Meanwhile the English spring advanced in the beautiful gardens of
Fairholm, and was a joy to Beth. Blossoms showered from the
fruit-trees, green leaves unfurled, the birds were in full song, and
the swans curved their long necks in the sunshine, and breasted the
waters of the lake, as if their own grace were a pleasure to them.
Beth was enchanted. Every day she discovered some new wonder--nests in
the hedgerows, lambs in the fields, a foal and its mother in the
paddock, a calf in the byre--more living interests in one week than
she had dreamt of in the whole of her little life. For a happy
interval the scenes which had oppressed her--the desolation, the
sombre colours of the great melancholy mountains, the incessant sound
of the turbulent sea, the shock and roar of angry breakers warring
with the rocks, which had kept her little being all a-throb, braced to
the expectation of calamity--lapsed now into the background of her
recollection, and under the benign influence of these lovelier
surroundings her mind began to expand in the most extraordinary way,
while her further faculty awoke, and gave her glimpses of more
delights than mortal mind could have shown her. "Such nice things," as
she expressed it, "keep coming into my head, and I want to write them
down." Books she flung away impatiently; but the woods and streams,
and the wild flowers, 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 paradise always, to ease the
burden of her being.
One morning her mother told her that Uncle James was extremely
displeased with her because he had seen her pelting the swans.
"He didn't see me pelting the swans," Beth asseverated. "I was feeding
them with crusts. And how did he see me, any way? He wasn't there."
"He sees everything that's going on," Mrs. Caldwell assured her.
"He's only pretending," Beth argued, "or else he must be God."
But she kept her eyes about her the next time she was in the grounds,
and at last she discovered him, sitting in the little window of his
dressing-room with a book before him, and completely blocking the
aperture. She had never noticed him there before, because the panes
were small and bright, and the shine on them made it difficult to see
through them from below. After this discovery she always felt that his
eyes were upon her wherever she went within range of that window. Not
that that would have deterred her had she wanted to do anything
particularly; but even a child feels it intolerable to be spied upon;
and as for a spy! Beth scorned the creature.
That day at luncheon Uncle James made an announcement.
"Lady Benyon is going to honour us with a visit," he began in his most
impressive manner. There is no snob so inveterate as your snob of good
birth; and Uncle James said "Lady" as if it were a privilege just to
pronounce the word. "She will arrive this afternoon at a quarter to
four."
"But you will be practising," Beth exclaimed.
"The rites of hospitality must be observed," he condescended to inform
her.
"Lady Benyon is my mother, Beth," Aunt Grace Mary put in irrelevantly.
"I know," Beth answered. "Your papa was a baronet; Uncle James loves
baronets; that was why he married you." Having thus disposed of Aunt
Grace Mary, Beth turned to the other end of the table, and resumed:
"But you went on practising when _we_ arrived, Uncle James."
Uncle James gazed at her blandly, then looked at his sister with an
agreeable smile. "Lady Benyon will probably like to see the children.
You do not dress them in the latest fashion, I observe."
"They _are_ shabby," Mrs. Caldwell acknowledged with a sigh,
apologetically.
Beth shovelled some spoonfuls of pudding into her mouth very quickly.
"That's the money bother again," she said, and then she sang out at
the top of her voice--
"Bryan O'Lynn had no breeches to wear,
He bought a sheepskin for to make him a pair,
With the skinny side out, and the woolly side in,
'They're warm in the winter,' said Bryan O'Lynn."
"I suppose it would be quite impossible to suppress this child?" Uncle
James lisped with deceptive mildness. "I observe that she joins in the
conversation always, with great intelligence and her mouth full. It
might be better, perhaps, if she 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 mouth full
ever since I came, and you've been hating me for it; but you never
told me."
"May I ask," said Uncle James politely, "by whom you were informed
that I 'bottled things up'?"
"Ah, that would be telling," said Beth, and recommenced gobbling 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 finished her pudding, dropped her spoon on her plate with a
clatter, leant back in her chair, and sighed with satisfaction. She
possessed a horrid fascination for Uncle James. Almost everything she
did was an offence to him, yet he could not keep his eyes off her or
let her alone.
"Pudding seems to be a weakness of hers," he now observed. "I hope her
voracity is satisfied. I should say that it resembles the voracity of
the caterpillar."
"What's voracity, Aunt Victoria?" Beth asked.
"Greediness," Aunt Victoria rejoined sententiously.
"He means I'm greedy for pudding? I just _am_! I'd like to be a
caterpillar for pudding. Caterpillars eat all day. But then God's good
to them. He puts them on a tree with lots 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 me go, I'll
wash myself, and get ready for Lady Benyon."
Rather than let her go when she wanted to, however, Uncle James sat
some time longer at table than he had intended. It was he who always
gave the signal to rise; before he did so on this occasion, he
formally requested his sister to request Beth to be silent during Lady
Benyon's visit.
Lady Benyon was a shrewd, active little old woman, with four dark
curls laid horizontally on either side of her forehead. She had bright
black sparkling eyes that glanced about quickly and seemed to see
everything. 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 interest
Lady Benyon to see how you have aged. And, Aunt Victoria, this
Chippendale 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 the
piano-stool, looked up calmly at the clouds through the window
opposite. "Elizabeth," he repeated sharply. Beth made 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 Uncle 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 steps, ready to receive her.
"So glad to see you, mamma," 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 stiffness of age.
"Gracious!" she exclaimed when she saw the party arranged in the
drawing-room. "You all look as if you were having your likeness
taken--all except Puck there, on the piano-stool."
When Uncle James had manoeuvred Lady Benyon into the seat of honour
he intended her to take in order to complete the picture, she frankly
inspected each member of the group, ending with Beth.
"And who may you be?" she asked.
Beth smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
"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.
"Uncle 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 Patten all over.
And who may you 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 she described. "Long, long, long,
black bogs; all the poor people starving; and the sea rough--just like
hell, you know, but without the fire."
"Oh, now, this _is_ delightful!" the old lady chuckled. "I'm to enjoy
myself to-day, it seems. You didn't prepare me for this treat, James
Patten!"
Uncle James simpered, as though taking to himself the credit of the
whole entertainment.
"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!" Lady Benyon ejaculated; then turned to Mildred. "And are you
another naughty little patriot?" she asked.
"No, _I'm_ not naughty," Mildred answered piously.
"Beth's naughty," said Bernadine.
"I'm sure I don't know _what_ Beth is not," 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."
"You can hear that the young lady has been in Ireland, I suppose,
mamma," Uncle James observed.
"I hear she can imitate the Irish," Lady Benyon rejoined bluntly; "and
not the Irish only," she added with a chuckle.
Beth was still sitting on the music-stool opposite the window, and
presently she saw some one cross the lawn. "Oh, do look at the lovely
lady," she cried enthusiastically. "She's just like the Princess
Blue-eyes-and-golden-hair."
Lady Benyon glanced over her shoulder. "Why, it's my maid," she said.
Beth'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 amuse 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 prayers, 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 Bernadine, who slept with her, fast
asleep. Beth was not at all sleepy. Her intellect had been on the
alert all day, and would not let her rest now; she must do something
to keep up the excitement. She pulled the blind aside, and, looking
out of the window, discovered an enchanted land, all soft shadow and
silver sheen, and above it an exquisite moon, in an empty sky, floated
serenely. "Oh, to be out in the moonlight!" she sighed to herself.
"The fairy-folk--the fairy-folk." For a little her mind was a blank as
she gazed; then words came tripping a measure--
"The fairy-folk are calling me,
Are calling me, are calling me;
They come across the stormy sea,
To play with me, to play with me."
Beth's vague longing crisped itself into a resolution. She looked at
the big four-post bed. The curtains 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 must wait, because of Mildred. Mildred was
undressing, and would say her prayers presently. Beth waited until she
knelt down, then slipped her night-dress on over her clothes, and got
into bed, without disturbing Bernadine. Now she must wait for her
mother; but Mrs. Caldwell came up very soon, Uncle James having
hurried every one off to bed unusually early that evening. Mrs.
Caldwell was a long time undressing, as it seemed to Beth; but in the
meantime Mildred had fallen asleep, and very soon after her mother 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 passage.
"The fairy-folk are calling me,
Are calling me, are calling me;
They come across the stormy sea,
To play with me, 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 shut off the kitchen from
the other parts 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 moment she became
aware of some one else moving. At the end of the passage she was in,
there was a little door leading out into a garden. If that were open
all would be easy. She had stopped to listen. Certainly some one else
was moving quite close to her. What was she near? Oh, the store-room.
Something grated like a key in a lock--a door was opened, a match
struck, a candle lighted; 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 small hamper with a lid. When the
hamper was full she blew out the candle, came out of the store-room,
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 bit," cook replied, handing him the hamper.
"'E 'asn't 'ad 'is eyes about 'im much o' late, then?"
"Oh, 'e allus '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 him out of
the back-door, which she fastened after him. Then she went off herself
up the back-stairs to bed.
When all was quiet again, Beth thought of the garden-door at the end
of the passage. To her relief she found it ajar; the gleam of light
she had seen in that direction was the moonlight streaming through the
crevice. She slipped out cautiously; but the moment she found herself
in the garden she became a wild creature, revelling in her freedom.
She ran, jumped, waved her arms about, threw herself down on the
ground, and rolled over and over for yards, walked on all fours,
turned head over heels, embraced the trunks of trees, and hailed them
with the Eastern invocation, "O tree, give me of thy strength!"
For a good hour she rioted about the place in this way, working off
her superfluous energy. By that time she had come to the stackyard.
There, among the great stacks, she played hide-and-seek with the
fairy-folk for a little. Very cautiously she would steal round in the
black shadows, stalking her imaginary play-fellows, and then would go
flying out into the moonlight, pursued by them in turn; and looking
herself, with her white night-dress over her clothes, and her tousled
hair, the weirdest little elfin figure in the world. Finally, to
escape capture, she ran up a ladder that had been left against a
haystack. Blocks of hay had been cut out, leaving a square shelf half
way down the 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. The hay and the night-air smelt deliciously sweet. The stack
she was on was one of the outer row. Beneath was the road along which
the 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. Beth pulled up the hay about her, covered herself with it, and
nestled amongst it luxuriously. The moon shone full upon her, but she
had quite concealed herself, and would probably have fallen asleep
after her exertions had it not been 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 she
expected some one. Beth recognised her as Harriet Elvidge, the
kitchen-maid; and presently Russell, one of the grooms, came hurrying
to meet her from the other direction. They rushed into each other's
arms.
"Thou'st laate," the girl grumbled.
"Ah bin waatin' ower yon'er this good bit," he answered, putting his
arm round her, and drawing her to the wall, on which they sat, leaning
against each other, and whispering happily. The moon was low, and her
great golden disk illumined the sky, against which the two dark
figures stood out, silhouetted distinctly. The effect gave Beth a
sensation of pleasure, and she racked her brains for words in which to
express it. Presently the lovers rose and strolled away together. Then
for a little it was lonely, and Beth thought of getting down; but
before she had made up her mind, two other people appeared, strolling
in the moonlight, whom Beth instantly recognised as Uncle James and
the beautiful princess Blue-eyes-and-golden-hair. The princess had
both her hands clasped round Uncle James's arm, and every now and then
she nestled her face against his shoulder lovingly.
"What will Jimmie-wimmie give his Jenny-penny?" she was saying as they
approached.
"First what will Jenny-penny give her Jimmie-wimmie?" Uncle James
cooed.
"First, a nice--sweet--kiss!"
"Duckie-dearie!" Jimmie-wimmie gurgled ecstatically, taking the kiss
with the playful grace of an elephant gambolling.
Beth on the haystack writhed with suppressed merriment until her sides
ached.
But Jimmie-wimmie and Jenny-penny passed 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 temperature, and as the night grew dull and heavy, so did
her mood, and she began to be as anxious to be indoors again as she
had been to come out. The fairy-folk had all vanished now, and ghosts
and goblins would 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 half-way upstairs,
when it suddenly occurred to her that if she locked the door,
Jimmie-wimmie and Jenny-penny would not be able to get in. So she
retraced her steps, accomplished her purpose, slipped back to bed, and
slept until she was roused in the morning by a shrill cry from
Bernadine--"See, mummy! see, mummy! lazy Beth is in bed with all her
clothes on!"
Beth sat up, and slapped Bernadine promptly; whereupon Mrs. Caldwell
slapped Beth.
"Such is life," said Beth, in imitation of Aunt Grace Mary; and Mrs.
Caldwell smiled in spite of herself.
Later in the day Beth complained to Mildred of a bad cold in her head.
"Oh dear!" Mildred exclaimed, "I expect Uncle James will talk at that
cold as long as it lasts."
"I know," Beth said. "Grace Mary, dear--or Aunt Victoria--have you
observed that children always have colds and never have
pocket-handkerchiefs?"
Uncle James, however, had a bad cold himself that morning, and
described himself as very much indisposed.
"I went out of doors last night before retiring," he explained at
luncheon, "tempted by the glorious moonlight and the balmy air; but
before I returned the night had changed and become chilly, and
unfortunately the side-door had shut itself, and 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 somewhat 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
extremely good girl, is Harriet," he proceeded as soon as he could
speak; "up at four o'clock every morning."
"I wish to goodness _my_ trollop was," 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 some time. Her little nose was troublesome, however, and at last
she sniffed. Uncle James looked at Lady Benyon.
"Have you observed," he said, "that when a child has a cold she never
has a pocket-handkerchief?"
Beth produced a clean one with a flourish, and burst out laughing.
"What's the matter, Puck?" Lady Benyon asked, beaming already in
anticipation.
"Oh, nothing. Only I said Uncle James would say that if I sniffed.
Didn't I, Mildred?"
But Mildred, too wary to support her, looked down demurely.
"Puck," said Lady Benyon, "you're a character."
"There are good characters and there are bad characters," Uncle James
moralised.
"Arrah, thin, it isn't a bad character you'd be afther givin' your own
niece," Beth blarneyed; and then she turned up her naughty eyes to the
ceiling and chanted softly: "What will Jimmie-wimmie give his
duckie-dearie to be good? A nice--sweet--kiss!"
Uncle James's big white face became suddenly empurpled.
"Gracious! he's swallowed wrong," Lady Benyon exclaimed in alarm.
"Drink something. You really should be careful, a great fat man like
you."
Uncle James coughed hard behind his handkerchief, then began to
recover himself. Beth's eyes were fixed on his face. Her chaunt had
been a sudden inspiration, and its effect upon the huge 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 matter, Puck?" Lady Benyon asked.
"Oh, I was just thinking--thinking I would ask Uncle James to give
Mildred some chicken."
"Why, of course, my dear child!" Uncle James exclaimed, to everybody's
astonishment. "And have some yourself, Beth?"
"No, thank you," Beth answered. "I'm full."
"Beth!" her mother was beginning, when she perceived that Uncle James
was laughing.
"Now, that child is really amusing," he said--"_really_ amusing."
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," he began in a terrible voice, as soon as they were alone
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."
"Oh for shame!" said Beth. "Tell-tale! And if you tell I shall. I saw
you kissing Jenny-penny."
Uncle James collapsed. He had been prepared to explain to Beth that he
had met the poor girl with some rustic lover, and was lecturing her
kindly for her good, and making her go in, which would have made a
plausible story had it not been for that accursed kissing. Of course
he could insist that Beth was lying; the child was known to be
imaginative; but then against that was the emotion he had shown. Lady
Benyon had no very high opinion of him, he knew, and once she obtained
a clue she would soon unravel the truth. No, the only thing was to
silence Beth.
"Beth," he said, "I quite agree with you, my dear child. I was only
joking when I said I would tell your mamma. Nothing would induce me to
tell tales out of school."
Beth smiled up at him frankly: "Nor me neither. I don't believe 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 adroitness of
this last evasion.