ])ier in the winter to prevent peo-
])le from being washed otf, and she had stood clinging to this, and
seen a great ship, with one ragged sail fluttering from a broken
mast, carried before the wind right on to the pier head, which it
stnu'k with a crash that displaced great blocks of granite as if
they had been sponge cakes ; and when it struck, the doomed
sailors on its decks sent up an awful shriek, to which those on the
pier responded. Then there was a pause. Beth held her breath
and heard nothing ; but .she saw the ship sli]) back, back — down
among the mountainous waves, which sported with it once or
twice, tossed it up, and sucked it down, tossed it again, then sud-
denly ingulfed it. On the water afterward there were ropes and
spars, and dark things bobbing like corks, but she knew they were
men in mortjil agony ; and she found herself .shouting encourage-
ment, telling them to liold on bravely, help was coming — the
life boat ! the life boat I She joined in the sob of excitement,
too, and the cheers of relief when it returned with its crew com-
i
TIIK RETn BOOK.
2.^3
'liolc race,
soiiu' few
f' an? corn-
id IImto is
I'Pct'ivr in
lo cIovel<jf
tid looked
k'liat were
tiic death
y. G rcat
:leli<i;-lit of
^' water to
of storin-
sfi-aininjnf
•s had to
and then
drifting",
' the calo
iter \v(>re
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 wantin<?; and it was as if her own dou])ts when she
set the snares relea.sed the creatures from the fascination that
should have lured them, .so that she caught but little. The
weather, too, was very severe ; every one in the house, includiiifi^
Beth, was more or less ill from colds aiul coughs, and Aunt Vic-
toria sutfered especially; but noiu"! of them c()m])laiiied. not even
to themselves; they just endured. They felt for each other, how-
ever.
"Mamma, don't you think Aunt Victoria should have a fire in
her room ? " Beth .said oiu; day.
" I do, my dear child," Mrs. Caldwell answered tartly ; " but I
can't afford the fuel, and she can't afford it either."
"I wish I had known that." said Beth. •* I wouldn't hav(? let
her afford to take me away in the summer, sijending' all her
money for nothing-."
" What a {ijrateful and g-racious child you are ! " her mother
exclaimed.
Beth went frowning from the room,
The snow was sev^eral feet deep on the ground already, and
was still falling heavily. Beth put on her things and stole out,
16
234
THE BETH BOOK.
hor idea being to gather sticks to make a fire for tlio old lady, but
after a weary trudge she was oblig(!d to return enipty-hauded,
wet, weary, and disheartened. The sticks were deep down under
the snow ; there were none to be seen.
" O God," Beth prayed as she stumbled home, raising her
pinched face to the sombre sky — " O God, save Aunt Victoria all
suffiM'ing ! Don't let her feel the cold, dear Lord, don't let her
feel it ! "
Aunt Victoria lierself was stoical. She came down to break-
fast every morning and sat up stiffly at the end of tlie table away
from the fire, her usual seat, eating little and sa^'ing little, but
listening witli interest when the others spoke. Beth watched her,
waited on her, and lay awake at night fretting because there was
notliing more to be done for her.
One stormy night in particular Beth could not sleep. There
was a great gale blowing. It came in terrific gusts that shook the
house, rattled the windows, and made the woodwork creak, then
died away and was followed by an interval of comparative quiet,
broken by strange, mysterious sounds, to v.hich Beth listened with
strained attention, unable to account for them. One moment it
was as if trailing garments swept down the narrow stairs — heavy
woollen garments that made a soft sort of muffled sound — but there
was no footfall, as of some one walking. Then there came stifled
voices, whisperings, as of people talking eagerly yet cautiously.
Then there were heavy steps, distinct yet slow, followed after an
interval by the tramp of shuffling feet, like tliose of people carry-
ing an awkward burden and stumbling under it. But always
before Beth could think what the noise n^f^ant the gust came
again, racking hor nerves, rattling the windows, making the
doors creak, tlien dying away, to be followed by more mysterious
sounds, but of another cliavacter.
" If only there were time, if only they would last long enough,
I should know, I should understand." Beth thought, full of fore-
boding. She was not frightened, only greatly excited. Some-
thing w^as coming, something was going to ha])pen, and these
were the warnings : of that she was certain. It was as if she were
sensitive to some atmosphere that surrounds an event and becomes
perceptible to those whom it concerns, if they are of the right tem-
perament to receive the impression.
When the blast struck the hou.se, blotting out the strange
sounds which puzzled Beth, it released her strained attention and
had the elTect of silence upon her after noise. In one of these
J
THE BETH BOOK.
235
pauses she wondered if her mother and Bernadine, in the next
bed, were asleep.
" Manuna ! " slie said softly ; " mamma ! "
There was no response. Tlie gale dropped. Then Beth heard
some one coughing hard.
" Mamma ! " slie said again ; " mamma ! "
"What's the matter ? " Mrs. Caldwell answered, awaking with
a start.
" Aunt Victoria is coughing."
" Well, my dear child, I'm very sorry, but I can't help it ; and
it is hardly enough to wake me for," Mrs. Caklwell answered.
She settled herself to sleep again, and the gale raged without : but
Beth remained resting on her elbow, not listening so much as
straining her attention out into the darkness in an effort to per-
ceive with her further faculty what was beyond the range of her
limited senses.
"Mamma," she exclaimed once more, "Aunt Victoria is
moaning !
t "
"Nonsense, Beth," Mrs. Caldwell rejoined. "You couldn't
possibly hear her if she were."
There was another little interval, then Beth jumped out of bed,
crying as she did so : " Mamma, Aunt Victoria is calling me ! "
" Beth," Mrs. Caldwell said, rousing herself and speaking
sternly, "get into bed again directly and lie down and go to sleep.
It is tlic gale that is making you so nervous. Put the bedclothes
over your head and then you won't hear it."
Beth had been huddling on the first thing she laid hold of in
the dark — a tliick woollen dressing gown of her mother's — wliile
she was speaking. " I shall go and see for myself," she replied.
"Oh, very well," said Mrs. CaUUvell. "It wouldn't be you if
you didn't upset the whole house for your fancies. When you
have awakened your aunt and spoiled lier night for nothing, as
you have spoiled mine, you'll be satisfied."
Beth opened the door and stepped down into darkness, unre-
lieved by the slightest glimmer of light. She had to descend
some steps and go up some others to get to Aunt Victoria's room ;
and after the first step she felt as if she were floating in some
new element, not moving of her own accord, but borne along con-
fidently, witliout seeing and without feeling her way ; and as she
went she found that the long iliick garment she wore was mak-
ing the saine soft mufHed sound she had already heard, and also
that there was no footstep audible.
!i
236
THE BETH BOOK.
She went into Aunt Victoria's room without knockin*^. It
struck Beth as being intensely cold. A candle was burning" on
the little table beside the bed. The old lady was sitting, propped
up uncomfortably with two thin pillows and a hassock. She was
breathing with dilliculty, and showed no surprise when she saw
Beth enter. Her lips were moving, and Beth could see she was
mumbling something, but she could distinguish no word until
she went quite close, when she heard her say : "Comfort ye, C(jm-
fort ye, my people," several times.
"Aunt Victoria, are you ill ? " Beth said. The old lad}- looked
at her with dim eyes, then stretched out her hand to her. Beth
clasp(^d it. It was deadly cold.
" I shall light the fire," Beth said with determination ; '' and I
shall make you some tea to ease your cough. You won't mind if
I take the candle a moment to go downstairs and get the
things ? "
Beth was practical enough now. The vision and the dream
had passed, and she was wide awake again, using her eyes and
requiring a candle. Before she went downstairs she fetched extra
pillows from the spare room and propped Aunt Victoria up more
comfortably. Tlien she set to work to light the fire, and soon had
the kettle boiling. As the room began to v.'arm, Aunt Victoria
revived a little, and smiled on Beth for the first time with perfect
recognition. Beth had made her some tea, and was giving it to
her in spoonfuls.
" Is that nice ? '' she said.
"Delicious," the old lady answered.
The gale was all on tlie other side of the house, so that here in
front it was comparatively quiet ; besides, the wind was dying
away as the day approached. Beth put the teacup down, wh»>n
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 Lor<l, a)>d 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 th<i words tlie dear, good,
kind old lady, with a gentle sigh, as of relief, passed from the
238
THE BETH BOOK.
:
Bcenc of her sufferings, out of this interval of time, into the meas-
ureless eternity.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Aunt Victoria Bench died of fuilure of the heart, the medi-
cal man decided, and he might have added, if the feelings of
the family had not had to he considered, that tlu; disease was ac-
celerated hy privation and cold.
For days after the event Beth was not to ho roused. She
would sit in the tenantless room hy tlie hour together, with the
dear old aunt's great Bible on her knee, open at some favourite
passage, thinking of all that ought to have been done to save
her, and suffering the ache and rage of the helpless who would
certainly have done all that could have been done had they
had their way. Again and again her mother fetched her down
to the dining-room, where there v»as a fire, and tried to reason with
her, or scolded her for her persistent grief when reasoning pro-
duced no effect.
" You must begin your lessons again, Beth," she said to her at
last one morning in despair. "Giving you a holiday is doing
you no good at all."
Beth went upstairs without a word and brought down the old
aunt's French books, and sat at the dining table with one of them
open before her ; but the sight of it recalled the hapi)y summer
days in the bright little parlour looking out on the trees and flow-
ers, and the dear old lady with her delicate face sitting at the end
of the table placidly knitting while Beth prepared her lesson, and
the tears welled up in her eyes once more and fell on the yellow
poges.
" Beth," said her mother emphatically, " you must not go on
like this. Why are you so selfish? Don't / feel it too? Yet I
control myself.''
" You don't feel it as I do." Beth answered doggedly. "She
was not so much to you when she was here, how can you miss
her so much now she has gone ?''
"But you have others to love," ^Ir.s. Caldwell remonstrated.
"She was not your nearest relation."
"No, but she was the dearest," Beth replied. "I may have
others to love, but she was the one who loved me. She never
said I had no affection for any one, she never said I was selfish
THE BETH BOOK.
239
^ tlio lueas-
. the niedi-
"eelino-s of
t.so was ac-
^ed. Slie
. ^vitli tlio
favour! to
e to save
lio would
liad tlicy
!ior down
isoii witli
•ing pro-
to lior at
i« doing-
tlio old
of them
tiinrnor
1 flow-
Dw end
>n, 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<kiI(1 stand at the top of the ste])s that led down on to the
j)ier, with their hands in their trouser juK-kets, chewing tobacco,
and straining their eyes out seaward as if they were watching for
something special ; and Beth would stand there among them, and
look out too, out far beyond the range of their mental vision to
the east, to summer lands whence the swallows came, where the
soft air was jjerfumed with Uowers and there was brightness and
warmth and ease, and the sea itself, so full of complaint down
below there, raged no more, neither lamented, but sang. And
there Aunt Victoria would be sitting somewhere out of doors
under the trees with good things — books and work and fruit and
flowei's — piled up on a little table beside her, and every wish of
lier heart gratified, looking .serenely happy, and smiling and nod-
ding and beckoning to Beth. But. following fast upon the vision,
Aunt Victoria would be beside her in the bitter wind, wearing
her old brown dress with white .s))ots that was far too tliin, and
niaking believe that .she did not shiver; then they liad returned
from the morning walk, and Aunt Victoria was pausing a moment
at the bottom of the stairs to look up. as if nuvisuring lier strength
and the distance, before she took hold of the banister and b. 'M'
to mount wearily, but never once trusting herself to glanc(
Bernadine and the bread, le.st something shouhl be seei her
face wliich she chose to conceal. From that vision Beth wuuld
fly down the steps to the sands and escape it in a healthy i*ace
with the turgid waves that came cresting in and broke on the
barren shore.
Then one day, suddenly, as it seemed, a bird sang. The winter
was over, spring was upon the land again, and Beth looked up
and smiled. The old pear tree in the little garden at the back
was a white, white wonder of blossoin, and in front, in the orchard
TJIR nKTir BOOK.
2U
wJiat was
■: "Never
sil)I<' that
lually slio
icr paciiifj
1^' tlie sea
line play-
it time of
1, and the
e ill tliei-^
e si<y the
on to the
■ tobacco,
cliiiif^ for
hem, and
vision to
vhere tlio
tiiess and
nt down
\g. And
of doora
fruit and
wisli of
xm\ nod-
le vision,
wearing
lin, and
returned
moment
stren{Tth
id V>« (/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
<ii
■chuich clock strike, but it was still pitch dark. Then she dozed
248
THE BETH BOOK.
off again, but in a minuto, as it socined to hor, slio was rcarotisod
by the string*. Sli<^ gave a gr<^at weary sigli and opened her eyes.
It was all gi'ay daylight in the room.
Beth was out of bed as soon as she could get the string oil" her
too. The water was very cold, and she shivered and yawned and
.stretched over it ; but wa.slu d herself with exaggerated con-scien-
tiousness all the same, then huddled on her (dothes and stood a
while, not knowing quite what to do next. She had slept with
the window open, and now she drew up the blind. Under the
leaden sky the apple; trees showed no tinge of colour, and it was
as if white sheets had been spread out over them for the night.
Beth thought of curl papers and rooms all covered up from dust
when Harriet was sweeping, and felt no enthusiasm. She was on
the west side of the house, and could not therefori^ .see the .sun
rise ; but .she nnjst see the sunrise — sunri.se — ^sunrise. She had
never seen the sunrise. The sea was east. It would rise over
the sea. The sea at sunri.se! The very thought of it took her
breath away. She put on her things and sli])ped into the acting
room. Her mother took the front-door key u]) to her room with
her when .she went to bed at night, so that the onl^- way out was
by the acting-room window. Beth swung her.self round the bar,
crept cautiously down the tiles to the pump, jumped to the grouiul,
then ran up the entry, and let herself out by the back gate into
the street. There she w.as seized upon by a great feeling of free-
dom. She threw up her arms, filled her lungs with a deep
breath, and ran. There was not a soul to be seen. The town
was hers !
She made for a lonely spot on the cliff, where a stream f<dl in
a cataract on to the sand, and there was a rustic seat with a lovely
view of the bay. Beth dropped on to the seat out of breath, and
looked curiously about her. The tichi was high. The water,
smooth, sullcMi, .swollen, aiul weary, broke on the shore in waves
.so small that it seemed as if the sea, tired of its endless task, were
doing dispiritedly as little as it dared, and murmuring at that.
The curving cliffs on the left looked like white curtains, ch)sely
drawn. The low gray sky was ixnbroken by cloud or rift, excerpt
low down on the horizon, where it had ri.sen like a blind drawn
up a little to admit the light. It was a nudancholy prospect, and
Beth shivered and sighed in sympathy. Then a sparrow cheeped
somewhere behind her, and another bird in the hedge softly fluted
a little voulade. Beth looked round to see what it was, and at
that moment the light brightened as if it had been suddenly
THE BETH BOOK.
240
roarouRod
. lici* eyt's.
iig ofl' her
wiiod and
conscien-
id stood a
dopt with
Jnder the
iiid it was
tlie iiijuflit,
roiii dust
le was on
^e the sun
Slio liad
rise over
took her
li<* actings
ooni with
y out was
1 tlie bar,
^TOUlld,
g'ate into
r of free-
a deep
le town
m fell in
a lovely
ath, and
wattT,
n waves
s\', were
at that.
, closely
t, except
I drawn
x'ct, and
cheeped
y fluted
, and at
Liddenly
turned up. She looked at the sea ajjain. The rift in the leaden
sky had lengthened and widened, and the lirst pale primrose of
the dawn showed beyond. A faint Hush followed, and then it
seemed as if the nig-ht sky slowly rolled itsi^lf up and was put
away, leaving a floor of silver, deepening to lilac, for tlie th-st
bright beam to disport itself upon. Then the sea smiled, and the
weariness of it, ha(!k and forth, back and forth, passed into ani-
mation. Its smooth surface became diapered with light airs and
moved with a gentle roll. The sullen nun-mur rose to a morning
song, aj\d a boat with bare mast, at anchor in tlie bay, tlu^ only
one in sight, rocked to the tune. A great sea bird sailed by, gaz-
ing down into the depths with piercing eye.s, and a gray gull flew
so clo.se to the water, it .seemed as if his wings nmst dip at every
flap. The sky was all a riot of colour by this time, at which Beth
gazed in admiration, but without rapture. Her intellect acknowl-
edged its loveliness, but did not delight in it ; heai't and soul were
untouched. The spirit of the dawn refused to speak to her. She
had exhausted herself in her elfort to induce the intoxicution of
devotion which hud come to her spontaneously the day before.
The great spirit does not want martyrs. Joy in beauty and good-
ness comes of a pure and tranquil mind, not of a tortured body.
The faces of the holy ones are calm and their souls seren(\
A little farmhouse .stood back from the road just behind the
seat where Beth was sitting, and a tall, gaunt, elderly man with a
beard on his chin came out presently and .stood .staring grimly at
the .sunrise. Then he crossed the road d(diberatcly, sat down at
the other end of the seat, and stared at Beth.
" You're early out," he said at last.
Beth dc jcted .something hostile in the tone, and fixed her big,
fearless gray eyes upon him defiantly. " It's a free cour.try," she
said.
"Free or not," he answered dryly, "it isn't fit fur no young
gell to be out alone at .sechun a time. Ye should ho indoors getr
tin' the breakfast."
" Thaidc you," said B(>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 pres<Mitly she began to
glow with a great feeling of exultation. It began in her chest,
and spread, as from a centre, all over her. The details of her
dream recurred to her — the close clasp, the tender kiss — and she
thrilled again at the recollection.
But for the present the recollection was enough.
CHAPTER XXYI.
On Sunday morning Beth went down to breakfast dressed in
Aunt Victt)ria's light lavender silk, remodelled to suit her; and
very becoming she had made it. But Mrs. Caldwell called it an
absurd costume for a gii-l of her age, and said she looked ridicu-
louslv ovei'dressed ; so Beth went back to her room, disheai'tened,
and reappeared at church time, with drooping mouth, in the old
black frock she usually wore on Sundays.
Vainly she tried to rouse herself to any fervour of worship dur-
ing the first part of the service. She felt ill-dressed, uncomfort-
able, dissatisfied ; and would have been glad to quarrel witii any-
body. Then, suddenly, during the singing of a hymn, she ceased
S.\ I
i
25G
THE BETH BOOK.
to be solf-conscious. All the trouble; left lior, and was succeeded
by that curious thrill of happy expcH'tatiou which came to her
continually at this time. She looked about her and saw friendly
faces where before she had seen nothing but criticism and disdain
of her shabby clothes.
Those were the days of pew-lettinj?. The nearer you sat to tlio
pulpit, the higher the price of the pew and the better your s(jcial
position. Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to content herself with a
cheap seat in one of the side aisles, near the door, so the vicar liad
never called on her. He only called on a few front rows. His
own pew was high in the chancel, where all the parish could gazo
at his exhausted wife and her increasing famil}'. His pujjils used
to sit in the pew opposite ; but the bishop, liaving received com-
plaints from the neglected parish, had lately interfered and stopped
the school; and thenceforth Mr. Richardson Avas only to be al-
lowed to have one pupil. Mr. Richardson determined to make
him profitable.
From where she sat, Beth could see the vicar's pew in the clian-
cel, and she had noticed a tall slender youth sitting at the far end
near the ve.stry door; but he did not interest her at first; now,
however, she looked at him again, and wondered who he was ;
and presently she found that he was gazing at her intently. Then
their eyes met, and it was as if a sjjark of fire had kindled a glow
in her chest, high up near the throat, where the breath catche.s.
She looked down at her book, but had no thought on the subject
at all ; she was all one sensation. Light had come to licr — a won-
drous flood of amber light that blotted out the common congre-
gation, and all besides but him and her. Yet she could hardly
sit through the service, and the moment it was over she fled. Her
great desire was to be alone, if that could be called solitude
which contained all the satisfaction of the closest companionship.
All the time that she was flying, however, she felt that she was
being pursued ; and there was the strangest excitement and de-
light in the sensation. But she never looked behind. She did
not dare to.
She made for the cliffs on the Fairholm estate, and when she
came to them her intention was to hide herself. There was a nook
she knew some distance on, a grassy space on the cliff side, not
visible either from above or below. She climbed down to it, and
there ensconced herself. Beneath was a little cove sheltered from
the north and south by the jutting cliffs, and floored with the
firmest sand just then, for the tide was out. Beth was lying in
THE I JET 1 1 ROOK.
257
was succoedeti
1 fuino to her
:l suw frioiully
>iu 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-iii<j; down on him thi'()M;,'h the frin;,'-o
of hmii; rank {^rass in front of her, remjirked but uncritically ; for
every inch of him was a joy to her.
Slio wa.s i)assive. liut the younjj man soon ^rcw restless on
his sandy couch. lie clianj^ed his position a dozen times, th(>n
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 nothin<f to be done, 1 think," she answered, quietly.
" Wo may see a boat ; but hardly anybody ever comes alon^^ the
clUl's. We mij^ht shout, thou/^h."
They did so until they were hoarse; but there was no re-
sponse ; and the tide came creepinitj up over the sand.
" How calm it is ! " Both ob.served.
He looked at her curiously. "I don't believe you're a bit
afraid," he said. "7'm in a dosp(>rate 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<c to s<H)op out foolholes with bis bunds, by which
tliey niij,'bt climb up; but the elVort was futib', tlu; soft shale
cnnubled as he scooped, and tla^re was no bold to be bad on it.
His face bud g'rown gray in the last few minutes, and bis eyes
were strained and un.xious.
'■ I wonder how you feel," IJetii said. "I tlnnk I resent the
fate tliut llirtatc'us us inor<( than 1 fear it. If my life must end
now. it will be so unlinislied."
lie made no reply, and she stood looking out to sea, thought-
fully. "It's Sunday," she observed at last. "There won't be
many boats about to-day."
The water had begun to creep up on to their last refuge ; it
washed over her feet as sluj sp<)k(>, 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<mi-
mand them. One comes to me now and again like a llusb, as
that one did down there just now when I said we should not be
drowned ; but if I put a question to myself I can get no answer."
The water had crept up over their feet while they were speak-
ing. It Avas coming in at a great rate, but there were no waves
to splash them, only a sort of gentb; heave and rip))le that brought
it on insensibly, so that it bad lapped up to the clilt" behind them
before they suspected it. Beth shivered as it rose around her.
" It's a good thing 1 changed my dress," she said suddenly.
"That summer silk would certainly have been spoiled."
Alfred held her tight and looked down into her face, but said
nothing.
%
262
THE BETU BOOK.
" I'm tliinking so many tilings,'" Betli > 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, deli<?lited in
scents and in luxurious iina<,nnin<j:s, and altof,^ether fed her f(>el-
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 ><it-
ting on a rail, with her arm round Dicksie's neck, as he stood on
one side of her, Alfred being on the other, with his arm round
272
TDK BETH BOOK.
licr, support inpf licr. Tlicy were talkiii;,'' alxMif flowers ; Alfred
was ^'I'cat on growing llowtrs. TIm' vicar had j^ivcii liiin a piece
of tlie vicarage garden for Jiis own, and he was gc^ng to buihl a
little greenhouse to keej) Beth well supi)lied with bouciuets. They
wer(^ deeply engrossed in the sui)ject. and the night was exceed-
ingly dark, so that they did not notice a sailor man cihm'J) stealthily
up the field behind them on the other side of the hedge; and
crouch down near enough to hear all that they said. Certainly
that sailor man was never nior<^ at sea in liis life than he was
while he listened to their innocent prattle.
When at last Beth .said it was time to go home and they
strolled away arm in arm, xVllred and Dicksie discovered that
they were late, and Beth insisted on jjarting from them at the
field gate into the vicarage gi'ounds instead (^f letting tliem see
her safe into the street. When thev left her she hurried on down
the ])ath beside the church alone, aiul she had not taken many
steps before she was suddiMily confronted by a tall, dark man,
who made as if he would not let her pass. She stopped, startled,
and then went straight up to him boldly and peered into his face.
" Is that you, Gard ? " she exclaimed. " How dare you I "
" How dare you I " he rejoined impudently. " I've had my eye
on you for some time. I saw you out there just now in the held.
I was determined to know Avhat you were up to. There's mighty
little happens here that I don't know."
"Oh," said Beth, "so you're the town spy, are you? Well,
you're not going to spy upon me, so I warn you, Mr. Gard. The
next time I come here I'll come armed, and if I catch vou dojr-
ging me about again I'll shoot you as dead as my father's pistols
can do it. And, as it is, you shall pay for this, I promise you.
Just step aside now, you cowardly black devil, and h^t me pass.
Do you think that it's milk I've got in my veins that you come
out on a fool's errand to fi'ighten me ? "
Without a word the man stepped aside, and Beth walked on
down the path with her head in the air, and deliberately to let
him see how little she feared him.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, she went down to
the pier. Count Bartahlinsky's yacht was alongside and Gard
was on deck. He changed countenance when Beth appeared.
She ran down the ladder.
" I want to see your master," she said.
" He can't see you, miss. He's given orders that he's not to be
disturbed for no one whatsoever," Gard answered with excess of
ll
TIIK I'.HTII I'.OOK.
273
:'S ; A ] f rod
iiii a piece
to build a
cts. Tlioy
as oxcccd-
stcallliily
i('d;^(^ and
CV'rtaiiily
,11 ho was
and tlioy
'orod tliat
m\ at tlie
: tlioni see
I on down
con many
ark man,
I, startled,
) his face.
)u : "
,d my eye
tlH/fi(>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."
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WEBSTER, NY. 14580
(716) 872-4503
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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 .sch<K>l."
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 sh<me iridescent, tlie tide had turned. But
where were the boys ? Siie looked about her. Out on the sands
beyond the rocks on her right a man was wading in the water
with a net, shrimi)ing. Close at hand another was gathering
nius.sels for l)ait, and a gentleman was walking toward Ikt over
the slipi)ery rocks, balancing himself as though he found it ditli-
cult to keep his feet : but these were the only people in sight.
The gentleman was a stranger. He wore a dark -blue suit, with a
shirt of wonderful whiteness, and Beth could not help noticing
i
: H
■■ »
I
I
11
280
TYIK BETH BOOK.
how altoffptlior well drossinl lie was— too well dressed for clitnhlnpf
on the riH'ks. She noticed his dress particularly, Ix'cause w<'ll-
dressed men were rare in Kainharhour. H(^ was tall, with j^lossy
black hair, incliinnjf to curl, sli^^ht whiskei-s and mustache, hluo
eyes, and a l)riglit complexion. A woman with as much colour
would have been accused of paintin;,'-; in him it jj^ave to .some
peo]>le 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 bey<md the l)ogey of the sujx'rnatural
in psychical matt<^rs that he is still befogged, and makes uj) opin-
ions on the subject like a divine wIkmi miracles are in question
instead of searching for information like an honest philospher
whose glory it is not to prove himself right, btjt to discover the
truth.
Beth did not sleep much that night. She recalled the sigh and
19
1
i
282
THE BETH BOOK.
sol) and froslinoss of the .s<>h, 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;^'' pala<M's,
wher<' j^riLss and tree showed vivid ^freen a^'ainst white walls, and
flowi-rs st(X)d still on airless terra<'es sheddin;,'' strany;*; jx-rfuine ;
und sho also saw her new accjuaintance eoniin^ toward her, hal-
aneiny himself on the sli])pery wrack-ji-rown rocks in hoots and
thinj^s that wen' niuch to<) ;;ood for the piu'pose ; hut Alfred and
Dieksie never appeared, and were not to he found (;f her imagina-
tion. They wer*' nowhere.
She (expected to see them in chun-h next day, at least so she
assured hei-self, and then wjis surprised to lind that ther«' was no
sort of certaintv in herself lu'hind the assurance, althou'di thev
liad always hitherto heen in church. "Soinethin;,'" is dill'erent
somehow," she thotij^ht, and the i)hrjise hecanie u kind of accom-
paniment to all her thoughts.
Dieksie Avas the first peiMou she saw when she entered the
church, hut Alfred was not there, and he did not come. She wi-nt
up th(! li(dd i)ath after the service and waited ahout for Dieksie.
When Alfred wa.s detained himself Dicksic; usually came to ex-
plain ; but that day ho did not appear and they w<>re 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
d<M>s 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<dves freely, but would have scorned the acquaiut-
ance of a shopman of saintly V\U\
"Then c<^rtainly not a proper acquaintance for luy daughter,"
Mrs. Caldwell decided, with the juanner of a county lady speak-
ing to a i)ewioii whom she knows to be nobody by ])irlh. " Beth,
Avill you be good enough to tell us what you know of this
youth ? "
" I was caught by the tide on the sands one day, and he was
there, and helped me; and I always spoke to him afterward. I
thought I ought for politeness' sake," Beth answered easily.
"May I ask how that strikes you ?" Mrs. Caldwell, turning to
Mrs. Richards<m, requested to know, but did not wait for a rejdy.
" It strikes me," she proceeded, " that your husband's parish must
be in an appalling state of neglect and disorder when slander is so
rife that he loses a good pupil because an act of common polite-
ness, a service rendered by a youth on the one hand and ac-
knowledged by a young lady on the other, is described as an in-
TIIK HKTII HOOK.
285
ti'i^uo. But I still fail to s(m\" s1u> 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<l
bocn any — any presents. Hut," she adih'd hastily, to save her-
self from the wrath wliieh she saw ji^atherin;^ on Mrs. faldwell's
face, " I am sure there were not. I'm sur«' you would never hrinj^
a hreach-of-promise ca.se. I'm surt^ it luis all been a dreadful mis-
take. If Mr. Kichardson wants anythin},' of this kind done in
future, he must do it himself. I apolo;,'ize."
She uttered the last word with a i::'>^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<f contemptible, and dis-
missed him from her mind. About Alfred she could not be sure.
He might have sent letters and messages that never reachec. her.
and therefore she would not blame him ; but as the thought of
liim became an ache, she resolutely set it aside, .so that in a very
short time in that ])art of her where his image had been there
was a blank. Thus the whole incident ended like a light extin-
guished, as Beth acknowledged to herself at last. " It is curious,
though," she thought; "but I certainly knew it in mj'self all
along from the moment the change came, if only I voidil have
got at the knon'lcihjcy
As a direct result of her separation from Alfred, Beth entered
upon a bad phase. The simple .satisfaction of her heart in his
company had kept her sane and healthy. With such a will as
hers, it had not been hard to cast him out of her anticipations;
but witli liim there went from her life that wholesome companion-
ship of boy and girl which contains all the hapjjiness necessary
for their immaturity, and also .stimulates their growth in every
way by holding out the alluring prospect of the fulfilment of
those hopes of their being toward which their youth should aspire
from the first, insensibly, but without pause. Having once known
this companionship, Beth did not thrive without it. She had no
other interest in its place to take her out of herself, and the time
hung heavy on her hands. With her temperament, however,
more than a momentary pause was impossible. Her active mind,
being bare of all expectation, soon began to sate itself upon vain
imaginings. For the rational plans and pursuits she had been
accustomed to make and to carry out witli the boys, she had
nothing to substitute but dreams, and on these .she lived, finding
an idle distraction in them, until the habit grew disproportionate,
THE BETU BOOK.
2S7
1 1'
iliod into
vith lier,
go. She
I became
none of
or in tlio
f liini at
'u I'isc to
ibt it she
and dis-
be sure,
'hec. l"or.
ouglit of
n a very
en there
lit extin-
eurious,
yself all
fhl have
entered
t in his
will as
)ations ;
panion-
pcessary
n every
nent of
d aspire
known
had no
he time
owever,
e mind,
on vain
id been
he had
finding
tionate,
and beg'an to threaten the fine balance of her other faculties: her
reason, her power of accurate observation, and of assiuiilatin<^
every scrap of knowledge that came in her way. To fill up lier
empty days, she surrounded herself witli a story, amonj,'- the
crowdiujT^ incidents of which she lived, whatever she miji-ht be
doinf^. She had a lover who fre([ueuted a wonderful dwelliufjf on
the otiier side of the headland that bounded Rainharbour Hay on
the north. He was rich, dark, handsome, a mysterious man, with
hor.ses and a yacht. She was his one thou<,dit, but they did not
meet often because of their eneujies. lie was enyagcMl upon some
dilllcult and danj^erous work for the g-ood of mankind, and she
liad many a midni^dit ride to warn him to beware, ami many a
^vild adventure in an open boat, g'oiiij,' out in the dark for news.
But there were hai)py times, too, when they lived to^etlicr in tliat
handsome house hidden amon<^ the ilow(!i-s behind the headland;
and at lught she always slept with her head on his shoulder. Ho
had a confidential ajrent, a doctor, whom he sent to her with
letters and mes.sages, because it was not safe for him to ai>i)ear
in the public streets himself. This man was just like the
one she had met on the rocks, and his clothes were always too
good for the occasion. His name was Angus Ambrose Cleve-
land.
Just at this time Charlotte Hardy, the daughter of a doctor
who lived next door to the Benyou Dower House, fell in love
with Beth, and began to make much of her. Beth had ncn'er had
a girl companion before, and although she rather looked down on
Charlotte, she enjoyed the novelty. They were about the same
age, but Charlotte was smaller than Beth, less precocious, and
better educated. She knew things accurately that Beth had only
an idea of; but Beth could make more use of a hint than Char-
lotte could of the fullest information. Beth resp( 'ted her knowl-
edge, however, and suffered pangs of humiliatioji when she com-
pared it to her own ignorance ; and it was l)y way of having
something to show of equal importanc<> that she gradually fell
into the habit of confiding her romance to Charlotte, who listened
in perfect good faith to the fascinating details which Beth poured
forth from day to day. Beth did not at first intend to imjjose on
her credulity, but when she found that Charlotte in her sim))licity
believed the whole story, she ada{)te(l her into it and made her as
much a part of it as Hector, the hero, aiul Dr. Angus Ambrose
Cleveland, the confidential agent on whom their safety depended.
Charlotte was Beth's confidante now, a post which had hitherto
288
THE BETH BOOK.
been vacant ; so the whole macliinery of tlio romance was com-
pl(;t(' and in excellent order.
'• It's queer I never see the doctor about," Charlotte said one
day, when they were out on the cliffs together.
Bctii hajjpened to look up at the niouient and saw her ac-
quaintance of the rocks coming' toward them.
"Your curiosity will he gratified," she said, " for there he is."
"Where ?" Charlotte demanded in an excited undertone.
" Ai)proaching," Beth answered calmly.
" Will he speak ?" Charlotte asked in a breathless whisper.
" He will doubtless make me a sign,"' Beth replied.
When he was near enough, the gentleman recognised Beth,
and smiled as they passed each othei*.
"Oughtn't he to have taken off his hat ?" Charlotte asked.
"He means no disrespect,'' Beth an.swered with dignity. "It
is safer so. In fact, if you had not been my confidante, he would
not have dared to make any sign at all."
"Oh, then he knows I am your confidante I " Charlotte ex-
claimed, nnich gratified.
" Of coui-se," said Beth. "I have to keep tliem informed of all
that concerns me. I brought you here to-day on i)urpose. I
shall doubtless have to ask you to take letters, and you could not
deliver them if vou did not know the doctor bv sight. Tliere is
the yacht," she added, as a beautiful white-winged ves.sel swept
round the headland into the bay.
" O Beth I aren't you excited ? " Charlotte cried.
" No," Beth answered quietly. " You see I am used to these
things."
" Beth, what a strange creature you are I " said Charlotte, with
respect. " One can see that there's .something extraordinary about
you, but one can't tell what it is. You're not pretty — at least /
don't think so. I asked papa what he thought, and he said you
liad your points, and a .s(miething beyond, which is irresistible.
He couldn't explain it, tlK)Ugh ; but I know what he meant. I
always feel it when you talk to me ; and I believe I could die for
you. There's Mrs. Warner Benyon out again," .she broke off to
observe. " Papa was called in to see her the other day. lie isn't
their doctor, but she avjis taken ill suddenly, so they sent for
him because he was at hand ; and he .says her shoulders are like
alabjister."
Beth pursed up lier mouth at this, but made no answer. When
she got home, however, she I'epeated the observation to her mother
f1
I
TnE BETH BOOK.
289
with
^bout
ast /
you
tible.
t. I
e for
If to
isn't
for
like
l^hen
kUer
in order to ask hor wliat a]ti])ast<'r was exactly. Mi*s. Caldwell
iluslied iiulir,niantly at tiic story: "If Dr. Hardy speaks in that
"Way of his patients to his famil}' he won't succeed in his profes-
sion," she declared. "A man who talks about his jjatients may be
a clever doctor, but he's sure n<»t to be a nice man — not hi^h-
minded, you know — and certainly not a wise on«>. RenuMubcr
that, ^^ th, and tiike my advice : don't have anytbing to do with
a ' talkinjT^ doctor' " — a recommendation which Betli remembered
afterward, but only to note the futility of warninjj'-s.
Matters became very complicated in the story as it proceeded.
It was all due to .some Spanish imbro}i;'lio, Beth said. Hector ran
extraordinary risks, and she was not too safe hei-self if thinf,'-s
went wvon^^ Tbere were implicating documents, and emi.s.saries
of the Jesuits were on the lookout.
One day, Cbarlotte's mother hvmrr away from home, Beth
asked her mysteriously if she could conceal someone in her room
at night unknown to ber father.
" Easily," Charlotte answered. " lie never comes up to my
room."
"Then you must come and ask mamma to let me spend the
day and night with you to-morrow," Beth said. "I shall bave
business wbich will keep me away all day; but I shall retui-n at
dusk, and then you nuist smuggle me up to your room. We shall
be obliged to sit uj) all night. I don't kjiow wliat is going to hap-
pen. Are the servants safe ? If I should be betrayed "
"Safe not to tell you are there," said Charlotte; "and tbat is
all they will know. They won't tell on me. I never t<'ll on
them."
The next morning early. Charlotte arrived in Orchard Street,
with a face full of grave importance, and obtained Mrs. Caldwell's
consent to take Betii back with her; but instead of liaving to go
home to spend the day alone waiting for Betb, as she had ex-
pected, she was sent out some distance along tbe clitfs to a liigh
hill, which .she climbed by I^eth's direction. Sbe was to hide ber-
self among the fir trees at the top, and watch for a solitary rider
on a big brown horse, wbo would pa.ss on the road below between
noon and sun.set, if all went well, going toward the headland.
" /sball be that rider," Betb said solemnly. "And tbe moment
you see me, take this blue missive and place it on the Flat Rock,
with a stone on it to keep it from blowing away; then go home.
If I do not appear before sunset, here is a red missive to ])lace on
the Flat Rock instead of the blue one, which must then be de-
(I
290
TITE BETH BOOK.
stroycd by firo. If I return, I n-turn ; if not, iiovcr broatlio a
word of tlu'se things to ii living soul Jis you value your life."
"I would rather die than divulge anything," Charlotte pro-
tested solemnly, and her choice of the word divulge seemed to
add considerably to the; dignity of tlie proceedings.
They separated with a casual n«»d that people might not sus-
pect them of anything imporUmt, and each proceeded to act her
part in a delightful state of excitement; but what was thrilling
earnest to Charlotte, calling for courage and endurance, was
merely an exhilarating play of the fancy put int(i practice to
Be h.
By the time Charlotte arrived at the top of the hill and had
settled hei'self among the firs overlooking the road below she was
very tired. Beth had given her a bag, one of Aunt Victoria's
many reticules, with orders not to open it before her watch began.
The bag had ])een a burden to carry, but Charlotte was repaid for
the trouble, for she fouiul it full of good things to eat and a bottle
of cold colfee and cream to drink, with lumps of sugar and all
complete. Beth had really displayed the most thoughtful kind-
ness in packing that bag. The contents she had procured on a
sudden impulse from a pastry cook in the town b}' promising to
pay the next time she passed.
After having very much enjoyed a solid Melton Mowbraj' pie,
a sausage in puff pastry, a sponge cake, a lemon cheese cake, and
two crisp brandy snaps, and slowly sipped the coflFeo, Charlotte
felt that this was the only life worth living, and formally vowed
to dedicate herself forever to the Secret Service of Humanity,
Beth's name for these enterprises. She kejit a careful eye on the
road below all this time, and there ran through her head the
while fragments of a ballad Beth had written, which added very
much to the charm of the occasion.
Tlie fir trues wliisper overhead.
Between the li\ ill;,' and tlie dead,
I wuteli tlie liveluiijf day.
I wntoh updn the mountain side
For one of eourage true and tried
Who .should ride by this way,
it began. "When she first heard that Beth had written tliat ballad
Charlotte was astonished. It was the only assertion of Beth's she
had ever doubted ; but Beth assured her that any one could write
verses, and convinced her by " making some up " there and then
on a subject which she got Charlotte to choose for her.
1'---
THE BETH BOOK.
291
Many thinpcs passed on the road below: teams of wa{?oTis,
with flossy eoats well-cared
road
lorse;
id
lie
Ito
in
drawn by beautiful big cart 1
for, tossing their heads and rattling the polished brasses of their
liarness proudly, signs of successful fanning and atUuence ; smart
carriages with what Beth called "silly-f(K>l ladies gtMnl for noth-
ing" in them; a carrier's cart; pedestrians innumerable; and
then — then, at last, a solitary l»ig brown h(»rse ridden at a steady
canter by a slender girl in a brown habit (worn b}' her mother
in her youth, and borrowed from her wardrobe without permis-
sion for the occasion). The horsii was a broken-dt)wn racer, with
some spirit left, which Beth had hired as she had pnK'ured the
provisions, on a promise to ])ay. In jjassing she waved a white
liandkerchief carelessly, as if she were llicking Hies from the
horse, but irifliunf rvhntting Jirr sjxrd. This was the signal
agreed upon. Charlotte, glowing with excitement and greatly re-
lieved, watched the adventurous rider out of sight ; then trudged
ofT bravely to the Flat Rock, miles away behind the far pier,
where she lo\-ally deposited the blue missive. The red one .she
destroyed by fire, according to orders.
Beth had war'ied her that she would be tir(>d to death when
she got in, and had better snatch some repose in prejiaration for
the night.
" But if I oversleep myself and am not on the lookout for you
when you come, what will you do ?"' Charlotte objected.
" Leave that to me," .said Beth.
And Charlotte did accordingly with perfect confidence.
When she awoke, the room was dark ; but there was a motion-
less figure sitting in the window, clearly silhouetted against the
sky. Charlotte, who expected surprises, was pleasantly startled.
" Is all safe in the west, sister ?" she said softly, raising hei-self
on her elbow.
"Yes," was the reply; "but clouds are gathering in the north.
Our hope is in the east. Let us i)ray for the sunrise. You left
the letter ? "
"Yes. As fast as I could fly, I went."
"Ah, then it will be gone by this lime I" Beth ejaculated with
conviction. The Flat Rock was ojilv uncovered at low water,
and now the tide was high. "Can you get me some food, little
one, for I am famished ?" she proceeded. "I have had nothing
since the morning, and have ridden far and have done much."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" said Charlotte. "And you got me
such good things I "
ii
292
THE BETH BOOK.
"Ah, that was different," Beth rejoined.
Chjirlott(! stole downstairs. Iler father had been out seeing his
patients all day, and had not troublcnl about her.
She returned with chicken and ham, cold apple tart and creatn,
and a little jug of cider.
Poor Beth, accustomed to the most uninteresting food, and not
enough of that, was so exhau.sted l)y lier long fast and arduous
hiboui's that she found it dillicult to restrain her tears at the siglit
of such good tilings. She ate and drank with seemly self-n'straint,
liowever; it would havi; lowered her much in her own estimation
if she had showed any sign of the voracity she felt.
Then the watch began. Having wrapped themselves up in
their walking things to be ready for any emei-gency, they locked
th<> door and opimed the window softly. They were in a room
at the top of the house, which, being next door to the Benyons,
commanded tlie same e.\f<>nsive view down the Front Street and
a bit of Rock Street and the Back Street, and up Orchard Street
on the left to the church. They were watching for a sailor in a
smart yachting suit, a man-of-war's num with bare feet, and a
priest in a heavy black cloak. Beth, greatly refreshed and stimu-
lated by her supper and the cider, f(^l] into her most fascinating
mood; and Charlotte listened, enthralled, to wonderful descrip-
tions of places she had visited with Hector, sights she had seen,
and events she had taken part in.
" But how is it you are not mi.ssed from home when you go
away like that ?" said Charlotte.
"How is it I am not missed to-niglit ?" Beth answered.
"When you are fully initiated into the Secret Service of Hunum-
ity j'ou will find that things happen in a way you would never
suspect."
" I suppose it is all right and proi)er being .so much alone with
single gentlemen," Charlotte just ventured.
"All things are right and proper so long as you do nothing
wrong," Beth answered sententiously.
Lights began to move from room to room in the houses about
tliem, gigantic shadows of people appeared on white window
blinds ill fantastic poses; and there was much moving to and fro
as they prepared for bed. Then one by one the lights went out,
and in the little old-fashioned window panes the dark brightness
of tlie sky and the crystal stars alone were reflected. It was a
fine clear night ; the gas burned brightly in the quiet streets ; there
was not a soul stirring.
THE BETH BOOK.
293
" Isn't it exquisite ? " sjiid Beth, siiillin^' tlio sweet air. '' 1 am
glad I was l)orii, if it is only for llie sake of heinj; alive at iu;,'iit."
After this they were silent. Then, hy detrrees, the desire for
sleep hecanie imperative, and they hoth surt'ered aentely in their
efforts to resist it. Finally Charlotte was vaiuiui.shcd, and I^eth
made her lie down on the hed. As she dropped otl", she Siuv Befh
sittin<f rij.,^idly at the open window; wlicn she av.-oke it was
brir^ht dayli^'ht, and Beth wtus .still there, in exactly the sjinie
attitude.
"Beth," she exclaimed, "you are superhuman I"
"Ah," said Belli, with a mysterious smile, " when you have
learned to listen to the whispi-rs of the ni<;hl. and know wliat
they si<rnify, as I do, you will not wtmder. MarveUous thin<,'s
have been happeninj,' while you slept."
"0 Beth:" said Charlotte reproachfully, "why didn't you
wake me ? "
"I was forbidden," Beth answered .sadly. "But now watch
for me. It is your turn, and I must .sleep. A yacht's man or a
man-of-war's man with bare feet, remember."
Beth curled herself up on the bed, and Charlotte. v(M'y weary
and aching all over, but sternly determined to do her duty, took
her place in the window. She had her reward, however, and
when Beth awoke she found her all on the alert, for she had st't-n
the yacht's man. He came up the street and Inmg about a little,
pretending to look at the shops, then walked away l)riskly, which
showed Charlotte that the plot was thickening, and greatly ex-
cited her. Beth smiled and nodded, as though well satisfied,
when she heard the new.s, but preserved an enigmatical silence.
Then Charlotte went downstairs, aiul smuggled her up such a
good breakfast — fried ham, boiled eggs, hot rolls with plenty of
butter, and delicious colFee— that the famishing Beth was fain to
exclaim with genuine enthusiasm :
" In spite of all the diiliculty, danger, and jirivation we have
to endure in the Secret Service of Humanity, Ciiarlotte. is there
anything to Qqnul the delight of it ? "
And Charlotte solemnly asseverated that there was not.
Much stinuiluted by lier breakfast, Beth took leave of Charlotte.
She nuist be ahme, she .said ; she had much to thiidv about. She
went to the farther shore to be away from everybody. She wanted
to hear what the little waves were saying to the sand as they rip-
pled over it. It was another gray day, close and still; and the
murmur of the calm sea threw her at once into a dreamy state,
il
1, <• '— *■
2U4
THE BETH BOOK.
full of ploasurablo excitement. She hid lierself in a spot most
soothiiiff fi'om its Jij)parent r<>inotenes.s, a sandy cove from wliicli,
because of the projcctinj,'' clilfs on cither hand, neitlier town nor
cojist could he seen, hut only the sea and sky. Althou^'h the f^ray
"W'jis uniform enou;;h to nuike it impossible to tell where cloud
met water on the horizon, it was not dull, ])ut luminous with
the sunshine it infolded, and full of colour in line f^nidations. as
Beth beheld it. She sat a lon<j time on the warm dry sand, with
her chin restinj^ on her knees and her hands clasped round them,
not j^azin^ with se<!ing eyes nor listening with open ears, but ap-
preliending through her further faculty the great harmony of
Nature, of which sh<; herself was one of the triumphant not<'s. At
that moment she tasted life at its best and fullest, life all ease and
grace and beauty, without regret or longing — perfect life, in that
she wanted nothinff more. But she rose at last, and, still gazing
at the sea, slowly unclasped her waist belt and let it fall on the
sand at her feet ; then she took her hat off, her dress, her boots
and .stockings, everything, and stood, ivory-white, with bright
brown wavy luur, against the lilac grayness under the tall dark
clilFs. The little waves had called her, coming up closer and
closer, and fascinating her, until, yielding to their allurements,
she went in among them, and floated on them, or lay her length
in the shallows, letting tliem ripple over her, and make merry
about her, the gladdest girl alive, yet with the rapt impassive
face of a devotee whose ecstasy is apart from all that acts on mere
flesh and makes expression. All through life Beth had her mo-
ments, and they were generally such as this, when her higher self
was near upon release from its fetters, and she arose an interval
toward oneness with the Eteriud.
But on this occasion she was surprised in lier happy solitude.
A troop of what Mrs. Caldwell called "connnon girls" came sud-
denly round the clilt' into her sheltered nook, with shouts of
laughter, also bent on bathing. Beth plunged in deeper to cover
lierself the moment they appeared ; but they did not expect her to
have anything on, and her modesty was lost upon them.
" How's the water ? '' they shouted.
" Delicious," she answered, glad to find them friendly.
They undressed as they came along, and were very soon, all of
them, i)laying about her, ducking and splashing each other, and
Beth also, including her sociably in their games. And Beth, as
was her wont, responded so cordially that she was very soon head-
ing the manoeuvres.
TIIK HETII HOOK.
295
.
"Wo shall all bo ill if wo stay in any lonpT." slio said at last.
*' I shall lako ono more dij) and g-o and dross. Lot's all tako hands
and dip in a row."
Thoy did so, and thon, still hand in hand, scaniporod up on to
tho hoaoh.
" My I " ono of thoni exolainiod, wIkmi thoy canio to thoir clothes
and had brokon tho lino ; '* My '. ain't slw nice I "
Then all tho other j,nrls stood and stared at Beth, whose lino
limbs and satin-.smooth, white skin, so ditfon-nt in colour and
texture from their own, drew from them the most candid expres-
sions of admiration.
Beth, covered with confusion, hurried on a {rarment all wet as
she wa.s, for she had no towel ; and then, in order to distract their
attention from her person, she began to disi)lay her mind.
"Eh, I have had a good time! "one of the girls exclaimed.
" Let's come again often."
" Let us form a secret society," .said Beth, "and I v.ill bo your
leader, and we'll have a watchword and a sign ; and when the
■water is right I'll send the word round, and then we'll start out
unobserved and meet here, and ])athe in secret."
" My, that would be line I '' tho girls agreed.
" But that's not all," said Beth, standing with her chemise only
lialf on, oblivious of everything now but her subject. " It would
be much better than that. There would be much more in it. We
could meet in the fields bv moonlight, and I would drill vou and
show you a great many things, all for the Secret Service of Hu-
manity. You don't know what we're dicing I We're going to
make the world just like heaven, and everybody will be good and
beautiful, and have enough of everything, and we shall all be
liappy because nobody will care to be hai)i)y unless evor^'body
else has b(»en made so. But it will be very hard work to bring it
about. The wicked people are doing all thoy can to ])rovent us,
and the devil himself is fighting against us. Wo sliall conquer,
however, and those who are first in the fight will be firet for the
glory!"
The girls, some standing, some sitting, most of them with noth-
ing on, remained motionless while she sj)oke, not understanding
much, yet so moved by the power of her personality that when
she exclaimed, " Well, what do you say, girls, will you join?''
they all exclaimed with enthusiasm, " We will ! we will ! "
And then they made haste to dress, as if the millennium could
be hurried liere by the rate at which they put on their clothes.
29G
THE HKTII BOOK.
Beth then and tlioro coinposi'd ji tcrriblo oatli, binditipf tlicm to
secrecy and obedience, and swore tliein all in solemnly. Tiien
she chose one for her orderly, who was to take ronnd the word <»n
occasion, and they were all to n»e<'t again in the lields behind tho
chtu'ch on Satnrday at eiyht o'clock.
l>ut in the meantime not a word !
lietli made Charlotte captain of the band, and drills, bathinf^
rites, and other mysteries were regularly conducted, the girls being
bound together more .securely by the fascination of lieth's dis-
cours<'S and the continual interest she managed to inspire than
by any respect they had for an oath. Beth's interest in tiu-m ex-
tended to the smallest detail of their lives. She knew which
would be abst'ut from drill because it was wa.shingday, and which
was weak for want of fo()d : and she resumed her jioaching h;»l)its
— only on Uncle James Patten's estiite, of course— and, having
beguiled a gunsmith into letting her have an air gun on credit,
she managed to snare and shoot birds enough to relieve their
necessities to an ai)i)reciable extent. She never let any one into
the secret of those supplies, and the mystery added greatly to her
credit with the girls.
That .season .some frieiuls of the Benyons ])rought their boys to
stay at Kainharbour for the holiday.s, and Beth varied her other
pursuits by raml)Iing about with them, Lady Benyon having seen
to it that she made their acquaintance legitimately, for the old
huly shrewedly suspected that Beth was already beginning to at-
tract attention. From her post of ob.servation in the window she
liad seen young men turn in the .street and look back at the .slen-
der girl, in spite of her short petticoats, with more interest than
many a maturer figure aroused ; and she had heard that Beth
Caldwell was already much di.scussed. Beth's brother Jim, when
he came home that summer, also began to introduce her to his
young men friends in the neigh])ourliood, so that verj- soon Beth
liad quite a little court about her on the pier when the band
played. She liked the boys, and the young men she found an
absorbing .study ; but not one of them touched her lieart. Her
acquaintance with Alfred had made lier fa.stidious. He liad liad
sense enougli to respect lier, and his companionship had given
lier a fine foretaste of the love that is ennobling, the love that
makes for high ideals of character and conduct, for fine purpose,
spiritual power, and intellectual development — the one kind worth
cultivating. In these more sophi.sticated youths slie found noth-
ing soul-sustaining. She philandered with some of them up to
Tin-: UKTII BOOK.
2'j;
ut-
ile
n-
|an
th
ICJl
lis
th
ul
in
er
xd
n
at
;e,
Ith
r
to
tho point whore comparisons hcconio inovitahlo, and so lony as
tlicy ni«'t lirr in a spirit of traiik ntiH<tv(i<lcri<\ it was a>rrr«'iii(l(»
t>nou;,'^h ; but wiicii. with tlicir CDinmoiiitlacr minds, tlicy pi-t'stMiu>d
to Im' sentiiiH'iit.il tlu'y bccanu' intolri-ahlc Still, tlir ^low wan
there in her breast often and often, and wouM be momentarily
directed toward one and another; but tlie briv'htness if it only
showed the defeets in each, and so she reiii;unei| in <><.- *..tli lovo
alone. Jind the jxtwer of ])assion in her. lliwarleil. was ti\tii>iiiuted
into mental (•ner^'^y.
But r>eth learned a j,'ood deal from hei- youn;^' men that suni-
nior — learned her own power, for one tliin<,'', when she found that
she could twist thi' whole lot of them I'ound her little linj^'er if she
chose. The thin;;' ai)out theui that interested hei' imtst, however,
WHS their p(jint of view. She found one li-ait coumioii to all of
them when they talked to her, and that was a certain assumption
of superiority which impres.sed her very much at lirst. so that she
was prej)ared to accej)t their opinions as conliileiitly as they pive
them ; and they always had on«' ready to ij-ive on no matter w hat
subjt'ct. Beth, perceivin;.,^ that this superiority was not innate,
tried to discover how it was juupiired. tliat she mi^ilit cultivate it.
Gatherin<^ from their attitude toward her ig'norancc that it rested
somehow on a knowled^'e of the Latin ^j-rammar. she hunted up
an old one of her brother's, and opened it with awe, so much
seemed to dejiend on it. Verbs and declensions c;inie easily
enou^ifh to her. however. The construction of the laii;ru;iL;-e was
puzzlin;^ at the outset, but with a little help she soon discovered
tliat even in that there was nothing,'' occult. Any industrious,
pei'severing' ])erson could learn a lanpfua^re. she decided ; and then
she made more observations. She discov<'red that, in the estima-
tion of men, feminine attril)utes are all inO'rior to masculine attri-
butes. Any evidence of reasonin;^ capacity in a woman they held
to be abiiormal, and they denied that women were ever lo^rical.
They had to allow that women's intuition was oft-n .-iccurate. but
it was inferior, nevertheless, they maintained, to man's uncertain
reason; and such (jualities as were undeniable they managed to
discount, as, for instance, in the matter of endnr.inci-. If women
were lonjf endurin;;'. they said, it was not because their foi-tituih;
was gfreater, but because they were le.ss sensitive to suH'erinir, and
so in point of fact suffered less than men would under the cir-
cumstances.
This persistent endeavour to exalt themselves liy lowering
women struck Beth as mean, and made her thouf^^htful. She be-
20
208
TiiK lurni I'.ooK.
pill l)y resiM'ctinjT (lu-ir masculine iiiinds us much as tlioy did
tlM'insj'lvcs; but IIm'U came a doubt if tlioy woro any larger and
more capable than llie minds of women would b«' if tlu^y were
pi'ftperly trained and developed; and she be'^an to dip into tho
books (hey jn'ided themselves on having read to see if they wero
j)ast her comprehension. She studied l'oi>es ti'anslation of (ho
Jli<((l and Odifsscif indoors, and she also took the little volume out
under her arm ; but this was u pose, for slie could not read out of
doors, there were always .so many other interests to occupy lier
attention l)irds and beasts, men and women, trees and llowers,
land and water- all much more entrancinH" t''!'" <•>*' JHod or
()<lysn<if. Lonf,' years afterward she returned to these old-world
works with keen ai)preciation, and wondered at iicr ' irly >(df;
but when she i-<'ad them lirst she took their meanin<>- too I'li't.illy
and soon wearied of warlike heroes, however ^-reat a number of
their fellow-creatures they mi-rht slay at a time, and of chattel
heroines, liowever beautiful, which was all that Homer conveyed
toiler; nor did slie find herself elat(>d b} her knowledjre of tln'ir
exploits. She n(»tic"d, liov(>ver, tiiat the acquisition of such
knowled<^e in.po.sed ujoni the boys and ^^•lined her a reputation
for cleverness which nuide the yoiu'j, university i)i'i^'"s think it
worth t' ir whilo to talk to her. They hitd failed to discov(M' her
?iatin'a! pow. rs because tliero was no one to tell them she had
any and <hey only Ihouylit wliat they were t<dd to think about
peo])le and Ihinjjs, and admired what th<>y were told to admire.
In this l?(>tti diil'ered from them widely, for she bc<ran by having
tjistes of her own. She did not believe that they enjoyed Homer
a bit more tlian she did, but the rig'ht pose was to pretend that
they did ; so they posed and i)retended. accordinj^ to order, and
Beth posed and pretended, too, just to se(; what would come of it.
It was a younfj: tutor in cliar<,''e of a readinj'!' party wlio helped
Beth with the Latin <,^rannnar. He manaj^^'d to ingratiate himself
with Mrs. Caldwell, and came often to the liouse, and linally lie
began to teach Beth Latin at her own rccjuest and with the consent
of her mother. The lessons had not gone on very long, however,
before he tried to insinuate into his teaching some of the kind
»)f sophistries which anotl'<'r tutor had imposed by way of moral
l)hilosophy on Rousseau's ^ladame (ie Warens in her girlhood to
her undoing. This was all new to Beth, and she listened with
great interest; but she failed utterly to see why not believing in
a god sliould mawo it right and proper for lier to embrace the
tutor; so the lessons ended abruptly. Beth profited largely by
THE T^FTII noOK.
200
out
ire.
ing
HIT
uit
lid
it.
)e(l
S(>lf
lie
sent
•or,
ind
iral
1 to
■ith
in
tlie
by
the acquainlunce, liowrvcr not ho inudi at the time, pn-liaps, as
afterward, when s\w was older and iiad trained i\no\vle«l;rt' eiioijo-h
of men of various kinds to enal)Ie her to compare and rrllei't. It
was her Ih'st iiitnuhietion to the ('omiiiniiplaee eU'verness of tlie
ueademic mind the mere acquisitive faculty \vhi<'h lives on pil-
laj^e, (>ri;^''ii>'ites notliin;^ itself, and, as a rule, fails to understand,
let alone appreciate, orij^'inality in otheis. The younj; tutor's am-
l)ition was to be one of a sliininj,'' literary elicpie of extraordinary
cheapness \Nhich had just then ln'^^nm to he ft»rmed. The taint of
a llippant wit was common to all its memh(M's. and their assurance
was unliounded. They uiidertoolv to extin;,'-uish anylxxly with a
few line phrases, and in their cone«Mted irr«'Verence they even
attacUt^d eternal |)rinciples — the sotu'ces <»f tlu' best inspiratiiui of
all aj^es, and pronounced sentence upon them. Repute of a kind
they j^ained, hut it was hy ^^lih falsilications of all that is nol)lo
in sentiment, thouylit, and action, all that is gocjd and true. It
was the contraction of her own heart, the chill and duliiess that
settled upon her when she was with this man, as compared to the
glow and exiiansion, the relea.s*' of her liner faculties, which she
had always experienced when under the inlluenco of Aunt Victo-
ria's simple (goodness, that lirst put Beth in the way <»f observing
how inferior in force and charm mere intelle<t is U> spiritual
power, and how soon it bores, even when brilliant, if unaccom-
I)anied by other endowments, qualities of heart and soul, such as
constancy, loyalty, truthful nes.s, and that scrupulou.s honesty of
action which answi'rs to what is exi)ected lus well as to what is
known of us.
Beth played very diligently at learning during this experi-
ment, but only jjlayed for a time. The mind in process of foj-m-
ing itself involuntarily rejects all that is unneces.sary, and that
kiiul of knowledge was not for her. It opened up no prospect of
pleasure in itself. All she cared to know was what it felt like to
liave master<>d it, and that she arrived at by resolving herself into
a lady of great attainments, who talked altogether about things
she had learned, but had nothing in her mind besides. .V mind
with nothing else in it, in Beth's sense of the \:ord, was to Beth
what plainness is to beauty : so, while many of her contemporaries
were stultifying themselves with (Jreek and Latin ingenuities, she
pursued the cultivation of that in herself which is beyond our or-
dinary apprehension ; that which is more potent than knowledge,
more fertilizing to the mind; that by which knowledge is con-
verted from a fallow field into a fruitful garden. Altogether apart
300
THE BETH BOOK.
from her spocial subjoct, she learnod only onoug-h of anythinf^ to
express herself; l)ut it was extraordinary how aptly she utilized
all that was necessary for \nn' purpose, and how invarial)ly sho
found wha* she wanted — if found he the ri<,''ht word, for it was
rather as if inforniation were Hashed into iier mind from some
out,sid(i a<^ency at critical times, when sho could not possibly have
done without it.
One sad consc^iuence of her separation from Alfred and the
stran^il'e thing's she did aiul dreamed for distraction in the um'(\st
of her mind was a change in her constitution. Her first line Hush
of health was ovei', the equability of her temper was disturbed,
and she became subject to hysterical outbursts of garrulity, to fits
of moody silence, to appartnitly causeless i)aroxysms of laughter
or tears, and she was always anxious. She had n'al cause for
anxiety, however, for in her eti'orts to realize her romance to
Charlotte's satisfaction she had run up little bills all over the
place, and what would aaj)pen when they were presented, as they
certainly would be sooner or later, she dared not think ; but the
dread of the moment preyed upon her mind to such an extent that
whenever she heard a knock at the door she entreated (lod to
grant that it nught not be a bill ; and even when tluu'e were no
knocks she went on entreating to be spared, and worked herself
into such a chronic fever of worry that she was worn to a shadow
and develoi)ed a racking cough which gave her no peace.
Just at this time, too, the whole i)lace began to be scandalized
by her vagari(>s, her mysterious expeditions on the big brown
horse, and her constant a])i)earance in pul)lic Avith a coterie of
young men about her. At a tinu^ when anything unconventional
in a girl was clear evidence of vice to all the men and most of the
w<Mnen who knew of it, Beth's reputation was ])ound to suffer, and
it became so bad at hist that Dr. Hardy forbade Charlotte to a.sso-
ciate with her. Charlotte told her with tears, and begged to be
allowed to meet her in the Secret Service of Humanity as usual,
but Beth refused. She said it was too dangerous just then, they
nuist wait, the truth being that she was sick of the Swret Service
of Humanity, of Charlotte — of everything and everybody that
prevented her hearing when there was a knock at the door, and
praying to the Lord that it might not be a bill.
The secret society was practically dissolved by this time, and
very soon afterward the catiistrophe Beth had been dreading oc-
curred and wrought a great change in her life. It hai)pened one
day when she wiis not at home. Aunt Grace Mary was so
11
)f
id
c-
16
THE BF/ni BOOK.
301
alannod by hor oniipcli a,ii<l tho dclicary of lior appcariince that
sli(^ liad braved IJn('l(> James and eurried lier oiY ti) sUiy with her
at Fairliolin for a oliauge. Once she wus away from the sound
of the kiiockg, Beth sutl'ered less, and be<,'iin to revive and be lier-
self again to the extent of taking Aunt Grace Mary into her cou-
lidence ])oUlly.
"Beth, Beth, Betli," said tliat poor, good hidy tenderly, "you
naughty girl, liovv could you I liunning in debt with nothing to
pay ; why, it isn't honest ! "
"So /think," said Beth in cordial agreement, taking herself
aside from her own acts, as it were, and considering them impar-
tially. "Help me out of this scrape, Aunt (i race Mary, and I'll
never get into such aiu)tber.*'
"But how much do you owe, Beth, dear ? "
" I'm sure I don't know," Beth answered. " I*ounds for Tom
Briggs alone."
" Who's he i " was Aunt Grace Mary's horrified exclamation.
"Oh, only the hoi-se— a dai-k bay with black iioints. I rode
him a lot, and, oh, it icas nice ! It was like poetry, like living it,
you know, like being a i«)em one's self ; and I'm glad I did it. If
I should die for it I couldn't regret it ; and I shouldn't wonder if
I did die, for I feel as if those knocks had fairly knocked me to
bits."
" Nonsense, Beth, you silly child, don't talk like that 1 " said
Aunt Grace Mary. " What else do you owe ? "
"Oh, then there's Mrs. Andrew's, the confectioner's bill "
"Confectioner's!'' Aunt Grace Mary exclaimed. "O Beth,
I never though you were greedy ! "
"Well, I don't think I am," Beth answered temperately.
" I've been very hungry, though ; but I never touched any of
those good things myself. I only got them for Charlotte wIkmi
she had heavy work to do for the Secret Service of Hu-
manity "
" The U'hat f " Aunt Grace Mary demanded.
" The game we played. Then there's the liairdresser's bill ;
that must be pretty big. I had to get curls, and plaits, and combs,
and things, besides having my hair dressed for entertainments to
which I w^as obliged to go "
" Beth, are you mad ? " Aunt Grace Maiy interrupted. " You've
never been to an entertainment in your life."
" No," Beth answered casually ; " but I've played at going to
no end of a lot."
<
302
THE BETH BOOK.
" Well, this is the most extraordinary game I ever heard of ! "
" But it was such an exciting game," Beth pleaded witli a
sigh.
" But, my dear child, such a reckless, unprincipled game 1 "
" But you don't think of that at the time," Beth assured her.
" It's all real and right then. We "
But here the colloquy was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs.
Caldwell in a state of distraction with the hairdresser's bill in
her hand. Aunt Grace Mary made her sit down, and patted her
shoulder soothingly. Uncle James was out. Beth, greatly re-
lieved, looked on with interest. She knew that the worst was
over.
"Never mind, Caroline," Aunt Grace Mary said cheerfully.
" Beth has just been telling me all about it. Confession is good
for the saints, you know, or the soul, or something ; so that's cheer-
ing. She has been very naughty, very naughty indeed; but she
is very sorry. She sincerely regrets. Hairdi'esser, did j'ou say ?
Oh, give it to me! Now, do give it to me, flicres a dear ! And
we won't have another word about it. Beth, you bad girl, be
good and say you repent."
" Say it ! " Beth ejaculated, coughing. " Look at me and
you'll see it, Aunt Grace Mary. I've been repenting myself to
pieces for months."
"Well, dear, Avell, dear," Aunt Grace Mary rejoined, beaming
blandly, " that will do ; that's enough, I'm sure. Manuna for-
gives you, so we'll have no more about it."
The hairdresser's bill was the only one Mrs. Caldwell ever
heard of. for Aunt Grace Mary got the use of her pony carriage
next day by telling Uncle James her mamma had sent Caroline
to say she particularly wished her to take Beth to see her. Uncle
James, to whom any whim of Lady Benyon's was wisdom, or-
dered the carriage for them himself; and as they drove off to-
getliea' Aunt Grace Mary remarked to Beth, " I think I managed
that very cleverly, don't you ? " Naturally estimable women are
forced into liabits of dissimulation by the uiireason of the tyrant
in autlun'itv in manv families, and Aunt Grace Marv was one of
the victims. She had been obliged to resort to these small deceits'
for so many years that all she felt about them now was a sort of
mild triumph when they were successful. " I mean to go and see
manuna. vou know, so it won't be anv storv," she added.
She went with Beth tirst, however, to the various sho])S where
Beth owed money and paid her debts ; and Beth was so overcome
THE BETH BOOK.
303
:er
by her g'pnerosity and so anxious to prove lior ropontanco that
slie l)()rr()\v»'(l sixpence more from lier and went strai;^ht\vay to
the hairdresser's and had all her pretty h;v.:r cropped otl" close
like a boy's by way of atonement. When slie ajjpeared Lady
Benyon burst out laughing, but lier mother was even more seri-
ously annoyed than she had been by the liairdresser s bill.
Beth's hair had added considerably to her market value in Mrs.
CaldwelTs estimation. She would not have put it so coarsely,
but that was what her feeling on the subject anu)unted to.
" What is to l)e done with such a child ? " she exclaimed in
despair.
"Send her to school." Aunt fJrace Mary gasi)ed.
"She would be expeHed in a month," ^Mrs. C'aldw(>ll averred.
" Possibly, but it would be worth the trial," Aunt Grace Mary
rejoined in lier breathless way.
"Yes," Ladv Benvt)n agreed. "She's been at home far too
long, running wild, and it's the only thing to be done ; but let it
be a strict school."
"How am I to afford it ?" Mrs. Caldwell wailed, rocking her-
self on her chair.
" Well, there's the Ivova.l Service School for Officers' Daugh-
ters. You can get her m there for next to nothing, and it's strict
enough," Lad}' Benyon suggestinl.
And, finally, after the loss of some more precious time, and
■with nuich relnctanc<', !Mrs. Caldwell yieUU'd to pultlic opinion
and decided to deprive Jim of Beth's little income and send Beth
to school, some new enormities of Beth's having helped consider-
ably to hasten her mother's decision.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Mrs. Caldwell's married life had been one long sacrifice of
herself, her health, her comfort, her every pU'asure, to what she
conceived to be right and dutiful. Duty and right w<M'e th(> only
two words approaching to a ndigious significance that she was
not ashamed to use; to her all the other words savoured of cant;
and even these two she pronounced without einphasis or solemni-
ty lest the sense in which she used them might be mistaken for a
piece of religiosity. Of the joy and gladness of religion the poor
lady had uo conception.
H
304
THE BETH HOOK.
Nevertliolcss, as has ulroady been said, Mrs. Caldwell was an
admirable person accordinjf to the light of her time. To us she
ai)peai-s to liave been a good woman, marred first of all by the
narrow outlook, the ignorance, and prejudices which were the re-
sult of the mental restrictions imposed upon her sex; secondly,
by having no conceptio)i of her duty to herself; and, finally, by
tho.se mistaken notions of her duty to others which were so long
inflicted u\Hm women to be their own cur.se and the misfortune of
all whom they were designed to benefit. Slie had .sacrilic<>d her
health in her early married life to what she believed to be her
duty as a wife, and .so had left herself neither nerve nor strength
enough for the never-ending tasks of the mistress of a liousehold
and mother of a family on a small income, the consequence of
which was that shortness of tcMuper and querulousness which
spoiled her husbaiurs life and made her own a burden to her. She
was highly intelligent, but had carefully preserved her ignorance
of life because it was not considered womanly to have any prac-
tical knowledge of the world : and .she had neglected the general
cultivation of her mind, partly because intelleciual i)ursui's were
a pleasure and she did not feel sulliciently self-denying if she al-
lowed herself any but exceptional pleasures, but also because
there was a good deal of her husband's work in the way of lettei'S
and official docuaients that she could do for him, and the.se left
her no time for anything but (he inevitable making aiul mend-
ing. Busy men taice a sensible amount of rest and relaxation, of
food and fresh air, aiul make good speed ; l)ut busy women look
upon outdoor exercise as a luxury, talk about wasting time on
meals, and toil on incessantly, yet with ever-diminishing strength,
because they take no time to recoup ; therefore they recede rather
than advance, so that all the extra effort but makes for leeway.
The conseijuence of Mrs. Caldwell's ridiculous education was
that her judgment was no more developed in most respects than
it had been in her girlhood, so that when she lost her husband
and had to act for her children she had nothing better to rely on
for her guidance than time-honoured conventions, which she ac-
cepted with unquestioning faith in their efficacy even when applied
to emergencies such as were never known in the earlier ages of
human evolution to which they belong<>d. She had starved her-
self and her daughters in mind and body in order to scrape to-
gether the wherewithal to send lier sons out into the world, but
she had let them go without making any attempt to help them to
form sound principles, or to teach them rules of conduct such as
I.
THE BETH BOOK.
305
IS
should keep tliem clean aiul make them worthy memhers of soci-
ety ; so tliat all her privation had been worse than vain ; it liad
been mischievous; for the boys, unaided by any selieme or com-
prehensive view of life, any knowledj^e of the meaniiig: of it to
sliow them what was worth aiming' at, and also unprotected by
positive principles, had drifted alon;^ the conunonest coui-se of
selfseekinir and self-indu]j,''ence, and were neither a comfort nor
a credit to her. However, she was satisfied that she had done her
best for them ; and, therefore, being* of tlie days wlien the wom-
an's spliere was home exclusively, and honje meant for the
most part the nursery and the kitclien, she sat inactive and suf-
fered, as was the wont of old-world women, while th«'y were sin-
ning all the sins which she especially should have taught tliem
to abhor; and witli regard to her girls, she was equally satisfied
that she had done the right thing by them under the circum-
stances. She could not have been made to comprehend that Beth,
a girl, was the one member of the family who deserved a good
chance, the only one for whom it would have repaid her to pro-
cure extra advantages; but, having at last been convinced that
there was nothing for it but to send Beth to school, she set to
work to prepare her to the best of her ability. Her own clothes
were in the last stage of shabbiness, but what money she had she
spent on getting new ones for Beth, and that, too, in order that
she might continue the allowance to Jim as long as possible. She
made a mighty ett'ort also to teach Beth all that was necessary for
the entrance examination into the school, and sewed day and
night to get the thinj^s ready — in all of which, be it said. Beth
helped to the best of her ability, l)ut without pride or pleasure,
because she had been nuide to feel that she was robl)ing Jim, and
that her mother was treating her better than she deserved ; and
the feeling depressed her so that the much-loiiged-for chance,
when it came, found her with less spirit tlian she had ever had to
take advantage of it.
"Ah, Beth," her mother said to her. s<'eing her so subdued, "I
thought you would repent when it was too late. You won't find
it so easy and delightful to have your own way as you suppose.
When it comes to leaving home and going away among strangers
who don't care a bit .about you, yon will not be very jubilant, I
expect. You know what it is when Mildred leaves home — how
she cries I ''
" Summer showers, soft, warm, and refreshing," Beth snapped,
irritated by the I-told-you-so tone of superiority, which, when her
306
THE BETH BOOK.
mother assumed it, always broke clown l»cr best resolutions and
threw lier into a state of opposition. " Mildred the Satisfactory
has tlie rig'ht tiling ready for all occasions."
The result of this encounter was an elaborate pose. In dread
of her motlier's connnents should she betray the feeling expected
of her, she set herself to maintain an unrulHed calm of demean-
our, whatever liappened.
Autumn was tinting- the woods when Beth packed up. The
day before her d<'parture she paid a round of visits— not to people
but to places, which shows how much more real tlu^ life of lier
musings was to her at that time than the life of the world. She
got up at daybreak and went and sat on the rustic seat at the ed(j;e
of the clitf where the stream fell over on to the sand, and thought
of the first sunrise she had ever seen, and of the Puritan farmer
who had come out and reprimanded her ruggedly for being there
alojie at that unseemly hour. Poor man I His little house be-
hind her was shut up and deserted, the garden he had kept so
trim was all bedraggled, neglect ruled ruin all over his small de-
mesne, and he himself was where the worthy i :'st till their return.
The thought, however, at that hour and in that heavenly solitude,
where there was no sound but the sea voice whicli filled every
pause in an xmdertone with the great song of eternity it sings on
always, did not sadden Beth, but, on the contrary, stimulated her
with some singular vague perception of the meaning of it all.
The dawn was breaking, and the spirit of the dawn all about her
possessed and drew her till she revelled in an ecstasy of yearning
toward its crowning glory — Rise, Great Sun ! When she first sat
dow^n the hollow of the sky was one dark level only, relieved by
a star or two ; but the darkness parted more rajiidly than her eyes
could appreciate, and was succeeded in the hollow it had held by
rolling clouds monotonously gray, which in turn ranged tliem-
selves in long, low downs, irregularly ribbed and all unijroken,
but gradually drawing apart until at length they were gently
riven, and the first triumphant tinge of topaz colour, pale pink,
warm and clear, like the faint Hush that shyly betrays scmie deli-
cate c7aotion on a young cheek, touched the soft gradations of the
Oil- - to warmth and brightness, then mounted up and up in
h')r. 'Is -o iht 'lenith, while behind it was breathed in the tenderest
■ I, if Oi turquoise blue, wliich shaded to green, which shaded to
<yT'rn'-.>SL ' .•', down on the horizon, where all was shining silver.
Then as the gray, so was the colour riven, and rays of light shot
up crimson Hashes of flame, which, w^hile Beth held her breath,
I
THE BETH BOOK.
30 ;
ut
>y
les
>y
r
were fast followed from the sea by tlie sun, that rose enwrapt in
their splendour, while the water below caught the line flush, and
heaved and heaved like a breast expanding- with delight into
long, de<>p sighs.
Beth threw herself face downward on the dewy grass and
cried aloud : " O Lord of Loveliness, how mighty are thy mani-
festations ! ''
Later in the day she climbed to the top of the hill where Char-
lotte had kept her faithful watch for the dark-brown horse, and
there, beneath the iirs, she sat looking out with large eyes strain-
ing far into the vague distance where Hector had been.
The ground was padded with pine needles, bryony berries
shone in the hedgerows below, and hips and haws and rowans
also rioted in red. Brambles were heavy with blue-black berries,
and the bracken was battered and brown on the steep hillside.
Down in the road a team of four horses, dappled bays with black
points and coats as glossy as satin, drawing a waggon of wheat,
curved their necks and tossed their heads till the burnished
brasses of their harness rang, and paced with pride as if they re-
joiced to carry the harvest home. On the top of the wheat two
women in coloured cotton frocks rested and sang — sang quite
blithely.
Betli watched the waggon out of sight, then rose, and turning,
faced the sea. As she descended tlu^ hill she left that dream be-
hind her. Hector, like Sammy and Alfred, passed to the back-
ground of her recollections, where her lovers ceased from trou-
bling and the Secret Service of Hunumity, suj^erseded, was no
more a living interest.
Beth went also to the farther sands to visit the spot where she
had been surprised in the water by the girls, and had become the
white priestess of their bathing rites, and taught that girls had a
strength as great as the strength of boys, but dill'erent. if only
they would do things. Mere mental and pliysical strengtii were
what Beth was thinking of; she knew nothing of spiritual force,
although she was using it hers(>lf at the time, and doing with it
what all the boys in the diocese, taken together, could not have
done. She had heard of works of the spirit, and that she should
pray to be imbued with it ; but that she herself was pure spirit
only waiting to be released from her case of clay, had never been
hinted to her.
The next day she travelled with her mother from the north to
the south, and during the whole long journey there was no break
it
308
THE BETH BOOK.
in tlie unrufflod calm of her denu'anour. Ilor mother wondcrod
at her, and was irritated, and fussed about tlie \w^<^ix<^i\ and fumed
about trains she feared to miss ; l)ut Betii kept cahn. Slie sat in
lier corner of tlie carriaj^'e lookinj^ out of the window ; and the
workl wjis a varied hindseai)e, to every beauty of wliieh slu> was
keenly alive, yet she },^ave no expression to her enthusiasm ; nor
to the discomfort she sutl'ered fi-om the August sun, which
streamed in on her tlirougli the blindless window, burning her
face for liours ; nor to her liunger and fatigue ; and wlien at last
they came to a great htiuse by the river, and her motli(M'. having
handed her over to Miss Clill'ord, the lady principal, said, some-
what tearfully, "Good-bye, Betii, I hope you will be happy here;
but be a good girl," Beth answered, "Thank you; I shall try,
mamma," and kissed lier as coolly as if it were her usual good-
night.
" We do not often have young ladies part from their mothers
so placidly," Miss Clifford commented.
" I suppose not." Mrs. Caldwell said, sighing.
Beth felt that she was behaving horribly. There was a lump
in her throat, and she would like to have shown more feeling,
but could not. Now. \vhen she would have laid aside the mask
of calmness which she had voluntarily assumed, she found her-
self forced to wear it. Falsifications of our better selves are
easily entered u])on. but hard to .shake off. They are evil things
that lurk about xis, ready but powerless to come till we call them ;
but, having been called, they hold us in their grip, and their
power upon us to compel us becomes greater than ours uj)on
them.
Mrs. Caldwell felt sore at heart when she had gone, and Beth
was not less sore. Each had been a failure in her relation t(3 the
other. Mrs. Caldwell blamed Beth, and Beth, iu her own mind,
did not defend herself. She forbore to judge.
(!
ix
CHAPTER XXX.
St. Catherine's Mansion, the Royal Service School for Offi-
cers' Daughters, had not been built for the purpose, but bought;
otherwise it would have been as uglv to look at as it was dreary
to live in. As it was, however, the house was beautiful, and so
also were the grounds about it, and the views of the river, the
TIIK BETIT ROOK.
309
bridge witli its many arches, and the gray town climbing up fioui
it to tlie height above.
I?(>tli was still stiiiuling at the top of the steps under the great
portico, where her niotlier had left her, contemplating the river,
which was the lirst that had llowcd into her expericucc".
" Come, come, my dear, couie in I " same one l)t'liind her ex-
claimed impatiently. " You're not allowed to stand there."
Beth turned anil .saw a thin, dry, miildle-aged woman, with
keen dark eyes and a sharp manner standing in the doorway be-
hind her. witii a gentlei'-lookiug lady. wh(» said: " It is a new
girl. Miss Hey. I expect siie is all bewildered."
" No, I am not at all bewildered, tiiank you."' Beth answered in
her easy way. As she spoke, she saw two grown-up gii-ls in the
hall exchange glances and smile, and wt)ndered what unusual
thing she had done.
" Then you had better come at once," Miss Bey rejoined dryly,
"and let me see what you can do. Plea.se to remember in future
that the girls are not allowed to come to this dt)or."
She led the way as she spoke, and Beth followed her acro.ss the
hall, up a broad llight of steps opposite the entrance, down a wide
corridor to the right, and then to the right again into a narrow
clas.sroom, and thrt)ugh that again into anothei- inner room.
" These are the fifth and sixth rooms," Mi.ss Bey remarked —
" fifth and sixth classes."
Thev were furnished witli long, l)are tables, forms, hard wooden
chairs, a cupboard, and a set of pigeonhoh^s. Miss Bey sat down
at the end of the table in the "sixth," with her back to tb(^ window,
and made Beth sit on lier left. There were .some books, a largo
slate, a slate pencil, and damp sponge on the table.
"What arithmetic have you done ?"' Miss Bey l)egan.
"I've scrambled through the first four rules.'" Betli answered.
"Set yotu'self a sum in each, and do it," ^liss Bey said
sharply, taking a piece of knitting from a bag she held on her
arm and l)eginning to knit in a determined manner, as if she
were working against time.
Beth took up the slate and pencil and began : but the sharp
click-click of the needles worried h(>r. iind her brain was so busy
studying Miss Bey she could not concentrate her mind u})on the
sums.
Miss Bey waited without a word, but Beth was conscious of
her keen eyes fixed upon her from time to time, and knew what
she meant.
310
THE BETH BOOK.
"Fm hurryiiip: fill I fan," sho said at last.
"You'll have to hurry more tlum y(ju can, tlion, in class," Miss
Bey remarked, "if this is your ordinary rate of worlc."
When the sums were done she took tlie shite unil tflanced over
them. " Tiiey are every one wronj^." she said, '* hut I see you know
how to work them. Now, clean the shite, and do some dictation."
She took up a hook when Betli was ready, and b<><^an to read
aloud from it. B(!th became so interested in the su])ject tliat sho
forjjfot the dictation and hurst out at last: "Well, I never knew
that before!"
"You are doin}^ dictation now," Mi.ss I^ey ob.served severely.
"All right. Go on," Beth cheerfully rejoined.
Miss Bey did not go on, however, and, on looking up to see
wliat was tlie matter, Beth found her gazing at lier with bent
brows.
" May I ask what your name is ? " Miss Bey inquired.
" Beth Caklwell."
"Then allow me to inform you, Mi.ss Beth Caldwell, that 'All
right, go on,' is not the proper way to address the liead mistress
of the Ro}'al Servict^ Scliool for Ollicers' Daughters."
" Thank you for telling me," Beth answered. " You see I don't
know these things. I always say that to mamma."
" Have you ever been to school before ?" Miss Bey asked.
"No," Beth answered.
"Oh!" Miss Bey ejaculated with peculiar meaning. "Then
you will have a great deal to learn.''
" I suppose so," Beth rejoined. " But that's what I came for,
you know — to learn. It's liigli time I began !"
She fixed her big eyes on the blank wall opposite, and there
was a sorrowful expression in them. Miss Bey noted the expres-
sion, and nodded her head several times, but there was no relaxa-
tion of her peremptory manner when she spoke again.
" Go on, ray dear," she said. " If I give as much time to the
others as you are taking I shall not get through the new girls to-
night."
Beth finished her dictation.
"What a hand!" Miss Bey exclaimed. "Wherever did you
learn to wn*ite like that ? "
"I taught myself to write small on purpose," Beth replied.
" You can get so much more on to the paper."
"You had better have taught yourself to spell, then," Miss Bey
rejoined. " There are four mistakes in this one passage."
I
THE liEXn BOOK.
;ui
Botli hiilaiirod lior potu'il on lior fiii^x'"'' with nti air of indif-
ference. Slu^ was wonderinj,' liow it was that th(! head mistress
of the Royal Service Scliool for Ollicers' Daujj^'iiters used tiie word
' vs'lierever' as tlie vulgar do.
The examination concluded witli some questions in history and
geof^raphy, whicii Beth answered mor<' or less incorrectly.
"I shall i>ut you lu'r<> in tlie sixth," Miss liry informed her;
"but rather for your size than for your acquirements. There i.s
a delicate fjirl, nmch smaller than you are. in the lii'st.''
"Then I'd rather bo myself, tall and strong, in the sixth," Beth
rejoined. " If I don't catch her up, at all events I sludl have more
pleasure in lif<', and that's something."
Again Mi.ss B(>y gazed at her; hut she was too nnich taken
aback by Beth's readiness to corn^'t her on the instant, although
it was an unaccustomed and a monstrous thing for a girl to ad-
dress a mistress in an ea.sy conver.sational way, let alone ditl'er
from her.
She took Beth to the great classroom wliere the seventh and
eighth worked, and the fifth and sixth joined them for recrcati<m
and preparation ; and where al.so the Bible lessons were given by
Miss Clifford to the whole school.
There were a good many girls of various ages in the room, who
all looked up. "This is anew girl," Miss Bey said, addressing
them generally, "Miss Beth Caldwell. Please to show her where
to go and what to do."
She glanced round keenly as she spoke, then left the room ;
and at the same time a thin, sharp-looking little girl, with short hair,
rose from the table at which she was sitting, and went up to Beth.
"I'm head of the fifth," she said. " Has Bey been examining
you ? What class did she put you in ? "
"The sixth," Beth answered.
" I should have thought you'd have been in the third at least,"
the head of the fifth piped, "you're so big. Here are some sixth
girls— Jessie Baker, Ina Formby, Rosa Bird."
The sixth girls were sitting at a round table, with their little
desks before them, writing letters. One of them pulled out a
chair for Beth. They had just returned from the liolidaj's, and
were in various stages of homesickness, some of them crying, and
the rest depressed ; but they welcomed Beth kindly, as one of
themselves, and inspected her with interest.
" You can write a private letter to-day, you know," Rosa Bird
said to Beth.
•
■•?:
!i
THE BETH IJOOK.
"What is a private letter ?" Both asked.
"One to your tiiollier, you know, tiiat isn't read. You seal it
up yourself. I'uhlie h'tt«'rs have to ho sent iu open to Miss Clif-
ford. One week you writ(! a i)ul)li<' h-tter, and the next a private
one. — Ilelh)! here's Amy Wynne !"
A dark ^^-irl of al)(»ut «'i;,''liteen liad entered hy a door at the far-
ther end of the room, and was received with acelamation, heinp
evidently popular. Heth, wlio was .still in hei- mask of ealm in-
did'ereiu'i', looked coldly on ; hut in herself she determined to ho
received like that sonu^ day.
Most of the ^f-irls in the room jumped uj), and Amy W^'imo
kissed one after tlie other, and then shook hands with Jielh.
"Are all my (diildren hack ?" she askiul.
" I don't know," Rosa Bird rejoined, glancin*,'' round. "They
are not all here."
"That's one of the moth(>rs," Rosa exjdained to Beth, wlieu
Amy Wynne had <jfone a;;ain. "The iirst-class jjfirls are mothers
to us. You walk with yt)ur mother in the {^^arden, and sit with
hei" on half holidays, and .she's awfully r,''o(Kl to you. I advise
you to be one of Amy Wynne's children if you can." She was
interrupted hy the loud ringing- of a hell in the hall. "That's for
tea," Rosa added. "Come, and I'll show you the way."
The big dining-rooui was downstaii'S in the basement, next the
kitchen. Miss Clill'ord dined in the next room attendtnl by her
maids of honour (the two girls at the top of the first class for the
time being) and the rest of the class, except the girls at the bot-
tom, who were degraded to the second-class table in the big din-
ing-room. Here each two classes had a se])arate table, at either
end of which a teacher sat on a Windsor chair. The girls had
nothing but hard benches without backs to sit on. Miss Bey, the
housekeeper (Miss Winch), and the head music mistress, irrever-
ently called Old Tom by the girls, .sat at a separate table. wher<>at
dinnertime they did all the carving and snatched what little din-
ner they could get in the intervals, patiently and foolishly regard-
less of their own digestions. For tea there were great dishes of
thick bi-ead and butter on all the tables, which the girls began to
hand round as .soon as grace had been said. ICach cla.ss had a big
basin of brown sugar to put in the tea, which gave it a coarse
flavour. The first cup was not so bad, but the second was noth-
ing but hot water poured through the teapot. It was not eti-
quette to take more than two. W^hen the girls were ready for a
second, they put pieces of bread in their saucers that they might
TIIK iJirrii iiuoK.
313
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for a
1 miglit
no
know thoir own ag^atn, and jjasscd tlu^ cups uj) to th<« traclior wlio
poured out tea. If any !';\v\ suspt'cti'd that the cup n'turncd to
licr was not licr own. sli • would ii(»t touch the tea. Wlicn tli(>
moal was over, one of the j,^irls took the suj;ar basin, l)cat down tl o
sugar in it flat and hard with the spoon, did a design on tho toji,
aiul put it away.
" Wliat's tliat for ? " B«"lh asked.
"Tiiat's so that we shall kn<tw our own again," Rosa answered.
" But it never lasts the proper time."
What d(
do you do when it's done ? " .said Beth.
" Do without," was the laconic rejoinder.
All the girls wore talking at once. " What a, racket I " Beth
exclaimed.
"It'll he quiet enough to-morrow," Ro.sa replied. " The llrst
class talks at table in Mis CliU'ord's room, but we are not allowed
to speak a word here, except to the teachers, nor in the bedrooms
either, onco work begins. Do y<ni see that great fat t)Id thing at
tho mistress's table? That's Old Tom, tht; head music mistress.
She iti a greedy old cat I She likes eating I You can see it by tho
way she gloats over things, and she's quite put out if she doesn't
get exactly what she wants. Fancy caring ! It's just like a man,
and that's why .she's called Old Tom."
"Not that she's fastidious I " said Agiu'S Stewart, a talI,sl(Mid(>r
girl with short, crisp black hair and jri-ay-o-fc'cn eyes, who was
sitting opposite to Beth. " I believe she likes mutton."
" Oh, she's horrid enough for anything !" the girl next her ex-
claimed, with an exj)re.ssion of disj^^ust.
Some of the girls ate their thick bread and butter unconcern-
edly, others were choked with tears and could not touch it. Most
of the tearful ones were new girls, and the old ones were kind to
them ; the teachers, too, Avere sympathetic, and did their best to
cheer them.
After tea they all returned to their cla.ssroon\s. Beth went
and stood in one of the great windows lookintr out on to tho
grounds, the river, tho old arched brid^-e. and the gray houses
of the town climbing up the hill among the autumn tiiited trees.
All the windows were shut, and she becan to feel suH'ocated for
want of fresh air, and bewildered by the clatter of voices. If
only she could get out into the garden I The door at the end of
the room, which led into the lirst aiul second, was open. She
went through. But before she was half across the room one of tho
elder girls exclaimed roughly : " Hello I what are you doing here ? "
21
: i
314
THE BETH BOOK.
"It's a now girl, Iiikie," another put in.
" Well, tiie sooner she learns she has no business here the
better," Inkie rejoined.
Beth thought her exceedingly rude, and passed on into the
vepiibule unconcernedly.
•'Well, that's a cool cheek ! " Inkie exclaimed,
"Hie — you — new girl ! come back here directly, and go round
the other way, just to t'^ach you manners."
Beth turned ba'^k \\ ith flaming cheeks, looked at her hard a
moment, and then do li'^erately made a face at her.
" That for your manners ! " she said, snapping her fingers
at her.
Amy Wynne rose from her seat and went up to Beth. " You
must learn at once, Miss Caldwell," .she said, " that you will not
be allowed to speak to the elder girls like that."
" Then the elder girls had better learn at once," said Beth de-
fiantly, " that they will not be allowed to speak to me as your
Inkie person did just now. You'll not teach me manners by be-
ing rude to me, and if any girl in the .school is ever rude to me
again I'll box her ears. Now, I apologize for coming through
your room, but you should keep the door shut.''
When she had spoken she returned to the big classroom delib-
erately and crossed it to the other door. As she did so she noticed
that a strange hush had fallen upon the girls, and they were all
looking at her curiously. She went into the hall, and was pass-
ing the vestibule door, when Miss Bey, who was sitting just in-
side knitting, stopped her.
" Where are you going, Miss Caldwell ? " she asked in her
sharp way.
" Upstairs," Beth answered.
" You speak shortly, Miss Caldwell. It would have been more
polite to have mentioned my name."
" I beg your pardon, Miss Bey," Beth rejoined.
Miss Bey bowed with a severe smile in acknowledgment of
the apology. " What do you want upstairs ? " she asked.
" To be alone," Beth answered. " I can't stand the noise."
" You must stand the noise," said Miss Bey. " Girls are not
allowed to go upstairs without some very good reason, and they
must always ask permi.ssion — politely — from the teacher on duty.
I am the teacher on duty at this moment. If you had gone up-
stairs without permission I should have given you a bad mark."
Beth looked longingly at the hall door, which had glass panels
Ik
(
THE BETH BOOK.
315
her
pe not
they
Iduty.
je up-
Ik."
lanels
I
in the upper part, tlirough whicli she could see the river and tlie
trees. " What a prison this is ! " slie exclaimed.
Miss Bey had had great experience of girls, and her sharp
manner, which was mainly acquired in the elt'ort to maintain dis-
cipline, somewhat belied her kindly nature.
"You can bring a chair from the hall and sit here beside me,
if you like," .she said to Beth,
"I would like to," Beth answered. "This is better," she said
when she was seated. " May I talk to you ? "
" Yes, certainly," said Miss Bey.
There was a great conservatory behind them as they sat look-
ing into the hall ; on their left was the third and fourth class-
room, on their right the first and second ; the doors of both stood
open.
'' Did you hear the row I had in there just now?" Beth asked,
nodding toward the first and second.
"I did," said Miss Bey. "But you mustn't say 'row'; it is
vulgar."
" Difficulty, then," Beth rejoined. " But what did you think
of it ? "
Miss Bey reflected. The question as Beth put it was not easy
to answer. " I thought you were both very much in the wrong,"
she said at last.
"Well, that is fair, at all events," Beth observed with approval.
" I don't mean to break any of your rules when I know what they
are, and I bet you I won't have a bad mark, if there's any way to
help it, the whole time I am in school ; but I'm not going to bo
sat upon by anybody."
Miss Bey pursed up her mouth and knitted emphatically. She
was accustomed to nauglity girls, but the most troublesome stood
in awe of the teachers.
" My dear," she .said, after a little pause, " I honour your good
resolutions; but I must request you not to say 'I'll bet' or talk
about ' being sat upon.' Both expressions are distinctly unlady-
like. I must also tell y^^u that at school the teachers are not on
the same level as the girls ; they are in authority, you see "
" I see." said Beth. " I sj)oke to j ou as one lady might speak
to another. I won't again, Miss Bey."
Miss Bey paused once more, with ])ent brows, to reflect upon
this ambiguous announcement ; but not being able to make any-
thing of it, she proceeded. " It is a matter of discipline. With-
out strict discipline an establishment of this size would be in a state
} :
"^avmmt
316
THE BETH BOOK.
of chaos. The girls must respect the teachers, and the younger
girls must respect the elder ones. All become elder ones in turn,
and are respected."
" Well, / mean to be respected all through," Beth declared, and
set her mouth hard on the determination.
At eight o'clock Miss Bey rang a big handbell for prayers, and
the whole household, including the servants, came trooping into
the hall. The girls sat together in their classes, and when all
were in their places Miss Clifford came in attended by her maids
of honour, mounted the reading desk, and read the little service
in a beautiful voice, devoutly. Beth softened as she listened, and
joined in with all her heart toward the end.
When prayers were over and the servants had gone down-
stairs one of the maids of honour set a chair under the domed
ceiling in front of the vestibule for Miss Clifford, who went to it
from the reading desk, and sat there. Then the first-class girls
rose and left their seats in single file, and each as she passed
walked up to Miss Clifford, took the hand which she held out,
and courtesied good-night to her. The other classes followed in the
same order. Miss Clifford said a word or two to some of the
girls, and had a smile for all. When Betli's turn came slie made
an awkward courtesy in imitation of the others. Miss Clifford
held her hand a moment and looked up into her face keenly, then
smiled and let her go. Beth felt that there was some special
thought behind that smile, and wondered what it was. Miss
Clifford made it her duty to know the character, temper, consti-
tution, and capacity of every one of the eighty girls under lier,
and watched carefully for every change in them. This good-
night, which was a dignified and impressive ceremony, gave her
an oj)portunity of inspecting each girl separately every day, and
very little escaped her. If a girl looked unhappy, run down,
overworked, or otherwise out of sorts, Miss Clifford sent for her
next morning to find out what was the matter ; and she was
scolded, comforted, put on extras, had a tonic to take, or was
allowed another hour in bed in the morning, according to the
necessities of her case.
The girls who were in certain bedrooms sat up an hour after
prayers and had dry bread and water for supper ; they turned
to the left, and went back to their classrooms when they had made
their courtesies. The others turned to the right and went upstairs.
Beth was one of these. She was in number six. There were sev-
eral beds in the room, and beside each bed was a washstand and a
THE BETH BOOK.
317
ler,
ood-
her
and
own,
lier
was
was
the
ifter
rned
lade
airs.
sev-
Ind a
box for clothes. The floor was carpetless. There were wliite cur-
tains hung on iron rods to be drawn round the beds and the space
beside them, so that each girl had perfect privacy to dress and
undress. The curtains were all drawn back for air when the
girls were ready, but no girl drew her curtain without the i)er-
mission of the girl next to her. When a bell rang they all
knelt down and had ten minutes for private prayers, night and
morning, the bell being rung again when tlie time was up. The
girls had to turn down their beds to air them before they left
their rooms in the morning. Tliey had an hour's lessons before
breakfast, then prayers. After prayers the monitresses rose from
their seats below the reading desk, and as they filed out, each in
turn reported if any one had spoken or not spoken in the bed-
rooms. Breakfast consisted of thick bread and butter and tea for
the girls, with the addition of an insufficient quantity of fried
bacon for the teacliers. After breakfast the girls went upstairs
again and made their beds in a given time ; then all but a few
who were kept in for music went out into the garden for half an
hour. Beth had to go out that first morning. The sun was shin-
ing, bright drops sparkled on grass and trees, the air wiis heavy
with autumn odours, but fresh and sweet, and the birds chirped
blithely. Beth felt like a free creature once more directly she
got out, and, throwing up her arms with a great exclamation of
relief after the restraint indoors, she ran out on to the wide grass-
plot in front of the house at the top of her speed.
" Come back, come back, new girl I '' cried the head French
mistress. Mademoiselle Duval, the teacher on duty. "You are
not allowed to go on the grass, nor must you run in that un-
seemly way."
" I'm sorry," said Beth. " I didn't know."
She moved off on to the path whicli overlooked the river and
began to walk soljerly up and down, gazing at the water.
"Mademoiselle!" the French mistress screamed again slirilly,
"come away from there! The girls are not allowed to walk on
that path."
" Oh, dear ! " said Beth. " Where may I go ? "
"Just go where you see the other girls go," mademoiselle re-
joined sharply.
Not being a favourite, the French mistress was left to wander
about alone. Popular teachers always had some girls hanging on
to their arms out in the garden, and sitting with them wlien they
were on duty indoors ; but mademoiselle seldom had a satellite,
T^=^
318
THE BETH BOOK.
and never one who was respected. Tlie girls thought her deceit-
ful, and deceit was one of the things not tolerated in the scliool.
Miss Bey was believed to be above deceit of any kind, and was
liked and respected accordingly, in spite of her angular ap})oar-
ance, sharp manner, the certainty that she was not a la(h' by
birth, and the suspicion that her father kept a shop. The girls
had certain simple tests of character and station. They attend
more to each other's manners in the matter of nicety at girls'
schools than at boys, more's the pity for those who have to live
with the boys afterward. If a new girl drank with her mouth
full, ate audibly, took things from the end instead of the side of a
spoon, or bit her bread instead of breaking it at dinner, she was
set down as nothing much at home, which meant that her people
were socially of no importance, not to say conmion ; and if she
were not perfectly frank and honest, or if she ever said coarse or
indelicate things, she was spoken of contemptuously as a dock-
yard girl, which meant one of low mind and objectionable man-
ners, who was in a bad set at home and made herself cheap after
the manner of a garrison hack, the terms being nearly equivalent.
There was no pretence of impossible innocence among the elder
girls, but neither was there any imj)i'oi)riety of language or im-
modesty of conduct. Certain subjects were avoided, and if a girl
made any allusion to them by chance she was promptly silenced ;
if she recurred to them persistently, she was set down at once as a
dockyard girl, and an outsider. The consequence of this high
standard was an extremely good tone all through the school.
Beth turned into the lime-tree avenue, where she met several
sets of girls, all walking in rows with their arms round each other.
None of them took any notice of her \\ i : il she got out on to the
drive, where she met Amy Wynne wiih her children. Amy let
go of the two she had her arms round, sent them all on, and
stopped to speak to Beth.
" Have you no mother ? " she asked.
" I have one at home,*' Beth answered coldly in spite of her-
self.
" But you know our custom here," Amy rejoined. " The elder
girls are mothers to the younf ones."
" I know," said Beth ; " but I don't want a mother. I should
hate to have my tiioughts interrupted by a lot of little girls in a
row, all cackling together."
" I was going to otfer," Amy began — "but, of course, if you are
so self-reliant, it would only be an impertinence."
I
THE BETH BOOK.
319
nfft
the
let
and
Iher-
llder
)uld
in a
are
*' Oh, no ! " said Belli sincerely, regretting licr own ungracious-
ness. "It is kind of you, and if it were you alone 1 should be
glad : btit I could not stand the others.''
"Well, I hope you won't be lonely,'' Amy answered, and hur-
ried on after her children.
"Lonely I must be," Beth muttered to herself with sudden
foreboding.
When the girls went in, Beth was sunnnoned to the big music
room. " Old Tom " was there with Dr. Gentry, who came twice
a week to hear the girls play. There were twelve pianos in the
room, ten upright and two grand, besides Old Tom's own private
grand — all old, hard, and metallic ; and twelve girls hanunered
away on them, all together, at the same piece ; but if one made a
mistake Old Tom in.stantly d<'tected it, and knew which it was.
" Do ye know any music ? " she asked Beth in a grulF voice
with a rough Scotch accent.
" A little," Beth answered.
" What, for instance ? " Old Tom pursued, looking at Beth as
if she were a culprit up for judgment.
" Some of Chopin," Beth replied. " I like him best."
Old Tom raised her eyebrows incredulously. " Sit down here
and play one of his compositions, if you please — here, at my
piano," she said, opening the instrument.
But Beth felt intimidated for once, partly by the offensive man-
ners of the formidable-looking old woman, her bulk and gruff-
ness, but also because Old Tom's doubt of h(n' powers, which she
perceived, was shaking her confidence. She sat down at the
piano, however, and struck a few notes ; then her nerve for-
sook her.
" I can't play,'* she said. " I'm nervous."
" Humph," snarled Old Tom. " I thought that ud be ye're
Chopin ! Go and learn exercises with the children in Miss Tait's
classroom."
Miss Tait, acting on Old Tom's report, put Beth into one of her
lower classes, and left her to practise with the beginners. When
slie had gone, Beth glanced at the exercises, and then began to
rattle them off at such a rate that no one in the class could keep
up with her. Mi.ss Tait came hurrying back.
" Who is that playing so fast ? " she said. " Was it you. Miss
Caldwell?"
" Yes," Beth answered.
" Then you nmst go into a higher class," said Miss Tait.
f^mmmm
320
THE BETH BOOK.
But the same tliiiifr liappened in every class, until at last Beth
had run up through tlieni all, as up a flij^lit of stairs, into Old
Tom's first. Her i)iauo in the first, when the whole class waa
present and she had no choice, was a hard old instrument, usually
avoided because it was the nearest to the table at which Old T(jm
sat (when she did not walk about) during a lesson. The first time
Beth took her place at it the other girls were only beginning to
assemble, and Old Tom was not in the room. A great teasing of
instruments, .;•, (v. ' "'om called it, was going on. A new piece
was to be taken tl,ut morning, and each girl began to try it as
soon as she sat down, so that they were all at ditt'erent passages.
They stopped, however, and looked up when Beth appeared.
" That's your piano," ^he head girl said.
" I hoi)e you'l' ' "' >mo of the othei's added, sarcastically.
"Oh, but Fm giad 'o ^ • heve !" said Beth, striking a few firm
chord.s. " Now I feel like ', )i. ophi "—and she burst out into one of
his most bri]''HT'.t v/altzes triu ■ v 'laatly.
Old Tom }vv\ con , iw whilv ' was speaking, but Beth did
not see her. Old Ton wa:idd ill: <.i "I done.
" Oh, so now ye feel like Chopin, Miss Caldwell ! " she jeered.
" And it appears ye are not above shamming nervous when it
suits ye to mak' yerself interesting. I shall remember that."
Old Tom taught by a series of jeers and insults. If a girl were
poor she never failed to remind her of the fact. " But, indeed,
ye're beggars all," was her favourite summing up when they
stumbled at troublesome passages. Most of the girls cowered
under her insults, but Beth looked her straight in the face at this
second encounter, and at the third her spirit rose and she argued
the point. Old Tom tried to shout her down, but Beth left her
scat and suggested that they should go and get Miss Clifford to
decide between them. Then Old Tom subsided, and from that
time she and Beth were on amicable terms.
Beth had an excellent musical memory when she went to
school, but .she lost it entirely while she was there, and the deli-
cacy of her touch as well, both being destroyed, as she supposed,
by the system of practising with so many others at a time, which
made it impossible for her to feel what she was playing or put
any individuality of expression into it.
On that o])ening day Beth had to go from the music room to
her first English lesson in the sixth. All the girls sat round the
hnig narrow table, Miss Smallwood, the mistress, being at the end
with her back to the window. The lesson was " Guy," a collec-
»^
THE BT'^TII BOOK.
321
that
to
leli-
Ised,
lich
I put
to
J the
lend
llec-
tion of questions and answers, used also by the first-class f^irls,
only that tliey were fartlier on in the book. Wlio was WiUiain
the Conqueror ? When did lie arrive ? What did he do on land-
ing ? And so on. Beth, at the bottom of the class on Miss Small-
wood's right, was in a good position to ask questions herself. She
could have told the whole history of William the Conqueror in
her own language after once reading it over ; but tlie answers to
the questions had to be learned by lieart and repeated in the exact
language of the book, and in the struggle to be word perfect
enough to keep up with the class, the significance of what she
was saying was lost upon her. It was her mother's system ex-
actly, and Beth was disappointed, having hoped for something
different. These pilules of knowledge only exasperated her ; she
wanted enough to enable her to grasp the whole situation.
" What is the use of learning these little bits by heart about
William the Conqueror and the battle of Hastings and all that,
Miss Smallwood ? " she exclaimed one day.
"It is a part of your education, Beth," Miss Smallwood an-
swered precisely.
" I know," Beth grumbled ; " but couldn't one read about it,
and get on a little quicker ? I want to know what he did when
he got here."
" Why, my dear child, how can you be so stupid ? You have
just said he fought the battle of Hastings."
" Yes, but what did the battle of Hastings do ? " Beth per-
sisted, making a hard but ineffectual effort to express herself.
" Oh, now, Beth, you are silly ! " Miss Smallwood rejoined im-
patiently, and all the girls grinned in agreement. But it was not
Beth who was silly. Miss Sn.allwood had had nothing herself
but the trumpery education provided everywhere at that time for
girls by the part of humanity which laid undisputed claim to a
superior sense of justice, and it had not carried her far enough to
enable her to grasp any more comprehensive result of the battle
of Hastings than was given in the simple philosophy of Guy.
Most of the girls at the Royal Service School would have to work
for themselves, and teaching was almost the only occu})ati<m
open to them, yet such education as they received, consisting as
it did of mere rudiments, was an insult to the high average of
intelligence that obtained among them. They were not taught
one thing thoroughly, not even their own language, and re-
nuiined handicapped to the end of their lives for want of a ground-
ing in grammar. When you find a woman's diction at fault,
822
THE BETH BOOK.
never gird at lier for want of intelligonco. but at those in authority
over her in lior youtli, wlio thought anything in tlie way of edu-
cation good enough for a girl. Even tlie teacliers at St. Cathe-
rine's, some of them, wrote in re])ly to invitations: " I sliall liavo
much pleasure in accepting." Tlie girls might he tliere eight
years, but were never taught French enough in the time either to
read or speak it correctly. Their music was an oll'ence to tlie ear,
and their drawings to the eye. History was given to them in
outlines only, which isolated kings and their ministers, showing
little or nothing of their inlluence on the times they lived in, and
ignoring the conditions of the i)eople, who were merely intro-
duced as a background to some telling incident in the career of
a picturesque personage ; and everything ehse was taught in tlio
same superficial way — except religion. But the fact that the re-
ligious education was good in Beth's time was an accident due to
Miss Clifford's character and capacity, and therefore no credit to
the governors of the school, who did not know that she was spe-
cially qualified in that respect when they made her lady princi-
pal. She was a high-minded woman, IjOW Church, of great force
of character, and exemplary pietj' ; and her sjiirit pervaded the
whole school. She gave the Bible lessons herself in the form of
lectures which dealt largely with the conduct of life ; and as she
had the power to make her subject interesting and the faith
which carries conviction, both girls and mistresses profited great-
ly by her teaching. Many of them became deeply religious un-
der her, and most of them had phases of piety ; while thei'e were
very few who did not leave the school with yearnings at least
toward honour and uprightness, which were formed by time and
experience into steady principles.
Beth persisted in roaming the garden alone. She loved to
hover about a large fountain there was, with a deep wide basin
round it, in which gold fish swam and water lilies grew. She
used to go and hang over it, peering into the water, or, when the
fountain played, she would loiter near, delighting in the sound of
it, the splash and murmur.
One of the windows of Miss Clifford's sitting-room overlooked
this part of the garden, and Beth noticed the old lady once or
twice standing in the window, but it did not occur to her that
she was watching her. One day, however. Miss Clifford sent a
maid of honour to fetch her ; and Beth went in, wondering what
she had done, but asked no questions ; calm indifference was still
her pose. ,
J
THE BETH ROOK.
323
to
■iin
[lie
Ihe
lof
lor
iat
a
[at
lill
Miss Clifford dismissed tlie maid of honour. She was sitting
in her own sj)ecial eiisy -chair, and Beth stood beft)re her.
" My dear child," she said to Beth, " why are you always alone ?
Are the girls not kind to you ? "
" Oh, yes, thank you," Beth answered, " they are quite kind.''
" Then why are you always alone ? "
" I like it best."
" Are you sure," said Miss Clifford, " that the others do not
shun you for some reason or other ? "
" One of them wished to be my mother," Beth rejoined, " hut
I did not care about it."
" But you can not be happy always alone like that," Miss Clif-
ford observed.
Beth was silent.
Miss Clifford looked at her earnestly for a little, then she
shook her head.
"I tell you what I will do if you like. Miss Clill'ord," Beth
said upon reflection. " I will form a family of my own."
Miss Clifford smiled. "Ah, I see you are ambitious," she
said, " But, my dear child, a sixth girl can't expect to have that
kind of influence."
" It is not ambition, Beth answered, " for I shall feel it no dis-
tinction, only a great bother. Nevertheless, I will do it to show
you that I am not shunned and to please you, as you do not like
me to wander alone."
A week or two later Beth appeared in the garden with six of
the worst girls in the school clinging to her, fascinated by her
marvellous talk.
Miss Clifford sent for her again. " I am sorry to see you in
such company," she said. " Those girls are all older than you are,
and they will lead you into mischief."
'• On the contrary, Miss ClitTord," Beth replied, " I shall keep
them out of mischief. Not one of them has had a bad mark this
week."
Tlien Miss Clifford sent for Miss Smallwood, the mistress of
the sixth. " What do you make of Beth Caldwell ? " she asked.
"I can't make anything of her," Miss Smallwood answered.
" I think she tries, but she does not seem able to keep up with the
other girls at all. She seldom knows a lesson or does a sum cor-
rectly. I sometimes think she ought to be in tlie eighth. But
then occasionally she shows a knowledge far beyond her years ;
not a knowledge of school work, but of books — and life."
i|
324
THE BETH BOOK.
" IIow about licr thoin(!S ? "
" I don't know wliut to tliink of them ; thoy arc too pood. But
she deckiros empluitically that slio does them all out of her own
head."
" Wliat sort of temper lias she ? "
"Queer, like every tiling else about her. Not unamiable, you
know, but irritable at times, and she has days of deep depression
and inoments of extreme elation."
" Ah," Miss Clilford ejaculated, and then reflected a little.
" Well, be patient with her," she said at last. " If she hasn't ex-
ceptional ability of some kind, I am no judge of girls ; but she is
evidently unaccustomed to school work, and is suffering from the
routine and restraint, after being allowed to run wild. IShe should
have been sent here years ago."
CHAPTER XXXI.
From the foregoing it will be seen that Betli made her mark
upon the school from the day of her arrival in the way of getting
hei'self observed and talked about. She was set down as queer to
begin with, and when lessons began, both girls and mistresses de-
cided that she was stupid ; and queer she remained to the end in
the estimation of those who had no better word to express it, but
with regard to her stupidity there soon began to be ditferences of
opinion.
At preparation one evening she talked instead of doing her
work, and gradually all the girls about her had stopped to listen.
" Gracious ! " Beth exclaimed at last, " the bell will go directly,
and I've not done a sum ! Show me how to work them, Rosa."
"Oh, bother! "Rosa rejoined. "Find out for yourself! My
theme was turned, and I've got to do it again."
"Look here," said Beth, "if you'll do my sums I'll do your
theme now, and your thorough bass on Thursday."
" I wish to goodness you wouldn't talk, Beth ! " Agnes Stewart
exclaimed. " We shall all get bad marks to-morrow."
" Then why do you listen ? " Beth retorted.
" I can't help it," Agnes grumbled. " You fascinate me. I
should have thought you were clever if I had only heard you talk
and not known what a duffer you are at your lessons."
" Well, she's not a dutfer at thorough bass, any way," Rosa put
THE HKTII i{(K)K.
325
her
>teu.
My
four
.'art
I
ilk
kt
in. "She only bofran this tonn, and she's a lonj,^ way ahead even
of some of the ln*st. Old Tom's given her u little book to her-
self."
"I began tliorou^jfli bass with the rest of you," Betli observed.
"It's the only thing we started fair in. You are years ahead of
me in all the otlier W(jrk."
The girls reflected upon this for a little.
" And you can write themes," Kosa tiually asseverated.
"Oh, that's nothing," Beth protested. "Themes are easy
enough. I could write them for the whole school."
" Well, that's no reason why you should put your nose in your
cup every time you drink," Lucy Black, th^ sharpest shrimp of a
girl in the class, said, grinning.
"I never did such a thing in my life." Beth exclaimed, turning
crimson. " You'll say I eat audibly next."
"No, you don't do that," Kosa said solemnly ; "but you do put
your nose in your cup."
The colour flickered on Beth's sensitive cheek, and she shrank
into herself.
" There, don't tease her ! " Mary Wright, the eklest. stupidest,
and most motherly girl in the school exclaimed. " How can you
drink without putting your nose in your cuj). stupid ? "
Then Beth saw it and smiled, greatly relieved. This venerable
pleasantry "was a sign that she had been taken once for all into
the good graces of her schoolmates. The girls who were liked
were usually nicknamed and always chatl'ed ; the rest were treated
with different degrees of politeness, the dockyard girls, as the low-
est of all, being called Miss, even by the teachers.
On Thursday evenings the girls in the fifth and sixth were
allowed to do fancy work for an hour while a story book was
read aloud to them, either by Miss Smallwood or one of them-
selves when her voice was tired. The book was always either
childish or dull, generally both, and Beth, who had been accus-
tomed to Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray, grew restive und(>r the in-
fliction. One evening when she had twice been reprimanded for
yawning aggressively, she exclaimed : "Well. Miss Smallwood, it
is such silly stuff ! Why, I could tell you a better story my.self,
and make it up as I go on."
"Then begin at once and tell it," said Miss Smallwood, glan-
cing round at the girls, who smiled derisively, thinking that Beth
would have to excuse herself and thereby tacitly acknowledge
that she had been boasting. To their surprise, however, Beth took
I
a20
TIIK HHTII BOOK.
tlu> roquost seriously, sottlod horsolf in lior cliair, foldod lior
hands, and, witli her ryrs roaming'- about tiic room jus if slic wen;
picking' up the details from the walls, tlie Moor, the ceiling', and
all it contained, start<'d without hesitation. It was the romantic
story of u haunted hous(« on a great rocky iuomontory. and the
freshness and sound of the sea pervaded it. The j,nrls went on
with their work for a little, hut hy de{,n'e«>s first one and then an-
other stopped, and just .sat .starinfj at lieth, while gravity settled
on every face us the interest deepened.
Suddenly th(^ Ixdl rang, and the story was not fini.shed.
"Oh, dear," Miss Small wood exclaimed, "it is very fascinat-
ing, Beth ; hut I really am afraid I ought not to have allowed you
to tell it. 1 had no idea— I must speak to Miss C'litVord."
The fame of this wonderful story .spread through the school,
and the next half holiday the first-class girls sent to ask Beth to
go to their room and repeat it ; hut Beth was not in the mood, and
answered their messenger tragically : '^'Tiras not for this I left
my fathers home! Go, tell your c/a.s.s, that Vashti will not
come."'
" Vashti's a little beast, I think," the head girl observed when
the message was delivered.
Miss Clifford also sent for Beth, and requested her to repeat
the story that she might judge for herself if she should be al-
lowed to go on with it ; and Beth repeated it, being constrained ;
but the recitiil was so wearisome that Miss Clitl'ord dismissed her
before she was halfway through, with leave to finish it if any-
body cared to hear it. When Thursday came the girls and Miss
Smallwood cared very much to hear it, and Beth, stimulated by
their clamour-s, went on without a break for the whole hour, and
ended with a description of a shipwreck which was so vivid that
the whole class was shaken with awe, and sat silent for a per-
ceptible time after she stopped.
Beth could rarely be persuaded to repeat this performance ;
but from that time her standing was unique both with girls and
mistresses, a fact, however, of which she her.self was totally un-
aware. She felt her backwardness in school work and nothing
else, and petitioned God incessantly to help her with her lessons
and get her put up ; and put up she was regularly until she
reached the third, when she was among the elder girls. She was
never able to do the work properly of any class she was in, how-
ever, and her class mistresses were always against her being put
up, but Miss Clifford insisted on it.
> repeat
be al-
ii nod ;
(1 lier
anv-
un-
hing
!Sons
slie
was
lOW-
put
I
I
fi
1
I
THE }W.TU TIOOK.
Betli was never aiiytliin^ but niiserabb' at scbool. Tlio dull
routine (»f lli( place pressed beavily upon ber and everytbin^ sbe
liad to do was irksome. Tbe otbei- ^jirls accoinniodated tbeiu-
selvos more or less successfully to tlie circumstances of tbeir
lives; but Betb in bei'self was always at war witb ber suri-ound-
inf,''s. and lier busy brain teemed witb inj^^'uious devices to vary
tbe monotony. Tbe conlinement, want of relaxation, and of
j)roper pbysical trainin;,'' very soon told upon ber bealtli and
spirits, as inde(>d tbcy did upon tliv^ greater number of tb<' girls,
wbo suH'cred unnecessarily in various ways. Betb very soon liad
to liave an extra liour in bed in tbe morning, a cuj) of soup at
eleven o'cdock. a tonic tbree times a day, and a slice of tbick
bread and l)utter witb a glass of stout on going to bed ; sucb tilings
were not stinted during Miss C'lillord's administration, but it was
a ea.se of treating ('Meets wbicb all tbe time were being renewed
by causes tbat migbt and ougbt to bave been removed, but were
let alone.
St. Catberine's Mansion was regulated on a system of exem-
plary dulne.ss. Tbere is a certain dowager still extant wbo con-
siders it a])surd to provide amusement for peopl(> of inferior
station. All people wbo earn tbeir living are p(3ople of inferior
station to ber; sbe lias never beard of sn-b a tbintr as tbe dignity
of labour. Because nuiny of tbe girls .it St. Catberine's were
orpbans witbout means, and would tberefore bave to earn tbeir
own living as governesses wben tbeir education was finisbed, tbe
dowager persons Avbo interested tbeinselves in tbe management
of tbe scbool bad used tbeir influence strenuously to make tbe life
tbere as mucb of a punisbment as possible. " You can not be too
strict witb girls in tbeir position," was wliat tbey continually
averred, tbeir own position by birtb being in no way better, and
in some instances not so good, as tbat of the girls whom tbey
were depriving of every innocent pleasure natural to tbeir age
and neces.sary for tbe good of tbeir bealtb and spirits. Tbey were
not allowed to learn dancing, tbey bad no outdoor games at all,
not even croquet — nothing whatever to exhilarate them and de-
velop them physically except an hour's "deportment," tbe very
mildest kind of calisthenics in tbe big classroom once a fortnight,
and the daily making of their little beds. For the rest, monoto-
nous walks up and down tbe garden paths in small parties or
about the dreary roads two and two in long lines was their only
exercise, and even in this they were restricted to such a severe
propriety of demeanour that it almost seemed as if the object
!i;i-
?■-
828
THE IJnTH BOOK.
■wore to toacli tlicm to move witliout betraying- the fact tiiat they
had \vgH. Tlie consequence of all this restraint was a low state of
vitality among- the girls and the outbreak of morbid phases that
sometimes went right through the school. Beth, as might have
been exj)ected, was one of the first to be caught by anything of
this kind; and she arrived, by way of her own emotions, at the
cause of a great deal that was a mystery to older people, and also
thought out the cure eventually ; but she sutfered a great deal in
tlie process of accpiiring her special knowledge of the subject.
She was especially troubled by her old malady, depression of
sj)irits. Sometimes, on a summei* evening, when all the classes
were at preparation and the wlitde great house was still, a mis-
tress would begin to practise in one of the music rooms, and Beth
would be carried away by the nmsic so that work was impossi-
ble. One evening when this happened she sat with a very sad
face looking out on the river. Pleasure boats were gliding up
and down ; a gay party went by dancing on the deck of a luxuri-
ous barge to the music of a string band ; a young nuxn skimmed
the surface in a skiff, another punted two girls along, and people
walked on the banks or sat about under the trees, and children
played — and they were all free! Suddenly Bftli burst into tears.
Miss Smallwood questioned her. Was she ill ? had she any pain ?
had anv one been unkind to her ? No ? What was the matter,
then ? Nothing, she was just miserable !
"Beth, don't be so .silly ! " Miss Smallwood remonstrated. "A
great girl like you crying for nothing ! It is positively childish."
The other girls stole glances at her and looked grave. At the
beginning of the term they would not have sympathized, periuips,
but this was the middle, and many of them were in umch the
same nu)od themselves.
When the boll rang and the recreation hour began, they got
out their little bits of fancy work and such dull childish books as
they Avere allowed, and broke up into groups. Beth was soon
surrounded by the cleverer girls in the class.
" I sympathize with you, Beth," said Janey North, a red-haired
Irish girl, " for I felt like it myself. I did indeed."
" Will the holidays never be here ! " sighed Rosa Bird.
" I can't think why I stay at all," said Beth. ** I hate it— I hate
it all the time."
" But liow could one get away ? " said Janey.
"Only by being ill," Agnes Stewart answered darkly. She
was a delicate girl, and from that time she starved herself reso-
d. " A
ildish."
A.t the
"haps,
;h the
K\y got
ks as
soon
bok
Ihaired
ll hate
She
reso-
I
THE BETH BOOK.
329
lutely until she was so wasted that Miss ClifTord in dospair sent
lier home. AnotluT yirl was soi/cd with t()tal dcafiu'ss sudd«MiIy,
and liad also to go — the cliaii<j:o brou^'-ht hvv Uviiviug hack in a
very short time ; and some of tlio dockyard {^firls rcccivi'd ur;^''ciit
summonses from dyin^ relations, and were allowed to go to them.
They always returned the brighter for the experience.
One day, after the weather became cold, a girl appeared in
class wrapped up in a shasvl and with her heail all diawn down
to one side. Her neck was still" and she could not straighten it.
She was sent to the inlirmary. The girls thought her lucky, for
it was warm tliere, and nurse was kind and sang delightful songs.
She would be able to do fancy work too, and read as nnich as she
liked, and would not have to get up till she had had her hi'eak-
fast and the (ire was lighted, and need not troubh^ about le.ssons
at all — a stiif neck was a very small drawback tt) the delights of
such a change.
Next day another girl's neck was stitT. ^liss t^uiallwood
searched for a draught, but did not succi'til in finding one. Th;it
evening at prayers one of the girls in the first appeai-ed in a
shawl with her head on one side and a worn, white fae(> ; and
next day there was another case from the tirii'd and fourth.
So it was evident that there was something like an epidemic < o-
ing through the school, but the iloctor had never seen one of ihc
kind before, and was at a loss to account for it. The cases v.ci'c.
all exactly alike — stifl" ui'clc, with th(> head drawn dov.ii t > cue
side, accompanied by feverishne.ss and followed by sever'" pro.i-
tration.
Beth sat with a stolid connfenance and stnred solemnly ;;t
every girl that was attacked as if she wer<^ studying her case.
Then, one m(>rning, she came down in a shawl hia-.self v.-i(h her
liead on one side and a very white fac(>. Nur.s<> mau-lied lit- oft*
at once to the infirmary, and jiut her in a bed besid" tiie lir'\ and
Beth, as she coiled her.self up and rcalizeil that she ne-d not
worry about lessons, or rush oti' to practice when th" I.h'II r.aiir;. or
go out to walk up and down the garden till slic hat-d (>very p( h-
ble on the path, heaved a great sigh of relief and fell asleep.
When she awoke the doctor was feeling her puis".
"She's very low,'' he said. "Is she a delicate <;irl natuially ?"
"She looked strong enough when lihe came to school," nurse:
answered. " But she soon went off, as so many of them do."
"The loss of vitality among them is really extraonlinary," the
doctor observed. " Give her port wine and beef tea. Don't keep
23
330
THE BETH BOOK.
her in bed too mucli, but don't liurry lior up. Rest and relief
from lessons is a great thing."
Some healthy pleasure to vary the monotonous routine, some
liberty of action, and something to look forvvai'd to would have
been better, but nobody thought of that.
How many of these necks were really stiff beyond tlie will of
the sufferer to move it no one will ever know, but wlien it occurred
to Beth to straighten her own one day she found no difficulty.
CHAPTER XXXII.
When Beth was moved into the upper school she came under
the direct iniluence of Miss Crow, the English mistress of the
third and fourth, who had been educated at St. Catherine's her-
self, and was an ardent disciple of Miss Clitt'oi'd's. Beth, although
predisposed to pietism, had not been sensibly influenced by Miss
Clifford's teaching heretofore ; now, however, she attached her-
self to Miss Crow, who began at once to take a special interest in
her spiritual welfare. She encouraged Beth to sit and walk with
her when she was on duty, and invited her to her room during
recreation in order to talk to her earnestly on the subject of salva-
tion, or to read to her and expound portions of Scripture, fine
passages froni religious books, and beautiful hymns ; some of the
hynnis she took the trouble to copy out for Beth's help and com-
fort when they were specially appropriate to the needs of her
nature, such as Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, or specially
suited to her case, like Call me ! and I will anstver, gladly sing-
ing ! Beth responded readily to her kindness, and very soon be-
came a convert to her views ; but she did not stop there, for it was
not in Beth's nature to rest content with her own conversion
while there were so many others still sitting in darkness who
might be brought to the light. No sooner was slie convinced her-
self than she began to proselytize among the other girls, and in a
short time her eloquence and force of character attracted a fol-
lowing from all parts of the school. Miss Crow told Miss Clifford
that she spoke like one inspired, and high hopes were entertained
of the work which they somewhat prematurely concluded she
was destined to do. Unfortunately, Beth's fervent faith received
a check at a critical time when it was highly important to have
kept it well nourished — that is to say, when she was being pre-
THE BETH BOOK.
331
1(1 relief
le, some
lid have
B will of
occurred
ulty.
le under
s of the
ne's her-
U though
by Miss
hed her-
terest in
alk with
11 during
f salva-
[ure, fine
e of the
bid coni-
of her
pecially
\hj sing-
lOon he-
ir it was
version
ss who
led her-
Ind in a
Id a fol-
lill'ord
tained
ed she
sceived
have
g pre-
pared for confirmation. It liuppened when Miss Crow was liear-
ing the girls their Sc/ipture lessons one morning, the subject being
the escape of the children of Israel from Egypt and tlie destruc-
tion of Pliaraoli's liosts in the Red Sea.
"I know a man who says the whole of that account lias
been garbled," Beth remarked in a dreamy way, meaning Count
Gustav BartahHnsky, but not thinking much of what she was
saying.
Miss Crow nearly dropped her Bible, so greatly was she startled
and shocked by the announcement.
"Beth," she exclaimed, directly the class was over and she
could speak to Beth privately, '* how could you be so wicked as
to say that anything in holy Scripture is a garbled account ? "
'• I said I knew a man who said so," Beth answered, surprised
that so simple a remark should have created such consternation.
But Miss Crow saw in her attitude a dangerous tendency to
scepticism, and expressed strong condemnation of any one who ])re-
sumed to do other than accept holy writ in blind unquestioning
faith. She talked to Beth with horror about the ungodly men who
cast doubt on the unity of the Bible, called its geology in ques-
tion, and even ventured to correct its chronology by the light of
vain modern scientific discoveries ; and Beth shocked her again
by tlie questions she asked and the intelligent interest she showed
in the subject. She told Miss Crow that Count Gustav had al-
ways said that the Old Testament was bad religion and worse his-
tory, but she did not know that other people had tlu)uglit so too,
Wliereupon Miss Crow went to Miss Clifford and reported Beth's
attitude as something too serious for her to deal with alone, and
Miss Clifford sent for Beth and talked to her long and earnestly.
She told her that it was absurd of a girl of her age to call in ques-
tion the teaching of the best and greatest men that ever lived,
which somehow reminded Beth of the many mistakes made by
the best and greatest men that ever lived, of their differences of
opinion and undignified squabbles, tbe instances of one man dis-
covering and suffering for a truth which the rest refused to ac-
cept, and the constant modification, alteration, and rejection by
one generation of teaching which had been upheld by another
with brutality and bloodshed — instances of all of which were
notorious enough even to be known at a girls' school. Beth said
very little, however ; but she determined to read the Bible through
from beginning to end and see for herself if she could detect any
grounds for the mischief-making doubts and controversies she had
832
THE BETH BOOK.
been hearing about. She began in full faith, but was brought up
short at the very outset by the discrepancy between the first and
second chapters of Genesis, which she perceived for the first time.
She went steadily on, however, until she had iinished the book of
Job, and then she paus(>d in revolt. She could not reconcile the
dreadful experiment which had entailed unspeakable suffering and
loss irreparable upon a good man with any attribute she had been
accustomed to revere in her deity. There might be some explana-
tion to excuse this game of god and devil, but until she knew the
excuse she would vow no adiiesion to a power whose conduct on
that occasion seemed contrary to every canon of justice and mercy.
She did not belong to the servile age when men, forgetting their
manhood, fawned on patrons for what they could get, and crin-
gingly accepted favours from the dirtiest hands. Even her God
must be worthy to help her, worthy to be loved, good as well as
great. The God who connived at the torment of Job could not be
the God of her salvation.
Beth had spoken casually in class. She had never questioned
her religion, and would not have done so now if the remark had
been allowed to pass ; but the fuss that was nuide about it, and
the stn'erity with which she was rebuked by putting her mind
into a critical attitude, had the effect of concentrating her atten-
tion on the subject, so that it was the very precautions which
were taken to check her supposed scepticism that first made her
sceptical. The immediate consequences were that she gave up
preaching and refused to be confirmed. Miss Clifford, Miss Crow,
and the cliaplain argued, expostulated, and punished in vain. It
was the first case of the kind that had occurred in the school, and
Beth was treated as a criminal ; but she felt more like a martvr
and was not to be moved. She did not try to make partisans for
herself, however. On the contrary, she deserted her family as
well as her congregation, and took to wandering about alone
again ; but she was not unhappy. Her old faith had gone, it
is true, but it had left the way prepared for a new one. She did
not believe in tlie God of Job because she was sui'e that there
nmst ])e a better God — that was all.
From this time, however, her imagination rode rampant once
more over everything. The vision and the dream were upon her.
All wholesonu; interest in her work was over. There was an old
piano in tlie reception-room which the girls were allowed to use
for their anmsement on half holidavs, and she often went there ;
but even when she practised she moved her fingei'S mechanically.
THE BETH BOOK.
833
•ought up
i first and
first time,
e book of
ncile the
'ring and
had been
exphina-
kncw tlie
luluc't on
id mercy,
ing tlieir
,nd crin-
her God
s well as
Id not be
lestioned
lark had
t it, and
er mind
iv atten-
which
ide her
ave up
s Crow,
in. It
ol, and
uartyr
ns for
lily as
alone
jne, it
le did
there
once
In her.
In old
[o use
|lier(> ;
3ally,
her mind busy with vivid scenes and moving dramatic incidents,
so that her beloved music was gradually converted from an object
in itself into an aid to tliought.
It was only six weeks to the holidays, but, oh, how the days
dragged ! She struggled to be conscientious, to be good, to please
Miss Crow, to escape bad marks ; but everytliing was irksome.
Getting up, lessons, breakfast, nuiking her bed, practising, lessons
again, dressing, going out, dinner — llie whole round of regular
life was an effort. Her face grew thin and pale, she began to
cough, and was put upon extras again. " We can't let you go
home looking like that, you know," nurse said. Beth looked up
at her out of her dream absently and smiled. She was enjoying
a visionary walk at tlie moment with a vague being who loved
her. They were out on a white clitl" overlooking the sea in a
wild warm region. The turf they trod on was vivid green and
short and springy ; the water below was green and bright and
clear ; sea birds skimmed the surface, and the air was very sweet.
But presently the road was barred by a rail, so they had to stop ;
and he put his arm round her, and she laid her head on his
shoulder ; and the murmur of wind and water was in her ears,
and she became as the lark that sang above them, the curlew that
piped, the quiet cattle, and all inanimate things — untroubled,
natural, complete. All intellectual interest being suspended, she
had begun to yearn for a companion, a nuite. Her delicate mind
refused to account for the tender sensation ; but it was love, or
rather the mood for love, she had fallen into — the passive mood
which can be converted into the active in an ordinary young girl
by almost any man of average attractions, provided she is not al-
ready yearning happily for some one in particular. It is not
until much later that she learns to discriminate. Thei'e were
girls at the school who saw in every nuin they met a possible lover
and were ready to accept one in any man who offered himself, but
they were of coarser fibre than Beth, more susce])tible to the
physical than to the ideal demands of love, and fickle, because
the man with his arm round tliem had more power to please them
than the one at a distance. The actual ju'esence was enough for
them ; they had no ideals. With Beth it wjus different. Her
I)resent w^as apt to be but a poor faded sul)stitute for the future,
with tne infinite range of possibilities she had the power to per-
ceive in it, or even for the past as she glorified it.
While she was in this mood she was particularly provoking to
those iu authority over her.
334
THE BETH BOOK.
"Beth," said Miss Crow one day, severely, "you are to go to
Miss Clitlord directly." Beth went.
" I hear." said Miss Cliflord in her severest tone, " that you
have not made your bed this morning."
"I went up to make it," Beth answered, trying dreamily to
recollect what had happened after that.
"I must give you a bad mark," Miss Clifford said, and then
paused ; and Beth, who had not been attending, becoming con-
scious that something had been bestowed upon her, answered
politely, " Thank you."
"Beth, you are impertinent," Miss Cliffoul exclaimed, "and I
must punish you severely. Stay in the whole of your half holi-
day and do arithmetic."
Then Beth awoke -with a start, and. realizing what she had
done, struggled to explain ; but the moment slie became herself
again an agony of dumbness came upon her, and she left the
room without a word.
She spent the long bright afternoon cowering over her arith-
metic and crying at intervals, being in the lowest s])irits, so that
by prayer time she was pretty well exhausted. She tried to at-
tend to the psalms, but in the middle of them she became a poor
girl suffering from a cruel sense of injustice. All her friends
misunderstood her and were unkind to her, in consequence of
which she pined away, and one day iu the midst of a large i)arty
she dropped down dead.
And at this point she actually did fall fainting with a crash
on the floor. Miss Clifford, who was giving out the hymn,
stopped, startled, and some of the girls shrieked. Miss Crow and
one of the other teachers carried Beth out by the nearest door.
"Poor little thing ! " said Miss Crow, looking pityingly at her
drawn white face and purple eyelids. " I'm afraid she's very
delicate."
Miss Clifford came also when prayers were over and said kind
things, and from that time forward Beth received a great deal of
sympathetic attention Avhich did her good but in no way recon-
ciled her to her imprisonment.
• ••*•••••
The following term Beth watched the spring come in at school
with infinite yearning. To be out, to be free to sit under the
apple trees and look up through the boughs at the faintly flushed
blossom till the vision and the dream came upon her and she
passed from conscious thought into a higher phase of being — just
k> v'l:
f
THE BETn BOOK.
.335
pr.
lit lier
very
kind
bal of
lecon-
Ihool
the
5lied
she
Must
i
to do that was her one desire till the petals fell. Then pleasure
boats began to be rowed on the river, rowed or steered by girls no
older than herself in summer dresses delicately fresh ; and she, see-
ing them, became aware of the staleness of her own shabby oloth-
inc. and writhed under the rules which would not allow her even to
walk on the path overlooking the river and gaze her lill at it. The
creamy white flowers of the great magnolia on the lawn came
out, and once she slipped across the grass to peer into them and
smell them. She got a bad mark for that, the second she had
had.
At preparation that evening she sat so that she could see the
river, and watched it idly instead of working ; and presently there
floated into her mind the rhyme she made when she was a little
child at Fairholm :
The fiiiry folk arc calliiii,' iiie
Suddenly she caught her breath, her cheeks flushed, her eyes
sparkled, her whole aspect changed from apathy to animation,
and she laughed.
" What has happened to please you, Beth ? You look quite
bright ! " Miss Bey said, meeting her in the vestibule when prepa-
ration was over. Miss Bey was said to favour Beth by some,
Beth was said to toady Bey by others, the truth being that they
had taken to each other from the first, and continued friends.
" I've got a sort of singing at my heart," Beth answered, spar-
kling. " The fairy folk are calling me ! ''
Beth slept in No. 5 then, and had the bed nearest to the win-
dow. There was a moon that night, and she lay long watching
the light of it upon the blind — long after the gas was put out and
the teachers had gone to their rooms. Wondering at last if the
girls in the room were asleep, she sat up in bed the better to be
able to hear, and judged that they were. Then she got out of bed,
walked quietly down the room in her nightdress and bare feet,
opened the door cautiously, and found herself out in the carpet-
less passage. It was dark there, but she walked on confidently to
the head of the grand staircase, which the girls were only allowed
to use on special occasions. "This is a special occasion," Beth
said to herself with a grin. " The fairy folk are calling me, and
I nmst go out and dance on the grtuss in that lovely moonlight."
But how to get out was the difficulty. The hall door was
bolted and barred. She went into the first and second. There
were two large windows in the room which looked into the great
conservatoi'y, and one of them was open a crack. She pushed it
■ *
336
THE IJETII BOOK.
up liigher, and p^ot through into the conservatory. There she
found a large side window on the left of the first and second, also
open a little. The shelf in front of the window had flower pots
on it, which slie moved aside, tlien got up herself, and with a try
managed to raise the heavy Sfish. Then she .sat on the sill and
look(>d down. It was too far to jump, but a sort of dado of orna-
mental stonework came right uj) to the window, and by the help
of this she managed to descend to the ground, and found herself
free. For a moment she stood stretching herself lik(i one just re-
leased from a cramped position, drawing in d(!ep draughts of the
delicious night air the while. Then she bounfi<^d off over the
dewy grass, and ran and jumped and waved her arms, every n^us-
cle of her rejoicing in an ecstasy of liberty. She ran round to the
front of the house, regardless of the chance of some one seeing her
from one of the windows, and danced round and round the mag-
nolia, and buried her face in the big white ilowers one after the
other, and bathed it in the dew on their petals. Then she went to
the path by the river and hung over the railing, and after that she
visited the orchard and every other forbidden place in the grounds.
In the orchard she found some half-ripe fruit under the trees, and
gathered it; and finding that she could not climb into the con-
servatory again with the frnit in her hands she amused herself by
throwing it through the open window.
It was harder to climb up than it had been to get down, but
she jxccomplished the feat at last with sundry abrasions, shut the
window, replaced the flower pots, got into the first and second, and
went back to bed. Her nightdress was w^et with dew, and her
feet were scratched and dirty ; but she was too much exhilarated
by the exercise and adventure to feel any discomfort. She was
sitting up in bed, hungrily munching some of her spoils, when
Janey North, the girl in the next bed, awoke.
" What are you eating. Beth ? " she asked in a cautious voice,
whispering, fearful of awaking a monitress and being reported
for talking.
" Apples," Beth answered. " Have some ? "
" All right ; but where did you get them ? " Janey asked.
" Never you mind," said Beth.
Janey did not mind at the moment, and ate the greater num-
ber ; but the next day she went treacherously and told, in order to
ingratiate herself with one of the mistresses, and the matter was
reported to Miss Clitford, who sent for Beth. Janey North was
also sent for.
hce,
•ted
las
las
I
THE IJETIl HOOK.
337
"What is this I liear about your liavinj^ apples in your bed-
room last night, Both ? '' Miss C'litTord said.
"A story, I should thinlc," Heth answered readily. "Who
told you ? "
Janey North lociked disconcerted.
" What have you to say, Miss Nortli ? " Miss Clifford asked.
" You irere eating apples," Janey said to Beth.
" How do you know ? " Beth a.sked suavely.
"I saw you."
" What ! in the middle of the night when the gas was
out ? "
" Ye — yes," Janey faltered.
Beth shrugged her shoulders and looked at Miss Clifford, who
said severely : " I think, Miss North, you have either dreamed
this story or invented it."
Janey was barred in tlie school after that, the girls deciding
that, whether the story was true or not, she was a dockyard girl for
telling it. It was Beth's sporting instinct that had made her evade
the question. When she had won the game and the excitement
was over slie felt she had been guilty of duplicity, and deter-
mined to confess when Miss Clifford sent for her next and gave
her a good opportunity. She would have gone at onc(i but for the
dread of losing the precious liberty that was life to her. All
through the long hot summer she kept herself sane and healthy
by midnight exercises in the moonlight. Her appetite had failed
her till she she took to this diversion, but after her second ramble
she was so hungrj' that slic went down to the kitchen boldly to
forage, in the hope of finding a crust. The fire was .still burning
brightly, and by its light she discovered on the table the hick
bread and butter for the next morning's breakfast, all cut ready,
and piled up under covers on the dishes. There was half a jug of
beer besides, doubtless left from the servants' supper. It was
rather flat, but she thought it and the new bread and butter deli-
cious. She had a bad cold after the first ramble, but that was the
only one, strange to relate, for she always went out in her night-
dress, and barefooted.
During this time her imagination was exceedingly active, and
her health improved ; but her work was a greatei* trouble than
ever. She had just been put into the third, but Miss Clifford
threatened to put lier down again if she did not do better, and
one day she sent for Beth, who Avent trembling, under the impres-
sion that that was what the summons was for. She found Miss
i
338
THE iip:tii book.
Clifford uiid Miss Bey discussing a letter, and both looking very
serious.
" Beth," Miss Clifford began, "a gentleman whom I know well
has written to tell me that he was walking home by the river
patli at two o'clock on Monday morning, and saw a girl here at
St. Catherine's, with only her nightdress on, hanging over the
railing looking into the river ; and I am sure from the description
it was you."
" Yes," said Beth, " I saw him."
Miss Clifford let the letter fall on her lap, and Miss Bey dropped
into a chair. Beth looked on with interest, and wondered about
that accurate description of herself ; she would have given any-
thing to see it.
" What were you doing there ? " Miss Clifford asked, and Beth
observed that she was treating the matter just as her mother had
treated the menagerie business.
" Just looking at the water," Beth said.
" At two o'clock in the morning ! How did you get out ? "
"By the conservatory window."
" Had you been out before ? "
" Oh, yes, often."
" Do any of the other girls go out ? "
"Not that I know of," said Beth, then added: "No, I'm sure
they don't."
" Thank Heaven for that, at all events ! " Miss Clifford ejacu-
lated. Then she made Beth sit down beside her, and took her
hand and gazed at her long and sorrowfully.
" Was it such a very dreadful thing to do ? " Beth asked at
last.
"You have been a great disappointment to me, Beth," Miss
Clifford answered indire(;tly, " and to Miss Bey. We expected
more of you than of any other girl now in the school, you prom-
ised so well in many ways at one time "
"Did If' said Beth, looking from one to tlie other in con-
sternation. " Oh, why didn't you tell me ? I thought you all
fancied I should never do anything well, and that disheartened
me. If I had known " She burst into tears.
Late that night Miss Clifford and Miss Bey sat together dis-
cussing Beth.
" I feel more than ever convinced there is something excep-
tional about the child," Miss Clifford declared. " I hope it is not
insanity ; but, at all events, it is not sin, and I won't have her
f
THE BETH BOOK.
339
punished. I say now wliat I said at first : slio slionld have been
sent here early or not at all. And now she must go "
"What, expel her ?" Miss Bey ejaculated.
" No. Didn't I say I would not have her punished ? There is
some e.xplanation of her wild escapade besides mere naughtiness,
I feel sure, and she shall have every cliance that I can give her.
There is no vice in her of any kind that I can discover, and she is
fearlessly honest. If slu^ were gn^wn up we should call her eccen-
tric and be interested and anmsed by her vagaries ; and I do not
see why she should not be allowed tlie siime excuse as it is, only
St. Catlierine's is not the place for her. Here all must move in
the common orbit, to save confusion. So I shall write to lier
motlier and get her to take her from the school at the end of the
term in the regular way."
" But in the meantime ?" Miss Bey asked.
" Beth has given me her word that she will be good and do
nothing I sliould disapprove of, and she will keep it."
So Beth's credit wiis saved by the good judgment of this
kind, wise womaii, and her career at St. Catherine's ended hon-
ourably, if somewhat abruptly.
us-
er
CHAPTER XXXIII.
When it was rumoured among the mistresses that Beth was to
leave that term, Old Tom put heron to play first piano in the lirst-
class solo, and to lead the treble in the second-class duet at the
examination.
" For I rather like ye, Miss Beth Caldwell." .she said. " You're
not a sycophant whatever else ye are. They've not been able to
do much wi' ye in regard to yer work in the rest of the school,
but ye've done well under me, and I'll let ye have yer chance to
distinguish yerself before ye go."
" Oh, but do you think I can do it ?" Beth exclaimed.
" Ye can do anything ye set yerself to do, Beth Caldwell," Old
Tom shouted at her.
Beth set herself accordingly, and when the day came she led
the solo and duet with the precision of a musical box, but with
such an expenditure of nerve power that she was prostrated by
the effort. She was considered quite a musician at St. Catherine's,
but by this time the dire method of teaching had had its effect.
340
THE IIKTU BOOK.
ITor conndniioo and licr uumiu)i\v for music woro pfono, tho hoauly
of licr touch spoiled, and the lui'tiicr drvclopmcnt of lior talent
elFcH-tually checked.
She did not jtfo lioino for the liolidays. Miss Cliil'ord liad ad-
vised, Lady lienyon approved, and Mrs. ('ald\v(»ll decided that
kIm^ sliould he sent dii'ect to a linisliin;,'' school in Tiondon ; and
when rit. Catherine's hroUe up. Miss Hey, who happened to l)o
goin^ that way, good-naturedly undertook to seo iJelh .safely to
her destination.
Mi.ss Clitl'ord held Beth's hand h)ng and gazed info her face
earnestly when slu; took h'av(> of her. "I shall liear of you
again," she said, "and I pray (iod it may he good news; hut it
depends upon yours(>lf, J»eth. We are free agents. Good- y'O,
my dear child, and ( Jod hless you."
Beth had heen eigliteen intoh>ra])]e montlis at the scliool, and
had heen exceedingly niiserahle most of the time, yetslie h'ftit witli
tears in lier eyes, melted and surprised hy the kindest farewells
from every one. It had never dawned upon her until that moment
that she was really very much liked.
Her new school was a large houses in a long, wide street of
hou.ses, all exa(^tly alike. When she arrived with ^liss Bey they
were .shown into a deliciously cool, shady drawing-room, chartn-
ingly furnished, and the efl'ect upon Jieth, after the gracele.ss hare-
ness of St. Catherine's, was altogether reassuring.
In front of the fireplace, which was hidden by ferns and flow-
ering plants, a slender girl, with thick, dark hair down her back,
was lying on the white woolly hearthrug reading. She got up
to greet the visitors without embarrassment, still holding her book
in her hand.
" Miss Blackburne will be here directly," she said. " Will you
sit down ? "
Then there was a little ])anse, which Miss Bey broke by ask-
ing, in her magisterial way, '* What is that you are readiri;,'-, ni
dear ? "
" The Idylls of tJir King,'''' the girl answered.
Miss Bey's nostrils flapped. " Is it not rather advanced r you,
my dear ? " she said. " We do not allow it at all, even to our iirst-
class girls."
" Oh, Miss Blackburne likes us to read it," was the easy answer.
" She says that Tennyson and all the good modern writers are a
part of our education."
" Thank goodness ! " Beth ejaculated fervently. "At St. Cath-
I
I
TIIK RETII nODK.
341
, tlio bcjiuty
^ har talent
>nl liad !i(l-
<'<'i<l<'(l that
"»<l<>n ; and
'<'n<'(l to 1)0
1» safely to
lo hov face
'nv of you
\v.s ; but it
Good ^0,
c'liool, and
It'ftitwith
' farewells
tt mouieut
•street of
Boy tlwy
1, cliarm-
les.s hare-
111(1 flow-
U'r back,
' ^""ot up
ler book
ill you
by ask-
In JJT, niv
you,
[i- lirst-
[iswer.
are a
ICath-
erino's our iniiuls worn starved on books suited to the capacity of
infants and imbeciles."
" I should think, ]?eth, you are liardly old enou},''h or <'du-
cated en(>U}^''h to be a jud^jje of literaturi^ jus yet," Miss IJey said
severi'ly.
" Nor do 1 i)r«>tend to be a jud^'^e. How ran I kjuiw anythiii}^
of literature when litei'atur<' is unknown at St. Catherine's ? JJut
I siu)uld think babes and sucklin^rs wouhl l)e wise enou;;h to ob-
ject to the silly trash we had instx-ad of literature."
Jieth spoke emphatically, shaking,'' hei-self tree of the resti'ic-
tions of the Koyal Service School for Oilicers' l)auyhters onco
for all.
Miss Blackburno came in while she was speakiu},''. and smiled.
" I lik<^ to hear a fjirl express an opinion," she .said. " She may l»e
quite wroiiLT, but she must have some mind if she attcMupts to think
for herself at all ; and mind is material to work upon."
'I'm afraid / haven't much mind," Beth said, .si-^diiuj;, "or
manner either."
Miss Blackburne smiled a^ain, and looked at Miss P>(>y ; but
Miss Bey supported Beth in her self depreciation by [)rcserviuy au
ominous silence.
"This is ono of your ne.v schoolfellows," ?»Tiss Blackburno
said to Beth ; "let me introduce you to each other. Clara Her-
ring. Beth Caldwell."
When ^liss Bey took her leave, "Miss Blackburne left the room
with \un\ and immediately afterward another j^'irl came in, clap-
pin;^ hvv hands.
"Oh, I say!" she exclaimed, " Siirnor Caponi /.s a dear! Ties
has the nicest chocolate eys, anil he says my Italian is womlcr-
ful 1 Now I've done all my work for today."
" Have you ? " .said Beth. '" Why, it isn't live o'clock yet ! "
"Miss Blacki)urne won't let us woi'k loii.u: hours," the r/p] ,.(>.
joined. "She says it destroys our fresline.;s. r>iit l'>t t;s ! now
each f)th(M-'s names. I am (lerahliiie 'rivs- iliion. vmn] n; !■: ■ '' r
a novel, isn't it?" aiul she clapp<'(l la r ]i!i!e white h.uuls ::i.>l
lau^'luMl a;]:aiu.
" That's just wliat you're made to b(>. tlic h'roine of a nov.'l,"
Clara Ilori'inu;' ol).served, lookin;:;' at her adtiiirin.'rl y. "I .■il\v."s
t nk of you when I come across a i^iiy one v.ilh yoMcu hair and
le eyes."
"I have my pfood points, I know.'" Gcraldine rejoiiud. " But
>\v about my hips ? Too hiyh, alas ! "
l!
342
THE BETH BOOK.
" Oh, that won't sliow mucli wiiile you're slight," said Clara,
looking at her critically.
"Well, I'll make haste and marry me before I'm afflicted with
flesh, as I'm sure to become, for I deny myself nothing — I li\e to
eat," Geraldine rattled on cheerfully. " One can't get very fat
before one comes out ; and I hate a thin dowager. I'm engaged
already, you know ; but I don't like the man much— don't like
him at all in fact ; and my sister says I can do better. She's been
married a year and lias a baby. She told me all about it. Mannna
imagines we're all innocent. A lady implored her to tell my sister
tilings before she married, bat she said she really could not speak
to an innocent girl on such a subject. I don't believe she was
ever so innocent herself. A grown girl can't be innocent unless
she's a fool ; but any way it's the right pose to pretend. You've
got to play the silly fool to please a man ; then he feels superior."
" But it's hypocritical," said Beth.
" Yes, my dear. But you must be hypocritical if you want to
be a man's ideal of a woman. You must know nothing, do noth-
ing, see nothing, but just what suits his pleasure and convenience ;
and in order to answer to his requirements you must be either a
hypocrite or a blind worm, without eyes or intelligence. Men
don't like innocence because it's holy, but because it whets their
appetites, my sister says, and if they're deceived it serves them
right. They work the world for their own pleasure, not ours, and
we must look out for ourselvr-s. If we want money, liberty, de-
votion, admiration, and any other luxury, we must pretend. Don't
you see ? "
" I don't know," Beth rejoined. " But personally I shall never
pretend anything."
" Then you will suffer for your sincerity." Geraldine rejoined.
Beth shrugged her shouldei*s. The turn the conversation had
taken was distasteful to her and she would not pursue it.
There was a pause, then Clara observed sententiously : " Inno-
cence is not impossible, Geraldine. Surely Adelaide is innocent
enough."
" I said innocence and intelligence were incompatible," Geral-
dine answered. " You don't call Adelaide intelligent, do you ? "
" Who is Adelaide ? " Beth asked.
" The daughter of a Roman Catholic peer," Geraldine replied.
" She is eighteen, and her mind is absolutely undeveloped. We
think she's in training for a convent, and that's v, hy they don't
let her learn much. Miss Ella Blackburne is a Roman Catholic,
THE BETH BOOK.
343
id Clara,
cted with
-I live to
very fat
engaged
lon't like
Ihe's been
Mamma
my sister
not speak
i she was
iiit unless
You've
juperior."
1 want to
do noth-
r^enience ;
} either a
ce. Men
ets their
es them
urs, and
erty, de-
bon't
ill never
rejoined,
tion had
" Inno-
^mocevit
Geral-
rou?"
replied.
p. We
|y don't
itholic,
and so also is Adelaide's maid ; they trot her round to all the ob-
servances of her Church regularly, and in the intervals she plays
with the kitten. I don't know why she should have been sent
here at all, for this is a regular forcing liouse for the marriage
market. Miss Blackburne expects all her girls to marry well, and
they generally do. I should think. Miss Beth, she will be able to
make something of you with those eyes ! "
" Look at its neck and shoulders, too, and the way its head is
set on them ! '' Clara exclaimed.
" Not to mention its hands and its complexion ! " Geraldine
supplemented. " But its voice alone, soft, gentle, and low, would
get it into the peerage ! "
Beth, unused to be appraised in this way, blushed and smiled,
rather pleased but confused. " How many girls are there here ? "
she asked, to change the subject.
" Six boarders till you came, but now we are seven," Clara
answered. " There are some day girls, too, but they are children,
and don't count. The greatest pickle in the school is the daughter
of an archbishop — at least, she has been the greatest pickle so far ;
we don't know you as yet, however. But we have heard things ! "
" Come and see my room," Geraldine interrupted. "And per-
haps you'd like to see your own. It's next to mine."
" Are you allowed to go up and down stairs just as you like ?"
Beth asked in surprise,
"Why, of course!" Geraldine cried. "You can go where
you like and sit where you like when you've done your work.
We're not in prison I "
Beth had a dainty little room, hung with white curtains, all
to herself. Her heart expanded when she saw it. Tlie deliglitful
appearance of her new surroundings had already begun to have
the happiest effect upon her mind.
When Geraldine took her into her own room she drew a yellow
book from under a quantity of linen in a drawer. " It's a French
novel," she said. " Miss Blackburne wouldn't let me read it for
worlds if she knew, so you mustn't tell. I'll lend it to you if
you like."
"I couldn't read it if I would; I don't know enough," Beth
said.
" Oh, you'll soon learn ; and I'll tell you all there is in it. I say,
what size is your waist ? Mine is only seventeen inches ; but I
laced till I got shingles to reduce it to that. I know a doctor
who says small waists are neither healthy nor beautiful; but
344
TlIP] BETH BOOK.
then they're the fashion, and men are such awful fools about
fashion. They sneer at a healthy figure, and saddle themselves
every day with ailing wives, all deformed, because they're accus-
tomed to see women so; and then they call us silly! My hus-
band won't think 7)ie silly once I get command of his money,
whatever else he may think me. Till then " Slie made a
pretty gesture with her hands and laughed, Beth observing her
the while with deep attention as a new specimen.
She found eventually that Geraldine was not at all a bad girl,
or in the least inclined to be vicious, her conversation notwith-
standing ,• she was merely a shrewd one learning how to protect
herself in that state of life to wliich she was destined. If a woman
is to nuike her way in society and keep straight, she must have
wnts and knowledge of a special kind. There is probably no more
deliglitful, high-minded, charming-mannered, honourable, and
trustwortliy woman in the world than a well-bred English woman ;
but, on the other hand, there can be nothing more vulgar-minded,
coarse, and despicable than women of fashion tend to become.
There is no meanness nor shabbiness, not to mention fraud, that
they will not stoop to when it suits themselves, from tricking a
tradesnum and sweating a servant, to neglecting their children,
deceiving their husbands, and slandering their friends. They are
sheep running hither and thither in serviU:; imitation of each
other, without an original thought among them ; tlie froth of so-
ciety, with the natural tendency of froth to rise to the surface and
thence be swept aside — mere bubbles that shine a moment and
then burst. It is fashion that unsexes women and unnuikes men.
To be in the world of fashion and of it is to degenerate ; but to be
in it and not of it, to know it and remain untainted, desjjising all
it has to give, makes toward solid advance. There are some ugly
stages to be gone through, however, before the advancement is
pronounced.
The six girls at Miss Blackburne's were all daughters of people
of position, all enjoying the same advantages, and under the satne
inlluences ; but three of them were already shaping themselves into
women of fashion, while the other tliree wer(> tcMidingas inevitably
to d(>velop into women of fine cliaracter and cultivated mind. Beth
was attracted to all such women, and recognised their wortli. often
long before they appreciated her at all. She was seventh among the
girls, her place being in the middle, as it Avere, with three on either
side of her, teaching her all they could, as was inevitable. In as-
sociation with the budding women of fashion she lost the first
I
THE BETH BOOK.
345
Fools about
themselves
ey're uccus-
! My hus-
his money,
(he niiide a
serving her
1 a bud gn-i,
on not with -
w to protect
If a woiiian
must have
)ly no more
Lirable, and
ish woman;
^ar-minded,
to become,
L fraud, that
1 tricking a
lir chiuh'en,
. They are
on of each
roth of so-
ur face and
oment and
lakes men.
; hut to be
spising all
some ugly
icenuait is
of people
the same
selves into
inevitably
nd. Beth
Irlli. often
Imong the
on either
. In as-
the first
fine delicacy of maiden modesty of mind, but the example of tlie
young gentlewomen, on the other hand, confirmed her taste and
settled her convictions. The ladies who kept the sclu)ol wt-re high-
minded themselves, and exemplary in every possible way, and if
they did not make all their pui)ils ecpially so, it was because factors
go to tlie formation of character with which, for want of Ivuowl-
edge, no one can reckon at present. The iniluence of tliese ladies
upon Beth was altogether ])enign. She was in a n(>w worltl with
them, a world of ease and refinement, of polislied manners, of
kindly consideration, where, instead of being liarried by nagging
rules, stultified by every kind of restraint, and lowered in her
own estimation for want of proper respect and encouragement,
she was allowed as much liberty as .she would have had in a well-
ordered home, and found herself and her abilities of special inter-
est to each of her teachers. Instead of being an item, a part of a
huge piece of machinery, to be strictly kept in the particular })lace
assigned to her, Avhether it were adapted to the needs of her
nature or not, for fear of puUing the wliole mechanism out of
order — her present and future being less considered than tlie
smooth working of the machine — she was a girl again, with some
character of her own to be formed and developed. Here, too, she
was put upon her honour to do all that was expected of her, and
the immediate consequence of this in her case was the most scru-
pulous exactness. She attached herself to Miss Ella, attracted
first of all by the fact that she was a Roman Catholic. How she
could be one was a mystery Beth hmged to solve, but Miss Ella
did not consider it loyal to Protestant parents to influence their
daughters at school, and would give her no help in this; in every
other respect, however, Beth found her exceedingly kind and
sj'mpathetic, a serene strong woman who began to curb the
exuberance of Beth's naughtiness from the first, and to direct the
energy of Avhich it was the outcome into ])r()fitable channels.
There was no monotony in ^liss Black])urne's establishment.
The girls were taken in turns to operas, concerts. {)icture galleries,
and every kind of exhil)iti(ui that might help to cultivate their
minds. To be able to discuss such things was a part of their educa-
tion. They were expected to d(>scribe all they saw fluently and
pleasantly, but without criticism enough to recjuire thought and pro-
voke argument, which is apt to be tedious ; and thus was formed the
habit of chatting in the genial, light, frothy way which does duty
for conversation in society. Geraldine had not exaggerated when
she called Miss Blackburne's school a forcing house for the mar-
23
346
THE BETH BOOK.
riag^e market. At that time marriagfe was the only career open to
a young lady, and the object of her education was to make her
attractive. The theory then was that solid acquirements were
beyond the physical strength of girls, besides being unnecessary.
Showy accomplisliments, therefore, were all that was aimed at ;
but they had to be tliorough. Music, singing, drawing, dancing,
French, German, Italian — whatever it might be— the girl who
was learning it had the greatest attention from her master or mis-
tress during the lesson ; she was made to do it as nmch by the
will of the teacher as by her own intelligence. This was the fir.st
experience of thorough training Beth had ever had, and she en-
joyed it, and would have worked harder to profit by it than Miss
Blackburne would allow. As it was, slie made great progress with
her work, while all the time the more informal but most valuable
part of her education, which was directed to the strengthening of
every womanly attribute, went on steadily under the influence of
Miss Ella.
It would have been well for Beth if she had been left at Miss
Blackburne's for the next three years ; but just when the rebel-
lious beating of her wings against the bars had ceased and they
had folded themselves contentedly behind her for a while, just
when the wild flights of her imagination were giving way to
wholesome habits of thought and her own vain dreams were being
dissipated by the honest ambition to accomplish something actual,
she was summoned away. Her sister Mildred had died suddenly
of meningitis, and the immediate effect of the shock on Mrs. Cald-
well, who had dearly loved her eldest daughter, was a kindlier
feeling for Beth and a wish to have her at home — for a time, at all
events — and Beth went willingly, under the circumstances. She
symiiathized deeply with her mother, and was full of grief herself
for her sister, to whom she had been tenderly attached, although
they had seen so little of each other. Beth was not yet sixteen,
and this was the third blow that death had dealt her.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Beth had a natural love of order, and at school she had learned
the necessity for it. She did not mean to give up work when she
went home ; on the contrary, she determined to do more than ever.
Miss Ella had taught her to be deliberate, neither to haste nor to
TUE BETH BOOK.
347
reer open to
3 make her
nieiits were
nuecessary.
s aimed at ;
ng, dancing,
he girl who
aster or niis-
inuch by the
was the lirst
and she en-
it than Miss
progress with
lost valuable
tigthening of
J influence of
n left at Miss
len the rebel-
ised and they
a while, just
iving way to
[IS were being
thing actual,
led suddenly
m Mrs. Cald-
,s a kindlier
a time, at all
itances. She
grief herself
ed, although
yet sixteen,
; had learned
Lrk when she
Ire than ever.
haste nor to
rest, but steadily to pursue. She insisted that things to be well
done must be done regularly, and Beth, in accordance with this
precept, mapped out her day so as to make the most of it. Slie
got up at seven, opened her window wider, threw the clothes back
from her bed to air it, had her bath, brushed her hair in four divi-
sions, fifty strokes on each, two hundred in all ; left nothing un-
tidy lying about her room ; did her good reading, the psalms and
lessons ; breakfasted, made her bed, studied French, went out for
exercise, sewed, and read .so nmch — all in the same order every
day. She paid particular attention to her personal appearance,
too, that being the one of her mother's principles which had also
been mo-st particularly enjoined by Miss Blackburne. At both of
her schools marriage was the great ambition of most of the girl.s.
At St. Catherine's it meant a means of escape from many hard-
ships ; to Miss Blackburne's girls it oft'ered the chance of a better
position and more money and luxury. There was a nicer tone
among the Royal Service girls and more reticence in their discus-
sions of the subject than at Miss Blackburne's, where the girls
were not at all high-minded, and talked of their chances with the
utmost frankness, not to say coarseness ; but good looks were held
to be the best, if not the only means to the end in both sets. Money
and accomplishments might help, but personal appearance was
the great certainty, and Beth was naturally impressed with this
idea, like the rest. Marriage, however, was far from being the
distinct object of her life — in fact, she had no distinct object at
all, as yet. She had always meant to do something, or rather to
be something, but further than that she had not got.
Miss Blackburne had paid particular attention to the cultiva-
tion of the speaking voice, and it was from her that Beth had
learned how to round hers to richness and modulate it so that its
natural sweetness and charm were greatly enhanced. There was
considerable difference of opinion about her looks. She was al-
ways striking in appearance, but dress, for one thing, altered her
very much, and the state of her mind still more. I'cople who
met her on one occasion admired her exceeding-lv, and on the next
wondered why they had tliouglit her good-looking at all. She
had the mesmeric quality which makes it impossible to escape
observation, and her persoiuility never failed to interest the intel-
ligent, whether it pleased them or not ; but she was only at her
best in mind, manner, and a})pearance when her fitful further
faculty was active ; then, indeed, she shone with a strange loveli-
ness — a light to be felt rather than seen, and not to be described
348
THE BETH BOOK.
at Jill. At such times tlie mere physical beauty of other women
went out in lior immediate neiglibourliood, and was no more
thou<,dit of. It was not until she was quite mature, however, tliat
her manner permanently acquired that subtle, indefinable quality
called cliai'm, which is the outcome of a large, tolerant nature and
kindness of heart. It was as if slie did not come into full posses-
sion of lier true self until slie had experienced numberless otiier
phases of being common to the race. Hence the apparently in-
congruous mixture she presented in the earlier stages of her youth,
her sluggish indilt'erence at times, her excesses of energy and zeal,
her variations of taste.
At first, after she left school, as was inevitable, her self-disci-
plin(^ was irksome enough at times, and some of the details she
shii'ked ; but not for long, because the time which accustomed
duties should have occupied hung heavy on her hands, and she
felt dissatisfied with herself, rather than relieved, when she neg-
lected them. So, by degrees, her habits were formed, and in after-
life slie found them a very present help in time of trouble —
anclK^rs which kept her from drifting to leeward, as she must
have done but for their hold upon her. Some of her erratic tricks
were not to be cured, but they came to be part of the day's work
rather than a hindrance to it. She saw many a sunrise, for in-
stance, and revelled with uidifted spirit in the beauty and wonder
of the hour; but the soul that sang responsive to the glories of
the summer dawn — the colour, the freshness, the perfume — was
steeped at noon with equal energy in the book she was studying,
so that instead of losing anything she gained that day one sunrise
more.
When slie left .school Beth was fastidiously refined. She hur-
ried over all the hateful words and passages in the Bible, Shake-
speare, or any other book she might be reading. The words she
would not even pronounce to herself, so strongly did her delicate
mind revolt from a vile idea and sicken at the expression of it.
But nevertheless she pored patiently over every book she could
get tliat had a great reputation, and in this way she read many
not usually given to girls, and learned certain facts of life not
generally supposed to be of soul-making material ; but she took
no harm. The soul that is shaping itself to noble purpose— the
growing soul — tries more than is proper for its nourishment in
its search for sustenance, but rejects all that is unnecessary or
injurious, as water creatures without intelligence reject any un-
suitable substance they collect with their food.
THE BETH BOOK.
340
other women
was no more
liowever, that
nable quality
nt nature and
to full posses-
iiberless t)tlier
ippareutly in-
; of lier youth,
argy and zeal,
her self-disci-
,he details she
h accustomed
lands, and she
v'hen she neg-
, and in after-
of trouble —
, as she must
:' erratic tricks
Ihe day's work
11 arise, for in-
y and wonder
the glories of
)erfume — was
was studying,
ly one sunrise
ed. She hur-
Bible, Shake-
'he words she
I her delicate
ircssion of it.
|ok she could
read many
,s of life not
|but she took
•urpose— the
lirishment in
necessary or
Iject any un-
Before she had been many days at home Beth found that her
mother had made a new acquaintance who came to the house
often in a casual way like an intimate friend. lie came in on
the day of her arrival after dinner, and was introduced to l^cth
by lier mother as "the doctor." Beth ])r()ke into smiles, for she
recognised her long-ago acquaintance of the rocks, the doctor of
lier Hector romance. And it seemed he really was a doctor; now
tliat was a singular coincidence! In their little drawing-room
she discovered him to be a bigger man than she had supposed ;
but otherwise he was like her tirsf impression of him, striking
because of his colouring; the red and white of his coini)Ic.\ion,
which was unusually clear for a man, and the lightness of his gray-
green eyes being in peculiar contrast to the blackness of his hair.
She noticed again, too, that the expression of his face when he
smiled was not altogether agreeable because his te(>th were too
far apart; and she also thought his finely formed hands would
have looked better had they n(jt been so obtrusively white.
" But we have met ])efore.'" he exclaimed when Beth acknowl-
edged the introduction. "You are the young lady I helped on
the rocks one day, quite a long time ago now, when you were a
little girl."
" I remember," Beth said, noticing that he claimed to have
helped her on that occa.sion, and remembering also that she had
declined his help.
"You never told me, Beth," her mother .said reproachfully.
" There was really iiothing to tell," he answered, coining to
the rescue.
"What a day that was I" Beth observed. "Did you notice
the sea ? It was the sort of sea that might make oik^ long to
be a crab to live in it. Though a crab is not the animal that I
should s])ecially choose to be. I long to be a cat .sometimes. To
be able to ilulf out my fur and spit would be such a .satisfaction^
There are feelings that can be expressed in no other way. And
then to be able to purr I Purring is the one sound in Nature that
expresses perfect comfort and content, I think."
"Beth, don't talk nonsense," her mother said impatiently.
"Oh, it's not nonsense altogether," the doctor interposed. "It
is just cheery chatter, and that is good. Mi.ss Beth will raise your
spirits in no time or I'm much mistaken." He had watched Beth
with gravity while she was speaking, as on(^ sees people watch an
actress critically, obviously marking her points but betraying no
emotion.
'^r
350
THE BETH BOOK.
Mrs. Caldwell sij^lunl heavily. " The doctor has been so j^ood,
Beth," she said. > " He lias come here continually, and done more
to cheer me than anybody.''
"Oh, now, Mrs, Caldwell, you exaggerate," he remonstrated
with a smile. " But it's my principle, you know, to be cheery. I
always say, Be cheery whatever happens. It's no use crying over
spilled milk!"
" A merry lienrt poes uU the day,
Your Hud tirus iii u milo-u,"
Beth rattled oflF glibly, and again the doctor considered her.
" Now, that's good," he said, just as if he had never heard it be-
fore. " And it's my meaning exactly. Don't let your spirits go
down "
" For there's many a girl as I know well
A-lookin(^ for you in tlie town,"
Beth concluded, her spirits rising uproariously.
" Beth ! " her mother remonstrated, but with a smile.
*' The worst of it is, the ones on the lookout are not the ones
with tlie good looks," the doctor observed, also smiling.
" But they are the ones with the money," Beth rejoined. " I
wonder how it is that plain girls so often have money. I suppose
the money-grubbing spirit comes out in ugliness in the female
branch."
Tea was brought in, but Beth refused to take any. The doctor
tried to persuade her.
" You had better change your mind," he said. " Ladies are
privileged to change their minds."
" I know," said Beth. " Ladies are privileged to be foolish. It
is almost the only privilege men allow them. I scorn it myself.
At school we were warned to be firm when once we had said, No,
thank you. Miss Ella used to say that people who allowed them-
selves to be overpersuaded and changed their minds lost self-
control and became self-indulgent eventually."
"Ah, that makes me think of my poor dear mother," said the
doctor. " A better and more consistent woman never lived. Once
she said a thing you couldn't move her. She was a good mother
to me ! I was always her favourite son. But, like other young
fellows, I'm afraid I didn't half appreciate her till I had lost her."
" All tlie same, I am sure you were all that a good son should
be," Mrs. Caldwell observed sincerely.
The doctor's eyes shone with emotion.
When he had gone Mrs. Caldwell began to discuss him.
THE BETH BOOK.
351
. so good,
JUG more
on st rated
lieery. I
ring over
ler.
ard it be-
spirits go
the ones
lied. " I
I suppose
e female
le doctor
idies are
[ish. It
myself.
,uid, No,
»d tliem-
ost self-
said the
Once
mother
young
kt her."
should
" He really is cheery," she said ; " he always rai.ses my spirits,
and I am sure he is good and kind. Did you see how his eyes
filled with tears wlien lie mentioned his motlier ? He is hand-
some, too, don't you think so? Such i\ colour I And always .so
well dressed. Lady Benyon admires him very much. But he
get« on with every one, even Uncle James 1 What do you tliink
of him, Beth ? "
" 1 tliink he looks neat to the point of nattiness, which is finical
in a man," Beth answered.
"Ah, that is becau.se you are not accustomed to well-dre.sscd
men," her mother assured her. " Here in liainharbt-L r you don't
often see one."
" I have been in London lately," Beth observed.
"Beth," her mother began emphatically, "that is so like you !
Will you never get out of the habit of answering so ? You are
always in opposition, and it is too conceited of you at your age.
I did hope they would have cured you of the trick at school ; but
no sooner do you get home than you begin again as bad as ever.''
" Well, rather than displease you, mamma, I'll do my best to
hold my tongue for the future when I can't say what you want
me to say," Beth answered cheerfully. "I came home to be a
comfort to you, and if I can't be a comfort to you and express
myself as well, why, I must go unexpressed."
" Now there you are again, Beth," Mrs. Caldwell cried pee-
vishly. " Is that a nice thing to say ? "
Beth looked at her mother and smiled enigmatically. Then
she reflected. Then lier countenance cleared.
" Mamma," she said, " your hair is much whiter than it was,
but I don't think I ever saw you look so nice. You have such a
pretty complexion, and so few wrinkles, and such even teeth !
What a handsome girl you must have been ! "
Mrs. Caldwell smiled complacently, and went to bed in high
good humour. She told Bernadine as they undressed that she
thought Beth greatly improved.
But Beth herself lay long awake that night, tossing and
troubled, feeling far from .satisfied either with herself or any-
body else.
The next morning she rose early, and drew up her plan of life.
352
THE BETH BOOK.
CHAPTER XXXV.
As that first day at liome wore on Both was solzed witli an
importunate yc^arniiif,'' to go out, and it was witli dilliculty that
slio got tlirough her sclf-appointod tasks. Sho tliought of the sea,
the sliorc, the silencM! and solitude wliich were apt to he so s(H)th-
ing to her dull senses tliat she ceased to perceive witli them, and
so passed into the possession of her further faculty for hlissful
moments. She fancied the sea Wius as she hest loved to have it,
h(T favourite sea, with tiny wavelets bringing the tide in imper-
ceptibly over the rocks, and the long stretch of water beyond
heaving gently up to the horizon with smooth, unrullh-d surface
shining in the sun. When she had done her work she fared forth
to the sea, to sit by it and feel the healthy, ha])py freshness of it
all about her and in her.self as well. She went to the rocks. The
tide was coming in. The water, however, was not molten silver
gray, as she had imagined it, but bright dark sapphire-blue, with
crisp white crests to the waves, which were merry and tumbled.
It was the sea for an active, not for a meditative mood ; its voice
called to play rather than to that prayer of the whole being which
comes of the contemplation of its calmness ; it exhilarated instead
of soothing, and made her joyous as she had not been since she
went to .school. She stood long on the rocks by the water's edge,
retreating as the tide advanced, watching wave after wave curve
and hollow itself and break, and curve and hollow itself and
break again. The sweet sea breeze sang in her ears and braced
lier with its freshness, while the continuous sound of wind and
water w(uit from her consciousness and came agaiji with the ebb
and ilow of her thoughts. But the strength and swirl of tlie
water, its tireless force, its incessant voices choiring on a choral
of numberless notes, invited her, fascinated her, tilled her with
longing — longing to trust herself to the waves, to lie still and let
them rock her, to be borne out by them a little way and brought
back again, passive yet in ecstatic enjoyment of the dreamy mo-
tion. The longing became an impulse. She put her liand to her
throat to undo her dress, but .she did not undo it ; she never knew
why. Had she yielded to the attraction she must have been
drowned, for she could swim but little, and the water was deeper
tlian she knew, and the current strong; and she might have
yielded just as she resisted, for no reason that rendered itself into
intelligible thought.
TIIK lUlTll HOOK.
353
1 witli an
culty tliat
of tlie sou,
'. so sooth-
tliom, and
ji* blissful
:<) liavo it,
in iiiiper-
t-r beyond
rd surface
"arod f(jrth
luM^ss of it
Dcks. Tbe
Itou silver
1)1 ue, with
1 tumbled.
[ ; its voice
['iiifjC wliich
(1 iiist(>ad
since she
er's edge,
ive curve
tself and
d braced
wind and
1 the ebb
irl of the
a choral
h<'r witli
1 and let
I brought
eaniy me-
nd to her
ver knew
ave been
as deeper
ght have
tself into
She turned from the scone of h(>r strange impulse and began
to wander back over the rocks, sutfering the while from tbat dull
drop of tbe spirit which sets iu at the reaction after moments of
sjjccial intensity; aiul in this mood she came upon the "doctor,"
also climbing tlie roclcs.
"Now, it is a singular coincidence that I should meet you hero
again," he said.
Beth smiled. " I am afraid those nice boots of yours will suf-
fer on tlu^se sharp rocks," she remarked by way of .saying some-
thing. "We natives ke<'p our old ones for th(^ jjurpose."
"Ah," he said, "1 don't keep old ones for any purpose. I luive
an objection to everything old— old p(>opl(^ included."
Beth had a book under her arm, and he coolly took it from her
as he spoke, and read the title, Dnjdois Pocticdl Worka. "Ah I
so you carry the means of ini])r()ving yotu* mind at odd monuMits
about with you. Well, I'm not surpri.sed, for I heard you were
clever."
Beth smiled, more i)leased than if he had called her beautiful ;
but .she wondered if Dryden could properly be called improving.
"It is absurd to keep a girl at school who has got as far as this
kind of thing," he added, tapi)ing the old brown book ; " but it
seems to me they don't understand you much at home, little
lady."
"What makes you think so ?" Beth asked slirewdly.
"Oh," lie answered, somewhat disconcerted, "I judge from —
from things I hear and see."
This implied sympathy, and again Beth was pleased.
It was late when she got in, and she expected her mother to be
annoyed, but Mrs. Caldwell was all smiles.
" I suppose the doctor found you ? " she said. " He asked
where you were, and I said on tlu^ rocks, prol>ably."
" That accounts for the singular coincidence," Beth observ<'d ;
but, girl-like, she thought less at the moment of the little insin-
cerity than of the compliment his following her implied.
They dined that evening with Lady Benyon. It was a quiet
little family party, including Uncle James and Aunt fJrace Mary.
The doctor was the only stranger presc^nt. He looked very well
in evening dress.
" Striking, isn't he ? " Aunt Grace Mary whispered to Beth.
" Such colouring ! "
" And how are you, Dan ? " was Uncle James's greeting, ut-
tered with an affectation of cordiality in his unexpected little
1
354
THE BETH BOOK.
voicpi that intorcstod Botl>. Slio wondorod wliat was toward. She
noticed, too, that slic lin-sclf was an ohjcct of special attention,
and luM' heart expanch'd with gratilicatiou. Very little kindness
went a lonj; way with lieth.
Dr. Dan took lier in to dinner.
" By the way," lie said, looking" across the table at I^nclo
James, "I went to see that ohl Mrs. Prince, your keeper's mother,
as I promised. She's a wond(Tfui old woman for eigi»ty-live. I
sliouhln't be surprised if slu5 lived to a hundred."
"Dear, dear!" Undo James ejacuhited with sometliing like
consternation.
" I seem to have put my foot in it somehow," Dr. Dan re-
marked to Ik^th conlidentially.
"If you do anything to keep her alive you will," Beth an-
swered. " Uncle James alwaj's speaks bitterly about elderly
women — about old ones he is i)erfectly rabid. Ho seems to think
they rob worthy men of part t)f their time by living so long."
It was arranged before the i)arty broke up that the doctor
should di'ive Beth to Fairholm in the Benyon dogcart to lunch
next day. Beth was surprised and delighted to find herself the
object of so much c(msideration. Dr. Dan, as they all called him,
began to be associated in her mind with liapjiy days.
" Have you come to live here ? " she asked as they drove
along.
"No," he answered. "I am only putting in the time until I
can settle down to a practice of my own. I have just heard of
one whicli I shall buy if I can get an appointment I am trying
for in the same place."
"What is the appointment ?" Betb asked.
"It's a hospital I want to be put in charge of,'' he answered
casually — " a small affair, but I should get a regular income from
it, and that would make my rent and all that sort of thing secure.
A doctor has to set up with a show of affluence."
" It is a terrible profession to me, the medical profession," Beth
said. " The responsibilities mu.st be so great and so various."
"Oh, I never think of that," he answered easily.
" I should," Beth rejoined.
"Yes, you would, of course," he said; "and that shows what
folly it is for women to go in for medicine. They worry about
this and that, things that are the patient's lookout, not the doc-
tor's, and make no end of mischief ; besides always losing their
heads in a ditficulty." Just then the horse, which had been very
I
THE IJKTII BOOK.
3:)5
ard. f>ho
attention,
kindness
at Uncle
"s inotluM',
tv-iive. I
thing like
r. Dan re-
' Beth au-
.it elderly
IS to think
long."
the doctor
t to lunch
lierself the
ailed him,
liey drove
no until T
t heard of
ini trying
I answered
)nae from
lig secure.
n," Beth
IMS."
Iws what
rry about
Ithe doc-
|ng their
ien very
fidgety all the way, bolted. The blood rijshed into the doctor's
face. "Sit tight! sit tight!" he exclaimed. "Don't now now
don't move, and make a fuss. Keep ('(k)1 ! "
"Keep cool yourself," said Beth, dryly. " /'m all right."
Dr. Dan glanced at her sidevvay.s, and .saw that she was
laughing.
When they arrived at Fairholm he made much of the incident.
"If [hadn't had my wits about me there would luive been a
smash," he vowed. " But I happened to be on the spot myself,
and Miss Beth behaved admirably. Most girls would have
slirieked, you know, but slu^ luihaved heroically."'
This was all rather gushing, but it did not offend Beth, because
she a.sso<'iated gush with Aunt (Jrace Mary, who had always been
kind to her. (Jushing people are usually weak aiul amiable, gush
being the ill-judged outcome of a desire to plea.se; but at that
happy age it was the amiable intention that Beth took into ac-
count. Iler desire to be pleased, which had so seldom l)e<Mi grati-
fied, had become a danger to her judgment by this time; it made
her apt to respond to any attemjjt to please her without consider-
ing means and motives which should have discounted her appre-
ciation. Everylxxly was trying to plea.se her now, and all her
being answered only too readily. She spent a delightful day at
Fairholm, and went home in extravagantly high spirits.
Dr. Dan called early the next morning and found her with her
hat on, just going out.
" How are you this misty cold, gray day ? " he asked.
"Oh, very bright,'" she answered. "I feel as if I were the
sun, and I'm just going to shine out on the world to en-
liven it."
" May I accompany yon ? " he asked.
"The sun, alas, is a solitary luminary," she answered, .shaking
her head.
"Then I shall hope for better luck next time," he said, and let
her go alone.
In the evening he came in again to have a game of cribbage
with Mrs. Caldwell. Beth was sleepy and had gone to bed early.
In the pauses of the game they talked about her, and the responsi-
bilities of a family.
"A girl wants some one to look after her," the doctor said,
"especially if she has money."
"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Caldwell replied, "girls are a great anx-
iety. Now a boy you can put into a profession and have done
350
THE BETH BOOK.
•with it. But it is not so easy to fj'ul a suitable husband for a
girl."
'• But, of course, if slie has a little money it makes a dilference,"
he observed. *' Only she should hav^ some one to advise h(>r in
the spending of it. Now, Miss Beth, ior instance, will be as nmch
a child at twenty-one in money matters as she is now."
"T hope we sliall find the right man for her before then," Mr.s.
Caldwell answered archly — "not that I think her aunt's fortune
will cause her much anxiety." She alluded to the smallness of
the sum.
" She gets some of the interest, I suppose, to go on with," he
said.
"Just enough to dress on."
Beth saw a great deal of Dr. Dan after that. She was not in
the least in love with him, but they became intimate all the sooner
on that account. A girl shrinks more shyly from a man she loves
than fnmi one for whom she has only a liking; in the one case
every ,'omanly instinct is on the alert, in the other her feeling is
not strong enough to seem worth curl)iiig. Beth was fond of
men's companions] lip, and Dr. Dan's assiduous attentions en-
livened her, made her brain active, and brought tlie vision and
the dream within reach ; so that she moved in a happy light, but
considered the source of it no more than she would have consid-
ered the stick that held the candle by which she read an enti'an-
cing book.
There are idyllic gleams in all interesting lives ; but life as we
live it from day to day is not idyllic. In Eeth's case there was
the inevitable friction, the shocks and jars of difriculties and dis-
agreements with her mother. These had been suspended for a
time after her return, but began to break out again, fomented
very often by Bernadine, who was aUvays her mother's favourite,
but was never a pleasant child. Dr. Dan came one very wet day,
and found Beth sitting in tlie drawing-ro(mi alone, looking miser-
able. Sbe had done all her little self-im]K)sed tasks honestly, but
had reajjcd no reward. On the contrary, there had come up(m
lier a dreadful vision of herself doing that sort of thing on always
into old age, as Aunt Victoria did her French, with no object,
an:' to no purpose ; and for the first time she fornmlated a feeling
that had gradually been growing up in her of late. "I nmst have
more of a life than tliis.'' Wliat could she do, however, tied to
that stupid place, without a suspicion as yet that she had it in her
to do anything special, and without friends to help her, with no
'■..ii'i'~''
mSnSm
WfiiPf*!"
wmmmszz
THE BETH BOOK.
>tind for a
fForoiice,''
ise licr ill
as iiiueh
en," Mrs.
i fortune
lliiess of
vitli," lie
IS not in
sooner
lie loves
)ne case
't'ling- is
fond of
ons en-
ion and
M, but
consid-
L'litran-
as we
I'e was
1(1 dis-
for a
lonted
>urite,
day,
liser-
biit
ipon
ways
)ject,
iling
lave
'd to
lier
no
1
one to advise. As she reflected, the liopelessness of it all wruii*';'
some of the bitterest tears from her slie had ever shed. If licr
mother would only send her l)ack to Miss Blackburiie she would
be learning- something, at all events; but, althougli Mrs. Cald-
well had said nothing definite on the subject, Beth was pretty
certain l)y this time that slu^ did n<jt mean to let her return to
school.
Beth was in the middle of this misery when Dr. Dan arrived.
"How's this ?■' he said. "Down ? You should have the win-
dow open. It's not cold to-day, though it's wet ; and the room is
quite stiitFy. Never be afraid of fre.sh air. \-()U know."
"I'm not," Beth said. "But I didn't know the window was
shut. Open it as wide as yon like ; the 'vider the better for me,"
"That's better," he said, as the fresh air ilowed in. "It's sin-
gular how women will shut themselves uj). No wonder they get
out of spirits ! Now, I never let myself run down. When one
thing- goes wrong-, I just take up another, and don't bother.
>u'd think I wasn't having much of a time here ; but I'm as
nappy as the day is long ; and 1 want to see you the same.'' He
sat down beside her on the old-fashioned sofa, took her hand, and
began to stroke it gently. "Cheer up, little girl," he added. "I
believe you've been crying. Aren't tliey kind to you ?"
"Oh, yes, they're kind enough," Beth answered, soothed by
the caress ; " at least they mean to be. The mise^ ;• is in myself,
I feel all di.ssa.isfied."
"Not when I'm with you, do you ?'' he asked reproacli fully.
"No. I don't bother about mvself when I have vou to talk to,"'
Beth answered. " You come in fresh, and give me something else
to think about.''
■'Then look here. Beth," he said, putting his arm round her."
"I don't think I caii do better than tak(; you away with me.
You've a head on your shoulders, and an original waj' with you
that would be sure to bring people about the house, and you're
well connected, and look it ; all of which would be good fi»r my
practice. Besides, a young doctor must marry. I'm over thirty,
though you might not think it. Come, what do you say ? You'd
have a very good time of it as my wife, I can tell you. All your
own way, and no nagging. You know what I am — a cheery fel-
low, never put out by anything. Now what do you say ? "
" Are you asking me to marry you ?" said Beth, breaking into
a smile. The position struck her as comical rather than serious.
"Why, what else ?" he replied, smiling also. "I see you are
358
THE BETH BOOK.
recovoring your spirits. You'll be as happy as the day is long
■when we're married. You'd never j»-et oji witli anybody else as
you do with me. I don't think anybody else would understand
you."
Beth laughed. She liked him, and she liked to be caressed.
Why not marry him, and be independent of every one ? She
hadn't the slightest objection at the moment ; far from it, for she
saw in the offer the one means of escape she was likely to have
from the long, dull, dreary days and the loneliness which was all
the life she could have to look forward to when he had gene.
And he was good-looking, too, and nice ; everybody said so. Be-
sides, they would all be pleased if she accepted him, her mother
especially so. Now that she came to think of it, she perceived
that this was what they had been suggesting to her ever since her
return.
*' It is settled, then ? '' he said, stooping forward to look into her
face.
She looked at him shyly, and laughed again. For the life of
her she could not keep her countenance, although she felt she was
behaving in the silly, giggling-girl sort of way she so much de-
spised.
"That's all right," he exclaimed, looking extremely well
pleased ; and at that moment Mrs. Caldwell walked into the room,
just in time to witness a loverlike caress. Beth jumped up, cov-
ered with confusion. Mrs. Caldwell looked from one to the other,
and waited for an explanation.
'We've just come to the conclusion that we can not live
apart," Dan said deliberately, rising at the same time and taking
Beth's hand.
" My dear child I " Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed, embracing Beth
with happy tears in her eyes. " This is a joy 1 I do congratulate
you."
Beth became suddenly serious. The aspect of the aft'air had
changed. It was no longer a game of the moment, but a settled
business, already irrevocable. She wanted to explain that she
had not actually pledged herself, that she must take time to con-
sider ; but her heart failed her in view of her mother's delight.
It was Beth's great weakness that, as a rule, she could neither
spoil pleasure nor give pain to save herself in an emergency.
i
THE BETH BOOK.
359
lay is long
xly else as
niderstand
? caressed,
ane ? She
it, for she
ly to have
cli was all
liad gone,
d so. Be-
er mother
pfrceived
' since her
k into her
the life of
It she was
niuch de-
lely well
the room,
up, cov-
le other,
not live
d takinjr
tig Beth
ratulate
fair had
settled
|hat she
to con-
lelight.
Ineither
i
r
i
I
CHAPTER XXXYI.
When Dan came to see her tlie next morning he found her in
a very mixed mood. Half a dozen times during the niglit slie
had declined to marry him in a painful scene ; hut just as often
her imagination would run on into the unknown life she would
have to lead with him. She saw herself in white satin and lace
and pearls, a slender figure at the head of a long dining table, in-
teresting to everybcjdy ; and Dan was at the foot, looking quite
distinguislied in evening dress, with his glossy black hair and
wonderful clear skin. She had gathered the nicest people in the
neighbourhood about her ; and on her right there was a shadowy
person, a man of mark and knightly, who delighted in her con-
versation.
When she came downstairs to receive Dan she was coughing,
and he showed his devotion by being greatly concerned about her
health. He said she nmst have port wine and a tonic, and be out
in the air as much as possible : and suggested that they should go
for a walk at once, as it was a lovely day, though still wet under-
foot.
" I would not ask you to walk if I had a carriage to offer you,"
he said, " for I hate to see a delicate lady on foot in the nmd.
But you shall have your cai'riage yet, please God, all in good
time ! "
" Where shall we go ? " said Beth when they left the house.
" Oh, anywhere," he answered. " Take me to one of your
favourite haunts."
She thought of the Fairholm cliffs for a moment, but felt that
they were sacred to many recollections with which she would not
care to associate this new experience. '" I'll show you the chalyb-
eate spring," she said.
They turned out of Orchi>rd Street and went down the hill to
the Beck, a broad, clear, shallow rivulet that came round a sharp
green curve between high banks, well wooded with old trees, all
in their heavy dark-green suTnm< r foliage. As they crossed the
rustic wooden bridge Beth j)aused a little to look up at the trees
and love them, and down into the clear water at the scarlet stickle-
backs heading upstream. Her companion looked at lier in sur-
prise when she stopped, and then followed the direction of her
eyes. All he saw, however, was a shallow stream, a green bank,
and somy trees.
in
300
THE BETH BOOK.
" This is not very intorosting'," he obsorvod.
Beth made no reply, but led the way uj) the liill on the other
side, and to the rig-ht ])assed a row of cottaf^es with loiijjf jrardiMis
at the back runniii*,'' down to the brow of tlic^ bank that overliuiig'
the B<'ck. In most of these cottaj^es she was an object of sus-
picion because of her uncanny words and ways, und she knew it,
and the thought of it was a grief to her. She wanted the people
to like her as she would have liked them had they let lier. The
wish to win them lired her imag-ination. She looked on ahead
into futurity, and was a beautiful lady driving- a pair of ponies
down a wooded lane, with a carriage full of good things foi- the
cottagers, and they all loved her and were very glad to see her.
" What are you thinking about ? " Dan asked.
"How nice it would be to be rich," siie replied.
" But you will be well otl; when you're twenty-one, I am
told."
" I suppose there's a chance of it." she answered dreamily,
(The ponies had arrivcnl at tiie village by this time, and she was
looking up at an old gray church with a red roof.)
'' Do you know what your aunt's income was < " he asked.
"Seven or eight hundred a year," she answered ab.sently.
(The sexton's little house stood by the gate leading into the
churchyard. His wife came out when the carriage stopped, wip-
ing soapsuds from her })arc arms with her apron. Beth leaned
forward and held out her hand to her, and the woman smiled a
cordial welcome. She had a round flat face and fair hair. Then
Beth hand'i'd her a mysterious package from the carriage, which
she received half in delight and half in inquiry.)
But Beth's imagination stopped there, for she perceived that
she had passed the gate of the garden in which was the chalyb-
eate spring. There ^' as a cottage in the garden, and Beth turned
back and went up to the door, where a v;oman was standing hold-
ing a plump child, whose little fat thigh, indented by the pres-
sure, bulged over her bare arm.
" May we have a drink, please ? " Beth asked.
" Yes, and welcome,'' the woman answered. " I'll fetch you a
glass."
" Let me hold the baby," said Betli.
The woman smiled, and handed him to her. Beth took him
awkwardly, and squeezed him up in her arms as a child holds a
kitten.
" Isn't he nice ? " she said.
■Ha
THE BETH BOOK.
3^1
I the other
ig ^''tircloiis
t ovoi'huiig'
ect of sus-
10 know it,
the pooplc
lier. The
on alioud
of poiiios
gs for the
soe her.
^ne, I am
dreamily,
d she was
isked.
I absently.
into the
)pod. wip-
h loaned
ftniiled a
ir. Then
ro, which
ved that
! chalyb-
1 turned
ig- hold-
he pres-
Ih
you a
|)k him
holds a
" That's a matter of taste," Dan answered. "I don't like 'em
fat-bottomed myself."
Both froze at the expression. When the woman returned she
handed tlio child back to her carefully, but without a smile, took
the gla-ss and went down to the spring- by a narrow wintlinir path
which took them out of sight of the cottage directly. Here it
was old trees again, and g'reen banks, with the l>(Tk below.
When they were under the trees Beth looked up at a big- elm. and
lier companion noticed her lips move.
" What are you saying to yourself ? " he asked.
"Nothing to myself," she answered. " I'm saying O tree, <jire
me of thy nfrcngfh! — tlie Eastern invocation."
He laughed, and wanted to know what rot that was ; and
again Beth was jarred.
" You'll have no luck if you don't respect the big trees," she
said.
" Oh, by Jove ! If we wait for the big trees to make our
luck, we sha'n't have much!" he rejoined, picking up a i)obble
and firing it into the Beck below.
They were on a narrow path now about halfway down the
bank, and here in a hollow the chalybeate spring bubbled out,
and was gathered by a wooden spout into a slender stream, which
fell on the ground, where, in the course of time, it had made a
basin for itself that was always partly full. The wat(>r was icy
cold, and somewhat the colour of light on stool. Both held tlio
glr.ss to the spout, rinsed it first, then filled it, and oU'orod it to
Dan ; but he dryly declined to take it. " Not for me, thauk you,"
he said. " I never touch any niodicinal beastliness."
For the third time Beth was jarred. She threw the water on
the ground, refilled the gla.ss, f nd drank. Dan saw he had made
a mistake.
"I'll change my mint* and have some too,'' he said, anxious
to mollify her.
Beth filled the glass again and handed it to him in silence,
but no afterthought could atone fo" the discourtesy of his first re-
fus; 1, and she looked in another direction, not even troubling her
self to .see whether he tried the water or not.
There was a rustic seat in the hollow of the bank, and he sug-
gested that they should sit there a while before they returned.
Both ac<juiesootl. And soon the sputter of the little spring bub-
bling into its basin, the clutter of birds in the braiiehes above, the
sunbeams filtering from behind through the leases, the glint of
24
302
THE BETU BOOK.
the Beck below slipping between its banks, soundless, to the sea,
enthriilled her.
" Isn't this lovely ?" she ejaculated.
"Yes, it's very jolly — with you," he said.
" You wouldn't like it so well without me ? " Beth asked.
" No, I should think not ! " he rejoined. " And you wouldn't
like it as well without nie, I hope."
" No," Beth responded. " It makes it nicer having some ono
to share it."
" Now that's not quite kind," he answered in an injm-ed tone.
"Sonu^ one is any one; and / shouldn't he satisfied with any-
body but you."
" Well, but I am satisfied with you," Beth answered di,spa.s-
sionately.
He took her hand, laid it in his own palm, and looked at it.
It was a child's hand as yet, delicately pink and white.
"What a pretty thing- ! " he said. "Oh, you smile at that!"
He reached up to put a lock of her brown hair back from her
cheek, and tlxni he put his arm around her.
Next day he was obliged to go away, Beth never thought of
inquiring why or wherefore ; but she heard her mother and
Lady Benyon talking about the very eligible appointment he was
hoping to get. He took an affectionate leave of her. When he
had gone she went off to the sands, and was surprised to find
how glad she was to be alone again. The tide was far out, and
there were miles and miles of the hard buff sand, a great open
space, not emnty to Beth, but teeming with thought and full of
feelitig, Bome distance on in front of her thei'e was a solitary fig-
ure, a man, w;i'.dng wuth bent head and hands folded behind
him, holding a .stick — Count Grustav Bartahlinsky's favourite at-
titude when d(^ep in meditation. Beth hurried on and soon over-
took him.
" Would you rather be alone, Count Gustav ?" she said.
He turned to look at her, then sndled, and they walked on
together.
" So they are going to marry you off ? " he said abruptly.
"Yes," Beth answered laeonically.
" Do you wish to be married ? "
"No. I do not. "
" Then why do yoii consent ? "
"Because I'm weak ; I cant help it,*' she said.
" Nonsen.se ! "
\
KiililrHaa
messm
■cr
THE BETH BOOK.
3G3
to tlie sea,
iskcd.
u wouldn't
some ono
ured tone,
with any-
•ed dispas-
>ked at it,
at tliat : "
from her
loug-lit of
thei' and
lit Ije was
^Vhen ho
to find
out, and
'at open
full of
tarj lig.
beliiiid
u'ite at-
jn over-
ked
on
I
!
I
i
" I can't," she repeat<Hl. " I'm firm enough about some thiu<^s,
but in this I vacillate. When I am alone I know I am making' u
mistake, but when I am with other people who think differently
my ol>je('tion vanishes."
"What is your objection ? " he asked.
"Tliat is th«! difliculty," she said. "I can't define it. I^o you
know Dr. Dan ? "
"I can't say I know him," he answered. "I have met him
and talked to him. He expresses tlie most unexceptionable o])in-
ions ; but it is i)i'emature to respect a man for the opinions he ex-
presses : wait and see what he docs. Words and acts don't neces-
sarily agree. Sometimes, however, a chance remark, which has
very little significance for tlie person who makes it, is like an
aperture that lets in liyht on the whole character." He coji^itated
a little, then added: "Don't let them hurry you. Take; time to
know your man, and if you are not satisfied youi'self, if there is
anytliing that jars upon yon, never mind what other peoi)le think,
have nothing to do with him."
When Beth went home she found her mother sitting by the
drawing-room window placidly knitting and looking out. "I am
afraid I am very late," Beth said. " I have been on the sands
with Count Gustav."
" Ah, that was nice, I should think," Mrs. Caldwell observed
graciously. " And what were you talking about ? ''
" Being married, principally," Beth answered.
Mrs. Caldwell beamed above her knitting. "And what did
he say ? "
" He strongly advised me not to marry if I didn't want
to."
Mrs. Caldwell changed countenance. " Did he. indeed ? " she
observed with a snifT. Then she relh'cted. " And what had you
been saying to draw such a remark from him ?"
" I said I didn't want to be married," Beth blurted out with an
effort.
" How could you tell Count Custav such a story, Beth ?" Mrs.
Caldwell a.sked, shaking her head reproachfully.
"It was no story," mamma.
" Noii.sense, Beth ! " her mother rejoined. " It is nothing but
perversene.ss that makes you say such things. You feel more
interesting, I believe, Avhen you are in opposition. If I had re-
fused to allow you to bo married j-ou would have been ready to
run away. / know girls ! They all want to be married and they
S I !
!
3G-i
THE BETH BOOK.
all pretend they don't. Wliy, wlien I was a girl I thought of
nothing else, but I didn't talk about it."
" Perliap.s you liad notliing else to think about," Beth ven-
tured.
" And wliat liave you to think about, pray ?"
Betli clasped her hands and her gray eyes dilated.
" Beth, don't look like that," her mother remonstrated. " You
are always acting, and it is such a i)ity, as you will find when
you go out into the world. I am afraid, and people avoid you."
" 1 didn't know I was doing anything peculiar," Beth said.
"And how am I to help it if I don't know ? "
" Just help it by only doing as you are told until you are able
to judge for yourself. Look at the silly way you have been talk-
ing this aftei'noon ! What must Count Gustav have thought of
you ? Never be .so silly again. You must be married now, you
know. When a girl lets a man kiss her she has to marry him."
Beth had been watching her mother's fingers as .she knitted
until she was half mesmerized by the bi'ight glint of the needles,
but now she woke up and bur.st out laughing. " If tliat be the
case," she .said, " he is not the only one that I shall have to
marry."
]\Irs. Caldwell's hands dropped on her lap, and .she looked up
at Beth in disnuiy. " What do you mean ? " she said.
"Just that," Beth answered.
" Do you mean to tell me you have allowed men to kiss you ? "
Mrs. Caldwell cried.
Beth looked up as if trying to keep her countenance.
"You wicked girl, how dare you ?"
" Well mamma, if it were wicked, why didn't you warn me ? "
Beth said. " How was I to know ? "
"Your womanly instincts ought to have taught you better."
Unfortunately for tliis theory, all Beth's womarily instincts set
in the opposite direction. Her father's ardent temperament
warred in her with Aunt Victoria's Puritan principles, and there
was no telling as yet which would prevail.
Beth made no reply to that last assertion of her mother's, but
remained, half sitting on the table, with her feet stretched out in
front of her, and her liands supporting her on either side, which
brought her shoulders up to her ears. It was a most inelegant
attitude, and peculiarly exasperating to Mrs. Caldwell.
" Oh, you wicked, you bad, you abandoned girl ! " she exclaimed,
losing lier temper altogether ; " my heart is broken with you I Go
I
THE lUOTII BOOK.
ao5
tliouHit of
Beth
ven-
ited. " You
I find wlien
)id you."
Betli said.
'ou are able
e been talk-
th(>u<,'-]it of
d now, you
iTy Jiim."
5be knitted
he needles,
that be the
II have to
looked up
iss you ? "
irn me ? "
)etter."
tincts set
leranient
nd there
to your room and stay there. I feel as if I could never endure
the sij^ht of you again."'
Betli {^'•athered lierself toj^othcr slowly, and strolled away with
an air of imlitFerenee ; but as soon as sbe found liersclf alone in
her own ••joui witli the door shut slie dropped on lier kn(>('s and
lifted her clasped hands to heaven in an aj^'ony of remorse for
having tormented her mother and in despair about that wretched
engagement. "O Lord, what am I to do ? " she said. " what am I
to do?" If she could make uj) her mind once for all either way
she would be satislied; it was this miserable state of indecision
that was unendurable.
Presently in the room below she thought she heard her mother
sob aloud. She listened, breathless. Her mother was sobbing.
Beth jumped up ant! )pened her door. What should she do?
Her unhappy mother heartbroken, in(l<M'd I What a life lu>rs was
— a life of hard privation, of sulfering most patiently borne, of tlie
utmost self-denial for her children's sake, of loss, of loneliness, of
bitter disappointment. First her hu.sband taken, then her dearest
child; her ungrateful boys not overkind to her; and now this
last blow dealt her by Beth just when the i)rospect of getting her
well married was bringing a gleam of happiness into her niotluir's
life. The piteous sobs continued. Beth stole downstairs, bent on
atoning in her own person by any sacrifice for all the sorrows, no
matter by whom occasioned, which she felt were culminating in
this final outburst of grief. She found her motlier .standing be-
side the high old-fashioned mantelpiece, leaning her poor head
against it.
" Manuna," Beth cried, " do forgive me. I never meant to — I
never meant to hurt you so. I will do anything to please you I
I was only teasing you about kissing men. I haven't been in the
habit of kissing any one. And of course I'll marry Dan as soon as
you like. And we'll all be happy— there I "
Mrs. Caldwell held out her arms, and Beth sprang into them
had hugged her tight, and burst into tears.
ler's, but
1 out in
, which
lelegant
claimed,
'u: Go
CHAPTER XXXVII.
That autumn Beth was married to Daniel Maclure, M. D., etc.,
etc. At the tinie of her marriage she hardly knew what his full
name was. She had always heard him called "the doctor" or
is'
300
THE BETH BOOK.
"Dr. Dan," and liad novor tlionfrlitof him ns an^'thinj? olso, nor did
slic know anytliinyf else ahoul liini - liis past, liis family, or his pros-
pects, which, consi(h'rin;^ her aj^c, is not sui'i)risin<,'' ; hut what did
surj)risc h<'r in aftcr-ycai's when she discovered it was to lind that
lier friends wlio ma(h* the match knew no more ahout him than
she (lid. Il(! had scraped accpiaintance with liei* hi'otlier .lim in a
puhli(! hilliard room in Raiidiarhonr. and heen intro(hic(>d hy jiim
to th(> other mcMnhers of her family, who. l)ecanse his address was
good and his ai)p( arance attractive, had taken it for <,''ranted that
everythiiif^ el.se concerniii}^ him was ecjually satisfactory.
Beth decided to keep Inn* surname for her father's .sake, and
also hecauso she could not sec why she should lose her idcMitity
because she had tnarried. Kveryhody said it was ahsurd of her;
but she was determined, and from the time of her marria^^e she
signed herself Eli/aheth C*aldwell Maclure.
Dan confided to Mrs. Caldwell that he was trouhled hy some
few small de])ts which ho was most anxious to pay in order that
he miji'ht start his married life clear, and the ])(>or lady {jfCMUM'ously
reduced her slender in(!omo hy sellin;,'' some shares to rais(> the
money for him. When he accepted it his eyes hlled with tears,
il with h
of
Mnotion.
"0 mamma!" Beth exclaimed, when she heard of the sacri-
fice, "how could you! T do not dcstn've such generosity, for I
have never he(>n any comfort to you, and T shall always he niiser-
ahle ahout it, thinking how badly you want the money."
"There will be one mouth less to feed when you have jifone,
you know, Beth," Mrs. Caldwell answer(>d bravely, "and I shall
be the ha])])ier for thiidving that you start clear. Debt crushed
us our whole married life. I shall he the easier if I know you
haven't that burden to bear. Besides, Dan will repay me as soon
as he can. lie is a tlioroughly good fellow."
"You shall be repaid, mamma, in more ways than one if I
live," Beth vowed.
Uncle James Patten doled out a five-pound note to Beth by
way of a wedding present from the long rent roll her mother
should have inherited.
"This is to help with your trousseau, but do not be extrava-
gant," he said in his pleasant way. " As a wife of a professional
man you will descend from my class to the class below — the mid-
dle class — and you should dress according to your station. But
you are doing as well as we could expect you to do considering
your character and conduct. Some doubted if you would ever
i
THK ni:TH HOOK.
nor
"^oho, nor (lid
v, or his j)r«)s-
'>iit what did
^ to find that
't him tlian
lj<'»'.'iin in a
need by i,i,n
ad(h'cs.s was
:i'antod that
ry.
's sako. and
K'r identity
if<| (,f I, (.,.".
iiTiayo sJio
'<! 'h' soTjie
onlcr that
?<'norou.sly
> i-aisc^ the
tvitli tears,
the sacri-
i<\-, for I
'<' niiser-
iv(^ o-one,
I T sliall
<'lMIs]H>d
I'low you
is soon
|)no if I
iotli by
Imotlier
^trava-
■^sional
|e mid-
But
llering-
ever
I
rocoivo an ofTor of m5irriiij,'e, or luive the s(misc to accept it if one
were mude you ; hut I always said you would have the doctor if
he would have you."
I>elh's inii)ulse was to throw th(> note at him, but slu' restrained
herself on her broth(>r .Jim's account. It was suspected that
Uncle .lames was only waiting,' for a phiiisihle e.xeiise to disinherit
Jim, and he found it the next time .lim stayed at Fairholm.
They were in the drawiny-room to;;-ether out' day, and a maid was
niendin<^the fire. Uncle James was sittinj^^at a wi'itin<^ table with
a mii'ror in front of him. and he declared that in that mirror he dis-
tinctly saw his nephew chuck the maid servant under tin; chin,
which was conduct such as Mr. .laujes Patten conld not be ex-
pected to tolerate in his heir, so he aitei-ed his will, and after that
all commuiucation ceased between the two families, except su<'h
as Aunt Grac(^ Mary mana<,''ed to carry on surreptitiously.
Aunt Grace Mary was very generous to l>eth. and so also was
old Lady Benyon. Had it not been for these two P>eth would
have left Iumuc ill provided for; thanks to them, however, she was
spared that humiliation, and went with an am{»le outfit.
In the days preceding'' her man-ia^c J>eth sometimes thou<,''ht
of Charlotte and of the Ion*,'- fiction of that wonderful tinu' when
they were friends. Her busv brain had created maiiv another
story since then, but none that had the fascination of that first
sustained effort. Hector's mysterious establishment on the other
side of the headland, the troubles in Spain, the wicked machina-
tions of their eiiemies. the Secret Service^ of Humanity, the horses,
yacht, and useful doctor, who had not held a hi<,''h jjlace in their esti-
mation, beino^ merely looked U])on as a trustworthy tool of Hec-
tor's ; vet it was lie whom Beth was to marrv I She woiulered
what Charlotte woidd think of her when she heard it, and of Hec-
tor, and the whole story; but she never knew, for Charlotte w.as
at school in France dmnnj^ this period and never came into Beth's
life ag-ain.
Durinp;' the early days of lier married life a sort of content set-
tled upon Beth ; a happ\' sense of well-beins". of rest, and satisfac-
tion came to her, and that strange vapfue yeariung' ache, the
presence of which made all thintrs incompletcv was laid. The at-
mosphere in which she now livinl was sensuous, not spiritual, and
althoujjfh she was unaw\are of this, she felt its infiueiu-e. Dan
made much of her, and she liked that; l)ut the vision and the
di'eam had ceased. Her intellectual activity was stinmlated.
however, and it was not long Ix^fore she began to think for her-
• 'I
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3G8
THE BETH BOOK.
I ^
i-
!
self more clearly and connectedly than she had ever done be-
fore.
They spent the first few weeks in London in a wliirl of excite-
ment, livin*? at sumptuous rostjiurants and ^oin;^ to places of
amusement every nijjfhl, where Beth would sit entranced with
music, sinj^ing, dancing', and actip.g, never tukiug her eyes from
the stage, and yearning in her enthusiasm to do tlie same tilings
herself, not doubting but that she could either, so perfectly had
she the power to identify herself with the performers and imilize,
as from within, what their sensiitions must be.
When she had been in London as a girl at school she had seen
nothing but the bright side of life — the wholesome, happy, young
side. A j)oor beggar to be heli)ed, or a glimp.se in tiie street of a
sorrowful face that sjiddened her for a moment, was the worst
she knew of the great wicked city ; but now, with Dan for a com-
pani(m, tlie realities of vice and crime were broug'U home to her;
she learned to read signs of depravity in the faces of men and
women, and to a.s.sociate certain places with evil doers as their es-
pecial haunts. Her husband's interest in the subject was inex-
haustibl'^ ; beseemed io think of little else. He would point out
IMJople in places of public amusement, and describe in deUiil the
loathsome lives tlu«y led. Every well-dres.sed wcmian he saw he
suspjH'ted. He would pick out one because she had yellow hair,
and aii«>ther becau.se her two little children were prect>cious and
pretty, and declare them to be "kept women." That a handsome
woman could be anything but vicious had a])parently never oc-
curred to him. He was very high-minded on the subject of sin
if the sinner were a woman, and thought no degradation sulllcient
for her. In speaking of such women he used epithets from which
Beth recoil(>d. She allowed them to pass, however, in considera-
tion of the nioral exasperation that inspired them, and the per-
sonal rectitude his attitude implied. The subject had a horrible
kind of faseination f..r lier; s/ie hated it. yet she could not help
listening, although her lieart ached and her soul sickened. She
listened in silence, however, neither qu<'stioning nor discussing,
but simjdy attending, collecting material for which she had no
use at the moment, and storing it without design — material which
she would find hei-self forced to turn to account eventually, but
in what way and to what purpose there was no knowing as yet.
They were to live at Slane, an inland town near Morning-
quest, where nuKlern manufactures had competed successfully
with ancient agricultural interests and altered the attitude of the
]■*
THE BETH BOOK.
369
landed gentry toward trade and toward the townspeople, be-
guiling them to be less exclusive because there was money in the
town, sclf-intorest weighing with them all at once in reganl to
the neighbours whom Christian precept had vainly urged them
to recognise.
Dr. Maclure had taken an old-fashioned hou.se in a some.vhat
solitary position on the outskirts of Slane, but near enough to
tlie town to secure p.aying patients, as he hoped, while far enough
out of it to invite county callers. It st(M)d just on the higlu'oad,
from which it wjls only divided by a few evergreen shrubs and
an iron railing; but it was jiicturesque, nevertheU'.s.s, with creep-
ers, magnolia, wistiiria, and ivy clu.stering on the dark-red bricks.
At the back there was a good garden, and in front acro.ss the road
were green meadow.s, with hedgerows, a Umgle of holly, haw-
thorn, and bramble, and old tre<'s, surviving giants (;<" a forest
long uprooted and forgotten. It was a rich and placid scene, in-
lijiitely .soothing to one fresh from the turmoil of the city, and
weary of the tireless motion, the incessant sound tind tumult of
the sea. When Beth looked out upon the meadows first, she
sighed and said to hei^self, '" Surely, surely one should be happy
here 1 "
The house was inconveniently arranged inside and had less
acconmiodation than its outside pretensions promised ; but Beth
was delighted with it all and took jmssession of her keys with
pride. She was detenuiued to be a good manager and make her
housekeeping money go a long way. Her dream was to save out
of it and have something over to surjirise Dan witli when the
bills were paid. To her chagrin, however, she found that she
was not to have any housekeeping money at all.
"You are too young to have tlie care of managing money,"
said Dan. " Just give the orders and I'll se«' about jjaying the
bills."
But the svstem did not answer. Beth had no idea what she
ought to be spending, and either the bills w«Te t<»o high or the
diet was too low, and Dan grumbled i)erpetually. If the hous(f-
keeping were at all frugal 1m» was anything but cheery during
meals, but if she ordered him all he wanted there were sure to be
scenes on tlie day of reckoning. He blamed her bad numage-
ment and she said notliing; but she knew she could have man-
aged on I'.ny reasonable sum to which he might have limited her.
She had too nmch self-resi)ect to ask for money, however, if he
did not choose to give it to Iier.
370
THE BETH BOOK.
) I
It surprised licr to find tlmt what he liad to eat was a matter of
great iinportaiice to Ijim, He fairly gloated over things he liked,
and, in order to indulge him and keep the hills down besides, she
went without herself ; and he never noticed her self-denial. Ho
was apt to tiike too much of his favourite dishes and was con-
stantly regretting it. "I wish I had not eaten so much of that
cursed vol au vent ; it never agrees with me," ho would say ; but
he would eat Jis much as ever next tin»e. Beth could not help ob-
serving such traits. She did not set them down to his pei*sonal
discredit, however, but to the di.scredit of his s<'x at large. She
had always heard that men were self-iiuluigcnt, and Dan ^vas a
man. That was the nearest she came to blaming him at fii-st.
Being her husband had nuide a difference in her feeling for him ;
before their marriage she was not so tolerant.
Her housekeeping duties by no means filled her day. An hour
or so in the morning was all they occupied at most, and the time
must have hung heavy on her hands had she had no other pur-
suit to beguile her. Fortunately she had no intention of allow-
ing her plans for the improvement of her mind to lap.se simjjly
because .she had married. On the contrary, she felt the defects of
her education nu)re keenly than ever, and expected Dan to .sym-
pathize with her in her efforts to remedy them. He came in one
day soon after they were settled and found her sitting at the end
of the dining-room table with her back to the window and a num-
ber ()f books spread out about her.
" This looks learned," he .said. " What are you doing ? "
" I am looking for .something to study," she answered. " What
writers have helped you most ? "
" Helped me most— how do you mean ?"
"Well, helped you to be upright, you know, to make good
re.solution.s, and keep straight."
"Thank you." he said. " I have not felt the need of good reso-
hitions, and this is the fn*st hint I have liad that I require any.
If you will inquire among my friends I fancy you wiU find that
I have the credit of going pretty straight as it is."
" O Dan," Beth exclaimed, " you quite misunderstand me ! I
never meant to insinuate that you are not straight. I was only
thinking of the way in which we all fall short of our ideals."
" Ideals be hanged ! " said Dan, " If a man does his duty that's
ideal enough, isn't it ? "
" I should think so," Beth said pacifically.
Dan went to the mantelpiece and stood there studying himself
THE BETH BOOK.
871
a matter of
gfs he liked,
besides, slio
lenial. JIo
d was coii-
icJi of that
'I say ; but
<>t help ob-
s IM't-sonal
)aii v.jj^ jj
tn at first.
■ for liini ;
An Ijour
1 the time
»th('r piir-
of allow-
50 sinij)Iy
lefects of
to syni-
t' in one
the end
d a num-
"What
CO 8'(X)d
)d reso-
re any.
>d that
ne! I
s only
that's
iniself
with interest in tlie glass. " A lady told me the otlier day I Kicked
like a militiiry man," he said, sinoothin/.^ his glossy black hair
and twisting the ends of his long nnistiiche.
"Well, 1 think you look much more miliUtry than medical,''
Beth replied, considering him.
" I'm glad of tiiat," he said, smiling at himself coinidacently.
" Are you ? " Beth exclaimed in surprise. " Why ? A medical
man has a finer career than a military man, and should have a
finer presence if al)ility, purpose, and character count for any-
thing toward appearance. Personally I think 1 should wish to
look like what I am if I could choose."
"So you do," he rejoined, adjusting his hat with precision as
lie spoke and craning his neck to see himself sideways in the
glass. "Yt)u look like a silly little idiot; but never mind.
That's all a girl need be if she's pretty, and if she isn't pn'tty
she's of no account; so it doesn't matter what she is.''
When he liad gone, Beth sat for a longtime thinking; but
she did no more reading that day, nor did she ever again c((nsult
Dan about the choice of bt)oks or expect him to sympathize with
her in her work.
For the first few months of her married lifi^she had no pocket-
money at all. Aunt Grace Mary slipped two sovereigns into her
hand when they parted, but those Beth kept, slu' hardly knew
why, as she had her half year's dividend to look forward to.
About the time that her money was due, Dan began to talk inces-
santly of mon<'y diflicultios. lii lis were pressing and he did not
know where on earth to look for a five-pound note. He did not
think Beth too young to be worried morning, noon, and night on
the sul)j«'ct, although she took it very seriously. Ou<> morning,
after he had made her look anxious, he suddenly rememlxM'cd a
letter he had for her and handed it to her. It was from the law-
yer, and contained a cluupie for twenty-five pound.s, ln'r long-
looked-forward-to pocket money.
"Will this be of any use to you ?" Beth asked, handing hitii
the cheque.
His countenance cleared. " Of us<> to me .'' T should think it
would!" he exclaimed "It will just make all the dillerence.
You must sign it, though."
When she had signed it he put it in his pocketbook. and his
spirits went up to the cheery j)oint. He adjusted his hat at the
glass over tlu' dining-room mantelpiece, lit a .shilling cigar, and
went otf to his hospital jauntily. Beth was glad to have relieved
1
f i'
372
THE BETU BOOK.
I ^
> I
him of liis anxiety. She lialf lioped he might give lier sometliing
out of tlio cheque, if it were only u pouiitl or two, she wanted
some little things so badly ; but he ni'\M'r uil'crcd her a penny.
She thought of Aunt Grace Mary's two sovereigns, but the dread
of having nothing in cjtsu of an emergency kept her from spend-
ing tlieni.
There was one thing Daii did which Beth resented. He opened
lier lettei-s.
"Husband and wife are one," he said. "They .should have
no secrets from each other. I should like you to ()])<'n my letter.s,
too, but they contain professional setirets, you .see, and that
wouldn't do."
He spoke in what he called his cheery way, but B<'th had
begun to feel that there was another word which would expi'css
his numner better, and now it (K-curred to her.
" You have no right to oj)en my lettei's," she said ; "and being
facetious on tlie .subject does not give you any."
" But if I choose to i " he said.
" It will be a breach of good taste and good feeling," she an-
swered.
No more was said on the subject, and Dan did not open her
lettei's for a little, but then lie began again. He had always some
excuse, however — either he hadn't looked at the address, or he had
been impatient to see if there were any message for himself, and
so on ; but Beth was not mollified although she said nothing, and
iier annoyance made her .secretive. She would wateh for the
postman and take the letters from him herself, and conceal her
own, so that Dan might not even know that she had received any.
She had a diihculty with him about another matter, too. His
loverlike caresses -while they were engaged had not lK>en dis-
tasteful to her; but after their marriage h«> kept up an incessant
billing and cooing, and of a coarser kind, which soon sixtiated Ikt.
She was a nicely balanced cnuiture, with many interests in life,
and love could be but one among the number in any case ; but
Dan almost seemed to expect it to be the only one.
"Oh, dear! mu.st I be embraced again? "she exclaimed one
day, with quite comical di.smay, on being interrupted in the mid-
dle of a book that was interesting her at the moment.
Dan looked disconcerted. In his cheerful masculine egotism
it had not occurred to him that Beth might find inces.sant demon-
strations of affection monotonous. He would smile at jiictures of
the waning of the honeymoon, where the husband returns to his
THE BETH BOOK.
8T3
book and his dop, and tlie wifo sits ai)art sad and nogloctod. It
was inevitable that the man shouhl tire; he had other things to
thinli of; but that the wife shouhl be the first to be bored was in-
credible, and woi*se — it was unwonumly.
Dan went to the mantelpiece and stood looking down into tlio
i\n% and his gray-green eyes became sutVused.
" Have I hurt you, Dan i " Beth exclaimed, jumping up and
going to him.
'■ Hurt nie ! " he said, talking out liis pocket handkerchief, " that
is not the word for it. You have made me very unhappy."
"Oh," said Beth, her own inclinations disregarded at once, "I
am sorry !"
But he had satiated lier once for all, and she never recovered
any zest for his caresses. She found no charm oi freshness in
them, especially after she jn'rceived that (hey were for his own
gratification irrespective of hers. But (he i)rivileges of love are
not to be wrested from us with impunity. Habits of dutiful sub-
mission destroy the power to respond, and all that they leave to
survive of the warm reality of love at last is a cold jn-etence. By
degrees, as Beth felt forced to be dutiful, she ceased to be affec-
tionate.
Although Dan dressed to go out with .sci'upulous care, he took
no trouble to make him.self nice in the house. Care in dress was
not in him a necessary part and expression of a refined nature,
but an attempt to win consideration. He never dressed for dinner
when they were alone together. It was a trouble rather than a
refreshment to him to get rid of tlu^ dust of the day and the asso-
ciations of his walking dre.s.s. This was a twofohl (li.sa|)i)ointinent
to Beth. She had expected him to have the common j)oliteness
to dress for her benefit, and she was not pleased to find that the
punctiliousness he displayed in the matter on occasion was
merely veneer. It was a defect of breeding tlu.t struck her un-
plea.santly. They had been p(K)r enough at liom**, but B<'th had
been accustomed all her life to have delicate china about her,
and pictures and books ; to walk on soft carpets and sit in easy-
chairs ; possessions of a .superior da.ss which, in her case, were
symbols bespeaking refinement of taste and habits from which
her soul had derived satisfaction even while her poor little frag-
ile body starved. She dre.s.sed regularly and daintily herself,
and Dan at the bottom of the t^ible in his morning coat wjis an
offence to her. Slie said notliing, however, and his manners still
further deteriorated. One night, after she had gone to her room,
i
374
TDE BETH BOOK.
he walked in witli liis liat on, sinokinjf n ci^ar. But this last dis-
courtesy roused her to rebel.
"This is my bodrooni," sho said insipnidcantly.
" I know," lie answcn-d.
" You know — yet you keep your hat on, and you are smoking,"
she proceeded.
"Why," he rejoined, "and if I do, what then ? I know ladies
who let their husbands smoke in bed."
" Probably," she said ; " I have heard of more singularly coarae
things than that even. But I am uccustomed to pure air in my
r(M)m, and I must have it."
"And suppose I should choose to stay here and smoke?" he
said.
" Of course I could not prevent you," she answered ; " but I
should go and sleep in another room."
" H'm ! " he grunted. " You're mighty particular."
But he went away all the sjmie, and did not appear tJiere again
eitlu'r with his liat on or smoking a cigar.
Beth sutl'ered miserably from the want of i)roi)er i>rivacy in
her life. She had none whatever now. It had been her habit to
read and reflect when she went to bed, to i)repare for a tranquil
niglit by setting jiside the troubles of the day, and purifying her
mind systematically even as she wa.shed her body; but all that
was impossible if her husband were at home. lie would break in
upon her reading with idle gossip, fidget about the room when
she wished to meditate, and leave her no decent time of privacy
for anything. He had his own dressing-room, where he was
secure from interruption ; but never had the delicacy to compre-
hend that his presence could be any inconvenience to Beth. And
it was worse than an inconvenience. It was a positive hard.ship
— never to be sure of a moment alone.
One afternoon when she had locked herself in her bedroom he
came and turned the handle of the door noisily.
" Oi)en the door," he said.
" Do you want anything ? " she asked.
" Open the door," he repeated.
She obeyed, and he came in and glanced round suspiciously.
"What were you doing ? " he asked.
" Oh," she exclaimed, " this is intolerable ! "
" What is intolerable ? " he demanded.
" This intrusion," she replied. " I want to be alone for a little.
Can't you understand Uiat ?"
J « .--
THE BETH BOOK.
375
this last dis-
ro smoking,"
know liulioa
iilarly coarao
•e air in my
smoke ? " lie
red ; " but I
• tiiere ag-ain
r privacy in
lior liabit to
• a tranquil
rifying- her
iut all that
lid break in
room when
of privacy
?re he was
to conipre-
3eth. And
hardship
'droom he
ciously.
)r a little.
"No, I can not understand a wife lockiu}'' lier husband out <»f
her room, and what's more, you've no business to do it. I've a
legal ri'^'ht to come here when<'ver I choose."
Then Beth be<,'an to realize what the law of num was with re-
ganl to her j)erson.
"I never intrude upon you when you shut youi-self up," slie
remonstrated.
"Oh, that is dill'erent," he answered arrog-antly. "I may have
brainwork to do, or .somethin<^ important to think about. There
is no comparison."
Beth went to her dressinj,' table, sat down in front of it, folded
her hands, and waited doj^j^^edly.
lie l<M)ked at her for a little, then he .said : " I don't underst;ind
your treatment of me at all, Beth. But there's no undei-standinj^
women." He spoke as if it were the women's fault, and to their
discredit that lie couldn't undcM-stand them.
Beth made no answer, and he finally took himself ofT, slam-
ming the door aft^^r him.
"Thank goodness!" Beth exclaimed. "One would think he
had bought me."
Then she sat wondering what .she should do. She must have
some corner where .she would be safe from intrusion. He had his
consulting room, a room called his laboratory, a surgery, and a
dres.sing-room, where no oni; would dream of following him if he
shut the door; she had literally not a corner. She left her bed-
room and walked through the other nxmjs on the same floor, as
she considered the matter ; then she went up to the next floor,
where the servants slei)t. Above that again there was an attic
used as a box room, and she went up there too. It was a barn of
u place, supported by pillars, and extending apparently over the
whole of the story below. The roof sloped to tlu; floor on either
side, and the whole place was but ill-liglited by two small win-
dows looking to the north. Dr. Madure had taken over the hou.se
as it .stood, furniture and all. from the last occupants, by whom
this great attic had evidently been used as a lumber room. There
were various pieces of furniture in it -tables, chairs, and drawers
— some broken, some in fair condition. At the farther end, oppo-
site to the door, there was a pile of packing cases and travelling
trunks. Beth had always thought that they stood up against the
wall, but on going over to them now she discovered that tliere
was a space behind. The pih; was too high for her to see over it,
but by going down on her hands and knees where the sloping
■•1
376
THE BETH BOOK.
roof was too low for lior to stoop she foiuul slie could creop round
it. It was the kind of tiling' ii child would have done —but what
Wiis Beth but a child ? On the other side of the pile it was almost
dark. Sho could see somethin;,', however, when she stood up,
which looked like a mark on the whitewash, and on runninjf her
hand over it she discovered it to Ix; a narrow door flush with the
wall. There was no handle or latch to it, but there was a key
which had rusted in the ki^yhole and was not to be turned. Tho
door was not locked, however, and Beth jjushed it open and found
herself in a charming? little room with a fireplace at one end of it,
and opposite, at the other end, a luvgv bow window. ]}eth wa.s
puzzled to understand how there came to be a room there at all.
Then she recollected a sort of tower there was at tho side of the
house, which formed a deep embrasure in the drawing-room, a
dressing-room to the visitor's room, and a bath-room on the lloor
above. The window look<'d out on the garden at the back of tho
house. A light iron balcony ran round it, the rail of which was
so thickly covered with ivy that very little of the window was
visible from below. Beth had noticed it, however, only she
thought it was a dummy, and so also did Dan. The little room
looked bright and cosy with the afternoon sun streaming in. It
seemed to have been occupied at one time by some person of fas-
tidious taste, judging by what furniture remained — a square
Chippendale table with slender legs, two high-backed chairs cov-
ered with old-fashioned tapestry, and a huge mahogany bookcase
of tho same period with glass doors above and cupboards below.
The high white mantlepiece, adorned with vases and festoons of
flowers, was of Adam's design, and so also was tho dado and the
cornice. The walls were painted a pale warm pink. A high
brass fender, pierced, surroundtul the fireplace, and there were a
poker, tongs, and shovel to match, and a small bra.ss .scuttle still
full of coals. There were ashes in tho grate, too, as if the room
had only lately been ot'cupied. The boards were bare, but white
and well-fitting, and in one corner of the room there was a piece
of carpet rolled up.
Beth dropped on to one of tho dusty chairs and looked round.
Everything about her was curiou.sly familiar, and her first im-
pression was that she had been there before. On the other hand,
she could hardly believe in tho reality of what she saw; she
thought she must be dreaming, for here was exactly what she had
been pining for most in the whole wide world of late — a secret
spot, sacred to herself, where she would be safe from intrusion.
)l
iJ.
TIIK BETH HOOK.
377
rcop round
—but wlmt
was altnost
stood up,
uiniiifi' her
li with tlio
was a key
mod. Tho
and found
e end of it,
Beth was
uM*e at all.
side of the
ng-rooni, a
)n the iloor
Kick of tho
which was
indow was
, only she
little room
liinj^ in. It
son of fas-
— a square
chairs cov-
y bookcase
irds below,
estoons of
Ido and the
A high
re were a
uttle still
tlie room
but whito
as a piece
led round,
first im-
|her hand,
saw ; she
it she had
-a secret
Irusion.
She went downstairs for some oil for the hx'k, and patiently
"Worked at it until at last she suc<"eeded in tin*nin<,'' the key. Tlu-n,
as it was too late to do anything,'' more that day, siie l«)cked tli««
door and carried the key off in her ixx-ket triumphantly.
Half the mjfht she lay awak«! thinking; <»f her .secret chamber;
and as soon as Dan had ^'oneout next morning'' and she had done
her hoiisek«M'pin<f she stole upsUiirs with duster and brush, and
beffan to set it in order. All her tr«>a.sui*«'s were cont;iined in some
old trunks of Aunt Victoria's, which were in the attic, but had
not been unpa(;ked be<rause she had no plac(> to put the thini^'s.
Dan had seen some of these treasures at R-iinharbour, and con-
8idere<l them old rubbish, and, not thinkinj.r it likely that there
would be anythinjif (.|se in the boxes, he luid taken no further in-
terest in them. II(; would lik«! to have left them behind altogetluT,
and CNM'U tried to laufifh lietii out of what he called her sentimental
attachment to odds and eiuls ; but as njost of the tiling had be-
lon^^'ed to Aunt Victoria, she took his ridicule so ill tluit he wisely
let the subj«H't drop. Ho had b(>en somewhat hasty in his estima-
tion of the value of tho contents of the boxes, however, for there
were some handsome curios, a few miniatures and ])ictures of
great artistic merit, some rare editions of books, besides laces,
jewels, brocades, and other stull's in them.
When Beth had swei)t and dusted, .she put down the car])et.
Then she beyan to unpack. Anumg the first things she found
were the old French book.s, a quarto Bible with the Apo<'rypha in
it, Shakespeare in several volumes, and her school books and note-
books ; some? ornauKMits, some beautiful old curtains, ami a largo
deep rug, like a Turkey carpet, in crimson and gr«'en and purple
and gold, worked by Aunt Victoria. This she spread before tho
fireplace. The doorway she covered with a ciu'tain. and two more
she hung on eitlasr side of the window, .so that they could not bo
seen from below. Her books of refen'nce, desk, notebooks, and
writing materials she put on tiie Uible, arranged the oiwiaments on
the mantelpiece, and hung tlu* miniatures and j)ictures on tli(i
walls. Tlien slu; sat down and looked about Iht, well pleased with
the whole et feet. "Now," she exclaimed, " I am at home, tbfmk
God ! I shall bo able to study, to read and write, think and i)ray
at last, undisturbed."
M
,|:
378
TIIK HETII HOOK.
li
CHAPTKU XXXVIII.
Ar Dan syinpathiz«'(l with lumo of R<>tirs tastoa or intorosts,
and soiMiuid to liiivo none of liis own witli whirli she could syin-
puthi/,0, th(Mr st<M'k of oonvrrsation wits soon cxhausU'd, and thn-e
Wiis nothing'' like (roin[>iinionship in their intcrcoui'so. If Beth
luid had no roHourcoH in herself siie would have had but a sorry
tinui of it in tliose days, especially as she re<M'ived no kindness from
any one in Slane. Somi^ of the other medical men's wives called
when she llrst arrived, and she returned their calls punctually,
but tlnsir courtesy w«uit no further. Mi's. C'arne, the wife of the
leudinj^ medical practitioner, asked her to lunch, and M»*s. Jef-
freys, a sur;.f(H)n*s wife, a.sked her to afternoon tea ; hut as these in-
vitations <lid not inchuh' her husband, she refused them. Sh<» in-
vited these ladies and their husbands in return, however, but they
both pleaded previous en},'a^^'ments.
After the Maclures had been some little time at Slane, Lady
Bonyon bethought her of an old friend of hers, one Lady Beg,
who lived in the neighbourhood, and ask(Kl her to call upon Beth,
which she did forthwith, for hIk; was (^ne of tho.se delightful old
ladies wIjo like nothing better than to be doing a kindness. She
came on the following Sunday with an invitivtion to lunch already
written, in case she sliould find no (me at home.
Dan wa.s delighted. ""NVe .shall meet nothing but county
peoi)le there," lie said, "and that's the i)ro])er set for us. They
always do the right thing, ycm see. They're the onJy peoi)lo
worth knowing."
" But Beg is miles away from here," Beth sjiid ; " how shall
we go if "
'We'll go in the dogcart, of course," Dan answered.
He had .set up a dogcart (m their arrival, but this wa.s the first
time he had j)roposed to take Beth out in it.
As they drove along on Sunday morning in the bright sun-
shine, Dan's spirits overflowed in a ch.iracteri.stic way at the
prospect of meeting "somebody decent," as he exj)ressed it, and
he made remarks about the faces and figures of all the women
they pjussed on the road, criticising them as if they were cattle to
be sold at so much a point.
" That little girl there," he said of one, whom he beamed upon
and ogled as they pjussed, "reminds me of a fair-haired little devil
I picked up one night ii< Paris. Gad, she was a bad un ! up to
(
TUK BETH BOOK.
379
>r intorosts,
could Hyiii-
1, and tluTG
io. If B«'th
Imt 11 sorry
idiu'ss from
s'ivM's ("ill led
imnotually,
! wife of tho
id Mrs. Jef-
, as tlioso in-
■in. Slio in-
,'i'r, but they
Slanc, Lady
! Lady Bog,
1 upon Ik'tli,
■liglitful old
idnoss. She
ncl I already
hut county
us. They
)iLly people
how shall
,'a.s the first
I l>right sun-
hvay at the
Issed it, and
I the women
are cattle to
famed upon
little devil
unl up to
more tricks thaii any otlior I over knew. She used to " hero
followed a de.s<'ription of some of her peculiar practices.
" I wish you woultl not tell me these things," Beth remon-
strated.
liut ho only laughed. " You know you're amu.sed," lu* .said.
" It's ju.st your conv«»ntioiuil alFectation that makes you pretend to
objei't. That's the way women drive their hushunds elsewhero
for amusement ; they won't Uike a proper intelligent interest in
life, .so there's nothing to talk to them al)out. I agree with the
advanced party. They're always preaching that women should
know the world. Women who do know tho world have no non-
sense ahout them, and are a jolly sight better company than your
starched Puritans who pretend to knov, nothing. It's the most
interesting side of lift' after all, and the most instructive ; and I
wonder at your want of intelligence, Betli. You shouldn't bo
afraid to know the natural history of humanity."
" Nor am I," Beth answered quietly, " nor tho natural — or un-
natural — depravity either, which is what you really nu'an, I
believe. But knowing of it and delighting in it as a subjt'ct of
conversation are two very dilferent things. Je:iLing about that sido
of life affects me like mud on a clean coat. I resent being splashed
with it, and try to get rid of it, but, unfortunately, it sticks and
stains."
" Oh, you're quite right," Dan answered unctuously. " It's
just shocking the stories that are t(»ld." And for the? rest of tho
way he discoursed about niorals, illustrating his meaning as ho
proceeded with anecdotes of the choicest description.
When they arrived at Beg House they found the company
more mixed than Dan had anticii)at(Hl. Dr. and Mrs. (\irne wero
there, Mr. and Mi*s. .Tetl'reys, and Mr.. Mrs., and Miss J'etterick.
Mr. Petterick wiis a solicitor of bumptious mannei's and doubtful
reputation, whom the whole county hated, but tol<'rat<'d because
of his wealth and .shrewdness, either of which they liked t<» be in a
position to draw upon if nece.s.sary. But besides these towns-
people there were Sir George and Lady (lalbraith, Mr. and Mrs.
Kilroy, of Ilverthorpe, and Mrs. Orton Beg, a widowed daughter-
in-law of Lady Beg's.
Dr. Maclure immediately made up to Sir George Galbraith,
who was al.so a mecical iium, and of great repute in tiis own 'ine.
He was a county magnate besides, and a man of weaU-i and im-
portance by reason of a baronetcy somewhat unexpectecily inher-
ited, and a beautiful country seat He continued to practise, how-
i;
I
i^
380
THE BETH BOOK.
ever, for Jovo of liis profession, but used it as a means of cloin{^
good ratlier than as a source of income. In appearance lie was a
tall, ratlier awkward man, with a fine head and a strong, \)]n\n
face. lie spoke in that deliberate Scotch way which has a ring of
sincerity in it and inspires confidence; and the contrast between
his n'anner and Dan's struck Beth unpleasantly. She wished
Dan would be less elFusive ; it was almost as if he were cringing
— aTid she thought he should have waited for Sir George (lal-
braith, who wjis the older man, to have made the first ad-
vance.
Beth lierself was at her ease as soon as she came among the.so
people. It was the .social atmosphere to which she had been ac-
customed. Mrs. Carne. Mrs. Jeffreys, and Mrs. Petterick w(M'e
on their best behaviour, but Beth had only to be natural. The
county people were all nice to her, and the other town ladies, who
had hitherto slighted her, looked (m and wondered to see her so
well received. At luncheon, as there were not gentlemen enough
to go round, she .sat between Sir Geoi'ge Galbraith and Mrs. Orton
Bi'g. Mrs. Kilroy sat opposite. Sir George had known Mi's. Kil-
roy all her life. It was he, in fact, who nicknamed her and her
brother the Heavenly Twins in the days when, as children, they
used to be the delight of their grandfather, the old Duke of ^lorn-
ingcpiest, and the terror of their parents, Mr. and Lady Adeline
Haniilton-Wells.
As soon as they were seated Mrs. Kilroy attacked Sir George
on some subject which the^' had previously discussed, and there
ensued a little playful war of words.
" Oh, you're just a phrase-maker,'' Mrs. Kilroy exclaimed at
last, finding herself woi-sted ; " and phrases prove nothing."
" What is a phra.se-maker ? " he asked with a twinkle.
" Why, a phrase-maker is a person who reckle.s,sly launches a
saying, winged by wit, and of superior brevity and distinctness,
but not necessarily true — a saying which flies direct to the mind,
and, being of a cutting nature, carves an indelible impression
there," said Mrs. Kilroy ; " an impression which numbs the intel-
lect and ])revents us reasoning for ourselves. Opinion is formed
for the n\ost part of phrases — not of knowledge and observation.
The things people say smartly are quoted, not because they are
true but because they are smart. A lie well put will cany con-
viction to the average mind more surely than a good reason if ill
expressed, because most people have an aesthetic sen.se that is sat-
isfied by a happy play upon words, but few have reason enough
THE BETH BOOK.
381
ns of doing
ce lie WHS a
itroiig, plain
lias a ring of
jist between
She wished
E^re cringing
3reorge Gal-
he first ad-
nniong theso
iiad been ac-
>ttorick were
latural. The
n hulies, who
to see her so
jmen enough
id Mrs. Orton
»wu Mrs. Kil-
her and her
hildren, they
uke of ^Morn-
ady Adeline
\ Sir George
_'d, and there
exclaimed at
thing."
Jikle.
launches a
distinctness,
Ito the mind,
impression
lbs the intel-
in is formed
I observation,
[ise they are
II carry con-
1 reason if ill
that is sat-
3on enough
to discriminate when the brilliant ingenuity of the phrase-uiaker
is pitted against a plain statement of the bald truth."
" As, for instance ? " jisked Sir George.
"Maii'H lovo Ls of his lifo a thing a]>urt,
'Tia wouian'ti wholo existuiioc,"
Mrs. Kilroy responded glibly. " That is quoted everywhere, and
I liave never heard it (luestioned, yet it is a flagrant case of con-
founding smartness witli accuracy, for it is not the least true.
Love of the kind that Byron meant is quite lus much a thing
apart from woman's life as from man's ; more men, in fact, make
the pursuit of it their whole existence than women do."
" That is true of love," said Sir George thoughtfully. " Love
is certainly not a modern woman's whole existence, and she never
dies of it. She feels it strongly, but it does not swamp lier. In a
bad attack she may go to bed young one night and rise next
day with gray hairs in lier liead, and write a book about it ; but
then she recovers. And 1 think you are right about pia-a-scs too.
' Syllables govern the world,' John Seldeji said ; but ' })hrases '
would have been the better word. Phrases arc the keynotes to
life; they set the tune to which men insensibly sliape their coui*se,
and so rule us for good or ill. This is a time of talk, and formi-
dable is the force of phrases. Catchwords are creative ; they do
not jn'ove that a thing is ; they cause it to be."
"Tlien an unscrupulous plirase-maker may be a danger to the
communit}'," Beth ol)served.
"Yes,"' said Sir George ; " but, on the other hand, one who is
scrupulous would be a philanthropist of extraordinary power."
"Now isn't that like his craft and ^ubtlet}', Evadne ? " said
Mrs. Kilroy to Lady Galbraith. " lie has been gradually work-
ing up to that in order to make Mi*s. ^laclure sup])o.se I intended
to pay him a compliment when I called him a phra.se-maker."
'* You are taking a mean advantage of an honest attempt on
my j)art to arrive at the trutli." said Sir George.
" I believe jou blundered into that without seeing in the least
where you were going," Betli ol)served naively.
Everybody smiled except Dan, who told her on the way home
she had made a great mi.stake to say such a thing, and she must
be careful in future or slie would give olfence and make enemies
for him.
" No fear— with people like that," said Beth. " They all un-
derstood me."
'!i
382
THE BETH BOOK.
"Whicli is as much as to say tliat your husband docs not,"
said Dan, assuming his hurt expression. " Very well. Go your
own way. But you'll be sorry for it."
" What a deliglitful person Mrs. Orton Beg is ! " Beth observed,
to make a diveifsion ; " and so nice-looking, too ! *'
" You are easily pleased ! Why, she's forty if she's a day ! ''
Dan ejaculated, speaking as if tliat were to her discredit, and
must deprive her of any consideration from him.
The naKt excitement was a military ball. Dan determined to
go, and Beth was ready enough ; she had never been to a ball.
" But liow about a dress ? " she said. " There has been sucli a
sudden change in the fiushion since mine were made I'm afraid I
have nothing that will do."
" Then get a new one," Dan said.
" Wliat, and add to the bills ?" Beth objected.
" Oh, bother the bills I " he answered in the tone he called
cheery. " I've had them coming in all my life, and I'm still here.
Get a thing when you want it, and i)ay for it when you can —
that's my motto. Why, my Uiilor's bill alone is up in the hun-
dreds."
" But that was the bill mannna gave you the money to settle ! "
Beth exclaimed.
" I know," he answered casually. " I got the money out of
her for that, but I had to spend it on your amusement in town,
my dear."
" Oh ! ■' Beth ejaculated—" how could you ? "
"How could I ?" he answered coolly. "Well, I couldn't, of
course, if I hadn't been clever, but I can always get anything I
like out of old ladies. They dote on me. You've only got to
amuse them, you know, and pour in a little sentiment on occa-
sion. Let them undersUmd you've been rather a naughty man,
but you know what's right— that always fetches them. Y'our
mother would have sold out all she had to help me when she
found I meant to repent and settle. But, of course. I wouldn't
take anything that was not absolutely necessary," he added mag-
nanimously.
Beth compressed her lips and frowned. " Do you mean to say
you obtained money from a poor woman like my mother for a
special purpose which she approved, and spent that money on
something else ? " .she asked.
Dan changed countenance. "I got the money from your
mother to pay my tailor's bill, but the circumstance of your
THE BETH BOOK.
383
lid (Iocs not,'*
ell. Go your
3etli observed,
ihe's a day ! ''
discredit, and
determined to
;i to a ball.
IS been such a
[e I'm afraid I
one he called
I'm still here,
en you can —
jp in the hun-
ley to settle ! "
noney out of
nent in town,
couldn't, of
\i anytliing I
only got to
lient on occa-
laughty man,
them. Your
le when she
I wouldn't
added mag-
Imean to say
liother for a
money on
from your
Ice of your
spending more money in town than I could afford compelled me
to use it for another purpose," he answered in rather a bhisteriiig
tone.
" I spent no money in town," Beth said.
"I had to spend it on you, tlien," he rejoined, "and a nice
lament you would have made if I hadn't! But it's all the same.
Husband and wife are one; and I maintain that the money wjis
given to me to pay a just debt, and I paid a just debt witli it.
Now, wliat have you to say against that to the disparagement of
your husband ? "
He looked Beth straight in the face as he spoke, as if the
nature of tlie transaction would be changed by staring lier out
of countenance; and .she returned his gaze unllinchingly ; but
not another word would she say on the subject. There is a sad
majority of wives whose attitude toward their husbands nui.st be
one of contemptuous toleration— toleration of their past depravity
and of their present deceits whatever form they may take. Sucli
a wife looks upon her husband as a hopeless incurabh^ because
she knows that he ha,s not the sense, even if he had the strength
of character, to mend his moral defects. Beth fully realized her
husband's turpitude with regard to the money, and also realized
the futility of trying to make him see his own conduct in the
matter in any light not flattering to himself ; and she was deei)ly
pained. She had taken it for granted that Dan would pay in-
terest on the money, but had not troubled herself to find out if he
were doing so, as she now thought that she ought to have done,
for clearly she should have paid herself if he did not. True, she
never had any mone}-, but that was no excuse, for there w'vro
honest ways of making money, and make it she would. She was
on her way upstairs to her secret chamber to think the matter out
undisturbed, when she came to this determination ; and as soon
as she had shut herself in she sank upon her knees and vowed to
God .solemnly to pay back every farthing, and the interest in full,
if she had to work her fingers to the bone. Curiously enough, it
was with her fingers she first thought of working, not witli her
brain. She had seen an advertisement in a daily papi'r of several
depots for the sale of " lady's work " in London and other places,
and she determined at once to try that method of making money.
Work of all kinds came easily to her, and happily slie still had
her two sovereigns which would be enougli to lay in a st(K'k of
materials to begin with. Her pin money Dan regularly appro-
priated as soon as it arrived, with the facetious remark that it
1!
i f
I
384
TUE BETH BOOK.
i
l!"1
would just pay for her koop ; and so far Botli had lot him have it
without a murmur, yichliiijc in that as in all else, however much
against her own inclinations, for gentleness, and also with a
vagu(^ notion of making uj) to him in some sort of way for his
own shortcomings, which she could not help fancying must be as
great a trouble to him as they were to her. She had grown to
have a very real affection for Dan, as indeed she would have had
for any one who was passably kind to her ; but her estimate of
his ch.'iracter, as she gi'adually became acquainted with it, was
never influenced by her affection, except in so far as she pitied
him for traits which would have made her despise another man.
Since her marriage she had given up her free wild wandering
habits. She would go into the town to order things at the shops iu
the morning, and take a solitary walk out into the country in the
afternoon, perhaps, but without any keen enjoyment. Her natu-
ral zest for the woods and fields was susj)ended. She had lost
touch with Nature. Instead of looking about her ob.servantly, as
had been her wont, she walked now. as a rule, with her eyes fixed
on the ground, thinking deei)ly. She was losing vitality, too;
her gait was less buoyant, and she was becoming subject to
aches and pains she had never felt before. Dan said they were
neuralgic, and showed that she wanted a tonic, but troubled him-
self no more about them. He always seemed to think she should
be satisfied when he found a name for her complaint. She had
also become much thinner, which made her figure childishly
young, but in the face she looked old for her age — five-and-twenty
at least — although she was not yet eighteen.
There was one particularly strong and hapi)y point in Betli's
character; she wasted little or no time in repining for the thing
that was done. All her thought was how to remedy the evil and
make amends; so now, when she had recovered from the first
sh(xjk of her husband's revelation, she put the thought of it aside,
pulled herself together quickly, and found relief in setting to work
with a will. The exertion alone was inspiriting, and rearoused
the faculty which had been dormant in her lately. She went at
once to get material for her work, and stepped out more briskly
tlian she had done for many a day. She perceived that the morn-
ing air was fresh and sweet, and she inhaled deep draughts of it,
and rejoiced in the sunshine. Just op])osite their house, across
the road, on the other side of a wooden paling, the parklike
meadow was intensely green ; old horse-chestnuts dotted about
it made refreshing intervals of shade ; in the hedgerows the tall
TUE 13ETII BOOK.
385
't him have it
>W('ver inucli
also with a
'f way for liis
\<^ must ho us
liad growji to
uld have liad
!• estimate of
with it, was
lis she pitied
lotlier man.
d wandering
tlie shops in
»untry in tlie
Ilor natu-
■?hu had lost
servantly, as
er eyes lixed
'itality, too;
r suhject to
d tliey were
ouhlod him-
: slie should
She had
childishly
|and-twenty
t in Beth's
jr the thingf
lie evil and
1 the first
lof it aside,
g to work
rearoused
lie went at
'e hriskly
le morn-
lits of it,
!e, across
parklike
led about
the tall
elms stood out clear apfainst tlie sky, and the gnarled oaks cast
fanUistic shadows on tlie grass, while beyond it, at the further
side of the meadow by the brook, the row of Canadian jKjplars
whicli bordered it kept up a continuous whisp<'ring, us wus their
wont, even on the stillest days. "When Beth lirst heard them
they spoke a language to her which she comprehemled but could
not translate ; but tiie immediate eil'ect of her life with Dun had
been to deaden her perception, so that she could not comprehend.
Then the whispering became a mere rustle of leaves, appealing to
nothing but her sen.se of hearing, and her delight in their mur-
mur lapsed when its significance was lost to her spirit.
But that morning Nature spoke to her again, and her eyes were
opened. She saw the gray-green poplars, the gnarled oaks, the
dark crests of the elms upraised against the radiant blue of the
sky, and felt a thrill-like triumph as she watched the great mas.ses
of cloud, daz/lingly white, floating in infinite space majestically.
The life about her, too — the twittering of birds in the hedgerows ;
an Alderncy cow with its calf in the fields; a young colt career-
ing wildly, .startled by a passing train ; a big dog that saluted lier
with friendly nose as he trotted by — all these .said .something to
her which made her feel that, let what might happen, it was good
to be alive.
On her way into town she thouglit out a piece of work, some-
thing more original and effective than the things usually .sold in
fancy-work .shops, which did not often please her. When she had
bought all that she required there was very little of her two pounds
left; but she returned in high sjiirits, carrying the ratlier large
parcel herself, lest, if it were sent, it should ari-ive when Dan was
at home and excite his curiosity. He always ai)peured if he heurd
the door bell ring, and insisted on knowing who or what had
come, an inqui.sitive trick that irritated Beth into bathing him
whenever she could.
She curried lier precious packet up to her secret chamber and
set to work at once. Dan, when he came in to lunch, was sur-
prised to find her unusually cheerful. After the temper she had
dis])layed at breakfa.st, he had expected to have anything but a
l)lea.sant time of it for a little. Seeing her in good si)irits put him
also into a genial mood, and he began at once to talk about him-
self, his favourite topic.
" Well. I've had a rattling hard day," he observed. " You'd be
surprised at the amount Fve dtme in the time. I don't believe
any other man here could have done it. I was at that confounded
38C
THE BETH BOOK.
I' 1
hospital a couple of hours, and after that I had a round. People
are beginning to send for me now as tli(^ last from school. They
think I'm up to the latest dodges. The old men won't like it. I
had to go out to the Pettericks to see that girl Bertha again. Their
family doctor could make nothing of her case ; hut it's simple
enough. The girl's hysterical, that's wliat she is ; and I know
what I'd like to prescribe for her, and that's a husband, he I he I
Soon cure her hysterics ! As to the old girl — her motlier — she's
got " Then followed a niinute description of her ailments,
told in the baldest language. Of two words Dan always cliose
the coarsest in tivlking to Beth now that they were married, which
had made her writhe at first ; but when she had remonstrated he
assumed an injured air, after which she silently endured tlie afllic-
tion for fear of wounding him. And it was the same with regard
to his patients. The fii*st time he descril)ed the ailment of a lady
patient and made gross comments about her Beth liau exclaimed :
" O Dan ! what would .she think of you if she knew you had told
me ! Surely it is a breach of confidence ! ''
" Well ! " he exclaimed, trying to wither her with a look, " you
have a nice opinion of your husband ! Is it possible that I can
not speak to my own wife without bringing such an accusation
upon myself? Well I well! And I'm slaving for you morning,
noon, and night, to keep you in some sort of decency and comfort ;
and when I come home and do my best to be cheery and amuse
you, instead of being morose after the strain of the day, as most
men are, all the thanks I get is a speech like that. — O Holy Matri-
mony ! "
" I did not mean to aimoy you, Dan. I'm sorry," Beth i)ro-
tested.
" So you should be," he said, " .so you should be ! It's mighty
liard forme to feel that my own wife hasn't confidence enough in
me to be sure that I should never say a word either to her or any-
body else about any of my patients to which they'd object."
"People feel differently on the subject, perhaps," Beth ven-
tured, " I only know that if I had a doctor who talked to his
wife about my complaints I should " — despise him, was what she
was going to say, but she changed the phrase — " I should not like
it. But you should know what your own patients feel about it
better than I do."
Even as she spoke, however, her mother's remark of long ago
about a " talking doctor " recurred to her, and she felt lowered in
her own estimation by the kind of concession she was making to
THE BETH BOOK.
3R7
round. People
I school. They
ran't like it. I
la ayaiii. Their
but it\s simple
s; and I know
isband, he I he 1
p mother — she's
f her ailments,
1 always chose
married, which
pmonstrated he
lured the aftlic-
tne with reg-ard
ment of a lady
lau exclaimed :
rt' you had told
h a look, "3'oti
ible that I can
an accusation
vou morning",
' and comfort ;
ry and amuse
day. as most
) Holy Matri-
y," Beth jiro-
It's mighty
ice enough in
() her or any-
ibject."
Beth ven-
alked to his
.vas what she
ould not like
feel about it
of long ago
t lowered in
IS making to
him. The tragedy of such a marriage consists in tlie effect of the
man's mind upon the woman's, shut up with him in the closest
intinuicy day and night, and all the time imbibing his poisoned
thoughts. Beth's womanly grace pleaded witii her continually
not to hurt her husband since he meant no olFence — not to damp
his spirits even when they took a form so disUisteful to her. To
check him wjis to offend him and provoke a scene for nothing,
since his tjiste was not to be improved, and she would have to
have checked him jjcrpetually and made a mere nag of herself;
for to talk in this way to her, to tell her objectionable stearics and
harp on depravity of all kinds, was his one idea of pleasurable
conversation. It was seldom, therefore, that she remonstrated,
especially in those early days when she had not as yet i)erceived
that by tacitly acquiescing she was lending herself to inevitiible
corruption.
Just at that time, too, she did not trouble herself much about
anything. She Avas entirely absorbed in her new object in life —
to get the work done, to make the money, to i)ay her mother with
interest ; there was continual exaltation of spirit in the endeavour.
Every moment that she could safely secure she .spent in her secret
chamber hard at work. Her outlook was on the skv above, forever
changing; on the gay garden below, whence light airs wafted the
fragrance of flowers, from time to time, to her delight; and on a
gentle gi'een ascent covered and crowned with trees which shut
out the world beyond. Here there was a colony of rooks, where
the birds were busy all day long sometimes, and from which they
were sometimes absent from early morning till sundown, when
thev came back cawing 1)V ones and twos and threes— a long,
straggling procession of them, their dark, iridescent forms with
broad, bright wings outspread, distinct and decorative, against
the happy blue. Beth loved the birds, and even as .she worked
she watched them, their hou.sekeepings and comings and goings,
and heard their talk ; and often as she worked she looked out at
the fair prospect and up ai the sky hopefully, and vowed again to
accomplish one act of justice, at all events. She stopped her
regular studies at this time, because she perceived them to be for
her own mere personal benefit, while the task which she had set
herself was for a better purpose. But although she did not study
as had been her wont, while she sewed she occui)ied her mind in
a way that was much more beneficial to it than the purposeless
acquisition of facts, the solving of mathematical problems, or
conning of parts of speech. Beside her was always an open book
388
THE B?]TII BOOK.
— it might bo a passage of Soripturo, a scene from Rhakospoaro, a
poem or paragraph ricrh in the wisdom and ])eauty of some great
mind. And as slie sewed slie dwelt npon it, r«'peating it to her-
self until she was word perfeet in it, then making it <'ven more
lier own by earnest contemplation. These passages became the
texts of many observations, and in tliem wius also the light which
showed iier life as it is and as it should be lived. In meditat-
ing upon them she timght herself to meditate; and in following
up tint clews they gave her in the endeavour to discriminate and
to judge fairly, by slow degrees she acquired the precious habit of
clear thought. This lifted her at once above herself as she had
been, and what she had lo.st of insight and spiritual perception
since lier marriage she began to recover in another and more per-
fect form. Whole.sonie consideration of the realities of life now
took the placi! of fanciful dream.s. lier mind, wonderfully fer-
tilized, teemed again — not with vain imaginings, however, as
heretofore, ])ut with something more substantial. Purjuweful
tliought was where the mere froth of sensuous seeing had been,
and it was thought that now clamoured for expression instead of
the verses and stories— fireworks of the brain, plea.sant, transient,
fu<ile distractions with nt)tliing more nourisiiing in them than
the interest and entertainment of the moment — which had occu-
pied her chiefly from of old. It was natural to Beth to be open, to
disc u.ss all that concerned herself with her friends; but having
no one to talk to now, she began on a sudden to record her
thoughts and imj)ressions in writing, and, having once begun, she
entered upon a new phase of existence altogether. She had dis-
covered a recreation which was more absorbing than anything
she had ever tried before, for her early scribbling had been of an-
other kind, not nearly so entrancing; then it had been the idle
gossip of life and the mere pictorial art of word painting, an in-
genious exercise, that had occupied her; now it was the more
soul-stirring themes in the region of philosophy and ethics which
she pursued, and scenes and phases of life interested her only as
the raw material from which a goodly moral might be extracted.
Art for art's sake she desjjised, but in art for man's sake she al-
ready discovered noble possibilities. But her very delight in her
new pursuit nade her tbink it right to limit her indulgence in it.
Duty she conceived to be a painful effort necessarily, but writing
was a pleasure ; she therefore attended first conscientiously to her
embroidery and any other task she thought it right to perform,
although her eager impatience to get back to her desk made each
I
THE BETH BOOK.
389
I Shakcspoaro, a
ly of sojue gvvul
H'utin;,' it to hor-
ug it <'von more
iges Ik'cuimo tlio
tiie li;,--)!! wliich
id. 111 nic'ditat-
rul ill followhig
iscniniuatc and
U'erious liabit of
rsclf as s]i(> Imd
itual pi-rccption
r and more per-
tios of life now
kondvrfully fer-
ps, li()\vov«'r, as
il. Pui'i)o.seful
xuiiif Jii»d been,
ssion instead of
isant, transient,
in them tlian
liieli liad occu-
1 to be open, to
s; but liaving
to record her
|nce beg-un, slie
She liad dis-
han anytliing
id been of an-
been the idle
inting, an in-
[vas the more
otliics wliieh
;1 her only as
be extracted,
sake she al-
clight in her
Igcnce in it.
but writing
ously to her
to perform,
made eaclx
in turn a toil to her. Like many another earnest person, she mis-
took tlie things of no importance for tilings that matter, because
the dt)ing of them cost her much, and it was the intellectual exer-
cise, the delicate fancy work of luM'brain— a matter of enormous
consequence — that she negh'cted. Not knowing tliat "»/ a nutn
lore the hibouv of any fnttlr, dpart from (iiii/ (inesti(ni of suc-
ce.sti or f(tme, the gods hare called him,'' slie made the fitting of
hei-self for the work of lier life her hist exercise at the tired end
of the day. She rose early :ind went to bed late in order to gain
a little more time to write, but never suspected tiiat her delight in
the effort to find expression for what was in her mind of itself
proclaimed her one of the elect.
When she had finished her embroidery she despatched it
secretly to the depot in London ; but then she found tluit she
would have to pay a small subscription before she could hav<' it
sold there, and she had no money. She wrote boldly to the .secre-
tary and told her so, and asked if the subscription could not be
paid out of the price she got for her work. The secreUiry replied
that it was contrary to the rules, but the committee thought that
such an artistically beautiful design as hers was sure to be snapped
up directly, and they had therefore decided to make an exception
in her case.
While these letters were going backward and forward Beth
suffered agonies of anxiety lest Dan should pounce upon them
and discover her secret: but he happened to be out always at post
time just then, so she managed to .secure them safely.
As she had no money she ctruld not buy any more materials
for embroidery, so .she was obliged to take a holiday, the greater
part of which she spent in writing. She was deeply engrossed by
thoughts on progress whi(,'h had been suggested by a passage in
one of Emerson's essays: ''All con serrat ires are such from
natural defects. They hare been effeminated hy position or
nature, born halt and blind, throuf/h luxury of their parents,
and can only, like inralids, act on the defotsire."' Even in her
own little life Beth had seen so much of the ill effects of con-
servatism in the class to which she belonged, and had suffered so
much from it hei'self already, that the subject ai)i)ealed to her
strongly, and she pursued it with enthusiasm — more from the
social than the political point of view, however. But unfortu-
nately, in all too short a time, her holiday came to an end. Her
beautiful embroidery had sold for six guineas, and she found her-
self with the money for more materials and three pounds in hand
■i
390
THE BETH BOOK.
besides, clear profit, toward tlio debt. She had also received atj
order from tlie depot for another mantel cover at the same priceJ
which caused her c()Tisid«'rable elation and set her to work a^ainl
with a will, and it was only when she could no longer ply lierl
needle that she allowed herself to Uike up her pen.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Beth Imd no more zest for the ball after that conversation
with Daniel about the money her mother had p^iven him. She
felt obliged to go to it l)ecause he insisted that it was necessary
for the wives of professional men to show themselves on public
occasions, but slie would not get u new dress. She had never
worn her white silk trimmed with myrtle, and when she came to
look at it again, she decided that it was not so much out of the
fashion after all, and at any rate it nmst do.
When she came down to dinner dressed in it on the night
of the ball, she looked very winsome, and .smiled up at Dan in
shy expectation of a word of approval ; but none came. In the
early days of their acquaintance he liad remarked that she was
much more easily depressed than elated about herself, and would
be the better of a little more confidence — not to say conceit; but
since their marriage he had never given her the slightest sym-
pathy or encouragement to cure her of her diffidence. If any-
thing were ami.ss in her dress or appearance, he told her of it in
the offensive manner of an ill-conditioned underbred man, gen-
erally speaking when they were out of doors or in some house
where she could do nothing to put herself right, as if it were some
satisfaction to him to make her feel ill at ease ; and if she were
complimented by any one else about anything, he had usually
something derogatory to say on the subject afterward. Now,
when he had inspected her, he sat down to table without a
word.
" Is there anything wrong ? " Beth asked anxiously.
" No," he answered. " That tulle on your sleeves might have
been fresher, that's all."
" This will be my first ball," Beth ventured, breaking a long
silence.
" Well, don't go and tell everybody," he rejoined. " They'll
think you want to make yourself interesting, and it's nothing to
THE BETil BOOK.
301
ad also received an
r at tlie saine price,
t her to work a^'jiin
no longer ply her
pen.
r that conversation
d <?iven him. She
at it was necessary
icmselves on public
ss. 8he had never
1 when she cunie to
JO much out of the
in it on the night
iled up at Dan in
|One came. In the
ked that she wa.s
lerself, and would
say conceit ; but
je slightest sym-
ffidence. If any-
told her of it in
erbred man, gen-
or in some house
as if it were some
and if she were
»•, he had usually
fterward. Now,
table without a
ously.
ieves might have
breaking a long
iined. " They'll
d it's nothing to
boast about. Just lay yourself out to bo agreeable to peoplt! who
will further your husband's inten'sts, for once."
"But am I not always agreeable T' J3eth exclaimed, much
nuortified.
" It doesn't ai)j)ear so," he answered dryly. " At any rate, you
don't s«'em to go down liere."
" How do you mean i " Beth asked.
"Wiiy, the ladies in the place all seem to shun you, for sonu>
reason or other ; not one of them ever comes near you in a friend-
ly way."
"They were all very nice to me the other day at Beg," Beth
protested, her heart sinking at this recurrence of the old reproach,
for to be slnmned or in any way set apart seenu'd even more
dreadful to her now than it had done when she was a child.
"Sec that they keep it up, then," he answered grimly.
" If it depends upon nie, tliey will," said Beth, setting her sen-
sitive mouth in a hard, di-termined line that added ten years to
her age and did not imjjrove her beauty. And it was with a sad
heart and sorely di.ssatistied with herself that she drove to her
Qrst ball.
When they entered the ballroom, however, and Dan beamed
about him on every one in his " thoroughly-good-fellow " way,
her spirits rose. The decorations, the handsome uniforms, the
brilliant dresses and jewels, the Howcrs and foliage plants, and,
above all, the bright dance nmsic and festive faces, delighted her,
and she gazed about her with lips just parted in a little smile,
wondering to find it all so gay.
A young military man was brought up to her and introduced
by one of tlie stewards before she had been live minutes in the
room. He asked for the pleasure of a dance ; but, alas, thanks to
the scheme of education at the Royal Service School for Oflicers'
Daughters having been designed by the autlioriti(\s to fit the girls
for the next world only, Beth could not dance. She had had some
lessons at Miss Black})oin-ne's, but not enough to give her con-
fidence, so she was obliged to decline. Another and another
would-be partner, and some quite important people, as Dan said,
offered, but in vain ; and he looked furious.
"Well," he exclaimed, "this is nice for me I"
" I am sorry," Beth answered nervously. She was beginning
to have a painful conviction that a man had to depend almost en-
tirely on his wife for his success in life, and the responsibility
made her quail.
*'5)
892
THE IlETII BOOK.
i
" I shall havo to go out and do viy duty at any rate," ho pro-
ceiulcd. " I must leavo you alono."
" Yes, do," said \ivi\\. " Mrs. Kilroy and Mrs. Orton R(>{.f havo
just ('(Miie in; 1 will go and join tlicin." She naturally fxpcctcd
Dan to escort her, and he prohahly would havr done so had ho
waited to hear wliat slie was saying; hut his marital nuinnt'rs
wrvo such that he had taken himself oil' while she was speaking,
and left her to fend for lierself. She was too glad, however, to
HOC her charming new acMjuaintances who had lieen tm kindly to
care much, and slu^ cro.ssed ilw. room to them, smiling conlulently.
As she approached, she saw that they recogni.sed her, and said
something to eacli otlu^r. When she canu! clos(% they hoth howed
coldly, and turned their lu^ads in the opposite direction.
Beth stopped short, and 1km* heart stood still. Tlie slight was
unmistakahle; hut what had slu^ done ? She lookiul ahout her as
if for an exi)lanation, and .saw Lady Beg clo.se beside her, talking
to Mrs. Carne.
" Ail, how do you do ? Nice ball, isn't it ? " Lady Beg ob-
served, but without shaking hands,
" How do you do '{ " said Mits. Carne, and then they resumed their
conversation, taking no further noti( e of Beth, who would i)rol)-
ably have turned and lied from the dreadful place incontinently
if Mrs. Pettei 'v.k had not come up at that moment and spoken to
her as one human being to another, seizing upon Beth as Beth
might have seized upon her in despair ; for Mrs. Petterick had
also been having her share of snubs. O those Christians ! how
they do love one another I How tender they are to one another's
feeling ! ITow careful to make the best of one another ! How
gentle, good, and kind, and true ! How singular it is that when
the wicked unbeliever comes to live among them, and sees them
as they are, he does not try straightway to live likewi.se in order
to enjoy the comfort of their esteem here, and their blessed hope
of reaj)ing the rich reward of their merits hereafter !
"You're not dancing, my dear," Mrs. Petterick said. "Come
along and sit with me on that couch against the wall yonder.
We shall see all that's going on from there."
Beth was only too thankful to go. A waltz was being played,
and Dan passed them, dancing with Bertha Petterick. They
glided over the floor together with the gentle voluptuous swing,
dreamy eyes, and smiling lips of two perfect dancers conscious of
nothing but the sensuous delight of interwoven paces and clasp-
ing arms.
tin: IIKTII IJUOK.
IJD.T
"My, but tlioy tlo strp well toj^ptlior, liini and Brrthn !" Mrx.
Pottcrick excIiiiiiK'd. " He's it luiu(ls<niu' man, y<mr liushaiid, uml
a iiuy Diio llirtiiija' ubout with all the hidirs! I woiuh-r ytiu'ni
not jealous I '"
"JoalousI" ]i<thuns\vor<Ml,suiiliM(f. " Not I, indeed I Jealousy
is u want of faith in one's self,"
"Well, my dear, if you always looked as well as you do just
now you need not want conlidence in yourself," Mrs. Petteriek
observed. " Hut what would you do if your husband gavt! you
cause for jealousy { "
" Despistf him," B<'th answered promptly.
Mrs. Petteriek looked as if she eould make nothiiif^ of this
answer. TIh-u she lu'canu; uneasy. The music had stopped, but
Bertha had not returned toiler. "I must ^'o and look after my
dauj^hter," she .said, rising from her comfortable .seat with a sit,'b.
" Gels are a nuisance. You've got to keep your eyo on them all
the time or you never know what they're^ up to."
Beth .stiiid where she was, and soon began to feyl uncomfort-
able. People stared coldly at her as they passed, afid she could
not help fancying herself the subject of unpleasant reiiuu'k be-
cause she was alone. She prayed hard tliat some one would conm
and speak to lier. Dan had disappeared. After a time .she recog-
nised Sir George (iralbraith among the grouj)s of p<>ople at the
opposite side of the room. He was receiving that attention from
every one which is so generously conferred on a man or wom.'in
of consequence, whose acquaintance adds to people's own impor-
tance, and to whom it is therefore well to be .seen speaking; but
although his maimer was courteously attentive he looked round
him as if anxious to make his esca])e, and finally, to Beth's intense
relief, he recognised her, and, leaving the group about him un-
ceremoniously, came across the room to speak to her.
"Would it be fair to ask you to sit out a dance with nie ?" ho
said. " I do not dance,"
"I would rather sit out a dance witli you than dance it with
any one else I know here," she answered naively ; " but, as it hap-
pens, I do not dance either,"
" Indeed ! How is that ? I should have thought you would
like dancing."'
" So I should, I am sure, if I could," she replied, " But I can't
dance at all. They would not let me learn dancing at one school
where I was, and I was not long enough at the other to learn
properly."
2G
i
r
394
THE BETH BOOK.
" Now that is a pity," lie said, considering Beth, his professional
eye having been struck by her thinness and languor. "But have
some lessons. Dancing in moderation is capital exercise, and it
exliilaratos ; and anything that exhilarates increases one's vitality'.
Why don't you make your husband teach you ? He seems to
know all about it."
"Yes," Beth answered, smiling; "but I shouldn't think teach-
ing me is at all in his line. Why don't you dance your.self ? ''
"Oh, I am far too clumsy," he said good-naturedly. "My
wife says if I could even learn to move about a room without
getting in the way and upsetting things it would be something."
" Is she here to-night ? " Beth asked.
"No, she was not feeling up to it," he answered. "She tired
herself in tlie garden this afternoon helping me to bud roses."
" Oh, can you bud roses ? " Beth exclaimed. " I should so like
to know how it is done."
" I'll .show you with pleasure."
" Will you really ? " said Both. " How kind of you ! "
" Not at all. Let me see, when will you be at home ? We
mustn't lose any time or it will be too late in the year."
" I'm pretty nearly always at home," Beth said.
" Then if I come to-morrow morning would that be con-
venient ? "
" Quite ; and I hope you will stay to lunch," Beth answered.
Dan returned to thfe ballroom just then, and, on seeing who
was with her, he immediately joined them ; but Sir George only
staid long enough to exchange greetings politely.
"You seem to get on very well with Galbraith," Dan observed.
" Don't you like him ? " Beth asked in surjn-ise, detecting a note
of enmity in his voice.
" I haven't had much chance," he said bitterly. " He doesn't
play the agreeable to mo as he does to you."
Beth missed the drift of this remark in considering the expres-
sion " play tlie agreeable," which was unpleasantly suggestive to
her of underbred gentility,
"You will be able to give him an opportunity to-morrow, then,
she said. " if you are in at luncli time, for he is coming to show
me how to bud roses, and I have asked liini to stay."
" Have you, indeed ! " Dan exclaimed, obviously displeased,
but why or wherefore Beth could not conceive. " I hope to good-
ness there's something to eat in the house," he added, upon reflec-
tion, fussily.
nil
THE BETH BOOK.
395
)rofessional
" But liavo
:'cise, and it
e's vital it\'.
e seems to
liink teacli-
rself ? ''
idly. " My
)m without
nething."
" She tired
roses."
>uld so like
)rae ? We
it be con-
iswered.
•eiug" who
orgQ only
observed,
ing- a note
~[g doesn't
expres-
restive to
)w, then,
to show
splcased,
I to good-
\n reflec-
" There is as much as thoro always is," Both placidly rejoined.
"Well, that's not enough, then. Just tliink what a man like
that has on his own table ! "
"A man like that won't expect our table to be like his."
"You'd bettor make it appear so for once then, or you'll be
havin"- vour hospitality criticised as I hoard the barrack follows
criticise Mrs. JetFery's the other day. A couple of thorn called
about lunch time, and she asked them to stay, and they said there
was nothing but beer and sherry and the fragments of a previous
feast, and they were blessed if they'd go near the old trout again."
•'An elegant expression!" siiid Beth. "It gives the measure
of the mind it comes from. Please don't introduce the i)orson
who uses it to me. But as to Sir George Galbraith— you need
not be afraid that he will accept hospitality and criticise it in
that spirit. Ho will neither grumble at a cutlet nor doscril)e his
hostess by a vulgar epithet after eating it." She shut her mouth
hard after speaking. Disillusion is a great enlightoner; our in-
si"-ht is never so clear as when it is turned on the character of :•.
person in whom we used to believe; and as Dan gradually re-
vealed himself to Beth, trait by trait, a kind of distaste seized
upon her, a want of respect which found involuntiiry expression
in trenchant comments upon his observations, and in smart re-
torts. She did not seek sympathy from him now for the way in
which she had been slighted at tlie ball, knowing pt^rfoctly wfill
that he was more likely to blame her than anybody else. He
had, in fact, by this time, so far as any confidence she might have
reposed in him Avas concerned, dropped out of her life comj)letely,
ajul left her as friendless and as much alone as she would have
been with the veriest stranger.
That night, when she went home, slie felt world- worn and
weary, but next morning, out in the garden with Sir George Gal-
braith budding roses, she became young again. Before they had
been together half an hour she was chatting to hiiu with girlish
confidence, telling liim about her attempts to cultivate her mind,
her reading and writing — to all of whicli he listened without any
of tliat condescension iii his manner which Dan displayed when
perchance he was in a good humour and Beth had ventured to
expand. Sir George was genuinely interested.
Dan came in pinictually to lunch for a wonder. He glanced
at Beth's animated face sharply when he entered, but took no
further notice of her. He was one of those husbands who have
two manners — a coarse one for their families, and another nmch
\
1-: '
396
THE BETH BOOK.
more polished wliich thoy assume wlien it is politic to be refined.
But Dan's best behaviour sat ill upon him because it was lacking
in sincerity, and Beth suffered all through lunch because of the
obse(iui()us pose he thought it proper to assume toward his distin-
guislied guest.
After lunch, when Sir George had gone, he took up his favour-
ite position before the mirror over the chimney-piece, and stood
there for a little, looking at himself and caressing liis mustache.
" You talk a great deal too much, Beth," he said at last.
" Do you think so ? " she rejoined.
" Yes, I do," he assured her. " Of course Galbraith had to be
polite, and affect to listen, but I could see that he was bored by
your chatter. He naturally wanted to talk to me about things
that interest men."
" Then why on earth didn't he talk to you ? " Beth asked.
" How could he when you monopolized the conversation ? "
" It Wiis he who kept me Uilking," she protested.
" Oh, yes. I notice you are very animated when anything in
the shape of a man comes in," Dan sneered.
Beth got up and left the room, less affected by the insinua-
tion, however, than by the vulgar expression of it.
The following week Sir George came in one morning with
some cuttings and staid a while in the garden with Beth, show-
ing lier how to set them ; but he could not wait for lunch. Dan
showed considerable annoyance when he heard of the visit.
'" He should come when I am at home," he said. " It is
damned bad taste his coming when you are alone."
The next time Sir George came Dan happened to be in, to
Beth's relief. She had brought her writing down that day and
was worlving at it on tlie dining-room table, not expecting Dan
till much later. He was in a genial mood for a wonder.
"What on earth are you scribbling about there ? " he asked.
" Just something I was thinking about," Beth answered eva-
sively.
" Going in for aiithorship, eh ? "
" Why not ?" said Beth.
Dan laughed. " You are not at all ambitious," he remarked ;
then added patronizingly^ : " A little of that kind of thing will do
you no harm, of course ; but, my dear child, your head wouldn't
contain a book, and if you were just a little cleverer you would
know that yourself."
Beth bit the end of her pencil, and looked at him dispassion-
fil^l
THE BETH BOOK.
307
c to be refined,
it was lucking
because of tlio
ward his distin-
i up liis favour-
•iece, and stood
liis mustaclie.
1 at last.
raith had to be
: was bored by
e about things
eth asked,
versation ? "
3n anything in
)y the insinua-
morning with
th Beth, show-
r luncli. Dan
he visit,
said. " It is
to be in, to
that day and
Ixpecting Dan
luler.
he asked,
mswered eva-
le remarked ;
Ithing will do
lead wouldn't
[r you would
dispassion-
ately ; and it was at this moment that Sir George Galbraith was
announced.
Dan received him with effusion as usual, and, also as usual,
Sir George responded with all conventional politeness ; but, the
greeting over, lie turned his attention to Beth. He had brouglit
her a packet of books.
" This looks like work in earnest," he said, glancing at the
table. " I see you have a good deal of something done. Is it
nearly finished ? "
" All but," Beth rejoined.
" What are you going to do with it ? "
Botli looked at him, and tlien at her manuscript vaguely. " I
don't know," she said. " What can I do with it ? "
" Publish it if it is good," he answered.
" But how am I to know ? " Beth asked eagerly. " Do you
think it possible I could do anything fit to publish ? "
Before he could reply Dan chimed in. " I've just bc^n telling
her," he said, " that little heads like liers can't contain book.s. It's
all very well to .scribble a little for pastime and all that, but she
nmstn't seriously imagine she can do that sort of work. She'll
only do herself harm. Literatui*e is men's work."
" Yet how many women have written- -and written well, too ? "
Beth observed.
" Oh, yes, of course — exceptional women."
" And why mayn't I be an exceptional woman ? " Beth asked,
smiling.
" A great, coarse, masculine creature ! " Dan exclaimed. " No,
thank you. We don't want you to be one of that kind, do we,
Galbraitli ? "
" There is not the slightest fear," Sir George answered dryly.
" Besides, I don't think any class of women workers — not even the
])itbrow women — are necessarily coarse and masculine. And I dif-
fer from you, too, with regard to that head." he added, fixing liis
keen, kindly eyes deliberately on Beth's cranium till she laughed
to cover her embarrassment, and put up both hands to feel it.
" I should say there was good promise both of sense and ca-
pacity in the size and balance of it— not to mention anything
else."
"Well, you ought to know if anybody does." said Dan with a
facetious sort of affectation of agreement which left no doubt of
his insincerity.
" I wish," Sir George continued, addressing Beth, " you would
898
THE BETH BOOK.
let me show some of your work to a lady, a friend of mine, whose
opinion is well worth having."
" I would rather have yours," Beth jerked out.
" Oh, mine is no good," he rejoined " But if you will let me
read what you give me to show my lady I should be greatly in-
terested. We were talking about style in pro.se the other day,
and I have ventured to bring you these books — some of our own
stylists and some modern Frenchmen. You read French, I
know."
" Tliere is nothing like the French," Dan chimed in. " We
have no literature at all now. Look at their work compared to
ours — how short, crisp, and incisive it is I how true to life ! A
Frenchman will give you more real life in a hundred pages than
our men do in all their interminable volumes."
" More sexuality you mean, I suppose," said Galb'-aith. " Per-
sonally I find them monotonous and barren of hsppy plirases to
enrich the mind, of noble sentiments to expand tlie heart, of great
thoughts to help the soul ; without balance, with little of the re-
deeming side of life, and less aspiration toward it. If France is
to be judged by the tendency of its literature and art at present,
one would suppose it to be dominated and doomed to destruction
by a gang of lascivious authors and artists who are sapping the
manhood of the country and degrading tlie womanhood by ideal-
izing self-indulgence and mean intrigue. The man or woman
who lives low, or even thinks low, in that sense of the word, will
tend always to descend still lower in times of trial. Moral pro-
bity is the backbone of our courage ; without it we have nothing
to support us when a call is made upon our strength." *
"I can't stand English authors myself," was Dan's reply.
" They're so devilish long-winded, don't you know."
" Poverty of mind accounts for the shortness of the book as a
* The truth of this asHcrtion was lately proved in a terrible manner at the
burning of the Charity Bazaar in the Rue Jean Goujon, when the nerves of tho
luxurious pentlenien present, debilitated by close intimacy with the haute cocot-
terie in and out of society, betrayed them ; and they displayed the white feather
of vice by figiiting their own way out, not only leaving the ladies to their fate,
but actually beating them back with their sticks and trampling on them in their
frantic elforts to save themselves, as many a bruised white arm or shoulder after-
ward testified. There was scarcely a man burned on the occasion ; husbands,
lovers, and fathers escaped, leaving all the heroic deeds to be done by some few
devoted men servants, some workmen who happened to be passing, a stray Eng-
lishman or American, and mothers who perished in attempting to rescue their
children.
J^UH^;'
THE BETH BOOK.
399
f mine, whose
>u will lot me
3e greatly in-
le other day,
3 of our own
(1 French, I
?d in. "We
compared to
9 to life! A
f pages tlmn
aith. " Per-
^ phrases to
art, of great
e of the re-
f France is
at present,
destruction
appiiig tlie
•d by ideal-
or
w
woman
'ord, will
floral pro-
nothing
'e
n's reply.
book as a
iner at the
rves of tlio
ante cocot-
lite feather
their fate,
" in their
ilder after-
husbands,
some few
tray Eng-
icue their
rule," said Galbraith. " I like a long book myself wlien it is rich
in thought. Tlie characters become companions then, and I miss
them when we are forced to part."
Beth nodded assent to tliis. She had been turning over the
books tluit Galbraitli had bnnight lier, with the tender touch of a
true book lover, and that evident interest and pleasure which goes
far bej'ond thanks. Merci formal thanks she forgot to express ;
but she had brightened up iix the most wonderful way since Gal-
braith had appeai'od, and wjis all smiles when he took his leave.
Not so Dan, however ; but Beth was too absorbed in the books
to notice that.
" How kind he is ! " she exclaimed. " Dan, won t it be de-
lightful if I really can write ? I might Uiake a career for my-
self."
" Rot ! " said Dan.
" Sir George diil'ers from you," Beth rejoined,
" I say that's all rot. What does he know about it ? I tell you
you're a silly fool and your head wouldn't contain a book. I
ought to know ! "
" Doctors dilTer again, then, it seems," Beth said. " But in this
case tlie patient is going to decide for herself. What is the use of
opinion in such matters ? One nmst experiment. I'm going to
write, and if at first I don't succeed, I shall persevere."
"Oh, of course!" Dan sneered. "You'll tidce anybody's ad-
vice but your husband's. However, go your own way, as I know
you will. Only, I warn you, you'll regret it."
Beth was dipping into one of the books and took no notice of
this. Dan's ill-humour augmented.
" Did you know the fellow Wiis coming to-day ? " he a,sked.
" No, if by fellow you mean Sir George Galbraith," she an-
swered casually, still intent on the book.
" You know well enough who I mean, and that's just a nag,"
he retorted. " And it looks uncommonly as if you did expect
him, and had set all that rubbish of writing out to make a dis-
play."
Beth bit the end of her pencil and looked at Dan contemptu-
ously.
" I dare say he'd like to get hold of you to make a tool of
you," he pursued. " He's in with Lord Dawne and the whole of
that advanced woman's party at Morne who are always interfer-
ing with everything.
" How ? " Beth asked.
400
THE BETH BOOK.
" By poking their nosos into things that don't concorn tlicm,"
he asseverated ; " things they wouldn't know anything ahout if
tliey weren't damned nasty-minded. Thc^re's that fanatical Lady
Fidda Guthrie and Mrs. Orten Beg and Mrs. Kilroy, besides
Madam Ideala — they're all busybodies ; and if they succeed in
what they're at just now, by Jove ! they'll ruin me. I'll have my
revenge though if they do I I'll attack your distinguished friend.
He has established himself as a humanitarian and travels on that
reputation ; but he has a ho.si)it!il of his own, where I have no
doubt some pretty games are played in the way of exi)eriments
which the public don't suspect. I know the kind of thing ! Pa-
tients mustn't ask questions ! The good doctor will do his be.st for
them ; trust him ! He'll try nothing that he doesn't know to be for
their good, and when they're under chloroform he'll take no un-
fair advantage in the way of cutting a little more for his own
private information than they've consented to. Oh, I know I
Galbraith seems to be by way of slighting n^e, but I'll show him
up if it comes to tliat ; and, at any rate, I'm on the way to discov-
eries myself, and I bet I'll teach him some things in his profes-
sion yet that will make him sit up — things he doesn't suspect,
clever and all as he is."
Beth knew nothing of the things to which Dan alluded,
and therefore mi.ssed the drift of this tirade ; but the whole
tone of it was so offensive to her that she gathered up her books
and papers and left the room. Silence and flight vera her
weapons of defence in those days.
I,
CHAPTER XL.
There was a gap of six months between that last visit of Sir
George Galbraith's and the next, and in the interval Beth had
worked hard, reading and rereading the books he had lent her,
writing, and, perhaps most important of all, reflecting, as she sat
in her secret chamber, busy with the beautiful embroideries
Avhich were to pay off that dreadful debt. She had made seven
pounds by this time, and Aunt Grace Mary had sent her five for
a present, surreptitiously, advising her to keep it herself and say
nothing about it. Aunt Grace Mary knew what husbands were 1
Beth smiled as she read the letter. She, too, was beginning to
know what husbands are — husbands of the Uncle James kind.
f
jEttMSi
mmm
KW&tftaiiiii
TDE i:L:TII BOOK.
401
icorn thorn,"
ing- about if
lutical Lady
J*"}', besides
.succeed in
t'll hav(> my
slied friend,
vels on tliat
I have no
experiments
liiiig ! Pu-
bis best for
)vv to be for
take no un-
or liis own
I know I
■sbow him
' to di.scov-
bis profes-
I't suspect,
alluded,
be wbole
ler books
v.ere her
iit of Sir
?etb liad
ent her,
she sat
)ideries
le seven
five for
md say
5 were I
nnfr to
kind.
She added the five pounds to her secret lioard and tlianked good-
ness that the sum was mountin*^ up litth^ by litth>.
But she wished Sir George would return. He was a busy man
aud lived at the other side of the county, so that she could not
expect him to come to Slane on her account; but surely some-
thing more important would bring him eventually, and then she
might hope to see him. She knew he would not desert lier. And
she had some manuscrii^ts ready to coniide to him now if he
should repeat his offer ; but she was too diflident to .send them to
him except at his special request.
She was all energy now that the possibility of making a career
for herself had been presented to her ; but it was the quietly re-
strained energy of a strong nature. She never sui)posed that she
could practise a profession without learning it, and she was pre-
pared to serve a long apprenticeship to letters if necessary. She
meant to write and write and write until she acquired power of
expression. About what she .should have to express she never
troubled herself. It was the need to express what was in her that
had sei her to work. She would never have to sit at a writing
table with a pen in her hand waiting for ideas to come. She had
discovered by accident that she could have books in plenty, and
of the kind she required, from the Free Library at Slane. Dan
never troubled himself to consult her taste in books, but he was
in the habit of bringing home three-volume novels for himself
from the library, a form of literature he greatly enj<iyed in spite
of his strictures. He made Beth read them aloud to him in the
evening, one after the other, an endless succession, while he
smoked and drank whiskies and .sodas. He brought them home
himself at first, but soon found it a trouble to go for them, and so
sent her; and then it was she discovered that there were other
books in the library. The librarian, an educated and intelligent
man, helped her often in the choice of books. They had long
talks together, during which he made many suggt^stions and gave
Beth many a hint and piece of information that was of value to
her. He was her only congenial friend in Slane. and her long
conversations with him often took her out of herself and rai.sed
her spirits; but he little suspected what a help he was to the
lonely little soul. For the most part she took less interest in the
books themselves than in the people who wrote them, biogra-
phies, autobiographies, and any .scmp of anecdote about authors
and their methods she eagerly devoured. Life as they had lived
it, not as they had observed and imagined it, seemed all important
402
THE BETH BOOK.
to her. And as sho read and thought, sitting alone in tlie charmed
solitude of her secret chamber, hc^r self-respect grew. Her mind,
which had run riot, fancy fed with languorous dreams, in the
days when it was unoccupied and undisciplined, came steadily
more and more under control, and grew gradually stronger as
she exercised it. She ceased to rage and worry about her domes-
tic dilliculties, ceased to expect her husband to add to her happi-
ness in any way, ceased to sorrow for the slights and neglect
that had so wounded and perplexed her during the lirst year of
her life in Slane ; and learned by degrees to possess her soul in
dignified silence so long as silence was best, feeling in herself
that something which should bring her out of all this and set her
apart eventually in another sphere, among the elect — feeling this
through her further faculty to her comfort although unable as
yet to give it any sort of definite expression. As she read of those
who had gone before, she felt a strange kindred with them ; she
entered into their sorrows, understood their dilliculties, was up-
lifted by tlieir aspirations, and gloried in their successes. Their
greatness never disheartened her ; on the contrary, she was at homo
with them in all their experiences, and at her ease as she never
was with the petty i)eoi)le about her. It delighted her when sho
found in them some small trait or habit which she herself had
already developed or contracted, such as .she found in the early
part of George Sand's Hisfoire de ma vie and in the lives of the
Brontes. Under the influence of nourishing books her mind, sus-
tained and stimulated, became nervously active ; and it had a
trick of flashing off from the subject she was studying to some-
thing wholly irrelevant. Sho would begin Emerson's essay on
Fate or Beauty with enthusiasm, and ])resently, with her ej^es
still following the lines, her thoughts would be busy forming a
code of literary principles for herself. In those days lier mind
was continually under the influence of any , author she cared
about, particularly if his style were nuuinered. Involuntarily,
while she was reading Macaulay for instance, her own thoughts
took a dogmatic turn, and jerked along in short, sharp sentences.
She caught the peculiarities of De Quincey, too, of Carlyle, and also
some of the simple dignity of Ruskin, which was not so easy ; and
she had written things after the manner of each of these authors
before she perceived the effect they were having upon her. But it
was unfortunate for her that her attention had been turned from the
matter which she had to express to the maimer in which she should
express it. From the time she began to think of the style and die-
lU^MMCWiiS&lUatti
THE BETH BOOK.
403
in tlie charmed
w. II(>r mind,
Ireams, in the
came stoadily
ly stron^^T as
ut hor domes-
to her hapi)!-
s and neg-lect
le lirst year of
w her soul in
ng in lierself
is and set her
—feeling'- (his
yh unable as
read of tJiose
ill them ; sho
ties, was up-
esses. Tlieir
was at homo
as slic never
er wlien slio
herself }iad
in the early-
lives of the
V mind, sus-
d it had a
g" to some-
essay on
her ej'es
formin<2f a
her mind
she eared
luntarily,
tlioug-hts
sentences,
e, and also
easy ; and
ie autliors
r. But it
from the
le sliould
and dic-
ii
3
i
tion of prose as sometliing to be separately acquired, the sponta-
neous How of her thouj^'lits was checked and liampered, and sho ex-
j)ended herself in fashioninj^ her tools, as it were, instead of usiufj^
lier tools to fashion her work. When in her reading' she came
under the influence of academic minds, she lost all natural fresh-
ness and succeeded in being artificial. Iler English became tur-
gid with Latinities. She took phrases which had flowed from
her pen and were telling in their simple eloquence and toiled at
them, turning and twisting them until she had laboured all the
life out of them, and then, mistaking elfort for power and having
wearied herself, she was satisfied. Being too diffident to suspect
that she had any natural faculty, she conceived that the more
trouble she gave hei^self the better must be the result, and conse-
quently she did nothing worth the doing, excej)t as an exercise
of ingenuity. She was serving her apprenticeship, however —
making her mistakes.
It was late m the autumn before slie saw her goo<l friend Sir
George Galbraith again. He came on a bright, clear, frosty
morning and found her out in the garden, pacing up and down
briskly and looking greatly exhilarated by the freshness. When
she saw him coming toward her she uttered a little joyful excla-
mation and hurried forward to meet him.
"I have been longing to see you," she said, in her unaffected
way ; " but I know what the distance is and how fully your time
is occupied. It is very good of you to come at all."
"Only the time and distance have prevented me coming
sooner," he rejoined. " But, tell me, how have you been getting
on ? And have you thought any more of making a career for
yourself ? "
" I have thought of nothing else," Beth answered brightly ;
"and I wonder I ever thought of anything else, for the idea has
been in me, I believe, all my life. I must have discussed it. too, at
a very early age, for I have remembered lately that I was once ad-
vised by an old aunt of mine — the best and dearest friend I ever
had — to write only that which is or aims at being soul-sustain-
ing."
He nodded his liead approvingly. " From such seed a good
crop should come," he said. " But what line shall you take ? "
" I don't know."
" Not novels, then, for certain ? "
" Nothing for certain— whatever comes and calls for expres-
sion."
404
THE BETH IK)OK.
They were pacing up and down together, and there was a
pause.
"Did you expect I should try to write novels, and do you
think I ought ? " Betli asked at last.
" I think I did expect it," he answered ; " but as to wliether
you ought or ought not, tiiat is for you to decide. There is much
to be said against novel reading and writing. I think it was
De Quincey who said that novels are the opium of the West, and
I have myself observed that novel reading is one of those bad
habits that grow upon people until they are enslaved by it, de-
moralized by it; and if that is the case with the reader, what
must the writer suffer ? "
Beth bent her brows upon this. " But that is only one side of
it, is it not ? " she asked, after a moment's reflection. " I notice
in all things a curious duality- a right side and a wrong side.
Confusion is the wrong side of order, misery of happiness, false-
hood of truth, (ivil of good ; and it seems to me that novel read-
ing, which can be a vice, I know, may also be made a virtue. It
depends on the writer."
"And on the taste of the reader," he suggested. " But I believe
the taste of the intelligent 'general reader' is much better than
one supposes. The mind craves for nourishment, and the extraor-
dinary success of books in which any attempt, however imper-
fect, is made to provide food for thought, as distinguished from
those which merely offer matter to distract the attention, bears
witness, it seems to me, to the involuntary effort whi(;h is always
in progress to procure it. I believe myself that good fiction may
do more to improve the mind, enlarge the sympathies, and de-
velop the judgment than any other form of liter-iture, partly be-
cause it looks into the hidden springs of act: jn, and makes all
that is obscure in the way of impulse and motive clear to us.
Biography, for instance, merely skims the surface of life as a rule,
and in liistory, where man is a puppet moved by events, there
can be very little h\iman nature."
" I wonder if you read many novels," said Beth. " I have to
read them aloud to my husband imtil I am satiated. And I am
determined, if I ever do try to write one, to avoid all that is con-
ventional. I never will have a faultlessly beautiful heroine, for
instance. I am sick of that creature. When I come to her, espe-
cially if she has golden hair yards long, a faultless complexion,
and eyes of extraordinary dimensions, I feel inclined to groan
and shut the book. I have met her so often in the weary ways of
■Mar"
>i
THE BETH BOOK.
405
ifl there was a
% and do you
as to whothor
Tlwro is much
think it was
the W,>.st, and
of thoso bad
ved by it, do-
reador, wliat
y one side of
a. " I notice
wrong- side.
>I)inoss, false-
novel reud-
a virtue. It
But I believe
better than
the extraor-
ever inipcr-
ished from
tion, bears
1 is always
iction may
es, and de-
partly be-
makos all
«ir to us.
as a rule,
nts, tliere
I have to
^nd I am
t is con-
•oine, for
ler, espe-
iplexion,
•o groan
ways of
fiction. I know every variety of lier so well. She consists of
nothing but superlatives, aTid js us conventional as tin* torso of
an K{,^yptian statue, witli her everlastinj,' pliysical perfection. I
think her us repulsive us a barber's block. I confess that a woman
who has golden hair and niunuges to look like a lady, or to bo
like one even in a book, is a wonder, considering all that is asso-
ciuted with golden hair in our day ; but I should avoid the abnor-
mal us much as the convi-ntional. I would not write plotty-plotty
books eitlier, nor make a pivot of tlie everlasting love story, which
seems to me to show such a want of balance in an author, such an
absence of any true sense of proportion, as if there was nothing
else of interest in life but t)ur .sexual relations. But, oh," she
broke oil, "how I do appreciate what the dilliculty of selection
must be ! In writing a life, if one could present all sides of it,
and not merely one phase — the good and the bad of it, the joys
and the sorrows, the moments of strength and of weakne.s.s, of
wisdom and of folly, of misery and of pure delight. What a
picture ! "
" Yes, and how utterly beyond the average readers, who never
understand complexity," he answered. "But I think it a good
sign for your chances of success that you .sliould have complained
of the difliculty of selection in the matter of material rather than
bemoan your want of ex])erience of lif(>. Most young aspirants
to literary fame grumble that they are handicapped for want of
experience. They are seldom content with the material they have
at haiul — the life they know. They want to go and live in Lon-
don, where they seem to think that every one worth knowing is
to be found.''
"That isn't my feeling at all," said Beth. "The best people
may be met in London, but I don't believe that they are at their
best. The fricticm of the crowd rubs out their individuality. In
a crowd I feel mentally' as if I were in a maze of telegraph wires.
The thoughts of so many people streaming out in all directions
about me seem to entangle and bewilder me."
" You do not seem to like anything exceptional."
"No, I do not," said Beth. "I like the normal — the everyday.
Great events are not the most significant, nor are great people the
most typical. It is the little things that make life livable. The
person who comes and talks clever is not the person we love, nor
the person who interests us most. Those we love sympathize with
us in the ordinary everyday incidents of our lives, and discuss
them with us, mierely touching, if at all, on the thoughts they en-
I',
|i !
Ii
400
TIIK I JET 1 1 BOOK.
gondor. T don't wnnl to know wlmt people tliink as a rulo ; I
want to know wliat they have experienced. Pe(»pl(> who talk
fa<'ts I like; p<»oplo who talk the<»ries I lly from. And 1 think,
upon the whole, that I shall always like the kind people better
than tho clever ones. I beliovo we owe more to them too, and
learn more from them — more human nature, which, after all, is
what we want to know."
" Hut tho clever people are kind also sometimes," said Sir
Georj,n\
" When they are of course it is perfect," Beth answered. " But
judf^itif,' the clever ones of to-day by what they write, I can not
often think tlu'in so. The works of our smartest modern writers,
particularly tlu' French, satiate me with their cleverness; but
they are vain, hollow, cynical, dyspeptic; they appeal to tho
head, l)ut the heai't goes empty away. Few of them know or
show the one thing needful— that happiness is the end of life,
and that by trying to live rightly we help each oth(T to happi-
ness. That is the one thing well worth understanding in this
world ; but that, with all their ingenuity, they are not intelligent
enough to see."
"You are an optimist, I perceive," Sir George said, smiling;
"and I entirely agree with you. So long as we understand that
hajjpiiu^ss is the end of life, and that the best way to secure it for
ourselves is by helping others to attain it, wo are travelling in
the right dii'ection. By happiness I do not mean excitement, of
course, nor the pleasure we owe to others altogether ; but that
quiet content in ourselves, that large toleration and love which
should overflow fi-om us contimuilly, and make (he fact of our
existence a source of joy and strength to all who know us."
They walked up and down a little in silence, then Sir George
asked her what she thought of some of the specimens of style and
art in literature he had IcMit her to study.
"I don't know yet." Beth said. "My mind is in a state of
chaos on the subject. I seem to reject 'style 'and 'art.' I ask
for something more or something else, and am never satisfied.
But tell me what you think of the stylists."
"I think them brilliant," lie rejoined; "but their work is as
tlie photograph is to the painting, the lifeless accuracy of the ma-
chine to the nervous, fascinating faultiness of the human hand.
No, I don't care for the writers who are specially praised for their
style. I find their productions cold and bald as a rule. I want
something warmer — more full-blooded. Most of the stylists write
TiiK HK/nr nooK.
407
fiK's," said Sil-
as if tlioy bogan by nrquiriiiff a stylo, and then luul It) sit and wait
for a sub ject. I boliovr styb' is tbr cnmiy of niatlrr. Vtm < oin-
pross all tho blood out of your subjcy-t wbcn you nuikc it confuiin
to tt studied stylo, instoad of lotlin;,' your stylo form itsolf out of
tlio nocossity for oxprossion. This is rank liorosy, 1 know, and I
hliould not havo vonturod on it a fow yoars ago; but now I say
give nio a stylo that is the luitural (»ut('onu' of your subj«»ot, your
mind, your charactor — not an artificial but a natural pi-oduot—
and oven though it bo as full of faults as human natui-o is, faults
of every kind, so long as there is no fault (tf thi^ iioart in il -
that being the one unpardonable fault in an author if you havo
put your own individuality into your work, I'll answer for it that
you will arrive sooner and be read longer than the most admirod
titylistof the day. Be prepared to .sacriliee form to aeeuraey, to
avoid tli(> brilliant and the marvellous for the simple^ and direct.
What matters it how the oiroct is g(»t so tliat it comos honestly ?
But of course it will be said that this, that, and the other person
did not get their etFects so ; they will compare you to the greatest
to Immiliato you."
" Oh, that would be nothing to me so that T i)r()duced my own
effects," Both broke in. " That is just when^ 1 am at present. I
mean to bo myself. But please do not think that I have too
nuu'h assurance. If I go wrong, I hope I .shall find it out in
time; and I shall certainly be the first to acknowledge it. I do
not want to prove myself right; I want to arrive at the truth."
" Then you will arrive," ho assured her. " But above overy-
thing. mind that you are not misled by the cant of art if you have
anything .special to say. If a writer would be of use in his day,
and not merely an amuser of the multitude, he mu.st learn that
right thinking, I'ight feeling, and knowledge are more important
than art. When you addro.ss the blockhead majority you must
not only give them your text, you must toll thoni also what to think
of it, otherwise there will bo tine misintorprolation. You may bo
sure of the heart of the multitude if vou can touch it; but its
head, in the present state of its dc^velopment, is an imi)orfoct ma-
chine, manoeuvred for the most part by foolishness. Peoi)le can
see life for themselves, but they can not always .soo the moaning
of it, the why and wherefore, whence things come and whither
they are tending, so that the lessons of life are lost — or would be
but for the efforts of the modern novelist."
Beth reflected a little, then she said ; " I am glad you think me
an optimist. It seems to me that healthy human nature revolts
408
THE BETH BOOK.
i I
from pessimism. The work that lasts is the work that choors.
Give us something with liop(i in it — sonictliing tliut appeals
to the best part of us — somethiji^ wliich, while we read, i)uts
us ai touch with fine ideals, and makes us feel better than we
arp."
" That is it precisely," said he. " The school of art-and style
books weary us because there is no aspiration in it, nothing- but a
deadly dull artistic presentment of hopeless levels of life. If is
all cold polish, as I said before, with never a word to wjrrm the
heart or stir the better nature."
" That is what I have felt," said Beth ; " and I would rather
have written a simple story, full of the faults of my youth and
ignorance, but with some one passage in it that would put heart
and hope into some one person, than all that brilliant barren stuff.
And I'm going to write for women — not for men. I don't care
about amusing men. Let them see to their own amuseuients ;
they think of nothing else. Men entertain each other with intel-
lectual ingenuities and art and style, while women are busy with
the great problems of life, and are striving might and main to
make it beautiful."
" Now that is young, in the opprobrious sense of the wonl,"
said Sir George. " It is only when we are extremely young that
we indulge in such sweeping generalizations."
Beth blushed. " I am always afraid my judgment will be
warped by my own narrow personal experience. I must guard
against that I " she exclaimed, conscious that she had had her
husband in her mind when she spoke.
Sir George nodded his head approvingly, and looked at his
watch. " I must go," he said, "but I hope there will not be such
a long interval before I come again. My wife is sorry that she
has not been able to call. She is not equal to such a long drive.
But she desired me to exi^lain and apologize ; and she has sent
you some flowers and fruit, which she begs you will accept.
Have you some of your work ready for me this time ? I have
asked my friend Ideala to give you her opinion, which is really
worth having, and she says she will with pleasure. You must
know her. I am sure you would like her extremely."
" But would she like me ? " slipped fro«i Beth unawares.
" Now, that is young again," he said, with his kindly smile —
indulgent.
" It is the outcome of sad experience," Beth rejoined with a
sigh. " No woman I have met here so fai* has shown any incli-
THE HETII HOOK.
409
,t choors.
, appeals
pad, puts
than we
and style
ing b'.it a
fe. It is
,v;)rni tlie
Id rather
t)uth and
lut heart
Ten stutT.
on't care
seinents ;
ith intel-
lusy with
main to
pe word,"
ung that
will be
st guard
had her
d at his
be such
that she
g drive,
las sent
accept.
I have
s really
u must
ts.
I smile —
with a
[y iucli-
nation to cultivate my acquainUuico. I t^'ink I must be blamed
for some unknown crinu\''
Sir George became thoughtful, but said nothing.
As they appi'oaclied the liouse IJeth saw Dan peeping at them
from behind the curtain of an upstaii-s window. The hall t;il)le
was covered with the; fruit and flowers Sir Georire had brou"-ht.
Beth sent a s(>rvant for Dan. The girl came back and said that
the doctor was not in.
" Nonsense," said Beth. " I saw him at one of the windows
just now. *' If you will excuse me, Sir George. I will find him
my.self."
She called to him as she ran upstairs, and Dan made his ap-
pearance, looking none too well plea.sed.
lie went down to Sir George, and Beth ran on up to her secret
chamber for her manuscripts and the books Sir George had lent
her, which had been waiting ready packed for many a day.
When he had gone, Beth danced round the dining-room, clap-
ping her hands.
" I can't contain myself,'' she exclaimed. " I do feel encour-
aged, strengthened, uplifted."
She caught a glimpse of Dan's face, and stopped short.
" What's the matter ;' " she said.
'' Tlie matter is that I'll have no more of this," he answered in
a brutal tone.
" No more of what ? " Beth demanded.
" No more of this man's philandering after you," he retorted.
" I don't understand you," Beth gasped.
" Oh, you're mighty innocent I " he sneered. " You'll be telling
me next that he comes to see vie, lends vie books, walks u^) and
down by the hour together with me. brings me fruit and flowers !
You think I'm blind, I suppose I YoiCreix nice person I and .so
particular, too I and so fastidious in your conversation I Oh, trust
a prude I But, I tell you," he bawled, coming up close to her and
shaking his list in her face, " I tell you I won't have it. Now, do
you understand that i "
Beth did not wince, but, oh, wluit a dro]) it was fnmi the
heights she had just left to this low level I " Be good enough to
explain your meaning precisely," she said quietly. "I under-
stand that you are bringing some accusation against me. It is no
use blustering and shaking y»>ur list in my face. I am not to be
frightened. Just explain yourself ; and I advise you to weigh
27
I
a!
U ;
410
THE BETH BOOK.
your words, for you shall answer to me in public for any insult
you may offer me in private."
Dr. ]SIaclure was sobered by this unexpected flash of spirit.
They had been married nearly tliree years by tliis time and Betli's
habitual docility had deceived liim. Hitherto men liave been
able to insult their wives in private with impunity wlien so
minded, and Dan was staggered for a moment to find himself
face to face with a mere giil who boldly refused to suffer the
indignity. He was not prepared for such a display of self-re-
spect.
" You're very high and mighty ! " he jeered at last.
"I am very determined," Beth rejoined, and set her lips.
He tried to subdue her by staring her out of countenance, but
Beth scornfully returned his gaze. Then suddenly she stamped
her foot and brought her clenched fist down on the dining-room
table, beside which she was standing. " Come, come, sir," she
said, " we've had enough of this theatrical posing. You are wast-
ing my time ; explain yourself."
He took a turn up and down the room.
" Look here, Beth," he began, lowering liis tone, " you can not
pretend that Galbraith comes to see me."
" Why should I ? " she asked.
" Well, it isn't right that he should come to see you, and I
won't have it," he reiterated.
" Do you mean that I am not to have any friends of my own ? "
she demanded.
"He is not to be one of your friends," Dan answered dog-
gedly.
" And what explanation am I to give him, jjlcase ? " she asked
politely.
" I won't have you giving him any explanation."
" My dear Dan," she rejoined, " when you speak in that way
you show an utter want of knowledge of my character. If I will
not allow you to insult me, and bully me, and bluster at me, it is
not likely that I will allow you to insult my friends. If Sir
George Galbraith's visits are to stop I shall tell him the reason
exactly. He at least is a gentleman."
" That is as much as to say that I am not," Dan blustered.
" You certainly are not behaving like one now," Beth coolly
rejoined. " But, there ! You have my ultimatum. I am not
going to waste any more time in vulgar scenes with you."
" Ultimatum, indeed 1 " he jeered. " Well, you are, you know 1
THE BETH BOOK.
411
■ insult
spirit.
[ Beth's
e been
lien so
liinisclf
ftVr the
self-re-
nce, but
itaniped
ig-rooni
dr," she
,re wast-
can not
aiul I
own ?
ed dog-
Be asked
lilt way
[f I will
ne, it is
If Sir
reason
id.
coolly
ini not
. know I
You'll write and explain to him, will you, that your husband's
j(^alous of him ! That shows the terms you are on ! "
" It is jealousy, then, is it ? " said Beth. "Thank you. Now I
understand you."
Dan's evil mood took another turn. His an^er chanjred to
self-pity. " Oh, dear ! oli, dear ! what am I to do with you ? " he
exclaimed. " And after all I've done for you — to treat me like
this." He took out liis pocket liandkerchief and wiped away tlie
tears whicli any mention of his own goodness and the treatment
he received from others always brouglit to his eyes.
Betlv watched him contemptuously, yet her heart smote her.
He was a poor ci'eature, but for that very reason and because she
was strong siu-ely she should be gentle with him.
"Look here, Dan," she said; "I have never knowingly done
you any wrong in thouglit or w'ord or deed. All you have .said
to me to-day lias been ridiculously wrong-headed; but nevcT
mind. Stop crying, do, and don't let us have any more idiotic
jealousy. Wliy, it was Lady Galbraith who sent me the flowers
and fruit witli a kind message of apology because she has not
been able to call. Why should not she be jealous ? "
"Oh, she's a fool,'' Dan rejoined, recovering himself. "She
leads him the life of a dog with her fears and fancies, and she
Avon't take any part in his philanthropic work, though he wishes
she would above everything. She's a pretty pill ! "
The servant came in at this moment to lay the table for lunch,
and Dan went to the looking-glass with the inconsequence of a
child and forgot his grievance in the contem])lation of his own
beloved image and in abusing Lady Galbraith. Abusing some-
body was mental relaxation of the most agreeable kind to him.
Feeling that he had gone too far, he was gracious to Beth din-ing
lunch, and just before he went out he kissed her and said : " We
won't mention that fellow again, Beth. I don't believe you'd do
anything dishonourable."
" I should think not ! " said Beth.
When he had gone she returned to her secret chamber, the one
little corner sacred to herself, to lier purest, noblest thoughts, her
highest aspirations ; and as she looked round it seemed as if ages
had passed since she last entered it, full of happiness and hope.
It was as if she had been innocent then and was now corrupted.
Her self-control did not give way, but she could do nothing, aiid
just sat there, wan with horror; and as she sat every now and
then she shivered from head to foot. She had known, of course
ii
ii
a
412
THE BETH BOOK.
i I
in a general way, that such tilings did happen, that married
wonion did give their husbands cause for jealousy ; but to her
mind tliey were a kind of married women who lived in anotlier
sphere wliere she was not likely to encounter them. She had
never expected to be brought near such an enormity, let alone to
have it brought home to herself in a horrible accusation, and tlio
effect of it was a shock to her nervous system — one of those stun-
ning blows which are scarcely felt at first but are agonizing in
their after-effects. When the reaction set in, Beth's disgust was
so great it took a physical form and ended by making her vio-
lently sick. It was days before she quite recovered, and in one
sense of the word she was never the same again.
CHAPTER XLI.
Dan said no more about Sir George Galbraith, and indeed he
had no excuse, for Sir George did not come again. There were
other men, however, who came to the house, Dan's own friends,
and now that Beth's eyes were opened she perceived that ho
watched them all suspiciously if they paid her any attention ;
and if she showed the slightest i)leasure in the conversation ol
any of them he would be sure to make some sneering remark
about it afterward. Dan was so radically vicious that the notion
of any one being virtuous except under compulsion was incom-
prehensible to him.
"Your spirits seem to go up when Mr. Yanrickards is here,"'
lie observed one day.
" Thank you for warning me," Beth answered, descending to
his level in spite of herself ; " I will be properly depressed tlio
next time he comes."
But although she could keep him in clieck so that he dan^l
not say all that he had in his mind, she under.stood him ; and the
worst of it was that his coarse and brutal jealousy accustomed
her to the suspicion, and made her contemplate the possibility of
such a lapse as hj had in his mind. She began to believe that he
would not have tormented himself so if husbands did not ordi-
narily have good reason to be jealous of their wives. She con-
cluded that such treachery of man to man as he dreaded must bo
normal. And then also .she realized that it was thought possible
for a married woman to fall in love, and even wondered at lust if
J
THE BETH BOOK.
413
narriod
to her
moth or
ilie hud
lone to
md the
>e stuii-
'/AUg ill
list was
her vio-
in one
ideed ho
ere were
friends,
I that he
tcntion ;
ation of
remark
notion
incoin-
is here,''
dinn: to
ssed the
le darcnl
and the
stoined
ility of
that he
ot ordi-
)he con-
must bo
^)ossib]e
it lust if
!
that would ever be her own case. Dan had. in fact, destroyed
his own best safeguard. If a man would keep liis wife from
evil, he should not teach her to suspect herself — neither should
he familiarize her with ideas of vice. Since their marriage
Dan's whole conversation and the depravity of his tastes
and habits had tended toward the brutalization of Beth. Mar-
ried life for her was one long initiation into the ways of tlie
vicious.
Dr. Maclure's sordid jealousy made him the laughing sto«'k of
the place, though he never suspected it. His conceit was too
great to let him suppose that any sentiment of his could j)rovoke
ridicule. It became matter for comn.on go.ssip, however, and
from that time forward gentlemen ceased to visit the hous<'. Men
of a certain kind came still — men who were bound to Dan by kin-
dred tastes, but not such as he cared to introduce to Betli. These
boon companions generally came in the evening, and were enter-
tained in the dining-room, where they spent tlie night together,
smoking, drinking, and talking after the manner of their kind.
Beth could not use her secret chamber after dark, for fear of the
light being seen, so she staid in the drawing-room alone till she
went to bed. She found those evenings interminable, and the
nights more trying still. She could not read or write, b(M'ans(> of
the noise in the dining-room, and had to fall back on her sewing
for occupation ; but sewing left her mind open to any obsession,
and only too often, with the gross laughter from the next room,
scraps of the topics her husband delighted in came to her recol-
lection. When Dan discoursed about such things he was at the
high-water mark of pleasure, his countenance glowed, and enjoy-
ment of the subject was expressed in all his pei*son. Beth's better
nature revolted, but, alas I she had become so familiar witli such
subjects by this time that although she loathed tlu-m she could
not banish them. Life from her husband's ])oint of view was a
torment to her, yet under tli(> pressure of liis immediate iiilhicrice
it was forced upon her attention more and more — from bis point
of view.
When she went to bed on his festive nights she sulfered from
the dread of being disturbed. If her husband were called out at
night professionally, it was a pleasure to her to lie awake so that
she might be ready to rise the moment he returned and get him
anything he wanted. On those occasions she always liad a tray
ready for him, with soup to be heated or cotfee to be made over a
\\ f
414
THE BETH BOOK.
I!
spirit lamp, and any little dainty she thought would refresh him.
She was fully in sympathy with him in his work, and would have
spared herself no fatigue to make it easier for him ; but she de-
spised him for his vices, and refused to sacrifice lierself in order to
make them pleasantcr for him. When he staid up smoking and
drinking half the night she resented the loss of sleep entailed
upon her, which meant less energy for her own work the next
d ""y. The dread of being disturbed made her restless, and the
j( ./ility of it under the circumstances exasperated her. She suf-
fered, too, more than can be mentioned, from the smell of alcohol
and tobacco, of whicli he reeked, and from which he took no
trouble to purify himself. Often and often when she had tossed
hersc]'" into a fever on these dreadful nights she cried for long
ao.Aic, ^' itli infinite yearning, to be safe from disturbance, in pu-
rity u -^ .' ce ; and thought how happily, how serenely, she would
ha,e slept an il the morning, and how strong and fresh she would
ha'? risen . <n other day's work had she been left alone. Only
one.;, i;( "eve'-. ' slie complain. Dan was going out in a par-
ticularly cheartui i^^/a that night.
" Shall you be late ? " she asked.
" Yes, probably ; why ? "
" Only I thought, if you wouldn't mind, I would have a bed
made up for you in the spare room. I only sleep in snatches
when you are out and I am expecting you. Every sound rouses
me. I think it is the door opening. And then when you do
come, it disturbs me, and I do not sleep again. If you don't
mind, I should prefer to be alone on your late nights— your late
festive nights."
Dr. Maclure stood looking gloomily into the fireplace.
" Have I annoyed you, Dan ? " Beth asked at last.
He walked to the door, stood a moment with his back to her,
then turned and looked at her. " Annoyed is not the word," he
said. " You have wounded me deeply."
He opened the door as he spoke, and went out. When he had
gone, Beth sat and suffered. She could not bear to hurt him ; she
was not yet sufficiently brutalized for that ; so she said no more
on the subject, but patiently endured the long, lonely night
watches, and the after-companionship, which had in it all that is
most trying and offensive to a refined and delicate woman.
After that first display of jealousy Beth discovered that her
husband pried upon lier continually. He was very high and
THE BETH BOOK.
41i
le had
in ; she
more
night
that is
: her
and
mighty on the suhjoot of women spying upon men ; but tlioro
seemed no meanness lie would not compass in order to spy upon a
woman. He had duplicate keys to her drawers and boxes, and
rummaged through all her ])ossessions when she went out. One
day she came upon him, standing before her wardrobe, feeling in
the pockets of her dresses ; and on another occasion she discov-
ered him unawares in her bedroom, picking little scraps of i)aper
out of the slop pail and piecing them together to see what she
had been writing. To Beth, accustomed to the simple honourable
principles of her parents, and to the confidence witli which her
mother had left her letters lying about, because she knew that not
one of her children would dream of looking at them, Dan's turpi-
tude was revolting. On those occasions, when she caught him,
he did not hear her enter the room, and she made her escape
without disturbing him and stole up to her secret chamber and
sat there, suffering from one of those attacks of nausea and shiv-
ering w^hich came upon her in moments of dee]) disgust.
After that she had an attack of illness which kept her in bed
for a week ; but even then, feverish and suffering as she was, and
yearning for the coolness and liberty of a room to her.self, she
dared not suggest such a thing for fear of a scene.
While she was still in bed Dan brought her .some letters one
morning. He made no remark when he gave them to her, but he
had opened them as usual, and stood watching her curiously while
she read them. The first she looked at was from her sister Berna-
dine, and had a black border round it ; but she took it out of its
envelope unsuspiciously, and read the words that were uppermost :
" Mamma died this morning.'" In a moment it flashed upon her
that Dan had read the letter, and was waiting now to .see the effect
of the shock upon her. She immediately, but involuntarily, set
herself to baffle his cruel curiositj'. With a calm, illegible face,
she read the letter from beginning to end, folded it. and put it
back in its envelope deliberately ; then took up another, which
liad also been opened.
But feeling suppressed finds vent in some form or other, and
Beth showed temper now instead of showing grief. " I wish you
would not open my letters," .she said irritably. "All the freshness
of them is gone for me when you open them without my permis-
sion and read them first. Besides, it is an insult to my corre-
spondents. What they .say to me is intended for me, and not
for you."
" I have a perfect right to open your letters," he retorted.
41G
THE BETH BOOK.
i I
" I should liko to see tlio scriptuni tluit fjivos you tlio rifjlit, aiul
I should adviso you to waive it if you do not wish uiv. to assume
the riglit to open yours. Your potty pryin;,'- keeps mo in a con-
tinual state of irritation. I shall he lowon^d to retaliate sooner or
later. So stop it, please, once and for all."
" My petty pryin*,^, indeed !" he exclaimed. "Well, that is a
nice thing to say to your hushand ! Why, even when I do oi)en
your letters, which is not often, I never read them without your
permi.ssion."
" Indeed ! " said Beth, who had ceased to he stunned by false-
hoods. " Then bo good enough not even to op<'n them in future.'"
Dan tried to express injury and indignation in a long hard
look ; but Beth was reading another letter, and took no further
notice of him.
He hung about a little, watching her.
" Any news ? " he ventured at last, with an imperfect assump-
tion of indifference.
" You know quite well what my news is," she answered blunt-
ly ; " and I am not going to discuss it with you. I wish you would
leave me alone."
" Well, you're a nice pill ! " said Dan, discomfited.
Beth looked up at him. " What are j'ou doing with your hat
on in my bedroom ?" she asked sharply. "I thought I had mado
you understand that you must treat me with respect, even if I am
your wife."
Dan uttered a coarse oath, and left the room, banging the door
after him.
" Thank Heaven — at last ! " Beth ejaculated. She had been too
anxious to get rid of him to scrui)le about the means ; but when
lie had gone a reaction set in, and she lay back on her pillows,
flu.shed, excited, furious with him, disgusted with herself. She
felt she was falling away from all her ideals. " As the husband is
the wife is " ; the words flashed through her miiul, but she would
not believe it inevitable. But if she should degenerate, her own
nature was too large, too strong, too generous to cast the blame on
any one but herself. " No ! " she exclaimed. " We are what we al-
low ourselves to be."
Swift following upon that thought came the recollection of a
bad fall she had had when she was a little child in Ireland, and
the way her mother had picked her up, and cuddled her, and cor.i-
forted her. Beth burst into a paroxysm of tears. She had undtT-
stood her mother better than her mother had understood her, had
1
i
THE BKTII BOOK.
417
door
;n too
when
Hows,
Rlio
luuT is
^'()uld
own
t\c on
ive al-
of a
I, and
Icor.i-
ndcr-
1, had
\
folt for hor privations, had admirod and iiuitatod hor paiiont vn-
duranee ; and now to think that it was too hite, to think tliat sho
had {?one, and it wouhl ncvor bo iti Ri'tli's power to l)ri{,'liten lier
life or lessen the hardsliip of it! That was all slie thoufjht of.
Every week since her inarria{]fe she had sent her mother a long,
cheerful, aniusinfc letter, full of pleasant details, an exercise in
that form of composition ; but with never a hint of her troubles ;
and Mrs. Caldwell died under the happy delusion that it wji.s well
with Beth. Slie never suspected tliat she had married Beth to a
low-born man — not low-born in the .sense of beinj^ a tradesman's
S(m, for a tradesman's son may b(> an honest and uprif^ht gentle-
man, just as a peer's son may be a cheat and a snob ; but low-born
in that he came of parents who were capable of fraud and deceit
in social relations, and had taught him no scheme of life in which
honour played a conspicuous j)art. Beth had done her best for
her mother, but tluu-e was no one now to remind her of this for
her comfort, poor mis(M'able little girl I Her courageous toil had
gone for nothing — her mother would never even know of it ; and
it seemed to her in that moment of deep disheartenment as if
everything she tried was to be equally ineffectual.
Hours later, Minna, the housemaid, came and found Beth sit-
ting up in bed, sobbing hopelessly, and got her tea, and staid
with her, making her put some restraint upon herself by the mere
fact of her presence ; and presently Beth, in her hunum way, began
to talk about her mother to the girl, whi(!h relieved her. Mrs.
Caldwell had only been ill a few days, and not seriously, as it was
suppos(>d ; the oud had come (piite suddenly, so that Bt>th had
never been warned.
Dan did not come in till next morning, which was a great re-
lief to her. She meant to .speak about the news to him when ho
appeared, but somehow the moment she saw him her heart hard-
ened, and .she could not bring herself to utter a word on the sub-
ject. The position was awkward for him ; but he got out of it
adroitly by pretending he had seen an announcement of the death
in the paper.
"I su])pose I ought to go to the funeral," he said. "There is
doubtless a will."
" Doubtless," said Beth ; " but you will not benefit by it if that
is what you are thinking of. Mamma considered that I was pro-
vided for, and therefore she left the little she had to Bernadine.
She told me herself, because she wanted me to understand her
reason for making such a dilference between us ; and I think she
I
* I
; I
418
THE HETll IJUOK.
was quite right. Slio may have k-ft iiie two or throe liundrod
pounds, but it will not \n\ inorc tluiii that."
" But even tliat will bo soinctliiny toward the bills," said Dan,
his countenance, which had drojjpcd considerably, clearinj^^ aj^^iiin.
Beth looked at him with a set countenance, but said no more.
She liad begun to observe that the bills only became pressing when
her allowance was due.
CHAPTER XLII.
Some one in Slane gave Sir George Galbraith a hint of Dan's
coarse jealousy, and he had judged it better for Beth that ho
should not call again ; but his interest in lier and bis desire to
lielp her increased if anything. He had read her manuscripts
carefully himself, and obtained Idealas opinion of them also;
but Beth had not done her best by any means in those she had
given him. She had written them for the purpose for one thing,
which was fatal, for her style had stiffened with anxiety to do
her best, and ber ideas, instead of ilowing .spontaneously, had
been forced and formal, as her manner was when she was shy. It
is one thing to have a fine theory of art and high principles (and an
excellent thing, too) ; but it is quite another to put them into effect,
especially when you are in a hurrj' to arrive. Hurry misplaced
is hindrance. If Beth had given Sir George some one of the little
things which she had written in sheer exuberance of thought and
feeling, without hampering hopes of doing anything with them,
he would have been very differently impressed ; but, even as it
was, what she had given him was as full of promise as it was full
of faults, and he was convinced that he had not been mistaken in
her, especially when he found that Ideala thought even better of
her prospects than he did. Ideala, who was an impulsive and gen-
erous woman, wrote warmly on the subject, and Sir George sent
her letters to Beth with a few lines of kindly expressed encourage-
ment from himself. He returned her manuscripts ; and when
Beth saw them again she was greatly dissatisfied. The faults lier
friends had pointed out to her she plainly perceived, and more
also ; but she could not see the merits. She was too diffident to
be puflPed up by praise ; it only made her the more fastidious
about her work ; but in that way it helped her.
Sir George's kindness did not stop at criticism, however. He
was cut off from her himself, and could expect no help from his
hundred
iaid Dan,
i<^ a^ain.
no nioi'o.
ug wheu
THE BETH BOOK.
419
of Dan's
that ho
desire to
juseripts
'in also ;
1 she had
;ie tliin<f,
'ty to (h>
sly, had
shy. It
(and an
to eiTcct,
isplaced
he little
g-ht and
them,
Ml as it
vas full
liken in
^tter of
id gen-
sent
)urage-
wlien
llts her
more
lent to
tidious
He
^m his
■ ;
■wife, whose nervous system had sufrered so inueh from the shock
of unhappy eireunistanees in her youth thai slie could not now
bear even to hear of, let alone to be hroug'iit in contact with, any
form of sorrow or suH'erinj?; hut there were other ladies - Mrs,
Kilro}' of llverthorpe, for instance. Sir (Jeorge had known her
all his life, and went specially to ask her jus a favour t«) counte-
nance Beth.
"I want you to be kind to Mrs. Maclure, Angelica," he said.
"She's far too good for that plausible bounder of a barber's
block she's married "
" Then why did she marr^ him ? ' Angelica interrupted in iier
vivacious way.
"Pitchforked into it at the suggestion of her friends in her
infancy, I should .say, rea.soning by induction," he answered.
"That's generally the explanation in these cases. But, at any
rate, she's not going to be happy with him. And she's a charm-
ing little creature, very sweet and docile naturally, and with un-
usual ability, or I'm much mi.staken — and plenty of spirit, too,
when she's roused, 1 should anticipate. But at present, in her
childish ignorance, she's yielding where she should resist, and
she'll be brutalized if no on<' comes to the rescu(\ I don't trust
that man Maclure. A m.in who speaks flii)paiitly of things that
should be respected is not a man who will be scrui)u]ous when his
own interests are concerned ; and such a man has it in his power
to make the life of a girl a hell upon earth in ways which she
will not complain of if she has no knowledge to use in self-defence,
and girls seldom have "
"As I have learned, alas, from bitter experience in my work
among the victims of holy matrimony!" Angelica interjiosed
bitterly. "Oh, how sickening it all is! Sometimes I envy
Evadne in that she is able to refuse to know."
Sir George was silent for a little ; then he said ; " This is likely
to be a more than usually jiathetic case, because of tlie girl's un-
usual character and promise ; and also because her brain is too
delicately poised to stand the kind of .shocks and jars that threaten
her. You will take pity on her, Angelica ?"
Mrs. Kilroy shrugged her shoulders. "How can I counte-
nance a woman who acquiesces in such a position as her husband
holds, and actually lives on his degrading work?"
" I don't believe she knows anything about it," he rejoined.
" If I were sure of that " said Angelica, meditating.
" It is easy enough to make sure," he suggested.
420
TTIE nETII BOOK.
Mrs. Cnrno, wifo of Mk^ Icadiii}^ incdical inan in Slaiu'. con-
coivcd it to be her duty to patnuiizd Bt'th to tlu; extent of an
occasional formal call, as slu^ w.is the \vif«> of a junior practitioner ;
and Hetli duly returned these calls, because she was determined
not to make enemies for l)an by showin;,' any resentment for the
slii^hts slie liad sullered in Slane.
Feelinjif (h'pressed indoors one dreary aft(>rnoon, si . t ofV
alone, as usual, to pay one of thes«! visits. She rather hoped per-
haps to lind some sort of satisfaction by way of reward for the
brav(^ discliar<i;e of an nncon^'"enial duty.
On the way into town Dan ])assed h<'r in his dopfcart with a
casual nod, b<'spatt«'rin<,'' lier with mud. "You'll have your car-
ria<,''G soon, i)lease God ! and n«>ver hav(> to walk. I hate to .soo a
delicate woman on foot in the mud." Beth rom(>mb(>red the
words so w<'ll, and Dan's ])ious intonation as ho uttered them,
and she laujL^hed. She had a special litth^ lauji^h foi- exhibitions
of this kind of diver^^ence between Dan's i)recepts and his j)rac-
tices. But oven as she laughed her face contracted with a sudden
.spasm of pain, and she ejaculated : " But I shall succeed ! "
Mi's. Carne was at home, and Beth was .shown into tl -aw-
ing'-room, where she found several other lady visitors—. . jvil-
roy, Mrs. Orton Beg, Lady Fulda Guthrie, and Ideala. The two
last she had not met before.
"Where will you sit ? " said Mrs. Carne, who was an eiTusive
little person. " What a day ! You were brave to come out,
though perhaps it will do you good. My husband says, Go out in
all weathers and battle with the breeze ; there's nothing like
exercise."
" Battling with the breeze and an umbrella on a wet day is not
exercise ; it is exasperation," Beth answered, and at the sound of
her peculiarly low, clear, cultivated voice, the conversation stopped
suddenly, and every one in the room looked at her. She s(HMued
Tinaware of the attention. In fact, she ignored every one present
except the hostess. This was her habitual manner now, assumed
to save herself from slights. When she entered, Mrs. Kilroy had
half risen from her seat and endeavoured to attract her atten-
tion ; but Beth passed her by, deliberately chose a seat, and sat
down. Her demeanour, so apparently cold and self-contained, was
calculated to command respect ; but it cost Beth a great deal to
maintain it. She felt she was alone in an unfriendly atmosphere,
a poor little thing, shabbily dressed in homemade mourning, and
despised for she knew not what offence ; and she suffered horribly.
TIIR HHTIl BOOK'.
421
aiic. con-
iit of IIM
I'titioncr ;
't<M'mine(l
lit for Mk'
. t otr
oped pcr-
ril for the
irt with a
y<»ui' I'ur-
Ic to soc a
jcrcd tlio
W(l thotn,
icliihition.s
liis i)ra('-
i a siuklcn
I!"
tl "a\v-
|-,.- jvil-
The two
1 ofFusive
.'onie out,
Gro out in
ling like
lay is not
Isouiul of
[i stop]M'd
|o .s(HMncd
present
I assumed
llroy liad
?r atten-
and sat
|ned, was
deal to
lospliere,
|ng, and
horribly.
She liad prown vei-y fra^'lh' by this tiiiie. and looked almost child-
ishly yoiiuj,'. Her eyes were utiiiatiirally large and wistful, licr
mouth droop«>(l at the corners, and the whole expression of jut
face was pathetic. Mrs. Kilroy h)()k«'d at her seriously, and
tliought to licrscif, " That '/w] is suflVrijig."
Mrs, Carue oH'crcd IJclli tea. but she refused it, Shec(»uld not
accept such inhuman hospitality. She had come to do her duty,
not to forc(> a welcome. She glanced at tlie ci«)ck. Five minutes
more and slu! might go. The conversation buzzed on about her.
She was sitting next to a strange lady, a sei-eiie and dignilied
woman, dressed in black velvet and sable, lieth glanced at her
the first time with indilVerence, but looked again with interest.
Mrs. C^irne bustled up and spoke to the lady in her eH'usive way.
" You are better, I hope," she .said, ay she handed her sonic
tea. "It reall} is mccvt to see you looking so niKch yourself
again."
" Oh, yes, I am quite well aga'ii now, thanks to your good
hus])and," the lady answered. " lUit ho has giv<Mi m(> so many
tonics and things lately I always .seem to be shaking bottles. I
am quite .set in that attitude. Everything I touch I shake. I
found myself shaking my watch instead of winding it up the
other day.''
" All, then, you are quite yourself again, I see," Mrs. Carne
said archly. " But wliy didn't you come to the Wilmingtons'
last night ? "
" Oh, you know I never go to those functions if I can help it,"
the lady answenMl, her gentl(\ rather drawling voice lending a
charm to the words quite aj)art from tlieir meaning. "I can not
stand the kind of conversation to which one is reduced on such
occasions— if you can call tliat conversation which is but the
cackle of geese, each repeating the utterances of the other. When
the Lord loves a woman I think he takes her out of .society by
some means or other, and keeps lier out of it for her good."
Beth knew that if slie had said such a thing Mrs. Carne would
have received it with a stony stare, but now slie simpered. " That
is so like you ! " she gushed. " But the Wilmingtons' were dread-
fully disappointed."
" They will get over it," the lady answered, glancing round
indifferently.
" How are you getting on with your new book, Ideala ? " Mrs.
Kilroy asked her across the room. Beth instantly froze to atten-
tion. This was her friend, then, Sir George's Ideala.
i 1 I
■ I
422
THE BETH BOOK.
" I have not got into the swing of it yet," Ideala answered.
" It is all dot-aud-go-one — a uniform ruggedness, which is not true
either to life or mind. Our ways in the world are stony enough
at times, but they are not all stones. There are smooth stretches
along which we gallop, and sheltered grassy spaces where we
rest."
"What / love about your work is the style,'''' said Mrs.
Came.
" Do you ? " Ideala rejoined somewhat dryly, as it seemed to
Beth. "But what is style?"
" I am so bad at definitions," said Mrs. Came ; " but I feel it
you know."
" As if it were a thing in itself to be adopted or acquired," said
Ideala.
"Yes, quite so," said Mrs. Carne in a tone of relief, as of one
who has acquitted herself better than she expected and is satis-
fied.
" I am sure it is not," Beth burst out, forgetting herself and
her slights all at once in the interest of the subject. " I have been
reading tlie lives of authors lately, together with their works, and
it seems to me, iji the case of all who had genius, that their style
was the outcome of their characters — their principles — the view
they took of the subject — that is, if tliey were natux-al and power-
ful writers. Only the second-rate people have a manufactured
style, and force their subject to adapt itself to it — the kind of peo-
ple whose style is mentioned quite apart from their matter. In
the great ones the style is the outcome of the subject. Each emo-
tion has its own form of expression. The language of passion is
intense; of pleasure, jocund, easy, abundant; of content, calm ;
of happiness, strong, but restrained ; of love, warm, tender. Tlie
language of artificial feeling is artificial ; there is no mistaking
insincei'ity when a writer is not sincere ; and the language of
true feeling is equally unmistakable. It is .simple, easy, unaf-
fected ; and it is the same in all ages. The artificial styles of
yesterday go out of fashion with the dresses their authors wear,
and become an offence to our taste ; but Shakes])eare\s periods ap-
peal to every generation. He wrote from the heart as well as the
head, and triumphed in the grace of Nature."
Beth stopped short and coloured crimson, finding that every
one in the room was listening to her.
Mrs. Carne stood while slie was speaking with a cup of tea in
her hand, and tried to catch Ideala's eye in order to signal with
answered.
is not true
ly enougli
1 stretches
wliere we
said Mrs.
seemed to
it I feel it
ired," said
as of one
id is satis-
erself and
have been
A'orks, and
|their style
the view
id power-
ufactured
id of peo-
atter. In
ach emo-
Ipassion is
nt, calm ;
[ler. Tlie
listaking-
li^uage of
;y, unaf-
stylcs of
)rs wear,
[riods ap-
11 as the
it every
)f tea in
lal with
THE BETH BOOK.
423
raised eyebrows her contempt for Beth's opinion ; but Ideala was
listening with approval."
"That is exactly what I think," she exclaimed, " only I could
not have expressed it as you have. You write yourself, doubt-
less ? "
But Beth had become confused, and only gazed at her by way
of reply. She felt she had done the wrong thing to speak out
like that in such surroundings, and she regretted every word
and burned \w'\i\\ vexation. Then suddenly in herself, as
before, something seemed to say, or ratlier to flash forth tlio
exclamation for her comfort : " I shall succeed ! I shall suc-
ceed ! "
She drew herself up and looked round on them all with a look
that transformed her. Such an assurance in herself was not to be
doubted. The day would come when they would be glad enough
to see her, when she, too, would be heard with respect and quoted.
She, the least considered, she in her sliabl>y gloves, neglect(Kl,
slighted, despised, alone, she would arrive, would have done some-
thing—more than them all !
She arose with her eyes fixed on futurity, and was halfway
home before she came to and found herself tearing along through
o o o
the rain with her head forward and her hands clasped across her
chest, urged to energy l)y the cry in her heart : " I shall succeed !
I shall succeed I "
" Who was that ? " said Ideala in a startled voice when Beth
jumped up and left the room.
"The wife of that Dr. Maclure, you know," Mrs. Carne replied.
" Her manners seem somewhat abrupt. She forgot to say good-
bye. I did not know she was by way of being clever."
" By way of being clever I " Ideala ejaculated. "I wish I had
known who she was. Why didn't you introduce her ? By way
of being clever, indeed I Why. she is just what T have misscHl
being with all my clev(n'ness, or I am much mistaken, and that is
a genius. And what is more nnportant to us, I suspect slie is the
genius for whom we are waiting. Why, n'hy didn't you name
lier ? It is the old story. She came unto her own and her own
received her not."
" I — I never dreamed you would care to know her — her posi-
tion, you know " Mrs. Carne stammered, disconcerted.
" Her position ! What is her position to me ? " Ideala ex-
claimed, " It is the girl herself I think of. Besides, I dare say
she doesn't even know what her position is ! "
( I
-^
W I
424:
THE BETH BOOK.
"Tliat is wiiat Sir George says, and he knows her well," Mrs.
Kilroy interposed.
"But I never suspected that she was in the least interesting,"'
Mrs. Carne i^rotested; "and I'm sure she doesn't look attractive —
such an exprossion I "
"You are to blame for that, all of you,'' Ideala rejoined, with
something in her gentle way of speaking which had the effect of
strength and vehemence. "I know how it lias been. She is sen-
sitive, and you have made her feel there is something wrong.
You have treated her .so that she expects no kindness from you :
and so, from diffidence and restraint of tenderness, her face has
set hard into coldness. But that is only a mask. How you treat
each other, you women ! And you are as wanting in discern-
ment, too, as you are in kindness and sympathy. Slie has had to
put on that mask of coldness to hide what you make her suffer,
and it will take long loving to melt it now, and make her look
human again. You misinterpret her silence, too. How can you
expect her to be interesting if you take no interest in her. But
look at her eyes ! Any one with the least kindly discernment
might have seen the love and living interest there! If she had
been in a good position, everybody would have found her as sin-
gularly interesting as she, without caring a rap for our position,
has found us. She sees through us all with those eyes of hers — ay,
and beyond ! She sees what we have never seen and never shall
in this incarnation ; hers are the vision and the dream that are de-
nied to us. Were she to come forward as a leader to-raorrow I
would follow her humbly, and do as she told me. ... I read
some of her writings the other day, but I thought they were the
work of a mature woman. Had I known she was sucli a child I
should liave wondered ! "
" Dear me ! does she really write ? " said Mrs. Carne. " Well,
you surprise me ! I should never have dreamed that she had any-
thing in her!"
"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Ideala," said ^Irs.
Kilroy with c(mtrition. " I ought to have known— but I could
think of nothing, see nothing in her but that horrible busi-
ness—I shall certainly do my best now, however, when we re-
turn from town, to cultivate her acquaintance if she will let
me."
" Let you ! " Mrs. Carne ejaculated with her insinuating smile.
"I should think she would be flattered."
" I am not so sure of that," said Ideala,
I
ii um n numrou i
II
1," Mrs.
estillf,^"'
active—
tjd, with
elTect of
e is sen-
wrong-
)n\ you :
face has
^ou treat
discern-
is had to
3r sutl'er,
her look
can you
ler. But
;ernnient
' she had
er as sin-
position,
lers — ay,
ver shall
it are de-
aorrow I
I read
were the
child I
a
'' Well,
"][iad any-
lid :\Irs.
I c(mld
jle husi-
we re-
will let
}S
smile.
,
THE BETH BOOK.
425
"Neither am I," said Mrs. Kilroy. "I only wish I were. But
she ig-nored us all ratlier pointedly wlien slie came in."'
"To save herself from luMiig ignored, I suppose," said Idcala
bitterly. " Tlie girl is self-respecting."
" I confess I liked lier the first time I saw her," said Mrs Orton
Beg; "but afterward, wlien I beard what lier hu.sbaud was, 1 felt
forced to ignore her. How can you countenance her if she ap-
proves ? "
" It was a mistake to take her approval for granted," said Mrs.
Kilroy. " Ideala would have inquired."
"Yes," said Ideala. "I take nothing for gi'anted. If I hear
anything nice, I believe it; l)ut if I hear anytliing objectionable
about any one, I either inquire about it or refuse to believe it
point blank. And in a case like tliis I should be doubly particu-
lar ; for, in one of its nuiny moods, genius is a young child that
gazes hard aiul sees nothing."
"And you really think the little woinan is a genius, and will
be a great writer some day ? " Mrs. Carne asked, with exaggerated
deference to Ideala's opinion.
" I don't know about being a writer," said Ideala. " Genius is
versatile. There are many ways in whicli she might succeed. It
depends on herself— on the waj- she is fuuilly impelled to choose.
But great she will be in something — if she lives."
" Let us hop«^ that she will be a great benefactor of her own sex,
then, and do great good,'" said the gentle Lady Fulda.
"Amen I" Ideala. Mrs. Orton Beg, and Mrs. Kilroy ejaculated
fervently.
^Irs. Carne tried to i)ut otY her agreeable society smile and ])ut
on her Sunday-in-church expressit)n, but was not in time. When
we only assume an attitude once a week, be it mental or physical,
we do not fall into it readily on a sudden.
"Not that working for women as a career is what I should wish
her for her own comfort,"' said Ideala, after a pause. "Women
who wt>rk for women in the present period of our progress -t
mean the women who bring about the changes which benelit
their sex — must resign themselves to martyrdom. Only the
martyr spirit will carry Ihem through. Men will often h<'lp and
respect them; but other women, especially the workers with
methods of their own, will make their lives a burden to them
with pin pricks of criticism, and every petty hindrance they can
put in their way. There is little union between women workers,
and le.ss tolerance. Each leader thinks her own idea the only
28
426
THE BETH BOOK.
good one, and disapproves of every other. They seldom see that
many must be working in many ways to complete the work.
And as to the l)ulk of women, those wlio will benefit by our devo-
tion ! they bes^jatter us with nmd, stone us, slander us, calumniate
us ; and, even in the very act of taking advantage of the changes
we iiave brought about, ignore us, slight us, push us under, and
step upon our bodies to secure the benefits which our endeavours
liave made it possible for them to enjoy. I know ! I have worked
for women these many years, and could I show you my heart you
would iind it covered with scars— the scars of the wounds with
which they reward me."
When Beth got in that day she found Dan standing in the
hall examining a letter addressed to herself. She took it out of
his hand without ceremony and tore it open. " Hurrah ! " she
exclaimed ; " it's accepted."
" What's accepted ? " he asked.
" An article I sent to Snnshine. And the editor says he would
like to see some more of my work," Beth rejoined, almost dancing
with delight.
" I don't sup])ose that will put much in your pocket," Dan ob-
served. " He wouldn't praise you if he meant to pay you."
" But he has sent me a cheque for thirty shillings," said Both.
Dan's expression changed. " Then you may be sure it's worth
double," he said. " But you might get some nice note paper for
me out of it, and have it stamped with my crest, like a good girl.
It's necessary in my profession, and I've finished the last you
got."
Beth laughed as she had laughed — that same peculiar mirth-
less little laugh — when he drove past her and splashed her with
mud on the road. " It never seems to occur to you that I may
have some little Avants of my own, Dan," she said. " You are a
perfect horse-leech's daughter."
Dan gazed at her blankly. He never seemed to understand
any such allusion. "You've got a grievance, have you?" he
snarled. " Do /over prevent you getting anything you like ? "
Both shrugged her shoulders by way of answer, and went into
the dining-room. He followed her, bent on making a scene, the
which, when slie perceived it, she set herself down on a chair
and folded her hands.
He took a turn up and down the room. " And this is my fine
marriage into a county family which was to have done so much
THE BETH BOOK.
427
»ee that
} work.
ir clovo-
ininiate
•liangcs
lei', and
eavours
worked
?art you
ids with
r in the
it out of
h!" she
le would
dancing"
Dan ob-
d Beth.
s worth
laper for
od girl.
ast you
for me ! " he ejaculated at last. " But I might liave known better,
considering tiie hole I took you out of. Y(ni've soon forgotten all
I've done for you."
Beth smiled enigmatically.
"Oh, yes I it's a laugliing matter," he proceeded. "I've just
ruined myself by marrying you, that's what I've done. Not a
soul in the place will come to the house because of you. Nobody
could ever stand you but mo, and what have I got by it ? Not a
halfpenny ! It was just a swindle, the whole business."
" Be careful !" Beth flasiied fortli. "If you make such asser-
tions you must prove them. The day is past when a man might
insult his wife with impunity. I have already told you I won't
stand it. It would neither be good for vou nor for me if I did."
" It ivas a swindle," he bawl(>d. " Where are the six or seven
hundred a year I married you for ? "
Beth looked at him a moment, tlien burst out laughing. " Dear
Dan," she said, off'ering him the cheque. "You shall have the
thirty shillings all to your.self. You deserve it for telling the
truth for once. I consider I have had the best of the bargain
tliough. Tliirty sliillings is clieap for such valuable information.''
" Oh, damn you ! " said Dan, leaving th<^ room and banging the
door after him.
Beth signed the cheque and left it h'ing (in his writing table.
She never saw it again.
Then she went up to her secret chamber and spent long hours
—sobbing, .sobbing, s<)l)])ing, as if tlie marks of her married life
on her character could be washed away with teai"s.
|r mirth-
iier with
It I may
|u are a
terstand
lu?" he
Ike ? "
nii into
^ne, the
la chair
m
fine
much
CHAPTER XLIII.
Beth had made twenty-five pounds in eighteen montlis by lier
b(^autiful embroideries ; but after her mother's death she did no
more for sale, neither did she spend the money. She had suirered
so many humiliations for want of money, it made Iter feel safer
to liave some by her. She gave herself up to study ;it tliis time,
and wrote a great deal. It was winter now, and slie was often
driven down from iier secret chamber to the dining-room by the
cold. When Dan came in and fouiul her at work he would sniff
contemptuously or facetiously, according to his mood at the mo-
ment. " Wasting paper as usual, eh ? Better be sewing on my
428
THE BETH BOOK.
buttons,'' was Ins invariable remark — not tliat bis buttons were
ever ofT, or tliat Beth ever sewed tbeni on cither. She was too
good an organizer to do other people's work for them.
She made no r(>ply to Dan's sallies. With him her mind was
in a state of solitary confinement alway.s — not a good thing for
her liealth, but better on the whole than any attempt to discuss
her ideas with him, or to talk to him about anything, indeed, but
himself.
Beth fared well that winter, however — fared well in herself,
that is. She had some glorious moments, revelliiig in the joy of
creation. There is a mental analogy to all physical ])rocesses.
Fertility iji life comes of love ; and in art the fervour of produc-
tion is also accompanied by a rapture and preceded by a passion
of its own. When Beth was in a good mood for work it was like
love — love without the lover — she felt all the joy of love with
none of the disturbance. When the idea of publication was first
presented to her it robbed her of this joy. As she wrote she
thought more of what she might gain than of what she was doing.
Visions of success possessed her, and the ideas upon which her
attention should have been fully concentrated were thinned by
anticipations ; and during that period her work was indifferent.
Later, however, she worked again for work's sake, loving it, and
then she advanced. She saw little of Dan in those days, and
thought less ; but when they met she was as usual gentle and
tolerant, patiently enduring his " cheeriness," and entering into
no quarrel unless he forced one upon her.
One bright frosty morning he came in rather earlier than usual
and found her writing in the dining-room.
" Well, I've had a rattling good ride this morning," he began,
plunging into his favoin-ite topic as usual, without any pretence
of interest in her or in her pursuits. " Nothing like riding for
improving the circulation. I wish to goodness I could k(>ep
another horse. It would add to my income in the long run. But
I'm so cursedly handicapped by those bills. They keep me awake
at night, thinking of them."
Beth sucked the end of her pencil and looked out of the
window, wondering inwardly why he never tried to pay
them.
" I calculate that they come to just three hundred pounds," he
proceeded, looking keenly at Beth as he spoke ; but she remained
unmoved. " Don't you think," he ventured, " it would be a good
thing to expend that three hundred pounds your mother left you
THE BETH BOOK.
420
is wore
vas too
nd was
ling for
discuss
3ed, but
liersolf,
e joy of
•ocosscs.
produc-
passion
was like
ivo with
was (irst
rote she
LIS doing.
Inch her
nned by
liil'erent.
it, and
Liys, and
tie and
lug into
an
usual
e began,
iretenee
Ung for
lid keep
n. But
awake
of the
I to pay
lids,'' he
Iniained
a good
[eft you
on the debts ? I know I could make money if I once got my head
above water."
"That three hundred brings me in fifteen pounds a year," said
Beth. " It is well invested, and I promised my mother not to
touch any of my little capital. There is the interest, however; it
arrived this niorning. You can have it if you like.''
" Well, that would be a crumb of comfort at all events," ho
said, pouncing on the lawyer's letter, which was lying beside Beth
on the table, and gloating on the cheque. " But don't you think,
now that you have the interest, it would be a good time to sell
and get the principal ? Of course your mother was right and wi.se
to advise you not to part with your capital ; but this wouldn't be
parting with it, because I should pay you back in time, you know.
It would only be a loan, and I'd give you the interest on it regu-
larly, too. Just think what a relief it would be to me to get those
bills paid I " He ran his fingers up tlnough his hair as he spoke,
and gazed at himself \n the glass tragically.
"Any news ?" .said Beth, after a little pause.
Dan, bafHed, turned and began to walk up and down the room.
"No, there is never any news in this confounded hole," he an-
swered, venting his irritation on the i)lace. " Oh, by the way
though, I am forgetting. I was at the Pettericks' to-day. That
girl Bertha is not getting on as I should like."
" The hysterical one ? " said Beth.
" Ye — yes," he answered, hesitating. " The one who threatened
to be hysterical at one time. But that's all gone off. Now she's
just weak, and she should have electricity; but I can't b<^ going
there every day to apply it — takes too much time — so I suggested
to her people that she should come here for a while, as a paying
patient, you know."
" And is she coming ? " Beth said, rather in dismay.
"Yes, to-morrow," he replied. "I .said you'd be delighted;
but you must write and say so yourself, just for politeness' .sake.
It will be a good thing for you, too. you know. You are too
much alone, and she'll be a companion for you. She's not half a
bad girl."
"Shall I be obliged to give her much of mj' time ?" Beth
asked lugubriously.
"Oh, dear, no! She'll look after herself," Dr. Maclure cheer-
fully assured her. " I'll hire a ])iano for her. Must launch out a
little on these occasions, you know. It's setting a sprat to catch a
whale."
( I'
430
TJIE BETH BOOK.
li
I J
u
I ' '
1 1
The piano arrivod that afternoon. Botli wished Dan had let
her choose it; but a piano of any kind was a deliglit. She liad
not had one since lier marriage. Dan liad said at first that a
piano was a luxury which they must not tliink of wlieii they
could not afford the necessaries, and a luxury he had considered
it ever since.
Bertha Petterick was not the kind of person that Beth would
have chosen for a companion, and she dreaded her coming, but
before Bertha had been in the house a week she had so enlivened
it tliat Beth wondered she had ever '»bjected to her. Bertha
fawned upon Beth froTu the first, and was by way of looking- up
to her and admiring her intellect. She was four or five years
older than Beth, but gave her.self no airs on that account. She
was a dark girl, good looking in a common kind of way, with a
masculine stride in her walk, a deep mannish voice, and not at
all intellectual, but very practical — what some i)eople consider a
fine girl and others a coarse one, according to their taste. She
was a good shot, could make a dress, cook a dinner, ride to
hounds, and play an} game, and she was what is called good-
natured — that is to say, ready to do anything for any one that
could be done on the spur of tlie moTuent. Things she might
promise to do, or things requiring thought, she did not trouble
herself about; but she would finish a pretty piece of work for
Beth, gather flowers or buy them and do the table decorations, and
keep tilings tidy in the sitting-rooms. She played and sang well,
and was ready to do both at any time if she were asked, which
was a joy to Beth, and her bright chatter kept Dan in good hu-
mour, wliich was a relief. She liad i)lenty of money and spent it
lavishly. Every time she went out she bought Beth something—
a piece of music she had mentioned, a book she longed for, mate-
rials for work, besides flowers and fruit and sweets in unlimited
quantities. Beth remonstrated, but Bertha beg^^ed Beth not to
deprive her of the one pleasure she had in life just then, the pleas-
ure of pleasing Beth, and of acknowledging what she could never
repay but dearly appreciated— Beth's sisterly sympathy, her con-
sistent kindness ! Such sayings were tinged with sadness, which
made Beth suspect that Bertha liad some secret sorrow ; but, if so,
it was most carefully concealed, for there was not a trace of it in
her habitual manner. She showed no physical delicacy either ;
but, then, as she said herself, she was picking up in such a won-
derful way under treatment, she really began to feel that there
was very little the matter with her.
THE BETH BOOK.
431
ork for
)ns, and
ig well,
, which
lod hu-
)ont it
hinj? —
, niate-
lliniited
not to
pleas-
never
er con-
which
t, if so,
lof it in
leither ;
la won-
there
I
Dan managed to bo at home a grvut deal to look after his pa-
tient, and was most attentive to her. lie hired a bruu<,''liam three
times a week to do his rounds in, tliat she might accompany him,
and so get the air without fatigue or risk of cold ; and ho would
have her sit with liim in tlie dining-room wlien he was smoking,
and rolled cigarettes for her, or would spend the evening with
her in the drawing-room, listening to her playing anil singing or
playing beziquo with her, ami seemingly well content, although,
in private, he sometimes said to Beth it was all a beastly bore,
but he must go through with it as u duty since ho had under-
taken it, and his way was to dt) a thing thoroughly if he did it
at all.
" Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might,"
he added piously. " If a thing's worth doing at all, it's wt)rth
doing well, I always think."
That was his formula for the time being, but Beth judged him
by his demeanour, which was gay, and not by his professions, and
did not pity him. She was in excellent spirits herself, too, for
her writing was going well, and it varied the monotony pleas-
antly for her to have Bertha to talk to, and walk, play, or sew
with, after her work. Bertha's demonstrations of affection, tt)0,
were grateful to Beth, who had had so little love either bestowed
upon her or requii'cd of her.
Bertha had been in the house three months, when one day her
mother called and found Beth alone, Dan and Bertha having
gone for a drive together. Mrs. Petterick had just returned from
abroad, where the whole family had been living most of the time
that Bertha had been with the Maclures.
" Really," Mrs. Petterick said, " I don't know how to thank
you for your kindness to my girl, fohe's quite a ditTerent person
I can see by her letters, thanks to the good doctor. Before he
took her in hand she was quite hysterical and had to lie down
two or three times a day, because she said she had no strength for
anything. But really three months is an abuse of hospitality, and
I think she should be coming home now."
" Oh, no, do let her stay a little longer if you can spare her,"
Beth pleaded. " It is so nice to have her here."
" Well, it is good of you to say so." said Mrs. Petterick ;
" but it must be a great expense to you. We weren't well off our-
selves at one time. Mr. Petterick's a self-made man, and I know
that every additional mouth makes a difference. But, however,
I know you're proud, so I won't offend you by offering money in
l [
i
432
THE BETIT BOOK.
exchango for kintlnosH, which cuu't be repaid buL sha'n't bo for-
gotten."
Wh(ui Mrs. Pt^ttcTJck liad gone, Botli sat u wliile staring into
the lire. She was soniewliat stunned, for l)an liad assured her
tliat Bertha was a paying patient, aiid tliat, it .seemed, liad been a
gratuitous lie. She was roused at last by Minna, the parlour maid.
" Please, ma'am, a lady wishes to .see you," Minna .said.
" Show h<'r in," Beth answered listlessly. But the next mo-
ment she still'ened witli astonislmient, for tlie lady who entered
was Mrs. Kilroy, of Ilverlhrope.
" I am afraid I have taken you by surpri.sc," Mrs. Kilroy be-
gan rather nervously.
"Will you sit down?" Beth said coldly. "You can not
wonder if I am surprised to .sec you. This is tlie first visit
you have paid me, although we met directly aft(>r I came to
Slane — some years ago. You were kind and cordial on that oc-
casion, but the next time I saw you— at that ball — you slighted
mo, and after that you shunned me until I met you the other
day at Mrs. Game's, and then you seemed inclined to take me
up again. I do not understand such caprices, and I do not like
them."
"It was not caprice," Mrs. Kilroy as.sured her. "I liked you
very much the first time we met, and I should have called inmie-
diately ; but when I asked for your address I was told that your
husband was in charge of the Lock Hospital "
" Yes, the hospital for the diseases of women," Beth .said.
" But what difference does that make ? "
" It made me jump to the hasty conclusion that you approved
of the degradation of your own sex," said Angelica.
"The degradation of my own sex!" said Beth, bewildered.
"What is a Lock Ho.spital ?"
"Now, perhaps, you will under.stand what we feel about
you," Angelica concluded, " we who are loyal to our own sex
and have a sense of justice, when we thought you were content
to live on the means your husband makes in such a shameful
way."
An extraordinary look of relief came into Beth's face. " Then
it was not my fault — not because I w^as horrid ? " she exclaimed.
All the slights were as nothing the moment she gathered that she
had not deserved them. Angelica stai'ed at her ; but it was not
in Beth's nature to think long about herself, only the full force
TlIK HF/ni HOOK.
433
labout
In sex
hi tent
meful
I Then
limed,
it she
Is not
Iforce
1
of what slie had just licard as it coiiccrnod others did not oonu^ to
li(T for some seconds. Wlien it did slie was overcome. "How
coukl you suppose that I knew i " she <^asp(>(l at last. '* Tiiis is the
iirst hint I have liad of the hialhsoiiie business. My husl)an»l
talk's to me iil)()ut many thin<?s that he had l)etter not have men-
tioned, hut about tliis he has never said a word."
"Then he mu.st have suspected that you would disapprove,"
said Mrs. Kilroy.
" Disapprove I " Beth ejaculat<'d. " The whole thin<r makes tno
sick ; I ou^''ht to liave b«'(Mi told before I mai-ried him. 1 nev(T
would have spoken to a nuin in such a i)osition had 1 known;
you did well to avoid me."
"No," said Aiif^^eliea. "I did ill and I feel humiliated for my
own want of penetnition, for my hasty conclusion. It was Sir
George Galbraith who fh'st made me suspiu-t that you kncnv
nothing about it, and I would have come at once to make sure ;
but we wer(! just leaving th»^ neighbourhood, and we only re-
turned yesterday. Ideala did not believe^ that you knew it either,
and she rated us all for the way we liad treat(>d you. Sh(^ has
been in America ever since she met you at Mrs. Carne's ; but she
is coming home n(>xt week, and has written to entreat me to ask
you to meet her. Will you ? Will you come aiul stay with me ?
Do, and talk this over with us. I can see that it has been a great
shock to you."
" I can not answer you now," said Beth. " I must think — I
must think what I had better do."
"Yes, think it over," said Angelica, "then write and tell
me when you will come. Only do come. You will find your-
self among friends — congenial friends, I venture to proph-
AVhen Mrs. Kilroy had gone, Beth went to her biMlroom and
waited there for Dan. It was tlie only i)lace where she could be
sure of seeing him alone. He dressed for dinner now that ]\Iiss
Petterick was with tluMu.
Dan came in whistling liilariously. He stopped short when
he saw Beth's face.
" What's up ? " lie asked.
" Mrs. Kilroy has been here."
" I hope you thanked her for nothing ! "
*' I'm afraid I forgot to thank her at all," Beth said, "although
she has put me under an obligation to her."
" May I ask what the obligation is ? "
t !
i V'
434 THH HETII HOOK.
"She told mo frankly why no docont woman will ussooiato
with us. It is not my fault aftcn* all, it srcms. but yours — you ami
your Lock Hospital. It is against the Anj^lo-Saxon spirit to ad-
mit panders into society. "
"So she told you about that, did she, the meddlinjr busy-
body!" he answered coolly. "I was afraid they would, somo
of them, damn them ! and I knew you wt)uld go into liysterics.
She didn't tell you the necessity for it, I suppose, nor the
t?«
)0(
I
it is doing; l)ut I will, so just listen to me. then you'll see, p(>r-
haps, that I know more about it tliaii these canting sentimen-
tal i.sts."
B(^th, sitting in judgment on him, set lier mouth and li.stened
in silenc(> until he stopp<'d. In his own defence lu> gave ' 'jrmany
revolting details coucIkhI in tlu^ coarsest language.
"But, then, in the name of justice," she exclaimed, "what
means do you take to protect those poor imfortunate wonuiti from
disease ? What do you do to the men who spread it ? What be-
comes of disea.sed men ? "
" Oh, they marry, I suppose. Anyhow, that is not mj' business.
Doctors can not be expected to preach morals. Sanitation is our
busine.s.s.'"
"But aren't morals closely connected with .sanitation?" Beth
said. "And why, if sanitation is your business, do you take no
radical measures with regard to this liorrible disease ? Why do
you not have it reported, never mind who gets it, as .scarlet fever,
smallpox, and other diseases — ^all le.ss disastrous to the general
health of the community— are reported ?"
Dan shrugged his shoulders. "It's a deuced awkward thing
for a man to be suspected of disease ; it's a stigma, and might
spoil his prospects. Women are so cursedly pr\-ing nowaday.s.
They've got wind of its being incurable, and numy a one '.von't
marr}' a man if a suspicion of it attaches to hiin."
"I see," said Beth. "The principles of the medic'
fession with regard to sanitation when women arc in
seem to be peculiar. I wish to Heaven I ha m
sooner." She hid her face in her hands and sud(i > bur.>5 ito
tears.
Dan scowled. "Well, tliis is nice! "he exclaimed. " have
had a devilish hard day's work and come in cheery, as usual, to
do my best to make things pleasant for you, and this is the recep-
tion I get ! You're a nice pill, indeed ! " He went oflF muttering
into his dressing-room and slammed the door.
\
i
(
THE HKTH BOOK.
435
Whon ho roappoaml in tlio drawinj^'-room lie found Beth ami
Bertha chuttinj,' t(»;r«'th('r as usual, and as during the rest of the
evening he et>u!d (h-teet no dillerenee in Beth's manner, he eon-
pvatulated himself that she was ;,n>in;,'' to accept the pctsition as in-
evital)le and say no niDrc al)out it. It was not Heths way to re-
turn to a disajL,'reeal)lc subject once it had Ix-cn discussed unless
she meant to do somethinf,^ in the nuitter, and Dan conceived that
there was nothing to be done in this instance. He considered that
he was not the .sort of man it was safe for women to interfere
with, and he guessed sh(> knew it I
He was mistaken, however, when he supposed that she had let
the subject drop and wa.s going to resign herself to an invidious
position. She was merely letting it lai)se until .she understood it.
It was all as now to her as it was horrifying, and she re(iuired
time to .study both sides of the (picstion. Her own sense of jus-
tice was too acute to let her accept at once the accusation that
so-called civilized men, who boast of their chivalrous protection
of the " weak(>r se.v," had imposed upon women a special pub-
lic degradation while the most abandoned und culpable of
their own .sex were not only allow(>d to go unpunished, but to
spread vice and disease where they listed.
Inight
nday-s.
r.von't
in
to
Ihave
\i\, to
3cep-
Jring
\
A few days after Mrs. Kilroy's visit Mrs. Carne called on Beth.
Mrs. Carne always followed the county people. To her they were
a sacred set. The faith in all they did was touching and sincere.
The .stupidest remark of the stui)id<'st county lady impressed her
more than the most brilliant wit t)f a professional man's wil'(^
When she staid at a country house, whatever the tone of it, she
felt like a shriven saint, so u]difted was .she by reverence for
rank. On finding, therefore, tluit some of the most inlluential
ladies in the county were ditlidently anxious to win J^eth into
their set, rather than prepared to admit her with confident patron-
age, as Mrs. Carne would have expected, it was natural that she
should revise her own opinion of Beth, and also seek to cultivate
her acqiuiintance.
She called in the morning hy way of being friendly, })ut Beth,
who was hard at work at the time, did not feel grateful for the
attention. Minna showed Mrs. Carne straight into the dining-
room, where Beth usually worked now that Bertha was on the
premises. Bertha happened to be out that morning, and Mrs.
i I'
436
THE BETH BOOK.
Carno surprised Beth sitting iiloue at a table covered witli books
and papers.
'■ And so the little woman is g'oing to be a great one I " Mrs.
Carne exclaimed playfully. " "Well, I iran surpris(>d to hear it !
I know I am not ilattering ttj my own discernment when I say
so, but there 1 I should never have sujjposcd you were a genius.
You are such a quiet little mouse, you know, you don't give your-
self away much, if you will excuse the expression ! I always say
what I tliink."
" I hope you will not call me a genius again, Mrs. Carne,'" Beth
said stiffly. " All exaggeration is distasteful to me."
" And to me too, my dear child," Mrs. Carne hastened to assure
her blandly. " But I always say what I think, you know."
Beth fixed her eyes on the clock absently.
When Dan came in to lunch that day he seemed pleased to
hear that Mrs. Carne had been.
" What had she to say for herself ? " he asked.
"She said 'I always say what I think,'" Beth replied, "imtil it
struck me that ' I always say what I think ' is a person who
onlv thinks disagreeable things."
"Well, /like her," said Dan ; "and I always get on with her.
If she's going to show up friendly at last, I hope you won't snub
lier. We can't afford to make Cxiemies, according to jonr own
account," he concluded significantly. " What do you think of
her, Miss Petterick ? " he added, by way of giving a pleasanter
tui'n to the conversation. He and his patient always addressed
each other with much formality. Beth asked liim once in private
why he was so stiff with Bertha, and he explained that he thought
it wiser, as a medical man, not to be at all familiar; formality
helped to keep up his authority.
"I have had no opportunity of thinking anything about her,"
Bertha rejoined. " She never si)oke to me. I have heard her
speak, though, and like her voice. It's so cooing. She makes me
think of a dove."
" And I shouldn't be surprised to find," said Beth, with cruel
insight, "that, like the dove, she conceals a villainous disposition
and nmrderous proclivities by charms of manner and a winning
voice. What are jou going to do this afternoon. Bertha ? "
Bertha glanced at Dan. " I am going to read The Moonstone
out in the garden the whole afternoon." she replied.
" Then you won't mind if I disappear till tea time ? " said
Beth. " I want to do some work upstairs."
I
i
THE BETH BOOK.
437
her,"
kl her
fes me
ci
uel
ksition
jnuing
\ stone
said
" No, I would rather be alone," Bertha answered frankly.
" That book's entrancing."
" I shall go round on foot this afternoon for exercise," Dan an-
nounced as he left the room.
Beth saw Bertlia settled on a seat in the garden, and then re-
tired to her secret chamber. She had not yet come to any con-
clusion with regard to Mrs. Kilroy's invitation, and she felt it
was time she decided. She took her sewing, her accustomed aid
to thought, and sat down on a higli cluii.' near the window ; that
was one of her patient methods of self-discipline. She always sat
on a higli chair tliat she might not be enervated by lolling ; and
while she meditated she did quantities of work for herself, mak-
ing, mending, remodelling, tluvt she might get all tlie wear pos-
sible out of her clothes, and not add a ])enny she could lieli) to
those terrible debts, the thought of whicli had weighed on her
youth and threatened to crush all the spirit out of her ovvv since
her marriage. Dan had never considered her too young to be
worried.
From where she sat she could see Bertha on a seat just below,
with The Moonstone on lier lap ; but Bertha could not see her
because of tlie curtain of creepers tliat covered the iron rail which
formed a little balcony round tlie window. Besides, it was sup-
posed that tliat was a blank window. It was the only one on
that side of the house, too, and Bertha had settled herself in that
secluded corner of the garden precisely because she thought she
could not be overlooked.
Beth glanced at her from time to time mechanically, but
without thinking of her. It struck her at last, however, that
Bertha had never opened her book, whicli seemed odd after the
special point she had made of Ixung left alone to read it undis-
turbed. Then Beth noticed that she seemed to l)e on the lookout,
as if she were expecting something or .somebody; and presently
Dan appeared, walking (piickly and with a furtive air. as if he
were afraid of being seen. I'ertha flushed crimson and became
all smiles as soon as she saw him. Beth's work dropped on her
lap, she clasped her liaiuls on it, Imm' own face flushed, and her
breath became laboured. Dan, after carefully satisfying himself
that there was nobody about, sat down beside I'ertha, ])ut his arm
round her waist, and kissed her. She giggled, and made a feel)le
feint of protesting. Then he took a jewel case from his pocket,
opened it, and held it out to lier admiring gaze. It contained a
liandsome gold bracelet, which he presently clasped on her arm.
A
in
II
!
438
THE BETH BOOK.
She expressed her gratitude by lifting hvv lips to be kissed. Then
he put his arm round her again, and shr sat with her head on his
shoulder, and they l)egau to talk ; but the conversation, was inter-
rupted by freqiAent kisses.
Beth had seen enough. She turned her back to the window,
and sat quite still with her hands clasped before her. It was Iht
first experience of that parasite, the girl who fastens herself on a
married woman, accepts all that she can get from her in the way
of hospitality and kindness, and treacherously repays her by tak-
ing her husband for a lover. Beth pitied Bertha, but with royal
contempt. It all seemed so sordid and despicable. Jealous she
was not. " Jealou.sy is a want of faith in one's self," she had said
to Bertha's mother once, and now, in the face of this provocation,
she was of the saine mind. She had no words to express her
scorn for a man who is false to his obligations, nor for the petty
frauds ami deceits which had made the position of those two ten-
able. As for Dan, he was beneath contempt ; but — " I shall suc-
ceed ! " The words sprang to her lips triumphantly. " Let him
wallow with his own kind in congenial mire as nmch as he likes.
No wonder he suspects me ! But I — I shall succeed ! "
» i'
Meanwhile, down in the garden Dan was gm'gling to Bertlia :
" What slunild I do without you, darling ? Life wasn't worth
having till I knew you. I won't say a word against Beth. She
has her good points, as you know, and I believe she means well ;
but she's spoiled my life, and my career too. Vnx one that requires
a lot of sympathy ; but she never shows me any. She thinks of
nobody l)ut herself. Her own mother always said so. And after
all I've done for her, too! If only you knew ! But of course I
can't blow my own trumpet. Tht^y're all alike in that family,
though. Her mother used to ke(»p me playing cards till I was
ruined. And Beth has no gratitude, and you can't trust her. She
comes of a lying lot, and I'm of the same mind as my old father,
who used to say he'd rather have a thief any day than a liar.
You can watch a thief, but you ( .m't watch a liar."
" Still, Dan," Bertha murnmred, " I somehow think you ought
to stick to her."
" So I would," said Dan. " No one can accuse me of not stick-
ing to my duty. Tux an honourable man. It was she who cast
me off. I'm nothing to her. And I should have been broken-
hearted but for you. Bertha ; I should indeed." Dan's fine eyes
filled with tears, which Bertha tenderly wiped away.
THE BETn BOOK.
439
. Then
d on his
us intor-
window,
was her
vU on a
tlie way
" by tuk-
th royal
lous she
had said
'ocation,
ross her
he potty
two ten-
lall sue-
Lot liim
he likes.
Bertha :
't worth
h. She
IS well ;
Irccjuires
links of
id after
(jurso I
family,
1 I was
V. She
father,
a liar.
ought
It stick-
lio cast
Iroken-
le eves
(
" Of course it makes a great difTerence, her having cast y(m
off," Bertha conceded, after a little interlude.
" It makes all the difference," Dan rejoined. " She set me at
liberty ; and you are free too. So who have we to consider hut
ourselves ? I atlmire a woman who has the pluck to be free I " ho
added entlnisiastically.
"Then why don't you encourage Beth mor(> to go her own
way?" Bertha reasonably demanded. "She's always yearning
for a carc^er."
Dan hesitated. "Because I've been a fool, I think," he said
at last. "I'll encourage her now, though. It would be a great
blessing to us if she could get started as a writer. I see that now.
She'd think of nothing else. And it would be a blessing to her,
too," he added feelingly.
" That's what I like about you, Dan," Bertha observed. " You
always make every allowance for her, and consider her interests,
although she has treated j'ou badly."
Dan pressed her hand to his lips. " I'll do what I can for her,
you may be sure," he said, quite melted by his own magnanimity.
" I wish I could do more. But she's been extravagant, and my
means are di'eadfully crippled."
" Then why do you buy me such handsome presents, you
naughty man ? " Bcu-tha playfully demanded, holding up her arm
with the bracelet on it.
" I nnist have a holiday sometimes," he rejoined. " Besides, I
happen to be expecting a handsome cheque, an unusual occui*-
rence, by any ])ost now."
Beth's dividends were due that day.
Just as dinner was announced Beth swept into the drawing-
room in the best evening dress she had, a diaphanous black, .set
off by turquoise velvet, a combination which threw the beautiful
niilk-white of her skin into delicate relief. There was a faint
Hush on hor face ; on her forelK^ul and neck \]\o tendrils of her
soft brown hair .seemed to have tak<>n on an extra <'rispness of
curl ; and her eyes were sparkling. She had never looked bett(>r.
Bex'tha Petterick, in her c(unmon hajidsomeness, was as a barmiiid
accustomed to beer beside a gentlewoman of <>\c<'j)tional retine-
ment. She wore the showy bracelet Dan had given her that after-
noon, and it slione conspicuous in its tawdry newness on her arm ;
lier dress was tasteless too, and badly put on ; and altogfither
she contrasted unfavourably with Beth, and Dan observed it.
rl
uo
THE BETH BOOK.
i
" Are you expecting any one in particular to-night ? " lie asked.
" No," Beth answered, smiling. " I dressed for my own l)ene-
fit. Nothing moves me to self-satisfaction like a nice dress. I
have not enjoyed the jjleasure since I married. But I am going
to begin now, and have a good time."
She turned as she spokr and led the way to the dining-room
alone. Dr. Maclure absently offered his arm to Miss Petterick.
He was puzzled to know what this sudden fit of self-assertion,
combined with an unaccountable burst of high spirits on Beth"s
part, might portend. To conceal a certain uneasiness he became
extra facetious, not to say coarse. There was a public ball coming
off in a few days, and he persisted in speaking of it as " the Dairy
Show."
" Don't you begin to feel excited about it ? I do ! " Miss Pet-
terick said to Beth. " I wish it were to-night."
" I am indifferent," Beth answered blandly, " because I am
not going."
" Not going ! " Dan exclaimed. " Then who is to chaperon
me?"
" I should scarcely suppose," Beth answered, looking at him
meditatively, " that you are in the stage of iniKX'ence which
makes a chaperon necessary. Bertha, how you are loving that
new bracelet ! You've done nothing but fidget with it ever since
we sat down."
" Ah ! " Bertha answered archly, " you want to know where I
got it. Madam Curious ! "Well, I'll tell you. It was sent me only
to-day — by my young man I "
Dan looked at his plate complacently ; but presently Beth saw
a glance of intelligence flash between them — a glance such as she
had often seen them exchange before, but had not understood ; and
she was thankful that she had not — thankful that she had been
able to live so long with Dr. Maclure without entertaining a sin-
gle suspicion — witliout thinking one low thought about him. It
was a hopeful triumph of cultivated nice-mindedness over the
most evil conmiunicatio ■ •.
When they were at uessert the postman's knock resounded
sharply. Dr. Maclure, who had been anxiously listening for it,
and was peeling a pear for Miss I*etterick at the moment, wailed
"witli the pear and the knife ui)held in his hands, watching the
door till the servant entered. She brought out; letter on a salver,
and was taking it to her master, when Beth said authoritatively,
" That letter is for me, Minna ; bring it here,"
THE BETH BOOK.
Ul
Pet-
I am
that
since
.•hero I
only
til saw
as she
;l ; and
tl bt't'U
r a sin-
m. It
er the
|)undc(.l
I for it,
Kvaitcd
II g tlie
Ulver,
Lively,
The girl obeyed.
Dan put down the knife and the pear. ""What's yours is
mine, I thought," he observed, with u soiTy aflectiitiou of cheeri-
ness.
" Not on this occasion," Beth answered quietly, taking up the
letter and opening it as she spoke. " This liappens to be pecul-
iarly my own.''
'* Why, it's a cheque," he rejoined, with an afVectation of sur-
prise. "What luck! I haven't been able to sleep for nights
thinking of the butcher's bill "
"For shame I" Betli said, bantering; "talking about bills be-
fore your guest. But since ycju introduced tlie subject I may add
that the butcher must wait. I want this mvself. I am going to
stay with Mrs. Kilroy at llverthorpe on Wediiesday, and it will
just cover my expenses."
"This is the fu'st I have heard of the visit," Dan ejaculated.
" I only decided to go this afternoon," Beth replied.
" You decided without consulting me. Well— I'm damned if
you shall go. I shall not allow it."
" The word 'allow' is obsolete in the nuitrimonial dictionary,
friend Daniel," Beth rejoined good-humouredly.
" But you are bound to obey me "
"And I'm ready to ob(n" you when you endow me with all
your worldly goods," she .said; then, suddenly dr<)pj)ing her ban-
tering tone, .she spoke decidedly : " I am going to stay with Mrs.
Kilroy on Wednesday; under.stand that at once, and do not let us
have any vulgar dispute about it."'
" But you can't leave Miss Petterick here alone with, mc I" ho
exclaimed.
"No, but .she can go home," Beth answered coolly. "Her
mother wants her, you know, and I havo written to tell lier to
expect her to-morrow. Now, if you please, we will end the dis-
cussion.''
She put the letter in hei" ])ocket and began to crack nuts and
eat them. But Dan could not ke<'p away from the sul)ject.
"Gad!" he ejaculated; '"I thought they'd get hold of you, that
lot, and fliitter you, and make a convenience of you — that's what
they do ! /knowthejul They think you're clever — how easy it
is to l)e mistaken! But you'll see for yourself in time, and then
you'll believe me— when it's too late. For then you'll have g(jt
your name mixed up with them, and you'll m)t get over that, I
can tell you — they are well known for a nice lot. Your Mrs. Kil-
29
If
1 1
'o^^SBBBSBSi
442
THE BETH BOOK.
! I
r(>y was notorious before she married. She was Angelica Hamil-
ton-Wells, and she and her brotlior were called The Heavenly
Twins. They are {grandchildren of that blackguard old Duke of
Morningquest. Nobody ever speaks of any of the family with
the slightest respect. It's well known that Miss Hamilton-Wells
asked old Kilroy to marry lier, and when a girl has to do that you
may guess what she is! But they are all besmirched, that lot,"
Dan concluded with his most high-minded manner on.
" I never believe anything I hear against anybody," said Beth,
unconsciously quoting Ideala ; " so please spare me the recital of
all invidious stories."
"You'll only believe what suits yourself, I know," he
said. "And I've no doul)t you'll enjoy yourself. Galbraith
will be there, and Mr. Theodore Ilamilton-Wells— the fair-
haired ' Diavolo,' who will suit your book exactly, I should
think."
" I beg your pardon ? " said Beth politely.
Dan poured himself out another glass of wine and said no
more.
He and Bertha managed to have a moment's conversation to-
gether before they retired that night.
" What does it mean ? '' Bertha anxiously demanded. " Does
she suspect anything ? '"
" God knows ! " Dan said piously ; then added, after a moment's
consideration, " IIow the devil can she ? We've played our cards
too well for that. No, she's just bent on making mischief, that's
the kind of pill she is. If she keeps that mcmey it will be down-
right robbery. But now you see what I have to put up with, and
you can judge for yourself if I deserve it."
When he went to Beth, however, he assumed a very dilYeretit
tone. He entered the I'oom with an air of deep dejection, and
found her sitting beside her dressing table in a white wrapper,
reading quietly. She smiled when she saw his pose. It was what
she had expected.
" I can't do without that money, Beth, on my word," he began
plaintively. " I've been reckoning on it. I wouUbi't take it from
you, God knows, if I could help it ; but I'm soi'e ))ressed." He
took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, imagining that he
still had to deal with the gentle, sensitive girl upon whom he had
imposed so long and so successfully.
Beth watched him a moment with contempt, and then she
laughed.
r^
TnE BETH BOOK.
443
[aniil-
veuly
ake of
' with
Wells
at you
t lot;'
I Beth,
;itul of
v," he
Ibruith
e fair-
should
said no
.tion to-
" Does
Client's
ir cards
that's
down-
th, and
ilYerent
1)11, and
Irapi^er,
ifi what
bejj^an
U from
He
that he
lie had
3n
she
'"It is no use, friend Daniel," she said, in lier neat, inrisivo,
straightforward way. " I am not going to take you seriously any
more. I am neither to be melted by your conv<'nient tears nor
dismayed by your bogey bills. I have iiev«"r seen any of tliose
bills, by the way; the next time you mention them, please j)ro-
duce them. L<'t us be businesslike. And in the meantime, ju.st
understand, once for all, like a good man, that I am not going to
be domineered over by you as if I were a common, degrailed wife
with every spark of spirit and self-respect crushed out of me by
one brutal exaction or another. I shall do my duty — do my best
to meet your reasonable wishes ; but I will submit to no ordering,
and no .sort of exaction." She ro.se and faced him. "And as we
are coming to an understanding," she ])ursue(l, "just ex])lain.
Why did you tell me that Miss Petterick was to be a paying
patient ? "
"I never told you anything of the kind," .said Dan, losing his
head and lying stupidly in his astonishment.
Beth shrugged her shoulders. "It is your own business," she
rejoined ; " at least it is you who will have to pay for her enter-
tainment."
She returned to her book as she spoke, and continued to read
with apparent calmiu^ss.
Now that she had taken up her position, she found herself
quite strong enough to hold it against any Dr. Maclure and Miss
Petterick on earth. But Beth was being forced into an ugly and
vulgar phase, and she knew and resented it, and was filled with
dismay. She was taking on something of the colour of lier sur-
roundings involuntarily, inevitably, as some insects do in self-
defonce. She had spoken to Dan in his own tone in order to make
him understand her ; but was it necessary ? Surely if she had re-
sisted the impulse to try that weapon, slie might have found an-
other as effective, the use of which would not have com])romi.sed
lier gentlehood and lessened Ium* self-esteem. Iler dissatisfaction
with herself for the p.art she had ])layed was a cruel ache, and she
thanked Heaven for the chance which would mercifully remove
her from that evil atmosphere for a wliile. and prayed for time to
reflect and strength to be her better self. She was angry with
herself and grieved because she had fought Dan ^vith his own
weapons, and it did not occur to lier for her comfort that she had
only done so because he was invulnerable to that which she would
naturally have used— earnest, reasonable, calm di.scu.ssion ; and
that fight him she must with something, .somehow, or sink forever
H
f /^
1'^
4^4
THE BETH BOOK.
down to tlic (lof'-radod level required of their wives by husbands of
his way of thinkinji;.
CHAPTER XLIV,
Tlverthorpe was at the other side of the county, and Beth
had to go from Slane to ^Mornin^^quest by train in order to pet
there. Dan eontinued to be disagreeable in ])rivate about her
going, but he took her to the station, and saw her olF, so that the
public might see what an admirable husband he was.
On his way from the station he met Sir George Galbraith and
greeted him with etFusion.
" I hope you were coming to see us," he said, " for that would
show that you don't forget our humble existence. But my wife
isn't at home, I am sorry to say. She lias just gone to stay with
Mrs. Kilroy."
Sir George looked keenly at him. " I hope slie is quite well,"
he said formally.
"Not too well," Dan answered lugubri!)usly, "and that is why
I encouraged her to go. The fact is. Sir George, I think I've been
making a mistake with Beth. My mother was my perfection of
a woman. She didn't care miich for books ; but she had good,
sound common sense, and she attended to her husband and her
household and preferred to stay at home ; and I confess I wanted
my wife to be like her. Especially I wanted to keep lier pure-
minded and unsuspicious of evil, and that she could not remain
if she got drawn into Mrs. Kilroy's set and mixed u]> with the
questions about which women are now agitating themselves. I
know you're with them and not with me in the matter, but you'll
allow for my point of view. Well, with regard to Beth, I find
I've made a mistake. I should have let her folloAv her own bent,
see for herself, and become a woman of the day if she's so minded.
As it is, she is growing morbid for want of an outlet, and hanging
back herself, and it is I who have to urge her on. It's an heroic
operation so far as I'm concerned, for the whole thing is distaste-
ful to me ; but I shall go through with it, and let her be as inde-
pendent as she likes."
"This sounds like self-sacrifice," said Sir George. " I sincerely
hope it may answer. We are going different ways, I think. Good
nmrning.'' He raised his hand to his hat in a perfunctory way,
and hurried off.
THE JJKTIl JU)()K.
445
Tlic next time he saw Mrs. Kilroy he described this encounter
witli Dr. Machire.
"Tliis is a compU>te change of front," said Angelica. "Wliat
does it mean ? "
"Wlien a man of tliat kind tells his wife to make the most of
her life in her own way. and be independent, he means, */>o«7
hofher me; another irojiian i.s the delight of my senfies!' When
he says to another woman, ' Be free ! ' he means, ' Throw yourself
into my arms f "
Antrclica sitrhed. " Poor Beth ! " she said. " What a fate to be
tied to that plausible hogl"
From having been so much shut up in herself, Beth showed
very little of the contrasts of her temperament on the surface—
her joy in life, her moments of exaltation, of devotion, of c(m-
fidence, of harshness, of tenderness ; her awful lits of depression,
her doubts, her fears, her self-distrust ; her gu.sts of passion, and
the disconnected impulses wedged into the well-disciplined routine
of a consistent life, ordered for the most part by principle, reason,
and reflection— few people, meeting her casually, would have sus-
pected any contrasts at all ; and even of those who knew her best,
only one now and then appreciated the rate at which the busy
mind was working and the changes wrought by the growth which
was continually in progress beneath her equable demeanour.
Those about her expected nothing of her for want of discernment,
and suffered shocks of surprise in cons(^quence, which they re-
sented, blaming her for their own defects.
But it was of nnich more importance to Beth that she should
be able to pass on with ease from one thing to another than that
she should have the approval of people who would have had her
stay where they found her, not for h(>r benefit, but for their own
convenience in classifying her. Beth made stepi)ing stones of
her knowledge of other people rather than of her own dead self.
Siie picked to pieces the griefs they brought upon her, dissected
them, and moralized n])oii them : and. in doing sf). forgot the per-
sonal application. Wliile in tite midst of what might have been
her own life tragedy, slie compared herself with those who had
been through theirs, and did not seem a bit the worse or the better,
which observation stimulated her fortitude ; when she contem-
plated the march of events, that mighty army of atoms, any one of
which maj" be in command of us for a time, none remainiTig so
forever, under healthy conditions, she perceived that life is lived
446
TIIK HKTIl HOOK.
ii
in (U'Uiil, not in the abstract. Tlio kind of thinj? that makes the
backbone of a three-volume novel is but a phase or an incident ;
everything is but an incident witli all of us, a heartbreak to-day,
u recollection to-morrow, a source of encouraj^ement, and of in-
spiration eventually, ])erhaps ; the which, if some would remem-
ber, there would be less despair and fewer suicides. The recog-
nition of this fact had helped Jieth's sense of j)roportion, and was
making'' lu!r philosophical. She believed that life could be lived
so as to mak(\ the Joys as inevitable as the sorrows. We are ajjt
to cultivate our sense of pleasure less than our sense of suflerinj^
by appreciatiu}^ small pleasures little while heeding snudl pains
excessively. Beth's deliberate intention as well as her natural
impulse was to revei'se this in her own case as much as po.ssible;
she would not let her physical sense of well-being on a lino
morning and her intellectual delight in a good mood for work
be spoiled because of some trouble of the night before. The
ti'oubli! she would set aside so that it might not detract from the
pleasure.
But fine mornings aiul good moods for work had not come to
her aid since she discovered the mean treachery of Dan and
Bertha, and when she left Slane she was still oppressed by the
sense of their hypocrisy and deceit. As the train bore her swiftly
away from them both, however, her spirits rose. The sun shone,
the country looked lovely in its autumn bravery of tint and tone,
she felt well — and the contemplation of such people as Dan and
Bertha was not elevating: they Tuust out of her mind like any
other unholy thought, that she might be worthy to associate with
the loyal ladies and noble gentlemen whose hands were outheld
to help her. The people we cling to are those with whom we find
ourselves most at home. It is not the people who amuse us that
we like best, but tho.se who stir our deeper emotions, rouse in us
possibilities of generoxis feeling which lie latent for the most
part, and give form to our higher aspirations ; and Beth antici-
pated with a hap])y heart that it was with such she was bound to
abide.
Mrs. Kilroy met her at the station at Morningquest. " What
a bonny thing you are I " she exclaimed in her queer, abrupt way.
"I didn't realize it till I saw you walking u]) the platform toward
me. There's a cart to take your luggage to Ilverthorpe. Do you
mind coming to lunch with Mrs. Orton Beg ? She has a dear
little house in the Close, and we thought you might like to see
the catliedral. Here's the carriage. No, you get in fii'st."
THE BKTII ]{0()K.
44:
"But (loos ^Irs. Orton Bcjj want me ?" Beth Jiskod when thoy
vrero seated.
"We all want you," said Mrs. Kilroy, "if you will f(ir;4'ive our
first mistake with re;,'"ard to you, and eome out of yourself aiul be
one of us. And you'll he specially foiul of Mrs. Orton iJe;,^ when
you know her, I fancy. She's just sw<'et I She used to hat(M)iu'
works and ways, and be very conventional ; but Edith locale's
nnu'riaji-e opened her cyos. She would never have believed that
men countenanced such an iniijuity had she not svvn it herself.
The first etl'ect <)f the shock was to narrow lu>r judf^'inent and
make her sevei-e on men generally ; but she will {jfet over that in
tinu'. Man, like woman, is too bij^ a subject to {jfeiu'rali/.e about.
Ho has his faults, you know, bu.t he nuist be educated ; that is all
lie wants lie must be taught to liave a better o])inion of himself.
At present he wallows because he thinks be can't keep out of the
mire; but of course he can when h(^ learns how; he's not a bii
worse than woman naturally, only he lias a lower opinion of him-
self, and tliat keeps bim down. AVitli bis trainin<^ we .shouldn't
be a bit be*'er than lie is. In all thinj^-s that concern men ,'ind
women, you, dear, you will find that, when they start fair, the dif-
ferences between tbem just amount to six of one and half a dozen
of tlie other. Here we are."
!Mrs. Orton Beg came into the ball to greet her guests. She
was a slender, elegant, middle-aged woman, in graceful black
drap(>ries, with liair j)rematurely gray, and a face that had always
been interesting, but never handsome— a relined, intellectual, but
not strong face— the face of a patient, self-contained, long-endur-
ing person, of settled pur])ose. slowly arrived at, and then not
easily shaken. She welcomed Beth cordially, and placed her at
table so that she miglit look out at the old gray cathedral. It was
the first time Beth had seen it, and sliecould have lost herself in the
sensation of realizing its traditions, its b(>auty. and its age ; but the
conversation went on briskly, and she had to take her part. Lady
P'ulda Guthrie, an aunt of Mrs. Kilroy's, was the only other
guest. She was a beautiful saint w ith a soul which had already
progressed as far as the most spiritual part of Catholicism could
take it, and she could get no further in this incarn.ation.
"I hope you are ])re])ared to discuss any and every thing, Mrs.
Maclure," Mrs. Orton Beg warned Beth ; " for that is what you
will find yourself called upcm to do among us. The peculiarity of
man is that he will do the most atrocious things without com-
punction, but Avould be shocked if he were called upon to discuss
!
n !f
448
THE nETFI BOOK.
them. Do wliiil yoM like, is liis princij)!*', hut don't niontion it ;
p('oi)l(i form (heir opinions in discussion, iind opinions uro upt to
bo a<lv»'rst». ( )ur principle is very much the opposite."
" I hiivo just hej^nni to i<no\v the necessity for open discussion,"
Beth answered tranquilly. "I do not .se(^ how we can arrive at
happiness in life if we do not try to discover the sources of misery.
I know of notiiinj,' tliat earnest men and women should hesitate
to discuss op(>nly on i)roper occasions*."
"Oil. I'm thaidcful to hear you say 'men and women,'" An-
p<-lica l)roke in. "That is the ri<(lit new spirit ! Let us help ono
anotlu'r. Any attempt to s<>parate the interests of the sexes, as
wonuMi here and there, ami men ^nMierally, would have them
.separated, is fatal to the w(>lfaro of the whole race. The efl'orts of
foolish people to divide the interests of men and women nuiki^ mo
writhe— as if wo were not utterly hou ml up in one another, and
destined to rise or fall together: ]5ut this woman movement is
toward the ptM-feetinj,' of life, not toward the disruption of it. I
asked a symp;ithetic woman the other day why she took no part
in it, and .she answered profoundly, ' Because I am a part o/ it.'
And I am sure she was ri<,'ht. I am siu'e it is evolutionary. It is
an ellort of the race to raise its(df a step hin^her in the scale of
bein^jf. For see what it i-esolves itself into! Men respond to
what wonuMi ex])ect of them. "SVhen warriors were the woman's
ideal, men were warriors. When women preferred kni<,''hts,
pri<>sts, and troubadours, a man's ambition was to be a kni^'-lit,
])riest, or troubadour. When women thoupfht drunkenness line,
men were drunken. Now women want husbands of a nobler
nature, stronj,' in all the attributes, nu^ral aiul physical, of the
perfect num, that their children may be noble too; and thus the
ascent of man to hijjfher planes of beinj? becomes a.ssured."
"Great is the power of thought," .said Ladj' Fulda. "By
thinking these thin*i:s the race is evolvinfy them. Thouf,''ht mar-
ried to sujfgestion is a creative force. If the race believed it
Avould have wing's, in the course of ages wings would come of the
faith."
"And discussion is not enough." Beth resumed. "We should
experiment. It is very well to hold o}>inions and set \i\) theories ;
but opinions and theories are alike valueless until they are tested
by experiment."
" I see you are a true radical," said Mrs. Orton Beg. " You
would go to the root of the matter."
" Oh, yes, I am a radical in that sense of the word," Beth an-
Till'] HKTII HOOK.
419
"By
mur-
■(,'d it
if the
kould
[ries ;
^sted
IYou
an-
sworrd. " I liiivea honor of coiiscrviilisiii. Nothiiij'' is stutioiiacy.
All tliiii},'"s iirc always in a staU' of ;;roNvtli or (k-cay ; and coiiscr-
viitisiu is a staU* of drcay."
"I must rt'iiuMidjcr that," said Aii;,'<'lii'a. "It is particularly
liappy, ('Specially as applied to women - if they ai-e ever to ad-
Viiiice."
" Then don't you think they are advanciiif,'' '.'' Beth asked.
"Yes," said Anyelicu; "hut not as much as they mi;,^ht.
When you mix more with them in the way of woi'k you will he
disheartened. WonuMi art^ their own woi'st (Miemies just now.
They don't follow their leaders loyally and consistently; they
luive little i(h'a of discipline; their tendency is to ;ro <»il <>n side
issues, and hreak up into little cli(iu<'s. They are larj^ely actuated
by i)etty personal nu)tive.s, by petty jealousies, by pettines.ses of
all kinds. One anion;,'- them will arise here and there, and do
something'' jj^reat that is an lionour to them all ; hut they do not
honour her for it— perhaps because soniethin;^' in th(> way she
dresses, or some trick of manner, does not meet with the approval
of the majority. "Women are forever stumblinj,^ over triilinj.^
details; to prove themselves ri;,dit i)leases them better than to
arrive at the truth; and a vulgar personal triumph is of moi'e
moment than the triunij)]! of a great cause. In these things they
ai'e practically not a hit better than nuMi."
"They .seem worse in fact, Ix'cause we exju'ct so nnicli moi'e of
them in the way of loyalty and disinterestediu'ss," said Mrs. Orton
Beg; "and their power is so much greater, too, in .social matters;
when they misuse it, they do nuich more harm. This will not
always be so, of cour.se. As tluMr nunds expand, they will see
and understand better. At the present they do not know enough
to appreciate their own deficiencies — they do not measure the
weakness of their vacillations by comparing it with the steady
stnMigth of purpose that pr<>vail.s ; and, for want of comprehension,
they aim their silly animadversions to-day at some ojie whoso
work they are glad enough to profit by to-morrow; they make
the ta.sk of a benefactress so hard that they kill her, ami then they
give her a ])ublic fimeral. I pity them I "
"Oh, do not be hasty," said Lady Fulda. "Human beings are
not like packs of cards, to be shuflled into different combinjitions
at will and nobody the worse. There are feelings to be consid-
ered. The old sores nuist be tenderly touched even by those; who
would heal them. And when we uproot we must be careful to
replant under more favourable conditions, Avhen we demolish we
i I
■ j i g i W *
450
THE BETH BOOK.
\\
should bo prepared to rebuil') or no comfort will come of the
clmng-es. Thos(; things take time, and are best done deliberately,
and even th(^n the most cautious make their mistakes. But, still,
I believe that the force whicl' is carr^'ing us alon<^ is the force
that makes for righteousness. We women have in our minds
now what will culminate in the recognition by future genera-
tions of the beauty of goodness. Woman is to be the mother of
God in man."
Beth's heart ;r.velled at the words. This attitude was new to
her; and yet all that nas said she seemed to have heard before,
and known front the lirst. And she knew more also— away back
in that region beyond time and si«ice to which she had acces.s,
and where she fcMind herself at happy moments, ti'ans])orted by
an inipulse outside herself, which she could not control by any
elfort of will. That day, with thost new friends, she felt like one
who returns to a haj)py home after weary wanderings, and is
warmly welcomed. A groat calm settled upon her spirit. She
said little the whole time, but sat, sure of their sympathetic toler-
ance, and listened to them with that living light of interest in her
eyes to which the heart responds with confidence move surely
than to any .sj)oken word. The evil influences which had hold
her tense at Slane, had no power to trouble her here. She was
high enough above Dan and Bertha to look down upon them dis-
passionately, knowing them for what they were, yet personally
unaffected by their turpitude. It was as if she had heard of some
bad deed, and knew it to be repulsive, a thing intolerable, meriting
punishment ; yet, because it did n(*t concern her, it had lapsed
from her thoughts like a casual paragraph read in a paper which
had not brought home to her any realization of what it recorded.
During tlie afternoon her mind was stored with serene impres-
sions—service in the venerable cathedral ; the fluting of an anthem
by a boy with a birdlike voice ; some strong words from the
pulpit, not on the dry bones of doctrine, nov the doings of a bar-
barous people, led by a vengeful demon of perplexing attributes,
whom they worshipped as a deity ; but on the conduct of life, a
vital subject. Then, as they drove through the beautiful old
city, there came im})ressions of gray and green ; gray gateways,
ancient buildings, ivy, and old trees ; and, over all, sounding,
slow, calm, and significant, the marvellous chime, the message
which Morningquost heard hourly year by year, and hooded no
more than it heeded death at a distance or political complications
in Peru.
I
THE BETH BOOK.
t51
Tlie same party met ajifain at Ilverthorpe, but there were otliers
there as well — Ideala, Mi's. Kilroy's father and iiiotlicr (Mr. and
Lady Adeline Ilamilton-Wells), and Lady Galhraitli, hut not Sir
Georii-e.
In the di-awing-rooni aft(>r dinner Beth was intent upon a
portfolio of drawing's, and Ideala, seeing her alone, went up
to lier.
"Are you fond of ])ictures ? " she said to Beth.
" Yes, that is just the word," Beth answered. " I am so ' fond '
of them that even such a collection as this, which shows g'reat in-
dustry rather than great art, I find full of interest and delight in.
Hapi)y for me, perhaps, that I don't know anything about t(H'li-
nique, Suhject still appeals to my imagination as it used to do
when I was a child and loved to linger over th<' pictures on old-
fashioned pieces of music. Those pictures lure me still with
strange sensations, such as no others make me feel. I wish I
could realize now as vividly as I realized then the heauty of that
lovely lady on the song, and the whole pathetic story of the gem
that decked her queenly hrow and hound her raven hair and re-
mained a sad memorial of blighted love's despair. And that o<her
young creature, who wore a wreath of roses on the night when
first we met; and the one who related that we met. "twas iti a
crowd, and I thought he would shun me; he came, I could )iot
breathe for his eye Avas upon me ; and concluded that "twas thou
that had caused me this anguish, my mr ler. There was the gal-
lant corsair, too. just stepping out of a boat, waving his hat. His
curly hair, open shirt collar, and black tie with flying ejuls, remain
in my mind intimately associated with Byron, young love; some
who never smiled again ; the sapphire night, crisp, clear, cold ;
thick-strewn stars, all sparkling with frosty brightness — impres-
sions I would not exchange for art understood or anytliing I am
capable of feeling now before the greatest woi*k of art in the world
— so strangely am I blunted."
"What, ah'eady ?"' Ideala said compassioiuitely. " But that is
only a phase. You will come out of it and be young again and
feel strongly, which is better than knowing, I conced<'. Ttie truest
appreciation of a work of art d(«>s Jiot takt^ place in the head but
in the heart; not in thinking but in feeling. When we stand be-
fore a picture, it is not by the thoughts formulated in the mind
but by the appreciation which suffuses our whole being with
pleasure that we should estimate it."
" But isn't that a sensuous attitude ? " Beth objected.
h !''
i I
; t'
452
THE BETH BOOK.
"Yes, of tlio rijrlit kind," Id«';ila rejoined. '' Tlie senses have
tlieir uses, you know. And it is exactly your attitude as a cliild
toward the pictures on the song's. You felt it all — all tlie full
signilicancf! — long hefore you knew it .so that you could render it
into words, antl felt more, probably, than you will ever be able to
expre.s.s. Feeling is the iirst stage of tin<' thought."
Mr. Ilaniilton-Wells sti'olled toward them. He was a rather
tall, exceedingly thin man, with straight, thick gray-brown hair,
parted in the mid(ll(> and plastered down on either side of his head.
He was dressed in black velvet. His long, thin, white hands were
bedecked with handsome antique rings, art treasures in their way.
One intaglio, carved in red coral, caught the eye especially, on the
first finger of his rigflit hand. As he talked he had a trick of shak-
ing his hands ba(dv with a gesture that suggested lace ruffles get-
ting in the way, and in his whole appearance and demeanour
there was something that recalled the days when velvet and lace
were in vogue for gentlemen. He spoke with great preciseness;
and it was not always po.ssible to be sure that he at all appreciated
the elt'ect of the extraordinary remarks he was in the habit of
making, which apjKirent obliviousness enabled him to discourse
about many things without oti'ence which other people were
obliged to leave unnientioned.
" Nowadays, when I see two ladies together in a corner talking
earnestly," he ohserved, " I always suspect that they are discussing-
the sex question."
" Oh, the sex question ! " Ideala exclaimed. " I am sick of sex.
Sex is a thing to be endured or enjoyed, not to he discu.ssed."
" Indeed !" said Mr. Hamilton-Wells, nodding slowly, as if in
profound consideration, and shaking back his imaginary ruffles.
" Is that your opinion, Mrs. Maclure ?"'
" I keep a sejKirate compartment in my mind for the sex ques-
tion," Beth answered, colouring — "a compartment which has to
be artificially lighted. There is no ray of my.self that would natu-
rally penetrate to it. "When I take up a book and find that the
theme of it is She irns beautiful, he hwed her, I put it down
again with a groan. The monotony of the subject palls upon me.
It is the stock in trade of every author, as if there were nothing of
interest in the lives of men and women but their sexiial relations."
"Indeed, yes," said Mr. Hamilton-Wells, with hlaml delibera-
tion ; " but society thinks of nothing else. Blatant sexuality is
the i)redominant characteristic of the upper clas.ses, and the rage
for the sexual passion is principally set up and fostered by a litera-
THE BETH BOOK.
453
if in
b tiles.
Iques-
la.s to
liiatu-
jt tho
llown
li lue.
jig of
)ns;'
hera-
ty is
|rage
tera-
ture inflatod with sexuality, and by costumes wliich seem to he
designed foi' the purpose. In the evening, now, just think I Kvcn
quite elderly ladies, witli a laudahle desire to pU'a.se, otlVr th<'ni-
selves in evening dres.s — and a very great deal of themselves some
times — to the eye that may be attracted."
When he had spoken he shook back his imaginary rutTles,
brought his hands togetlier in front of him, with the lingers tip to
tip, in a j)ii)us attitude, and strolled up tlie long room slowly,
shaking his head at intervals witli an intent exi)ression, as if he
w^ere praying for society.
" What a bond) ! " Beth gasped. " Is lie always— so ? "
"Generallv," Ideala rejoined. "And I can never make out
whether he means well, but is stu])id and tactless, or whether he
delights to spi'ing such explosives on inoll'ensive jjcople. He sits
on a Board of (iuardians of the Poor, composed of ladies and gen-
tlemen, and the other day, at one of their meetings, he ])roposed
to remove the stigma attaching to ilh^gitimac}'. He said that
illegitimacy can not justly he held to rellect on anybody's con-
duct, since — so he had always understood — illegitimacy was birth
froni natural causes."
"And what hapjiened ?"
Ideala slightly shrugged her shoulders. " The proposition was
seriously discussed, and a parson and one or two other nu'inhers
of the board threatened to rc^tire if he remained on it. But remain
he did, and let them retire; and I can not helj) fancying that his
whole object was to get them to go. Sometimes I think that he
must have a peculiar sense of humour, which it gives him great
grati fication to indulge — as others do good — by stealth. He makes
questionable jests for himself only, and enjoys them alone. But
apart from this eccentiicity he is a kind and generous man. always
ready to help with time and money when there is any good to be
done."
When Beth went to her room that night .she ex))erienced a
strange sense of satisfaction which she could not account for until
she found Jierself alone, with no fear of being disturbed. It seemed
to her then that she hiid never before known what comf<»rt was,
never slept in sucli a deligiitful bed. so fresh and cool and sweet.
She '.vas like one wiio has been bathed and perfum<'(l after the
def.lements of a long, dusty journey, and is able to rest in peace.
As she stretched herself Ix^tween the sheets she expf'rienced a
blessed .sensation of relief, \vhieh was a revelation to her. Until
that ; oment she had never quite realized the awful oppression of
• V
!«:
454
THE BETH BOOK.
her niurried life, the inevitable degradation of intimate associa-
tion with such a man as her husband.
The next day the ladies went out to sit on the lawn together in
the shade of the trees with tlieir books and work. Tliere were no
sounds but such as in the country seem to accentuate tlie quiet,
and are aids, not to thought, but to that higher faculty which
awakes in the silence, and is to thought what the mechanical in-
strument is to the voice.
" How heavenly still it is ! " Beth ejaculated. " It stirs me,
fills me — how shall I express it ? — makes me cognizant, in some
sort conscious, of things I don't know — things beyond all this and
even better w'orth our attenti(jii. The stillness here in these sur-
roundings has the same benign effect on me that perfect .solitude
has elsewhere. What a luxury it is, though — solitude ! I mean
the privilege of being alone when one feels the necessity. I am
fortunate, however," .she added quickly, lest she should seem lo be
making a pei'sonal complaint, " in that I have a seci'et chamber
all to my self, and so higli up that I can almost hear what the
wind whispers to the stars to make them twinkle. I go there
when I want to be alone to think my thoughts, and no one dis-
turbs me — not even my nearest neighbours, the angels ! though if
they did sometimes I should not complain. '
" They come closer than you think, perhaps," said Lady Fulda,
who had just strolled up with a great bunch of lilies on her arm.
"Consider the lilies," she went on, holding tl^em out to Be'h,
"Look into them; think about them. No, though, do not tli! -k
about them— feel. There is purification in the sensation of their
beauty."
" Is purification always possible ? " Beth said. " Can evil ever
be cast out, once it has taken root in the mind ? "
" Are you speaking of thoughts or acts, I wonder," Lady Fulda
rejoined, sitting down beside Beth and looking dreamily into her
fl(nvers. " You knov/ what we hold hero— that no fal.se step is
irretrievable so long as we desire what is perfectly right. It is
not the things we know of, nor even the things we have done— if
the act is not habitual— but tlic things we approve of that brand
us as bad. The woman whose princi])les are formed out of a
knowledge of good and evil is better, is more to be relied upon,
than the woman who does not know enough to choose between
them. It is not what the body does, but what the mind thinks
that corrupts us."
" But from <"ertain deeds evil thoughts are inseparable," Beth
THE BETH BOOK.
4.)0
Fulda
to lier
•;t('p is
It is
lie— if
brand
of a
upon.
|t\v«'«>n
Uinks
Beth
i
sigfhed ; "and surely toleration of evil comes from undue fainil-
iarity v.itli it ? "
" Yes, if you do not keep your ('oii(l<>mnation side by side with
your kiiowled<,''e of it," Lady Fulda a^rcrd.
The night before she retui-ned to Slane, Beth attended a meet-
ing of the new order -which Ideala had founded. It was the lirst
thing of the kind she had been to, and she was mucli int(>rested
in the pi-oceediiigs. Only women were pres(>iit. I^eth was one of
a semicircle of ladies who sat on the platform behind the chair.
There were subjects of grave social importance under discussion,
and most of the si)eakiiig was exceedingly good, wise, temperate,
and certainly not wanting in humour.
Toward the end of the evening there was an awkward pause,
because a lady who was to have sjioken had not arrived. Mrs.
Kilroy, who was in the chair, looked round for some one to 1111
the gap, and caught Beth's eye.
" May I speak ? " Beth whispered eagerly, leaning over to her.
" I have something to say."
Angelica nodded, gave the audience Beth's name, and then
leaned back in her chair. The shorthand writers looked up indif-
ferently, not expecting to hear anything worth recording.
Beth went forwai-d to the edge of the platform with a look of
intentness on her delicate face, and utterly oblivious of herself or
anything else but her subject. She never thought of asking her-
f;elf if she could speak ; all she considered was what slui was going
to say. She claspcnl her slender hands in front of ber and began,
siowly, with the formula she had heard the other speakers use:
" Madam Chairman, Ladies "
She paused, then suddenly spoke out on TJie Desecration of
Marriage.
At the first rcr,onant notes of her clear, dispa.ssioiiate voice
there was a movement of interest, a kind of awakening in the
hall; an' the ladies on the platform behiiul her. who had lH'(>n
whispering to each other, wriiiiig notes iuid passing them al)out,
and ])aying more attention to the l>iisiiiess of the meeting gener-
ally than to the speakt rs. paused an I looked up.
Suddenly Ideula, with kindling eyes, leaned over io '^Trs. Orton
Beg, grasped her arm, and said something eagerlv N^rs. Orton
Beg nodded. The word went round. Belh held tiie hall, ai " w.i.s
still rising from point to point, carrying the audieiuM- up with lier
to a pitch of excitement, which linaily culminated in a great burst
of applause.
456
THE BETn BOOK.
Beth, taken aback, strapped sliort, surprised and bewildered hy
the racket, h)()ked about lier, faltered a few inure words, and then
sat down abruptly.
The applause was renewed and prolonged.
"What docs it mean ? " Beth asked Ideala in an agonj-. " Did
I say sonietliing' absurd ?"
"My dear cliild," Ideala answered, laughing, "they are not
jeering, but cheering."
" Is that cheering ? " Beth exclaimed in an awestricken tone,
overcome to find sIk^ liad produced such an effect. " I feared they
meant to be derisive.''
" I didn't know you were a speaker," Mrs. Orton Beg whispered.
" I am not," Beth answered apologetically. " I never spoke be-
fore—nor heard any one else speak till to-night. Only I have
thought and thought about these things, and I could not keep it
back — what I had to say.''
" That is the stuff an orator is made of," some strange lady
muttered approvingly.
CHAPTER XLY.
When Beth returned to Slane, Dan received her so joyously
she wondered what particulai'ly successful piece of turpitude he
had been busy about. He was always effusive to her when things
went well with him. At first she had suppo.sed that this effusive-
ness \s IS the outcome of affection for her; but when she began to
know him, she perceived that it was only the expression of some
persoi il gratification. He had been quite demonstrative in liis
attentions to her during the time that Bertha Petterick stayed in
the house.
" By the way, there is a letter for you," he said, when they
were at lunch.
" Is tli{ re ' " Beth answered. " Who from ? "
"How the devil am I to know?"' he rejoin«'d. glancing up at
the mantelpiece. " I can't tell who your correspondents are by
instinct."
l>«'th's ey<'S followed his tv) the nianti'Ipiece, where she .saw a
large square envelope propped up against an ornament in a con-
spicuous position, and recognized the unmistakable, big, clear, firm
hand of Bertha Petterick, and the thick kind of jwiper she always
used.
THE BETH BOOK.
4;
j<
»yously
Aide lie
things
llfusive-
•yau to
if sonic
in liis
iiyecl ill
In tlicy
up at
|are by
saw a
a ( <»n-
\r. firm
hvuys
Betli had boon tliinkin;^' about Jlcrlha on the way home. Slio
know that, if JJcrtha liad been as wron;,' in body as in mind and
moral nature, she would have liail compassion on licr; and she
liad determined to tolerate her as it was, to do what she could for
her maimeil soul, just as she would liave ministei-ed to her had
her malaily been i)liysical. But Pan's hypocrisy about the letter
milled her into oi)posilioii. lie knew lierthas liandwritin;^'' as
well as she did, and was doubtless eiiually well ac([uainled with
the contents of the letter; and this aU'ectation of iynorancc must
therefore mean somethiii}^ sjjeeial. Probably he was anxious to
propitiate her with reg-ard to whatever Bertlia mifj^ht be writinf^
about. But Beth was not to be manayed in that way, and so she
let the letter be.
As she was leavin<^ the room aft<?r lunch Dan called after her,
"You have forgotten your letter."
"It doesn't matter," Beth answered. "Any time will do for
that."
The letter was left there for days unoi)ened, and it had the
effect of stopping tiic conver.sation at meals, for although Dan
did not allude to it again, he constantly glanced at it, and it was
evident that he had it on his mind.
At last, one day, wlicn he came in, he said ; "I have just seen
Mrs. Petterick, and .she tells me Bertha wrote to you days ago,
and has had no answer."
"Indeed!" Beth observed indiiferently. "I shouldn't think
she could have anything to sa}' to me that specially recpiired an
answer."'
Dan fidgeted about a little, then burst out suddenly: " Wliy
the devil don't you open the girl's letter T'
"Because yc^u pretended you didn't know who it was from,"
Beth said.
"I declare to (rod I never pretended anything of the kind,''
Dan answcHMl hotly.
Beth hiugbed. Then she went to the mantelj)iece. took down
the letter, turned it over ;ind displayed llic huge moiiogratn and
scroll with "Bertha" printe'd on it. wiili wliich it was bedizened,
laughed again a little, and threw the letter. unojH'jicd, into the
fire: "There!" she said. "Let that be an end of tlie letter, and
Bertha [Vtterick. too, so far as I im\ concerned. Slu; bores me.
that girl ! I will not be bothered with her."
"Well, well!" Dan exclaimed pathetically, looking hard at
the ashes of the letter on the coals ; " that's gi'atitude ! I do my
1
V a
458
THE BETH BOOK.
! I'
best to make an honest living" for you, and you repay me by
afrrontin;>' one of my best patients. And wliat the unfortunate
girl has done to ofTend you the devil only knows. I'm sure she
would have blaeked your hoots for you when she was here, she
was so devoted."
"She was pretty .servile, I grant that," Beth answered, dispas-
sionaUdy. " But that is enough of Bertha Petterick, please. Here
is the butcher's bill for the la.st month, and the bakei-'s, the milk,
the wine, the groceries, all nearly doubled on Bertha's account.
If adding to your expenses in every way nudvcs a good patient,
she was excellent, certainly. I'll leave you the bills to console
you; but, if you value yoiu* piece of mind, don't dare to wcn-ry
me about them. You were quite right when you said 1 was too
young to be troubled about money matters, and I shall not let
myself be troubled — especially when they are matters, like these
bills, for which I am not responsible." She was leaving the room
as she spoke, but stopped at the door. "And, Dan," she added,
quoting hi.s favourite phra.se, " I'd be cheery if I were you. There's
n(4hing like being cheery. Why, look at me I I never let any-
thing worrv me I "
She l(^ft Dan speechless and went to her secret chamber, where
she sat and suffered for an hour, blaming herself for hen* lightness,
her contrariness, her want of dignity, and all those faults which
■were the direct consequence of Dan's evil iniluence. She was fall-
ing farther and farther away from her ideal in everything, and
knew it, but seemed to have lost the power to save herself. The
degeneration had begun in small matters of discipline, apparently
unimportant, but each one of consequence in reality as part of her
system of self-control. From the moment we do a thing, thiidcing
it to be wrong, we degenerate. If it be a princi})le that we aban-
don, it does not matter what the principle is, our whole moral
fibre is loosened by the gap it makes. B(!th, who )uid hitherto
shunned easy-chairs, as Aunt Victoi'ia had taught her. le.st she
should be enervated by lolling, now began to take to them, and
so lost the strengthening effect of a wh(desome ciToi-t. Other
little observances, too, little regular habits which discipline mind
and body to such good purpose, slipped from her— such as the
care of her skin after the numner of the ladies of her familv, who
had been renowned for their wonderful complexions. This had
been enjoined upon her ])y her mother in her early girlhood as a
solemn duty, and had entailed much .self-denial in matters of food
and driidc, quantities being restricted, and certain things prohibited
r
THE BETH BOOK.
459
iiban-
moral
Itlierto
'st she
111, and
Other
mind
las the
who
lis liad
|)d as a
f food
iiibited
;
at cortain times, while otliers were forbidden altojjetlier. She had
liad to excvcisc patience, also, in the coiicoction and use of deli-
cately perfumed washes of tonic and emollient properties, homo
distilled, so as to be perfectly pure; all of which had been sli-ictly
pi'actised by her, like sacred rites or superstitious observances upon
the exact ])erformance of which j'l'ood fortune depends. In such
mattei's she now became lax. And, besides the care of hei- person,
she neg'lected the care of her clothes, which had been so beiielicial
to her mind ; for it must !)(> remembered that it was duriu;,'' those
long hours of meditation, while she sat sewin^^ that her readiu},'
had been difJi^ested, her knowledj^^e assimilated, her opinions formed,
and her random thoughts collected and ai'rangcd ready to be turned
toaccoun' on an emergency. Until this time, too, she had kept
Sunday rictly as a day of rest. l^>ooks and woi-k. and all elso
that had occupied her during the week, were i)ut away on Satur-
day night and not taken out again until Monday morning • and
the consequence was c(jmplete mental relaxation. But now she
began to do all kinds of littli> things which she had hitherto
thought it wrong to do on Sunday, so that the sanitary ell'ect of
the day of rest — or of change of <)ccu))ation, for sometimes Sunday
duties are arduous — was gradually lost, and she no longer returned
to her work on Monday strengthened and refreshed. Utile by
little her "good reading" was also neglected, and inst'-ad of rely-
ing upon her own resolution, as had hitherto been her wont, she
began to seek the prop of an oild cu]) of tea or coffee at irregular
hours, to raise her spirits if she felt down, or stinuilate her if she
were out of sorts and wt)rk was not easy, all of which t«Mided to
weaken her will. Then, by degrees, she began to lose the balance
of mind which had been wont to carry her on from one little daily
doing to another with calm deliberation, taking them each in turn
without haste or rest, and finding time for them all. Now, the
things that .she did not care about .she began to do with a rush, .so
as to get to her writing. She wanted to be always at that; and
the consequence was a wearing sensation, as of one wlu) is driven
to death, and has never time enough for any single thing.
But it was in these days, nevertheless, that she began to write
with decision. Hitherto she had been merely trying her i)en —
feeling her way ; but now she unconsciously cea.sed to follow in
other people's footsteps, and struck out for herself boldly. She
had come back from llv<'rtliorpe with a burning idea to be ex-
pressed, aiul it was for the shortest, crispesl, clearest way to ex-
press it that she tried. I'oreign phrases she discarded, and she
400
THE BETH BOOK.
\ I
ii"
i i
never attnmptod to produce an eccentric efTect by palvjinizinf^
obsolete words, I'ijflitl y diseai'ded for luck of vitality, into a j,^bastly
seiubhuiee of life. Her own lan<iua;,re, stroiij;' and pure, siie found
a sullicieiit instrument for ber purpose. Wben tlie true impulse
tt) write came, ber line tbeories about style only bampered ber, so
sbe ca.st tbem aside, as babitual atVectations arc cast aside and
natural emotious naturally expressed, in moments of diM'j) feelinj^' ;
and from tliat time forward sbe displayed wbat bad doubtless
been comiiij,'- to ber by practice all aloijif— a metbod and manner
of ber own.
Sbe produced u little book at tbis time, tlie first tiling- of any-
real importance sbe bad accomplisbed as yet; and during- tbo
writ in;; of it sbe enjoyed an intm-val of uiudloyed ba])piness, tbo
must i)erfect tbat sbe bad ever known. Tlie world witbout be-
came as notbing to ber; it was tbe world witbin tbat sij^nilied.
Tlie terrible sense of loneliness from wbicb sbe bad always suf-
fered more or less was suspended, and sbe befj^an to wonder bow
it was sbe bad ever felt so desolate tbat often, in tbe streets of
S.'ane, sbe would bave been grateful to anybody wbo biul spoken
to ber kindly. Now sbe said to berself sincerely, "Never less
alon.' tlian wIumi alone!" And up in tbe quiet of ber secret
clianiher, witb tbe serene blue above, tbe green eartb and tbe
wbispering trees below, and all ber little treasures about ber : tbe
book's, tbe pictm'(>s, tbe jin'tty bang-ing-s, and little ornaments for
llowers, tilings sbe bad indulged in by deg-rees since ber motber's
deatb bad left ber witb tbe money in ber bands wbicb sbe bad
made to discbarge Dan's debt— up tbere at ber ease in tbat jieace-
ful sbrine, secure from intrusion, "Tbere is no joy but calm I "
was ber constant ejaculation. Tben again, too, sbe felt to per-
fection tbe fine wonder, tbe tine glow of a g^reat inspiration, and
realized anew tbat tberein all tbe pleasures of tbe senses added
togetlu'r are contained ; tbat inspiration in its bigber manifesta-
tions is like love — tbat it is love, in fact, love witbout tbe lover;
tliere being all tbe joy of love in it, but none of tbe trouble.
But, like most young writers wben tbey set up a liigb ideal
for tbeuiselves and are striving- conscientiously to arrive at it,
because tbe tiling came easily sbe fancied sbe bad not done ber
best, and was dissatisfied. Sbe talked to berself about fatal facil-
ity witbout reflecting- tbat in time ease comes by practice ; nor
did sbe discriminate between tbe flow of cbeap ideas pumped up
from all sources for tbe occasion, wbicb satisfies tbe conceit of
shallow workers, and tbe deep stream tbat bubbles up of itself
THE UETII BOOK.
4<;i
ideal
at it,
He her
facil-
nor
^ed lip
^eit of
itself
i
when it is onco released and fh)ws fre<>Iy from tlie coiiviclions,
the observations, and th«^ knowled^'e of an earnest thinkt r. I)illi
denee is a help to some, bnt to Beth it was a liindraiicr, a soni-ce
of weaUness. There was ni> fear of her takin<r herself for a liea\i'n-
born j^enius. Jler trouble had always l)een her (loiil)t of the
merit of anythin<^ she did. She should have been en<'oinMu''i'il.
but, instead, she had always been repressed. Aecordinyly. when
she had finished her little masterpiece, she put it away with the
idea of rewritinj^ it, and making'- somethiiifif of it when she should
be able; and then she Ix'^an a much more 2>retentious work, and
thou^'ht it must be better because of the trouble it jjave lu'r.
Gradually, from now, she ^-ave up all her time to readin;,'- and
writinf^; and she overdid it. Work in excess is as nnicli a vice
as idlen<'ss, and it was particularly bad for lleth, whose constitu-
tion had beji^un to be undermined by dutiful submission. The
consultin<f rooms of specialists are full of such cases. Tliere arc
marriages which for tlie ignorant gii'l preached into dutiful sub-
mission, who.se "innocence" has been carefully preserved for the
purpose, mean prostitution as absolute, as reijugnant, as cruel, and
as contrary to nature as that of the streets. Beth's marriat^'e was
one of those. Until she went to Ilverthorpe she had nevei* heard
that there was a duty she owed to herself as well as to her hus-
band ; and, as Sir George Galbraith had said, her brain was too
delicately poised for the life she had been leading. Work had
been her oi)iate ; but, unfortunately, site did not understand the
syni])toms which should hav<' warned her that she was overdoing
it, and lier nerves became exceedingly irritable. Noises which
she had never noticed in her life before began to worrv her to
death. Very often, when she was spoken to, she could hardly
answer civilly. At meals everything that was handed to her was
just the very thing she did not want. She quarrelled with all her
food, drank quantities of strong cotlee for the sake of the nionien-
tary exhilaration, and even tried wine; ])ut as it only made her
feel worse, she gave that up. Writing became a rage with her,
and the more she had to force herself the longer she sat at it.
She would spend hours over one sentence, turning it and twisting
it, and never be satisfied ; and when she was at last ol)liged to stop
and go downstairs lest she should be missed, she went with her
brain congested, and her com})lexion, which was naturally pale
and transparent, all flushed or bk)tched with streaks of crimson.
"What's the matter with your face ?" Dan said to her one day,
apt, as usual, to comment oii'ensively on anything wrong.
i
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
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Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, NY. 14580
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■^^
Si?
i^
462
THE BETn BOOK.
ii
I
\
" I should like you to toll mo," Both answorod.
" You'd bottor tiiko sonio citrato of iron and quinine."
"You've prescrihod citrat«' of iron and quinine for cverythinjf
I've ever had sinc^^ I knew you," said Beth. "If I have any
more of it I shall be like the man in the quack adverti.soniont,
who felt he could conscientiously recommend a tonic because he
had taken it for fourteen years. I should like something that
would act a little quicker."
Dan left the room and bang-ed the door.
That afternoon Beth, up in her shrine at work, suddenly began
to wonder what he was doing. As a rule she did not trouble her-
self about his ])ursuits ; but now all at once she became an xiou.s.
The thought of all the unholy places that he miglit be at (and the
unfortunate girl knew all about all of them, fortlicre wius no horror
of life with which her husband had not madt- her acquainted)
filled her with dread — with a sensjition entirely now to her, and
absolutely foreign to her normal nature. Her feeling for Dan
and Bertha when she discovered their treachery had been one of
contempt. Their disloyalty, and the p(!tty mean deceits which it
enUiiled, made it difTicult to tolerate their presence, and she was
always glad to get rid of them, wherever they might go. Now,
hovvever, she was seized upon with a kind of rage at the recollec-
tion of their intrigue, of the scene in the garden, the glances she
had intercepted, their stolen interviews, clandestine correspond-
ence, and impudent security. It was all retrospective, this feel-
ing, but the torment of it was none the less acute for that. She
rocalli'd the scene in the garden, and her heart throbbed with
an<j:or. She regretted her own tomporato conduct, and imagined
herself stealing out upon thoin. standing before them, and i)ouring
forth floods of invective till they cowered. She wished she had
refused to lot l^ortha enter the house again and had threatened
to expose Dan if he <lid not meekly submit to her dictation. She
ought to have exposed him, too. She should have gone to Ber-
tha's mother — But where was Dan at that moment ? She jumped
up. rushed d'twn to her room, put on her outdoor things in hot
haste, and i*an downstairs, determined to go and see ; but as she
entered the hall at one end of it, Dan himself came in by the hall
door at the other. The relief was extraordinary.
" Hallo ! where are you otF to ? " he said.
"Just going for a little walk," she answered, speaking ungra-
ciously and without looking at him. Now that lihe saw him, her
ordinary feeling for him returned, but, instead of being gentle
1
I
THE BETH BOOK.
4G3
and polite as usual, she found herself showing in her manner
soniethin.f; of the contempt she felt, and it pleased her to do it.
She was glad to go out and he in the open air away from him, hut
she had not gone far hefore the torment in her mind hegan again.
Why had he come in so unusually t^arly ? Was there anything
going on in the house ? He was always very familiar with the
servants
She stopped sliort at this, turned hack, and went in as hur-
riedly as she had gone out. In the hall she stood a moment,
listening. The house seemed unusually quiet. A green-haize
door separated the kitchen and ottices from the hall. She opened
it aiul saw Minna in the butler's pantry cleaning the plate.
Minna was parlour maid now, a housemaid having been added to
the establishment when Miss Petterick came, .so that young lady
might be well waited on.
" I think we should give the girl full value for her money,
you know, even if we do without something ourselve.s," Dan had
said in the generous, thoughtful way that had so often imposed
upon Beth.
Beth asked Minna where Drew, the housemaid, wjis.
"It's her afternoon out, ma'am," Minna answered.
" So it is," said Beth. " I had forgotten."
"Do you want anything, ma'am ?" Minna asked. "You're
looking poorly. Would 3'ou like a cup of tea ?"
"No, thank you," Beth rejoined, then changed her mind.
"Yes, I should, though. Get me one while I'm talking my things
off and bring it to me in the dining-room. Where is your
master ? "
" I don't know, ma'atn. I've not heiird if he's come in ; but it's
full early for him yet,'' Minna replied, as she took oil" her work-
ing apron.
While she was talking to the girl the worry in Beth's head
stopped and she felt as usual. Going quietly upstairs, she fancied
she heard some one moving in her bedroom, and, entering it by
way of the dressing-room, she discovered Dan on his kn(M's on
the floor, prying into one of the boxes she had had with her at
Ilverthrope and kept locked until she sliould feel inclined to un-
pack it. lie .seemed to have had all the contents out, and was
ju.st deftly repacking it. As he replaced the dresses, he felt in
the pfK'ket of each, and in one he found an old letter, which he
read.
Beth withdrew on tiptoe and went downstairs again, wonder-
i
4C4
THE BETH BOOK.
I
I
ing at tho man. She took off her hat and jacket and ensconced
herself with the newspaper in an easy-cliair. Minna came pres-
ently with fragrant tea and hot buttered toast, and talked ciieer-
fully about some of her own interests. Beth treated her servants
like human beings, and rarely had any trouble witb them. She
had learned the art from Harriet, who had awakened her sympa-
thies and taught her practically wheri she was a child what serv-
ants have to suffer, and " well loved and well served " exactly
described what Beth was as a mistress. When Minna withdrew
and she had had her tea and toast, she felt quite right again and
read the paper with interest. The shock of the real trouble had
ousted the imaginary one for the nioment.
The next morning, however, as she toiled witli flushed face
and weary brain, stultifying her work with painful elaboration,
she was seized with another fit of jealous rage, just as she had
been the day before. Her mind in a moment, like a calm sea
caught by a sudden tempest, seethed with horrible suspicions of
her husband. His gross ideas, expressed in coarse language, had
hitherto been banished from her mind by her natural refinement;
but now, like the works of a disordered machine, whirling with
irresponsible force, thoughts suggested by him came crowding in
the language he habitually used, and she found herself accusing
him with convicticm of all she had ever heard others accused of
by him. For a little she pursued this turn of thought, then all at
once she jumped up and rushed downstsiirs, goaded again to act —
to avenge herself, to dog him down to one of his haunts, and then
confront him, revile him, expose him.
It wjiii a tranquil gray day in early autumn, the kind of day, full
of quiet charm, which had always been grateful to Beth ; but now,
as she stood on the doorstep, with wrinkled forehead, dilated eyes,
and compressed lips, putting her gloves on in feveri.sh haste, she
felt no tranquillizing charm and saw no beauty in the tangled
hedgerows, bright with bryony berries, the tinted beeches, the
Canadian poplars whispering mysteriously by the water coui*se at
the end of the meadow, the glossy iridescent plumes of the rooks
that ptussed in little parties, silhouetted, darkly bright, against the
level sky; it was all without significance to her; her further
faculty was suspended, and even the recollection of anj'thing she
had been wont to feel had lapsed, and she perceived no more in
the scene surrounding, in the colours and forms of things, the
sounds and motions, than those perceive whose eyes have never
been opened to anything beyond what appears to the grazing
I
TOE BETH BOOK.
4G5
full
now,
eyes,
she
glod
the
•se at
ooks
the
fther
she
B*e in
., tlie
ever
slug
cattle. In many a heavy hour slio liad found doli}^)it in Nature ;
but now again slie liad lost that solace ; the plory had departed,
and she had sunk to one of the lowest depths of human pain.
Not understjindinij the fri{,''htful artliotion that had come upon
her, she made no attempt to control her disorde!*ed fancy, hut
hurrif'dolf into the town and hovei-ed about the places wliich Dan
had pointed out as beinj? of special evil interest, and seairlied tlie
streets for him, acting ujxm the impulse without a doubt of the
propriety of what she was doing. Had the obsession taken another
form, had it seemed right to her to murder him, th<^ necessity
would have been jis imperative, and she would have murdered
him, not only without compunction, but with a sense of satisfac-
tion in the d<HHl.
She pui*sued her search for hours, but did not find him : then
•went home, and there he was, standing on the doorstep, looking
out for her.
" Where on earth have you been ? " he said.
"Where on earth have you been yourself ?" she rejoined.
"Minding u\y own business," he answered.
"So have I," she retorted, pushing ])ast lujn into the hall.
He had never .seen her like that before, and Ik; stood looking
after her in perplexity.
She went upstairs, and threw herself on her bed. The worry
in her head was awful. Turn and toss iis slie would, the one idea
pui*sued her. until at hist s\w, groaned aloud : '() God, relea.se me
from this dreadful man I"
After a time, being thoroughly exhausted, she dropped into a
troubled sleep.
When she awoke, Dan was stiuiding looking at her.
"Aren't you well. Beth?" he said. "You've be(>n moaning
and muttering and carrying on in your sleep as if you'd got
fever."
" I don't think I am well." she answered in her natural manner,
the pressure on her brain being ejisier at the moment of awaken-
ing.
He felt her pul.se. "You'd better get into bed." he said ; "and
I'll fetch you a sedative draught. You'll be all right in tlie
morning.
Beth wjis onlv too thankful to get into bed. When he re-
turned with the draught she asked him if he were going out
again.
" No, not unless I'm sent for," he said. " Where the devil
, J
rrsr
400
THE BETH BOOK.
sliould I be going to ? It's close on dinner time." Beth shut
her ciycs. "If he is sent for and go(>s," she reUeeted, "I shall
know it is a ruse to deceive me; and I shall get up and follow
him.'
lie left her to sleep, and went downstairs. But Beth could not
sleep. The draught quieted her mind for a little ; tliei' the worry
began again as bad as ever, and she found herself straining her
attention to discover to whom he wtis talking, for she fancied she
heard him whisi>ering with some one out in the passage. She
bore the suspicion a while, then jumped out of bed impetuously
and opened the door. The gas wtis burning low in the passag<\
but she could see that there was no one about. Surely, though,
there were voices downstiiirs. BarefcK)ted, and only in her night-
dress, she went to see. Yes, there were voices in the dining-room
now ! She flung the door wide open. Dan and another man, a
crony of his, who had dropped in casually, were sitting smoking
and chatting over their whiskies and sods !.
Beth, becoming conscious of her nightdress the moment she
saw them, turned and lied back to her bed, greatly relieved in
her mind by the sluKik of her own indiscretion.
*' Wiiat a mad thing to do ! " she thought. " I hope to good-
ness they didn't see me ! "'
A mad (fiing to do.
The words, when they recurred to her, were a revelation,
"What had she been doing all day ? Mad things ! What was this
sudden haunting horror that had seized upon her ? Why, mad-
ness ! Dan was just as he had always been. The change was in
herself and only nuidness could account for such a change.
There was madness in the family. She remembered her father
and the "moonfaced Bessie"— the familiarities with servants, too;
surely her mother had sud'ered, and doubtless this misery which
had come upon her had been communicated to her before her
birth. Jealous-mad she was; that was what it meatxt, the one
idea goading her on to do what would otherwise have been im-
possible, possessing her in spite of herself, and not to be banished
by any effort of will.
"Heaven help me!" she groaned. "What will become of
me?"
Then, as if in reply, there rose to lier lips involuntarily the
assurance which recurred to her now for her help and comfort in
every hard moment of her life, like a refrain, "I shall suc-
ceed ! "
THE BETH BOOK.
4r,7
And sho set horsolf bravely to conceal her trouble, whatever it
cost her, and to conquer it.
But it was a liard battle. For months the awful worry in her
liead continued, the same tiioughts haunted her, tlie .same jealous
rage possessed her, and she knew no cure excei)t when Dan was
at hand. The trouble always pjissed when she had him under
observation. She could not read, she could not write, sho was tt»o
restless to sit and sew for more than a few moments at a tinu'. Up
and down sUuins she went, out of the hou.se and in aji^ain, fan<'yinjf
always, when in one place, that she would be better in another,
but fnuling no peace anywhere, no brigrhtne.ss in the sunshine, m>
beauty in Nature, no intt^rest in life. Through the long .solitary
hours of the long solitary days she fouglit her aflliction with her
mouth set hard in determination to conquer it. She met the
promptings of her disordered fancy with answers from her other
self: "He and Bertha Petterick are together, that is why he is so
late," the iiend would asseverate. "Very likely," her temp( rat(i
self would reply. " But they nuiy have been together any day
this two yeans, and I knew it, and i)itied and despised them, but
felt no pain ; why should I suffer now ? Becau.se my mind is di.s-
ordered. But I shall recov(>r ! I shall succec^d I"
She would look at the clock, however, every five minutes iti an
agony of suspense until Dan came in. Then she had to fight
against the impul.se to question him. which beset her as strongly
as the iujpulse to follow him, and that was always upon her ex-
cept when liis ])resence arrested it. Never once through it all,
however, did she think of death as a relief; it was life .she looked
to for help, more life and fuller. She could interest herself in
nothing, care for nothing ; all feeling of affection for any one
had gone and was re))laced by suspicions and rage. In her tor-
ment her cry was : "Oh, if .some one would only care for nu' I for
me as I am with all mv faults I If thev would onlv foririve me
my misery and help me to care again — help me also to th<; luxury
of loving I "
Forgive her her misery I The world will forgive anything but
that; it tramples on the wretched as tin- herd turns on a wounded
beast, not to put it out of its pain, but because the sight of sufl'er-
ing is an offence to it. If we can not enliven our acquaintaiices,
they will do little to enliven us. Sad faces are shunned ; and
signs of suffering excite less sympathy than repulsion. Tlie spirit
of Christ the Con.soler has been driven out from among us.
Beth poured herself out in lettei-s at this time rather more than
468
THE BETU BOOK.
' f
was hor linbit; it wns an oflTort to pot into toucli witli tlio rost of
the world jiffiiin. In one to .lim, spcukiu}? of her Iiojhvs of su<'c«'ss,
she SiM she slKMild ;,'rt on better with her work if she had inoro
sympatliy shown her; to whidi he replied by joeriiif,' at lier.
What did slie mean by such nonsense I But that was tl>e way
Willi women ; tliey were all sickly sentimental. Sympathy, in-
deed ! She should think herself devilish lucky to have a good
husband and a homo of lier own. Many a <j;'u'\ wtmld envy lier.
Ho wrote also to other membei*s of the family on the subject, as
if it were a ran; joko worth .spivadin/^ that Both wanted more
sympathy; and Beth received .several lettei*s in which the writers
told hor what their oj)inioii was ()f hor and hor complaints as
compared to that good hu.sl)and of hoi-s, who was always .so bright
and (djoery. All their concern was for the worthy man who had
done .so much for Both. They had no patience with hor, could
scarcely conceal their amusement with this la.st absurdity, but
thought she should bo laughed out of her fads and fancies. That
was the only time Both .sought .sympathy from any of hor rela-
tions. Afterward she took to writing theni bitter letters in which
she told them what slu; thought of them as freely as they told
hor. "What is the use," .she .said to Jim, " what is the use of si.s-
tors and wives b(Mi;g n;fined and virtuous if their fathei*s, brothers,
hu.sbands, are barloafors, men of corrupt imagination and de-
praved convorsatio i ? Surely, if W(> must live with such as these,
all that is best in us adds to our misery rather than helps us. If
wo did not lovo *he higher life ourselves it would not hurt us to
be l)rought into contact with the lower."
On receiving this letter, Jim wrote kindly to Dan, and .said
many things alxtut what W(mien wore ('oming to with their ridic-
ulous notions. But men were men and women were women, and
that was all about it — a lucid crmclusion that appealed to Dan,
who quoted it to Both in di.scussions on the subject ever after-
ward.
Beth broke down and despaired many times during the weary
struggle with her mental atlliction. She felt herself woefully
changed; and not only had the light gone out of her life, but it
seemed as if it never would return. When she awoke in the
morning she usually felt better for a while, but the terrii)le tor-
ment in her mind returned inevitably, and rest and peace wore
banished for the day. It was then she learned what is meant by
the inner calm, and how greatly to be desired it is — desired above
everything. The power to pray left her entirely during this
TllK HHTII IJOOK.
409
[it it
the
tor-
Ivero
by
>ove
Ithis
phase. She couhl repeat priiyers siiul extemiMirize them as of old,
but there was no more satisfaction in tiu' elVort than in askin<,' a
favour of am empty room. Sometime.s, and especially durin;,' the
liideous nights, when she sh^pt but little and only in short
snat(!hes, slie felt tempted to take .somcthinj;, stimulant or seda-
tive; hut this temptation she resisted bravely, and the whole time
an extra cup of t«Mi or colFee for the; sjike of tlie momentary relief
was the only excess she committed. If she had not exercised her
will in this her ca.se would hav** bcsen hopeless ; but, as it was, her
self-denial and the ell'ort it entailed kept up her me?itiil strength,
and heljMHl mon^ than anything to save her.
To beguile the long hours she often stood in the dining-room
window l(M)king out. The window was rather ab«)ve the road, .so
that she l<K)ked down on the people who pa.s.se(l, and she could
al.so see over the hedge on tlie opposite side of the road into the
meadow beyond. Small things distracted her sometimes, though
nothing plestsed her. If two rooks Hew by togetln'r she hoped for
a better day ; if one came first she would not accept the onu'n,
but waited, watidiing for two. By a curious coincidence they
generally pii-ssed, lirst one for .sorrow, then two f<)r mirth, then
three for a wedding ; and she would say to herself, fii'st bad luck,
then good luck, then a marriage, and wonder how it would come
about ; but anyhow, " I shall succeed I " would Hash from her and
stimulate her.
One day, as .she stood there watching, she saw a hoi'semau
come slowly down the road.
A liow sliot from her bower cnvcs,
llu rotle lictwet'ii tlie Imrley sliciives,
Tlic 8un eume dazzliiij,' tlirouj^li tlie leaves,
And tliiinccl ui">ii the hrazeii frreaves
of hold .'sir lyatiiKM'ldt.
Beth's attention sh;irpened ia sudden interest. As he came
abreast of the window the rider looked up, and Hetli's heart
bounded at the .sight of his face, which was tlie face of a num
from out of the long ago, virile, knightly, high-bred, relined ; the
face of one that lives for others, and lives openly. He had
glanced up inditferently. but, on seeing Heth, a look of interest
came into his eyes. It was as if he had recogni.sed her, and she
felt herself as if she had seen him before; but when or whert;, in
what picture, in what dream, she could not tell.
With the first flush of healthy interest she had experienced for
a long time she watched him till he was all but out of sight, then
f
1
470
TllK HKTU lUXJK.
shut hop oyos tliat slio n»i;fht not soo liiiii vanish, for foar of bud
liuk, a su|«'i'stiti«>n sho liad not practised since she was a child.
W'Ikmi lie hud g'one she found herself with a hajjpy inipn'ssion of
hini in her niind--an impression of (pjiet di;^nily and of strenj^th
in re|M>S(>. " A man to he trusted," she thou;^ht ; " true and ten-
der, a perfect knitfht." The Mash of interest or recognition that
cain<' into his countenanc<; wlien ho saw lier haunted her; she re-
called the colour of his blue eyes, noted the contrast they were to
his dark hair ami clear dark skin, and was j)leased. In the after-
noon she sat and sewed, and sntiled to hei*self over her work with
ail easy mind. Her restlessness liad subsided ; Dan scarcely cost
lier a thou{^ht ; the tension was releast'd and a reaction had set in ;
but at th(( time she hers«'lf was quite unaware of it. All she felt
was a j^<K>d appetite for h<'r tea.
'* Minna," she said to the i)arlour maid, "briu}^ me a big cup
of U'aand a good plate of buttered toast. I'm famishing."
" That's g(M)d news, ma'am," Minna answered, for it was long
since Beth had had ar>y appetite at all.
The next day Beth .stood at the window again, but without in-
tention. She was thinking of her knight of the noble mien, how-
ever, and at about the .same hour as on the day before he came
again, riding slowly down the road ; and again he looked fit Beth
with a Hash of interest in his face, to which she involuntarily re-
sponded. Wluui he wsis out of sight she opened the window, and
I)erc»>ived to her glad surprise that the air was balmy aud ou all
things the sun was shedding joy.
The horrid spell was broken.
CHAPTER XL VI.
A bow Hhot from lior bower eaves,
He roilc hotwei'ii the hurley slieuves.
The words made music in Beth's lieart jus slie dressed next
morning, and, instead of the torment of mind from which she had
sutl'ered for .so Umg, there was a great glad glow. Dan went and
came as usual, but neither his presence nor absence disturbed her.
She had recovered her self-possession, her own point of view, and
he and his liabits resumed their accustomed place in her estima-
tion. During that dreadful phase slie h.ad seen with Dan's suspi-
cious eyes, and seen evil only, but liad not acquired his interest
I
TIIK HKTII HOOK.
471
liiext
]iad
land
I her.
land
Inia-
lsi)i-
Irest
and plcjistiro in it ; on i\w. contrary, licr own tcndmcy lo ho
jjricvcd hy it liad hocn intonsilied. X()\v, lunvcvcr, she had nv
coNM'H'd herself ; her sense of proportion hud heen restor«'«l, and
hlie halanced tlie ;,''(M)d a;,'ainst tin; evil onee more, and rej<»iced t<»
find that the \vei;;ht of j^ootl was even jjreater than she had
hitherto stipp<)sed.
Hut, alth<tii;,'h the spell had heen broken in a moment, her
ri^rht mind wjus not p»'rmanently reston>d all at onee. It was
only ;j;radually, as the tide ^'oes out after u temp«»st and leaves the
storm-heat(>n coast in jx'ace, that the worry in her head subsided.
Slu^ had lapse after lapse. She would lie iiwake at ni<,'"ht. a l)rey
to horrible thou<,'hts ; or .start up in the early mornin;jf with her
mind all turj^id with suspicions, which ^'oaded her to rush out
ami act, act .see for hei-self — do .something,''. Hut the ixvvut dilTer-
ence ni)W was that, althou<,''h slu* was still .seized ui>on by th*' evil,
it no lon<.fer had the same power to ^•rieve \\rv. She had valiantly
resisted it from the moment she rei-o^'nised its nature; but now
she not only resisted, sh(^ con(pu>red it and found r(>lief. WIkmi
her imaj^ination insisted on piu'suin^ Dan to his haunts, she de-
liberately and successfully turned her attenti(»u to other thin<,''s.
She turned her attention to the friends she htved and trusted, she
dwelt on the kindness tli(>y had sliown her, she forced herself to
sit down and write to them ; and she would rise from this happy
task with lu'r reason restored, the mere expression of atFection
havinjj^ sufliced to e.xorci.se the devils of ra;,''e aiul hate.
But it was the stran<,n' exalted sentiment which her knijji'ht had
inspired that beg^an, continued, and completed her cure. Pay
after day he came ridin<^ down the road— ridin<? into her life for
a moment, then pa.ssin<>f on and leavin}^ her, not desolate, l)ut
tfreatly elated. She had known no feelin<.»' like tliLs feeling', no
hope or faith like the hope and faith inspired by that man's mien.
She did not know his name, she ii.ad never heard bis voice; their
greetinj^, which was hardly a j^'-reetin^', so restrained was the
glance and the brightenin},'' of the countenance which was all the
recof^nition that pas.sed between them, was nier;'ly momentary ;
yet in that moment Beth was imbued with joy which histed
longer and longer each time, until at last it st;iid with her for
good, restored the charm of life t«) her, rearoused her dormant
further faculty, and quickened the vision and the dream anew.
She prayed again in those days, fervently and in full faith, a.s of
old ; for when we pray with love in our hearts our prayei"S are
granted, and her heart was full of love — a holy, impersonal love,
11
472
TIIK UKTII iJOOK.
it'
such as wft foci forsoino {frrut yriiins lulorcd at a jlistaiiro. for tlm
praoi' of jfooilin'ss ho has impartrd to us. And Iht lirart Iwiiig
full of lovr, Iht l)raiii t«'<Mu«'(l with idrus; the lovt' shr livt'd on,
the itlcas sho licld in n'srrvc, for slw had bcni so wi'uUrncd hy all
she had suM'enHl that the slightest ('xertion in the way of w«ii'k
cxhaust«fd her. In any case, howi-vrr. ^•reat ideas must siniuuT
lony iu the mind before they come tt) the boil, and the time was
not lost.
In those days f(nver people than ever canu' to the hou.se. For
weeks toj^ether Heth never spoke to a .sou! except the .servants and
her husliand, and throu^fh tlm lon^' houi-s when lier head troubled
her and she could not work she felt her isolation cxtr«'inely.
Mrs. Kilroy and her other new friends .sent her pamphlets and
papei-s and hiu'ricd not<'s to keep her lu'art up and inform her of
their proj^ress ; and Beth, knowiuff what the hurry of tiieir lives
wa.s, and not exp«M'tin<; any attenti<»n, was ^'rateful for all they
paid her. She had no fear of losinj; touch with such friends after
they had once received her into their cir<de Jis one of themselves,
however stililom she mi;^ht s^H' then» ; and it was well for her
mental health that she had them to rely on during'' that tim<' of
trial, for witluuit them she would have had no sense of seciu'ity
iu any relation in life.
Sh(^ was {gradually <,''rowinjf to he on much more formal terms
with Dan than she had been, thanks to her own strenyfth of char-
acter. She found she was able to reduce the daily j;ir, and even
to keep his coarseness in check by extreme politi-ness. In any
ditrerence his habit had been to try aiul shout her down ; but tho
contrast of her own (piiet, di;;nilied dcuH'anour checked htm in
that. Beth had the ma;,MH'tic cpiality which, when stcdily di-
rected, acts on people ;iii(l forces tliem int<) any attitude (lesir^'d ;
and l)an accommodated his manner and conversation to Iht t^iste
more now than he had ever done before; but he f<'lt the n'.straint,
and was with her as little as possible, which, as she bejifan to re-
cover, was also a relief, for his blatiuit s"]f-absorj>tio.i. the ever-
liistiuff I, I, I, of his conveiMation, an«l his low views of life, rasped
her irrit;ible nerves beyond endurance.
One day, cominjif into the drawing-room about tea time, with
muddy boots and his hat on, he found her lyinjif on the sofa pros-
trated with nervous lu^adache. The days closed in early then, and
she had had tlie lire li<;hted and the curtains drawn, but could not
boar tho g'as because of lier head.
"Well, this isn't brilliant," he began at the top of his voice.
'lit
I
>. for tho
rt Ix'iiijif
ivt'd oil,
•a hy all
of work
HilllllKT
I'uuv) was
ISO. For
aiitsaiul
troubled
trcMH'ly.
ilcts and
111 lici' of
icir lives
all Ihcy
nds after
•insi'lves,
for her
tiinc of
security
al terms
of cliar-
1(1 even
Til any
])iit tho
)i!in in
(lily di-
lesired ;
cr t^isto
•strain t,
1 to ro-
e ever-
. rasped
^e, with
a pros-
'II. and
lid not
voice.
THE BETH r.OOK.
473
•'A littl(« iiion* lijfht would suit iiie." He struck a inalcli and
turned the ^Ms full on. " That's hetter." he said ; "and some ten
would he refreshing'' after my walk. I've d(»iie the whole trud^'t^
on f<M»t this afiernoon, and 1 c«»nsidcr that's a <'re(lit to me. You
won't liiid many risin;,'' ytun;; men e<'onomi/iny in the matter of
lioi-sellesh as I do. or anything; else. Ill undertake to say 1 sim'IkI
less on myself than uny other man in the di<M'ese." He went to
the door instead <»f rinj^'iny the hell and shouted down the pa.s.sajf«i
to Minna to hrin;.,^ him .some tea.
Heth shut her eyes and ^^ntaiied inwardly.
When the tea came Dan poure(l some out for himself, remark-
ing, "1 suppose you have liad yours." J'eth had imt, hut sin* was
beyond niakiny any elVort to help herself at the moment. I>aii,
who always ate at a i^'reedy rate, left oil" lalUinj; for a little, and
duriii;; the interval llcth was startled by somethiii^M-old touchiii;^
lier hand. She opened her ey<'s and found a dainty little lilaek-
and-tan terrier standing up, with its fore i)aws on the couch, hM»k-
ing at her.
"You're u pretty thing," she said, "^Vll(>re have you come
from i "'
" Oil — is that the dog?" .said I)an. looking round to see to
whom she was talking, "lie foll<»wed me in. I don't know who
he belongs to; but as I happen to want a little dog he's wel-
come."
"But he's very well bred, isn't he ?" said Heth, "and valuable,
liook at his pencilled paws and thin tail, and sharj) ears pricked
to attention. He's listening to what we are saying with the great-
est intelligence. I'm sure he's a pet and his ownei's will want
him back."
" Let them come and fet< h him, then." said l)aii.
Then it (.H'curred to Hcth that I)an had pr(»bal)Iy bouglit him
to present to soim^body, but chose to lie about it for reasons of his
own, so she siiid no more.
The next night, about ten o'chwk, Dan was called out and did
not return. lietli, being very wide awake, sat up late, |)laying
patiences first of all, and then reading a shilling shocker of Dan's,
which she had t;iken up casually and become interested in. Th«^
story was of an extremely sensational kind, and she found hei's<df
being wrought up by it to a high pitch of nervous excitement.
At the slightest noise she jumped ; and then sh(> became oppressed
by the silence, and found liei*self peering into tlie dark corners of
the room, and hesitating to glance over her shoulder as if she
31
I
474
THE BETH BOOK.
h
feared to see something. She supposed the servants had not yet
gone to bed, for she heard at intervals what s(;enied to be a human
voice. After a time, however, it struck her tliat there was some-
tliing unu.sual in the regularity of the sound, and although she
continued to read, she found herself waiting involuntarily, with
strained attention, for it to be repeated. When it occurred again
she thought it .sounded suspiciously like a cry of pai'i. and the
next time it came she was sure of it. Instantly forgetting herself
and her nervous tremors, she threw down her book and got up
to see what was the matter. She stood a moment in the hall,
where the gas had been left burning, and listened, but all was
still. Then she opened the door of communication into the
kitchen regions, and found that that part of the house was nil in
darkness. The servants had gone to bed. Holding the door open,
she stood a little and listened again ; but as she heard notliing she
began to think her fancy luid played her a trick, when just beside
her, as it seemed, some one shrieked. Beth, gasping with terror,
ran back into the hall and struck a match to light one of the bed
candles that stood on a table, her impulse being to goto the rescue
in spite of her deadly fright. It seemed an age before she could
get the candle lit with her trembling liands, and in the interv^al
the horrible cry recurred, and tliis time she thought it came from
the surgery. Could any sick pei-son have been left there locked
up ? Dan always kept the room locked up, and Beth had hardly
ever been in it. She went to the door now, bent on breaking it
open, but she found that for once the key had been left in the
lock. She turned it and entered boldly, but her candle flickered
as she opened the door, so that at first she could .see nothing dis-
tinctly. She held it high above her head, however, and as the
flame became steady she looked about her. There was no one to
be seen. The room was large and bare. All that it contained
was a bookcase, some shelves with books on them, a writing table
and chair, an armcliair, a couch, and another table of common
deal, like a kitchen table, on which w%as a variety of things-
bottles, books, and instruments apparently— all covered up with a
calico sheet.
Beth, checked again in her search, was considering what to do
next, when the horrid cry was once more repeated. It seemed to
come from under tlie calico sheet. Beth lighted the gas, put
down her candle, and going to the table, took the sheet otf deliber-
ately and saw a sight too sickening for description. The little
black-and-tau terrier, the bonny wee thing which had been so
THE BET J I BOOK.
475
not yet
I human
is sonie-
lUgh she
ily, with
ed again
and tlie
\r liersclf
il got up
•he hull,
t all was
iivto the
as all in
3or open,
thing she
ist beside
th terror,
f the bed
:he rescue
she could
interval
line from
•e locked
d hardly
■aking it
ft in the
ilickored
hing dis-
d as the
o one to
ontained
|ing table
common
tilings —
p with a
lliat to do
bemcd to
I gas, put
deliber-
t'he little
been so
blithe and greeted lier so confidently only the evening before, lay
there, fastened into a sort of frame in a position which alone nuist
have been agonizing. But that was not all.
Beth had heard of these horroi*s before, but little suspected that
they were carried on under that very roof. She had turned sick
at the sight, a low cry escaped her, and her great compassionate
lieart swelled with rage; but she acted without hesitation.
Snatching up her candle, .she went to the shelves where the bot-
tles were, looked along the row of red labels, found what she
wanted, went back to the table, and poured some drops down the
poor little tortured creature's thrt)at.
In a moment its sufferings ceased.
Then Beth covered the table with the calico sheet mechanical-
ly, put the bottle back in its place, turned out the gas, and left
the room, locking the door after her. Iler eyes were haggai-d
and her teeth were clenched, but she felt the stronger for a
brave determination and more herself than she had done for many
months.
Maclure only came in to bathe and breakfast next morning,
and she scarcely exchanged a word with him Ix^fore he went (»ut
again; but in the afternoon he came into the drawing-room,
where she was writing a letter, and began to talk as if he meant
to be sociable. He had his usual air of having lavished much
attention cm his personal adormnent — too much for manliness;
and, in spite of his night work, his hair shone as glossy black, his
complexion was as bright and clear, and his general a])|)earance
as fresh and healthy as care of Inmself and complete inditlen^ico
to other people, except in .so far as his own well-being might be
affected by them, could make it. Beth watched him surveying
himself in the gla.ss from dilTerent points of vicnv witli a com-
placent smile, and felt that his physical advantages and the su-
perabundant vitality wliich made the business of living such an
easy, enjoyable farce to him made his inhuman callousness all the
more repulsive.
"I should go out if I were you," he said, peering close into
the glass at the corner of his eye, where he fanciiul he had de-
tected the faint crisscross of coming crow's-feet. " I'd never stay
nuigging up in the house, withering. Look at Tn'> I I go out in
all weathers, and I'll undertake to .say I'm a pretty good speci-
men both of health and spirits."
It was so unusual for Dan to recommend Beth to do anything
for her own good that she began to wonder what he wanted ; she
476
THE BETH BOOK.
n
i
\i II
/''
N
H
had ()l)servod that lie .always felt kindly disposed toward people
when he was askiiin^ a favour of tlietn.
" And, by-the-bye," he pursued, turning his bju'k to the mirror
and craning his neck to see the set of his coat tails, " you niiglit do
soint^thing for nie when you are out. Wilberforce is worrying
for his money. It's damned cheek. I sent him a large order for
wliisky tlie other day to keep liim (juiet, but it hasn't answered.
I wisli y- u would go and see him — go with a long face, like a
good girl, and tell him I'm only waiting till I get my own ac-
counts in. Have a little chat with him, you know, and all that
sort of thing — lay yourself out to j)]e{i.se him, in fact. He's a gen-
tlemanly fellow for a wine merchant and lias a weakness for
pretty women. If you go I'll take my dick he'll not trouble us
with a bill for the next six months.'"
" It seems to me," said Beth in her quietest way, " that when a
husband asks his wife to make u.se of her personal ajjpearance or
charm of manner to obtain a favour for him from another man
he is requiring something of her which is not at all consistent
with her .self-respect."
Dan stopped short with his hand up to his mustache to twist
it, his ?>o«/io?>uV cast aside in a moment. "Oh, damn your self-
respect I ■' he said brutally. " Your cursed book talk is enough to
drive a man to the devil. Anybody but you with your ' views'
and 'opinions' and fads and fancies generally would be only
too glad to oblige a good husband in such a small matter; and
surely to (rod / know what is consistent with your .self-re-
spect I / should be the last person in the world to allow you
to compromise it I But your eyes will be oi)ened and the
cursed conceit takon out of you some day, madam, I can tell
you I You'll live to regret the way you've treated me, I promise
you ! "
"^ly eyes liave been pretty well opened as it is." Beth an-
swered. You left the key in the surgery- door last night.''
"And you went in there, sjyy hi g on me, did you ? That was
honourable I " he exclaimed in a voice of scorn.
"I heard the wretched creature you had been vivisecting cry-
ing in its ag<my, and I thought it was a human being and went
to see," Beth answen d, speaking in the even, dispassionate way
which she had found such an effectual check on Dan's vulgar
bluster.
" You killed that dog, then ! " he exclaimed, turning on her
savagely. " How dare you ? "
THE BETH BOOK.
47
\ people
p mirror
niy^lit do
vorryinj?
wiivr for
nswered.
•e, like a
own ac-
[ all tliat
e's a gen-
kness for
i-cjuble us
tt when a
urunce or
ther man
L'onsistent
e to twist
your self-
■noug-li to
r ' views'
])(> only
ittor; and
r s<'lf-re-
llow you
and tlie
can tell
promise
Beth an-
hf
That was
loting cry-
land went
[nate way
fs vulgar
ig on her
Beth rose from the writing table and went and stretched her-
self otit on the sofa, deliberately facing him.
"How dare you f " sh«> in<iuired.
" How dare I, indeed, in my own house ! " he bawled. " Now,
look here, madam, I'm not going to have any of your damned in-
terference, and so I tell you.''
" Plea.se — I am not deaf," she remon.strated gently. '* And now
look here, sir, lam not going to have any of your damnable cru-
elties going on under the same roof with me. I have endured
your .sensuality and your corrupt conversation weakly, ])artly be-
cause I knew no better, and i)artly because I was the only su Merer
as it seemed to me in the narrow outlook I had on life until late-
ly ; but 1 know better now. I know that every woman who sub-
mits in such matters is not only a party to her own degradation,
but connives at the degradation of her whole sex. Our marriage
never can be a true marriage— the si)iritual, intellectual, physical
union of a man and a wonjan for the purpose of perfect compan-
ion.ship. We have none of the higher aspirations in common ;
we should be none the happier for tender experiences of parent-
hood, none the holier for any joy or sorrow, pain or pleasure, tliat
might come to us to stnMigthen and ennoble us if right)}' enjoyed
or endured ; and this, I think, is not altogether my fault. But,
how(>ver that may be, it is out of nu' power to remedy it now.
All I can do is to prevent unedifying scenes between us by show-
ing you such courtesy and consideration as is possible. On this
occasion I will show you courtesy, but the consideration is due to
me. A Avoman does not marry to have her heart wrung, her
health destroyed, her life made wretched by anything that is pre-
ventable, and I intend to put a stop to this last di.scovered hellish
practice of yours. I will not allow it. and if 3'<mi dare to attempt
it again I will call in the townsfolk to see you at your brutal
work."
She spoke with decision, in tht' tone of one who has deter-
mined on her plan of action, and will fearlessly pursue it. A
great gravity settled on Daniel Maclure. lie stood still a little,
reflecting, then came to the fire, beside which Beth, who had risen
restlessly as she spoke, was now sitting in an armchair. He drew
up another chair, and sat down also, having resolved, in face of
the gravity of the situation, to try some of his old tactics, and
some new ones as well. His iii-st ])ose was to gaze into the firo
ruefully for a while, and then his line eyes slowly iilled with
tears.
f If
I
478
THE BETU BOOK.
! U
1
ii
:|i!
" It must have been u brutal sij^lit." lie said at last ; " and T
can't tell you how sorry I ain you saw it. I don't \vt)ndor you're
shaken, poor little f^irl, and its natural that tlie shock should
have made you unreasonable and uncharitable — unlike yourself,
in fact, for I never knew a more reasonable woman when you are
in ytmr right mind, era more charitable. I'm not so bad, how-
ever, as you think me. I never intended to inflict sutl'eriny on
the creature. I didn't know he'd recover. I had given him a
dose of curare."
" The drug that ])aralyzes without deadening the sense of
pain," Beth interi)osed. " I have heard of the tender mercies of
the vivisector. He saves himself us much as he can in the matter
of distracting noises."
Dan had mentioned curare to give a persua.sive touch of scien-
tific accuracy to his explanation, not suspecting that she knew the
proi)erties of the drugs, and he was taken aback for a moment;
l)ut he craftily abaiuloned that point and took up another.
" These experiments nuist be made in the interests of sutfering
hunumity, more's the pity," he said, sighing.
" In the interests of cruel and ambitious scientific men, strug-
gling to outstrip each other, and make money, and win fame for
themselves regardless of the cost. They were ready enough in
old days to vivi.sect human beings when it was allowed, and they
would do it again if they dared."
" Now, look here, lictli, don't be rabid," said Dan temperately;
" just think of the sufTerings medical men are able to relieve now-
adays in consequence of these researches."
" Good authorities say that nothing useful has been discovered
by vivisection that could not have been discovered without it,"
Beth rejoined. " And even if it had been the means of saving
human life, that would not justify your employment of it. There
never could be a hunuui life worth saving at such an expense of
sull'ering to other creatures. It isn't as if you made an experi-
ment and had done with it either. One generation after another
of you repeats the same exi)eriments to verify them, to see for
yourselves, for practice ; and st) countless helpless creatures are
being tortured continually by numbei's of men who are degraded
and brutalized themselves by their experiments. Had I known
you were a vivisector I should not only have refused to marry
you, I should have declined to as.S(KMate with you. To conceal
such a thing from the woman you were about to marry was a
cruel injustice — a fraud."
;; "and I
lor you're
•k sliould
yourself,
u you are
l)a(l, liow-
Vcriny on
eii hitn a
sense of
nercies of
the matter
[\ of scien-
! knew the
moment ;
er.
f suffering
lien, strug-
^ fame for
nougla in
and they
iperately ;
iove now-
isoovered
thout it,"
of saving
it. Tlicre
xpense of
m experi-
T another
,o see for
ktures are
degraded
I known
to marry
1 conceal
■ry was a
THE BETH BOOK.
479
"I concealed notliing from you that you were old enough to
understand and take a right view of," Dan protested.
'"According to custom," said Pjeth, "anything that might pre-
vent a woman accepting a man is carefully concealed from her.
That kind of cant is wearisome. You did not think me too young
to put at the head of a house, or to run the risk of hecoming a
mother — although I have heard you dilate yourself on the liorrors
of j)remature motherhood. But that is the way with men. For
anything that suits their own convenience they are ingenious in
finding excuses. As a rule thej' see but one side of a social cpies-
tion, and that is their own. 1 can not understand any hut un-
sexed women as.sociating with vivisectors. Don't pretend you
pursue such experiments reluciantly - you delight in them. Hut,
whatever the excuse for them, I am siu'e that tlx^ time is comitig
when the vivisector will he treatiul like the people who prepai-ed
the dead for emhalming in ancient Egypt. You will be called in
when there is no help for it, but. your task accomplished, you will
be driven out of all decent society to consort witli the hangman
— if even he will a.s.sociate with you."
"Well, well!'' Dan ejaculated, gazing into the fire sorrow-
fully. "But I suppose this is what we sliould expect. It's the
way of the world. A scientific man who devotes all his time and
talents to relieving his fellow-creatures must expect to he misun-
derstood and reviled by way of reward. You send for us when
you want us — there's nobody like the doctor then — but you'll
grudge every penny you've got to give us, and you'd not pay at
all if you could help it. I should know I "
" I was not sp<>aking of doctors,'' Beth rejoined ; " T was speak
ing of vivisectors. But, after all, what is the great outcome of
your extraordinary science ? Wiiat do yon do with it ? Kec^p
nniltitudes alive and suffering who would be happily dead and at
rest but for you! If you practised with tlie honest intention of
doing as nuich good as you could, you would not be content
merelv to treat efFects as v<ui do foi the most i)art ; vou would
strike at caus(>s also; aiul we should hear more of jjreveutiori
and less of wonderful cures. You dazzle the blockhead public
with a showy operation, and no one thinks of asking why it is
that the necessity for this ame operation recurs so often.
You know, probably; but you disclaiju responsibility in the
matter. It is not your place to teach the public, you modestly
protest."
" I don't know how you can say that in the face of the effort
480
THE BETH BOOK.
u ;
we have made to stamp out disease — wliy, look at zymotic dis-
eases aloiK' ! "
"Exactly," Bctli answered, "zymotic diseases al(me ! But
why draw the line there ? And wliat are you doinjj to improve
the race ? to strenfjthen its power to resist disease ? You talk
ahout Natun^ when it suits you ; but it is the cant of the subject
you employ, for y(^u arc; at variance with Nature. Your whole
endeavour is to thwart her. Nature dec.-rees the survival of the
fittest; you exercise your skill to i)reserve the unfittest, and stop
there — at the be^^inning of your responsibilities, as it seems to me.
Let the unfit who are with us live, and save them from suffering
when you can, by all means; but take i)ains to prevent the ap-
pearance of any more of them. By the reproduction of the unfit,
the strength, the beauty, the morality of the race is undermined,
and with tliem its best chances of happiness. Yes, you certainly
do your best to stamp out measles, smallpox, scarlet fe- er, and all
that group — diseases tliat do not necessarily leave any ptM-nument
mark on the constitution ; but at the same time you connive at
the spread of the worst disease to which we are liabl(\ About
tiiat you preserve the strictest professioiuil secrecy. Only to-day,
ill The Times, there is the report of a di.scussion on tiie subject at
a meeting of the International Congress of Legal Medicine —
where is it ? " She took uj) the paper and read :
"There was an important debate on the spread of an infamous
disease by wet nui*s(>s. This question is all tlie more urgent be-
cause, though the greatest dangei*s and complications are involved,
it is very genernUji yiecjlected When a doctor knows that
the parents of a child are tainted, should he so far disregard the
professional secrecy to which he is bound as to warn the nurse of
her danger in suckling the child ?
Apparently not ! The poor woman must take her chance, as the
child's unfortunate mother had to do when she married "
" Ah, now j-ou see for yourself, and will become reasonable, it is
to be hoped."' he interrupted, rubbing his hands complacently;
" for it is precisely in order to check that particular disease that
appointments like mine are made."
"It is precisely in order to make vice safe for men that such
appointments are mad(%" she answered. " Medical etiquette would
not stop where it does, at the degradation of those unfortunate
women, if you were honestly attempting to put a stop to that dis-
ease. You would liave it reported, irrespective of the sex of the
THE IJKTIl BOOK.
481
sufferer, like .iny otlier disease tliiit is dangrrous to tlie liealtli of
the community. But now it is not contrary to etiquette to break
your peculiar professional secrecy in the ca.se of a woman, but it
would be in the case of a man ; so j'ou ])unish the women, and let
the men go free to spread the evil from one {generation to another
as they like. Oh, justice! Oh, consistency I I don't wonder wo
have been shunned since we came to Slane. A man in your position
is a mere pander, and right glad am I of what I have suflVi-cd from
tho scorn and contempt of tlu^ people who would not a.sjsociato
with us. It shows that the right spirit is abroad in the com-
munity."
'* Pander ! " Dan ejaculated. " I am sorry to hear you use such
a word, Beth."
" It is the right word, unfortunately," .she answered.
" You oughtn't to know anything about tliese things," tho
chaste Daniel observed, with an air of oti'ended delicacy. " Women
can't know enougli to see the matter from the right point of view,
and so they make mischief."
" Ah, you don't aj)j)reciato that women liave grown out of their
intellectual infancy,'' Beth said, "and have opinions and a point of
view of their own in social matters, especially where their own s(>x
is concerned. You are still in the davs of old C'havasse, who exi)a-
tiates in his Advice to a Wife on the dangers of men marrying
unhealthy women, but .says not a word of warning to women on
the risk of marrying unhealthy men. You would keep us blind-
folded as we were in his day, and abandon us to our fate in like
manner ; but it can't be done any more, my friend. You can
hide nothing from sensible women now that concerns the good of
the community. We know there is no protection for women
against this infamous disea.se, and no punishment for the men
who spread it ; and we consider the fact a di.sgi-ace to every medi-
cal man alive."
"You have a nice opinion of the men of your husband's pro-
fession I" Dan observed sarcastically.
"I have the highest opinion of medical men — such medical
men as Sir George (ialbraith," slm replied. * I have seen some-
thing of their highinindedtjess, their courage, their devotion, and
their geimine disinterestedness; and I fee;! sure that in time tlieir
efforts will leaven the whole ma.ss of callousness and cruelty
against which they have to contend in their profession. Tlie hoi>e
of humanity is in the doctors, and they will not fail u.s. Like
Christ, they will teach as well as heal."
482
THE BETH BOOK.
U
" Rubbish ! " said Dan. " As I've told you before, it isn't our
business to mind the morals of the people. It's for the parsons to
fight the devil."
"Hut," .said Beth, "jis I answered you before, you can not at-
tend to the health of the community properly without also mind-
ing its morals. The real old devil is di.sease."
Dan left his .seat and walked to the window, where he stood,
with his hands in his pockets, looking out f"r ii while.
" Well, this is enough jawbation for one da}', I hope," he .said
at la.st, turning round. " ^tarrying a wonum like you is enough
to drive a man to the devil. I've a jolly good mind to go and
get drunk. I declare to God if I could get drunk overnight and
feel all right again in the morning, I'd i)e drunk every night.
But it can't be done," he added regretfully. " There are draw-
backs to everything."
Beth looked at him impertiu'bably wliile he was speaking, tlien
turned her attention to the fire.
" You know my views now on the subject of vivisection," she
said at last. "If there is any more of it here I shall leave the
liouse and publi.sh the rea-son. And you al.so know what I con-
sider I owe myself in the way of .self -respect You must beguile
yoiP" creditors by other means then my personal app(nu'ance."
She had spoken all through in the most temperate tone, and
now, when she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and
folded her hands with a sigh, as of one who had finished a hard
task and would rest.
Dan looked at her with evident distaste, and considered a little,
searching for something more to sa}' that might move her, some
argument that should persuade or convince; but as nothing oc-
curred to him, he left the room, banging tlie door after him in his
ill-conditioned way, because he knew that the noise would be a
racking offence to her overwrought nerves.
But from that time forward everything he did was an offence
to Beth, a source of irritation. In s])ite of herself, she detected all
the insincerity of his professions, the mean motives of his acts.
Up to this time she had been more kindly disposed toward him
than she herself knew. All she had wanted was to be able to care
for him, to find some consistency in him, something to respect,
and to which she could pin her faith ; but now she knew him for
what he was exactly — shallow, pretentious, plausible, vulgar-
minded, without principle ; a man of false pretensions and vain
professions ; utterly untrustworthy ; saying what would suit him-
THK UKTII IU)()K.
483
t isn't our
parsons to
an not at-
ilso njind-
he stood,
\" ho said
is enouf;li
to fTii and
liyht and
O' iii«:Iit.
iro draw-
ing, then
ion," slie
oave tlie
it I con-
' beguile
ice."
>no. and
lair and
a hard
a little,
r, some
iiig oc-
1 in his
d bo a
Tence
tod all
s acts,
him
o care
spect,
11 for
1 gar-
vain
him-
self at thc» moment, or just what occurwd to him; not wliat he
tliouglit, but what he imagined lie was cxpoctod to say. liotli hud
never heard liim condemn a vice or liabit which she did not after-
ward find him practising himself. She used to wonder if he de-
ceived himself, or was only intent on deceiving her; but from
close observation of him at this p<'riod she b«'came convinced that,
for fh(^ time being, he entered into whatever part lie was playing,
and lumce his (fxtreme phiusibility. Beth found hn'self studying
him continually with a curious sort of impersonal interest; he
was a subject that repelled her, but from which. nevertheh>s.s, she
could not tear herself away. His hands, in particular, his hand-
some white hand.s, had a horrid .sort of fascination for her. She
had admired them whih' she thought of them as the healing hands
of the physician, bringing hope and health; but now she knew
them to be the cruel hands of the vivisector, associated with tor-
ture, from which humanity instinctively shrunk; and when he
touched her, her delicate skin crisjjcd with a shudder. She used
to wonder how he could eat with hands so jjoUuted, and once, at
dessert, when he handed her a piece of orange in his lingers she
was obliged to leave it on her plate ; she could not swallow it.
After that la.st scene the days dragged more intolerably than
ever; but happily for Beth, there were not many mor<> of them
without a break, for just as it seemed that endurance must end in
some desperate act Mrs. Kilroy sent her a pressing invitation to
go and pay her a long vi.sit in London ; and Beth accepted it and
went with such a .sense of relief as an invalid feels who, after long
sufTering, finds herself well, and out in the free fresh air once
more.
CHAPTER XLVII.
When Beth went to stay with the Kilroys in London, it was a
question whether she might not end by joining tlie valiant army
of those who are in opposition to everything, but before she had
been there a week she had practically recovered her bahmce, and
began to look out upon life once more with dispitssionate atten-
tion. Her depre.ssion when she fii"st arrived was evident, and the
Kilroys were concerned to see her looking so thin and ill ; but
by degrees she began to expand in that genial atmosphere, and,
although she said little, as a rule, she had begun to listen and to
observe again with her usual vivid interest. She could not have
484
TlIK BKTII HOOK.
Il
>
Imm'M hotter situated for (lie purpose, for people of all kinds camo
to the Kilroys; and in niovinjr anion^ theni merely as an on-
looker she was hound to see and lu'ar enou;,'h to take her out of
lierself. Her own personality was too distinct, howev<'r, for her
to remain for lon<; an onlooker merely. That mesmeric quality
in her which, whether it fjisci nates or displeases, attracts or repels,
marks a distinct personality which is not to he overlooked, made
peo|)le ask at once who she was. in tlu> hope that her acquaint-
ance mij,^ht h(^ worth cultivating,'. For there was a certain air of
distinction ahout her which made her look lik»' a person with
some sort of prestij^e, whom it mig-ht he us«!ful to know, dcui't you
know.
One afternoon soon after Beth's arrival, Mrs. Kilroy heing: at
home to visitors and tlie rooms already pretty full, lieth noticed
among the callers an old-looking young man whose face .seenu'd
familiar to her. He wore a |)ointed heard upon his chin and a
small mustache cut away from his upper lip and waxed and
turned up at tin? ends. His face was thin and narrow, his fore-
head high and hald, what hair he had grew in a fringe at the
back of his head and was curly and of a nondescript hrowii
colour. Had he worn tiie dress of the KIizal)ethan i)eriod, he
might have passed for a had attempt to look like Shakespeare;
and Beth thought that that ])erhai)s might he the reseinhlanco
which pu/zled her. While she was looking at him a lady was
anm)UJiced, a mo.st denmre-looking little person in a gray cos-
tume aiul a small, close-fitting princess bonnet tied under her
chin and trimmed witli a big Alsatian bow in front. She entered
smiling slightly, ami she continued to smile, as if she had set the
smile on her lips as she put the bonnet on her head, to complete
her costunu\ After she had shaken hands with Angelica, she
looked round as if in search of some one else, and seemed satisfied
when she discovered the old-looking young man of Shakespearean
a.si)ect. He was watching her, and their e3-es met with a momen-
tary significance; but they took no further notice of each other.
Most people would have perceived no more in the glance than
showed on the surface — a lady and gentleman who looked at each
other and then looked .away, like inditTerent acquaintances or casual
strangers ; but Beth's infallible intuition revealed to her elaborate
precaution in this seeming unconcern. It was clear to her that
the two had expected to meet each other there, and their apparent
insensibility to each other's presence was a pose which, however,
betrayed to her the intimacy it was affected to conceal. She
TllK HETII UOOK.
485
Imtcd licrsclf for sccinjf so nuK-li. and buriu'd witli Idamo of Dan
lor opcniiiy licr eyes to Ix'liold llic inward wickedness l)<>ncat)i
tlio conventional pi-opricty of tlic outward demeanour; l)Ut there-
in slie was inijust to l>an. He had opened her eyes s( toner than
tluiy should have been opened, but in any cjise she must hav(»
seen for herself sooner or later. Nolhin;; in life can be conceah'd
from such a mind. What I ks could not teach her she discov-
ere<l from people by sympathy, by insi;^''ht, by intuition ; but sho
did not come into full po.s.se.ssion of her faculties all at once. The
condilion.s of Iht life had ten(le<l rather to n'tard than to develop
tlie best that was in lier. and the wonder was that her visi«»n had
not been permanently distorted so that sho could see nolhin<^ but
evil in all thinjjrs see it, too, till her eyes were accustomed and
lier soul corrui)ted .so that she not only cea.sed to resent it, but
linally accepted it as the inevitable order to wbich it is best to
accommodate one's self if one is to <,^«'t any yood out of life.
This is the fate of most younj? wives situated as lietli bad been,
the fate sbe bad only narrowly escaped by help of the strenj,'-tli
that came of the brave self-contained habits she had cultivated in
lier life of .seclusion and thouylit. It was the result of this train-
inj]f and her constancy in pursuinjr it that her furthei- faculty,
hitherto .so fitful, at last sliot up a bri<rht and steady lii^lit wbich
made manifest to her the thoufji'hts of otbei's, that they were not
all evil, and belp«'d her by the g-race in her own lieart to ])erceivo
liidden proce.s.ses of love at work in other hearts, all tendinj,'' to
j)urification ; and by the goodness of her own soul to searcli out
the pfoodness in otlier souls as tlie elements find their constituent
parts in the atmos])bere.
Beth was lookinj^ lier best tliat afternoon, altboui^h .slie liad
taken no pains with herself. She seemed well dressed by dint of
lookinji;' widl in her clothes ; but she had not clutsen to make ber-
self look well. In the exasperated ])hase of revolt tbroufifh which
she was passinpr she could not have been j)ersuaded to dress so as
to lieighten the effect of her a])pearance, and so mak(^ of hers<'lf a
trap to catch admirinji;' j^lances. To be neat and fn-sh was all her
care ; but that was enough. The youn<;; man with the pointed
beard, wlio liad been lookin<; about the room uneasily, .seemed to
have found what he wanted when lie noticed her. lie asked an
eklerly man stjinding near him who the young- hidy of distin-
guished appearance mi<i;ht be. " A friend of Mrs. Kilroy's, I be-
lieve," the gentleman answered, and moved off as if he resented
the question.
• II
4$U
TiiK iiirrii iiiMiK.
' I
I it
i
If
liut l*(>int«'<l H<»ar(l was iH'i-sistcnl. Tlr iiskrd two or (liroo
otlicr i>(>«>|>l<>, Htnin^^'ci's, who did not know cithrr, and tlicii hr
inadr Ills way to Mrs. Kilr()y. Imt slu- was so siirromidcd lu* could
not ^<>t near her. At last lie Ix'tlioii^iclit liini of tlio Ncrvatits who
were handin*^' tea ahout, and hranl Hcth's natiu* from one of
thcni.
\Vh«'n lirtli next noticed him he was niakiiiij his wav to\var<l
her with a cup of tea in one hand and a j)hite of cakes in the
otlnT.
" I have ventured to hrin^ you some tea," ho su'h\, "hut I do
not ktiow if it is as you like it. I cm easily get you some more,
however, if it is not."
" Thank you, 1 do not want any." Beth answered somewhat
coldly.
"I'll put it here, tlien, on this consoJt," lie rejoined. " If I
move away I shall not he ahle to p't nea you a^-aiu in this
crowd. I wonder why Mrs. Kilroy has ^io many peoi)N\ Now,
I like just a few, eij^ht oi- ten for a dinner, you know, and twenty
or so on these sort of occasions. And they nn'st all he interesting
people, worth talking to. I am (>xceedingly fastidious ahout the
kind of people I know. Ev«*n a.s a hoy I was fastidiou.s."
As ho uttered that last sentence Beth was jigain aware of
something familiar in his ai)p<'arance, and she felt sure she had
heard him make that same remark more than oiu!e before— hut
when ? hut where ?
"That is Lord Fitzkillingliam," he continued, "that tall man
who has just come in — see, there ! -shaking hands with Mrs. Kil-
roy. He looks like a duke, don't you know. I admire jx'ople of
distinguished appearaiu'(> nuich more than good-looking pe()|)le —
people who are merely good-l(M>king. I mean, of course. I saw
yon directly I came into the room, and was determined to find
out wlio you were, and I asked, I can't tell you liow many peo-
ple, wh'^ther I knew them or not. What do you think of that for
perseviM-ance ? "
" You certainly seem to be persistent," Beth an.swered, with a
smile.
"Oh. I'm nothing if not persistent," he rejoined complacently.
" I'll underUike to fijid out anything I want to know. Do you see
that lady there in black ? I wanted to know lier age, so I went to
Somerset House and looked it up."
" What did you do that for ? " Beth asked.
"I wanted to know."
]
or tliroo
then )m>
li«' could
ants who
II one of
y towaid
crs ill tlic
'but I do
mc iiiort',
i>nn-\vliat
il. "If I
I in thiH
^\ Now,
1 twenty
tcnsting
l»out tlie
win of
she had
)i'e -but
ill man
i-s. Kil-
Dplc of
oi)h> —
I saw
o lind
ly poo-
lat for
kvitli a
ontly.
nu see
ent to
TI[K IJKTII i;nuK.
•IS7
"But did slir want you to know {"
"Well, naturally nt»t. or she would havo told mc. But it is
no us(! trying,'' to conceal tliin;,''s from mc I am not to be de-
ceived."
"You must l)e ([uite a loss to Scotland Yard,"' Beth ventured.
"You W(»uhl have been admirably iitted for that eh! delicut*?
kintl of work."
•* Well. I think 1 should," he n'joined. " You see T found ifou
out, ami it was not so easy, for eh I no one seemed to know
you. However, that does not matter. We'll .soon introduce you."'
Beth smiled. " Thank you,"" she .said dryly, " that will be very
nice."
"Til brin;,' Fit/kill in;,'-ham jjresently ; he'll do anything,' for
inc. He was one of our set at the "varsity. That's the best of
goinj; to the 'varsity. You meet the rij^lit kind of people there-
people who can lielp you, you know, if you can get in with them
as I did. You'll like Fit/.killingham. He's a very good fellow."
" Indeed," .said Beth. "What has he done ? "'
" Hone I " he eclioed. "( )h, nothing that I know of. Consider
liis position I The Karl of Fit/killingham, with a I'eiit roll of lifty
thousand a year, has no iK'cd to do, he h.as only to be. Then' I
He's caught my (>ye. Til go and fetch him."'
" Pray do nothing t)f the kind,'" said Beth empbatioally. " T
have no wish to know him."'
The young man, disconcerted, tui'iied and looked her full in
the face. " Why not 'i "' he gaspi-d.
" First of all, because you are going to present him without
asking my permi.sslon,"" Beth said, " which is a liberty I should
have had to resent in any case by refusing to know him, and. sec-
ondly, becau.se a man with lifty thou.sand a year who has done no
good in the world is not worth knowing. I don"t think he should
be allowed to he unless h<' can be made to f/o. Pray excuse me if I
shock your prejudices,"" she added, smiling. " You do not know,
perhaps, that in our s«'t knowing people ft)r position rather than
for character is (piite out of date ?'"
The young man smiled suj)erciliously. " That is rather a bour-
geois sentiment, is it not ? " he said.
"On the contrary," .said Beth, "it is the other that is the
luickster si)irit. What is called knowing the right people is only
the commercial principh; of se(>king some advantage. Certain
people make a man"s acquaintance and pay him ilattering atten-
tions, not because their hearts are good and they wish to give him
4S8
THE BETH r>0()K.
t I
pleasure, but because thgrc is some percentag-o of advantage to be
gained by knowing liini. Tbat is to be bourgeois in tlie vulgar
sense if you like ! And tbut is the trade-mark stamped upon
most of us— selfishness, snobbishness ! One sees it in the conven-
tional society manners, which are superficially veneei'cd, funda-
mentally bad ; the outcome of self-interest, not of good fi'eling ;
one knows exactly how, where, and when they will break
down."
" What are you holding forth about, Beth ? " said Mrs. Kilroy,
coming up behind her.
" The best people," Beth answered, smiling.
" You mean the people who call themselves the best people —
society, that is to say," said Mrs. Kilroy cheerfully. " Society is
tlie scum that comes to the surface because of its lightness and
does not count, except in sets where ladies pa])ers' circulate."
" I am surprised to hear you talk so, Mrs. Kilroy," said Pointed
Beard in an offended tone, as if society had been insulted in his
person.
'* I am sorry if I disappoint you," said Mrs. Kilroy. " And
I confess I like my own set and their pretty manners, but I know
their weaknesses. There is no snob so snobbish as a snob of good
birth. The upper classes will be the last to learn that it is ster-
ling qualities which are wanted to rule the world — head and
heart."
" This gentleman will tell you that all that is bourgeois," said
Beth.
" I believe that at heart the bourgeois are sound," said Angelica.
" Bourgeois sign i lies good, sound, self-respecting qualities to me,
and steady principles."
" But scarcely ' pretty manners,' I should suppose," said Poiiited
Beard superciliously.
" Why not ? " said Angelica. " Sincerity and refinement make
good manners, and principle is the parent of both."
" Don't you think that for the most part Engli.shwomen are
singularly lacking in charms of manner ? " he asked precisely.
" Just as P]nglishmen are, and for the same reason," said An-
gelica ; " because they only try to be agreable when it suits them-
selves. A good manner is a decoration that nnist be kept on always
if it is to be worn with ease. Good manners are rare because good
feeling is rare, for good manners are the outcome of good feeling.
Manuel's are not the mere society show of politeness, but the
inward kindly sympathy of which politeness is the natural out-
Tni'] r.ETn pook.
489
mtag-e to he
I tlie vulgar
iiiIH'd upon
tlio coiiven-
iTcd, fuiula-
)(h1 feeling' ;
will break
Irs. Kilroy,
'st people —
" Society is
^htnoss antl
ilate/'
lid Pointed
ulted in his
oy. " And
but I know
lob of good
t it is ster-
liead and
peois," said
Angelica,
Ities to me,
d Pointed
lient make
romen are
|cisely.
said An-
lits tlieni-
m always
liuse gt)od
|l feeling,
but the
kiral out-
ward manifestation ; given these, grace and cliarm of manner
conic of themselves."
She moved off as she spoke to attend to otlier guests.
" Mrs. Kilroy is obvious," said Pointed Beard in a tone that
suggested sympathy with Beth for being bored. " I wonder she
did not give us ' For manners are not idle,' et cetera, or some-
thing equally banal— the kind of thing we are taught in our in-
fancy "
" And fail to apply ever after," said Beth.
"I see you are ready," he (observed fatuously, striking the per-
sonal note again, which she r(>sented.
"I dislike that cant of the obvious whicli tlu're is so nmch of
here in town," she rejoined. " It savours of ])reco('ity. All that
is finest in thought is <^bviou.s. A great truth well put when
heard for the first time is so crystal clear to the mind one seems
to have known it always. No one fears to be obvious who has
anything good to say."
He stroked his beai'd in silence for some seconds. " I sui)pose
you go in for politics and all that sort of thing ? " he said at last.
" Why ? " Beth asked in her disconcerting way,
"Oh, judging by your friends."
"Not a safe guide," .she a.ssured him. "My friends have the
most varied interests, and even if they had not it would be; some-
what monotonous for them to associate exclusively with people
of the same pursuits."
" Then you do not take an interest in politics ? " lie jerked out
almost irritably, as if he had a right to know.
For a moment Beth had a mind to batlle him for his tasteless
persistency, but her natural directness saved her from such small-
mindedness. " If I must answer your catecbism," she .said, smil-
ing, "social subjects interest me more. I iind generalizations
bald and misleading, and politics are a generalization of events.
I rarely read a political speech througb, and remember very little
of wbat it is all about when I do. Details, individuals, antl ac-
tions fascinate me, but the circuaistauces of a people as a state
rarely interest me much."
" Ah, I fear that is — er — a feminine point of view, rather — is it
not ? " he rejoined patronizingly.
" Yes," she said, " and a scientific method. "We go from the
particular to the general, and only draw broad conclusions when
we have collected our facts in detail. But, excuse me, I see a
friend," she broke ofT hastily, seizing the chance to escape.
32
-vsr
490
THE BETH BOOK.
II ^
' i (
(1
A little later, Both saw that tho deinure-looking little person
in the princess bonnet was taking h(>r leave. She passed down
the room with her set little smile on her lips, looking about her,
but apparently witliout seeing any one in particular till she got
to the door, when her eye lighted on the young man of Shake-
spearean mien, and her smile flickered a moment and went out.
The young man turned and looked at a picture with an elabo-
rately casual air, then sauntered across the room to Mi's. Kilroy,
shook hands with her, spoke to one or two other people, and
finally reached the door and opened it with the same solemn
affectation of not being in a hurry, and disappeared. Beth won-
dered if he kept his caution up before the foot'nan in the hall, or
if he made an undignified bolt of it the moment he was out of
sight of society.
At dinner that evening she asked Mrs. Kilroy who and what
that thin-nosed man, that sort of reminiscence of Shakespeare,
was.
"He is by way of being a literary man, I believe," Angelica
answered. "He is not a friend of om-s, and I can not think why
he comes here. I never ask him. He got himself introduced to
me somehow, and then came and called, which I thought an im-
pertinence. Did you notice that woman with an Alsatian bow in
her bonnet, that made her look like a horse with its ears laid
back ? Her pose is to improve young men. She improves them
away from their wives, and I object to the method ; and I do not
ask her here either, yet she comes. His wife I have much sym-
pathy with ; but he keeps her in the country, out of the way, so I
see very little of her."
" What is his name ? " Beth asked.
" Alfred Cayley P;-unce."
" Wliy," Beth exclaimed, "he must be a youth I knew long
ago — when I was a child ! I was sure I had seen him before. But
what a falling ott"! I wondered if he were an old young man or
a young old num when I first saw liim. He was refined as a boy,
and had artistic leanings ; I should have thought he might have
developed something less banal in the time than a bald foreliead."
"Tliat kind of man '■pends most of his time in cultivating ac-
quaintances," said Mr. Kilroy. " When they haven't birth their
pose is usually brains. But Pounce took a fair degree at the uni-
versity. And he's not such a bad fellow, really. He's precious,
of course, and by way of being litei-ary — that is to .say, he is lit-
erary to the extent of having written some little things of no con-
s
THE RETII ^iOOK.
491
r little person
B passed down
ing- about lier,
ir till slie g-ot
JiH of Shake-
\ind went out,
ith an elabo-
• ^"^Irs. Kilroy,
' people, and
same solemn
. Beth W(ni-
II tlie liall, or
10 was out of
lio and wliat
Sliak(\speare,
e," Angelica
t think why
itroduced to
light an ini-
tian bow in
ts ears laid
'roves them
lid I do not
inch sym-
wa;y-, so I
niew loner
fore. But
ig man or
;is a hoy,
ight have
orehead."
atijig- ac-
irth tlieir
the uni-
preoious,
he is lit-
no con-
sequence, upon whicli Ik^ assumes the right to give his opinion
with appalling assurance of the works of other people wliieh are
of consecpienee. There is a perfect epidemic of that kind of assur-
ance among- the clever young men of the day, and it's wrecking
lialf of them. A man wlio begins by having no doubt of the
worth of his own opinion gets no farther for want of room to
move in."
Next day Beth was ahme in a siumy sitting-room at the back
of the house, looking out into grounds connnon to the whole
square. It was about tea time. Th'^ windows wei-e wide open,
the sun blinds w<'re drawn down outside, and the warm air, fra-
grant with mignonette, streamed in over the window boxes. An-
gelica had given this room up to Beth, and here she worked or
rested, read, wrote, or reflected, as she felt inclined, soothed rather
than disturbed by tlie far-ott" sounds of the city, and eased in mind
by the grace and beauty of her surrounding.s For the room was
a woi'k of art in itself — an Adams room with carved white panels
framing spaces of rich brocade, delicately tinted, on the walls ; with
furniture chosen for comfort as well as elegance, and no more of it
than was absolutely necessary — no crowding of chairs and tables,
no congestion of useless ornaments, no plethoi-a of pictures, putting
each other out^only two, in fiict : one a sunnner seascape, with
tiny waves bursting on sliining sands ; the other a corner of a beau-
tiful old garden, shady with trees, glowing with flowers, whence
two young lovers, sitting on an old stone seat, looked out with
dreamy eyes on a bright glimi)se, framed in foliage, of the peaceful
country beyond. Angelica had thought that room out carefully for
Beth, every detail being considered so tliat the whole should make
for rest and refreshment and she had succeeded perfectly. Noth-
ing could have eased Beth's mind of the etfect of her late experi-
ences or strengthened it again more certainly than the harmony,
the quiet, and the convenience of evervtliing about her — books on
the shelves, needlework on the worktable, writing mat(>rials in
abundance on the bureau, exquisite forms of flowers, and prevail-
ing tints of apple blossoms, white and ])ink antl green ; music when
she chose to play, comfort of couch and chairs when she wished
to repose, and, above all, freiHlom from intrusion, the right to do
as she liked g-ladly conceded, the res])ect which adds to the dig-
nity of self-respect, and altogether the kind of indej)endence that
makes most for pleasiu'e and peace. Before she had been there
three weeks she was happily released from herself by the recov(;ry
of her power to work. She began to revise the bt)ok she had
492
THE BETH BOOK.
:
». 1'
( i
n
I 1
\
thoup^ht so little of when it was first written. She had brouglit it
to town because it was not very bulky rather than because she
had any hope of it ; but when slie took it out and read it here
alone in peace it seized upon her with power, and, in lier surprise,
like Galileo, she exclaimed, " But it does turn round ! " The book
was already "radiant with inborn genius," but it still lacked the
" acquired art," and, feeling this, she sat down to it regularly and
rewrote it from beginning to end, greatly enriching it. She had
no amateur impatience to appear in print and become known ;
the thought of prt>duction induced her to delay and do her utmost
rather than to make indiscreet haste ; her delight was in the doing
essentially ; she was not one to glory in public successes, however
great, or find anything but a tepid satisfaction therein compared
to the warm delight that came when her thoughts flowed and the
material world melted out of mind.
She had been busy with her book that afternojn and very
happy until tea came. Then, being somewhat tirc^d, she got up
from the bureau at which she worked and went to the tea table,
leaving her papers all scattered about ; and she was in the act of
pouring herself out a cup of tea whc;n the door opened and the
footman announced, "Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce."
Very much surprised, she put the teapot down deliberately and
looked at him. He held his hat to his breast and bowed with
exaggerated deference, in an affected, foreign way.
" I insisted on seeing you," he began, as if that were something
to boast of. " Perbaps I ouglit to apologize."
Beth, not knowing what to say, asked him to sit down. Then
there was a little })ause. He looked at the tea table.
" I see that you do take tea," he observed. " Why did you
refuse it when I offered you some yesterday ? "
" I am afraid I am not prepared to give you a reason," Beth
answered stiffly.
" Would it be out of place if I were to ask for some tea ? " he
said.
Beth silently poured him out a cup and he got up, took what
he wanted in the way of sugar and cream and cake, and sat down
again, making himself very much at home.
" Do take some yourself," he pleaded. " You are making me
feel such an outsider."
" I beg your pai'don," said Beth, helping herself.
She did not know whether to be annoyed or amused by his
assurance. Had she not known who he was she would certainly
i had brougflit it
lan because she
11(1 road it Iiero
in }ier surprise,
ifl'" The book
still lacked the
t rcg-ularly and
'S it. She had
?come known;
flo her utmost
as in the doing
esses, however
rein -oniparod
lowed and tlie
ojn and very
'tl, slie got up
the tea table,
5 in the act of
•ened and the
iberatelyand
bowed with
■e something-
own. Then
hy did you
ason," Beth
e tea ? " he
took what
tl sat down
laking- me
5ed by his
certainly
TUE BETH BOOK.
493
have been annoyed ; but the recollection of their days togt^ther
when the world was young and life was all pure poetry came
upon her suddenly, as slie found something of the boy in the face
and voice of the man before her, making it impossibh; for her to
treat him as a stranger, and melting her into a smile.
" Confess that you were surprised to see me," he said.
" I was,'' she answered.
" And not glad, perhaps," he pursued.
" Surprised means neither glad nor sorry," she observed.
" D'you know, the moment I saw you " he began senti-
mentally ; " but never mind that now," he broke off. " Let me
give you my reason for coming, which is also my excuse. 1 hope
you will accept it."
Beth waited quietly.
" I told you I could always find out anything I wanted to
know about anybody," he pursued, " and last night I happened to
sit next a lady at a dinner party who turned out to be a great
friend of yours. I always talk to strange ladies about what I've
been doing — that kind of thing interests them, you know — and I
described the party here yesterday afternoon, and said I oiily met
one lady in the whole assembly worth looking at and worth
speaking to, and that was Mrs. Maclure, who was staying in the
house. 'Oh, I know her quite well,' the lady said. 'She's a
neighbour of mine at Slane. Her husband is a doctor, but I hear
she is connected wntli s(mie of the best county people in the
north. She's very clever. I believe, and by way of li)eing literary,
and all that sort of thing, don't you know. But I don't think she
has any one to advise her.' "
" Oh," said Beth, enlightened, "I know who my great friend is
then — Mrs. Carne."
"Yes," said Mr. Pounce, "and w^lien I heard you were literary
I felt a further ailinity, for, as I dare say you have heard, I am a
literary man myself."
" Yes, I heard you were 'by way of being literary,' too," Beth
rejoined.
" Who told you so ? " he demanded quickly, his wliole thought
instantly concentrated on the interesting subject when it con-
cerned himself.
" I do not feel at liberty to tell you," she replied.
" Was it Mrs. Kilroy ? "
Beth made no sign.
" Was it Mr. Kilroy ? " he persisted.
494
THE BETH BOOK.
1 \\\
I \
/!
" I have already said tliat I sliall not tell you, Mr. Pounce," she
answered frigidly.
He sat in silence for a little, looking extremely annoyed. Beth,
to relieve the tension, oll'ered him some more tea, which he re-
fused curtly ; but as slie only smiled at the discourtesy and helped
herself, he saw lit to change his mind, and then resumed the con-
vei*sation.
"When Mrs. Carne heard that I was a literary man," he said
with importance, " she begged me to do what I could to help you.
She said it would be a great kindness ; so I promised I would, and
here I am."
" So it seems," said Beth.
He stared at her. " I mean it," he said.
'■ I don't doubt it," Beth answered. " You and Mrs. Carne are
extremely — kind."
" Oh, not at all ! " he assured her blandly. " To me, at all
events, it will be a great pleasure to help and ai.' '".je you."
" How do you propose to do it ? " Beth asked, relaxing. Such
obtuseuess was not to be t-ken seriously.
He glanced over his shoulder at the bureau where her papers
were spread. " I shall get you to let me see some of your work,"
he said, "and then I can judge of its worth."
" What have you done yourself ? " she asked.
" I — well, I w'rite regularly for the Patriarch,^'' he said, with
the complacency of one who thinks that he need say no more.
" The editor himself came to stay with us last week, and that
means something. Just now, however, I am contemplating a
work of fiction— an important work, if I ma}' venture to say so
myself. It has been on my mind for years."
" Indeed," said Beth. " What is its purpose ? "
" Purpose ! " he ejaculated. " Had you said pur-port instead of
pur-pose, it would have been a sensible question. It is hardly
likely I shall write a novel with a purpose. I leave that to the
ladies."
" I have read somewhere that Milton said the poet's mission
was ' to allay the perturbation of the mind and set the affections
in right tune.'' Is not that a purpose ? " Beth asked. " And one in
our own day has talked of ' that great social duty to impart
what we believe and what ire think we have learned. Among
the few things of which we can pronounce ourselves certain
is the obligation of inquirers after truth to communicate what
they obtain.'' ^^
THE BETH BOOK.
495
1-. Pounce," she
moyed. Beth,
wJiicli he re-
sy and lielpcd
lined tlie con-
iian," he said
to Jielp you,
I vv'ould, and
■s. Came are
' me, at all
3U.*'
^"ig:- Such
her papers
our work,''
said, with
no more,
and that
plating- a
to say so
istead of
hardly
It to the
mission
ccfions
one in
mpart
^mong
ertahi
ichat
*'But not in the form of fiction," Alfred Cayley Pounce put in
dogmatically.
"Yet there is always purpose in the best work of the great
■writers of fiction," Beth nuiintaiued.
Not being able to deny thi.s, he supposed, sarcastically, that she
had read all the works to which she alluded.
"I see you suspect that I have not," she answered. «Tuiling.
*'I suspect you did not Ihid that passage you quoted just now
from Milton in his works," he rejoined.
" I said as nuich," she reminded him.
" Well, but you ought to know better than to quote an author
you have not read," he infonned her.
"Do you mean that I should read all a man's works before 1
presume to quote a single passage ? "
"I do," he replied. "Women never undersUmd thorough-
ness," ho observed largely.
"Some of us see a difference between thoroughness and nig-
gling," Beth answered. " I should say, Beware of <'ndless prepa-
ration 1 We have heard of Mr. Casaubon and the Key to all My-
thologies."
" I understand now what your friend Mrs. Carue meant about
the manner in which you take advice," Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce
informed her in a slightly offended tone.
Beth, woiulering inwardly why so many people assume they
are competent to advise, prayed that she her.self miglit always be
modest enough to wait at lea.st until her advice was asked.
"I hope I have not discussed your opinion imjjolitely," she
said. " Pray excuse me if you think I have."
Mollified, he turned his attention once more to the littered
bureau.
" You have a goodly pile of manuscript there," he remarked.
"May I ask what it is ?"
"It is a little book into which I am putting all my ignorance,"
Bhe said.
"I hope you are not going to be diffident about letting me .see
it? "he answered encouragingly. "I could certainly give you
some useful hints."
"You are too kind," .she said; and he accepted the assertion
without a suspicion of sarcasm. She rose when she had spoken,
drew the lid of the bureau down over her papers, and locked it
deliberately ; but the precaution rather flattered him than other-
wise.
490
THE BETH BOOK.
! i
I'l
"You need not be afraid," he said. " I jji-oniiso to bo loniont.
And if wo aro as fast frionds wlion tlio book appoars as I trust wo
sball bo, the Pa fr in t'ch itsolf sball jH-orbiiMi its merits; if not "
"I sui)poso it will discover my faults," Bctb put in demurely.
"I wonder, by tlio way," slie added, " wbo told you you are so
nmcb eb'vcTor tlian I am ^"
But, fortunately, Mrs. Kilroy came in and interrupted tbom bo-
fore ho had bad time to ^rra.s]) the renuirk, for wliieb Beth, from
whom it had slijjped unawares, was devoutly thankful.
When be bad <,''one she sat and wondered if she bad really un-
derstood him arig-bt with regard to the Patriarch. Certainly bo
had seemed to threaten her, but it was hard to believe that be liad
sunk so low as to be capable of criticising her work, not on its
own merits, but with regard to the terms he should be on with its
author. She was too uprig-bt herself, however, to think such dis-
lionest meanness possible, so she put the suspicion far from her,
and tried to lind some charitable explanation of the several sig-ns
of paltriness she had already detected, and to think of him as be
had seemed to her in the old days, when she had endowed hira
with all the qualities she her.self had brought into their acquaint-
ance to make it pleasant and of good elfect
Beth had taken to rambling about alone in the quiet streets
and squares for exercise ; and as she returned a few days later
from one of these rambles, she encountered Mr. Alfred Cayley
Pounce coming out of a florist's with a lar-^e bouquet of orchids
in his hand.
" You see I do not forget you," he said, holding the bouquet
out to her. " Every lady has her flower. These delicate orchids
are you."
But Beth ignored the offering. " You are still fond of flowers,
then ? " slipped from her.
" We do not leave a taste for flowers behind us with our toys,"
he rejoined. " If we like flowers as children we love them as
men. The taste develops like a talent when we cultivate it To
love flowers with true appreciation of their affinities in regard to
certain persons is an endowment, a grace of nature which be-
speaks the most absolute refinement of mind. And what would
life be without refinement of mind ! "
Beth had walked on and he was walking beside her.
" And how does the book progress ? " he inquired.
" It is finished," she answered.
" What, already ? " he exclaimed. " Why, it takes me a week
THE BETn BOOK.
497
to bo loniont.
' «is [ trust \vc»
s; if not "
J" (Iciuurely.
* .you nni so
'ted fli(.,ii ho-
' Ji<tli, from
i].
i<l really im-
'<'rtainly Iio
t'lat ho had
'. not on its
on with its
»k such dis-
i' from Jier,
■voral sig-ns
l»ijn as he
lowed him
f acquaint-
liot streets
Jays later
d Cayley
f orchids
' bouquet
P orchids
flow
ers,
ir toys,"
heui as
it. To
?ard to
ich be-
would
week
to write five hundred words. I>ut then, of course, my work is
highly concentrated. I have sent home for some of it to show
you. You se(! I am p(Ttinacious. I said I wouM help you, and I
will. I hope you will live to l)e jrlad that we have met. 15ut you
must not writ<! at such a rate. You can only produce poor thin
stulf in that way."
Beth shrugg»'d her shoulders, and h^t him a.ssume what lio
liked on the subject.
They walked on a little way in silence, then he began again
about the llowers. "Flowers," he informed her, " were tlie great
solace of my boyhood — the sole solace 1 may say — for 1 had no
friend.s, no companions, except a poor little chap, a cripple, on
whom I took pity. My people did not think me strong enough
for a public school, so they sent me to a i)rivate tutor, a man of
excellent family, rector of a large seaside parish in the north. He
only took me as a favour; he had no other pupils. But it was
very lonely in that great empty house. And the seashore,
although it filled my mind with poetry, was desolate, desolate I "
Beth, as she listened to these meanderings of his fancv, and re-
called old Vicar Richardson and the house full of children, thought
of Mr. Pounce's remarks about feminine accuracy.
" But had you no girl friend ? " slie asked.
" Only the lady of my dreams," he answered. '" There was no
other lady I should have looked at in the place. I was always
refined. I met the lady of my dreams eventually. It was among
the mountains of the Tyrol. Imagine a lordly castle, with draw-
bridge and moat, portcullis and ])leasance, and sauntering in the
pleasance, among the flowers, a lady — dressed in white "
"Samite ?" Beth ventured, controlling her countenance.
" I can not recall the texture," he said seriously. " How could
one think of textures at such a moment ? That would have been
too conunercial ! All I noted was the lily-whiteness and her eyes
— dark eyes. All tlie poetry and passion of her race shone in
theTn. And on the spot I vowed to win her. I went back to the
'varsity and worked myself into the best set. Lord Fitzkil ling-
ham became, as you know, my most intimate friend. lie was my
best man at the wedding."
"Then you married your ideal," said Beth. " You should be
very happy."
He sighed. "I would not say a word against her for the
world." he asserted. " When I compare lier with other women I
see what a lucky man I must be thought. But " — he sighed again
Il
498
TIIK riETII HOOK.
' ■J\
— " T was vory yoiinp, and youtli him its illusions. As wo grow
older mcro Ix'uuty does not satisfy, mere cleverness and aceom-
plisliinents do not satisfy, nor wealth, nor rank. A man may
have all that, and yet may yearn for a certain soinetliinjif wliicli
is not there— and that something' is the one thin;,' needful."'
They were o])i)osite to the house hy this time, and he looked
up at the windows sentimentally. " Which is yours ?'' he asked.
'■ I pjuss by daily and look up."
They had stoi)ped at the door. " I can not ask you in." Beth
said hastily. " Plea.se excuse me. This is my time for work."
"Ah, the time and the n\ood ! " he ejaculated. " I know it all
so well I Inspiration I Inspiration comes of congenial conversa-
tion, as I hope you will find. You will take my ilowers ; I can not
claim to have culled them for you ; hut at lea.st I cho.se them."
As the door had been opened and the footman in the liall
stood looking on. Beth thought it better to take the flowers in a
casual way as if thoy belonged to her. A card tied to the bouquet
by a purple ribbon fell out from among the Ilowers as she took
them. On it was written " Mrs. Merton Merivale." Beth held
the flowers out to Mr. Pounce with the card dangling, and raised
her eyebrows interrogatively.
" Ah — yes," he began slowly, detaching the card as he spoke
to gain time, and changing countenance somewhat. " I confess
some one else had had the good taste to choose these orchids be-
fore I saw them ; but I always insist on having just what / want,
so I took them, and suggested that another bouquet might be
made for tlie lady. I overlooked the card."
Beth bowed and left him without further ceremony.
She tossed the flowers under the tiible in the hall on her way
upstjiirs, and never knew what became of them. Later in the day
she described her morning's adventure to Angelica, and asked her
if she knew who Mrs. Merton Merivale was.
" Oh, that woman in the princess bonnet with the big Alsa-
tian bow, you know," Angelica said, " Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce's
sometime intellectual afhnity."
" Poor Alfred ! he is too crude ! " Beth ejaculated. " How I
have outgrown him ! "
Ideala called next day and found Angelica alone. " I hear
that Beth is with you ? " she said. " What is she doing ? "
" Writing a book."
" What kind of a book ? "
THE HETII noOK.
490
"'•^- -V^ wo prow
■''"•^^ and ac,.,,,,,-
'^- '^ man i„av
•"n.otl.i,,^ ,vi,if.h
'i('('(lfi,j •'
' "'"J iio lookofl
"i^ ? " li«> asked.
^ 3'OH IM." Both
f for woHc."
" ^ J^'now it all
<''»ial convorsa-
">so tlio,,,."
"• '» n.o haJl
^^ iUnvovs in a
•^^ •!« she took
Both Ju'Id
S-, and raised
as Jio spoke
"I confess
oreliids be-
''^t ^w.'int,
^ "liffJit be
'II her way
i" the day
asked Jier
biff Alsa-
Pounce's
"Howl
"I hear
" Not a book for habos, I should say!" said Anjrelica. "She
does not pretend to consider th(^ youii;,' person in the h»ast. It is
for parents and ji^uardians, she says, not f<»r aiitliors, to see to it
tliat the books the younj,' person reads ar(> siiitahl(> to lier a;re.
She thiidfs it very desiral)h' for her (»iily to read sueli as are ; but
personally she does not see the sense of writinjif (h)wn to lier, or of
beinj^atall cramped on lier account. She means to address ma-
ture men and women."
" That is brave and good," siiid Ideala. " What is the sub-
ject ? "
" I don't know," said Angelica, " but she is certain to put somo
of herself into it."
" If by tliat you mean some of her personal experiences, T
should tlii Ilk you are wrong," said Ideala. "(Jenius experi<ii('cs
too acuUdy to make use of its own past in that way ; it would sull'er
too much in the reproduction. And, besides, it can make better
use and more telling of what it intuitively knows tlian of what it
has actually seen."
" I do not think tliat you believe that Beth will succeed," said
Angelica.
" On the contrarj'," Ideala rejoined, " I exjject her success will
be unique — only — I don't know if it will be a literary success.
Genius is versatile. But w(^ shall see."
Having finished her book, Beth collected her friends and read
it aloud to them. " I don't know what to think of it." she said ;
"advise me. Is it worth publishing, or had I better put it aside
and try again ? "
"Publish it by all means," was the unanimous vei-dict, and
Mr. Kilroy took the manuscript himself to a publisher of liis ac-
quaintance, who read it and accepted it at once.
"Oh,'' Beth exclaimed, when she heard the reader's report,
"I do know now what is meant by all in good time I If I had
been able to publi.sh the first things I wrote, how I .should have
regretted it now ! But I did think so much of myself at that
time, too! You should have heard how T dogmatized to Sir
George Galbraith — and he was so good and kind ; he never
snubbed me. But I believe I am out of the amateur stage now,
and far advanced enough to begin all over again hum])ly and
learn my profession. But I find my point of view unchanged.
Manner has always been less to me than matter. When I think
of all the preventable sin and misery there is in the world, I pray
God give us books of good intention, never mind the style 1
1 ^
600
THE lU'lTII l¥H)K.
\ ;'
Polished poriods put n<'itlu«r hrart nor liopo in us; theirs is the
polish of steel, which we mlinire for the hihour bestowed upon it,
but by whieh we do not bc-nelit. Tiie inevitable ills of lifc^
stren^fthen and refine when they ar<^ heroiealiy b(.rne; it is the
jn-evenhible ones that act on our evil passions and till us with
rage and bitterness; and what we want from the wi-ilten word
that reaches all of us is help and advice, comfort and encourage-
ment. If art interferes with that, then art had better go. It
would not be mi.s.sed by the wretched, the happy we need not
consider. I am speaking of art for art's sake, of course."
"We need not trouble about that," said Ideala. "The works
of art for art's sake and style for style's sake end on the shelf
much respected, while their authors end in the a.syluin, the prison,
and the premature grave. I had a lesson on that subject long
ago which enlarged my mind. I got among the peoi)Ic who talk
of style incessantly, as if style were everything, till at la.st I verily
believed it was. I began to lose all I had to express for worry of
the way to express it ! Then one day a wise old friend of mine
took me into a public library, and we spent a long time among
the books, looking especially at the ones that had been greatly
read and at the queer marks in them— the emphatic strokes of ap-
proval, the notes of admiration, the ohs of enthusiasm, the ahs
of agreement. At the end of one volume some one had written :
'This book has done me good.' It was all very touching to me,
very human, very instructive. I never quite realized before what
books might be to people, liow they miglit help them, comfort
them, brighten the time for them, and fill them with brave and
happy thoughts. But we came at last in our wanderings to one
neat shelf of beautiful books, and I began to look at them.
There were no marks in them, no signs of wear and tear. The
shelf was evidently not popular, yet it contained the books that
had been specially recommended to me as best worth reading by
my stylist friends. 'There is style for you!' said my friend.
'Style lasts, you see. Style is engraved upon stone. All the
other books about us wear out and perish, but here are your
stylists still as fresh as the day they were bought.' ' Because no-
body reads them ! ' I exclaimed. ' Preci^ly,' he said. ' There is
no comfort in them. They are the mere mechanics of literature,
and nobody cares about them except the mechanicians.' After
that I prayed for notable matter to indite, and tried only for the
most appropriate words in which to express it, and then I arrived.
If you have the matter the manner will come, as handwriting
TIIK BKTII nooK.
501
'«; nicii-H is the
■stowcU tjj)oji it,
'*J«' ills (,f lif,.'
'^••'•"♦'; it is the
"^' ''" us with
'• vvritf,.,, word
and ('Mc()nra<r,..
hrlU-v ^r,,. Jt
^' ^^t^ need not
urso."
"The worlcs
' <"' tlie slielf
"". <Jie2)ri.s,,„^
•'*»'>j<'<-'t Jong
']>'«' vvlio taJk
t last I verily
<"<>»• worry of
'<'|»'l of mine
tnne uniou<r
l^t'On fcrj-ejitly
tj'oJcos of ap-
»«i'i, the ahs
a<i written:
'"^'' to nie,
'f'foro wliat
"1, comfort
^'•ave and
'!«•« to one
at tJiem.
|t<'ar. Tlie
»ooks that
>adino- by
[y fn'end.
AIJ tJie
I'e your
auso no-
There is
ierafure,
After
for the
arrived,
tvriting
comes to oacli of us; and it will 1m as f,'ood. too, us you are eon-
Bcieutious, and as beautiful as you are yood."
CTIAITKU XLVIIT.
Mr. Alfred Caylky Polnck called on Beth continually. He
wa.s announced one day when she was sittinjji: at lunch with the
Kilroys.
"Really I do not think I ou<?ht to let you he hored hy that
man," Mr. Kilroy exclaimed. " 1 onc(; had ten minutes of the
academic platitudes of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce, and that was
enouyh to last me my life. You are too gocKl-natured to see him
so often. It is a weakness of yours, I believe, to suffer yoiu'self
rather than hurt other i)eoi)le's feeling's, however much they may
deserve it. But really you must snub him. There is nothing-
else for it. Send out and say you are en;4'a<,^ed."
"If I do, he will wait until I am di.seiif^aj^ed, or call a<^ain, or
write in an offended tone to a.sk when I can be so jifood as to make
it convenient to see him !" Beth answered in comical despair.
"I don't believe ho bores her a bit at j»'(\s<'nt,^' Anj^'-elica ob-
served. "He is merely an intellectual exercise for Beth. She
watches the workinj^s of his mind quite dispassionately, draws
him out with little airs and graces, and then adjusts him uiuler
the microscope. It interests lier to dissect the creature. When
she has studied him thorouglily she will cast him out as a worth-
less specimen."
" Oh, I hope that isn't true," said Beth, with a twinge of con-
science. "I own it has interested me to see what he has devel-
oped into; but surely that isn't unfair ?" She looked at Mr. Kil-
roy deprecatingly.
" It is vivisection," said Angelica.
"But under .such agreeable amesthetics tliat I .should think he
enjoys it," said Mr. Kilroy. " I should have no objection myself."
"Daddy, be careful I" Angelica cried. " A rare specimen like
you is never safe when unscrupulous naturalists are about."
" But no microscope is needed to demonstrate Mr. Kilroy 's
position in the scale of being," Beth put in. "It is writ large all
over him."
"Good and true, Beth," said Angelica, smiling. "You can go
and gloat over your worthless specimen as a reward, if you like.
:i
>02
THE BETE BOOK.
M
M
But tlie sciontific inind is a mystery to me, and I shall never un-
derstand liow you liave tlic patience to do it "
Beth found Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce pacing about her sitting-
room, bitmg his nails in an irritable manner
" You were at lunch, I think," he said. •' I wonder why I was
not asked 111?" "^
Beth said nothing.
'' I consider it a slight on Mr. and Mrs. Kilroy's part ! " ho pur-
sued^hulhly. "Why should / be singled out foi- this kind of
"Aren't you just a little touchy?" Beth suggested
'I I confess I am sensitive, if that is what yoTmean," he replied
Wen, yes, if you like," she said, "hypersensitive. But I
thought 3'()u asked for me."
"It is true I came to see you; but that is no reason why I
should be slighted by your friends, especially when I came be-
cause I think I have something to show you that will interest
you. He took a little packet from the breast pocket of his coat
as he spoke and began to undo it. " I took the trouble to go all
the way home to get them to show you. My mother was the only
person who had them. They are photographs of myself wi.en I
was a boy.
''I wonder your mother parted with them," Beth said
I persuaded her with diiliculty," he rejoined complacently
I have often tried before, but nothing would induce her toZl't
with t, ,,til this time, when a bright idea occurr d to me I
told her hey were to be published among portraits of celebrated
people when my new book comes out, and naturally she likeTuie
idea. Her only son, you know ! "
"And are they to be published ?" Beth .-sked
"Oh-well-of course I hope so-some dav," he answered
Porh t V,or 7 ^""' '"' '^ ""^ ^«« ^"«— ^ -ith his own
p 111 a.ts to notice the omission. She was interested in them too
waen at last he let her look at them. ' '
" What do you think of that ? " he asked, showing her a -ood
lu::?;:; k "t' ^ -^'^ remembered him. " I was^ pLttyW
hu. 1 tlnnk, with my curls ! Burning the midnight o 1 had not
bared my orehead in tliose days, and my beard Ld not growxi
Life was all poetry then." He sighed affectedly What L!l once
been spontaneous feeling in him had become Jmere re o llecrn
only to be called up by an effort. recollection,
THE BETH BOOK.
503
shall never un-
iont hersittiiig--
ider why I ^vas
part ! " lie pur-
!• this kind of
d.
»," he replied,
itive. But I
reason wJiy J
»i I came be-
vvill interest
et of his coat
ib!e to g-o all
was the only
rself wi.en I
aid.
niplacen tly.
^icr to ])art
d to nie. I
celebrated
e liked the
answered,
r you."
1 hi.s own
lem, too,
T a g-ood
'etty boy
had not
grown.
ad once
lection,
"Later it became all excesses, I suppos*^." said Betli.
" Ah ! " lie ejaculated in a tone of i))<'ased re<,^rt't. " I had to
live like other men of my standing', you know, and I had to pay
for it. The boy was lost, but the man developed. You may think
the change a falling off "
He v/aited for Beth to express an opinion ; but as it was impos-
sible for her to say wliat she thought of the dilVcrence between the
conceited, dissipated-looking, hy.sterical man of many meanne.s.ses
and the dillident, unspoiled, promising bo}', she held her peace.
When she had seen the photographs, and ho had looked at
them him.self to his heart's content, he did them up again, and
then formally pres(;nted her with the packet. " Will you keep
them ? " he said solemnly.
" Oh, no I " she answered with decision. " I am not the proper
person to keep them. If they did not belong to your mother they
would be for your wife and children."
"Ah, my wife!" he ejaculated bitterh'. "I haven't a word to
say against my wife, remember that 1 Only — you are the one to
whom I would confide them."
"I decline the responsibility,'' Beth said, keeping her counte-
nance with dilRculty.
He returned the packet to the Ijreast pocket of his coat. " T
shall carry them here, then," he .said, tapping his chest with tlio
points of his fingers, "until you ask for them."
As usual, he staid a preposterous time that day. and when at
last he went, even Beth's kindly forbearance was exhausted, and
she determined to .see no more of him. He was not the man to
take a hint, however, and it wjus no easy matter to get rid of him.
He .sent her flowers for which she did not thank liim, l)<)oks which
she did not read ; wrote her long letters of the clever kind, discuss-
ing topics of the day or renvarks she hei'self had made, which slie
left unanswered ; called, but never found her at home, yet still
persisted, until she was fain to exclaim, "Will no one rid me of
this troublesome jjriest I "
"It is your own fault," said Angelica. "I warned you that
good nature is wasted on that sort of man."
"But surely he must see that I wish to avoid him," Beth ex-
claimed.
"Of course he sees it," Angelica rejoined; "but you maybe
sure that he interprets your reluctance in some way very flatter-
ing to himself."
" I shall really be rude to him," Beth said desperately. " He
504
THE BETH BOOK.
I I
ill
is a most exasperating- person, tlie kind of man to drive a woman
mad, and then blame lier for it. I pity his wife ! "
Beth staid with the Kilroys until the end of June, when the
season wjis all but over, and everybody was leaving town; and
it wtus the busiest and happiest time she had ever had. She had
enjoyed the work, the play, the society-, the solitude ; and had
blossomed forth in that congenial atmosphere both mentally and
physically, and became a braver and a better woman.
The Kilroys were to go abroad the day that Beth returned to
Siane. The evening before she went with Angelica to a theatre.
But Angelica, being much occupied at tlie moment with arrange-
ment's that had to be made for the carrying on of her special work
during her absence, was not able to stay for the wlu)le perform-
ance ; so she left Beth alone at the theatre, and sent the carriage
back to take her home.
Beth, sitting in the corner of a box, had eyes for nothing the
whole time but the play, which, being one of those that stimulate
the mind, had appealed to her so powerfully that even after it was
over she remained where she was a little, deep in thought. On
leaving the theatre, she found tlie footman on the stei)S, looking
out for her, and he remained, standing a little behind her, till
the carriage came up. While she waited she was annoyed to see
Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce making his way toward her olliciously.
"You are alone!"' he exclaimed, with a note of critical disap-
proval in his voice, as if the cii'cinnstance reflected on somebody.
"Hardly!" Beth said, glancing up at her escort. " But even
if I were, Mr. Pounce, I am in London, not in the dark ages, and
ae sure of respect here, at the doors of a theatre, as I am in my
own drawing-room. I believe, by the way," she ailded liglitly,
not liking to hurt him by too blunt a snub, " I believe this is the
only big city in Europe of which so much can be said, and En;:lish-
women may thank themselves for it. We demand not protection,
but respect. Here is the carriage. Good-night ! " She stepped in
as she spoke, and took her seat.
"Oh, pray— you really must allow me to see you safe home,"
he exclaimed, following her into the cai'riage and taking the seat
beside her before she could remonstrate. The servant shut the
door, and they drove away. Beth boiled with indignation ; but
slie thought it more dignified not to show it, and she dreaded to
have a scene before the servants. Her demeanour was somewhat
rigid, and she left him to open the conversation ; but when he
drive a woman
June, wlien the
di\g town; and
• had. She had
itude; and had
:h mentally and
lan.
k'tli returned to
ica to a theatre,
it with arrange-
ler special work
whole perform-
ent the carriage
for nothing- the
e that stimuhite
ven after it was
1 thought. On
e steps, looking
)ehind her, till
annoyed to see
her oJIiciously.
critical disap-
on somebody.
it. '* But even
dark ages, and
IS I am in my
dded lightly,
've this is the
and En^Jish-
lot protection,
She stepped in
u safe home,"
aking the seat
vant shut the
ignation ; but
le dreaded to
•as somewhat
but when he
THE BETH BOOK.
505
spoke she answered him in lier usual tone. lie, on the contrai-y,
was extremely formal. He stroked his pointed bcanl, looked oat
of the window, and made remarks about the weather and llio
people in the streets, not avoiding the obvious, which was a relief.
The hall door was opened as soon as the carriage stopped, and
they got out.
" Thank you for your escort, and goodnight," Beth said, hold-
ing out her hand to him ; but he ignored it.
" I feel faint," he said, and he looked it. " Will you let me
come in and sit down a minute, and give me a gla.ss of water ^. "
" Why, of course," Beth .said. " But have something stronger
than water. Come this way, into the library. Koberts, bring
Mr. Pounce something to revive him."
" What will you have, sir ? " the butler said.
" A glass of water — nothing but a glass of water," Mr. Pounce
said most preciously, sinking into an easy-chair as he spoke.
The butler brought the water, and told Beth that Mr. and Mrs.
Kilroy had not come in. She ordered some tea for herself.
Mr. Pounce sipped the water, and appeared to revive.
" I have sufTered terribly during the last three weeks," he said
at last.
" Have you really ? " Beth rejoined with concern. " What
was the matter ? "
" Need you ask ! " he ejaculated. '" Why, why have j-ou
treated me so ? "
" Really, Mr. Pounce, I do not see that you have any claim on
my special consideration," Beth answered coldly.
" I have the claim of one who is entirely devoted tt) you," he
said.
" I have never accepted your devotion, and I will not have it
forced upon me," Beth answered decidedly. " I should like you
better, to tell the truth, if you were a little more dev^oted to your
—duty."
" You allude to my wife," he said. " Oh, how can I make you
understand ! But you have .said it yourself — duty ! What is
duty ? The conscientious performance of uncongenial tasks.
But if a man does his duty, then he deserves his reward. I do
my duty with what heart I have for it. No fault can be found
with me either as a husband or a citizen. Therefore, as a man, I
consider myself entitled to claim my reward."
" I am afraid you are not well," she said. " Don't you think
you had better go home and rest ? "
33
506
THE BETH BOOK.
\i f
1 I
n
" Not until we come to an understanding," he answered tragic-
ally.
Beth shrugged her slioulders resignedly, folded her hands, and
waited, more interested in him as a human specmien in spite of
herself than disturbed by anything his attitude foreboded.
There was a bright wood fire burning on the hearth. Mi-s.
Kilroy liked to have one to welcome her when they had been out
late, not for warmth so nmch as for cheerfulness. The sununer
midnights were chilly enough, however, for the gentle heat to be
grateful ; and Beth turned to the blaze and gazed into it tran-
quilly. Tlie clock on tlie mantelpiece struck one. Roberts
brought in a tray with refreshments on it and set it down on a
small table beside Beth. Belore Beth helped herself she asked
Mr. Pounce what he would have ; but he curtly declined to take
anything. She shrugged her shoulders, and fell-to herself with a
healtliy appetite.
" How can you ! how can you ! " he ejaculated several times.
" I'm hungry," she said, laughing ; " and I really don't see
why I shouldn't eat."
" You have no feeling for me," he complained.
" I have a sort of feeling that you are posing," she answered
bluntly ; " and I wish you wouldn't. You'd better have some
sandwiches."
" How terribly complex life is I " he muttered.
" Life is pretty nmch what we make of it by the way we live
it," slie rejoined, taking another sandwich. " We are what we
allow (HU'selves to be. The complexities come of wrong think-
ing and wrongdoing. Right and wrong are quite distinct ; there
is no mistaking ont^ for the other. In any dilcnnna we have only
to think what is riglit to be done and to do it ; and there is an end
of all perplexities and complexities. Principle simplifies every-
thing."
" I see you have never loved." he declared, " or you would not
think tlie application of principle such a simple thing."
"It is principle that makes love last," Both answered, " and
introduces something permanent into this weary world of cliange.
There is no'^hing in life so well worth living for as ])rinciple; the
most exquisite form of pleasure is to be found in the pain of sac-
rificing one's inclinations in order to live up to one's principles —
so much so that in time, when principle and inclination become
identical, and we cease to feel tempted, sometliing of joy is lost,
some gladness that was wont to mingle with the trouble."
e answered tragic-
led lier liands, and
cimen in spite of
foreboded,
the liearth. Mi-s.
they had been out
«s. The summer
gentle lieat to be
iized into it tran-
k one. Roberts
set it down on a
lerself she asked
declined to take
-to herself witli a
d several times,
really don't see
I.
^," she answered
etter have some
le way wo live
e are what we
wrong think-
distinct ; there
a wo have only
there is an end
mplifies every-
you would not
tig."
iswered, " and
rid of change.
|)rinciple; the
o pain of sac-
i principles —
ition become
|)f joy is lost,
Ule."
THE BETH BOOK.
607
'■ But principles thomsolves are mutable," he maintainod.
"They get out of date. And there are, besides, exceptional char-
actors that do not come under the conmion law of humanity, ex-
ceptional temperjiments, and exceptional circumstances to which
common principles are inapplicable — or for which thoy are in-
adequate."
" That is the hypocrisy of the vicious," Beth said, with her
eyes fixed meditatively on the fire, " the people who lay down
excellent principles and publicly profess them for the sake of
standing well with society, but privately make oxcoi)tions f(jr
themselves in iuiy arrangement that may suit their own conven-
ience. Your people of ' exceptional temperament ' settle moral
dilliculties by not allowing any moral consideration to clash with
their inclinations, and misery comes of it. The plea of excep-
tional character, exceptional circumstances, exceptional tempera-
ment, and what not, is merely another way of expressing excep-
tional selfishness, and excusing exceptional .self-indulgence."
" Surely yon are not content to bo a mere slave to social con-
vention ! " he exclaimed.
" I am talking of fundamental principles — not of social con-
ventions," she replied ; " please to discrimiiuite. Self-control is
not slavery, but emancipation ; to control our passions makes us
lord of ourselves, and free of our mo.st galling bonds — the bonds
of the fiosh."
" What a drawback the want of — eh — a projjor philosopliic
training is ! " he observed. " Culture does a great deal. It makes
us more modest, for one thing. I don't suppose you know, for in-
stance, that you are setting up an opinion of your own in opposi-
tion to such men as Schopenhauer. Sclio])enhauer maintained
that as the man of genius gave his whole life for the profit of hu-
manity, he had a license of conduct which was not accorded to
the rest of mankind."
" If culture loaves us liable to be taken in by a false postulate
of any man's, however well turncnl tho postulate or a})lo the man,
then I have no respect for culture. The fact that Schopenhauer
said such a thing does not prove it true. An asssertion like that is
a mere matter of opinicm. Half tho Avorry in the world is cau.sed
by difTerences of opinion. Let us have the facts and form our
own opinions. Have the men of genius who alhnved thomsolves
license of conduct been any tho better for it ? the liai)pior ? tho
greater? Schoi)enhauer himself, for instance!" She smilod at
him with honest eyes when she had sjwken, and took another
508
THE BETH BOOK.
1'
\i i
' r
1
sandwich. " But don't let us talk sophistry and silliness," she
proceeded, " nor the kind of abstract tliat serves as a cover for un-
righteousness. Those tricks don't carry conviction to my uncul-
tivated mind ; I know liow they're done."
"You are lowering yourself in my estimation," he said
severely.
" And what comes after that ? " she asked.
He shook his head and gazed at her reproachfully, " How
can you be so trivial," he said, "in a moment like this — you
who are situated even as I am ? If we were to die now, in six
months it would be as though we had never been. No one would
remember us."
" But what have we done for any one," Beth asked in her equi-
t:,\ie way, "that we should be specially remembered ?"
A'" made no reply, and Beth went on with the sandwiches.
"l th m{;ht," he began at last — " I did think that you at least
would L. .' ^tand and feel for me."
Mth scvy; '.'d ef>ting and considered a moment.
' Are 4'«)a . : r-'-ai trouble ? " slie asked at last.
He rose and began to pace up and down. " I will tell you,"
he said, "and leave you to judge for your.self."
Beth looked soniewhat ruefully at the tray and wished that
the conversation had been more suited to the satisfaction of an
honest appetite.
" I have made it plain to you what my marriage is without
blaming anybody," he proceeded. "It is the rock upon which
all my hopes were wrecked. I found my ideal. I won her like
a man. I haven't a word to say against her. She is a woman
who might have made any ordinary man happy, but she has been
no help to me. It is not her fault. She has done her best, and it
is not my fault."
" Then whose fault is it ? " .said Beth ; " it must be somebody's.
I think of marriage as I think of life; it is pretty much what
people choose to make it. It does not fail when husband and
wife have good principles and live up to them, and good manners
in private as well as in public — not to mention high ideals.
When we are not happy in the intimate relations of life, it is
generally for some trivial reason — as often as not because w^e
don't take the trouble to make ourselves agreeable as because we
fail in other duties. I consider it a duty to be agreeable. In
married life happiness depends on loyalty, to begin with — the
loyalty that will not even let its thoughts stray. All that we
i !
THE BETH BOOK.
509
and silliness," she
< as a cover for im-
:tiou to my unciil-
rnation," he said
•achfully. " How
nt like this— you
o die now, in six
n. No one would
isked in her equi-
ered ? "
e sandwiches,
that you at least
' I will tell you,"
and wished that
itisfaction of an
'iag-e is without
>ck upon which
won her like
le is a woman
ut she has been
her best, and it
36 somebody's.
ty mucli what
husband and
good manners
1 hig-li ideals.
s of life, it is
)t because we
as because we
greeable. In
jin with— the
All that we
want in everyday intercourse is truth and affection, kindness,
consideration, and unvarying politeness. If poojjle practisi'd
these as a duty from the lirst, sympathy would eventually come
of the etfort. Marriage is the state that develops tlie noblest
qualities, and that is why happily married people are the best
worth kjiowing, the most delightful to live among. You have
no fault to find with your wife, therefore the fault must be in
yourself if you are not happy. Do your duty like a man, and
cure yourself of it."
" It surprises me to hear you talk in that way," he exclaimed ;
"you have suffered so nmch yourself!"
" I make no pretence of having sult'ered," she answered. " I
have no patience with people who do. We have our destiny in
our own hands to make or mar, most of us. If we fail in one
thing we shall succeed in another. Life is a fertile garden, full
of plants that bud and blossom and bear fruit, not once, but every
season while it lasts. If the crop of happiness fails one year, we
should set to work bravely, and cultivate it all the more diligently
for the next."
"All this is beside the mark," he responded j^eevishly. "You
are ofPering me the generalizations that only apply to ordinary
people. Allowance must be made for exceptional natures. Look
at me ! I tell you if I had met the right woman I should have been
at the top of the tree by this time. I have the greatest respect for
woman. I believe that her part in life is to fertilize the mind of
man ; and if the able man does not find the right woman for this
purpose he must remain sterile, and the world will be the loser.
I never knew such a woman till I met you ; but in you I have
discovered one rich in all womanly attributes, mental, moral, and
physical; and, beyond these, dowered also with genius, the divine
gift — the very woman to help a man to do his best."
"And what is the man going to do forme?" Beth inquired,
with a twinkle in her eyes.
"He would surround you with every comfort, every luxury —
jewels "
" Like a ballet girl ! " she interjected. " I am really afraid you
are old-fashioned. You begin by offering me gewgaws — the paltry
price women set on themselves in the days of their intellectual
infancy. We know our value better now "
" You should have all that an ideal woman ought to have," he
put in. " What more can a woman require ? "
" She would like to know what all she ought to have con.sists
610
THE BETH BOOK.
l;l
}
II \
IP!
\ i
of " Beth roplied. " As a rulo, a nmirs ideal woman is some one
who .-ill mLlnm comfortable; and ho thh.ks he has done a
that is necessary for her ^vhen he aUows her to contribute to Ins
^'^^'Trbe serious ! " lie ejaculated. " You should be above play-
ing in that cruel way with a man who is in earnest. Hear what
I have to say. Remember «-e are the people who make histm.
You talk about knowing your own value ! You do not know it
Without me you never will know it. You do -^t l<now wh^ s
being said already about your unpublished work Ihose ^^ho
have%eadittell me you promise to be to Enghuul wha George
Sand was to France, when she appeared a new ligh on the liter-
ary horizon. But where would George Sand have been .;U^ out
De Musset ? They owe half their prestige to each other. W h 1 e
thev were alive every one talked of them, and now that thej are
dead, reams are written about them. Let us also go down to po -
terity together. All I want is you ; what you want is me. Will
you-will you let me be to you-De Musset ? "
"What you really do want,'' said Beth, "is a sense of hu-
""""^ For God's sake, do not be trivial !" he exclaimed. "You can
not think what this means to me-how I have set my heart on it
!-l o alreadv seem to hear the men at the clubs mention my
name and you;s when I pass. Night after night I have paced
up and down outside this house, looking up at your window,
''^Si:;!ed"ngrily. " I consider that a most improper pro-
ceedhig,' she said "and I do not know how you can excuse it
'' ^"rmuch may be excused when a man feels as strongly as I
do," he protested ^^ ^n id Beth ''Where do you
"And how about your wife ? said I5eui. ^^ "^ -^
place he in your plans ? Has she no feelings to be considered
^> I shall not hurt her feelings, I assure you. I never do, he
answered " I keep her in a quiet country place, so that she may
Tear no Lsip, and I excuse my long absences from home on the
pleaof work She understands that my interests would suffer if
' ^^::^:::^^^a he to your wife," said Beth, aghast at the
^'^' Thlustarcely polite language," he reioined in an offended
tone.
\
V
THE BETH ROOK.
r.ii
■«'"an is sonio one
'^«^'tributet«his
'J<1 bo abovo play-
'!''^'^- Hoar wJ,at
''" mako history
' ^I« i>()t know it.
ot know wjjat is
''•^'- Those wJio
^"1 what Goor^e
^'•lit on tJie liter-
^'^ boon without
1 other. While
''' that they are
ro down to pos-
t IS me. Will
1 sense of hu-
-^- "You can
"y heart on it
^ mention my
f have paced
«u»- window,
^proper pro-
an excuse it
trong-Ij as I
ei'e do you
nsidored ? "
verdo," he
it she may
5me on the
d suifer if
hast at the
offended
"It is correct lan/ruagc," slie retorted. "Wo sliall undorstaiid
what we are talkinj,^ about tuucli bettor if wo call tliiiiys by tboir
ri;2;lit nanios. But are you never afraid of what y»)ur wife juay bo
driven to in tbo dulnoss of the country wbilo you arc hero in
town dancing' attendance on other men's wives ? "
" Never in the least," ho answered complacently. " She is
entirely devoted to me and to her duty, llor faith in mo is al)-
solute."
" And so you deceive her ! "
" I am not bound to toll her all my doings," he protested.
" You are in honour bound not to deceive lier," Both said ;
"and if you deceive her it is none the loss low because she does
not suspect you. On the contrary, it seems to mo that oiu^ of the
worst things that can ha])pen to a man is to have docile women
to deal with."
" I am grieved to hear you t^ilk like that," lie said. " I am
really grieved. It shows a want of rermoment that surprises and
shocks me. I maintain that I do her no injury. Those things
can always be arranged so that no one is injured ; that is all that
is necessary."
" These things can never be arranged so that no one is injured,"
Beth replied. "We injure ourselves, if no one else. W<> are
bound to deteriorate when we live deceitfully. How can you be
honest and manly and lead a double life ? The false hus])aiid in
whom his wife believes must bo a sneak ; and for the man who
rewards a good faithful wife by deceiving her I have no term of
contempt sulliciently strong."
" I am disappointed in you," he said. " I should never have
suspected that you were so narrow and conventional."
"Are you prepared to defy public opinion ?" Beth a.sked.
" No, that would be gross," lie said. " Outwardly we must
conform. Only the elite understand these things, and only the
ilite need know of them. You are 'of tlie elite yourself; you
must know — you must feel the power, the privilege — conferred by
a great passion."
" Pray do not class me witli the elite if passion is what they
respect." Beth said. " Passion at the best — ^honourable passion —
is hut the efflorescence of a mere animal function. Tlio passicm
that has no honourable object is a gaudy, unwholesome wood,
rapid of growth, swift and sure to decay."
" Passion is more than that, the passion of which I speak. It
is a great mental stimulant," he declared.
1
512
THE BETH nooK.
" I belicvo," said Beth, " that passion is a groat mental stimu-
lant — passion resisted."
"George Sand, wliom I would have you follow, always de-
clared tliat she only wrote her best under the inlluence of a strong
passion," he assured her.
" But how do we know that she might not have written better
than that best under some holier inlluence?" Beth rejoined.
" George Eliot's serener spirit appeals to me more. I believe it is
only those who renounce the ruinous riot of the senses and find
their strength and inspiration in contem])lation wiio reach the
full fruition of their powers. Ages have not talked for nothing
of the pains of i)assion, the pleasures of love. Love is a great
ethical force ; but passion, which is compact of every element of
doubt and deceit, is cosmic and brutal, a tyrant if we yield to it,
but if we master it an obedient servant, willing to work. I would
rather die of passion myself as I might of any other disease than
live to be bound by it."
Pounce, who had been pacing about the room restlessly until
now, .sat down by the fire and gazed into it for a little discomfited.
He had come primed with the old platitudes, the old sophistries,
the old ilatteries, come to treat amicably, and found himself met
with armed resistance, his flatteries and platitudes ridiculed, his
sophistries exposed, and his position attacked with the confidence
and courage of those who are sure of themselves.
" Have you no feeling for me ? " he said at last, after a long
pause, speaking somewhat hoarsely.
" I feel .sorry for you," was the unexpected answer.
"Pity is akin to love," he said.
" Pity is also akin to contempt," she rejoined. " And how can
a woman feel anything else for a man who is false to the most
sacred obligations ? who makes vows and breaks them according
to his inclination ? If we make a law of our own inclinations,
what assurance can we givelo any one that we shall ever be true ? "
" I have found at last what I have yearned for all my life
long," he protested. " I know I shall never waver in my devo-
tion to you."
" That may be," she answered. " But what guarantee could
you give me that I should not waver ? What comfort would
your fidelity be if I tired of you in a month ? "
Again he was discomfited, and there was another pause.
" If you did change," he said at last, " I should be the onlj
suflFerer."
|f
TIIK BKTII BOOK.
513
^•-it montal stimu-
;*""vv, aJway.s de-
lucncoofastroncr
ve written b«>tt«.r
iJt'th ivjoinod.
'• J boJievo it is
senses and find
who roacli tJie
fed for nothing.
Love is a great
^^erj' element of
we yield to it
^'"rk. I would
^»' tlisease than
festlessjy until
Je discomfited,
^ti sophistries,
1 himself met
ridiculed, his
le confidence
after a Jong
nd how can
;o "
ic
I"
tJie most
according-
-filiations,
be true ? "
^^ my life
my devo-
'tee could
>rt would
3e.
the onl;y
Beth sat silent for a little, then she said slowly: "What you
have ventured to propose to meto-niylit, Mr. C'ayley Pounce, is no
more credit to your intelli<,''eii('e than it is to your prin<'ij)h's. You
come here aiul lind me liviu<; ojxMily, in an assured position, with
pt)werful friends, whos(> aU'ection and resixn-t for me rest on their
confulenco in mo ; and with brilliant prosiM'cts besides, as you
say, which, however, depend to a great extent upon my answer-
ing to the expectations I have raised. You allow that I have
some ability, some sense, and yet you ofl'er mo in exchange for all
thi.s "
" I olTer you love f'" he exdainuHl fervently.
" Love 1 " .she ejaculated .vith contempt. " Y'^ou offer me your-
self for a lover, and you .seek to inspire conddeiice in nu> by de-
ceiving your wife. Y'^ou would have me sacrifice a position of
safety for a position of danger — one that might be changed into
an invidious position by the least indiscretion — and all for
what ? "
"For love of you," lie pleaded, "that I nuiy help you to de-
velop the best that is in you "
"All for the prestige of having j'our name a.ssociated with
mine by men about town in the event of mine becoming distin-
guLshed," she interrupted.
He winced. " I only ask you to do what George P^liot did,
greatly to her advantage," he answered reproacli fully.
"You a.sked me to do what George Sand did. gn^atly to her
detriment," Beth said. "George Eliot is an after-thought; and
you certainly have no intention of a.sking me to do what .she
did, for she acted openly ; she deceived no one and injured no
one."
" And you do not blame her ? " he exclaimed with a flash of
hope.
Beth answered indirectly: "When I think about that I ask
myself have Church and state arranged the relations of the sexes
successfully enough to convince us that they can not be better
arranged ? Are marriages holier now than they were in the
days when there were no churches to bless them ? or happier here
than in other countries where the}' arc^ simple private contracts ?
And it seems to me that we have no historical proof that the legal
bond is necessarily the holiest between man and woman, or that
there is never justification for a more irregular compact. I know
that 'holy matrimony 'is often a .state of absolute degradation,
especially for the woman ; and I believe that two honourable pec-
514
THE tu-:tii bodk.
1 ^
I I
pie ran livo together lioiiourahly without t)io convontionnl hond
so h)iig us no one else is injunul, no previous compact broken.
But all tlio same, I think thc! leyal Ixnid is best. It is a safe^nianl
to the family and a restraint oi) the unprincipled. And at any
rate, all my exj)erience, all my tliouj^'lit, all my hope, iir;,''ues for
the dignity of permanence in human relations. Anytliin*'" else
is bad for the individual, foi' t!»c family, for tlu^ state. As i-
zation — as evolution advances from lower to higher we nnd it
makes more and more for monogamy. Our highest types of men
and women are monogamous. Those whose contracts are lightly
made and lightly broken are trivial peoi)le. That useful Oneida
Creek experiment i)r()ved that the instinct, if not the ideal, of
modern humanity is monogamous.''
"What was that ? " ho asked.
" A immber of people formed a community at Oneida Creek to
live together in a kind of ordered j)romiscuity, but the experiment
failed because it was found eventually that the meml)ers wero
living together secretly in pairs. No; the more I know of life
the less I like the idea of allowing any laxity in the marriage
relation. In certain case.s, of cours(^ there is good and sull' it
reason for two people to separate. But I believe that
minded people can generally, and almost always do, nuike thoir
marriages answer. Marriage is compact of t^'cry little incident in
life; it is not merely made up of one strong feeling, otherwise
men and women would be as the animals, who pair and part cas-
ually ; therefore, if two people are disappointed in each other in
some respects there must be others to fall back upon. My ideal of
life is love in marriage and loyal friends."
" It is interesting to hear you express these views," he said bit-
terly, " considering what your experience has been."
" I don't see that my jK^tty personal experience has anything
to do with the truth of the matter," said Beth, bridling somewhat.
"You really have a poor opinion of me if you think I shall allow
my judgment to be warped by anything that may happen to my-
self. Because my own experience is not a happy one you would
have me declare that family life is a mistake ! But I believe that
many an outcry is raised for no better reason. Do you not see
yourself that the tranquil home life is the most beautiful, the
most conducive to the development of all that is best in us — that
there is nothing like the delight of being a member of a large and
united family. Can you come into a liouse like this and not
see it ? "
THE BETH BOOK.
MT)
" Tills house was not always a tikkIcI of domostic folirity," ho
Hiiocrcil.
" That ))rov(»s my point," sho n>join<'(l. "Th<> (lillicultirs can
be lived down if people are iMi^'^ht-iiiinded,"
" Your ar<,''UiMeut does not alter the fact that I am a misei-ahlo
man," he said tlejectedly.
" You were not born to be a miserable man," she answered
gently; "and 'we always may b(^ what we mi<j;ht hav(^ been.'
But you hav(^ lost much j^n'ound, Alfred Cayley I'ounee, since the
days when you roamed about the clill's and sandy reaches of
Itjiinharbour with Jieth Caldwell, nuiking plans. You had your
ideals then, and lived up to them. Y'ou cultivated your flowers
fordelifjfht in their beauty, and you w«>nt to your modelling'- for
love of the work. You <,'ave your llowers to your friends with an
lionest intention to please; you motlelled with honest ambition to
do <food work. In those days you were above caring to cultivate
the acquaintance of the best i)eopl(>. Y'ou had touched the hi;,^her
life at that time; you had felt such rapture in it as has never
come to you since — even among (he Ix'st ])e<)ple— I am sure; yet
you fell away; you desei-ted Beth, not basely, perhap.s, but weak-
ly ; and you have been deteriorating ever since."
lie luid started straight iu his chair when she mentioned Beth
Caldwell, and was stariny at her now with puzzled intentness.
" What do you know about Beth ? " he said quickly. "Have you
ever met her ? "
She smiled.
" I can honestly say I never have," sho answered. But she
looked away from him into the fire as she spoke, and he recog-
nised tlie set of her head on her shoulders as she turned it ; he
luid noted it often.
" God ! " he exclaimed ; " Avhat a blind idiot I have been — Beth !
Beth!" He threw himself down on his knees beside her chair,
caught her hand, and covered it with kisses.
Beth snatched her hand away, and he returned embarrassed
to his seat and sat gazing at her for a little, then took out his
handkerchief and suddenly bm-st into tears.
"What a mess I have made of my life I" he exclaimed.
" Everything that would have been best for me has been within
reach at some time or other, but I invariably took the wrong
thing and let the right one go. But, Beth, I was only a boy then,
and I suffered when they .separated us."
This reflection seemed to ease his mind on the subject. That
I
516
THE BETH BOOK.
*■
! )
she might also have suffered did not occur to hxm ; as usual, his
whole concern was for himself,
"Yes, you are right, Beth," he proceeded, "i have deterio-
rated ; but ' we always may be what we niiglit have been ' — and
you liave been sent to me again as a sign that it is not too late for
me. You were my first love, my earliest ideal, and I liave not
changed, you see — I have been true to you ; for although I never
suspected you were Beth, I recognised my rightful nuite in you
the moment we met. Yes, I was on the right road when we were
boy and girl together, but the promise of that time has not been
fulfilled. All the poetry in me has lain dormant since the days
wiien you drew i : forth. I gave up modelling when I went to
the 'varsity, because — because they didn't care for that kind of
thing in my set, you know. They were all men of position, who
wouldn't associate with artists unless they were at the top of the
tree — clever fellows, and good themselves at squibs and epi-
grams. If you'd ever been to the 'varsity yof'd know that a
man must adapt himself to his environment if he means to get on.
My di'eam had been to make my visions of beauty visible, as you
used to suggest ; but I had to give that up ; there was nothing else
for it. Still I was not content to do nothing, to be nobody ; there-
fore when I abandoned the clay I took to the pen ; I gave up the
marble for the manuscript. Many men of position have written,
yoii know, and so long as you didn't mug, fellows didn't mind.
In fact, they thought you smart if they fancied you could dash
things oflP without an effort. You understand now why I am a
literary man instead of a sculptor."
" Perfectly," Beth said dryly. " It was in those days, I sup-
pose, that you were bitten by French literature and began to
idealize mean intrigues and to delight in foul matter if the man-
ner of its presentation were an admirable specimen of style."
"Ah." he said solemnly, " style is everything.''
"It is all work of word-turning and little play of fancy with
those who make st^'le everything," said Beth, glad to get away
from love, "and that makes your Jack-of-style a dull boy and
morbid in spite of his polish. Less style and more humour would
be the saving of some of you — the making of others."
"Flaubert wrote Madame Bovary six times," he assured her
impressively.
" I wonder how much it lost each time," said Beth. " But you
know what Flaubert himself said about style before he had done
— just what I am saying I "
as usual, liis
ave deterio-
beou ' — and
t too late for
I liave not
ugh I never
ruite in you
len \vc were
las not been
ice the days
!n I went to
hat kind of
3sition, who
J top of the
)s and epi-
now that a
US to get on.
lible, as you
lothing else
)ody ; tliere-
jave up the
ive written,
n't mind,
could dash
ly I am a
lys, I sup-
l)egan to
tlie man-
tyle."
ancy with
get away
boy and
ur would
iured her
' But you
had done
THE BETH BOOK.
51'
i
"T can not understand your being insensible to the charms of
style," he said, evading the tlirust.
" I am not. I only say it is not of the most vital importance,
Thackeray was a Titan. Well, look at his slipshod style in places,
liis careless grammar, his constant tautology. He knew better,
and he could have done better, and it would have been well if lio
had, I don't deny it ; but his work would not have been a scrap
more vital, nor he himself the greater. I have seen so many
people here in town studying art. They go to the schools to learn
to draw, not because they have ideas to expn^ss. apparently, but
in the hope that ideas will come when they know how to exjjress
them. And I think it is the same in literature. One school talks
of style as if it were the end and not the means. They form a
style, but have nothing to express that is worth ex])ressing. It
would be better to pray the gods to send them the matter. If the
matter is there in the mind it will out, and the manner will form
itself in the effort to produce it— so said the great."
There was a pause, during which Alfred Cayley Pounce sighed
heavily and Beth looked at the clock.
" You were stimulating as a child, Beth," he said at last, " and
you are stimulating still. Think what it would be to me to have
you always by my side I I can not — I can not let you go
again, now that I have found you ! We were boy and girl to-
gether."
" That does not alter anything in our present position," Beth
answered, " nor does it affect my princii)les in any way. But even
if I had been inclined — if I had had no principles — I should have
been just clever enough to know better than to run any risk of
the kind you suggest. You do not know, perhaps, that you have
injured your own standing already — that there are houses in
which you are not welcome because you are suspected of in-
trigue."
'* Me — suspected of intrigue I " he exclaimed. " It isn't pos-
siblt
I"
Beth laughed. " If it is so disagreeable to be suspected," she
said, "what would it be to be found out? Aiul what have you
gained by it ? What .says the I)hamjnai)a(la ? ' There is had
reputation and the ei'il leay [to hell), ttiere /.s the short jileasnre
of the frightened in the arms of tlie frightened, and the king
imposes heavy punishment, therefore let no man think of his
neighbour's vife.' "
" It is evident that you don't trust me," he said in an injured
Mi
518
TnE BETH BOOK.
i'
tone. " Ah, Beth, does the fact that we were boy and girl together
not weigh with you ? "
" Well, it would,"' Beth said soberly, " even if worldly wisdom
were my only guide in life. I should think of the time that we
got in that scrape and you wriggled out of it, leaving me to shift
for myself as best I could; and I sliould rememl)er the boy is
father to the man. But I liave been trying to show you that
worldly wisdom is not my only guide in lif(!. I have professed
the most ])ositive puritan principles of conduct, and given you the
reasons upon which they are based, yet you persist ; you ignore
what I say as if you had not lieard me, or did not believe me, and
pursue the subject as if you were trying to weary me into agree-
ment. And you have vearied me, but not into agreement ; so if
you please we will not discuss it any longer."
"You will be soi'ry, I think, some day for the way you liave
treated me," he exclaimed, showing temper; "and what you ex-
pect to gain by it I can not imagine."
" Oh, please ! " Beth protested. " I am not imbued with the com-
mercial spirit of the churches. I do not expect a percentiige in the
way of reward on every simple duty I do."
" Virtue is its own reward," he sneered.
" It has been said that ' the plea.sure of virtue is one which
can only be obtained on the express condition of its not being the
object sought,' " she rejoined good-natui'edly. " Try it, Alfred,
and see if you do not become a happier man insensibly. Ord(^r
your thoughts to other and nobler ends, for thoughts are things,
and we are branded or beautified by them. An American scientist
has been making experiments to test the effect of thought on the
body, and has found that a continuous train of evil thought in-
jures the health and spoils the personal appearance ; but high and
holy thoughts have a beautifying eflFect. Be a man and embrace
a manly creed. Live for others, live openly. Deceit is treachery,
and treacherv is cowardice of the most despicable kind. Life has
to be lived. It might as well be lived earnestly. Life is better
lived when it is held earnestly. Personally I detest all flippancy
and cynicism, all cheapening of serious subjects by lack of rever-
ence. Irreverence portends defects of character and j)overty of
intellect. All serious subjects are .sacred subjects, and to treat
them with levity or insincerity is to prove yourself a person to be
avoidinl."
Alfred Cayley Pounce was stooping forward with his elbows
on his knees and his face between his hands, gazing blankly into
THE RETII BOOK.
519
girl together
Idly wisdom
irao tliat we
'^ me to shift
r tlie boy is
nv you tliat
ve professed
iven you tlie
; you ignore
ieve me, and
5 into agree-
ament; so if
ay you liave
rhat you ex-
I'ith the com-
nitiige in the
one which
ot being tlie
it, Alfr(>d,
bly. Order
are things,
•an scientist
iglit on the
hought in-
|ut liigh and
ul embrace
treachery,
Life lias
e is better
1 llippancy
k of rever-
[)overty of
d to k'eat
rson to be
Ibis elbows
lankly into
the fire. The Hght shone on liis bakl foreliead and accentuated
the lines which wounded vanity, petty purposes thwarted, and an
ignoble life had written preniatm*ely on his face ; and liis attitude
emphasized the attenuation of his body. He looked a poor, peevisli,
neurotic specimen, and, altliough he liad only himself to thank
for it, Beth, remembering the promise of his youth, felt a qualm
of pity.
" What a mistake my marriage has been ! " he ejaculated at
last. "But I doubt if I should ever have found a woman who
would have understood me enough to be all in all to me. For a
man of my temperament there is nothing but celibacy."
"I don't believe in celibacy at all," Beth said cheerfully.
"Celibacy is an attemi)t to curb a healthy instinct with a morbid
idea. He is the best man and the truest gentleman who honour-
ably fulfils every function of life. And 1 don't believe your
marriage was of necessit\- a mistake either. But, if you must be
mise«ible, be loyal as well. You will find that the best in the end.
If, being miserable, we are also disloyal, then we are insensibly
degraded— so insensibly, perhaps, that we are not conscious of any
part of the process, and only become aware of what has been
going on when we have to face a crisis, and find ourselves pre-
pared to act ignobly, and to justify the act with .specious excuses."
She glanced up at the mantelpiece. " Come," she said, " it is four
o'clock, and I am sleepy. I must go to bed."
He started to his feet. " Good heavens I " he exclaimed ;
"you can talk of being sleepy when I "
"Never mind about that now," said Beth, yawning frankly.
"Everybody has gone to bed and forgotten us, I suppose. I shall
have to let you out."
She gathered the evening cloak she had come back in from
the theatre about her as slui s])oke, and led the way. ITi^ let her
open the hall door for him. It was gray daylight in the street.
At the foot of the st('])s a policeman was standing on the pavement,
making a note in a little book.
"Is it any use whistling for a hansom at this hour?" Beth
asked.
The policeman looked up at her. "I'll try, miss, if you like,"
he said.
He whistled several times, but tbere was no response, and Al-
fred Cayley Pounce at last crammed his hat down on his head with
a peevish show of imi)atience and walked off down the street
without a word of leave-taking. The fact that Betli was sleepy
'11 f
ill
1
t |!
620
THE BETH BOOK.
had wounded his vanity more tlian any word she had said. She
smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she watched him depart,
then went down on to the pavement and strolled ahout, enjoying
the freshness. The policeman kept watch and ward meanwhile
at tlie open door, and ])efore she went in Beth stood and talked
to him a little in her pretty, kindly way. She noticed that his
number was 2232, I, and found his tone and manner in their sim-
ple directness strengthening and refreshing to the mind after the
tortuous posiugs of Mr. Alfred Cayley P(^unce.
i!^
CHAPTER XLIX.
At breakfast next morning Beth described the way in which
Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce had forced his attentions upon her the
night before. Mr. Kilroy was exceedingly angry. " He shall not
come into any house of mine again," he declared, and gave the
old butler, Roberts, who happened to be the only servant in the
room at the moment, orders to that effect. '' Do you mean to say,"
he asked Beth, " that the fellow had the assurance to tell you he
had actually been hanging about the house ?"
" He seemed rather proud of that, as of something poetical and
romantic," Beth answered.
"I suppose the illness was all an excuse," Angelica observed.
" I don't know," Beth said. " He certainly looked ill, but he's
a poor neurotic creature now, and might easily work himself up
into a state of hysterical collapse. T should think. What was
your im})ression, Roberts ?"
" He looked real bad, ma'am, and well he might, the way he's
been goin' on, 'anging about 'alf the night. We've all seen 'im,"
Robert rejoined imperturbably.
" Why didn't you report it to me ? " Mr. Kilroy wanted to
know.
" Well, sir, I couldn't be sure it was this 'ouse, sir, in partic'lar.
You see there's a good many in the square, sir. I was just waitin'
to make sure. He come after you'd gone last night, and said he
'ad to meet the ladies, but he'd forgotten where they were goin'
to, and James, suspectin' nothin', told 'im."
"Well, I don't think he will trouble me again," Beth said
cheerfully, concerned to see Mr. Kilroy so seriously annoyed. " I
THE BETH BOOK.
521
[ said. Slie
lim depart,
it, enjoying
meanwhile
and talked
ed that his
II their sira-
nd after the
ly in which
poll her tlie
le shall not
id g'ave tlie
■vant in the
an to sav,"
tell you he
loetical and
lobserved.
ill, but he's
|hiinself up
^Vhat was
le way he's
seen 'ini,''
kvanted to
Ipartic'lar,
1st waitin'
|ul said he
,'ei'e goin'
Jeth said
)yed. "I
'
told him what I thought of him in such unmistakable terms that
he walked out of the liouse without any form of farewell.''
Angelica looked grave. " I am afraid you've made a spiteful
enemy, Beth," she observed. "That kind of cat-inan is caj)able
of any meanness if his vanity is wounded; if he can injure you,
he will."
"Oh, as to that, I don't see what he can do," said Mr. Kilroy.
"He can supply the press witli odious personal paragraphs,
spread calumnies at the clubs, and write scratch-cat criticisms on
the book when it appears,'' Angelica said. "Tliere are i)lenty of
people who will listen to that kind of man, and take their opinions
from him."
" But what does it matter ? " said Beth in her tolerant waj'.
"All you whom I love and respect will judge me aiul my work
for yourselves. If you are pleased, I shall rejoice ; if you iind
fault, I shall be grateful and profit. But I should be a poor shal-
low thing, like society itself, if I allowed myself to be disturbed
or inlluenced by the Alfred Cayley Pounces of the press. And as
to society!" Beth laughed. "At first, when I went anywhere, I
used to ask myself all the time when would the i)leasure begin !
But now I am younger, thanks to you, and I enjoy everything. I
look on and laugh. But for the rest, I nuist be inditrerent. It
would be an insult to one's intellect to set any store on such tinsel
as that of which the verdicts of society are made."
Beth had been thinking a good deal about Dan lately, and had
come to the conclusion that, with all his faults, he was very much
to be pi-eferred to the Alfred Cayley Pounce kind of creature.
She had more hope of him somehow, and she went back det(!r-
mined that it should iu)t be her fault if they did not arrive at a
better uiulerstanding. IFe gave her a good o))portunity on the
evening of her arrival. They were sitting out in the gai'den after
dinner, on that comfortable seat by the ])rivet hedge which Beth
overlooked from her secret chamber. Behind them tlif hedge
was thick, and in front a border of flowers surrouiuled a little
green lawn, whicli was shut in Iteyond by a belt of old trees in
full foliage. It was an exquisite evening, warm and still, and
Dan, having dined well and begun a good cigar, was in a genial
mood. As he grew ')lder he attached a more enormous impor-
tance than ever to meals. If the potatoes were boiled when he
wanted them mashed or baked, it made a serious difference to
him, and he would grow red iu the face and shout at the servants
34
I
522
THE BETH BOOK.
if liis eg-jjs for breakfast wore done a Tnomcnt more or less than
he liked. He was a ridiculous spectacle in his impatience if din-
ner were late, and a sad one in his sensual satisfaction if it an-
swered to his expectations. Betli watclied him at such times with
sensations that passed through various degrees of irritation from
positive contempt to tlie kindly tolerance one feels for the greed
of a Iningry child. Dan had been "doing himself well," as he
called it, during her absence, and was looking somewhat bloated
and blotclied. His wonderful complexion was no longer so clear
and bright as it had been ; the red was reader and the white opaque.
A few more years and his character would be seen distinctly in
the shape and colour of his face ; and Beth, who had marked the
first signs of deterioration slowly set in, was saddened by the prog-
ress it had made. Alfred Cayley Pounce would succumb to his
nerves, Daniel Maclure to his tissues ; the one was earning atro-
phy for himself; the other, fatty degeneration. Beth was right.
The real old devil is disease, and our evil appetites are his min-
isters.
" You seem solemn this evening," Daniel said to her. " I sup-
pose you're regretting your friends."
" Yes," said Beth ; " but I have been away long enough, and I
am glad to be back. I saw some things in the great wicked city
that made me think Dan," she broke olF abruptly, "I wish
you and I were better friends. So veiy little would bring us to a
right understanding, and I am sui'e we should both be the better
and the happier."
" Speak for yourself," said Dan complacently. " Personally,
I feel good enough and happy enough. "VVe have our differences,
like other people, I suppose ; but who.se fault is that, I should like
to know ? "
"Partly mine," Beth acknowledged. "I don't think I should
have been so defiant. But if you had been different, I should
have been dilferent."
" If I had been different ! "' he ejaculated, knocking the ash
from the end of his cigar. " Well, I'd like to know what fault
you have to find with me ? Different, indeed ! "
" That is the principal one," Beth answered, smiling. " Your
great fault is that you don't believe you have any faults."
" Oh, well," he conceded, " of course I know I've my faults.
Who hasn't ? But I'll undertake to say that they're a man's
faults. Now, come I "
This reflection seemed to deepen his self-satisfaction, as if it
THE BETH BOOK.
r.23
or less tlian
tionco if din-
'tion if it an-
il times with
'itatioii from
or tlie g-roed
well," as he
vliat bloated
iiyer so clear
^"1 lite opaque,
distinctly in
marked the
by the prog--
cumb to his
arningf atro-
h was right.
ire ]iis min-
ler. " I sup-
oug-h, and I
wicked city
ly, " I wish
■inn- us to a
e the better
*ersonaIlv,
^litTerences,
liould like
^k I should
t, I should
jig- the ash
Ivhat fault
" Your
ny faults,
a man's
In, as if it
k
(
must he allowed that he was all the better for the faults to which
he alluded. As he s])oke, Beth seeined to see him at her wardrobe
with his hand in tlu^ pocket of one of her dresses, hunting' for
trea.sonable matter to satisfy his evil suspicions, and she sighed.
She would not acknowledge to herself that she was lighting- for
the impossible, yet even at the outset she half despaired of ever
making' him understand. It is pitifiil to think of her, with her
tender human nature, seeking a true mate where human law re-
quired that she should find one, only to ])e repulsed and batlled
and bedrag-gled herself in the end if she persevered. A good
man might have failed to comprehend Betli, but a good man
would have felt the force of goodness in her, and would have
reverenced her. Maclure recognised no force in her and felt no
reverence; all that was not animal in her was as obscure to him
as to the horse in his stable that whinnied a welcome to her when
she came because he expected sugar. It is pleasant to give pleas-
ure ; but thei'e must be more in marriage for it to be satisfactory
than free scope to exercise the power to ])lease.
"Well, look here, Dan,'' Beth pursued. "I'll make a bargain
with yoix. If you will do your be.st to correct your faults — what
/think your faults— I'll do my best to correct all you find in me.
Only let us discuss them temperately, and try conscientiously to
live up to some ideals of thought and conduct."
Dan smoked on silentlv for a little, then he said, with soine
show of irritation tempering his self-satisfaction, ''Well, all I
can say is, I can not for the life of me see what you have to com-
plain of."
"I have to complain of your conduct with Bertha Petterick
for one thing,"' Beth answered desperately. " Let us be frank
with each other. I know that you have not been loyal to me. I
saw you together here on this seat the day you gave her the
bracelet. I saw you put it on her arm, and ki.ss her, and that de-
cided me to go to Ilverthorpe."
Dan looked round about him with an altered countenance, but
nothing that he knew to be a window overlooked the s])of, neither
was it possible to .see through the thickness of the privet hedge,
nor from any other point, without being seen.
"You must have imagined it !" he exclaimed.
" I did not imagine that bracelet," Beth replied.
"Well, even if I did give her the bracelet," he .said, "you're
not going to be nasty-minded enough to insinuate that there was
anything in that ?"
524
THE BETn BOOK.
,1
"There was deceit in tliat," Beth answered, "and in your
■whoh^ attitude toward that girl while she was under this roof. If
we act so tliat we can not he open and honest about our dealings
with people, then there must be something wrong. Life would
be intolerable if it had to be lived among peoj)le anyone of whom,
while professing friendship for us. was deceiving us in some vital
particular. From the moment that we act on our own inclina-
tions rather than up to what the noblest of our friends expect of
us, we have gone wrong. But you and I are both young enough,
Dan, to put the past behind us, and forget it. Let us start together
afresh in another place where there will be no evil a.ssociations,
nothing to vex us by reminding us of unhappy days, and let us be
loyal to each other, and honest and open in every act, making due
allowance for each other, and doing our best to help andplea.se
each other. We shall be happy, I am sure. You will see, we
shall be very haj)py."
Dan took his cigar out of his mouth and flicked the ash from
the end of it with his little linger. " You'd have me give up iny
appointment here, I suppose, and the half of my income with it ?"
" Most of all, I would have you give up your appointment
here," she answered earnestly. " No honest woman can endure
to have her husband pandering to vice. It would not be so much
of a sacrifice, either," she added, " for the next session will end
this iniquity."
" Thanks to the influence of you ciu'sed women." he exclaimed.
"Thanks to our influence, yes," she answered dispassionately,
"and to some sense of justice in men."
" If you knew how men talk about women who meddle in
these matters," he said, "you would keep out of them, I think."
"Oh, I know the kind of thing thev sav." she answered,
smiling; "but the people you mean have no influence nowada3"S.
The blatant protest of the debauched against jur demand for a
higlier standard of life is not the voice of the comminiity. It is
the cry of tliose who feel their existence threatened, wlio only
live upon lies, and must be extinguished when the inevitable day
of reckoning comes which shall expose them. Even now the
kind of man who catches at every straw of o])inion which shall
secure to him his sacred carnal rights, at no matter what cost of
degradation and disease to women, is out of date, and we pay no
attention to him."
" Oh. women ! " Dan jeered. " That is all very fine ! But who
the devil cares what women think ? "
THE BETH BOOK.
5:^5
"and in your
cr this roof. If
ut our dealings
ig. Life would
yoneof wliom,
s in sonic vital
11" own inclinji-
ionds oxj)ect of
young- enoug-h,
s start tog-other
il associations,
i, and let us be
-t, making- due
elp and please
i will see, we
I tlie asli from
e g-ive up -ny
)nie with it ?"
appointnient
1 can endure
)t be so much
iion will end
e exclaimed,
passionately,
meddle in
I think."
answered,
nowadaj's.
mand for a
nit}'. It is
who only
vi table day
1 now the
hich shall
hat cost of
we pay no
But who
I
*'Now don't be old-fasliioned, Dan," Beth answered, lau<,'liin<j.
"Wlu'U women only did what they were told, men used to vow
at tlieir feet that tliere was nothing- they couldti't accomplish,
their influence was so great. But now tliat women liave pj-oved
that what they choose to do they can do, men sneer at tlu-ir i)re-
tensions to power, and try to depreciate them by comi)ariMg the
average women with men in the front rank of their profes-
sions.''
The evening calm had deepened about tluMu ; a big, bi-ight star
was shining' above the belt of ti-ees. and waves of perfume from
the flowers made the air a deligh-t to inhale.
"What a heavenly nig-ht!" Beth said. "Who would live in
London when they might be here T'
" Well, that's consistent ! " lie exclaimed ; " after entreating- me
to leave the place."
" This is not the only peaceful spot in the world," she said, with
a little sigh, "and I would rather live in London even tlum have
you here in aa invidious position. Dan, give it up, there's a good
fellow! and learn to look on life from this newer, wider ])()int of
view. You will lind interests and pleasures in it you have never
even suspected, I assure you, and you will never regret it."
" For the life of me," he said again, throwing- the end of hi.s
cigar into the bushes with an irritated jerk of his arm, " for the
life of me I can not see what you have to complain of, and I shall
certainly not give up any bird in the hand for two such birds in
the bush as you promise me." lie rose as he spoke, and shook
out first one leg and then the other to straighten his trousers.
" I'm going out." he added. " I've a patient to see. Ta, ta ! Take
care of yourself."
Some little time after Beth's return they were sitting at lunch
together, and Maclure was reading a daily paper.
" Maters look bad for that fellow Cayley Pounce," he observed.
" Why, what has he been doing ?" Beth ask(Hl.
" Poking a fellow's eye out with liis umbrella,'" Dan answered.
" He was talking to a girl in the street one night, and got into a
row with some roughs, and jal)bed one in the eye witli his um-
brella, and the fellow died. The inquiry is now going on, and
it's likely the coroner's jury will bring in a verdict of man-
slaughter against Mr. Cayley Pounce. His defence is that he
wasn't anywhere near that part of London on that particular
night, and it's a case of mistaken identity ; but, as he refuses to
626
THE BETH BOOK.
!1
V v
lit
say whoro he was, juul ijrodiiccs no evidoucc by ■way of an
alibi, that story won't avail him much.''
" What nij^ht was it ? " said Beth.
" On the liOth, just after midnifjj-ht," Dan road out of the
paper.
'' Wliy, tliat was the night he insisted on escorting me liomo
from the theatre," Beth exclaimed. "He did not leave the Kil-
roys' until four oY'U)ck in the nu)rning."
" Then why on earth doesn't he .say so ?" Dan asked.
" I can't imagine," Beth said. "I let him out myself ; every-
body els(! had gone to bed. And I'm sun; of the time, l)ecause I
thought he was never going away, and I was tired, and I looked
at the clock and said, ' It's four o'clock, and I must go to bed.' "
Dan's face had darkened. "Do you mean to say you were
sitting up witli him alone ?" he demanded.
"Yes, for my sins," Beth answered in a tone of disgust.
"The Kilroys were out when I returned from tlie theatre, and
did not come in till very late ; and they went straight upstairs,
suj)posing I liad gone to bed. As a rule they come into the
library first. So Mr. Cayley Pounce was left on my liands."
" Then," said Dan. pusliing his dessert plate away from him
with a clatter, "it is obvious why he is holding his tongue. He
is determined not to compromise you."
" Thank you ! " said Betli, bridling. " I should think I am not
so easily compromised."
" Gad ! " Dan ejaculated. " I don't know what you call easily
compromised ! A man takes you home from a theatre, and stays
with you alone till four o'clock in the morning; if that isn't
compromising, I d(m't know what is. No jury in the world
would acquit you, and the fellow knows that perfectly well, and
is liolding his tongue to screen you."
"I should think it's a groat deal more likely he's holding his
tongue in order to got the credit of it," Beth observed dryly.
" It is a mere pose. He knows I shall have to come forward to
clear him if he doesn't explain himself. I .suppose I must go at
once and stop the case; but if it wore not for his wife I declare
I should hesitate. What is the form of procedure ? You will
come with me, of course."
" 7— go with you!" Dan exclaimed brutally, "and see you
make a public exhibition of yourself, and bring disgrace on my
name in a court of justice ! I'm damned if I do ! And what's
more, if you go, you don't return to this house. I've too much
I
\''J^
THE JJETll JJOOK.
55^7
y way of an
(>ut of the
Iff 1110 home
'ave the Kil-
h1.
self ; ovory-
e, because I
"d I loolvod
to bed/"
r you ^vore
of disgust,
heatre, and
•it uixstairs,
10 into the
Elllds."
from him
nguo. He
^ I am not
call easily
and stays
that isji't
the world
'^vell, and
)lding- his
Pd dryly,
rward to
ist g-o at
^ declare
S^ou will
see you
* on my
d what's
)o much
self-respect for tliat. You hadn't much of a repntaiion when I
niarricd you, and if you lose tlu; littli' you've yot, you can go,
and I shall divorce you. My wife must he above suspici(»n."
Beth folded her .scrr/c/^c slowly whih; he was speal<in<,^ and
when he stopped she rose from the table.
"It is unfortunate for me," she said, "that the Kilrovs hav(!
gone abroad. They know the man and the facts of the case, and
would have advised me. In their absence I must do what seems
right without advice. I can not see that I have any choice in the
matter. You could make it [x'rfectly easy for me by supporting
me; if you do not support me J must go alone. I shall pack uj)
and go to town at once in order to a})pear in coui't to-morrow
morning, and I shall telegraph to lioberts, the Kilroy butler, to
nieet m(! thei-e, and confirm my stoi-y. There are the coachmati
and footman too, and the police constable — witnesses oiiough in
all conscience.
"You are determined to go ?" Dan demanded angi'ily.
" I must go," she rejoined.
"It is going to the devil, then," said Dan deliberately ; "and I
always said you would. Kemember — you don't return to tliis
house I "
When Beth arrived in town, .she found that there would be no
need to ai)pear in the case at all, for the Kilroys' old buth^',
Roberts, had seen the name of ^Ir. Alfred Cayley I'ounce in th(^
papers, ajid had unwittingly frustrated his manoMivre l)y going
to the coroner's court himself and volunteering to irive evidence.
He was accompanied by the footman who liad been out with the
carriage on the night in question, and the two together had no
difliculty in iiroving an alibi. Thus, in an ordinary connnon-
place manner, what had promi.sed to be the triumpli of his life,
the moment when he should stand conf<'ssed to the world a
chivalrous gentleman, saci-ificing himself to save a lady of pre-
possessing appearance, was converted into anotlier of the many
failures of Mr. Alfred Cayley Pomice. This ended the case so
far as he and Beth were concerned ; but with regard to Dan,
Beth recognised that her position remained the same. There was
no return for her from the step she liad taken, and she would
have to begin her life anew.
528
Till-: lijrni jujok.
CHAPTER I..
lit
;:*
Bettt wont out into the world alone kii()win<rly and willingly.
Tlu' prospect liad no terrors for li« r, neither did she feel any
r'^cret for tlie past. Slie too'c it all as a matter of eoui'sc . Tlio
days with Dan at Slane were over, but life liad still to be lived,
and sh(! set to work to an-anj^'e it and 'ive it to the l)(>st of her
ability, wliat slu; most ur;::ently felt beinj,' lerely that tbere wro
thiii<j:s she must see to at once and seMle al. it. and that she was
rather pushed for time. The first thin^'- she did in London was to
buy a map, so that she nii<,^ht lind her way about economically,
and .s()iti(> newspapers recommended to lier by the stationers us
likely to liave advertisements of respectable lod^-i, s in thiMU.
She studied these over a cup of c(»iree and a roll, cut all the
l)romisin<^ addresses out of the pajx-rs, found on the map the best
way to go, by omnibus or railway, and then she set oil' on lier
quest, taking- tlie red Ilanimer.sniitb "bus first of all, and explored
West Ivensins'ton. ITei" ell'oi'ts in that direction were not success-
ful. Kverythinj;' sbe saw at Ih'st was dear, dinjify, and disliearten-
ing-. Landladi<'s, judging' her by lier a^jpearance, would only
show ber tbeir best rooms. When she explained that all she
wanted was a nice, clean, roomy attic, because she was poor, they
became .siispicious, and declared that she wasn't likely to get any-
thing of that sort in a good neighbotu'hood. Beth wondered what
the bad neig-hbourhoods were like if the one she was in were a
good one. Later in the afternoon she found herself on the Bays-
water side in a street of tall houses otF the main thoroughfare.
They were g^ood houses that must have been built for the families
of affluent peo])le, and Beth was afraid it would be useless to ask
at any of them for tlu; m<Klest kind of acconnnodation which
was all she could afTord. While she hesitated, however, stand-
in}^ in the street before the one she had come to find, t>ie i"in
door opened and a young* man came o\it. He and B'
at each other as he ran down the steps, and ]'»ili ,,i.
thing" so attractive in his face that she spok nm. hot
hesitation.
" Can you tell me," she .said, " if they have any attic^ to let at
a moderate price in this house ? "
" Well, I got one out of them," he said, smiling, " and I guess
there's another empty that would just about hold you, dress boxes
and all. I'll ring the bell, if you'll allow me, and get Ethel Maud
TIIK HHTII HOOK.
529
'1*1 willinply,
■'•<• U'i'l any
•"'ll'M. TJio
to !)(' lived,
' 'x'st of Jut
t there wore
'lilt she was
xJoii was (o
>ii()riiically,
atiojicrs us
X ill Diem,
t'ut all (ho
••«I' th(> best
'»ir on lier
(1 e.\|)l()i-(.(l
<'t siiecess-
listiearten-
oiiltl only
it all she
><>')r, they
^•('t an^'-
'•0(1 what
M were a
the Bays-
>'ift-hfare.
families
^^ to ask
II which
, .stund-
fhr 1m,11
hoi
" let at
I ^-uess
' boxes
I Maud
Mary to sliow you up. You'll make a hotter bargain witli her
than with her ma."
The door was opened at tliis nunnont by a jjrimy s«>rvant.
"Gwendolen, will you j,''ive my compliments to Miss Kthel, if
you please," the youn;; man said with jjfi-ave formality, "and
ask her if she will l)e so good as to sj)eak tome here for a mo-
ment r'
Gwendolen nodded and retired to the ba<'k regions, wlience
presently a plumj), fair-complexioned, yellow-haired young per-
son came hurrying with a look of inquiry on her face.
"O Miss Kthel," tlie young man began, taking oil' his hat^
*' I'm real .sorry to trouble you, but J want to introduce this young
lady. I've been recommending her to get a room liere. I know
she'll find you moderate and comfortable, and the situation is one
of the best for getting into town."
Beth rec(>gnised tlu; wording of the advertisement that liad
brought her to the hou.se.
" It is handy," Miss Ethel agreed, " But we've nothing but un
attic unlet. Are you in art, mi.ss ? "
" No, literature," Beth answered, with presence of mind.
''Lady's, I suppose," Ethel Maud ^lary observed, meaning
lady's fashion papers, and glancing at Beth's dress. "You've got
to be smart for that, and it doesn't leave much for living. Come
this way, miss, please. xVnd thank you, Mr. Brock, for mention-
ing us."
She led the Avay upstairs, talking all tlie tinu' with cheerful in-
con.sequence. "lie's a real gentleman is Mr. Brock, as doubtless
you know, though an American, and dry, and you never know
which is his fun, and in art, which is not much to reckon on, and
tliat's why I thought that you might be. though you do look more
like fashion. Art is apt to bo ton/led, but why, goodness knows.
Y^ou're not used to the stairs, I see. I wish it wasn't such a
height up."
"Oh, I don't mind the height if the price is proportioiuitely
low," Beth said. " I must live within my means and keep out of
debt, you know."
" That's a rhyme — low and you know. Did you do it on pur-
pose ?" Ethel Maud Mary asked witli interest.
" No," said Beth.
"Then that's for luck," said Ethel. "You'll keep out of debt
all right. I see it in your face, and I know a face when I see it.
They'll keep you on the Lady's for the sake of your appearance
530
THE BETH BOOK.
II
I '!
1 1
I.;
even if you're not mucli use. You're elegant and speak nice,
and that's wliat they want to go about for tlieni, particuhirly if
it's a man."
" If wliat is a man ? " Betli asked.
" The editor, you know. We 'ad a young lady here who used
to say she'd \indertake to get an extra half sovereign out of any
editor in town, but editresses there was no managing. Which is
yours {
" I don't know yet," said Beth. " I've only just arrived."
" What are you getting ? ''
" A pound a week," Beth answered, that being her exact in-
come ; "hut I have a little by me besides, to keep me going till I
get started, you know."
Etliel Maud Mary nodded her yellow head intelligently, and
began to climb the narx'ow liight of stairs which led to tlie attics,
moving her lips the while, us if she were making calculations.
There was no carpet on this last flight of stairs, but the boards
were well washed, and the attic itself smelled sweet and clean.
"This is it," Ethel explained. "Mr. Brock is in the other,
next door. There's only two of them. This is the biggest room,
but the other is north and has the biggest window', and being in
art, he's got to think of the light. If you look out there to the
right you'll see some green in ""he park. You'll like the park.
It's no distance if you're a walker. Now, just let's see. I've been
calculating about the money. Mr. Brock pays fourteen shillings,
but you'll not be able to aflFord more than seven out of a pound.
You shall have it for seven."
" But surely that will be a loss to you I " Beth exclaimed.
Ethel sat herself down on the side of the bed and smiled up at
her. "I'll Tiot pretend we couldn't get more if we wanted." she
said ; " but waiting's a loss, and we're doing very well downstairs,
and can afford to pick and choose. You'll find in business that it
pays better in the end to get a good tenant you can trust, wlio'll
stay, than one who gives you double the amount for a month and
then goes off with the blankets."
" You don't deceive me a bit," said Beth, sitting down opposite
to her on a cane-bottomed chair. " Your good-heartedness shinies
out of your face. But I'm not going to take a mean advantage
of it. There's an honer.t atmosphere in this house that would suit
me, I feel, and I am siu*e I shall do well here ; but all the same I
won't come unless you m;vke a bavgain with me. If I take the
rooir.s for such a small siua now, while I am poor, will you let
THE BETH BOOK.
5;n
fl speak nice,
Kirticu]ar]y if
ere wlio used
rn out of any
r- Wliicli is
'I'ived.''
aer exact in-
going- till I
ig-ently, and
to tlie attics,
'alculations.
' the boards
id clean.
the other,
Jg-est room,
id being- iu
bere to the
the parlc.
I've been
•sbilling-s,
a pound,
ned.
Jed up at
ited/' she
'wnslairs,
«s that it
t, wlio'll
5nth and
'>Pi)osite
->> shines
vantage
11 kl suit
same I
ilv-e the
you let
me make it up to you when I succeed ? I shall succeed ! " Tlie
last words burst from her involuntarily, forced from her witb em-
pliasis in spite of herself,
"That's what /like to liear ; that's spirit, that is!" Ethel
Maud Mary exclaimed, nodding approvingly. " You'll do all
right. So it's a bargain. Washing's included, you know. You
didn't bring your box, did you ? "
"No, I left my luggage at Charing Cross, where I arrived last
night, I slept at the hotel,'' Beth answered,
" At the Charing Cross Hotel ? Gracious ! that must have cost
you a small fortune.''
" I didn't know what to do," Beth explained apologetically.
"You should have tried the Strand, Surrey Street, and there
you'd have got bed and breakfast for five shillings, and that's
more than enough. However, it's no use crying over spilt milk.
You'll have to fetch j-our luggage, I suppose. You can go by
train from Notting-Hill-Gate to Charing Cross. It's about as
cheap as the 'bus, and much quicker. I'll come with you and
show you the way if you like, A breath of fresh air will do me
good.''
"Yes, do come," Beth answered gratefully, glad of the kindly
human fellowship. "What is your name, may I ask ?"
"Ethel ]\Iaud Mary Gill. And what is yours, if you plea.se ?"
"Elizabeth Caldwell Maclure."
Beth had emptied her secret chamber and packed all her little
possessions before she left Slane the day before. She had some-
times suspected that Dan would be glad of an excus(> to get rid of
lier to relieve himself of the cost of her keei) ; and tliat he would
do it in some gross way and so as to put all the blame of it ujjon
lier, if possible, she also expected. She was therefore ])rej)ared to
consider the matter settled the moment he threatened her, and
would have felt it useless to reinonstrate, even had she been in-
clined. But she was not inclined. She had for years done evj^y-
thing patiently that any one in any code of morality could expect
of her in such a marriage, and no good had come of it. As Dan-
iel Maclure was, so would he remain forever ; and to associate
with him intimately without being coarsened and corrupted was
impossible, Beth had fought hard against that, and had sutfered
in the struggle, but she had been lowered in spite of herself, and
she knew it and resented it. She was therefore as glad to leave
Maclure as he was to get rid of her, and already it seemed as if
■with her married life a great hampering weight had fallen from
532
TUE BETH BOOK.
Mli
her, and left her free to face a promising future witli nothing- to
fear and everything to hope. Poverty was ])leasant in her big,
bright attic, where all was clean and neat about her. There she
could liv'j chastely and purify her mind by degrees of the garbage
Avith which Dan's habitual conversation had polluted it.
The settling-in occupied her for some days, and the housekeep-
ing was a puzzle when she finst began. She had only been able
to bring the most precious of her possessions — lier books and pa-
pers, and clothes enough for the moment — away with her from
Slane; the rest she had left ready packed to be sent to her when
she sliould be settled. When she wrote to Maclure for them she
sent him some housekeeping keys she had forgotten to leave be-
hind, and an inventory of everything she had had charge of,
which she hat^ always kept carefully checked. He acknowledged
the receipt of this letter, and informed her that he had gone over
the inventory himself, and found some of the linen in a bad state
and one silver teaspoon missing. Beth replied that the linen had
been fairly worn out, but she could not account for the missing
spoon, and offered to pay for it. Dr. Maclure replied by return
of post on a post card that the price was seven shilling.s. Both
sent him a ])Ostal order for that amount. He then wrote to say
that liie cost of the conveyance of the luggage to the station was
half a crown. Beth sent him half a crown, and then the corre-
spondence ended. She received letters from some of her relations,
however, to whom Maclure had hastened to send his version of
the story. Poor old Aunt Grace Mary was the only one who did
not accept it. " Write and tell me the truth of the matter, my
dear," slie said. The others took it for granted that Beth could
have nothing to say for herself, and her brother Jim was espe-
cially indignant and insulting, his opijiion of her being couched
in the most offensive language. Having lived with disreputable
women all his life, he had the lowest possible opinion of the
whole .sex, his idea being that any woman would misconduct her-
seli if she had the chance and was not well watched. He warned
Beth not to apply to him if she should be starving, or to claim his
acquaintance should she meet hnn in the street. Beth's cheeks
burned with .shan^o when she read this letter and some of the
oth'M's she received, and she hastened to <1" >troy thenj, as the hor-
ror they set up in her bi ought on a nervfMis crisis such a.s she had
suffered from in the early days when Dan first brought her down
to his own low level of vice and suspicion, and turned her deadly
sick. She answered none of these letters, and, by dint of reso-
Hi
THE BETH BOOK.
533
;h nothing" to
lit in her big-,
r. Tliero slie
f tlie garbage
[1 it.
le housekcep-
ily been able
)()oks and pa-
ith Jier from
to her wlion
for tliein she
to leave be-
tl cliarge of,
'knowledged
d gone over
ti a bad state
10 linen had
the niissin<r
d by return
lings. Betli
*'r()tp to say
station -was
1 tlie corre-
n' relations,
version of
ne wlio did
matter, niy
^eth could
was es])e-
couelied
srepu table
on of the
duct her-
warncd
claim his
s cheeks
ne of the
the lior-
she had
ler down
r deadly
of reso-
cr
ri
I
lutely banishing all thought of tlieni and of the writers, she man-
aged in time to obliterate the impression ; but .she hud to live
through some terrible hours before she succeeded.
Once settled in her attic home, she returned to the healthy,
regular, industrious habits which had helped her .so much in t.e
days when she had been at her best. ITer life was of the simplest,
but she had to do almost everything for herself, such time as
Gwendolen could command for attendance being wholly insulli-
cient to keep the attic in order. Her daily duties kept htu* in
health, however, by preventing indolence either of mind or body,
and so wore of infinite use. She had added a few things to the
scanty furniture of her attic — a new bath, a second-hand writing
table, book slielv(»s with a cupboard beneath for cups, .saucers, and
glasses, and a grandfather's chair — all great bargains, as I]thel
Maud Mary assured her. Ethel Maud Clary's kindness was inex-
haustible. She took Beth to the second-lKind .shop herself, and
showed her that the writing table and book shelves would be as
good as new when they were wa.shod and rubbed up a bit ; and
all the grand fath(M''s ciiair wajited was a new cretonne cover at
sixpence a yard — four yards, two shillings — and she could nuike
it herself. She also advised Beth to l)uy a little Am'ora oil stove,
the only one she know of that really didn't smell, if you attended
to it yourself, and a tin to hold oil for it— Crystal oil, at seven-
pence a gallon, the best.
"You can do all you want with that, and keep yourself warm
enough, too, when the weather's bad," she said ; " and there's no
waste, for you can tur7i it out when vou've done with it. Fires
are too dear for you, at sixpence a scuttle for coals ; and they're
dirtier besides, and a troiible to light and look after. You'll find
the Aurora as good as a lamp, too, if you're doing nothing particu-
lar at night."
When Beth had made a cosy corner of the window for work,
arranged her books, put her ornaments a])out on mantelpiece and
brackets, hung her pictures and the draj)eries she had used in her
secret chamber, spread the rugs and covered tlie grandfather's
chair, her attic looked inviting. The character of her little pos-
sessions gave the poor jdace a distinction which enclumted Ethel
Maud Mary.
Beth fetched iip the water overnight for lu'r bath in the morn-
ing, and made coli'ee for her breakfast on the little oil stove. She
lived principally on bread and butter, eggs, sardines, salad, and
slices of various meats bought at a cook shop and carried home in
'tl'
534
THE BETH BOOK.
I i
^ .i
a paper. Somctitnes, when slie felt she could afford it, she had a
hot meal at an eating- house for the good of her health ; but she
scarcely required it, for she never felt stronger in her life, and so
long as she could get good coffee for lier breakfast and tea for her
evening meal, she missed none of the other things to which she
had been accustomed. She made delicious coffee in a tin coifee
pot, and brewed the best tea she had ever drunk in brown earthen-
ware, which Ethel Maud Mary considered the best thing going for
tea. She used to join Beth in a cup up in the attic, but she never
came empty-handed. I)ull, wet days, likely to be depressing, were
the ones on which her yellow head appeared oftenest at the top of
the attic stairs.
" Miss ]\Iaclure, may I come in ? " she would say, after knock-
ing.
And Beth would answer, rising from her work with a smile of
welcome: ''Yes, by all means. Tm delighted to see you. You
take the big chair, and I'll make the tea — I'm dying for a
cup I
Then Ethel Maud Marv would uncover something she held in
her hand, which would j)rove to be cakes, or hot buttered toast
and \vat<>rcresses, or a bag of shrimps and some thin bread and
butter; and Beth, sparkling at the kindness, would exclaim, "I
never was so spoiled in my life I *' to which Ethel Maud Mary
would rejoin: "There'll not be much to boast about between
two of us."
Beth was busy with another book by this time, but found the
work more of a task and less of a })leasui'e than it used to be.
Ethel Maud Mary still took it for granted that she was a journal-
ist, and showed no interest in her work beyond hoping that she
got her pay regularly and would soon be making more. Beth
wondered sometimes when the little book which had b(>en accepted
in the summer would appear, and what she would get for it, if
anything, and she thought of inquiring, but she put it off. Iler
new work took all her time and strength, and wearied her so that
nothing else .seemed to signifv.
Besides Ethel Maud '^ary and Gwendolen, the only person she
had to talk to was Arthur Milbauk Brock, the young American,
her neighbour in the next attic. She met him coming upstairs
with his hat in his hand soon after her instalment, and was even
more attracted by his face than she had been when she first saw
him in the street.
" Y^'ou've settled in by this time, I hope," he said.
-n
rd it, jsbo ]ia(l a
lealtli ; but she
licr life, and so
find tea for lior
s to wln'cli slie
in a tin coffee
Ji'own earthen-
Iiiiig- going- for
but she never
pressing, were
it at the toj) of
, after knock-
ith a smile of
ee YOU. You
dying for a
g she lield in
juttered toast
in bread and
exclaim, "I
Maud ^lary
iut between
t found the
used to be.
a journal-
g tliat she
lore. Beth
n accei)ted
et for it, if
t ofF. Her
lor so tliat
person she
iVnierican,
g upstairs
was ev(>n
i first saw
THE BETH BOOK.
535
"Yes, and very comfortably, too, thanks to you." Beth an-
swered.
"Ah, Ethel Maud Mary's a good sort," he replied; "golden
hair, blue eyes, and all. She has the looks of a lady's novel and
the heart of a holy mother. Her grannuar and spelling are d(>-
fective, but her sense is somul. I wouldn't give much for her
opinion of a work of art, but I'd lake hov advice in a dilliculty
if it came anywhere within range of her experience. She knows
this world well, but ])icks her steps through it in such a way that
I guess she'll reach the threshold of the next with nice clean
shoes."
He stepped aside for Beth to pass when he had spoken, and
stood a moment watching her thoughtfully as she descended.
"And may you, tool " he said to himself as ho turned to go up;
then, perceiving that the hope implied a doubt, he began to won-
der whence it came.
As Beth went out she reflected on his face, on a certain gravity
which heightened its refinement. It was a young face, but woi-n
as by some past trial or present care, and with an habitually soIxt
expression, which contrastfnl notably with the cheery humour of
his speech, adding point to it, as is frequently the case with
his countrj-men. He wore his thick brown liair rather longer
than is usual, but was clean shaven. Ills featun^s wcM'e delicate
and regular, his eyes deep and dark, his head large and finely
formed. In figure he was tall and slim, and in his whole appear-
ance there was something almost ethereal, as of a young poet or
philosopher still moving among his fellow-men, yet knowing
himself to be prenuiturely smitten, set apart, and consecrated to
death by some insidious slow disease from which there is no
escape. This was Beth's first notion of him, but she always
lioped it was fanciful. She thought about him a good deal in the
solitary walks which were her princii)al recrejition. When she
was tired of work or wanted to think, she used to go out and wan-
der about aloiK!. At first she was afraid to venture far, foi- she
liad always been assured that she had no head for topography and
would never bo able to fiiul her way; and .so long as she went
about under escort, with some one to save her the necessity of
observing, she never knew where she was. Now, however, that
she had to look after Inn'self, she found no difliculfy after her first
timidity wore off. and this little experience^ taught hei" why it is
that the intelligence of w(mien seems childishlv defective as re-
gards nuiny of the details of the business of life. They liuve the
11
53(5
THE BETn BOOK.
I \
■ I
i '
faculty, but when they are not allowed to act for themselves it
remains imperfectly developed, or is altogetlier atropliied for want
of exercise.
It was in these days of peace that the ugly downward droop
of the corners of Beth's mouth, whicli had always sixfilcd the
expression of her face, entirely disappeared, and her firm, set lips
softened into keeping with the kindliness of her beautiful gray
eyes; but she still wanted much loving to bring out the natural
tenderness which had been so often and so cruelly nipped back
in its growth, Beth had been born to be a woman, but circum-
stances had been forcing her to become a career. Strangely
enough, some of the scenes she saw during her rambles in Lon-
don helped to soften her. While she was under her husband's
influence she saw the evil only, and was filled with bitterness.
London meant for her in those days the dirt and squalor of tlie
poor, the depravity of the rich, the fiendish triumph of the lust
of man, and the horrible degradation of her own sex ; but now
that her mind was recovering its tone, and she could see with her
own eyes, she discovered the good at war with the evil, the cour-
age and kindliness of the i)oor, signs of the growth of better feel-
ing in the selfish and greedy rich, the mighty power of purity at
war with the license of man, and the noble attitude of women
wherever injustice was rife, the weak oppressed, and the wronged
remained unrighted. Then her heart expanded with pit}', and,
instead of the torment of unavailing hate, she began to revive in
the glow of strengthening gleams of hope. It was in tliese days,
too, that she learned to appreciate the wonder and beauty of the
most wonderful and beautiful city ever seen, and her eyes grew
deep from long looking and earnest meditating upon it. She
occasionally expeinenced the sickening sensation of being fol-
lowed about by one of those .specimens of mankind so signifi-
cantly called sly dogs by their fellow-men. They made them-
selves particularly objectionable in Kensington Gardens and
Hyde Park ; but she found that an appeal to a policeman or a
park keeper, or to any decent workman, was enough to stop the
nuisance. Geniiine respect for women, which is an antidote to the
moral rottenness that promotes the decay of nations and poi'tends
the indefinite prolongation of the life of a race, is of slow growth,
but it is steadily increasing among the English-speaking peoples.
During her rambles Beth composed long letters to her friends .
but somehow none of them were ever written. She had managed
to send a few hurried lines of explanation to Mrs, Kilroy in the
THE BETH BOOK.
5:57
themselves it
;>liied for want
t-nward droop
's .si)()il('(l tho
I- firm, set lips
leautiful g-ray
Lit the natural
' nipped back
1, but circum-
r. Straiig-ely
nble.s in Lon-
ler husband s
th bitterness,
qualor of the
>h of tlie lust
>ex ; but now
see witli her
vil, the cour-
)f better feel-
\ of purity at
e of women
the wronged
h pity, and,
to reviv^e in
these days,
■auty of the
|r eyes grew
Vm it. She
being- fol-
si) signifi-
luide theni-
irdens and
('man or a
|o stop the
lote to the
|:l portends
growth,
peoples,
friends .
managed
)y in the
\
midst of her packing befon; she left Slane. As slie had not
known where she would be, she had asked Angelica to aildrcss
her letters to Slane, to be forwarded ; but no reply had come as
yet, and Beth was just a little sore and puzzled about it. How-
ever, she knew that, what with her ])ublic and pi-ivate duties,
Angelica was overwhelmed witli work, and might well have
overlooked the fact that slu> had not answered lieth's letter, so
Beth determined to write again. Time passed, however, and she
got into such a groove of daily duties that anything outside the
regular routine required a sjjccial ell'ort, which she always post-
poned, and letters were quittM)utside the regular routine-. After
the first, no one wrote to her except the old lawyer who .sent lier
half-yearly dividend ; and she had written to no one. She had
dropped altogether out of her own world, yet, because of her
work and of her power to interest herself in every one about her,
and to appreciate the goodness of her humblest friends, hei- life
was full, and she had not known a moments discontent. Little
things were great pleasures now. To be able to get on the top of
an omnibus at Piccadilly Circus when the sun was setting and
ride to Hammer.smith Broadwa}', engro.s.sed in watching the won-
derful narrow cloudscape above the streets, changing from
moment to moment in form and colour ; the myst(>ry of tlie hazy
distances, the impression of the great buildings and tall, irregular
blocks of houses appearing all massed together among the trees
from different points of view, and taking on line ai'chitectui-al
effects, now transformed into huge gray palaces, large and dis-
tinct, now looming in the mist, sketchily, with uncertain outlines,
and all the fascination of the fabrics, innocent of detail, that con-
front the dreamer in enchanted woods or lure him to the (hV^k^ of
fairy lakes with twitdcling lights all multipli(!(l by their own re-
flection in the water. Beth had rolled in that direction in luxuri-
ous carriages often, and never joyed in the scene, her mind being
set on other things — things prosaic, such as what she should wear
or whether she was late, and scra])s of .society go.ssii), conversation
which had satiated without satisfying her, and remained in lier
mind to be items of weariness if not of actual irritation. Slie had
noticed in those days how xi^vy seldom she saw a happy face in a
carriage, unless it was a v<'rv young face, full of ex])e('tation.
Even the very coachmen and footmen in the park looked ener
vated as the long lines of carriages j)as.sed in wearisome ])ro-
cession. And in everything there had been that excess which
leaves no room for healthy desire. At fn-st the shop windows —
538
THE BETH BOOK.
t iti
II
11
s;'t out with tasteless profusion, no article in tlie hoterog-onoons
masses tellinj^, however beautiful, vain heinj^ eclipsed by the
other in the horrible glut — luid interesUid her, and she had looked
at everythin<f. But she soon sickened at the si},''ht. The vast
quantities of thing's, crowded tog'ether, robbed her of all pleasure
of choice, and made her feel as if she had eaten too much. Oc-
casionally she would see two or three thin<fs of beauty displayed
with art in a large window ; but everywhere else excessive quantity
produced indifference, disgust, or satiety, according to the mood
of the moment. And even in the days of her povertj' and ob-
scurity, when her faculties were sharpened into proper apprecia-
tion by privation, those congested windows, teeming with jewels,
with wearing ap])arel, with all things immoderately, set up a sort
of mental dysi)epsia that was distressing, and she was glad to turn
away to relieve the consequent brain fag. But by degrees she
became accustomed to the tasteless profusion. It did not please
her any better, but at all events it did not afTlict her by always
obtruding itself upon her attention. She saw it, not in detail, but
as a part of tlie picture : and she found in the new view of Lon-
don and of London life from the tops of omnibuses, more of the
unexpected, of delight, of beauty for the eyes, and of matter for
the mind, of humour, pathos, poetry, of tragedy and comedy,
suggestive glimpses caught in passing and vividly recollected,
than she could have conceived possible when she rolled along
with society on carriage cushions, soothed by the stultifying ease
into temporary sensuous apathy.
Winter set in suddenly and with terrible severity that year.
London became a city of snow, ci'uelly cold, but beautiful, all its
ugliness disguised by the white mantle, all its angles softened, all
its charms enhanced. Commonplace squares, parks, gardens,
and dirty streets were transformed into fairyland by the delicate
disposition of snow in festoons on doorpost and railing, ledge
and lintel, from roof to cellar. The trees especially, all frosted
with shining filigree, were a wonder to look upon ; and Beth
would wander about the alleys in Kensington Gardens and gaze
at the glory of the white world under the sombre gray of the
murky clouds, piled up in awesome magnificence, until she ached
with yearning for some word of human speech, some way to ex-
press it, to make it manifest.
She returned one afternoon somewhat wet and weary from one
of her rambles. The little window of her attic was half snowed
up, and the gloom under the sloping roof struck a chill to her
M
le liotoroo;oncoug
eclipsed by tlio
I she hud looked
i^^ht. Tlic vast
f of all pleasuro
too iiujcli. Oc-
eauty displayed
cessivo quantity
tiff to the mood
)overt3' ^^^^^ ob-
)roper a])pi"ecia-
ug with jewels,
ly, set up a sort
'as glad to turn
by degrees she
t did not please
; hei- by always
)t in detail, but
rt' view of Lon-
es, more of the
I of matter for
and corned V,
ly recollected,
rolled along
ultifying ease
ity that year,
autiful, all its
softened, all
•Ivs, gardens,
the delicate
ailing, ledge
y, all frosted
and Beth
ens and gaze
gray of the
til she ached
e way to ex-
ry from one
lalf snowed
3liill to her
THE BETH BOOK.
r>39
heart as slie entered ; but when she had lighted the lamp, a new
investment that helped uj) tlie temperature besides giving light,
and set her little oil stove going with tlie kettle on it, her sur-
roundings took on an air of homely comfort that was grateful.
As she busied herself preparing tlie tea she noticed that her
neighbour in the next attic was coughing a go<jd deal, and tlien
it occurred to her that she had not seen him about lately, and she
wondered if he could be ill. The thought of a young nuin of
small means, ill, alone in a London lodging, j)robably without a
bell in the room, and certainly with no one anxious t<> answer it
if he should ring, though not cheering, is stimulating to the en-
ergy of the benevolent, and Beth went downstairs to ask as soon
as the notion occurred to her.
" Mr. Brock ? There now I " Gwendolen exclaimed in dismay ;
"if I didn't forget altogether I I've so nmch to see to, and the
missus ill in bed with bronchitis, and Miss Ethel run olF her feet
and not too fit 'erself with that cold as 'ud be called inlluenza
if it wasn't for frightening the lodgers. "Whatever it is, it's going
thx'ough the 'ouse, and Mr. Brock seems to have g(jt it bad. 'E ast
me when I went wi' 'is shyving water this morning to tike 'im
some coals and mike 'im some tea, an' I never thought no more
about it. I clean forgot."
"This morning!" Both cried, "Why, that was at eight
o'clock, and now it is four I "
"I'll get 'em at once," Gwendolen said with contrition. But
tlie girl herself looked worn to death. She had been on her feet
since early morning, and had no prospect of a rest till she droi>ped
on her bed late at night, t(K) exhausted to undress.
"Never mind," Beth said. "Give me the coals, and I'll carry
them up and see to the rest. I have notliing else to do."
"Bless you!" Gwendolen muttered.
Beth found Mr. Brock in bed. wnth bright eyes and burning
spots of colour on each cheek. A lamp was burning b(>sido him.
When he saw who it was he raised his eyebrows, but smiled at
the same time, as if he were both surprised and pleased. The
room struck cold to Beth.
" What, no fire ? " she exclaimed.
"I tried to light the pesky thing," he said, "but it wouldn't
burn."
" Gwendolen forgot you altogether," Beth said. " She has far
too much to do, poor girl, and I have only just heard that you
were ill. Why didn't you call me ? "
i;
640
THE BETH BOOK.
II
I '
\ il
i ■
He smiled ajjain.
"We are all of tlie same family li ere, you know," Beth said;
»'t]ie jfroat Immaii family. You had only to say 'Sister!' and I
should have come."
The smile faded from his lips, hut it was replaced by anollier
expression, which, when she saw it, caus<',d Beth to ejaculate in-
wardly, " Sin-ely of such are the kingdom "
Pjach had seen in the other's face at the same time something
then^ is no human utterance to describe, and, recognising it, had
reverently lusld their peace.
Beth fetehtid her oil stove first with the kettle on it, and while
the water was boiling she cut bread and butter and lighted the
fire.
"We'll have tea together, if you please," she said cheerfully.
" I've a horrible suspicion that you've had nothing to eat or drink
all (hiy."
Her sym))athy recalh^d his pleasant, patient smile.
" My ai)petite is iu)t devouring," he said, " but my thirst is.
Talk about selling one's birthright ! I'd sell my brains, I believe,
for a cup of tea at this moment.''
"There's a bowlful for nothing, then," Beth rejoined. "Sip
it while I boil you an egg.''^
He took the bowl in both hands and tried the tea.
"Oh," he exclaimed with a long-drawji sigh, "it's nectar!
It's mea<l ! It's nepenthe ! It's all the drinks ever brewed ft)r the
gods in one I But I'm afraid to touch it lest I should finish it.''
"Don't be afraid, then," said Beth, "for you'll find it like
liquor for the gods in another respect — it will be to be had when-
ever you want it What's the nuitter ? "
" Did I nuike lament ? " he asked. " I didn't know it. But
I'm all one ache. I can't lie .still for it, and I can't move witli-
out adding to it. I've been watching the ice floes on the river
from the embankment and bridges by all lights lately. I never
saw such fine etfects ! nor such colour ! It's wonderful what
colour there is under your sombre sky if you know how to look
for it ; aiul it has the great advantage over the colour other coun-
tries teem with of being unexpected. It's not obvious — you have
to look out for it ; but when you have found it, you rejoice in it
as in something rare and precious, and it excites you to enthu-
siasm beyond your wont ; which should prevent chills, but it
doesn't, as witness my aches."
Beth felt his hand and found it dry and burning.
>\
THE IW/Vn HOOK.
r.u
mow," Both said ;
iy' Sister!' and I
)laccd \>y aiiotlior
1 to ejuculuto in-
* time soiiictliiiig'
'cog-iiisiiio- it, },ud
' on it, and wliilo
and Ughtvd tlie
said clu'prfully.
g to eat or drink
lile.
lit my thirst is.
n'aiuH, I believe,
rejoined. "Sip
ea.
"it's nectar I
)i'eu-ed for the
<I niiisli it.''
'iiid it like
be liad wlien-
now it. But
t move with-
Oii the rivep
■"Jy- I ne\'er
iderfu] wliat
low to look
1" otlier coun-
ii.s— you Jiavo
rejoice in it
oil to enthu-
chiJJs, but it
i
i
"Tlio doctor is tlie next and only thinj^ for you, younj,' man,
after this fru«^al meal," she .said; "and I'll j^o and fetch him. I
hope to {goodness the.se are the riyht thin;j:s to ^'•ive you."
1I(! ol)jected to the doctor, hut slie paid no attention to liis r(>-
monstranc<>, and wlien slie had (hnu^ ail slie couUl think of for
tiie moment, she put on her \v<'t hoots and walkin}^ thin^rs, ^ot the
address of a yood man from Ktliel Maud Mary, and sallied out
into the snow once more.
liheumatic fever was the doctor's diaj^fuosis, and his dinn'tions
to Beth concluded with a long' list of expensive meilical comfoi'ts
which it seemed were aksolutely necessary. She w(>nt out aj^'aiii
when he had yone and broug'ht back everything-, toiling up the
long nights of .stairs with l)oth arms full, bri-athless hut cheer-
ful, and having set all in order for use — sheets of medicated cot-
ton wool, medicines, Valentine's extract, clinical thcrmometei'and
chart — she settled herself to watch the })atient, the clock, and the
temperature of the room, which had to be ('(piable, with the ex-
actness and method of a cai)al)l(^ nurse. Before the household i-e-
tired she w( .t downstairs to fetch more coaLs, fearing they
might run short in th<' night
" He's 'ad one scuttle to-day,"' Gwendolen reminded her, warn-
ingly.
" He must have two more, then, if neces.sary," .said B(>th.
"They're sixpence a .scuttle, you know," Gwendolen remon-
strated.
"Two for a shilling, and no charge for delivery," said Bt^th as
she toiled up the long ascent once more with her lu^avy burden.
" Eh, it would be a gay, glad woi-ld if they all took it like you,"
Gwendolen nuittered as she stood with the pencil in her mouth
studying the .slate that hung outside the coal cellar, and let her
generosity war with her accuracy aiul hoiKvsty for a little before
she made two more strokes on the line that Ijegan with the name
of Brock; and no sooner done than regretted.
"I wish to goodness I'd j)ut 'em down to (dd Piggot and
Mother Ilauseman," she thought. "They'd never miss the
money, and it 'ud be a good deed for the likes of them to help
their betters, and might likely profit their own .souls, though un-
beknown."
For many weeks Beth watched beside the sick man's bed, do-
ing all that was possible to ea.se his pain day and night, snatch-
ing brief intervals of rest when she could, and concealing^ her
weariness at all times. She used to wonder at the young man's
It
542
TIIK UKTII liOOK.
I /
utioomplaiiiinff fortitude*, liis pcutlouoss, pratitudo. nnd iinsolfish
concern al)()iit licr fati;,''n<'. Kvcii wlicii he was at liis worst li(>
^v()ul(l slrii;i';^l(i hack to cousciousiu'ss in oi'dcr t(» ciilrcat licr to
lie down : and wluMi to ploaso him she had settled lierself on a
little couch thcrci was in his room, Ijo wouUl make a suix'rhuinan
effort to keep still as lonjc as his Uiekering' consciousness lasted.
Ther<> was only oiu^ thin{^^ he was oyer exactin;,^ ahout — to keep h(>r
in si<j:ht. So lon<,f as he could see her he was satisfied, and would
li«^ for hours, j)atiently controllinjj liimself for fear of disturhing
her l)y \itterin{^ exclamations or making otlier sig'ns of suft'oring';
but when slie had to leuvo him alone he broke down and moaned
in his weakn(>ss and pain for her to come back and help
him.
The doctor having" declared that the northeast aspect of his
attic was all aj^ainst the patient, Beth insisted on changing with
him, and as soon as ho could be moved, she, Ethel Maud Mary,
and Gwendolen, with the doctor's help, carried him into her room
in a sheet, an awkward mand'uvre because^ of his length, wliich
made it hard to turn him on the narrow landing. His weiglit
was nothing, for ho was mere skin and bone by that time — all
eyes, as lieth used to tell him.
It was Cliristmas eve when they moved him, and late that
night Beth kept her vigil by him, sitting over the fire with her el-
bows on lier knees and her face betwecji her hands listening
dreamily to tlu; clang and clamour of the cb.urch bells which
floated up to her over the snow, mellowed by distance, and full
fraught with manifold association. As she sat there she pondered.
She thought of the long way she had diMi'tcHl from the days when
she knelt in spirit at the call of the bells, and lost hers(df in hai ^ »
prayer. She thouglit of h(>r husband's hy])ocrisy and the way in
which, when it dawned \ipon her, her own faith had melted fr(»m
her ; and she pondered on the ditfenmce it would have made if
only she had been married early just to a good man. It would
not have been necessary for her to iiave loved him — not with pas-
sion — only to have relied upon him. Some one to trust she craved
for more than some one to love ; yet she allowed that a loveless
marriage is a mock marriage. She did not regret the loss of her
conventional faith, but she wished she could join the congrega-
tion just for the human fellowship. She felt the need of union,
of some central station, a centre of peace, unlike the Church, the
liouse of disunion. Without knowing it she leaned to Quaker-
Catholicism, the name assumed for her religious principles by
u
TIIK HKTII BOOK.
MIJ
io, and unsolfish
ut his worst lio
o ontrcat licr to
N'd hci'sclf on a
^o u supcrliuiiiaii
ciousncss lasted,
out — to kocp 1h>p
<fi<'(l, and would
ar of disturbing
ns of sufForiji^r;
kvn and nioanod
Ijiick and Jielp
st aspect of Ills
oliang-ing- with
lel Maud Mary,
n into hor room
i leng-tli, wliich
8". Ilis weig'lit
that time — all
III
and late that
e witli her el-
ids listoninrr
hells wln'c'h
loe, and full
she pondered,
le days when
^self in hai'^.x
d the way in
nieltcd fn»m
iive nuide if
It would
lot witli pas-
t slie craved
it a loveless
loss of her
e congreg-a-
d of union,
Church, the
to Quaker-
inciples by
n.
I
Caroline Fox — Quaker-C'atliolicism having- direct spiritual teach-
ing for its distinctive dogma.
" Wliat ai-e you tliinkinf^ about ? " Arthur r>i'(><k said suildenly
from the bed.
Beth started. She thought he was asleej).
"God," she said, with a gasp; "and going to church," she
added, laugliing at her own abruptness. " 1 was wanting a
chiu'ch to go to."
" You don't belong- to the KstablishcMl Church, tlien i" he said.
"Well, I d»»n't go to chun-h myself, l)ut I make a ilill'erence on
Sundays. I don't work ami I read another kind of book. It is
my day for tiie plains of heaven. I should like to be there all
the time if I could manage it ; but I can't, not being a monk in a
cell. When I can 1 make the ascent, however, with the help of
the books that take one then!."'
"I used to read religious V)ook, too," said B<>th ; "but I found
little illumiiuition in them, most of them being but the dry husks
of the subject, uninformed of the spirit, containing no vital spark,
and stained with blood."
" How ? " he exclaim(>d.
"This God of the Hebrews," Beth began, looking dreamily into
the fire—" what is his history ? Il«' loved cruelty and bloodshed.
The innocent aninuils first sufi'ered in his service ; but, not con-
tent with that, he went from bad to worse, as nu'ii do, and ended
l)y demanding- human sacrilice— the sacrifice of his own son. And
for that specially we are required to adore him, althoug-li it must
be clear to the commonest caj)acity to-day that the worship of such
a deity is devil worship. I do not say there is no God— I only
say this is not God— this blood lover, this son slayer, this blind
omniscience, this impotent omnipotence, this merciful cruelty,
this meek arrog-ance, this peaceful combatant; this is not God,
but man. The mind of man wars with the works of God to mar
them. Man tried to make us believe that he is made in the image
of God ; but what happened was just the reverse. Man was of a
better nature orig-inally, a more manifold nature. He had intel-
lect for a toy to play witli on <'arth, and .spirit for a i)ower to help
him to heaven. But instead of toiling- to .strengthen his spirit, he
preferred to play with his intellect, and he played until he became
so expert in the use of it, and so interested in th(^ g-ame, that he
forgot his origin. And then it was that he projected an image of
himself into space, and was so delighted with his owii appearance
from that point of view that he culled it God, and fell down and
644
THE BETH BOOK.
i-i
worsl lipped it. If j'ou would inid<M'.staiul man, consider God; if
you would know his (x d, study luiin."
Artiuir Brock rellected for a little.
"What you say sounds real smart," he said at last; "and
there's a kind of glamour i- your words that dazzles and prcventi
one seein<^ just how much they mean at first. It is true that re-
ligion eulminates in luunan sacrifice hoth hei-e and in Africa, and
for refinement of horror, \v(i have here the literal l)loody sacrifice
of a son hy his father. But that is not God, as you say — that is the
ultimate of the priest. And the priest is the same at all times, in
all ages, beneath all veneers of civilization. Ilis credit de])ends
upon a pretence to power. He is not an hum])le seeker after truth,
hut a bigoted upholder of error ; and .ui impudent time server.
He destroys the scientific discoverer in one age ; in the next ho
finds his own existence is threatened because he refuses to ac-
knowledge that the discoverer wasi'ight; then he confesses the
truth, and readjusts his hocus-pocus to .suit it. He does not ask
us to pin our faith to fancies which seem real to a child in its in-
fancy, yet he would have us credulous about tho.se Avhich were
the outcome of the intellectual infancy of the race. "What he
can't get over in himself is the absence <^f any sense of humour.
I'm real .sorry for him at times, and I tell him so."
Beth smiled. " I could not be so kindly courteous," she said.
"Some things make me fierce. The kingdom of heaven is — or is
not — within us, I believe ; and half the time T know it is not in
me, because there is no room for anything in me but the hate
and rage that rend me for horror of all the falsehood, injustice,
and misery I know of ant' can not prevent. A sense of humour
would save the Chuivh, perhaps ; but I'm too sore to see it All I
can .say is, your religion to me is horrifying— human sacrifice and
devil worship, survivals from an earlier day welded on to our
own time, and assorting ill with it. I would not accept salvation
at the hands of such futile omnipotence, such cruel mercy, such
blood-stained justice. The sight of suffering was grateful to man
Mlien the world was young, as it still is to savages; but we revolt
from it now. The saved would not be happy in heaven, as they
were said to be in the old tales, within sight of the sinners suil'er-
ing in hell."
" Which is to say that there is more of Christ in us now than
there was in the days of old." he said, speaking dispassionately,
and with the confident deliberation of one who takes time to
think. "I believe those old tales were founded on nmddle-headed
h
THE BETir BOOK.
545
idcr God; if
last; "aiul
iiul prevoiit.;
••uc tliat ro-
Africa, and
)dy sacrifice
— that is tlie
ill times, ill
dit dc])(>iids
■ after ti'utli,
time server,
tlie next ho
fuses to ac-
•nfesses tho
DCS not ask
Id ill its in-
vliicli M-ere
What he
3f humour.
si 10 said,
•n is — or is
is not ill
the liate
injustice,
humour
it All I
■rilicc and
>n to our
salvation
'J'cy, such
il to man
we revolt
I, as tliey
rs sufl'er-
low than
ionately,
time to
!-headed
i
H
confusion of mind in tlie days Avhen dreams vrovo as real to man-
kind as the events of life. TIum'i^ are obscure trilx^s still on earth
\vho can not distinyuisli between what they liave done and what
they have only dreamed they did, and i)robably ev<ry race ha.s
gone through that stag"e of development. I don't know if exces-
sive piety be a disease of the nerves, as some say, althou,i,di what
is i)iety in one generation does appear to be perversity in the next
as witness tho sons of the clergy and other children of pious peo-
ple, who don't answer to expectation, as a rul'\ And I don't go
mucli on churches, or creeds, or faith in this personality or that.
The t)ld ideas have lost their hold upon me as tlioy have uj)on
you : but that is no reason why we should give up the old truths
that have been in the world for all time, the positive right and
wrong, whicli are facts, not i leas. I believe that there is good
and evil, that the one is at war with the other always; and that
good can do Jio evil, evil no good. I've got beyond all tho
dogma and tiddle-faddle of the intellect with which the Church
has overlaid the spirit, and all tlie ceremonial so useful and neces-
sary for individual souls in early stages of development. I used
to tliink if I could find a religion with no blood in it T would
embrace it. Now I feel sure that it does not matter what the' ex-
pression of our religious nature is so that it be religious. Religion
is an attitude of mind, the attitude of prayer, which includes rev-
erence for things holy, and de(>p devotion to them. I would not
lose that for anything — the right of jr neal. But now when I
think of our Father in heaven I do not despise our mother earth."
Beth sat .some time looking thoughtfully into the fire. '"Go to
sleep," she said at last abruptly. "You ought not to bo talking
at this time of night."
"I wish you would go to sleep yourself," he .said, as he settled
liimsolf obediently, "for I lose half the comfort of being saved
while you sit up there .suffering for me."
The expression was not too strong for the strain Betli had to
put upon herself in those days, for she had no help, k'thel Maud
Mary and Gwendolen felt for her and her patient, as they said ; but
there of neces.sity their kindness oiuIihI, The other lodgers kept
Gwendolen forever running tf) and fro; each seemed to think .she
liad nobody else to look after, and it was seldom, indeed, that any
of them noticed her weariness or took pity on her. Beth did
everything for herself — fetched the coals from tho cellar, the water
from the bathroom, swept and dusted, cleaned the grate, ran ■)ut
to do the shopping, and returned to do the cooking and mending.
540
THE BETn BOOK.
I'
' i'
Ethel Maud Mary stole the time to run np occasionally to show
syiupathy, but her own poor little hands were overfull, what with
her mother ill in bed, both ends to be made to meet, and lodgers
uncertain in money matters. She lost .ill her plumpTiess that
winter, her roseleaf complexion faded to the colour of dingy wax,
and her yellow hair, so brightly burnished when she had time to
brush it, became touzled and dull, but her heart beat as bravely
kind as ever, and she never gave in.
She climbed up one day in a hurry to Mr. Brock's room, which
Beth occupied, snatcliing a moment to make inquiries and receive
comfort ; and as soon as she entered she subsided suddenly on to a
chair, out of breath.
" How you do it a dozen times a day, Miss Maclure, I can't
•^.liiuk," she gasped.
" Those stairs have taught me what servants suffer," Beth said,
as if that at all events were a thing for which to be thankful.
" You'd not have driven 'em even if you hadn't known what
they suffer," said Ethel Maud Mary. "That's the worst of tl'i??
world. All the hard lessons have got to be learned by the peo:)if=
who never needed them to make them good, while the bad L ' k
get off for nothing."
" I don't know about not needing them," said Beth. " But I
do know this, that every sorrowful experience I have ever had
hcis been an advantage to me sooner or later."
I wish I could believe that ma's temper would be an advan-
tage to me," Ethel Maud Mai'y said, sighing ; '* she's that wear-
ing! But there, poor dear, she's sick, and there's no keeping the
worries from her. There's only you and Mr. Brock in the house
just now that pays up to the day, so you may guess what it is.
He's getting on nicely now, I suppose — but you shouldn't be sit-
ting here in the cold. A shawl don't make the difference ; it's the
air you breathe ; and you ought to have your oil stove going.
Isn't the fire enough for him ? I can't think so many degrees it
need be in his room always when there's no degree at all in
yours."
" Oh, I'm hardy," said Beth. "I never was better."
"You look it," Ethel Maud Mary said sarcastically, "like a
pauper just out of prison. What are you worrying about ? "
" Beef tea," said Beth. And so slie was, and bread and butter,
fuel, light, and lodging — everything, in fact, that meant money,
for the money was all but done, and she liad had a shock on the
subject lately that had shaken her considerably.
THE BETH BOOK.
547
onally to sliow
full, wliat M-itJi
et, and lodg-ers
lunipiiess that
of ding-y wax,
'(' liad time to
•eat as bravely
s room, which
f-S and receive
ideiily on to a
^cluro, I can't
-r," Beth said,
liankful.
known wjiat
■vorjst of t'M!?
^y tlie peo;M.
the bad f, k
"th. " But I
-'e ever had
an advan-
tliat wear-
eeping- the
1 the house
^''lat it is.
n"t be sit-
ce ; it's tlie
5ve g-oing-.
deg-rees it
at all in
y, "like a
it?"
d butter,
t nu)}iev.
^'k on the
She had spread out a newspaper to save the carpet, and was
kneeling- on the iloor one morning' in front of tlie window, clean-
ing and iilling the little oil stove, an.d Arthur was lying content-
edly watching her — "superintending her domestic duties," lie
used to call it, that being all that he was equal to in his extreme
weakness just then.
" You're a notable housekeeper," he said. " I shouldn't have
expected you from your appearance to be able to cook and clean
as you do."
" I used to do this kind of thing as a child to help a lazy serv-
ant we had, bless lier I " Beth answered. " The cooking and clean-
ing she taught me have stood me in good stead."
"If you had a daughter, how would you bring her up?" he
asked.
Beth opened the piece of paper with which she was cleaning
the oil off the stove and regarded it thoughtfully. " I would
bring her up in happy seclusion to begin with," she said. " She
should have all the joys of childhood and an education calculated
to develop all her intellectual powers with<jut forcing them, and
at the same time to fit her for a thoroughly nornuil woman's life —
childhood, girlhood, wifehood, motherhood, each with its separate
duties and pleasures all complete. I would have her happy in
each, steadfast, prudent, self-possessed, methodical, economical ;
and if she had the capacity for any special achievement, I think
that such an education would have developed the strengtii of
purpose and self-respect necessary to carry it through. I would
also have her to know thoroughly the world tliat she has to live
in, so that she might be ready to act with discretion in any emer-
gency. I should, in fact, want to fit her for whatever might be-
fall her, and then leave her in confidence to shape her own career.
The life for a woman to long for— and a num, too, I think— is a
life of simple duties and simple pleasures, a nornjal life; but I
only call that life normal which is suited to the requirements of
the woman's individual t<'mi)erament."
" You don't clamour for more lil)erty, then ?"
" It depends upon what you mean by that. The cry for more
liberty is sometime.^ the cry of the cowardly anxious to be excused
from their share of the duties and labours of life : and it is also apt
to be a cry not for liberty, but for license. One must discriminate."
" But how ? "
" T*>y the character and principles of the people you liave to
deal vvith — obviously."
548
THE LKTII BOOK.
She had lighted lior little oil stove by this time and set a sauce-
pan of water on it to boil. Then she fetehed a chopping board
and a piece of raw beefsteak, which she proceeded to cut up into
dice and put into a stone jar until it was crammed full. Iler sen-
sitive mouth showed some shrinking from the rawness, and lier
white lingers were soon dyed red; but she prepared the meat none
the less carefully for that. When the jar was filled and the con-
tents .seasoned, she put it iu the ])ot on the stove for the heat to
extract the juice.
" What is it going to be to-day ? " he asked.
"Beef jelly,'' she said. " You must be tired of beef tea."
"I'm tired of nothing you do ftn- me," he rejoined. "This is
the homiest time I've had iu England.''
Beth smiled. In spite of poverty, anxiety, and fatigue, it was
the " homiest time " she had had since Aunt Victoria's death, and
she loved it. Now that she had some one she could respect and
care for dependent on her, whose every look and word expressed
appreciation of her devotion, the time never hung heavily on her
hands, as it used to do in the mai'ried days that had been .so long
in the living. It was all as congenial as it was new to her, this
close association with a man of the highest character and the
most perfect r(>finement. She had never before realized that there
could be such men, so heroic in sufTo^Mng, so unselfish, and so
good ; and this discovery had stinuilated her stra)>gely — filled her
with hope, strengthened her love of life, and made everytbin,*
seem worth while.
She went on with her work in silence after that last remark of
his, and he contimied to watch her with all an invalids interest
in the little details of his narrow life.
"It would be a real relief to me to be able to get up and do all
that for you,'' he finally observed. " I don't feel much of a man
lying here and letting you work for me."
"This is wou'an's work," Beth said.
"Woman's work and man's work are just anything they can
do for each other," he r(\joined. " I wonder if I should get on
any quicker with a change of treatment. Resignation is gener-
ally prescribed for rh(>umatisin. and a variety of dnigs which dis-
tract attention from the seat of pain to other parts of the person,
and so relieve the mind My lirad is being racked just now by
that last dose I took. I slunild like to try Salisbury."
"What is Salisbury ?" Beth asked.
" Principally beef ai d hot water to begin with,"' he re-
TEE BETH LOOK.
i,4d
:1 fiot a sauce-
y cut up into
II. Her son-
ess, and lier
e meat none
iiul the con-
tlie heat to
tea."
\- '■ TJiis is
ig-ue, it was
deutli, and
'ospect and
I expressed
v'ily on ]ier
'en so Jonff
o her, tliis
-'V and tlic
tliat there
h, and so
filled her
verythin/
■eniark of
s interest
nd do all
^f a mail
tliey can
d g-et on
> irener-
jieJj dis-
I)erson.
now by
i
he
re-
plied. ''You'll find a little work on the subject among- my
books."
Betli read the volume and then said: "You shall try Salis-
bury'. It is easy enoug'h."
"Yes,'" he answered. "It is easy enouj,'-!! with a nm-se like
you."
But in order to carry out the treatment s(jme thin;,''s had to be
bought, and this led to the discovery which was a shock to P>eth.
Arthur's income depended jn-incipally upon the pictures he sold,
and no more money came in after he was laid low. He had had
some by him, but not nearly so much as he sui)])osed, and it was
all gone now in spite of the utmost economy on l>cth's part. Her
own, too, was running short; but i-he had not troubled about that,
because she still had some of her secret hoard to fall l)ack upon.
She had left it in one of the boxes which were sent on after her
from Slane — a box which she had not opened until now, when slie
wanted the money. The money, however, was not thei-e. She
searched and searched, but in vain; all she found was the little
bag that had contained it. She was stunned by th<' discovery,
and sat on the floor for a little, with the contents of the box all
scattered about her, trying to account for her loss. Then all at
once a vision of Maclure, as she had seen him on one occasion
with the bunch of duplicate keys, peering into her dress basket
with horrid intentness, flashed before \wv\ but she banished it
resolutely with the inevitable conclusion to which it i)oiiited.
She would not allow her mind to be sullied by such a suspicion.
And as to the nionev, since it was lost, whv should she waste her
time worrying al)Out it ? She had better set herself to consider
how to procure some more. Slie had still some of Ai-thur Ih-ock's ;
but that she kept that slie might be able to tell him truthfully
that it was not all done when he asked about it~a pious fi'aud
which relieved his mind and kej)t him from retarding his recov-
ery by a; e/i<,/ting to begin work again ])efore he was lit for it.
What money she had of her own would last but a little hunger,
and how to get more was the puzzle.
Her evening dresses had been iii (he boy ^\ilich slie had just un-
packed, and wliih^ sue was still sitting on the floor among them,
cogitating, Ethel Maud Mary came into tlie attic out of breath to
ask how she was getting on.
"Why." she exclaimed, in admiration f)f Beth 's finery, /oi'Vo
got some clothes ! They'd fetch something, those frock.s, if you
sold them."
550
TIIK BETH BOOK.
'■ Tlicii tell ine where to sell them, iov money I must have,"
Beth rejoined i)recipit{itely.
" And it's no use keeping j^owns ; they only go out of fashion,"
Ethel Maud Mary suggested, as if she thought Beth should have
an excuse. "Gwendolen would manage it best. She's great at a
bargain, and there's a place not I'ar from here. I'd begin with the
worst, if I was you."
''Advise me, then, there's a dear," said Beth, and Etliel Maud
Mary knelt down beside her and proceeded to advise.
Only a few shillings was the result of the lirst transaction ; but
the better dresses had good trimmings on tht>i>' and real lace,
which fetched .something, as Ethel Maud Mar}' declared it would,
if sold separately ; so, with the .strictest self-denial, Beth was still
able to pay her way and provide for the sick nuin's necessities.
Fnmi the time she put him on the Salisbury treatmejit he suf-
fered less and began to gain strength ; but the weather continued
severe, and Beth sulTered a great deal herself from exposure and
cold and privations of all kinds. She used to be so hungry some-
times that she hurried past the provision shops when she bad to
go out lest she sliould not be able to resist the temptation to go
in and buy good food for herself. If her sympathy with the jjoor
could have been sharpened, it would have been that winter by .some
of the sights she saw. Sometimes she was moved by pity to wrath
and rebellion, as on one occasion when she was passing a house
where there had evidentlv been a fashionable wedding. The road
in front of tlie house and the red cloth which covered the steps
and pavement were thickly strewed with rice, and on this a band
of starving children had pounced, and were scraping it up with
their bony claws of hands, clutching it from each other, fighting
for if and devouring it raw, while a supercilious servant looked
on is though he were annised. Beth's heart was wrung by the
sight, and she hurried by, cursing the greedy rich who wallow in
luxury, while children starve in the streets.
In a sexual id road she had often to cross there was a butcher's
shop where great sides of good red beef with yellow fat were
Imng in the doorway. Coming home one evening after dark she
noticed in front of her a gaunt little girl who carried a baby on
her arm and was dragging a smali <liild along by the liand.
When they came to the butcher's shop they slopped to look up at
the great sides of beef, and the younger child stole up to one of
ihem, laid her little hand u}>on it caressingly, then ki.ssed it. The
buteluM- came out and ov(](>red them ofli". and Betb pursued lier
THE BETn BOOK.
551
I must liavo,"
ut of fashion,"
h sliould liavo
Ih'"s oTcut at a
begin with t)u«
J Ethel Maud
msaotion ; but
nd real lace,
ircd it would,
Jetli was still
lecessities.
tnieut he suf-
fer cotitinued
t'xposuro and
lungry sonie-
n she had to
ptation to g-o
\'ith tlic poor
[liter by sonic
)ity to wrath
ing a house
The road
h1 tho steps
tin's a band
it u]) witli
^'r, fighling-
ant looked
ins- by the
wallow in
mteher's
fat were
r dark sho
a baby on
the hand.
»ok up at
to one of
V it. The
sued her
wav tlirouffh tlio mire with tears in lier eves. She had suirt^red
temptation herself that same ev<Miin<;'. She had to pass an Italian
eating hous«^ wliere slie used to go sometimes before slie had any
one depending on her, to have a two-shilling dinner, a good meal,
decently served. Now, when she was always hungry, this Avas
one of the places she liad to hurry past ; but even when slie did
not look at it she thought about it, and was tormented by the de-
sire to go in and eat enough just for once. Visions of thick .soup
and fried fish with potatoes and roast beef with salad whetted an
ai)petite that needed no whetting, and made her suH'er an ache of
craving scarcely to be c<mtrolled. That day had been a jjarticu-
larly hungry one. The coffee was done, every precious tea leaf
she had to husband for Arthur ; and the butter had al.so to bo care-
fully ecoiKJinized, because a great deal was required for his crisp
toast, which was unpalatable without it. Beth lived principally
on the crusts she cut off the toa.st. When tlu>y were very stale
she steeped them in hot water and sweetened them with brown
sugar. This mess reminded her of Aunt Victoria's bread pud-
dings and the happy summer when they lived together, and she
learned to sit upright on Chippendale chairs. She would like to
have talked to Ai'thur of those tender memories, ])ut sh<' could
not trust herself, being weak ; the tears were too near the surface.
That day she had tm-ned against her crusts, even witli sugar,
and had felt no hung(T until she got out into the air. when an
imperious craving for food seized iipon her suddenly, and she
made for the Italian restaurant as if she had been driven. The
moment she got inside the place, however, she recovered her self-
possession. She would die of hunger rather than spend two
precious shillings on her.self while there was that poor boy at
home suffering in silence, gratefully content with the poorest
fare she brcmght him, always making much of all she did.
Beth got no farther than the counter.
'"I want something savom*v for an invalid," she said.
That evening, for tlie first time, Artlmr .sat up by the fire in
the grandfather's chair with a blanket round him, and enjoyed a
dainty little feast which had been especially provided, as he un-
derstood, in honour of the event.
"But why won't you have some yourself?" he remonstrated.
"Well, 3-011 .se«»." Betli answered, "I Wf nt to the Italian restau-
rant wiien T was out."
" Oh, did you ? " he said. " That's right. T wisli you would go
every day and have a good hot meal. Will you promise me { "
552
tht: r.irriT r.ooK.
r !
"Fll g-o ovory (lay tliat I possibly cjuj," Beth answered, sniilinpf
hrifililly as sIk^ saw him fall-to contentedly with the a})pelite of
a thi'ivinji; convaleseent. Practisinf,'' pious frauds upon him had
JM'comc a condi'med habit by this tim(\ of which she sliouhl have
been ashamed ; but instead, she felt a satisfying sense of artistic
acc()mi)Iislmient wlien tliey answered, and was only otherwise
alTected with a certain w(^n(h'rni(>nt at the very slight and subtle
dillerence there is between truth and falsehood as conveyed by
the turn of a phrase.
But now tlu> money ran shorter and shorter ; slu; had nothing-
much left to sell, and it was a question whether she could [)<)ssi-
bly hold out until her half year's dividend was due. Perhaps the
old lawyer would let her anticipate it for onc(>. She wrott^ and
asked him. But while she was waiting for a reply the pressure
b(^came acute.
Out of doors one day, walking along dejectedly, wondering
what she should do when she came to her last shilling, her eye
rested on a placard in the window of a fashionable hairdress(M*"s
shop, and she read mechanically, A Good 1*rice oivex for
Fine Hair. Slie passed on, however, and was halfway down the
street before it occurred to her that her own hair was of the
finest ; but the moment she thought of it she turned back, and
walked into the hairdi-esser's shop in a biisinesslike way without
hesitation. A gentleman was sitting beside the counter at one
end of the shop, waiting to be attended on ; Beth took a seat at
the other end, and waited, too. She sat there, deep in tliought
and motionless, mitil she was roused by somebody saying, '" What
can I do for you, miss ? "
Then she looked up and saw the proprietor — a man with a
kindly face.
" Can I speak to you for a moment ?" she asked.
"Come this way, if you please," he replied, after a glance at
her glossy dark-brown hair and shabby gloves.
When she went in that day Arthur uttered an exclamation.
"Do you mean to say you've had your hair cut short?" he
asked, speaking to her almost roughly. " Are you going to join
the unsexed crew that shriek on platforms ? "
" I don't know any unsexed crew that shriek on platforms,''
she answered ; " and I am surprised to hear you taking the tone
of cheaj> journalism. There has been nothing in the woman
movement to unsex women except the brutalities of the men who
oppose them."
i
TIIM BKTII BOOK.
na.'i
"poll liiiii lia.l
<3 sliould liavo
use of .'U'tistio
"ly othoru-iso
M and subtle
s conveyed by
' Jiad notliin;,'-
-' could possi-
Pci-liaps the
lie wrote and
the iH-essuro
i', wondci'iiio-
lin*,--, hci-eyo
liairdi't'ssei's
(ilVEX FOR
ay down the
^vas of the
'tl back, and
»vay without
iter at one
>« >k ii seat at
iji thoug-ht
Ufe^ '• What
lan with a
g-lance at
Illation.
"Jt?" ho
ng to join
atforni.s,''
the tone
i woman
ueu who
lie coloured .somewhat, l)ut said no more, only .sat lookin;^
into the lire with an expression on iiis face thai cut lictli to the,
quick. It was the lirst cloud that had come to overshadow the
perfect sympathy of xlw'.v intercoui'se. She was j^ettiu},'' his tea at
the moment, and when it \.as ready she put it beside him and re-
tired to his attic, whicu sj'.jo uccupuJ. and looked at her.self in the
{T'lass for th(^ lirst time s:nc( slij li.i.l Macriliced her pi-etty liair.
At the lirst glance she lau;:ne.!- tiun In r eyes lilled witli tears,
and she threw herself on tiic hvd aih! ^.o^;l)ell silently, not because
she rej,''retted her hair, but 1h'c.h;:»^ he \vas hui't, and for once she
had no comfort to give him.
Just after she left him an i^rt.'st Triend of his, (iresham Powell,
came in casually to look l.i.a U'>. and was sui'prised to lind he
liad been ^o ill.
"Inn <'d you about." he s:il(l ; " but I thought you had shut
your.self u\) to work. Whos been looking after you V
Brock gave him the history of his illness.
Powell shook his h(\id when he heard of Peth's devotion.
" Take care, my boy," he said. "The girls you lind knocking
about town in these sort of i)lac(»s are not desirable associates for
a promising young man. They're worse than the regular bad
ones— more likely to ti'ap you, you know, esi)ecially when you're
shorn of your strength and have good reason to be gi-ateful. You
might think you were rewarding her b3' mari-ying her, but you"d
find your mistake. Look at Simpson I Could a man have doru' a
girl a worse turn than he did when he married Florrie Crone ?
They liaven't a thought in common except when he's ill and she
nurses him; but a man can't be always getting ill in order to
keep in touch with his wife. I don't know, of course, what this
girl's like ; but half of them are adventures.ses bent on mai'i-ying
gentlemen. Is she a clergyman's daught<'r, b}- any chance V
"I know nothing about her but her name," Brock answered
coldly. "She has never tried to excite sympatliy in any way."
"Well, thev are of all kinds, of course," .said Powell temper-
atelv. "But vou'd better break away in anv case. Nothing will
set you up so soon as a change. Come with me. I'm going into
the country to see the spring come in and the fruit trees flower
and to hear the nightingah>s. I know a lovely- spot. Come I "
"I'll think al)out it, and let j-ou know," Arthur Brock an-
swered to get rid of him.
When he had gone Beth appeared. To ])lease Arthur slio. liad
covered her cropped head with a white-mus'iii mob cap, bound
30
bi
54
TIIK I5KT11 HOOK.
round with a pale-pink ribbon, and put on a liip^li mine and a
\ny<i;t' \vhit(! apron, in whicii she looked ])i'('tty and i)riiii, like a
swtu't littlt! I'uritan, in spite of tli(( pal<!-pink vanity ; and Artliur
smiled when lie saw her, but afterward JL^runibled : " Why did
you cut your pretty hair olV i I shouldn't have thou-^'ht you
could do su(di a tasteless thinif."
lieth knelt down beside his chair to mend th<' lire, and then
she be^ifan to tidy the hearth.
" Am I not th»^ same person V slio ask(ul.
"No, not (piite," ho answiM-ed. "You have set up a doubt
wlusro all was settled certainty."
She had taken oil" the {gloves she wore to do the p;rate, and was
about to pull herself up from her knees by the arm of his chair
when he sj)oke, but i)aused to ponder his words. It was with her
left haiul that she had <^rasi)ed the arm of liis chair, and he hap-
pened to notice it particularly as it rested there.
"You w(!ar a wedding rinj,'-, I see," he remarked. "Do you
find it a protection i "
" I never looked at it in that lig'ht," .she answered. "In this
vale of tears I have a husband. That is why I wear it."'
There was a perceptible pause, then he asked with an ellV^'t,
"Where is your husband ? "
"At home, I suppose," .said Beth, her voice growing strident
with dislike of the subject. "We do not correspond. He wishes
to div^orce me."
"And what shall you do if he tries ?" Brock asked.
" Nothing," she replied, and was for leaving him to draw his
own conclusions, but changed her mind. " Shall I tell you the
story ?" she said, after a while.
" No, don't tell me," he rejoined quickly. " Your past is noth-
ing to me. Nothing that you may have dime and nothing that
you may yet do can alter my feeling, my respect for you. As I
have known you, so will you always be to me — the sweetest, kind-
est friend I ever had, the best woman I ever knew."
Men are monotonous creatures. Given a position, and ninety-
nine out of a hundred will come to the same conclusion about it,
only by diverse methods, according to their prejxidices; aJid this
is e.si)ecially the case when women are in question. W'oman is
generally out of focus in the mind of man ; he sees her less as
she is than as she ouglit or ought not to be. Beth did not thank
.Vrthur Brock for his magnanimity. The fact that he should
ishrink from hearing the story bespoke a doubt that made his gen-
TIIK UKTJ[ IU)()K.
^ m »0
,)J0
crh nilTlc and a
nd prim, Jik(> a
■y; fiiul Arthur
'<! : " Wliy (lid
'•i thou^-iit you
' (ire, and then
ft U|) a doubt
ffratc, and was
• M of his chair
t was with licr
ir, and ho liap-
ed. ''Do y
ou
iH'd. "In this
• it.""
itli an effort,
■irinf strident
He wislies
'(I.
to di'aw liis
tell you tlie
last is notli-
'>thin^'' tliat
you. As I
oetest, kind-
and ninety-
on about it,
!.s; and tliis
Woman is
lior less as
not thank
he should
de his gen-
<
erou.s oxpro.ssions an offence. It may be kind to i<,'nore tlie past
of a •'•uilty pei-son, but the innocent ask to be li«>artl and jud^j^ed ;
and full faith lias no f<'ar of revelations.
Beth rose from h<^r knees and bej^an to prepare the invalid'.s
evening meal in silence. Usually they chattered likechihli-en the
whoh; tinu^ but tiiat evening they were both constrained. One
of those subtle changes, .so common in tlie relations of men and
wojiien, had set in suddenly since the morning; they were not lus
they had been with each other, nor couUl tli<'y continue togetlu'r
as they were ; there must be u readjustment, which was in prepa-
ration during the pause.
"You have heard me speak of Gresham l^>well ?" Hroclc be-
gan at last. " He was here this afternoon. He thinks I had better
go away with him into the country for a change as .soon as 1 can
manage it."'
"It is a good idea," .said l^eth — " inland, of course; not near
the sea with your rheumatism. 1 will g<'t your things ready at
once."
This innuediate ac(piiescence depressi'd him. lie played witn
his supper a little, pi-etending to eat it, then forgot it, and sat look-
ing sadly into the lire. Beth watched him furtively, but (jnce be
caught her gazing at him with concern.
"What's the matter '. " he a.sked, with an etl'ort to be cheerfu'i.
"The matter is the pained expi-e.ssion in your e^-es," she an-
swered. " Are you sull'<'ring again ;' "'
"Just twinge.s,"' he said, then set his firm, full lips resolute to
play the man.
But the twinges were mental, not bodily, and Beth understood.
Their happy days were done, and there was nothing to be .said.
They must each go their own way now, and the soonei- the better.
Fortunately the old lawyer had con.sented without demur to let
Beth have her lialf year's dividend in advance, .so that there was
money for Arthur. He expressed some surpri.se that there should
be, but took Avhat she gave hin\ without suspicion, and did not
count it. He was careless in mojiey matters, and had forgotten
what he had had when he was taken ill.
"You're a great manager," he said to B<4h. "But I suppose
you haven't paid up everything. You nnxst let me know. It trill
be good to be at work again I "
" Yes," Beth answered ; " but don't worry about it. You won't
want money before you an; well al)le to make it.'"
"I wish I knew for certain that you would go somewhere
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(716) 872-4503
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556
THE liETII BOOK.
\'\ ^
:i ii
yourself to see the spring conic in," he said, looking at lier
wistfully.
"All in good time," she answered in her spriglitlicst way.
When the last morning eaine Beth attended to her usual duties
methodieally. She luui made every arrangement for him. packed
the things he was to take, and put away tho.se that w<>re to l)e left
behind. When the cab wjus ealh'd she went downstairs with him,
and stcKKl with Ethel Maud Mary and (Iwendolen on the doorstep
in the spring sunshine, smiling and waving her hand to him as
he drove off. II«'r last words to him were : "You will go homo
befort^ we meet again. Giv. my love to America. And may she
send us many nioi-e sucli men ! " Beth added, under her breath.
"Amen !" Ethel Maud Mary and Gwendolen ecluwd.
When the cab was <.ut of sight Beth turned and went into tho
house, walking wearily. At the f<Mjt of the staii-s she looked up
as if she were calculating the disUiuce; then she began 'he long
ascent with the help of the banlstei's, counting eiudi step she t(M)k
mechanically. The attic seemed strangely big and bare when she
enten'd it — it was as if .something had been taken away and left a
great gap. There was something crude and garish about the light
in it, too, which gave an unaccustomed look to every familiar de-
tiiil. The fii'st thing she noticed was the chair beside the fire — the
old gr.ir.dfatlH'r's chair in which he had been sitting only a few
minutes befoic, resting after the effort of dressing— the cliair in
which she had seen hivn sit and suH'er so much and .so bravely.
She would never .see him there again, nor l»ear his voice — the
kindest voice she had ever heard. At his woi*st. it was always of
her 1m' thought — of her comfort, of her fatigue; but all that was
over now. He had gone, and there could be no r<>turn— nothing
couhl ever Ik' as it had been between them, even if they met again ;
but meet again they never would, Beth knew, and at the thought
she sank on the iloor beside the sen.seless chair, and, resting her
head against it, broke down and cried the (h'spairing cry of the
desolate, for whom there is no comfort and no hope.
The lire she had liglited for Arthur to dress by had gone out ;
there were no more coals. The remains of his bn'akfast stood on
the table; slie had not touched anything herself as yet. But she
felt neither cold nor hunger; .she was beyond all that. The chair
was turned with its back to the window, and as she cowered l)e-
side it she faced the opposite whitewashed wall. A ray of sun-
shine played upon it — wintry sunshine still, crystjil cold and
clear. lieth began to watch it. There was something she liad to
Ifi
THE BETIT BOOK.
)king; at hop
est way.
r usual duties
' him, packed
en- to be left
irs with him,
the (htorstep
lid to him as
ill go homo
Vnd may she
ler breath.
M'd.
keut into tho
le lfM)ked up
ifan Mie long-
itep she t(M^k
re when she
ly and left a
)ut the li<rlit
familiar de-
he fire— the
■ only a f<'w
the chair in
so bravely,
voice — tho
s always of
1 that ivas
— nothinpf
met ajfain ;
le thoujrht
'esting her
cry of the
gone out ;
t stood on
Rut she
The chair
■.'\'ere<l l)e-
ly of sun-
cold and
die liud to
557
think rbout — something to see to— somc^thing slie must think
about- -something she < ught to .see to; but precisely what it wa.s
she could not grasp. It .s«'«'med to be hovering on the oulskirt.s
of her mind, but it always eluded her. However, she had better
not move for fear of making a noise. And then* was far t(M)
nmch noise a.s it was — the wind rising and the waves breaking —
All down the thunduriiiK Hhorcrt of Hudo and Ho.s
no, thougli — it was a procession of camels crossing the desert,
antl in the dist;ince was an oasis surrounded by palms, and there
wtus white stonework gleaming between the trees in the wonderful
light. And those great dooi^s that opened from within ? They
were opening, although she had not kn<K'ked. She Wiis expected,
then — there— where there was no more weariness, nor care, nor
hung<'r. But that wjis not where she wished to go. No I No!
that did not tempt her.
"Take me where I sliall not remember," she implored.
Poor Betli I the one bo()n she had to a.sk of Heaven at five-and-
twenty was oblivion. " Let me be whei-e 1 shall forget."
Downstiiirs on the dooj*step Ethel Maud Mary and (iwendolen
lingered a moment before they turned to follow Beth into the
hou.se, and, as they did so, they noticed that a lady had stoj)|)ed
her carriage in th(> middle of the road, jumped out impetuously,
and was running toward them, regardless of the trallic.
"That was Mrs. Maclurc who was standing with you here just
now, and went into the hou.se ?" she exclaimed.
" .V/.S.S Maclure," Etliel Maud Mary corrected her.
"Oh. Miss or Mi's., what does it matt«'r ! " the lady cried. "It
was Elizabeth (\ildwell Maclure looking like <leatli where is she ?
Take me to her at once I " She emphasized the request with aa
imperious stamp of her foot.
A few minutes later .Angelica, kneelinir on th(^ attic lloor be-
side Beth, cried aloud in horror, ' Why, bhe".s dead !"
CHAITER T.I.
One warm morning when tlie applf trees were out .Arthur
BnK'k was sitting with (Jresham Powell in the garden of the farm-
house where they were lodging in the country, turning over a
portfolio full of Powell's sketches; and Powell was looking at
II
658
THE BETn ROOK.
It
I
\i
them ovor his sliouldor and disnissinfr thorn with him. Arthur
lunl just conio upon a clever study of the l»<'ad of a girl in a liat,
and was looking hard at it.
"That's a study in starvation," Powell explained. "It's an
interesting face, isn't it ? She came into a liairdres.ser"s one day
when I was there, and sat down just in that attitude, and I sketched
lier on the spot. She wjis too far throuj^h at the moment to notice
me. Look at her i)retty hair particulcily. You'll see why in the
next sketch, which is the sequel."
Brock took up the next sketch hurriedly. It was the same girl
in the same hat, hut with her hair cut sliort.
"I asked tlie harher fellow ahout her when she'd gone,"
Grcsham pursued. " He'd taken her into an inner room, and
wlien she came out she was cropped like that. She told him she
had come to her la.st shilling, and she had an invalid at home
depending on her entirely ; and slie entreated him to give lier all
he could for her hair. I believe the chap did, too, he seemed so
moved by her sutTering and gentleness. — What's the matter ?"
Brock had risen abruptly with the sketches still in his hand.
The colour had left his face and he looked as pinched and ill as
he had done during the early days of his convalescence.
" The nuitter ! " he ejaculated. "I've just discovered what a
blind fool I am. that's the matter ; and I'll keep these two studies,
witii your permission, to remind me of the fact. CMioo.se among
mine any you like instead of them, old chap ; but these you nui.st
let me have."
Without waiting for an answer he took the sketches away
with him into the house. When he returned a short time after-
ward he was dressed for a journey and had a travelling bag in his
hand.
"I am going to town." ]w said, "to see the original of the.se
{.ketches. I've run up an account with her I shall never be able
to .settle ; but at all events T can acknowledge my debt, dolt that I
am I / was that invalid I And I thought my.self sucli a gentle-
man, tool not counting my change and asking no questions —
trusting lier implicitly. That was my i)ose from the day you
came and poisoned my mind. Before that I had neither tru.sted
nor distrusted, but just taken things for granted as they came,
beautifully. I was too self-satislied even to suspect that she
might l)e imposing h«'r bounty upon me, starving herself tluit I
might have all I recpiired. and sending me ott' here finally with
the la.st p<'nny she had in the world. I told you I was wondering
TnE BKTII BOOK.
559
him. Arthur
girl in a liat,
pfl. "It's an
sor's one day
>i(l I skotcliod
lent to notice
e why in the
ihe same girl
sheVl prone,"
r room, and
told him she
tlid at liome
g-ive her all
seemed so
natter ? "
11 his hand,
1 and ill as
rod what a
■<vo studies,
>se anionjf
you must
fhes away
imo after-
hag- in his
1 of these
er he ahle
lolt that I
I gentle-
lestions —
day you
!^r trusted
ley came,
that she
If that I
itlly with
)iidering
she did not answer my letters. I expect sli(» hadn't tlie sUimp.
But you said it was out of sight out of mind, and she'd he trying
it on witii some one else in my absence. If i\\ the strength I'd
thrash you, Gresham, for an evil-minded houiuler."
"I'll carry your bag to the station, old chap," (Jresham re-
plied with contrition, "and take the thrashing at your earliest
convenience."
Ethel Maud Mary was sUmding on the steps in the sunshines
looking out when Arthur Bnn'k arrived, just as she had stood to
watch him depart ; but in the interval a happy change had plea.s-
antly transfornu'd her. Her golden hair was brightly burnishec!
again, her blue eyes sparkled, and her delicate skin had recovered
its rose-leaf tinge. She wore a new frock, a new ring, a new
■watch and chain, and there was a new look in her face, one
might say, as if the winter of care had piussed out of her life
with the snow and been f<»rg()tten in the spring sunshine of bet-
ter prospects.
"O Mr. Brock! " she exclaimed, "you back 1 But none t<K)
well yet, judging by appearances."
"Where is Mi*s. Maclure ? '' he demanded.
"I wish I knew I " Ethel Maud M.u*y rejoined, becomitig im-
portant all at once. "She's gone for good, that's all I can tell
you. () Mr. Brock I fancy her being tiptnp all the time, and us
not .suspecting it, though 1 might have thought .something when
I saw the dre.s.ses she sold when you were ill, only I'd got the
fashion ))apers in my mind, and didn't know but what she'd bren
paid in dres.ses ! Come into tlu- parhtur ; you look faint.''
" You .said she sold hei- dre.ss<>s ("
"Yes; sit down, Mr. Brock. A glass of jjort wine is what you
want, as she'd say hei-self if she was here : and you'll get it good,
too, for it's been sent for ma. My, the things that have <'onie !
Look at me — all |)r('sents — everything she ever heard me say Id
like to have ; aiul (Jwendolen the same."
Sh(> got out the wine and tli<' biscuits from achitl'onnier as she
chattered and .set them Ix'fore him.
"Yes, she sold her dresses, and her rings, and her books, and
every other blessed thing she possessed except what had belonged
to an old aunt. She got flicni out, too. one day, but ciMcd so when
it came to |)arting with them I persuaded her to wait. I said
something would turn uj), I was sure. And something did. for
you went away, ami directly after— the next mijuite. so to spe.ak,
for you were scarcely t)ut of sight — a lady stoj)ped her carriage —
500
TRK IJETII BOOK.
«".
I I
>'
if ; c
it
a fino carrinj^'o and pair, and coacliTnaii and footman, all silver
mounU'd— and ran up tin' strps in a jfrcat way. She'd seen Mi-s.
Madura g-o into the liou.so, and she said slu'M been hunting for
her every \vh(>re for niontlis, and all her friends \v<»re in a way
uhout her, not knowin;^ what liiul ha])pened to hei*. I took tlu?
lady up to the attic, and there vvas Mrs. Maelure lying on the
iloor l«>oking like death, with her head up against the hig chair
where you used to sit. We thought sh(> irns dead at lirst, hut the
doctor oaino and brought her round. He said it was just exhaus-
tion from fatigue and starvation."'
Arthur Hrock uttered an exclamation.
" You needn't reproach yourself, Mr. lirock," Ethel Maud Mary
pui'sueil sympathetically. '* You weren't woi-se than the rest of
us. I saw her every day, and never suspected she was denying
herself everything, she was always .so much the same — happy,
you know, in lun* (piiet way."
" Do you think she was happy ? " he groaned.
"Yes, she was ha])py,'" Ethel Maud Mai-y said i mply. "She's
that disposition — contented, you know; and she was happy from
the first; Init she was hai)pier still from the time she had you to
care for. I'd read about ladies of that kind. Mr. Brock, but had
not seen one before. It's being good does it, I suppose. Do you
know, .slui'd not have told a lie was it ever so, Mrs. Maelure
wouldn't."
" And .she went away with that lady ? " Arthur asked after a
I)ause.
"Yes, if you can call it going." Ethel Maud Mary replied ;
" for the lady didn't ask h<'r leave, but just rolhnl her up in wraps
and had her carried down to the carriage and took lu>r otT. And
that's all we know about her. She's written me a letter I'd like
to show you, and sent me money, pretending she owed it because
I'd let her have her attic too cheap. She .sent the presents after-
ward, but no address. The lady came back once alone and had
the attic photographed, with everything arranged just as Mrs.
Macliu'e used to have it. And slie bought all the things in it
that belonged to us, and had them and all Mrs. Maclure's own
things taken away to keep, she said. She sat a long time in tlie
attic, looking at it just as if she was trying to ijnagine what living"
in it was like; and she kept dabbing her eves with a little lace
liaiulkerchief, and then she got up and sighed and said. ' Poor
Beth ! poor Beth ! ' several times. She talked to me a lot about
Mrs. Maelure. She seemed to know all about mo, and treated me
\ U-
THE BETH BOOK.
501
num. all silver
lio'd seen Mi-s.
n liuiiting for
VM'o ill u way
••• I took tho
lyiuj,' on the
tln' l)i;r chair
t lirst, hut tlio
s just exhaus-
?1 Maud Mary
III tho rest of
was dcnyingf
>ame — liappy,
as if we'd been old frioiids. And she knew all about you too, and
asked after you kindly. She .said Mi*s. Maolure wsus j^'oinjr to be a
great woman — a {^^reat jjenius or something' of that sort — and do
a lot for th(! world ; and she wanted to know if you'd ever sus-
pected it. I told her I thoug-ht not. The two lettei-s you wrote
she t(H)k to give Mrs. Maclun', so she'd get them all right ''
*' And see the particular kind of fatuous ass I am set down
clearly in my own handwriting," lie said to him.self.
Then he rose. " I'll just go up and l<M)k at the attics," he said.
Ethel Maud Mary waited below, and waited long for him.
"When at la.st he came down he shook hands with her, but with-
out looking at her.
" I'm going to find that lad} —Mrs. Maclure," he said, jam-
ming his hat down on his head, " if I have to spend the rest of
my life iu the searcli."
jply- " She s
i ha])])y from
e had you to
poek, but had
>se. Do you
Irs. Maclure
sked after a
iry n^plied ;
up in wraps
r ofT. And
ter I'd like
it because
■sents after-
e and had
st as Mrs.
ings in it
ui*e's own
ime in the
hat living
little lace
lid. 'Poor
lot about
•eated me
CHAPTPm LII.
Beth, surrounded by friends, saw the spring come in that year
at Ilverthorpe, and felt it the fairest sj)ring she could rememlxr.
Blackbird and thrush sang in an ecstiisy by day, and all night
long the nightingales thrilled in the happy dusk. She did not
ask herself wiiy it was there was a new note in Nature that y«*ar,
nor did she trouble hei-self about time or eternity. Her eternity
was the excpiisite monotony of tranquil days, her timekeeix'i-s the
spring llowers, the apple blossom and quince, datl'odil. wallllower,
lilac and labiu'iium, the perfumed calycanthus, forget-me-nots,
pansies, hyacinths, lilies of the valley in the woods, and early
roses on a warm south wall ; and over all the lark by day. and
again at night the nightingale. In a life like hers, after a jx'riod
of probation, therc^ comes an interval of this kind occasionally, a
pause for rest and renewal of strength before active service be-
gins again.
While she had been shut up with Arthur, seeing no papers and
hearing no news, her book had come out and achieved a very
respectable success for the sort of thing it was, and she was ])leased
to hear it, but not elated. The subject had somehow lapsed from
her mind, and the career of the book gave her no more personal
pleasure than if it had been the work of a friend. Had it come
out when it was tii'st linished, she would have felt differently
662
THE BETH ROOK.
if
■i
about it ; but now slio sjiw it as only ono of tho many things
whifli Imd hapiM'ncd to her, and considered it more as tho old
consider tho \v«>rks of their youtli, estiinatiuff them in proportion,
as is the liabit of age, and moderately ratlier than in exe<'ss.
For the truth was that a gr<'at ehange had <-ome over Beth during
tlie last few months in respect to her writing; her enthusiasm had
singularly cooled ; it had ceased to be a pleasure and became an
etrort to her to express herself in that way.
Mr. Alfred Cuyley Pounce had been looking out for Beth's
book, and while waiting for it to appear he had, misled by his
own supi)ositions, prepared an <'Iahorate article upon the kind of
thing he expected it to be. Nothing was wanting to complete tho
article but a summary of the story, and (piotations from it, for
which he had left plenty of space. Ilecondonnied the b(M»k utterly
from tlu^ point of view of art, and for the silly ignorance of life
dis))laye<l in it, and the absurd caricatures which were supposed
to be people ; he ridiculed the vriter for taking herself seriously
(but without showing why exactly she should not Uika herself
seriously if she chose) ; he piti«'d her for her disappointment wh< u
she should realize where in literature her place would be ; and ii<;
ended with a bitter diatribe against the; works of women gener-
ally as being pretentious, amateur, without originality, and want-
ing in humour, like th<^ wretched stull" it had been his i)ainful
duty to expose. Unfortuiuitely for hitn, liowever, the book ap-
peared anonymously, and innnediately attracted attention enough
to make him wish to discov<'r it, and Ix'fore he found out that
Beth was the author he had committed himself to a highly eulo-
gistic article ui)on it in The Pitfritirch, which lie took the i)vo-
caution to sign, that th<> coming celebrity might know to whom
gratitude was due, and in which he declared that there had arisen
a new light of extraordinary promise on the literary horizon.
The book, as it happened, was not a work of liction at all.
Beth had heard nothing more from Dr. Maclure and kwrw
nothing about him, except that lie must have lost his degrading
appointment, the Acts having been rescinded. lie had forward«'d
none of the letters her friends had addressed to her at Slane.
The Kilroys had endeavoured to obtain Iht address from him, but
he denied that he knew it. Unknown to her, Mr. Kilroy, Mr.
Hamilton-Wells, and Sir George Galbraith had taken the best
legal advice in the hope of getting her a divorcj', but there was
little chance of that, as the acute mental suffering her husband
THE BETU BOOK.
riOS
many tliinjcfs
)ro lis the old
in proportion,
Jill in oxccss.
r Ik'tli during
itlinsiiisni hii(l
lul became an
ut for Bet lis
iiisled by his
n the kind of
i'oniplcte the
from it, for
b(M)lc nltcrly
•ranee of life
i'r<' supposed
ielf seriously
tiike herself
ilnienl wh» n
I be ; and h-;
>inen Ln-ncr-
', and want-
his painful
e book ap-
on enou^rji
(1 out that
i«-hly eulo-
)k the j)n>-
IV to whom
had arisen
y horizon.
11.
md kiww
ileofradinff
orwarded
at Slane.
him, but
h'oy, Mr.
the best
here was
husband
I
had caused her had merely injured her liealth and endanpen-d
licr reasoji, which do<^s not amount to cruelty in the <'stimation of
the law. Tiie nuitter was therefore allowed to drop, and Jieth had
not yet b«'yun to think of the future when one day she n'c«'iv»'<l
a lett«'r from Dan, couched in the mo.st affectionate terms, entreat-
in<f her to return to him.
" You must own that I l)ad cau.se for provocation," he said ; " but
I confess tliat I was too hasty. It is natural, though, that a man
should f«'('l it if his wift' gets her.s«'lf into such a position, however
inn(M'ently ; and the more he hius tru.sted, loved, and respected his
wife, the more violent will the rcat-tion be. I know, however, that
1 have had my own sbortcomin^'-s since we wen- married, and
then'for*' that I should make every allowance for you. So let us
be friend.s, Beth, and bejifin all over a;jfain. as you once proposed.
I am readv to leave Slane and .setth? wherever vou lik<'. Mak(;
your own conditiftns ; anything' that pleases you will plea.se me."
This letter up.set Beth very nnicb. She woulil aliin»st rather
have had an action for divorce brought against her than have
been lusked to return to I)aniel Maclure.
"Ought I to go back ? " she asked, willing, with the fatuous
persist<'ncy of women in like case, to pi-i'severe if it were tli(»uglit
right that she should, although she knew pretty well that the
saerilice would be unavailing so far as he was coucerued, and
would only entail ujmmi hei*self the common lot of W()men so
mated —a ruined constitution and corroded mind.
"Whv does he suddenlv so particularlv wish it r' was the
answer.
The obvious explanation was indirectly conveyed in a letter
from her old lawyer. He had written to her in her London lodg-
ing, first of all, but the letter was returned from the Dead Letter
Oilice. Then he had written to Slane, but as he r«'<'eived no an-
swer to that letter, and it was not returned, he went in person to
in(|uire about it. Dan declared that he knew nothing altout the
letter, or about Beth either if she had left London ; but he thought
her intimate friends, the Kilntvs, might know where she wa.s.
The old gentlenuin applied to the Kilroys. and. having found
Beth, wrote to inform her that her Great-Aunt Victoria Bench's
investments had recovered at la.st. as he had ai'vays been i)retty
sure that they would, and she would accordingly, for the future.
find herself in receipt of aii income of seven or eight hundred
nr,4
THE BETH BOOK.
> I
\ .
1 U
I'l
J )
pounds a yoar. Dan's sndilcii inaffiianiinity woh acrounttMl for.
I'M'tli put his I'lFusioii and the lawyer's letter before lier friends,
and asked to be advised. They d«'cided unanimously that, on
tlie one liand, Dan was not a proper p<'rson for her to live with,
that no di'cent woman eouUl ass<M'iate with a man of Ids mind,
Iiabits, and conversation without suirerin<.f injury in some sort;
wliile on the »)ther they pointed out tliat, althou;,'h it wouhl be
nice, it would not be ffood for Dan to have the Ixnelit of Heth's
little income. While he was forced to work he would have to
conduct himself witlj a certain amount of j)ropriety ; but if lieth
reli(!ved him of the necessity, there would W. nothiiif,'- to restrain
him.
This episode roused Betli from her trancpnl apathy, and made
her think of work once more. But first she had to .settle some-
where, and make a homo for herself ; and, althouj^h slu? had
ample means for all her recpiirements now, it w;is not an ea.sy
thing to find the sju'cial conditions on wliich she had set her
heart. Tlui first imi)ulse of a woman of nol)le nature is to bo
consi.stent, to live up to all she professes io admire. As Beth
grew older, to live for othei-s became more and more her ideal of
life ; not to live in the world, liowever, or to be of it, but to work
for it.
" I must be (juiet," she said to Angelica one day when they
were discussing her future. "lam dom; for so far as work is
concerned when I come into contiict with crowds. I want to live
tilings then ; I don't want to think about them. Excitement makes
me content to be, and careless about doing. My tru(>st and best
life is in myself, and I can only live it in cir('umstan<;es of tran-
quil monotony. Peo|)le tiilk so much about making the most of
life, but their attempts are curiously bungling. What they call
living is for the most part more i)ain than pleasure to them ; for
the truth is, that life should not b(^ livcnl by men of mind, but con-
templated ; it is the spectator, not the actor, who enjoys and profits.
The actor has his moment of applause, but all the rest is misery.
Peoj)le rush to great centres to obtain a knowledge of life, and do
not succeed, for there they see nothing but broad elFects. We
find our knowledge of life in individuals, not in crowds. There is
no more individuality in a crowd of i)eople than there is in a ih)ck
of sheep. All I know of life, of its infinite diversity, I have learned
here and there from some one person or another known intimately.
A solitary experience, rightly considered in all its bearings, teaches
us more than numbei*s of those incidents of which we see the sur-
TllK llKTIl IIUUK.
aocountod for.
>r(^ h(>r friends,
>usly that, on
■r to ]iv«^ with,
M (»f liis iiiiiid,
ill sonic sort;
:h it wouhl ho
nclit of Bcth's
^■ould hav(! t*)
V; hut if Hctli
Uj^ to mstraia
hy, and inado
^o sotth; sonio-
u«-h she hud
i not an oasy
". had set Ijor
dure is to ho
iro. As ]Jetli
V hvr idt'al of
-, hut to work
y wlicn tlioy
r as work is
want to live
MU'nt makes
st and hest
ices of tran-
the most of
at tliey call
> them ; for
nd, hut con-
and jirofits.
t is miser V.
lifo, and do
iFects. We
s. There is
is in a Hock
ave learned
intimately,
lips, teaches
see tlie sur-
I
face only ' in the joy of ev«'ntful livinjf'; and, if the truth wero
known, I e\'])eet it wouhi 1k> found that eacii one of us had ohtained
the most valuahlc part of our (>xj)erieiice in such homely (h'tails of
simph' unaU'ecled hu nan nature as came under our ohservation
in our native villa;;es."
'* Y«'s," An<i^elic.i answered l!M)U;xldfulIy ; "tlie hM»k<>r-o!i sees
most (»f tlie jfunii*. !5ut I ilon't tliin.: you allow enoujrh for dillVr-
iMU'cs of temjieriMiiviii. Vou s.rc thinkin^c of the l>est condi-
tions for creative uor.;. Vou Mustn't lose si;,'ht of all the active
service that is tfoin;^ on.'
" No. liut it is in rctlrev.iont that tlie hest pn'panition is made
for active service lilso. Ami I was thinkinj,' of active service
more than of creativ • v.-.ir : just then. Tlie truth, is 1 am in a
state of heinj,'^ op|)i'esscil hy the thou^^'ht of my new h(M)k. I don't
know what lias com>' to me, 1 am all fretty ahout it. Writing
has lost its charm. I »loul)t If I shall ever do well enou^'-h to
make it worth while tv) write at all. And even if I could. I don't
think mere literary success would satisfy me. 1 have tasted
enough of that to know what it would he — a sordid triumph, a
mere personal thin^,^"
" Ideala does not think that it is necessarily as a literary wom-
an that you will succeed," Anj,''elica answered. "/ lh«»u<^ht it
wa.s, hecause all the indications you have jfiven (»f special ca-
pacity seem to nw to lie in that direction. However, versatile^
people make mistakes sometimes. They don't always he^^in with
the work they are hest able to do; hut there is no time lost, for
one thiiijf helps another — one tiling is necessary to another. I
should say, perhajis. Your writing niay have lu'lped to perfect
you in some other form of exi)ression."
" You cheer me I " Beth exclaimed. " But what form ? " She
reflected a little, and then she put the pu/.zle from her. " It will
come to me, I dare .sav," she said, '* if 1 shut the din of the world
far from me and sit with folded hands in coiiteniplation. wailin;,''
for the moment and tlie match which shall lire me to the rijrht
pitch of enthusiasm. Nothing worth doinj^ in art is done hy
calculation."
"I think you are rij^lit to keep out of the crowd." .said An-
gfolica. "You will get nothin<c hut distraction from without. I
sliould take one of the privileges of a great success to he the right
to refuse all invitations that draw one into tlies<H'ial swim. Men
and women of high purpose do not arrive in order to be crowded
into stuffy drawing-rooms to be stared at,"
600
TIIK HKTII HOOK.
11
i' !
1
"My idou of porfort hliss," Rrlh pursiUMl. " whon my work is
(loii<> and my frinids ar<> nut with mr, is to li*> my Ini^^tl) ii|)uii ji
clitr ubovr tli<> Kra, lisli'iiiii;; to tlio maiiy-muniiiiroiis, suotlM-d liy
it into li scnsr of oncnrss with Nature, till I simmm to Ih> niixrd
with tho <rh>mcnt.s -a part of sky and sea and shore, and akin to
the waiuh'rin;,' winds. This mood for my easy moments; hut
Ifive m«^ work for my live delij^'ht. I know nothin;^ so altogether
ccstjitic as a {jood mood for work."
" What you call W(>rk is power of expression," said Angehea,
" the power to express .something'' in yoniMelf, I fancy."
'* Ye — yes," Beth answi-red, hesilatin;;. as if the notion were
new to lier. " I Ixdieve you are ri{,''ht. What 1 call work is the
tll'ort to express my.self."
Mr. Kilroy had come in while they were talking;, und sat
listeninj,' t«» the last part of tlieir convei'sation.
"I liave just the sort of neat litth' cot in a (piiet sp(»t with a
distant view of the rollin;r sea that you yearn for. lieth," he saitl.
smiling, when slio i)aused ; "and 1 have come to ask you and
Angelica to drive over witli me to .see it."
"You mean Ilv«'rthorpe ('ottajr«'," said Angelica, jumping U|).
"O Daddy, it's the very place I Two stories, IJeth ; ivy, ros«'s,
jasmine, wistaria, without ; and within, si)a<'e and comfort of
every kiml-and the sea in sight I Such a j)r(tty garden, too ;
grass and trees and shruhs and Mowers I And near enough f«)r us
all to see you as often as you wish. Betli, he excited, tool I
must bring my violin, I think, and l)lay a triumi)luint nuircli on
the way."
Tlvertiu)ri)e CotUige was all and more than Angelica liad said,
and Heth did not hesitate to take it. It was Mr. Kilroy 's proj)-
erty, and the rent was suspiciously low ; hiit Beth supposed that
that was because the house was out of the way. She and An-
gelica spent long happy days in getting it ready for occujjation,
<'hoosing papei*s aiul i)aint and furnishments. Mr. Kilroy saw to
th(> stables, whi<'li he c«)nipleted with a saddle horse and a i)ony
cai'riage. There was a short cut across the lields, a lovely walk,
from Ilverthorpe House to the cottage, and, when Angelica
coulil Jiot accompany her, Beth would stroll over alone to see
lu)w things were getting on, and wander about her little demesne,
and love it. Outsid(> her garden in front of the hou.se the high-
road ran, a sheltered highroad, with a raised footpath, bordered
on either side with great trees — oak and elm, chestnut and Ixvch ;
und u high hawthorn liedge just whitening into blossom. The
\l
h
lion my work in
y Icii^-lli upon ii
'(•Us, SOotlM'W ],y
III t»» l«' mixed
im\ (iiid akin i.,
Jiioriirnts; I, lit
i^' so uItojr,.t|„.,.
' said Ant'«'Iu'ji,
vy."
H' Motion Wen*
•all work is tli«!
Ikiiif,', and siit
ii«'t spot with a
lictli," ]w said.
) ask you and
'I. jiinii)in;,'' up.
th ; ivy, r<>sos,
id comfort of
V garden, too ;
iiou^li for us
<'it('d. too I I
lilt marcli on
lica had said,
rih'oy's [H'op-
■iupposcd tliat
■^lic and An-
f occupation,
vih'oy .saw to
and a pony
lovely walk,
'II Anj^'-elica
!ilon(> to seo
tic demesne.
ise the liijrli-
tli, bordered
and beech ;
>ssoni. The
TIIK liKTlI HOOK.
1
fiuUl paths caino out on this hi;;hroad, down which she had to
walk a few hundn-d yanis to her own gate. I)ay after day tlien-
was an old Irish labourer, a stonebreaker. by tin- wayside, kneel
ing on a sack beside a great heap of stones, who gave her a <'hceiy
good morrow as she passed. ( )nce she went across the road and
Hpoke to him. He had the face of a sjiiiit at his devotions.
" Y«m kneel there all dav hmg," she said ; "and as vou kneel
you pray, perhaps Will you pray for me t Tray, pray that I
may" she was going to say succeed, but stopped "that I may
bl' gO(Ml."
The man raised his calm eyes and looked her in tin* face.
" You an' good, lady." he said simply.
"Yet pray," she entreated ; "and pray loo that all I do may
be gocul. and of g<MKl etl'ect."
"All you do is g<»od. lady," he answt'red once more, in the
Bume ipiiet tone of conviction.
" liut I want all I do in be the best for the purpo.se that can be
done."
She put some money in his iiand. and turned away; and as she
went he watclu'd lier. She had touched him with her soft glove-
less (ingei's in giving him the money, ami when she had gone he
was con.scious of th(> touch ; it tingled through him, and he looked
at the spot on which the impression remained, as if he expected
it to be in some sort visible.
"Now our Lady love you, and the .saints protect you, Ide.ss
your swe<>t face I " he muttered ; "and may all you do be the best
that can be done for every one I .\men."
A few months in her lovely little house sulliced to n>store
Heth's mind to its natural attitude an attitude of deep (h'votion.
She even began to work again, but rather with a view to making
herself useful to her friends than to satisfy any ambition or crav-
ing of her own. Whatever she did, however, she appro.iched in
the spirit of tiie great musician wlio dressed himself in his best,
and prayed, as at a solemn .service, when he shut himself up to
com-pose. Heth had stepped away from the old forms by this
time. She had e.s<'aped from the bondage of the lett<'r that killeth
into the realm of tlie spirit that giveth life. It is not faith in any
particular fetich that mak<'s a mind religious. I)ut tlie (piality of
reverence. Churches Beth lad come to look U])on not with dis-
trust but with iiiditrer«>nce, as an inetrectual exj)eriment of man'.s.
She could find no evidence of a liolier spirit «)r a more divine one
5G8
Till-: liETU B(X)K.
i«i
in the Church than in uny otluT human institution for the propa-
gation of instruction. The Church has never heen superior to the
times, never as far advanced as tlie best men of the day, never a
h'a(UM', hut rather an opposer of pro;,''ress ; hindrrinj,'- when ich'as
were new, and only comin<: in to help when workers witli(/ut luid
proved tlieir discoveries, and it was evident that credit woukl be
lost by refusinjf to recognise them. Tliere is no cruelty the
Church hjis not practised, no sin it him not committ<'d, no igno-
rance it has not displayed, no inconsistency it has not upheld, from
teaching peace and countenancing war to preaching j)overty and
piling up riches. True, there have been great saints in tla^ C'hurcli ;
but then there liave been great saints out of it. Saintliness (;omes
of conscientiously cultivating the divine in human nature; it is
a seed that is sown and lh)urishes under the most divei'se con-
ditions.
Beth thought much on religion in those quiet days, and read
much, UK)Uing for spu'itual sustenance among the garbage of
mind with which man has overlaid it, and finding little to satisfy
her until one night, quite suddenly, as she sat holding her mind
in the attitude of prayer, there came to her a wonderful Hash of
illumination. She liad not been occupied with the point that be-
came apparent. It entered her mind involuntarily, and was made
clear to her without conscious effort on her part ; but it was that
vvliich she sought — the truth that moves, makes evident, makes
easy, props and stays, and is the instigator of religious action, the
source of as])iration, the ground of hope — the which was all con-
tiiined for lieth in the one old formula interpreted in a way that
was new to her: " 27k' c<»nnii())i(>n of saints (that inexplicable
sympathy between soul and soul), the forgiveness of sins (work-
ing out our own salvation in fear and trembling). fJie resitrrcr-
tioti of the hodij (reincarnation), and tlie life everlasting (which
is th" crown of glory, the final goal).
" But God r' Beth questioned.
"God is love," she read in the book that lay open on the table
before her.
Then she clasped her hands over the passage and laid her
head on them, and for a long time she sat .so, not thinking, but
just repeating it to herself softly: "God is love." till all at onco
there was a blank in her consciousness ; thought was sus])ended ;
when it returned, she looked up, .and in lierself were the words:
" God is love— no ! Love is God ! "
In tlie joy of the revelation sha arose, and going to the window,
I I
For tlio propa-
ipcrior to tlie
(lay, nevor a
!^ when ideas
i \villi(yut liad
'dit would bo
> criu'lty tlio
ted, no igno-
uplu'ld. from
l)ov('rty and
I tli(^ Church ;
tlincss comes
nature ; it is
diverse eon-
lys, and road
' ^arl>a<,''e of
ttle to satisfy
\g her mind
■rful llasli of
loint that ho-
iid was mado
t it was that
dent, makes
action, the
as all con-
a way that
lexplicahlo
fiins (woi-k-
'' rcsnrrcr-
iiKj (which
)n the table
id laid lier
inkiii','-, but
all at once
Hisponded ;
the words :
le window,
THE BETH BOOK.
5(59
i
flung it wide open. Far down the east the dawn was dimly burn-
ing ; the faint sweet breath of it fanned her cheeks; her chest ex-
panded with a givat throl), and she exclaimed aloud : *1 f(jllow,
follow — (Jod — I know not where."
Beth had a task b<'fore her that day which .she did not relish
in the anticipation. She was going as a stop-gaj) to speak at a
large meeting to oblige Angelica. She had the credit of being
able to speak, and she herself supposed that she could in a way,
because of the suc<'e.ss of her first attempt ; but she did not consent
to try again without much hesitation and many (jualms, and she
would cei'tainly not have consented had not her friends been in a
dilliculty with no one at hand to helj) them out of it but herself.
But to be drawn from her hallowed set-lusion into such a blaze of
publicity, even for once, was not at all to her mind, and much of
her wakefulness of the night before had been cau.sed by her
shrinking from the prosju'ct.
Late that night, aftei- the meeting, sIk^ returned to hei* cottajre,
alone, cowering in a corner of the Kilroys' carriage. She was
cowej'ing from the recollection of a great crowd that ro.se with
deafening shouts, and .seemed to be rushing at h(>r ('ow<M'ing. too,
from the inevi'.able, which she had In-en foi-ced to recognise — her
vocation — discovered by accident and with dismay, for it was not
what slie would have chosen for herself in any way had it
occurred to her that she had any choice in the matter. There
were always moments when she would fain have led the lif<^
which knows no care beyond the cultivation of the arts, no
service but devotion to them, no pleasure like the enjoyment of
them — a .selllsh life made up of impersonal delights, such as
nuisic, which is emotion made audible ; painting, which is emotion
made visible ; and poetry, which is emotion mad«' comprehensible
— and such a life would not have l)een anvthiii"' but •rrateful to
one like Beth, who had the capacity for so many iMt<'restsof tln^
kind. She was debarred from all that, however, by grace of
nature. Beth could not have lived for herself had .she tried. So
that now, when the call had come, and the way in which she
could best live for others was made ])l;iin to her. she had no
thought but to pursue it.
The carriage put her down at her garden gate, and she stood
a while, in the moonlight, listening to it as it rolled away with
patter of horses' hoofs and ratth^ of harness, listening intently as
if the sound concerned her. Then she let her.self in, and was
37
570
THE BETH BOOK.
ii
i
i!
I f ^
hi
liurryiiif'' up to hor room, hut stoppod sliort on tlio sUiirs, cowering
from the crowd again tliat rose and clic«'rcd, and dieercd, and
sc<'med to ho rushing at ln'r.
Her hcdroom had windows oast, west, and sfnitli. so that slio
liad sunrise and sunset and tlie sun all (hiv. When she went in
now she found the lamps lighted and all the windows shut, and
slie went round and thuig them t)pen with an irrital)U' gesture.
Her nerves were overwrought; the slightest contrariety uj)set her.
The sweet fresh country air streamed in, and the trau([uil moon-
light. These alone would ordinarily liave been enough to soothe
her, but now she paid no heed to tln'm. When siie had oix'ned
the windows she began to take otf her things in feverish haste,
pacjng about tlu* room restlessly the while, as if that helped Iht
to be quicker. Everything she wore .seemed too hot, too heavy,
or too tight, and she Hung hat and cloak and bodice down just
where she took them off in h<»r haste to get rid of them. Throw-
ing her things about like that was an old trick of her childhood,
untl, becoming conscious of what she was doing, she remembered
it, and began to think of hei-self as she had been then, and so
ftu'got her troubled self as she was at that moment, fi-csh from
the excitement and terror of an extraordinary acliievement, a
great success, for she had spt)ken that night as few have spoken —
.spoken to a hostile audience and fasciuated them by the power of
her iK'rsonality, the mesmeric power which is part of the endow-
ment of an orator, and had so moved them that they rose at last
ami cheered her for her eloquence, whether they held her opinions
or not. Then there had come friendly haiulshakes, and congratu-
lations, and encouragement ; and one had said, '' Beth is launched
at htst upon her true career."
■■ But who could have thought that that was her bent ?" an-
other had asked.
Beth did not hear the answer, but she knew what it should
have been. She had been misled herself, and .so had every one
else, by her jn-etty talent for writing, her love of turning phrases,
her play on the music of words. The writing had come of culti-
vati«)n ; but this — this last discovered ])ower — was the natural gift.
Angelica had said that all the iiulications had pointed to literary
ability in Beth ; but there had been other indications hitherto un-
heeded. Thei*e was that day at Castletownrock when Beth in-
vited the country people in to see the house, and, for the first time,
found words flowing from her lips eloquently ; there were her
preachings to Emily and Bernadine in the acting room, of which
111
1
THE BKTU W)OK.
r,7i
tairs, coworingf
1 clieorod, and
'>, .so tliat she
n she went in
;>\vs shut, and
tal)I(' ycsturo.
ety npsct lior.
'i*ii(iuil nioon-
u;;,'-h to sootlje
B liad ojH'iH'd
'vorisli haste,
iit helped her
't, too heavy.
«'<! down just
tsm. Throw-
er clii 1(1 hood,
reinenibered
tlien, and so
, fresh fi'oni
lievenient, a
ve sjjoken—
1k' power of
the endow-
••ose at last
it'r opinions
d eong-ratu-
is launched
jeiit ? " an-
t it should
every one
ig phrases,
«' of eulti-
itural o-ift.
to literary
therto uu-
Beth in-
first time,
were her
of which
.
they never wearied; lier first liaranyuo to the pirls wiio had
caught lier hathinj^ on the sands, and tlie jjowerof lier suhse(juent
teacliin;^ which liad hound thetn to lier in the Secret Service of
Humanity for Jis long as she liked ; there was her sloi-y telling at
school too. and her lectures to the girls —not to mention the charm
of her ordinary convtrsation when the mood was ui)on her. as in
the days when she used to sit and lish with the Ix'ai'ded sailors,
and hoh't them with curious talk as slu^ had held tlu' folk in Ire-
land, fascinating them. And then tliere was the unexpected tri-
um])h of her lirst public attempt — indication enough in all con-
science of a natural bent had tliere been any one there to interpret
them.
Beth, a.s she thought on these things, wandered from window to
window, too restless and excited to sit still ; but. even occupied as
she wa.s, after she had changed her dress, the old trick came ui)on
her. and she was all the tinu' observing. It was autumn, and on
the south she overlooked a Held of barley, standing in slooks,
waiting to be carted. She noticed how the long, irregular rows
and their shadows showed in the moonlight. Across the Held the
farm to which it belonged Jiestled in an apple on-hard. Frotn the
east end of the house she obtained a glim])se of the .sea. which
was near enough for the drowsy murmur of it to reach her even
in calm weather. To the west the highroad r m. and in her wan-
derings from window to window Beth jjaused to coiit<'mj)late it,
to follow it in imagination whither it led. to think of the weary
way it wfis to .so many weary feet, to mourn becau.se she could
not oti'er rest and refreshment to every one that passed.
The night was clear and the air was crisp. \v ith a suspicion of
frost in it, such as sometimes comes in the late autumn. The
moon was sinking and the stars shone out ever more brightly.
Down in the roadwaj' a little brazier l)urned where the road had
been taken up aiul blocked f<»r i-epairs. and over the brazier the
old watcliman, who should have i)een guai'ding the tools and
materials that had been left Iving about, dozed in a .sort of sen-
try box. It occurred to Beth that the task was long and dreary,
and that the air grew chilly toward the (I;iwn. Surely s(»me
food would cheer and refresh him, and help to i)ass the time.
She went down to the ])antry and got some, then cai'ried it <»ut
on a tray, l^ut the old mai\ was .sound asl(M'|). iuid standing there
in her long white wrap])er. she liad to call him several times:
"Old man I Old man I" before she roused him.
He awoke at last with a start, and seeing the unexpected
&<;
THE BKTn ROOK.
t
|i
f ■ ^
I ■;
apparition in tho dim li^iflit, exclainicd : " Holy Motlior ! wliy liuvo
you coiiKi to uw ? "
Beth silently s«'t the tray beforo liim and slipived away, leav-
ing' liiui ill the hai)i»y certainty tliat the lieavenly vision had
been vouchsafed him.
But the moon set, the stars j)aled, and from her window to the
east i?<'th watched tlus dark melt to dusk and the dusk pale to au
even ^ray, into which were breathed the burnished colours of a
happy dawn. Then, when the sun was hi},di and the accustomed
sounds of life and mov<'ment that held her ear by day had well
bej^un, down tlu^ long' road beneath tlie old jrnai'led trees the post-
man came beladen — and there wen; brought to her pam])hlets,
papers, cards . letters, telegrams, a fine variety- of jn-aise, abuse,
symj)atliy, derision, insults, and admiration. (^)uietly Betli read,
and knew wliat it meant, all of it — success! success I and the suc-
cess she had most desired : that her words should come with
comfort to thousands of those that suffer, who, when they heard,
would raise their heads once more in liope. In one paper that
she opened she read : " A great teacher has arisen among us, a
woman of genius — " Hastily she put the paper aside, burning
with a kind of shame, althougli alone, to see so nnich said of
herself. Beth was one of the first swallows of the women's sum-
mer. She was strange to the race when she arrived, and un-
charitably connnented upon ; but now the type is known, and has
ceased to surprise.
When she Avas dressed that morning she went down to her
bright littl(> breakfast parlour. Before lier was the harvest field
looking its loveliest in the earlv morning sunlight. As she con-
templated the peaceful scene she thought that she should feel her-
self a singularly fortunate being. The dead would be with lier no
more, alas I except in the spirit ; but all el.se that heart could desire,
was it not hers? The answer came quick. No ! Something was
wanting. But she did not ask herself what the sometlujig was.
The harvesters were not at work that morning, and slie had
not seen a soul since she sat down to breakfast; but before she
left the table a horseman came out from the farm and rode to-
ward her across the long field, deliberately. She watched him
absently at first, but as he ap])roached he reminded h.er of the
knight of her daily vision, her .saviour, who had comti to rescue
her in the dark days of her deep distress at Slane —
A bow shot from lier bow cr oaves,
IIo rode between the barley sheaves.
i !
I t
'I'l-J whyliave
'd away, Icav-
'y vision had
vindow to the
><1< pale to an
colours of a
' acoustoiued
day had well
I't'es the j)o.st-
'* pani])hlets,
'••■use, ahuse,
^'Beth read,
fuid the suc-
t <'()ine with
tlH'y lieard,
' paper tliat
tnioiig- us, a
Jf, burning"
»oh said of
nien'.s suni-
d. and un-
'11, and has
THE BKTn BOOK. ,.„
•' The barley slieave.s." Suddenly Beth's heart throbbed .nd ilw,
<;-! and stood still. The words had eon.e to her h e n :
invtation of an au^Miry. the fullihnent of a promise 1 see , 1
"s 1 she ou.htto have known it fron. the Is known th 1
would oon.e like that at h.t, that he had I ^ om ^ • ^ . ^
c.n.n, through all the yea.. As he drew near, tli: H^; W S
P . t he,, the sun shone on his face, he raised his hat In dun.b
"->t">"- not knowin. what she did. Beth reached out h 4 1 'u Is
I.nk days, however, tins son of the murnmif, but the kni^rht oJ
hvv Ion- winter vi-il-Arthur Brock. ^
THE E\n.
\vn to lier
'•vest tield
i-s she con-
d foel her-
ith her no
lid desire,
tbino- ^vas
Iff ^vas.
she had
t'fore she
■ rode to-
bed him
'1- of the
to rescue