Some people in the village (but they were the spiteful ones) used to say
that Bethesda Pool might e'en so well be a dummy and done with it, if
she never could open her mouth when a person spoke to her. But there
were always others who were ready to respond that "it was a comfort
there was one woman who knew enough to hold her tongue when she had
nothing to say!" This retort was apt to provoke the reply churlish; and
many a pretty quarrel had been hatched up over the silence of Bethesda
Pool, who never quarrelled herself, because it entailed talking.
She was the Lady of the Inn, Miss Bethesda. Her mother, the late Mrs.
Pool, had married the inn-keeper, and led a sad life of it. She was a
woman of a lively fancy, and had been in the habit of saying that if
she had been fool enough to get drownded in a pool, she meant to get all
the good she could out of the name! So she named her eldest daughter
Siloama (pronounced Silo-amy), her second Bethesda, and the son, who
came just after her husband had drowned himself in his special pool of
whiskey, Heshbon. The neighbours thought this triflin' with Scriptur',
and had their own opinion of Ma'am Pool's eccentricities; but the good
lady cared little for anybody's opinion; indeed, if she had had any such
care, she would not have married Father Pool, whose failings were well
known. All that was long ago, however; Father and Mother Pool were gone
to their places, the pensive Silo-amy and the fishy Heshbon had
followed, and Miss Bethesda was Queen of the Inn.
The Inn was the only one in the village. Perhaps there was little need
even of this; but it had always been there since the old stage-coach
days, when the village was a favourite stopping-place for gay parties of
travellers, and when old Gran'ther Pool kept open house, and smiled over
his bar on all comers, like a rising sun a little the worse for wear. It
was a quaint old house, with a stone veranda in front, and mossy roofs
pitching this way and that. Inside was maze upon maze of long, narrow
corridors, with queer little rooms opening out of them,--some square,
some long; all low of ceiling and wavy of floor, with curious
dolphin-shaped latches, and doors set as if the builder had thrown them
at the wall and made the opening wherever they happened to strike. Few
of these doors were on a level with the floor; they might be two steps
above it, or three steps below; it was a matter of fancy, purely. There
was one room that could only be entered through the closet, unless you
preferred to get in at the window; but you could easily do that, as it
opened on the balcony. Then there was a square chamber containing a
trap-door; the Kidderminster carpet fitted the trap perfectly, and it
was a dangerous room for strangers to enter. Here the Freemasons used,
in old times, to hold their meetings, and carry on their mystic rites.
Later, it was the favourite playroom of the Pool children, and they and
their playmates were never tired of popping up and down the "Tumplety
Hole," as they called it.
In the middle of the second story was a long ballroom, where in old days
merry dances had been held, and young feet jigged it to the tune of
"Money Musk" or "Hull's Victory."
This room, with its wonderful wall-paper, representing the Carnival at
Rome, and its curious clock, was an object of wonder to the whole
village; and strangers or visitors were pretty sure to present
themselves at the Inn door, sometimes begging to be taken in for a few
days, sometimes merely asking the privilege of going over the quaint
old house. The reception of these visitors was apparently a matter of
caprice with the Lady of the Inn; one never could tell how she would
take it. Sometimes an eager statement that "We heard of your beautiful
house, and we have driven over from South Tupham, ten miles, on purpose
to see it!" would be met by the monosyllable "Have!" delivered in Miss
Bethesda's mildest tone, and the door would be softly but firmly shut in
the travellers' faces. Or the visitor might try another tack, and begin
with the bold assumption that the Inn was a place of public
entertainment, and that man and beast were welcome there, as a matter of
course.
"I should like two bedrooms and a sitting-room, please! And will you
send someone to look out for my horses? And--I should like supper,
something hot, as soon as convenient!" To which Miss Bethesda might
reply, "Should you?" and smile, and again shut the door.
But there were other times when something in the asking face or voice
touched one knew not what chord in the good lady's breast. On these
occasions she could be very gracious, and would say, perhaps, that she
really didn't know, she didn't take boarders--mebbe--just this
once--if't would accommodate--she didn't know--but she might compass it
somehow, and the door would be opened wide; and, once inside, the guest
was sure to be made so comfortable that he was loth to go away again.
The fact was, that being clothed with means, as they say in the village,
the Lady of the Inn felt that it was merely a matter of personal fancy,
the taking in of guests, and that if she were not in the mood for
visitors there was no manner of reason why she should be bothered with
them.
She had one servant, a grim elder, by name Ira Goodwin. The spiteful
people before alluded to said that Ira--or Iry, to give the name its
actual pronunciation--and his mistress never spoke to each other, but
communicated by means of signs. That could not be true, however, for
Mrs. Peake, next door, had been shaking a carpet in her yard one day,
close by the fence, and had heard Iry say, in a growling manner, "Guess
I can hold my tongue as well as others!" To which Miss Bethesda's crisp
tones replied: "You'd better, for the outside of your head does you more
credit than the inside!"
Thus Miss Bethesda Pool lived in solitude for the most part, and content
with her lot; and no breeze ruffled the still waters of her life.
It was very peaceful to be alone there in the great rambling Inn, and
hear no sound save the purring of the yellow cat, and the drip of the
water from the roofs. The roofs all leaked in the Inn, whenever there
was a possible chance for leaking, and the walls were covered with
strange patterns and hieroglyphics that were not included in the design
of the wall-paper.
It happened one day that Miss Bethesda Pool was sitting in her own
comfortable room, toeing off a stocking, and thinking of many things,
when she heard a knock at the door. She took no notice of the first
summons, for she found that in many cases the knocker, after one, or at
most two, trials, was apt to go away, which saved a world of trouble,
and showed that he had no business that amounted to anything, anyhow.
But this was a persistent knocker, who kept on with a timid yet steady
"rat-tat-tat--" till Miss Bethesda concluded that, whoever it was, he
had not sense enough to know when he wasn't wanted, and that she must
answer the knock.
She folded her knitting deliberately, and after examining the draughts
of the stove, and stroking the yellow cat two or three times, she went
to the door, holding her chin a little high, and looking, if the truth
must be told, rather uncompromising.
When she opened the door, however, the lines of her face softened and
her chin went down. A bright-faced girl stood there, with a shawl
wrapped round her, for the day was cold. She was trying to smile, but
there were tears in her brown eyes, and her lip was quivering.
"Miss Pool," she said, "I don't suppose I can come in, can I? I'd like
ever so much to speak to you, if you wouldn't mind!"
Miss Bethesda opened the door wide, and without wasting breath, led the
shivering child in, and closed the door after her with a bang. That bang
carried defiance across the way, and gave Miss Bethesda as much comfort
as if she had let loose a torrent of angry words. There is great comfort
in a door sometimes. Still in silence, she led the girl into the
sitting-room, drew a chair near the stove for her, and motioned her to
sit down. Then resuming her own seat, she took up her knitting again,
and gazing calmly on her visitor, evidently felt that she had done her
part.
"It's Father, Miss Pool!" said the pretty girl, whose name was Nan
Bradford. Miss Pool nodded comprehension, and set her lips more firmly.
"Father, he's going on dreadful!" said Nan. "You know Will Newell has
been--well, he has thought a sight of me, and I of him, these two years
past.
"It came about while I was staying to grandma's, over to Cyrus, and
grandma knew all his folks, and there aint any better folks in the
country, grandma said. And yet--Father--he acts as though Will was one
thief and I was another. He won't let him come to the house, nor he
won't let me write to him, nor he won't do anything--'cept just be ugly!
There! I hadn't ought to say it, I know,--my own father, and just as
good a father as ever a girl has in the wide world, I do believe, till
this come up. But he won't hear of my marrying anybody,--that is the
plain truth, Miss Pool, not if it was a seraph with six wings!
And--and--what am I to do, I should like to know? I come to you, 'cause
you've always been good to me, and I seem to know you better than anyone
else, now grandma's dead. And I wouldn't complain of Father to anyone
else in the village, so I wouldn't!"
She paused for breath; Miss Pool looked at her and nodded. It was an
expressive nod, and the girl seemed to feel better for it. She began to
cry softly, wiping her pretty eyes with the corner of her shawl. "I'm
just beat out!" she said, plaintively. "Be!" said Miss Bethesda,
soothingly; she went to the cupboard and brought out some of the famous
cookies which a few privileged children were allowed to taste from time
to time, but seldom anyone who had passed the boundary of childhood.
Nan, who was still a child in some ways, brightened at sight of the
cookies, and was soon nibbling them in comparative comfort, sighing
from time to time, and glancing up under her long eyelashes at Miss
Bethesda, who sat knitting as if her life depended upon it, her lips set
very tight, and apparently taking no notice of her guest. But Nan
Bradford knew Miss Pool, and was content to wait. She would not have
been let in, she knew, if the Lady of the Inn had not been in a good
mood. So, she nibbled the cookies, and thought of Will, and was as
comfortable as a lovelorn and persecuted damsel could be.
Miss Bethesda kept her eyes fixed on her work, but she did not see it.
Instead of the gray wool and shining needles, a stalwart figure stood
before her, the figure of Buckstone Bradford. He had been her neighbour
for all the years of their life; he was four years her senior, and they
had been playmates in childhood. A breezy, rosy-cheeked boy he had been,
and her sworn ally. The children were apt to divide into two parties:
Bethesda and Buckstone on one side, Siloama and Heshbon on the other.
Thus arrayed, they were wont to do battle around the yawning gulf of the
Tumplety Hole, shouting their respective war-cries, which alluded, in an
unfriendly spirit, to the qualities of the enemy.
"Gruff and Grum!
Deaf and Dumb!"
Siloama and Heshbon would pipe shrilly; to which Bethesda and Buckstone
would reply, in deeper tones,
"Snivelly, Sneaky,
Wobbly, Weaky!"
A general combat would ensue, in the course of which both parties were
apt to fall down the trap-door into the basement room below, and be
rescued by Mother Pool, and summarily dealt with by her slipper.
Then came the days of youth, when Buckstone courted her, and might have
won her if he had gone to work in the right way. But he was headstrong,
and she was obstinate; and he didn't get on with Siloama, and he was
hard on Heshbon, and so it had all blown over; he had married another
wife, and lost her while Nan was a baby. Miss Bethesda had forgotten all
about Nan by this time: before her stood the man of her choice, with his
feet apart and his chin stuck out, much as her own sometimes was; his
brows were knit, his eyes gleamed with sombre fire.
"Bethesda," he said, and the words seemed to force the way through his
strong white teeth, "Bethesda, I'm going to marry you, anyway, and I'd
like to see you get out of it! Mind that!"
Ah, well, that was all men knew! She had got out of it,--was it a sigh
that came at the thought, or a sniff of triumph, or a combination of the
two? And Buckstone had married a pindlin' soul that hadn't no more life
in her than a November chicken--and--that was all there was to it, Miss
Bethesda reckoned.
And now, here he was hectoring this little girl of his, that always
favoured him, and had no look of her mother--hectoring and bullying,
just as he used; and Miss Bethesda wondered if the child was a-going to
stand it. She wouldn't have stood it, not a day, for her part, if she
was his daughter, let alone his--his--wife! And then she found herself
wondering whether he would have been so hectoring if she had been--and
brought herself up again with an indignant start. Why in Tunkett should
she be fretting herself about Buck Bradford's girl, she wanted to know!
And yet,--she had got the better of Buckstone Bradford once; it would
beat the world if she could put him down again, wouldn't it?
While these thoughts were passing through her mind, the Lady of the Inn
sat, to all appearance, absorbed in her work, never dropping a stitch,
never failing to count with the regularity of a self-respecting clock;
and Nan Bradford watched her anxiously over the edge of her cooky.