Next day Beth jumped out of bed early, and washed herself all over, in
an excess of grateful zeal, because she was to be taken out on the
car. As soon as she had 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 Caldwells' 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! was never more to respond to her call. He was
hanging by the leg from his perch, head downward, wings outstretched,
and glossy feathers ruffled; 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 farrier's 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 Murphy exclaimed, appearing with an injured and
innocent look on his face. "Me kill yer burrd! Shure, thin, ye never
thought such a thing uv me!"
"Didn't I, thin! 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 ye'd hev me be using, and you a
young lady, Miss Beth," said Pat in a wheedling tone.
"'Deed, thin, it is, Pat Murphy; but I know ye daresn't say 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 father
standing at the bottom, looking at the dead bird with a heavy frown on
his dark face. He must have heard Beth's altercation with Murphy, but
he made no remark until Mrs. Caldwell came out, when he said something
in Italian, to which she responded, "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 afterwards; which was characteristic, 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 I'll not have them
allowed to acquire any affectation of timidity."
Artless was particularly fresh that morning. He was a red chestnut,
with a white star on his forehead, and one white stocking.
When Beth returned to the stable-yard she found him fidgeting between
the shafts, with his ears laid back, and the whites of his wicked eyes
showing, and Riley struggling with his head in a hard endeavour to
keep him quiet enough for the family to mount the car. Captain and
Mrs. Caldwell and Mildred were already in their seats, and Beth
scrambled up to hers unconcernedly, although Artless was springing
about in a lively manner at the moment. Beth sat next her father, who
drove from the side of the car, and then they were ready to be off 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 the reins and held the
whip in suspense, 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 plunging; but at last the whip came down at the
right moment, just the slightest flick, 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 cheering and encouraging, to the children's
great delight. But their ebullition of glee was a little too much for
their father's nerves.
"These children of yours are perfect little devils, Caroline!" he
exclaimed irritably. Mrs. Caldwell smiled as at a compliment. She had
been brought up on horseback herself, and insisted on teaching the
children to regard danger as a diversion--not that that was difficult,
for they were naturally daring. She would have punished them promptly
on the slightest suspicion of timidity. "Only base-born people were
cowardly," she scornfully maintained. "No lady ever shows a sign of
fear."
Once, when they were crossing Achen sands, a wide waste, innocent 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
afterwards she would wake up at night, and clench her little fists,
and burn again, remembering how her mother had supposed she was
afraid.
Artless went at breakneck speed that day, shied at the most unexpected
moments, bolted right round, and stopped short occasionally; but Beth
sat tight mechanically, following her own fancies. Captain Caldwell was
going to inspect one of the outlying coastguard stations; and they went
by the glen road, memorable 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 primroses,
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
conveyed 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 muttered to
his wife; and Beth noticed that her mother's face, which had looked
fresh and bright from the drive, settled suddenly into its habitual
anxious, careworn expression.
Beth loitered about the yard till her parents had gone in; then she
climbed the turf-stack, and looked over. The sick horse was tied to
the stable-door, and stood, hanging his head with a very woebegone
expression, and groaning monotonously. Murphy was trying 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 done him 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, hearing what was going on, and having called to her vainly to
hold her tongue, had climbed the stack himself, and now laid hold of
her. Beth struck him in the face promptly, 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 divil," said Riley, setting her on her feet, "ye'll get us
all into trouble wid 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 next
day that the carcass had been dragged down Murphy's garden and put in
the lane outside. She climbed the wall, and discovered the farrier
skinning the horse, and was much disgusted to see him using his hands
without 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 intimacy 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 child 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-butter, and never did she forget the horror with which she
watched the dirty man eat it, with unwashed hands, sitting on the
horse's carcass.
That carcass was 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
them white; and she would wonder how a creature once so full of life
could become a silent, senseless thing, not feeling, not caring, not
knowing, no more to itself than a stone--strange mystery; and some day
_she_ would be like that, just white bones. She held her breath and
suspended all sensation and thought, time after time, to see what it
felt like; but always immediately there began 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 impossible to
keep all hints of danger from the children's sharp ears. Beth knew a
great deal of what was going on and what might be expected, but then a
few chance phrases were already enough for her to construct a whole
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 Sundays and market-days, when a great many came in from
the mountains, women in close white caps with goffered frills, short
petticoats, and long blue cloaks; and men in tail-coats and
knee-breeches, with shillalahs under their arms, which they used very
dexterously. They talked Irish at the 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 window, her
mother came and looked out too, and they saw half-a-dozen countrymen
set upon a young Castletownrock man. In a moment their shillalahs were
whirling about his head, and he was driven round the corner of the
house. Presently he came staggering back 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! the cowards!" Mrs. Caldwell exclaimed. Beth felt
sick, but it was not so much what she saw as what she heard that
affected her--the man's crying, and the graphic description of the
nature and depth of the wound which another man, who had been present
while the doctor dressed it, stopping at the window, kindly insisted
on giving them, Mrs. Caldwell being obliged to listen courteously for
fear of making herself unpopular. The man's manner impressed
Beth--there was such a solemn joy in it, as of one who had just
witnessed something 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 Mildred would seize Bernadine's hand and
drag her past him quickly, because she hated to be scowled at; but
Beth always stopped and made a face at him. He used to carry a long
whip, 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 before him. Beth
used to glance stealthily at the chapel as she went to church; it had
the attraction of forbidden fruit for her, and of Father John's
exciting antics--nothing ever happened in church. Chapel she
associated with the papists, and not at all with Kitty, whose tender
teaching occupied a separate compartment of her consciousness
altogether. 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
habitually in her family; in fact, she could not remember ever being
called dear in her life by either father or mother.
Since the day when she had run away from the great green waves,
however, her father had taken an interest in her. He often asked her
to brush his hair, and laughed very much sometimes at things she said.
He 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 understand it, but she soon
showed him that she did, and entreated him to go on; so he gradually
fell into the habit of reading aloud to her, particularly the
"Ingoldsby Legends." She liked to hear them again and again, and would
clamour 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! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony."
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 answered
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.
Mrs. Caldwell snapped out something about idleness and obstinacy, 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!" 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, putting his
arm round her.
He had scarcely spoken, when there came a terrific report and a crash;
something whizzed close to Beth's head; and a shower of glass fell on
the floor. In a moment Beth had wriggled out of her father's arm, slid
from the table, and scrambled up on to the window-seat, scattering the
flower-pots, and slapping at her father's hand in her excitement, when
he tried to stop 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. Caldwell came
flying downstairs.
"What is it, Henry?" she cried.
"The d----d scoundrels shot at me with the child in my arms," he
answered, looking in his indignation singularly like Beth herself in a
stormy mood. As he spoke he turned to the hall door, and walked out
into the street bareheaded.
"For the love of the Lord, sir," 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 meanwhile 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 imbedded in the wall behind, which he picked
out with his pocket-knife and brought to the light. It looked like a
disc all bent out of shape. He turned it every way, examining it, then
tried it with his teeth.
"I thought so," he said significantly. "It wouldn't be 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 her by the arm to shake her, "how
dare you use such a word?"
"I heard it in church," 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 talking aside with
the police officer--"I want you to promise something on your word of
honour as a lady, just to please me."
Beth's countenance dropped: "O papa!" she exclaimed, "it's something I
don't want to promise."
"Well, never mind that, Beth," he answered. "Just promise this one
thing to please me. If you don't, the people will try and kill you."
"I don't mind that," said Beth.
"But I do--and your mother does."
Beth gave her mother a look of such utter astonishment, that the poor
lady turned crimson.
"And perhaps they'll kill me too," Captain Caldwell resumed. "You see
they nearly did to-night."
This was a veritable inspiration. Beth turned pale, and gasped: "I
promise!"
"Not so fast," her father said. "Never promise anything till you hear
what it is. But now, promise you won't say bad luck to any of the
people again."
"I promise," Beth repeated; "but"--she slid from the table, and nodded
emphatically--"but when I shake my fist and stamp my foot at them
it'll mean the same thing."
It was found next morning that Bap-faced Flanagan and Tony-kill-the-cow
had disappeared from the township; but Murphy 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 she had always either
a policeman or a coastguardsman to talk to, which added very much to her
pleasure in life, and also to Anne's.